- Thomas Harcourt’s parlor, main floor, early Saturday morning, 29 March 1755

Inside of Thomas Harcourt’s parlor contained a small mantel clock beneath a glass dome. A bracket clock stood upon a shelf beside the fireplace’s hearth. The tall case occupied the passage. Another, smaller movement rested without a case upon a workbench in the front room.

All were stopped.

Julian examined the mantel clock first. Its rear door opened easily. Nothing had been concealed inside. The bracket clock contained only its movement and dust.

He turned to the tall case. The lower door remained open. The hanging weights nearly touched the bottom. Julian lifted them one at a time, testing their mass. The first was solid. The second produced a faint movement within.

Julian held it near his ear and tipped it. Something slid inside the brass shell.

Pike watched Julian’s actions intently.

“Did you hear that?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” replied Pike.

“Then we are about to conduct an experiment.”

Julian took the weight out of the clock and carried it into the parlor. He placed it on the table. Its lower cap had been soldered, but the upper hook passed through a threaded brass fitting concealed beneath accumulated grime.

He wrapped the fitting with a cloth and turned. At first, it resisted. Finally, the cap moved. The weight opened.

Inside was a tightly rolled strip of paper wrapped around a small iron key. Pike whispered something that sounded like a prayer. Julian removed both objects.

The paper bore a single line in Thomas’s handwriting:

‘The box remembers what the books were made to forget.’

Below it, was a small drawing of a seven-pointed star. Pike leaned closer.

“What box?” asked Pike.

Julian thought of Thomas’ English dispatch box concealed upstairs. The box had already been searched - or it only appeared to have been searched. The key Julian now held was iron and too large for the small brass lock upon the dispatch box beside the kitchen door. He looked toward the stairs.

“The cabinet,” declared Julian.

They returned to the records room upstairs.

The tall, compartmented cabinet stood against the wall opposite the shelves. It contained dozens of narrow drawers intended for folded abstracts, index slips, seals, or correspondence.

The iron key fit a lock hidden beneath a sliding wooden panel at the cabinet’s base. Julian inserted the key and turned it. A section of molding was released. The cabinet’s entire lower plinth pulled forward like a drawer.

Inside rested a flat English dispatch box bound with dark iron straps. Unlike the box Julian had brought from Yorktown, this one was old, scarred, and remarkably heavy.

Pike helped lift it onto the central table. The lid bore no name. The lock had a narrow, elaborate keyway.

Julian tried the iron key. It did not fit.

Pike stared. “Thomas hid a key to a box that does not open the box.”

“The key opened the hiding place,” remarked Julian.

“Then where is the other?” asked Pike.

Julian examined the lock.

Its shape seemed familiar. Not because he had seen the box before, but because he had used a similar key every week since boyhood.

He drew out his mother’s silver watch. The winding key hung from a short black ribbon beside the case. One end fitted the watch arbor. The other was flattened and cut with three small teeth.

His mother had owned the watch long before Thomas left England for the New World. Thomas had sent it back after her death, when Sir Reginald ordered several of her possessions altered or distributed.

Julian had always assumed the double-ended key was merely an unusual watchmaker’s design. He inserted the toothed end into the dispatch box.

It turned! The lock opened with a heavy click.

Pike stared first at the key, then at Julian. “Did you know?” asked Pike, disbelievingly.

“No,” replied Julian.

“Did your father?” asked Pike.

Julian considered the repeated instructions concerning Thomas’s estate, the insistence that Julian carried his mother’s watch to the colony; and Sir Reginald’s refusal to explain why a second son without a professional office had been sent instead of an experienced agent.

“I do not know,” said Julian. It was the first answer Julian had given that day which he disliked for its honesty.

He lifted the lid. Inside lay a folded surveyor’s chain, several packets of papers, and a narrow wooden tray. No silver, no coins, and no jewelry.

Pike appeared both relieved and disappointed.

Julian removed the chain first.

It had been folded with extraordinary care, each length laid parallel to the next and bound by two leather straps. The iron links were smaller than those of a common hauling chain and connected at intervals by brass tally tags.

A surveyor’s chain.

Perhaps the chain Thomas had accused half the colony of using dishonestly. Julian placed it upon the floor and began unfolding it.

The chain continued farther than the room allowed. He carried one end into the passage, then returned for another length. When fully extended through the records room and bedchamber, it appeared ordinary.

He counted the links once. Then again.

Pike waited at the doorway. “How many?”

“One hundred and one,” said Julian, disbelieving.

“Aren’t there meant to be one hundred?” asked Pike.

“Yes,” said Julian. Julian crouched beside the extra link.

It had not been crudely added. Its iron matched the others in age and wear. The connecting rings were uniform. Anyone counting only the brass tally markers or trusting the maker’s stamp upon the edges might never suspect the instrument exceeded the standard measure.

