- Thomas Harcourt’s house, late Friday night, 28 March 1755

Julian considered the house again.

The front door was constructed of thick boards with a simple iron latch and lock. The windows on the lower floor were shuttered from within. A narrow path ran beside the building toward the kitchen yard. The rear grounds were enclosed by a weathered fence, beyond which lay neighboring gardens, small outbuildings, and the backs of houses facing the southern street.

Anyone leaving through the rear might pass unseen into several adjoining lots.

Julian removed the sealed letter to Rooke from inside his coat and placed it in the dispatch box. He locked the box with its small brass key and handed the key to Pike.

“Remain with the luggage,” Julian directed, speaking quietly so anyone in the house could not hear.

“That is not what I propose, I should go with you in case someone is there,” reasoned Pike, also quietly.

“It is what I require,” said Julian in more of a tone that one addresses servants.

“You have no key to the house,” said Pike.

“I have windows,” said Julian, gesturing to the house.

“The shutters are locked,” said Pike.

“I have been in Virginia less than a day, Mr. Pike, and already men have altered a measurement, concealed the purpose of a journey, and addressed me by name before an introduction! I should dislike letting a shutter establish the first honest boundary I encounter in this colony.”

Harcourt crossed the garden, using shadows to hide himself and went as stealthily as one could move.

Pike was impressed that Julian made not a sound. He followed as far as the path and stopped. “If something happens,” Pike said, “call out.”

“If something happens, you will probably hear it,” said Julian.

“That is not reassuring,” said Pike.

“It was not intended to be,” explained Julian.

The neglected garden had once been arranged in narrow beds divided by brick or oyster-shell paths. Winter stalks leaned against one another in the damp soil. A rosemary bush had grown woody and untrimmed near the front step. Beneath one window stood an empty stone basin filled with rainwater and dead leaves.

Julian mounted the step and tried the door. The latch did not move.

He bent to examine the lock. The iron faceplate was scratched around the keyhole, but not recently. The scratches appeared to have accumulated over years of careless use. Dust lay undisturbed along the upper edge of the threshold.

If someone had entered through the front, he had not done so since the morning rain.

Julian looked through the narrow gap between shutter and frame. Nothing was visible beyond darkness.

He walked along the east side of the house. The path narrowed beneath the eaves. A rain barrel stood near the rear corner; its lid warped. The ground was soft enough to preserve impressions, though the soil had been disturbed by water dripping from the roof. At the kitchen yard, Julian stopped.

The rear door stood open inward by the width of a finger. “Someone indeed had been here, and might still be!” Julian thought. He touched the door with the back of his glove. The door moved inward without sound.

“Mr. Pike,” called Julian quietly.

Pike appeared at the corner of the house with Thomas’s dispatch box still in his arms.

“I told you to remain with the luggage,” whispered Julian.

“I remained with the most expensive piece,” whispered Pike.

Julian shook his head and indicated the open door. Pike stared at it.

“That was shut when I came here last,” whispered Pike.

“When?” asked Julian quietly.

“After the burial. Four days ago,” whispered Pike.

“You entered?” asked Julian quietly.

“Only the front room. Colonel Rooke’s clerk had the key,” explained Pike quietly.

“What did he remove?” asked Julian quietly.

“Nothing while I was present,” replied Pike quietly.

“A useful qualification,” snorted Julian as quietly as he could.

Pike lowered the dispatch box to the ground. “Someone may have left the door improperly secured,” whispered Pike.

“Someone may also be inside,” said Julian.

“You are beginning to sound almost sensible,” said Pike.

Julian drew his sword.

The blade left the scabbard with a quiet metallic whisper. It was a gentleman’s smallsword, well suited to a drawing room quarrel and less suited to a dark kitchen crowded with furniture. Nevertheless, its point was sharp and its presence improved Pike’s opinion of the situation no further.

Pike picked up a length of split firewood from beside the kichen wall. Julian looked at it.

“I trust you know how to use that,” asked Julian mockingly.

“I intend to strike whatever appears surprised to see me,” whispered Pike.

“An admirably simple test,” said Julian. He pushed the door open.

The kitchen smelled of cold grease, damp wood, old ashes, and something faintly sweet that Julian could not place. Light entered through a small rear window and fell across a worktable, shelves, hanging utensils, and a broad hearth. The room had been left as though its occupant expected to return after a brief absence. A blackened kettle remained upon an iron hook. Two earthenware bowls stood inverted near a wash basin. A cloth had stiffened where it hung from a peg.

A chair lay on its side beside the table. Julian remained at the threshold.

“Did Thomas live alone?” asked Julian.

“Mostly,” replied Pike.

“Meaning?” asked Julian.

“He had a woman come in twice a week to clean and cook. Sarah Gant. She stopped after he died,” explained Pike.

“Are any servants sleeping in the house?” asked Julian.

“No,” replied Pike.

“Relatives?” asked Julian.

“Only you and your father, it seems,” said Pike.

Julian stepped inside.

The floorboards flexed beneath his weight. Nothing moved in the adjoining passage.

The kitchen’s exterior door showed no sign of force. The latch cord had been pulled through a small opening beside the frame, a common enough method of entry for anyone who knew where to find it. There were scratches in the wood near the opening, one of them fresh.

The intruder had not needed a key.

