- Williamsburg, Virginia, late Friday night, 28 March 1755.

Julian stood inside the garden gate with one hand resting upon his sword and listened until the ordinary sounds of Williamsburg returned to fill the silence.

A wagon passed somewhere beyond Francis Street, its wheels complaining against the rutted ground. From the direction of the main street came the distant strike of a hammer and the faint, repetitive groan of the printing press. A dog barked twice behind a neighboring fence. Bruton Parish Church’s bell had ceased, but the memory of its last note seemed suspended in the cooling air.

Thomas Harcourt’s house offered nothing. No footstep crossed the floor. No shutter moved. No voice called from within.

Pike remained beside the chair.“ Mr. Harcourt,” he said, “we ought to fetch a constable.”

“We have heard a clock,” explained Julian.

“Inside a locked house that belongs to a dead man,” said Pike.

“That is precisely where one expects to hear clocks. Dead men rarely take them along,” said Julian.

“You heard it stop,” said Pike.

“Clocks stop,” replied Julian.

“When someone puts a hand upon them,” reasoned Pike.

Julian looked toward the upper window where he had seen the darkness change. The glass reflected only branches and evening sky.

“Then a constable will arrive to discover that the person has gone,” stated Julian.

“And if he has not?” asked Pike.

“Then we shall save the constable a journey,” replied Julian.

Pike’s expression suggested that saving a constable effort had never previously been counted among a gentleman’s duties.

Julian turned back toward the gate.

“You said Colonel Rooke’s office might possess the key,”

“Might,” replied Pike.

“Where is the office?” asked Julian.

“Near the Capitol,” said Pike.

“How long to fetch it?” asked Julian, calculating things in his mind.

“Too long if someone is inside,” said Pike.

Julian looked at him.

Pike realized what he had admitted, and he frowned at the house as though it had maneuvered him into the position. “I did not say there was someone inside.”

“No. You have been admirably careful not to say anything,” stated Julian.

Pike removed his hat and rubbed a hand across his thinning hair. “There may be another key.”

“Where?” asked Julian.

“Mrs. Gresham sometimes kept one,” said Pike.

“Who is Mrs. Gresham?” asked Julian.

“Rebecca Gresham. Keeps an ordinary farther east on Francis Street. Your uncle took his meals there, when he remembered meals were necessary. She often looked in on him,” said Pike.

“And when he did not?” asked Julian.

“She sent them,” Pike said.

“Then she may know whether Thomas expected visitors,” said Julian, following the train of thought.

“She may know more than she tells,” cautioned Pike.

“That appears to be the principal colonial occupation,” said Julian, slightly annoyed at the colony.

Pike ignored this. “I can fetch her,” he said.

Next Chapter: Chapter 6: Something Amiss