A chain with one link more would add less than eight inches to every eighty-six feet. A trivial amount. Unless the distance was repeated dozens or hundreds of times.

Unless no one checked.

Unless the false measurement entered a patent, a boundary agreement, or a processioning record. Then the land itself would appear to confirm the deception.

Pike squatted beside him. “Could a man tell by looking?”

“Not easily,” replied Julian.

“By carrying it?” asked Pike.

“Not unless he knew the proper weight it was supposed to be,” said Julian.

“By using it?” asked Pike.

“Only if he measured against a standard,” replied Julian.

Pike touched one of the tally tags. “And if every man trusted the surveyor?”

“Then the chain would become true,” said Julian. The words left Julian more quietly than he intended. He returned to the box.

The first packet contained a tobacco warehouse note.

The document represented a quantity of inspected tobacco stored at a named warehouse. It bore the date, weight, inspector’s signature, and the name of the person entitled to its value. ‘Ezekiel Webb’.

Across the face Thomas had written: Buried 17 June 1741.

The warehouse note was dated 1753.Pike read over Julian’s shoulder. “A dead man’s tobacco?”

“Or a living man using a dead name,” replied Julian.

“Could the note be old?” asked Pike.

“The date is clear,” said Julian. Julian held it near the candle.

The paper bore a watermark. He could not identify it, but the sheet appeared newer than its age claimed. He set it aside.

The second packet contained a folded deed bearing seals and the signatures of several colonial officials. It granted six hundred acres to ‘Julian Edmund Harcourt’.

Julian read the name twice.

The date placed the grant six years earlier, when he had been in London and unaware of owning so much as a Virginia fence post. The tract lay within Saint Orison Parish.

Pike frowned. “ I have never heard of that parish.”

“Nor have I,” said Julian.

“May be farther west,” said Pike.

“It refers to James City County,” said Julian.

“Then I would have heard of that,” said Pike.

Julian examined the boundaries. The tract began at a marked white oak, ran by various bearings and distances to a branch; then followed along the watercourse, crossed a road, and returned to the first tree.

The language was ordinary. The parish was not. More troubling was the consideration recorded near the bottom. The patent fees had been paid through an English intermediary acting on behalf of Sir Reginald Harcourt.

Julian’s father had purchased Virginia land in Julian’s name and concealed it from him.

Pike watched his face. “What is it?”

“My inheritance, apparently,” shrugged Julian.

“You did not know?” asked Pike.

“My father dislikes spoiling surprises,” advised Julian.

Julian turned the deed over. A message had been written across the reverse in Thomas’s narrow hand: ‘Every acre begins as a line. Find the man who has learned to move them.’ Beneath the sentence appeared the same seven-pointed star drawn on the paper from the clock weight.

Pike crossed himself.

Julian looked at him. “It is a geometrical mark,” said Julian.

“It may be both,” said Pike.

“It is not,” replied Julian.

“You have been in the colony one day. Allow Virginia time to make sense,” said Pike.

Julian laid the deed beside the warehouse note. Three objects. An overlong chain. A note assigning tobacco to a dead man. A deed granting Julian land in a parish that did not exist.

Thomas had chosen them deliberately. They represented measurement, value, and ownership; the three stages by which ground became wealth.

The chain measured the land. The deed defined its legal possessor. The warehouse note converted its crop into spendable credit. If each could be falsified, a man might create wealth without owning the acreage, growing the tobacco, or bearing his own name.

Julian returned to the box. The wooden tray contained several brass seals, folded ribbons, a stick of red wax, and a small linen pouch. Beneath the tray lay a shallow compartment.

Empty…

The dust there had been disturbed. Something had been removed. The searchers had found part of Thomas’s hiding place before Julian arrived - or Thomas himself had removed the final object.

Pike picked up the warehouse note. “Who is Ezekiel Webb?”

“We shall discover it,” said Julian.

“We?” asked Pike.

“Are we not in this together? You drove me here,” replied Julian.

“That was the full extent of our agreement,” said Pike.

“You also entered the house armed with firewood,” advised Julian.

“A decision I am reconsidering,” responded Pike.

Julian and Pike stood in Tomas Harcourt’s record room on the second floor. They had just been discussing the chain with an extra link and Ezekiel Webb. Suddenly, the floorboards creaked below.

Both men froze.

This time the sound was followed by the unmistakable scrape of the rear door. Someone was entering the kitchen.

Julian closed the dispatch box and turned the key. He gathered the deed and warehouse note, folded them inside his coat, and lifted the survey chain from the floor. It was too cumbersome to carry quickly. He wrapped the leather straps around it and placed the folded length back in the box.

Pike whispered, “Window.”

“No,” answered Julian.

“We know the route works,” said Pike.

“If we leave the box, we lose it,” said Julian.

“If we carry it, we cannot fight,” said Pike.

