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

Julian fondly remembered the mysterious and knowledgeable uncle of his childhood through fragments: a parcel containing a compass; a letter explaining why maps placed sea monsters where knowledge failed; a dried Virginia leaf pressed between pages; a puzzle involving three estate walls and a dishonest steward.

Thomas’s humor had been quiet and unexpected. Sir Reginald had disliked it because it often arrived after someone important had spoken. Julian remembered his uncle in small patches.

Mrs. Gresham was shedding light on the murder of his brother Thomas. She also created more questions as she answered questions from Julian. He wanted to continue until he could tell the constable who killed his uncle and stop the fraud that he suspected heavily.

I know Colonel Rooke is involved; I just know it, thought Julian to himself. I need more answers. He stared at Gresham, knowing she had the answers he needed. She did not answer previous questions like she was trying to hide anything.

Rebecca Gresham sat near him, looking willing to tell everything she knew about Thomas’ last hours. He had been questioning her with a constable, who scribbled notes as the questioning progressed. Pike stood awkwardly, watching and providing statements as the story wove on.

“I would like to ask more questions,” Julian said.

“I will tell what I know,” she replied.

What happened to the document tube?” Julian asked.

“Thomas retained it until Matthew Wren came,” replied Gresham.

The room became still. Julian looked toward the shuttered window. “Wren came to your ordinary?” he asked.

“At half past three in the morning,” replied Gresham.

“How do you know the hour?” asked Julian

“Because Thomas had spent several minutes correcting my clock and then informed me it remained wrong,” replied Gresham.

Despite himself, Julian looked toward the passage and the silent tall case clock beneath the stair. “Was Wren injured?” he asked.

“No. Frightened,” replied Gresham.

“Did he explain why he failed to meet Thomas at the bridge?” asked Julian.

“He claimed he had been followed from Capitol Square. He hid inside a stable and waited,” answered Gresham.

“Did Thomas believe him?” asked Julian.

“No,” answered Gresham.

“Did you believe Wren?” asked Julian.

“I believed he was afraid. Fear is easier to judge than honesty,” said Gresham.

“What did the two men do?” asked Julian.

“They argued,” answered Gresham.

“What did they argue about, Mrs. Gresham?” asked Julian.

“The Public Records Office. Wren had a key. Thomas wanted entry before daylight,” answered Gresham.

The young constable stopped writing. “Mrs. Gresham, that office is Crown property,” stated the constable. “No one should enter without Crown approval.”

“Then perhaps the Crown should have guarded it more carefully,” answered Gresham.

Julian coughed. “Did they say why they entered the office?” asked Julian, scowling at the constable.

“Wren said a land patent book had been altered. Thomas said it had not been altered - it had been entirely replaced,” said Gresham.

Julian leaned forward. “Which land patent book?” he asked intently.

“They did not name it,” answered Gresham.

“Did they carry the document tube with them?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” answered Gresham.

“And the shovel?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” answered Gresham.

“That is an unusual collection for archival work.”

“Thomas had recently been attacked at a bridge. He may have revised his intentions.”

Pike cleared his throat.

“Could’ve meant to bury the papers,” said Pike. Mrs. Gresham nodded once.

“Or retrieve something already buried,” said Julian. Julian thought of the missing section cut from the map upstairs. “Where did they go?”

“Toward the Capitol,” answered Gresham.

“Together?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” answered Gresham.

“Was that the last time that you saw Thomas?” asked Julian.

Mrs. Gresham’s hands tightened. “Yes,” she replied. Her eyes almost watered.

“You did not see him alive again,” said Pike, as if it was not already apparent in what she said.

“No,” answered Gresham.

“Has his body had been recovered, then?” asked Julian.

“The body was recovered the following afternoon,” answered Gresham.

Julian stared at her. “Then whose body had been declared his, when he came to you?” Julian asked.

“No body had been found that day,” answered Gresham. “Word spread that Thomas had fallen from the bridge because his hat and walking stick were found there. By noon the next day, a corpse had been taken from College Creek.”

“Who identified it?” asked Julian.

“Colonel Rooke’s clerk and Silas Pym,” answered Gresham.

