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

by Clay Boutwell

  “I heard it too,” said the captain. “Follow me.”

  Leaving others to attend to the stricken man, I pushed all emotions and bubbling guilt aside and rushed out the door, following Captain Barnwell and two police officers down the stairs. The killer was outside and a mere matter of seconds could mean his capture or escape.

  Captain Barnwell held the lamp ahead of us, but even with the light we almost tripped over the body.

  Joseph.

  By the look of it, Joseph had taken the shot with the bow and had then fallen the two stories to his death. We found a crossbow, scattered bolts, and broken pieces of wood within a few feet from the body.

  Looking up, we saw the balcony from the second floor had missing boards. Joseph had simply applied too much of his heavy frame to it.

  But it was curious in that I heard only a single crack of wood and a soft thud. I heard no scream. I saw no one pouring out from the building awakened by the noise. It was instantly apparent to me that something was wrong with the scene.

  The captain, worked his lantern over the length of the corpse.

  “Captain,” I said, gaining his attention, “there remains one more. The third man. He most certainly is still in the vicinity.”

  “Quite right,” Captain Barnwell said, kneeling beside the body and playing his clinical eyes over it in search of clues.“In that case, it may be better to search the area. You should return and leave the police work to us. It could be dangerous.”

  “If it is all the same with you,” I said, revealing a pistol I had hidden inside my coat pocket, “I am very interested in what we find upstairs. I suspect we will discover the plot behind all these devilish deeds.”

  “I wouldn’t think we will find much up there. Whoever the third man is wouldn’t be so foolish as to stay at the exact spot of the crime.”

  “I’m not expecting a person, Captain. I’m expecting a candle.”

  “A candle, sir?”

  I had caught the slightest whiff of melted wax and burnt wick. It brought to my memory an old time-delaying trick I’d learned during a brief stint in Europe.

  The apartment building stood four stories high. The room we wanted was on the second floor. We woke the apartment manager and, after explaining our requirements, he quickly dressed himself and led us upstairs.

  The room was let to an elderly woman who rarely left her apartment. Fearing the worst, the manager used his key after the third series of knocks.

  Our fears were brutally justified.

  “No doubt the old woman surprised the man as he was heading for the balcony.”

  “The men, you mean, Captain.”

  “The men, sir?”

  “Shall we head to the balcony?” I said, not wanting to reveal my suspicions without further data.

  The frail balcony door had been left open. We could see the broken railing and across the street, a perfect view of our meeting place.

  “A moment, please,” I said, borrowing the captain’s lantern and kneeling at the balcony threshold. I examined the area, careful to illuminate every inch. The balcony was small; perhaps only two men standing shoulder to shoulder could fit.

  As I suspected, there was indeed a hardened puddle of white wax in front of a knocked over piece of wood.

  Carefully leaning over, I retrieved a small nail from the corner. Next, I rose and stepped out onto the balcony to examine the remnants of the railing. The wood was indeed old and weak, but not rotted. To me, the lone nail and the lack of rot indicated a saboteur.

  Holding up the nail for the captain to take, I said, “If we find the boards downstairs with holes but no nails, we have ‘men,’ not ‘man.’”

  “The third man.”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “But why?”

  “Which ‘why’? There is a big why and a small why. The big why, the reason for all this, is a mystery to me. But the small why, the reason for the unmanned launch, is to create an alibi.”

  “Do you suspect... Thomas?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Mr. Brooke, if you are correct and, I must say I believe you may very well be, you’ve made my job much easier. However, the law requires direct evidence. All we have is circumstantial.” He paused before adding, “Are you in the mood for a spot of acting?”

  “‘All the world’s a stage,’ so sayeth the Bard. What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s tell the truth… up to a point. I believe, there was a witness, wouldn’t you agree?” said the captain with a wink.

  “Quite.”

  Chapter Six

  Captain Barnwell and I returned to the group. He asked his two officers to fetch some materials from the department and wait outside the door.

  Everyone was silent and seated, eager to hear our report. Thomas had a new smug look on his face. In retrospect, I believe it had always been there, but the new information had simply opened my eyes to it.

