Two Tocks before Midnight (The Agora Mystery Series Book 1)

by Clay Boutwell

  Only after half an hour of study did I discover something that would condemn three souls to their deaths.

  Chapter Three

  I felt the blood drain from my face as I gripped the edge of the table in a vain attempt to steady my nerves.

  “What is the matter, Carl?” asked Christopher.

  One heavy heartbeat later, I responded. “I… I am afraid there may be a problem.”

  I pointed to two Hebrew letters and asked Christopher to read them.

  “Yes, yes,” Christopher replied. “It is the common Hebrew word ‘shel.’ It means ‘of’ or ‘belonging to.’ What is your point?”

  “‘Shel’ is a syntactical innovation of a much later date.”

  Never have I felt such deep disappointment befall so many people as a result of my words.

  “Not only that, Christopher,” I said, handing him the magnifying glass. “Look closely at the ink here and here.”

  Christopher took the glass and bent over the parchment.

  “My word. I didn’t see it before, but while the parchment does appear to be quite old, the writing seems to be newer. The flaking here,” he said, pointing to a tiny area missing some ink, “indicates the ink has not had time to bond. And here, we see a scratch in the parchment running through this aleph and yet the ink is unharmed. Good eye, Carl.”

  “And,” I said, driving the last ounce of doubt from my mind, “if held against the light, one can see nearly invisible pencil marks—very modern pencil marks, undoubtedly a practice run before inking.”

  We were all, of course, greatly disappointed, but in the end, we agreed the specimen was nothing but a clever fraud. Even Thomas Phillips who had offered the best counter-arguments eventually conceded after facing the overwhelming evidence.

  Our name would not be soiled, but we would have to break the news to Charles and Joseph. By their reactions, we expected to determine whether they had foreknowledge of the forgery.

  A few minutes later, Joseph returned without Charles.

  “Well?”

  “I’m afraid,” I said, speaking up as the representative of our club, “you have a clever forgery here.”

  “What do you mean?” Joseph’s mouth shut tight and his eyes turned blood-red.

  “I mean, the text cannot be but a few months old,” I said, returning the carefully rolled parchment to him.

  Joseph clenched his fists and then relaxed them, apparently thinking better of it. He snatched the parchment and stormed out without a word or a tip of his hat.

  Chapter Four

  The excitement produced by Charles and Joseph filled the club with talk the next week, but it was soon forgotten as time passed. We were concerned about Charles of course, but as before, we had no idea where to find him. No one wanted to say it out loud, but we all suspected Charles of having a hand in creating the forgery.

  Weeks passed and then months. One day, a member arrived at my door rather agitated. He told me he had been traveling to Chelsea and discovered the very parchment Joseph and Charles had brought. It was on display at a museum—which museum, I will not say out of respect for the director.

  We immediately called the others, and the majority instantly decided to make the journey to the museum. Thomas, despite being one of the more excited among us when we believed the parchment to be authentic, declined to go.

  On close examination, it was not the same parchment as the forgery presented to us by Charles and Joseph, but it had similar content. We were amazed to find out many—but not all—of the flaws we discovered were absent. This parchment was clearly a second attempt and a much better one.

  The museum director was far from pleased. With his gracious permission, we collected all the information we could about this strange forgery and its creators.

  In addition to Charles Tock and Joseph, the director mentioned another man had been among those who had sold the parchment to the museum. The group went by different names, but a quick description of their physical attributes and mannerisms left little doubt as to the identity of two of the forgers. The third man—unknown to us—added to the mystery.

  About the same time, one of our number discovered an advertisement in the prestigious Journal of Antiquity. A New York book dealer was offering a parchment from the Book of Jasher to “some museum or lover of the classical Biblical world” for four hundred dollars.

  Taking an extended absence from our responsibilities, Christopher and I made the two hundred mile journey by rail and stagecoach and met the man. He had, of course, bought the parchment from Charles, Joseph, and the third man, again under false names. Once more, we discovered a clever forgery that showed a marked improvement in skill on the part of the forgers. I dare say, an expert not having been privy of the previous attempts would have been fooled.

  Charles Tock had considerable talent and the knowledge needed, but we wondered whether he alone could have created the forgeries. They were, after all, marvelous in design and, while skilled in modern languages, Charles was not known to be a biblical language scholar. Joseph did not leave the impression of being a scholar at all, and we therefore surmised this third man, whoever he may be, must have possessed the requisite talent in this regard.

  I then realized the whole matter if left unchecked would blur the lines between truth and falsehood. Through books and articles, these forgeries had the power to influence scholarship for years to come. The criminals had to be stopped and we, experts in our fields, were best suited to complete the task.

  Back at our weekly club meeting, I suggested our society should direct all its collective energies and talents into bringing the rogues to justice. We all were in agreement, except Thomas—who, at the time I assumed, was ashamed of his impetuous rush to authenticate the parchment and simply wanted to put the matter behind him. However, we could not tolerate deliberate falsehoods. With Charles Tock having been one of our members, we all felt a tinge of responsibility.

