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

The staircase was narrow, with a turn near the top. Julian kept his sword close, point raised. Pike followed two steps behind, carrying his improvised club like a man regretting every choice that had brought him to Virginia’s capital city.

The upper passage was darker than the floor below. Three doors opened from it. The nearest stood ajar. The second was closed. The third, at the eastern end, was open wide enough to reveal the edge of a bed.

Julian paused. A current of cool air touched his face. One window was open. He moved first to the nearest room.

It contained a narrow bed, washstand, chest, and pegs intended for clothing. Dust lay evenly across the furniture. The mattress had been stripped. No one was inside.

The second door resisted when he tried it.

Locked. “Damn,” he thought.

The third room had been Thomas’s bedchamber.

The shutters were open, admitting the last bit of gray light of the day. One window stood wide. A curtain lifted and fell into the breeze.

Julian crossed to the window. Below, lay the side garden and fence. The ground was partly hidden by rosemary and dead stalks, but a narrow section of earth beneath the window had been disturbed.

Someone had gone out that way.

Pike leaned from the window. “He could have reached the kitchen roof.”

A sloping section of wooden shingles extended beneath the room. From there, a person might lower himself onto the rain barrel and then the ground.

Julian looked toward the neighboring garden. A gate swung slowly in the fence.

The intruder was gone.

Pike let out a breath. “Should we fetch the constable now?”

“We search first,” said Julian.

“For what?” asked Pike.

“For whatever our visitor failed to find,” said Julian.

The bedchamber was smaller than Julian expected. Thomas’s wardrobe stood against one wall; a writing desk occupied the space beneath the opposite window. A narrow bed, neatly made beneath a dusty cover, faced the hearth.

The search here had been less carefully disguised.

The wardrobe doors stood open. Clothing had been lifted from pegs and returned in the wrong order. The mattress had been shifted several inches from the wall. Two boards near the hearth bore fresh marks from a knife or narrow tool.

Julian approached the writing desk.

Its drawers had been emptied. Papers, quills, sealing wax sticks, string, wafers, and account books had been returned in rough stacks, not the way Thomas had left them. The desk’s writing surface showed scratches where an object had been dragged across it.

At the rear of the desk stood six narrow pigeonholes. Five of the pigeonholes contained folded papers. The sixth was empty, but it was dust-free, unlike the rest.

Pike looked over his shoulder.

“Something was taken,” said Julian. “Recently.”

“How can you tell?” asked Pike.

“The empty space has no dust,” said Julian.

“Perhaps Thomas used that space,” said Pike.

Julian pointed to the desk’s writing surface. A triangular patch of dust had been disturbed immediately beneath the empty compartment.

“No. Something was removed and set here before being carried away,” said Julian.

He examined the remaining papers. They were ordinary accounts: firewood, candles, imported books, shoe repairs, payments to a washerwoman, a subscription to the Virginia Gazette, and several meals purchased from Rebecca Gresham.

The dates ended in December. Beneath them lay a thin memorandum in Thomas’s hand.

Julian read it. “Two quires foolscap. One stick red wax. Lamp oil. New chain repaired by S.P. Paid in full.”

“S.P. ?” wondered Julian, looking at Pike.

“Silas Pym?” Pike asked.

“Possibly,” said Julian.

“The surveyor?” asked Pike.

“The same,” said Julian.

Pike made a dissatisfied sound.

Julian folded the memorandum and placed it inside his coat.

“You are taking that?” asked Pike.

“It belongs to the estate,” said Julian.

“So does the furniture,” said Pike.

“I shall restrain myself in that account,” said Julian. “I don’t think it will fit in my pocket.”

He searched the desk more carefully. Thomas had used a sloping writing surface covered in worn green baize. The baize was coarse woolen fabric with a napped surface that resembled felt, that sat on top of the writing surface to protect the wood underneath. Julian pressed along the edges. The lower right corner shifted beneath his thumb. He withdrew a small knife and worked the tip into the seam.

Pike watched. “You have done that before.”

“English gentlemen are expected to understand furniture,” said Julian.

“I had thought they were expected to sit upon it,” said Pike.

“My education of furniture is broader than you may suppose,” said Julian.

The baize-covered board lifted. Beneath it lay a shallow compartment containing nothing but a fine coating of dust and one broken black thread. Whatever Thomas had concealed there, had already been removed.

Julian touched the thread. Silk. It was not from ordinary document binding. It might have tied a packet, a small key, or a piece of jewelry.

A second scrape sounded from somewhere below. Both men turned. The house had not emptied itself.

Pike raised the firewood. “That came from the kitchen,” whispered Pike.

Julian moved toward the passage. “No. Too distant,” said Julian.

“What?” asked Pike.

They both listened intently. A faint vibration traveled through the floorboards. Not below. Within the wall.

Julian crossed over to the locked second door. He tried the handle again. The lock was still locked.

“Was this room locked when Thomas lived?” Julian asked.

“I did not visit his bedchamber,” said Pike.

“You possessed admirable boundaries when they did not concern roads.”

Pike ignored the insult.

Julian examined the keyhole. The key remained in the lock on the far side. He could see its dark silhouette. Someone had locked the room from within or left it secured before departing through another exit.

He knocked. No answer. Julian slid the tip of his sword beneath the door as far as the gap allowed. Nothing touched it. “Stand back,” he warned.

Pike did so willingly.

Julian kicked the door near the lock. The door shook but held fast. His second kick splintered the frame. On the third kick, the bolt tore through the wood frame and the door swung inward.

The room beyond was not a bedchamber, as was supposed earlier. It was Thomas’s private records room.

Shelves covered three walls from floor to ceiling. A broad table stood in the center. Map drawers occupied one corner, while a tall cabinet with numerous small compartments stood opposite. Heavy curtains had been drawn across the single window, explaining the darkness.

Julian entered cautiously. No person waited inside. The scrape had come from a loose shutter catch tapping the exterior wall.

Pike leaned against the damaged frame.

“There. The sound is explained,” said Julian

“And the intruder is gone,” said Pike.

“Those are not the same conclusion,” said Julian.

The room smelled more strongly of lavender, more so than the rest of the house. Bundles of dried flowers had been hung near the shelves; perhaps to combat mildew, insects, or the odor of damp paper.

Julian lit a candle from the tinderbox upon the table. The flame revealed a room in greater disorder than the others.

Maps had been pulled from drawers and left rolled or flattened across the floor. Ledger books lay open stacked upon one another. Several shelves had been cleared entirely. A chair had been overturned. A framed print of London had been removed from the wall and leaned face inward against the wainscot on the outside wall of the room.

On the table stood a small iron press used for copying or sealing documents. Beside the table lay a narrow wooden rule, a brass divider, and a surveyor’s compass with a cracked glass cover.

Pike stepped into the room. “This is what he kept locked.”

“What do you suppose Thomas was hiding?” asked Julian.

“Money,” guess Pike.

“Clerks hide papers, gentlemen hide money,” explained Julian.

“What do baronets hide?” asked Pike.

“Debt,” answered Julian.

Next Chapter: Chapter 8: Excess