- Thomas Harcourt’s house, early Saturday morning, 29 March 1755

Pike and Julian descended to the kitchen and Pike returned carrying his hat, which had somehow remained there throughout the struggle. “Now, I am going to fetch a constable!”

“You should fetch two,” said Julian.

“Will you remain inside?” asked Pike.

“Yes,” replied Julian.

“That answer sounded too easy,” said Pike.

“I have found what our visitor wanted. I am unlikely to become safer by standing in the street,” said Julian.

Pike picked up Julian’s dispatch box. “This stays with me.”

“It contains my father’s letter to the Colonel,” advised Julian.

“Then I will guard it with all the devotion I have failed to show you,” cowed Pike. He paused at the rear door. “You should bar this door.”

“With what?” asked Julian.

Pike looked around and handed him the length of firewood. “A Colonial instrument.” Pike smiled largely. Then he went out.

Julian closed the door and braced the wood beneath the latch. He was alone in Thomas Harcourt’s house. The quiet returned gradually.

First came the ringing left by the pistol report. Then the distant sounds beyond the walls. Finally, the house’s own small movements emerged: cooling boards, wind at the shutters, the faint shifting of paper somewhere upstairs.

Julian went to the wash basin and cleaned the blood from his mouth. A bruise was already forming along his ribs. His left ear heard less clearly than his right. Upon the kitchen floor, near the overturned chair, he found another fragment of red sealing wax.

It matched the smear on the rung of the chair. The intruder had been here before.

Perhaps he had broken a seal and removed a packet during the first search. Perhaps the rook button had caught against the chair. Perhaps Thomas had entertained the man who later returned to search his rooms.

Julian placed the wax fragment in his pocket. He climbed once more to the records room and opened the hidden cabinet. The dispatch box remained where he had left it.

He lifted the chain and carried it into the passage. Working methodically, he stretched it along the upper floor, doubled it back, and examined each link.

The extra link showed no obvious difference in age or manufacturing. Its presence was not an accidental repair. Someone had intended the chain to measure falsely while appearing sound. Near one handle, a maker’s stamp had been driven into the iron.

A small crown above the letters ‘B & S’.

Julian copied the mark onto a sheet of paper. He then examined the brass tally tags. Each marked a standard interval. None acknowledged the 101st link. The chain lay most effectively where it appeared most official. Julian folded it again and returned it to the box.

He read the deed a second time: Saint Orison Parish.

The name troubled him beyond its obvious impossibility. Orison was an old word for prayer. A parish named for prayer was not impossible, but it sounded constructed by a man who knew the purpose of parishes without understanding how they received names.

He studied the witnesses who signed the deed. Matthew Wren. The name meant nothing to him. Below Wren’s signature appeared two others: Josiah Vale and Nathaniel Crow. Thomas had placed a small dot beside Wren’s name and a short line beneath Crow’s. Near the bottom of the deed, almost hidden beneath the fold, was a number: 00.

Julian examined it under the candlelight. Not two letter O’s, definitely two zeroes. A filing number, perhaps. A code. A reference to a volume that did not exist.

He looked at the warehouse note again. The same number appeared beside Ezekiel Webb’s name, 00.

The chain bore no written number, but one brass tally tag near the extra link had been filed until its original mark disappeared.

Three objects connected by an absence: A non-existent parish, a dead holder, an erased tally.

Julian heard the outer door open and reached for the pistol before Pike called from below, “It is me.”

“You have been gone for barely ten minutes,” said Julian from the top of the stairs.

“I found Mrs. Gresham before a constable,” advised Pike.

A woman answered from the passage. “You found me because I was coming here.” Her voice was low, firm, and entirely without fear.

Julian descended to the kitchen.

Rebecca Gresham stood in the parlor doorway holding a lantern. She was perhaps fifty years of age, broad through the shoulders, plainly but well dressed, with iron-gray hair visible beneath a dark hood. Her face had the composed authority of a person accustomed to managing drunk men, hungry travelers, disputed bills, and information no one wished publicly repeated.

Behind her stood Pike and a young constable whose expression suggested he had not yet decided whether the pistol hole in the plaster constituted excitement or work.

Mrs. Gresham looked at Julian’s cut lip, the damaged stair, the pistol in his hand, and the firewood wedged beneath the kitchen latch. “You are Thomas’s nephew,” she said.

“Julian Harcourt,” Julian introduced himself.

“I had expected greater resemblance,” said Gresham.

“I apologize,” said Julian.

“To whom?” asked Gresham.

He considered her. “To whichever Harcourt would be offended.”

The corner of her mouth moved. “Thomas said you used words when other men would use a door.”

“My uncle appears to have spoken of me more recently than he wrote,” said Julian.