  Immediately, our club journeyed to every museum and antiquities dealer or collector within a hundred-mile radius. We sent letters warning museums far and wide about the Book of Jasher forgeries. We took out advertisements in every journal and newspaper in the region. In all, our group invested hundreds of hours and dollars into the project.

  After a few weeks, we ceased our efforts, convinced we had done our part to warn the public.

  Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of the affair.

  Once again, Charles reappeared just as suddenly as he had disappeared, but not in a way any of us would have wished.

  It was the night of October 24th, 1859.

  As it happened, I was on key duty that month, which meant I was to arrive early to open the meeting room and leave late to lock up.

  As was required of me, I showed up early to unlock the room and prepare for the meeting. Thomas Phillips—who was known to be punctual but never early—was at the door, waiting for me.

  “Carl, how are you this evening?”

  “Fine. Fine. Shall we enter?”

  I proceeded to open the premises and walk inside. Hearing a creaking, I looked up and in the stale light seeping through the curtained windows, I saw Charles hanging from the rafters, dead. His corpse swung slightly, and on his chest, I noticed someone had attached a note.

  Thomas rushed to the body, steadied the swinging, and snatched the note.

  “Carl, it simply reads, ‘Two Tocks Before Midnight.’”

  With no footstool beneath the body, we quickly determined, to our horror, a crime had been committed. This was no suicide. Someone had murdered Charles Tock.

  Chapter Five

  The police did not take long to reach the premises. Fellow members poured in, each wearing concerned and stern faces, as we explained the situation to them. Immediately, we all suspected the mug who had accompanied Charles the night of the parchment: Joseph.

  To the best of our abilities, we each described him to the police detective, Captain Barnwell.

  If you will forgive the m
omentary digression of an old man, Captain Barnwell became a close friend of the Society and it behooves me to take some time to describe the fellow.

  Tall and ruddy in the face, he showed great aptitude in both his mental and physical faculties. His appearance seemed more of an athlete than a police captain, but this man with the body of a sprinter housed the mind of a quick-witted scholar.

  During the length of our acquaintance, Captain Barnwell wore a large mustache which effectively masked his emotional state as well as his upper lip. One could never be certain the cards the captain held until he laid them on the table and the ends of his mustache wiggled accordingly.

  You may never find a man with greater contrasting qualities. He was reticent to a fault regarding the social graces, but when the topic of crime arose, he shared his opinions with shocking celerity. Of popular literature and theater, he knew nothing and cared even less, but of the latest scientific discoveries—especially such as showing promise for use in deterring criminal activity—he was well versed.

  I made mention of his mustache and to his mustache, I must return for it was his greatest detecting tool. During the questioning of a suspect, no matter how tight-lipped the man may have been, any falsehood or irrelevant fact was greeted with a twitching of his facial hair and with it, a most deprecating frown, from which few questioners could maintain deceipt. In numerous examples through the two decades of our friendship, I saw that man with his mustache wiggle out the truth in the most amazing ways.

  Captain Barnwell leveled his mustache and applied his business-like eyes to some notes in his hand; his words, however, were directed to me. “You say this Joseph fellow seemed belligerent and treated Mr. Tock roughly?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” I answered. “In addition, two of the purchasers of a parchment mentioned a third man. We have no idea who he is, but he could have been the mastermind behind the forgeries and perhaps this.” I pointed to the body which lay upon a canvas sheet on the floor.

  “Two Tocks Before Midnight,” said the captain. “What the devil could that mean? Charles’ last name, of course, was Tock. Could it mean one of his relatives?”

  After a quick consultation with the others, I spoke up. “We have never met any of his relations. He kept to himself and never spoke of anyone to go home to.”

  “Before midnight,” said Christopher. “Wouldn’t that imply that something will occur tonight by midnight? Could ‘Two Tocks’ mean, ‘two deaths like Tock’ and these deaths would occur shortly before midnight tonight?”

  It seemed a sensible interpretation. If so, we had less than six hours to prepare.

  The group grew silent. And then, after some discussion, we decided, in the interest of safety, that all members would spend the night in the society room. Those with family were encouraged to bring their loved ones or take them to a place of shelter. Whoever the murderer happened to be, he was able to freely enter the club room where we stored the records and addresses of members.

  I then remembered that over the years Charles had been with us, he had only recommended one fellow to join our ranks. We’d had no objections and he was quickly ushered in. That fellow was Thomas Phillips, the very same man who had entered the room with me and had co-discovered the body.

  I searched for Thomas but could not find him. I further remembered he had been the only member to be overly eager to certify the authenticity of the parchment before it could be properly examined.

  “Christopher,” I waved until I raised his attention, “a word, please.”

  We huddled in a corner as I expressed my concerns. We both commented on how quiet he had been and we speculated that he might actually be a relative of Charles. If so, his life could be in danger.

  We called the others and caught the captain before he left. As with Charles, it turned out the society records had a false address for Thomas: 114 Elm Street. One of our members lived nearby and assured us Elm Street only reached number 110.