  The captain raised his hands to gather the attention that was already his. My eyes fixed on Thomas throughout Captain Barnwell’s speech.

  “Joseph is dead. Mr. Brooke here has confirmed his identity.”

  My friends took a moment to let out a “thank God” or “a fitting ending to this horrible affair.”

  “Sirs, that is not all.”

  The men ceased their chatter and again gave the captain their undivided attention. Thomas remained the very definition of confidence.

  “An elderly woman was killed tonight.”

  “By Joseph?” asked Christopher.

  “Perhaps,” the captain said with dramatic pause, “...or Joseph’s murderer.”

  Expressions turned from a pitiful concern for the elderly woman to confusion. It was assumed by all that Joseph’s death had been accidental. The nearly imperceptible smile that I alone had noticed on Thomas’ lips disappeared.

  “Joseph’s murderer? Could this be the third man?” asked someone.

  “That is our belief,” answered the captain. “While we do not yet have the man’s identity, we do have a witness.”

  I am sure the captain paused to allow me to closely examine Thomas’ reaction to the word, “witness.” His face was stale, motionless. Had I not observed his earlier smugness, I would have had to say his face registered no reaction. But it did; I saw the slight change in his disposition. And with that change, I saw guilt.

  The captain continued, “A neighbor saw a mustached stranger wearing a dark coat enter the room across the street,” He pointed in the direction of the old woman’s apartment. “She got a good look at the man’s profile. The witness is in police custody and we will shortly have a drawing done revealing the murderer.”

  The chatter began anew. Thomas, the only man in the room with a mustache, stood and began moving toward the door.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the captain said restraining Thomas with his arm but speaking to everyone, “but in the interest of your safety and police procedure, I must ask for each of you to remain here until the drawing can be completed. It is a dreadful inconvenience, but essential to our case. It is possible—indeed, probable—that one of you may know the man’s identity and the whole matter will be brought to a happy conclusion tonight.”

  Thomas seemed to be on the verge of becoming belligerent, but after a moment, he reposed himself and returned to his seat next to the window without complaint.

  “The department is a mere five-minute walk from here. The drawing should be here momentarily.”

  That is what he told our group, but in actuality, the captain had told his officers to wait outside for a full hour before entering with a satchel containing a blank sheet of drawing paper.

  Minutes passed. Most members seemed to enjoy the waiting as if watching the lead-up to the climax of some exciting play.

  And so it was—the captain’s play.

  Thomas, however, seemed more and more troubled. I no longer stared at him directly, but even a casual glance told me he understood the game we were playing.

&n
bsp; The clock against the wall was near Thomas. Its tick-tock seemed to unnerve him more. Did its sound remind him of the two Tocks?

  I will summarize that hour with the following description: most members were amiable despite having no knowledge of our drama. Toward the end, however, a few began to tire of conversation and wished to return home no matter the risk. Thomas took the opportunity to speak up.

  “This is intolerable. You cannot keep us here like rats in some insane experiment,” he said, standing.

  “An interesting metaphor, Thomas,” I said, seeing my opportunity. “An experiment expects some result. What kind of result do you expect?”

  He was quiet. Sweat formed on his forehead, although it was not at all warm that October evening. There was no doubt then; he was guilty, and we had him.

  “You are, of course, expecting your face on the paper.”

  “Oh, come now old boy,” began one member in defense of Thomas. “Do let’s put all this aside. Haven’t you had enough fun at Thomas’ expense today?”

  “But,” the captain said, raising his hand effectively silencing the entire room. “What if the accusation is true? After all, he wears a mustache.”

  The room was ablaze with discussion, half of the room watched Thomas, the other half looked on me.

  Thomas was shaking slightly when the knock to the door silenced the room once more. The officer walked in and after shooting a stern glance in Thomas’ direction, he handed the satchel to the captain. The captain opened the bag and pulled the sheet of paper half-way out with an ostentatious display. With slow, deliberate motions, he returned the paper to the satchel, looked directly at Thomas, and cleared his throat.