Julian looked around the records room.

The intruder below had entered quietly, believing the house empty or expecting another person. A direct retreat would announce that Thomas’s cache had been discovered.

Julian lowered the box into the concealed cabinet drawer and pushed the molding closed. He kept the iron key. Then he extinguished the candle. Darkness filled the room. Pike’s breathing became audible.

“Stand behind the door,” Julian whispered.

“With the wood?” asked Pike quietly.

“With whatever colonial instrument seems proper,” replied Julian.

Julian moved into the upper passage and flattened himself against the wall beside the stairs. He drew his sword. Below, the kitchen door closed. One footstep entered the passage. Then another.

The intruder did not search. He came directly toward the tall clock. Julian heard the lower door open, followed by the faint rattle of a weight. The man knew where Thomas had hidden the key.

A moment later came a quiet curse. The weight was empty. The intruder started up the stairs. The intruder moved rapidly now. Julian waited at the upper turn.

A hand appeared first, gloved in dark leather and holding a short-barreled pistol. The sleeve belonged to a plain brown coat. Julian struck the wrist with the flat of his blade.

The pistol fired. Flame filled the stairwell.

The lead ball struck the plaster above Julian’s shoulder. The enclosed space magnified the report into a blow that left all three sets of ears ringing. The intruder lunged upward. Julian caught the man’s coat at the shoulder. They collided against the wall. The stranger smelled of sweat, wet wool, red sealing wax, and lamp oil.

Pike emerged from the records room and swung the length of firewood. He struck the intruder high across the back. The man fell forward onto the upper landing, taking Julian with him. Julian’s sword slid beneath the banister and dropped to the floor below.

The stranger twisted with surprising strength and drove an elbow into Julian’s ribs. Pain flashed through his side. Julian seized the pistol arm and forced it against the boards.

The intruder’s glove was stained with reddish clay. The same earth he had seen upon the road. The intruder struck Julian across the mouth with his free hand. Julian’s head hit the wall.

Pike raised the wood again, but the stranger kicked backward and caught him at the knee. Pike fell against the broken records-room door. The intruder tore free. For an instant the two men faced one another in the dim passage.

Julian saw a lean jaw, a cloth tied across the lower face disguising the identity of the intruder, and eyes pale enough to catch what little light reached the landing. The stranger wore a dark metal button upon his coat. Engraved upon it was the shape of a rook.

Then he turned and ran into Thomas’s bedchamber. Julian followed. The man crossed the room in three strides and went through the open window onto the sloping kitchen roof.

Julian reached the casement in time to see the intruder lower himself to the rain barrel. The barrel lid collapsed beneath his weight, but he caught the fence, dropped into the garden, and ran toward the adjoining lot. Julian climbed through the window.

Pike seized the back of his coat. “Let him go.”

“He did not ask permission to enter this house,” claimed Julian.

“He has a second pistol,” shouted Pike.

Julian looked down. The intruder had reached the neighboring gate. He turned once, raising his hand. Something flashed.

Julian pulled back as a second shot cracked through the yard. The ball struck the window frame and threw splinters into the room. By the time Julian looked again, the man had disappeared among the gardens.

Pike remained on the floor beneath the window, still gripping Julian’s coat. “You see?” he said. “Sensible.”

Julian touched his lower lip. His glove came away with blood on it. “Your concern is moving.”

“My concern is that I will be required to explain your body to Colonel Rooke,” protested Pike.

“Why Rooke?” asked Julian.

“Because your father is in England,” explained Pike. The words silenced them both.

Julian looked at the splintered frame. The button with the rook insignia had been conspicuous. Too conspicuous.

A household servant might wear livery buttons. A hired agent might have stolen one. A man attempting to implicate Rooke might choose precisely such a mark. Evidence displayed during an escape could be truer than evidence hidden in a locked room. Or entirely false.

Pike climbed carefully to his feet.

“Did you see him?” asked Julian.

“Part of him,” said Pike.

"Pym?” asked Julian.

“No,” replied Pike.

“You are certain?” asked Julian.

“No, I am not.” Pike touched his knee and winced.

Julian returned to the upper passage and recovered his sword from below. The blade had struck the floor point first, leaving a small hole in one of the boards.

The discharged pistol lay upon the stair. Julian picked it up.

It was well made but plain, with no identifying ornamentation. The grip was worn, and a smear of red clay marked the underside of the barrel. Near the powder pan, the metal smelled strongly of oil.

Lamp oil had also been used in the printing office, workshops, taverns, warehouses, homes, and virtually every building requiring artificial light. It proved nothing by itself.

The intruder’s immediate search of the clock weight proved more. He knew Thomas’s hiding method. He expected the key to remain. And he had not known Julian had arrived until entering - or had underestimated how quickly Julian would locate the cache.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7: Rebecca Gresham