  Someone remembered seeing him at a bank as a teller. By this time, the clock had struck six, but we managed to track down the bank’s manager who, after much pleading, opened the bank and gave us the address on file for Thomas. The address given was the same: 114 Elm Street.

  Thomas had been introduced by Charles, and like Charles, he had given us a false address. He arrived early to be the first to discover Charles’ body and then had promptly disappeared. All evidence seemed to indicate he was part of the plot. But was he the murderer or now a target—the second Tock?

  Concerned, I considered the encounter with the body of Charles. It had been swinging slightly. Perhaps, the murder had just occurred. With further consideration, all doubt fled my mind. Charles must have died mere minutes prior to our entering the room. When cutting Charles down, the corpse had been warm. Thomas had been there before me and in my memory he had been in a state of agitation. He could have retained a key to the room. He could have entered with Charles and murdered him there. It seemed the most likely explanation as I had seen no one else in the area.

  By eleven o’clock, we had regrouped and all members waited in the club meeting room. Thomas was still absent as were a few other members—mostly those with families.

  Due to the extraordinary situation, the fact the killer potentially had studied our personal addresses, and the specific time given for the promised crime, Captain Barnwell dispatched officers to each of our houses to watch the homes. We warned the police that Thomas was an expert with weaponry and may be armed.

  Christopher pulled me aside. “Do you not remember the key passage from the parchment? ‘…only teach thy sons the use of the bow and all weapons of war.’”

  “Yes. The bow. Thomas once spoke of his collection and how he enjoyed hunting with nothing more than a bow and a quiver full of arrows.”

  Christopher talked to the others about our little theory while I searched the room. We had but two links to the outside: the door and a single window. We were on the second floor over an antique bookseller’s shop. The window would only be a danger if a shooter were to be located in the apartments across the street.

  The door was constantly opening and shutting even at that late hour—far too many people were coming and going bringing in family members or looking outside. The police were also entering and leaving, asking for more information about Thomas. I realized we needed the door locked with everyone inside immediately.

  Then, a thought caused my frame to shiver: the killer had entered through the locked door once before.

  “Barricade the door and stand clear of the window!” I shouted to everyone’s alarm.

  Before my instructions could lead to action, at precisely half an hour before midnight, Thomas reappeared.

  Conversation ceased, and all heads turned to face him.

  “I do apologize for my late arrival.” Clearly seeing he had everyone’s total attention, he continued, “I wanted to arrive earlier, but I had to make sure my property was secure.” He explained he had run into his landlady and the encounter had delayed him further.

  I approached Thomas to confront him.

  “Are you a relative of Charles?”

  Thomas seemed almost hurt by the accusation.

  “What?”

  “You gave a false address to the club. 114 Elm Street does not exist.”

  “You are mistaken. It does exist. That is my mother’s address in Chelsea. When I began here, I was living there.”

  I was taken aback by his quick reply. It did not seem to be a forced answer to cover a lie.

  He walked to the middle of the room. “My dear fellows. You suspect me of being involved with those rogues? Yes, I was excited when I thought the parchment was true, but weren’t we all?” No one said a word, but everyone listened intently. “I suggest we do not point fingers. ‘Two Tocks Before Midnight’ it said. We have but thirty minutes to discover whether the whole message is nothing but a trick. Then, with clear minds, we shall discover who is behind all this business.” He shook his head. “I ass
ure you, it wasn’t me.”

  Nearly everyone flooded to Thomas with the sincerest of apologies. I decided to wait until after midnight to offer mine. It was a clever retort, but I was yet to be convinced Thomas had no part in the affair.

  “Everyone, listen,” I said after giving Thomas a few minutes. “We have precious little time until midnight. We need to bar the door and stand clear from the window.”

  “Please excuse me for being rude,” Thomas shouted, turning everyone’s attention from me to him, “but after you falsely accused me of being a murderer, do you really think we should take orders from you? Lock the door, indeed, but what is with the window? Do you expect the angel of death to fly through on the stroke of midnight?”

  He had moved in front of the window, taunting and strutting as a peacock for the attention of the others.

  Thomas was emotionally upset—as would I, had I been accused of murder unjustly. But if he truly was the murderer, the truth had to be fleshed out before another could be killed.

  I was preparing myself to explain our theory about the killer using a bow through the window when exactly the same occurred.

  I can still recall the horror of that moment. Even now, it causes me to flinch. The shards of glass flew, but did no damage. The bolt, however, pierced Thomas’ right arm, taking shirt cloth and skin alike until the projectile landed with a thud in the far wall. The collective gasps of the people in the room gave way to the sound of footfalls as everyone moved as far from the window as the room permitted.

  Thomas dropped to the ground and I immediately rushed to him, keeping below the window. The wound, however superficial, was a testament to all that I had wrongly accused an innocent man.

  Still, being near the window, I distinctly heard, from the outside, a piece of wood cracking and then a soft thud onto the street below.

  “Listen!” I yelled, somewhat calming the commotion.