Mrs. Gresham’s expression became still. “How recently do you believe he spoke?”

Pike shifted beside her.

The young constable took out a small notebook.

Julian looked from one face to another. “My uncle died more than a week ago,” explained Julian.

“So the notice said,” Gresham replied.

“The notice?” asked Julian.

“The notice of his death,” said Gresham.

“You question it?” asked Julian.

“I question notices whenever men in offices write them before witnesses have finished speaking,” replied Gresham.

The constable cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gresham.” She ignored him.

Julian stepped closer. “When did you last see Thomas?”

Her eyes moved briefly toward the stairs. “The night after he was supposed to have fallen from the bridge.”

No one spoke.

Outside, a horse passed along Francis Street. Julian heard each hoof strike separately. “That is impossible,” he said.

“No,” Gresham answered. “It is inconvenient.” She held the lantern higher. “He came to my back door after midnight with mud to his knees, blood upon his sleeve, and a leather document tube chained to his wrist. He asked for wine, paper, and a shovel.”

Julian felt the house shift around him. The rooms were the same. The documents upstairs remained folded inside Thomas’s box. The discharged pistol still smelled of powder. Yet the event he had crossed the Atlantic to settle had altered. Thomas’s death was no longer a fixed point. It was another line someone had moved.

“What happened to him?” Julian asked.

Mrs. Gresham looked toward the shuttered windows before answering. “That is what Thomas expected you to discover.”

Rebecca Gresham did not sit until the constable did.

The young man had positioned himself beside the parlor hearth with his notebook open, his hat beneath one arm, and an expression of official attention that exceeded his years. He remained standing because Mrs. Gresham remained standing. She remained standing, Julian suspected, because she had recognized the advantage of making the constable uncomfortable.

Julian stood on the opposite side of Mrs. Gresham from the constable. Pike had closed and barred the kitchen door. He now hovered near the passage, alternately watching the shattered plaster above the stairs, and the pistol Julian had placed upon the parlor table.

The house retained the smell of burned powder.

A haze lingered in the upper passage and drifted downward in pale threads. It mixed with dust, lavender, extinguished candlewick, and the colder air entering through the damaged bedchamber window. The combination was sufficiently unpleasant that Julian’s cut lip seemed a lesser inconvenience.

Mrs. Gresham held her lantern at waist height. Its light made the angles of her face appear sterner than they had at the door.

“You said Thomas came to you after his death,” Julian said.

“I said he came after the time stated for his death,” said Gresham.

“An important distinction?” asked Julian.

“It is if one means to discover who lied,” said Gresham.

The constable dipped his pen. “What night was this, Mrs. Gresham?”

She looked at him. “If you write while I speak, you will record what I say. If you wait until I finish, you may understand it.” The constable lowered the pen.

Julian pulled one of the parlor chairs upright and gestured toward it. Mrs. Gresham obstinately did not move.

“You are in Mr. Thomas Harcourt’s house!” Gresham said. “It is not yours until the estate declares it so!”

“I will risk offering its furniture, prematurely,” replied Julian.

Her eyes rested upon him for a moment. Then she sat and appeared irritated with Julian.

Julian took the chair opposite Mrs. Gresham. The constable followed, choosing the edge of the chair nearest the door. Pike remained upright, perhaps because every available seat had begun to look legally dangerous.

The empty glass Thomas had used remained between them. There was a second ring upon the table - left by a missing glass - caught the lantern light whenever Pike shifted.

“Begin with the bridge, please,” Julian said.

Mrs. Gresham folded her hands. “Thomas left my ordinary on the evening of Wednesday the nineteenth. He had eaten nothing and drunk one glass of Madeira badly.”

“Badly? What do you mean ‘badly’ drank?” asked Julian.

“He allowed it to stand untouched for the better part of an hour,” she answered. Julian understood what she meant. “Thomas did not waste wine unless he feared someone had altered it,” explained Gresham.

Pike looked at the glass upon the table. Julian noticed.

“Was he expecting danger?” asked Julian.

“He had expected it for weeks,” replied Gresham.

“From whom?” asked Julian.

“If he had told me that, I might have done more than lock my back door,” replied Gresham.

“What did he say?” asked Julian.

“That he meant to meet Matthew Wren near the bridge on Woodpecker Street.” The name struck Julian with recognition.

Julian recalled that Matthew Wren had signed the deed, granting him six hundred acres in Saint Orison Parish. He concealed the reaction. “Who is Wren?” asked Julian.

“A carpenter when work was honest, a chain carrier when surveyors required one, and a processionary when Bruton Parish chooses him,” said Gresham, discerningly.

“Processionary,” Julian repeated.

