The Constable's Tale (20 page)

When he was finished, Johnston took out a sheet of drawing paper and a pencil. He sketched out a hatch pattern, as if to begin a game of tick-tack. Beside this he drew a cross of Saint Andrew of similar size.

“The letters of the key word are inserted in pairs in the first series of spaces created by the hatch-work,” he said. He demonstrated by writing Harry’s last name, beginning in the top row and continuing in the next, by twos:

“The rest of the spaces of both the hatch work and the cross are next filled with the other letters of the alphabet, also two by two, skipping the letters already used.”

He wrote out the rest of the alphabet as he had said.

“So now you have a device that will allow you to both encode and decode messages. When writing in code, instead of writing each letter of the message, one would copy the shape of the enclosure in which the desired letter appears. Whenever the second letter in an enclosure is used, the code writer signifies so by inserting a dot in the shape of the enclosure he transcribes.”

To demonstrate, he drew a square and placed a dot in the middle.

“In your code, that represents the letter
C
.”

He laid down the pencil and sat back, seeming to savor the look of enlightenment that Harry guessed had come over his face.

“Of all the codes that have ever been devised, I believe this is one of the most elegantly simple, and damnably hard, to break unless one knows not only the pattern but also the key word.”

To make sure he understood, Harry had Johnston write a word in the code so he could translate it. The one Johnston chose had nine letters and thus nine symbols. Harry had only to translate the first three before guessing the remaining six. The word was
FREEMASON
.

He was tempted to try on the spot to write out a new code using
Ayerdale
as the key word to see if he could translate the inscription on the badge. But he decided it better not to reveal to anyone just yet his suspicion that such a prominent citizen of British America might be involved in murder. Ayerdale might be a person Johnston knew of. Instead, Harry thanked his host profusely for his help and got up to leave.

They were standing in the hallway saying final good-byes when Johnston said, “Harry, in the brief time we’ve been together, and having heard your story, I have taken a great liking to you.”

“You do me honor,” Harry said. Wondering if a small bow would be in order.

“You are a splendid example of what some of my more enlightened countrymen have taken to calling ‘natural aristocracy.’ I recognize in you a sharp mind and instincts every bit as noble as the loftiest lords of the realm. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

It sounded like something from a book, but Harry had no idea which one.

“I would like you to be my guest at a ball tonight.”

“You flatter me, sir, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It is no imposition at all. I really must insist that you meet some of my friends while you are in our city. Think of it as a simple act of New England hospitality.”

“I’m afraid I brought along no proper clothes for a ball.” In fact, Harry owned no such clothes.

“That is of no consequence. Despite our differences in age, we are of similar size and build. I have no doubt you would look splendid in any of my suits. I’ll have my man assist you in choosing something from my wardrobe before you leave.”

An hour later, Harry hailed a cabriolet to take him back to his inn, taking care to hold his borrowed suit, wrapped in a muslin sheet, as flat as possible to avoid wrinkling.

As soon as he was back in his room, he took from his pocket the folded sheet of paper containing the secret pattern of the Masons and got to work.

CHAPTER 19

54: Play not the Peacock, looking every where about you, to See if you be well Deck’t, if your Shoes fit well if your Stokings sit neatly, and Cloths handsomely.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

HE FIRST TRIED OUT THE CODE PATTERN WITH
AYERDALE
AS THE
unknown word. The resulting translation of the inscription on the back of the brooch looked like gibberish. Then he tried
RICHARD
. Same result. Then,
RICHARD AYERDALE
, and
RICHARDAYERDALE
.

Nothing.

He found himself wishing Maddie were there. With her love of riddles, her knack for stretching her mind beyond the limits of the
apparent, maybe she could help. Of course she could, he thought sourly. She would be only too happy to prove that her betrothed was not only a cruel tyrant but a murderer as well.

Discouraged, and feeling drowsy on account of his inability to sleep soundly in recent days, he left his efforts at code breaking long enough to take a nap. He awakened with a start. The cast of light coming through the window indicated the day was drawing to a close. Soon he would need to bathe and try on his borrowed finery and make his way to the ball.