Pike swore softly. The constable’s pen hovered above his notebook. Julian looked at him.

“Is that the official account?” asked Julian.

The young constable hesitated. “I was not present at the identification.”

“But you know who was,” lead Julian.

“Most of the town knows,” said the constable.

“Was the face visible?” asked Julian.

Mrs. Gresham answered. “The body had been in the water.”

“That is not what I asked,” demanded Julian.

“No,” she said. “The face was damaged.”

“How?” asked Julian.

“Rocks, they said,” answered the constable.

“Convenient rocks,” said Julian.

The constable shut his notebook. “Mr. Harcourt, I should caution you against accusing Colonel Rooke or Mr. Pym without evidence. That is a dangerous affair!”

“I have accused no one,” replied Julian.

“You called the condition of the body convenient,” warned the constable.

“So would any undertaker,” replied Julian.

“There was a coat Thomas was known to wear,” Pike said. “His watch as well.”

Julian drew his mother’s silver watch from his pocket and placed it upon the table. “Thomas’s watch?” he asked.

“A plain one,” Pike said. “Brass case. He complained it lost time.”

“Who saw it upon the body?” asked Julian.

“Mr. Rooke’s clerk,” replied the constable.

“The same clerk who identified him?” asked Julian.

Pike nodded reluctantly.

Mrs. Gresham said, “The burial was arranged quickly.”

“By whom?” asked Julian.

“Colonel Rooke,” answered Gresham. The answer accumulated with the others but did not yet form proof.

Rooke had known Thomas for twenty years. Arranging the burial could signify friendship rather than guilt. Identifying a damaged corpse through clothing and possessions was ordinary enough. Pym’s presence might be explained by the surveyor’s work with Thomas.

Yet Thomas had walked into Rebecca Gresham’s ordinary after the reported fall. Either she lied, or the burial had placed Thomas’s name upon another man.

Julian studied Gresham. “What prevented you from speaking before now?” asked Julian.

The question landed differently from the others. Mrs. Gresham’s expression did not change, but the lantern flame moved as her hand tightened. “Thomas requested forty-eight hours,” answered Gresham.

“For what?” asked Julian.

“He said that if he did not return within that time, I was to speak to Matthew Wren. ,” answered Gresham.

“And Wren?” asked Julian.

“Vanished,” answered Gresham.

“Then why not go to the authorities?” asked Julian.

“I did,” answered Gresham.

The constable looked at her. Mrs. Gresham turned toward him. “Not you. Your superiors.”

“What did they say?” asked Julian.

“That grief had confused me,” replied Gresham. “That the dead man’s possessions established his identity. He said that Thomas had often spoken irrationally during his final weeks.”

“Who said this?” Julian asked.

“Mr. Voss,” answered Gresham.

The name meant nothing to him. Pike supplied the explanation. “Gideon Voss. Under-sheriff.”

“For York County?” asked Julian.

“Yes,” replied Pike and Gresham together.

Julian looked again at the young constable. “Your superior?” The man nodded.

“And Colonel Rooke?” asked Julian.

“Colonel Rooke confirmed the identification,” answered Gresham.

“Silas Pym?” asked Julian.

“Also,” answered Gresham.

Julian touched the cut inside his lip with his tongue. “Mrs. Gresham, did you tell Voss about the document tube?”

“No,” answered Gresham.

“Why not?” asked Julian.

“Because Thomas told me that if men came asking after it, I was to assume they already knew too much,” answered Gresham.

“Did men come?” asked Julian.

“Pym,” answered Gresham.

“When?” asked Julian.

“The morning after the burial,” answered Gresham.

“What did he ask?” asked Julian.

“Mr. Pym asked whether Thomas left papers in my keeping; whether he had mentioned Matthew Wren; whether he spoke of some kind of chain,” answered Gresham.

Julian forced himself not to look toward the ceiling. The 101-link chain remained hidden upstairs. “What did you tell him?” asked Julian.

“That Thomas owed me for six meals and broken a shovel,” answered Gresham.

“And he believed you?” asked Julian.

“He did. He had also searched the stables,” answered Gresham.

“Did he find anything?” asked Julian.

“No,” said Gresham.