The constable answered before Mrs. Gresham could. “Men appointed to walk property boundaries, sir. Renew the marks and settle disagreements.”

“I know the meaning,” said Julian. The constable’s face colored. Julian added, “I did not know the man.”

Mrs. Gresham continued. “Wren had been helping Thomas compare old boundaries with records made after the Capitol burned. Thomas believed several lines had been moved.”

“Physically or upon paper?” asked Julian.

“He had ceased to distinguish between the two,” stated Gresham. The answer was very nearly Thomas’s message:

‘Every acre begins as a line. Find the man who has learned to move them.’

“What happened at the bridge?” Julian asked.

“I was not there,” Gresham said defensively.

“What did Thomas later tell you?” asked Julian.

“Very little. He said Wren failed to appear. He waited until after dark. Someone came from the trees. Thomas was struck and thrown into the water.”

Pike shifted. “The bridge crosses no great depth,” stated Julian.

“Not in dry weather,” Mrs. Gresham said. “The rain had swollen the channel. Thomas was stunned. He would have drowned if the fall had placed him farther from the bank.”

The constable raised his pen again. “Did he see the attacker?” asked the constable.

“He said only that the man wore gloves,” said Gresham.

Julian looked at the leather glove stain he had transferred mentally from the stairwell struggle. “Dark leather?”

Mrs. Gresham’s gaze sharpened. “He did not name the color.”

“The man who attacked me in this house wore dark gloves,” declared Julian.

“Then either you have met the same man, or Williamsburg has suffered a decline in the imagination of men’s fashion,” said Gresham.

“What happened after Thomas fell in?” asked Julian.

“He remained beneath the bridge until the road was empty. Then he walked to my ordinary,” said Gresham.

“With mud to his knees and blood upon his sleeve?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” replied Gresham.

“And a document tube chained to his wrist,” finished Julian.

The constable looked up quickly. Mrs. Gresham’s attention did not leave Julian.

“You remember accurately,” approved Gresham.

“What was inside?” asked Julian.

“I did not ask,” stated Gresham.

“Mrs. Gresham…” asked Julian.

“I did not.” Gresham’s expressions and face did not change at all.

“You expect me to believe Thomas Harcourt arrived after midnight, bloodied and recently thrown from a bridge, carrying a locked document tube chained to his body, and you did not ask what it contained?” asked Julian.

“I knew Thomas better than that,” said Gresham.

“That is not an answer,” said Julian.

“It is the whole answer. He spent twenty years carrying papers men would kill to possess and men would kill to avoid reading. Asking what he carried only gave him cause to lie,” answered Gresham.

Julian sat back. She had the same habit as Anne Mercer: answering a challenge by correcting the assumption beneath it. “What did he request?” he asked.

“Wine, writing paper, lamp oil, a shovel, and privacy,” Gresham said.

“The shovel remains unexplained,” said Julian.

“He left with it,” stated Gresham.

“Did he return it?” asked Julian.

“No,” answered Gresham.

Pike said, “Good shovels do not return themselves.”

Mrs. Gresham glanced toward him. “Nor do hired chairs, yet I see yours outside.”

Pike fell silent.

Julian touched his bruised ribs and immediately regretted the movement. “How long did Thomas remain with you?”

“Until shortly before dawn,” replied Gresham

“What did he do while he was with you?” asked Julian.

“Wrote,” said Gresham.

“How many pages?” asked Julian.

“Six or seven,” replied Gresham.

“To whom?” asked Julian.

“He addressed one to your father,” Gresham answered.

Julian felt the sealed letter to Colonel Rooke waiting in the dispatch box outside the room, as though his father’s correspondence had quietly multiplied around him. “Did he seal it?”

“Yes,” answered Gresham.

“Where is it?” asked Julian.

“He took it with him,” answered Gresham.

“The other pages?” asked Julian.

“Some he folded. One he burned,” answered Gresham

“What was written upon the burned page?” asked Julian.

Mrs. Gresham regarded him with restrained impatience. “If I had read it before he burned it, Mr. Harcourt, its destruction would not be troubling to us, would it?”

“Did he speak of me?” asked Julian.

“Once,” replied Gresham.

Julian waited. Mrs. Gresham’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “He asked whether a man could inherit responsibility without inheriting guilt.”

The constable’s pen moved despite her earlier warning. Julian heard its point scratch across the paper. “What did you answer?” asked Julian.

“That inheritance is rarely so courteous as to divide itself according to the wishes of the recipient,” said Gresham.

“And Thomas?” asked Julian.

“He laughed,” Gresham said.

The idea of Thomas laughing on the night after his supposed death disturbed Julian more than the attack had done. Now, more than ever, more questions burned in Julian’s mind.

Next Chapter: Chapter 8: Questions