But not until he tried out one more idea.

It was something that had materialized in his mind during his nap and in fact had helped bring him back awake. He had been dreaming about Ayerdale’s plantation. Trying to envision what life would be like for Maddie on the banks of the James River. Looming before him was the stone pillar bearing a name.

It did not take him long to make a new code using Ayerdale’s ancestral landholding and try it out on the inscription on the brooch.

When he was finished, he laid his pencil on the table and stared at the paper for a long time, the set of letters his effort had produced.

It was complete nonsense.

*

He arrived at the ball late and on his way to being drunk. He had stayed inside his room at the inn into the evening, taking long swigs from the rum he had purchased from the innkeeper. It was a nice rum. From a nice inn, in fact. He was sharing the bed with only one other man, a well-mannered sort from New York in town on business. The man had not yet come up, so Harry had the place to himself. No
one to pass judgment on this relapse into his old liberal ways with a bottle. He had the bottom of this one in sight when it came to him that George Johnston, who had been so kindly and helpful, might be disappointed if he did not see Harry with his lent suit. It would be a terrible breach of manners in the new world Harry supposed he was becoming used to moving in.

The house was in the country, only a few miles from the center of Boston, a district called Jamaica Plain. The name having some connection to the Caribbean island that was furnishing the British colonies with sugar, rum, and slaves. Or possibly it was a misunderstanding of some old Indian name. The driver seemed to be having an argument with himself for Harry’s benefit about this bit of Boston lore.

The house looked new, confirming the driver’s story that it had been built only recently by a merchant who had become as rich as a mogul in the shipping trade. A proper dancing room, bright with lamps and candles, occupied most of the second floor.

“Your suit looks most well on you,” said Johnston, who spotted Harry immediately despite the scrum of guests. They were all in glittering clothes, the ladies accoutered in jewels, men in lace jabots and powdered perukes. A sprinkling of British and American military uniforms among them. In fact, his borrowed suit was not a bad fit at all except around the waist of the britches, which was a little loose on Harry. But this small imperfection was covered by the rakishly cut jacket, a dramatic shade of maroon with silver brocade trimmings and buttons. Harry had indulged himself in some minutes of self-admiration in front of his room’s cheval glass before leaving. He reckoned he cut quite the figure even without a wig. As a general rule, Harry preferred not to cover his full head of chestnut hair, which he fastened in back with a black ribbon.

The small orchestra was on a rest when he arrived. Johnston took him straight to the home’s owner, one Elihu Pearson, an energetic-looking man on the younger side of middle age, and the handsome woman by his side, whom Johnston introduced as his wife. They were conversing with a circle of equally fetching people.

“Harry is touring New England,” Johnston said, making it sound like a leisurely wander. He added, before anyone could ask further, “He owns a plantation in North Carolina.”

There was the briefest silence. A touch of disappointment, Harry judged, that he could not have been from Virginia or South Carolina.

“It would seem likely some of your timber and pine pitch have found their way into the sailing vessels I build,” said Pearson. To the others in the party he explained, “North Carolina is our chief supplier of such things.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Harry. “We do most of our business through factors in Boston and New York.”

“Then,” said another one of the gentlemen, “my father at this very moment might be walking a deck that was made seaworthy thanks to your plantation.”

“Harry,” said Johnston, “may I present Joshua Loring Junior, high sheriff of Suffolk County? His father commands one of the ships now with General Wolfe on the Saint Lawrence.”

“Would that I were with that brave captain this very moment,” said yet another fashionably dressed worthy who had just walked up. Almost in unison, the men bowed and the ladies curtsied. He continued, “General Amherst seems to think I can be of more use here in Massachusetts Bay trying to recruit militia than actually taking part in the battle.” He added with a wry smile, “All evidence to the contrary.”

“Governor, may I present a friend of mine from North Carolina?” said Johnston, noticing the man noticing Harry. “This is Mister Harry Woodyard. Harry, meet Thomas Pownall.”