Julian crouched beside the overturned chair. One rung bore a dark smear. He touched it and rubbed the substance between finger and thumb.

Red sealing wax.

Pike leaned closer. “Blood?” asked Pike.

“Sealing wax,” deduced Julian.

He examined the floor beneath the table. A few hard red fragments had fallen between the boards. Someone had broken or handled a sealed packet in the kitchen.

A movement sounded above them. One slow creak.

Pike tightened both hands around the firewood.

Julian lifted a finger for silence. The creak did not repeat.

He pointed toward the passage. Pike nodded, though without enthusiasm.

They moved from the kitchen into a narrow central hall. The air within the main house was colder and carried a stronger odor of paper, soot, dust, and lavender. Light entered in thin bars around the shuttered windows. The passage ran toward the front door, with two rooms opening from it and a stair rising along the western wall.

A tall clock stood beneath the stair. Its painted dial was barely visible. Julian approached it quietly and slowly.

The pendulum hung motionless behind the glass. The minute hand pointed to twenty-three minutes after four. A small door in the clock’s lower case stood open.

Julian bent and looked inside.

The weights had descended nearly to the bottom. One chain remained in motion, swinging with a diminishing arc. It must have been disturbed only moments earlier.

Pike peered over his shoulder. “Someone touched it.”

“Or touched the floor beside it,” replied Julian, as quietly as he could.

The clock case was constructed of dark walnut and showed no immediate damage. Julian opened the upper door. The mechanism smelled faintly of oil and metal. He placed two fingers lightly against the minute hand. It moved with almost no resistance. “The hands are loose,” he said.

“What does that signify?” asked Pike

“That the time tells us nothing,” said Julian.

Pike looked toward the stair. “What of the ticking?”

Julian examined the verge and gear train. “The mechanism had nearly run down. If someone struck the case or brushed the weight, it might have moved briefly.”

“So, there was someone here?” asked Pike

“There was a disturbance,” explained Julian.

“That is the distinction of facts by a clerk. One who notices small details,” said Pike.

“I was raised among clerks and lawyers,” said Julian.

“Your father is a baronet,” said Pike.

“Yes. My father has never permitted rank to interfere with accounting.” Julian closed the clock.

The room to the east had served as a parlor. Two chairs stood near the hearth. A small table held a brass candlestick, an empty glass, and a plate upon which a heel of bread had hardened to stone. Shelves contained books in English, Latin, and French, along with pamphlets, folded newspapers, and several rolled maps.

It was obvious that the room had already been searched.

At first, the disorder appeared to be natural. Books leaned at irregular angles, papers lay upon the table, but one drawer stood half open. Then Julian noticed the details, he saw them with an eagle eye, like the difference between day and night.

Dust covered the top edges of the shelves except where several books had recently been removed. A volume of Coke’s “Institutes of the Lawes of England” had been returned upside down. Three pamphlets rested in a sequence that placed their second numbers before their first. The table drawer had been emptied and its contents replaced without regard for the impressions they had left in dust.

Someone had wanted the room to appear untidy. But Thomas had not been an untidy man.

Julian knew this not through memory of his uncle’s life in Virginia, but through the letters Thomas had sent to England. His handwriting had been narrow, clean and disciplined. His parcels arrived with every item listed in detail. Even botanical specimens had been labeled according to the place, season, and weather of their collection.

The parlor’s disorder was an imitation created by someone who understood mess but not habit.

“Did the room look like this four days ago?” Julian asked.

Pike remained in the doorway. “I did not enter.”

“You said you came into the front room,” said Julian.

“The room across the passage,” said Pike.

“Did you look in here?” asked Julian.

“The door was open,” replied Pike.

“And?” asked Julian.

Pike studied the shelves. “I thought it untidy.”

“Was my uncle untidy?” asked Julian.

“No,” said Pike.

“Then why did you not find it strange?” asked Julian.

“Because the dead leave rooms behind them, Mr. Harcourt. It feels discourteous to criticize,” reasoned Pike.

Julian crossed to the table. The empty glass contained a brown residue. He smelled it. “Madeira,” said Julian.

“Thomas preferred it,” said Pike.

“He drank alone?” asked Julian.

“Often,” said Pike.

The bread had been cut with a knife that remained beside the plate. The blade showed no rust. A thin layer of dust covered both bread and plate, though not the glass.

Julian touched the table around it. A ring marked where another glass had stood.

Someone had removed it.

“Thomas had company,” proclaimed Julian.

“Before he died?” asked Pike.

“Or afterward,” declared Julian.

Pike shifted his grip upon the firewood. “Could we determine which after leaving the house?”

Julian ignored him.

A sound came from the floor above. Not a creak this time. A soft scrape, followed by a brief knock.

Pike raised the wood. Julian moved to the foot of the stair.

“Whoever is above,” Julian called loud enough for anyone to hear. “You have entered the house of Thomas Harcourt without leave. Come down where I can see you.”

Silence answered. Julian waited.

The house settled around them. Timber contracted in the evening cool. Somewhere within the wall, a mouse scratched at plaster.

Then the upper floorboard gave a distinct groan beneath weight.

Pike whispered, “Constable?”

“Too late,” said Julian.

“For what?” asked Pike.

“To avoid looking foolish,” said Julian.

Julian began to climb the stairs.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7: Upstairs