“Do you know what Thomas buried?” asked Julian.

“I do not know,” answered Gresham. Julian suspected that answer was true and incomplete.

Rebecca Gresham had kept Thomas’s survival secret for more than a week. She had stood before an under-sheriff and withheld the existence of a chained document tube. She had allowed a body to be buried under Thomas’s name.

Whatever her reasons, she would not reveal everything merely because Julian had crossed an ocean and acquired a bruised rib.

The young constable reopened his notebook. “I must report this to Mr. Voss.”

“You will,” Mrs. Gresham said.

“I should do so at once,” stated the constable.

“It is Good Friday night, the roads are dark, and someone fired twice in this house. You will remain until another constable arrives,” ordered Gresham.

The young man looked offended. “I am not subject to your orders.”

“No,” she said. “You are subject to anyone sufficiently determined to keep you alive.”

Pike coughed into his hand. Julian rose. His side protested with stabbing pain. He concealed the pain by crossing to the hearth.

“Did Thomas say where he intended to go after the Records Office?” asked Julian as he walked.

“No,” answered Gresham.

“Did he mention Saint Orison Parish?” asked Julian.

Mrs. Gresham’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that name?” she demanded.

“Do you know it?” asked Julian.

“I know Thomas used it,” said Gresham.

“In what context?” asked Julian.

“He asked whether anyone had taken a room at my ordinary under that address,” answered Gresham.

“Had they?” asked Julian.

“No,” answered Gresham.

“Did that surprise him?” asked Julian.

“It frightened him,” answered Gresham.

“Why?” asked Julian.

“He said Saint Orison existed only when someone required it,” answered Gresham. The sentence settled over the parlor.

Pike frowned. “A parish cannot appear and disappear.”

“A parish cannot,” Julian said. “A name can.”

The constable wrote Saint Orison carefully, pausing over the spelling. Mrs. Gresham watched him. “Do not place that in a public report.” The constable looked up.

“You have just described unlawful entry into the Public Records Office, concealment of a living man declared dead, and possibly the misidentification of a corpse,” explained Gresham. “The name Saint Orison is the part most likely to get you killed.”

The young man gave a nervous laugh. No one joined him.

A loud knock sounded at the front door. Pike gripped the firewood like a bat. The constable drew a small pistol from inside his coat, nearly overturning his chair in the process. Julian moved toward the passage.

The knock came again—three firm blows, then two.

Mrs. Gresham stood. “That is Anne Mercer.”

“You recognize her knock?” Julian asked quizzically.

“I recognize impatience in it,” Gresham replied. “I have heard it many times before.”

Pike opened the door only after looking through the narrow crack beside the shutter. Anne Mercer walked in.

Anne entered carrying a wrapped bundle beneath one arm and a hooded cloak damp from the night air. Her cap had been replaced by a darker hood, though several strands of chestnut hair had escaped near her temples.

Her gaze moved from Pike’s length of wood to the constable’s pistol, then to Julian’s bruised mouth.

“I was told there had been a shot,” said Mercer, defensively.

“Two,” Julian said.

“Were either improved by repetition?” asked Mercer.

“No,” replied Julian.

“Then Williamsburg’s standards are declining,” sniped Mercer. She lowered the bundle onto the parlor table. “I brought the late issues that Thomas had requested.”

“Requested when?” Julian asked.

Anne looked at Mrs. Gresham. The older woman closed the front door behind her. “Before his death,” Anne said.

“Which death?” asked Julian.

Anne studied him more carefully. “So, Rebecca has told you,” Mercer said.

“She has told me that Thomas was alive after the bridge,” said Julian.

“Then she has told you more than she told the under-sheriff,” said Mercer looking at Mrs. Gresham.

Mrs. Gresham’s expression remained unmoved. “I considered Mr. Harcourt’s arrival a change in circumstances.”

Anne removed her damp gloves. “What happened here?”

Julian described the intruder, the clock weight, and the pistol fight without mentioning the contents of Thomas’s hidden box.

Anne listened without interruption. When he described the rook button, she asked, “Was it sewn properly?”

The question surprised him. “I saw it only briefly,” said Julian.