He looked young for a governor. Maybe only eight or ten years older than Harry. Otherwise not much different in appearance, especially with Harry clothed every bit as admirably. Harry thought he even saw some resemblance between himself and the New Englander. He remembered what Johnston had said earlier about natural aristocracy: Flowers born to bloom in the desert. He had a fleeting glimpse of himself ten years hence proposing his annual budget to the General
Assembly. Being addressed as “Your Excellency” in the desert of North Carolina. Why not?

Harry bowed and remained silent. By the men’s smiles, he judged he had made the correct choice of behaviors.

“I have yet to visit North Carolina,” said Pownall. “But I look forward to doing so.” His accent was less British than New England in Harry’s ears, which were becoming attuned to the Yankee way of talking. “I’ve heard good reports of your militiamen. They performed yeoman service to the redcoats when we took Fort Duquesne.”

“I thank you on their behalf,” said Harry, the high-sounding words coming out with surprising ease.

“I’m just thankful that things are finally going our way again,” said Pownall’s wife. “At times it has seemed the French guess our every move in advance. It was almost as if they were employing a mind reader.”

A knowing titter greeted her remark. At the same time, Harry caught the high sheriff aiming a hooded, unamused glance at another in the party, a man dressed in the uniform of a Massachusetts militia major. Browning by name, if Harry remembered his introduction correctly. Browning returned Loring’s look as if in some silent communication. Harry could not guess what this meant but reckoned it was something.

The orchestra had returned to their instruments. Couples began forming, answering the leader’s call for a minuet. Early in his tutelage under the judge, Harry had been made to learn this dance. He did not care for its mincing steps, which, when demonstrated by the large-bodied McLeod, seemed comical. Harry was more favorably disposed to country dancing, which he had learned as a boy from his mother. Its broad, energetic movements appealed to him. But he supposed such was beneath the dignity of high-quality people. The thought brought to mind another snippet from the
Rules
. “Associate yourself with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.” Was his family bad company?

Two by two, the guests took their leave and headed for the dance floor. “My own companion for the evening abandoned me for the lavatorium just before you arrived,” Pownall said to Harry when they found themselves alone. “I suppose for now you and I are just a pair of unattached souls.”

“My wife would surely enjoy this,” said Harry, watching as the couples began to move around. “She loves to dance.”

“You’re a fortunate man, then. So far, I am sorry to say, a permanent dancing partner has eluded me. I love the ladies, but it may be that I love them all equally.”

As the governor was talking, Harry thought he caught from a corner of his eye a flash of lavender. A gown. Or so he imagined. But when he turned in that direction, it was gone.

A trick of the mind, no doubt.

He turned his attention back to the floor as the dancers began their prancing, circling steps with varying degrees of success. A remembered fragrance of minty purple flowers settled over him.

“There she is,” said Pownall. “Excuse me.”

The governor of Massachusetts walked toward the door where the lady was standing, now in clear view. Took her hand and escorted her onto the floor. As she followed, the Baroness de la Roche spared Harry a smile.

CHAPTER 20

99: Drink not too leisurely nor yet too hastily. Before and after Drinking wipe your Lips breath not then or Ever with too Great a Noise, for its uncivil.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

HARRY FOUND HIS WAY TO THE PUNCH BOWL. HE LADLED HIMSELF
a cup, drained it, refilled, drained again. Trying to make sense of Jacqueline’s being in Massachusetts Bay. He recalled she had worked for Governor Shirley, something having to do with his household, if he remembered correctly. Not cleaning and dusting, but overseeing that and keeping his social calendar. A suitable occupation for a lady with aristocratic bloodlines, a governor’s palace being about the closest
anything in America came to an actual royal setting. This man Pownall was Shirley’s successor. Maybe she had come to Boston to find a new situation, the new governor of Virginia having no need for her. If they got a chance to speak privately, congratulations would be in order on her ability to find favor with important men.