“Buttons stolen for disguise are often attached badly. A livery servant would not tolerate loose stitching,” said Mercer.

“You suspect the emblem was planted?” asked Julian.

“I suspect it as conspicuous evidence,” said Mercer.

Julian found himself liking her slightly more for arriving at his own conclusion. “The man also smelled of lamp oil,” he said.

“Half Williamsburg smells of lamp oil after sunset,” said Mercer.

“And of red wax,” continued Julian.

“The other half smells of red wax before it,” said Mercer.

Pike said, “He knew where the clock key was hidden.”

Anne’s expression changed. “What key?”

Julian answered carefully. “A key concealed inside one of the weights.”

“To what?” asked Mercer.

“A cabinet,” said Julian.

“And inside the cabinet?” asked Mercer.

“Something he wished to recover,” replied Julian.

Mrs. Mercer’s gaze held his for a moment. “You are beginning to answer more like a Virginian,” she noticed.

“I have had some excellent instruction,” Julian replied.

She looked toward the ceiling. “Did he find what was inside the cabinet?” Mercer asked.

“No,” replied Julian.

“Did you?” asked Mercer.

Julian smiled despite his cut lip.

“You are not an officer of the estate,” stated Julian.

“No. I am a person Thomas trusted to print his notices while officers of the estate were busy declaring him mad,” said Mercer.

Mrs. Gresham placed one hand upon the bundle Anne had brought. “What did he request?”

Anne untied the wrapping. Inside were issues of the Virginia Gazette, several loose proofs, and a small ledger. “In January, Thomas asked me to preserve every advertisement mentioning Saint Orison Parish,” said Mercer.

The constable looked up from his notes. “There have been advertisements about that?”

“For many years now,” Anne said.

“Why would anyone advertise a property in a parish that does not exist?” asked the constable. “I don’t understand this.”

“That is a question, not an objection,” said Julian.

Mercer opened the ledger. “I found eleven notices. Horses, tools, land, tobacco, a wagon, one indenture, and four sales involving enslaved people.”

Julian’s attention fixed upon the final category. “Real transactions?”

“At least some. A mare advertised in Saint Orison was later sold near New Kent. A wagon changed hands through a merchant on the main street. The people named in two of the notices were seen afterward upon plantations whose owners deny ever using the parish name,” explained Mercer.

“Who placed the advertisements?” asked Julian.

“Different men,” Mercer replied. Her hands moved through the notices, and placed them in several piles, almost absent mindedly.

“Connected?” asked Julian.

“Not obviously,” replied Mercer.

“Who received payment for printing them?” asked Julian.

Mrs. Mercer gave him a thin smile. “That information is not printed beneath the advertisement.”

“Is it recorded?” asked Julian.

“Sometimes,” Mercer said. “Each was paid through an intermediary.”

“Named?” asked Julian.

She closed the ledger loudly before he could read it. “Thomas believed the notices contained a pattern. He did not tell me what pattern they formed.”

“Did he use damaged type?” asked Julian.

Anne’s fingers stopped upon the cover. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he was a clerk, who preferred systems. If he wished to mark an otherwise ordinary notice, a repeated defect would survive even when wording changed,” noticed Julian. “Very smart to hide the tiny details.” Julian was very impressed with his uncle.

Anne regarded him for several seconds. Then she unfolded one loose proof. A capital letter near the beginning of the advertisement bore a small nick along its left stem. “You saw this before?” she asked.

“No,” Julian said.

“Thomas did notice. He would ask for specific type to be used, often,” replied Mercer.

“And you?” asked Julian. “Did you see the defect type?”

“I saw damaged type. Printers see damaged type every day,” replied Mercer.

She selected another proof. A different damaged capital appeared in the text. “After he vanished, I began to wonder why he had insisted that no defective sorts be melted down.”

“What do the letters spell?” asked Julian.

“I do not have enough notices,” replied Mercer.

“Then let us find the others,” suggested Julian.

The young constable said, “These papers may now be evidence.”

Anne turned toward him. “They were evidence before you learned of them.”

Mrs. Gresham’s mouth twitched. Then, all of a sudden, everyone jumped when a heavy blow struck the front door. Julian looked for the pistol, while Pike held up his firewood.