  “There can be little doubt, now.” The captain’s mustache remained motionless, forming the picture of a man with complete control of his being.

  “There was no witness!” Thomas shouted.

  “How could you know?” I retorted. “Unless, of course, you were there.”

  “I was here, you fool. I was here when the dart was shot, when Joseph fell to his death!”

  “The dart, yes. Joseph’s death, no,” I said, taking a step toward Thomas.

  “But Thomas was shot by an arrow,” someone replied, rallying to Thomas’ defense. “Someone who went to the trouble to create his own alibi would have no reason to risk being killed.”

  “Thomas is an expert marksman. He knew exactly where to stand in order to not hit his vital organs,” I explained, keeping my eyes burning on Thomas. “But you were not intending to even graze yourself, were you? When you came inside around 11:30, there was no wind. I conferred with a policeman who had been stationed outside at the time. You aimed the crossbow precisely on target without correcting for wind. At 11:45 when the arrow was fired, however, there was a slight western wind, pulling the arrow to the left. You had intended it to come close, but not touch.”

  “But,” someone else said, “how on earth could he have fired a crossbow across the street while physically standing here?”

  “He used a candle as a fuse. He lit the candle shortly before 11:30. It burned for fifteen minutes at which point, the wick set off the main fuse which released a weight pulling the trigger. The kickback from the launched arrow pulled the last nail causing the already dead Joseph, crossbow, and rock to fall to the ground. With the poor light outside, the thread you used to tie the rock is practically invisible. Not knowing what to look for, the police wouldn’t have bothered with one of a hundred rocks on the street. You intended to retrieve this on your way home, hadn’t you?” I said, pulling out the rock and dangling it from a two-foot length of twine held by my fingers.

  “But if he used a candle, surely we would have seen its light?” This time, Christopher spoke up.

  “The crossbow was set on a piece of wood on the edge of the balcony. The candle was behind that wood, shielding its light from our view.”

  “You are insane,” said Thomas in a fit of rage.

  No one spoke in his defense.

  “But the look of surprise on your face when the arrow flew into the window was not feigned,” I said, addressing Thomas directly. “Oh, no. You were not expecting the shot so soon. Again, the wind worked against your wishes. Instead of twenty minutes, the candle, being fed extra airflow, burned the fuse in fewer than fifteen!”

  All eyes were on Thomas who was now silent, clearly considering his options.

  “I have to admit, it was ingenious,” I continued in a softer tone. “Had I not witnessed a candle fuse before among miners in Southern France, I would have glossed over the slight remnants of wax on the balcony.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “Do you remember,” I said, taking a step toward the murdering savage, “when Joseph returned to retrieve the parchment and we told him it was a forgery? We told Joseph nothing of our reasons. And yet, the parchment we found at the Chelsea museum corrected the Hebrew and stylistic issues. The exact issues we as a group spoke of only among ourselves.”

  “Surely Charles heard—”

  “No,” I said sternly, anticipating his words. “Charles was not there. He only returned to us this evening, hanging from a rope.”

  “You still have no proof,” he said almost in a scream.

  “We have a witness.”

  Thomas whipped out a pistol; I pulled out mine. The captain and the policeman beside him also had their service pistols drawn. The other members huddled, gasping at the unexpected development.

  “But I must ask,” I said as calmly as possible. “Why all this? What purpose did all these deaths serve?” Memory recalls my voice much steadier than how it really was.

  Thomas kept silent but his gun remained steady.

  “There was money at stake, of course, but there was something else, wasn’t there? Something personal,” I said, trying to read meaning from his expression.

  “Who was Joseph?” asked the captain.

  “You don’t know by now?” Thomas answered, anger clear in his intonation. “Charles Tock’s half-brother of course. He was an idiot, but Charles pampered him to his own hurt, blinded by some sense of loyalty to the dumb beast.”

  Thomas became talkative.

  “Come, let us sit down at the station and have a long talk,” said Captain Barnwell, edging closer to the increasingly desperate man.

  Thomas backed up against the window, shards of glass surely pricking his back.

  “All right. I’m giving up,” he said, showing the broadside of his gun. But just as he appeared to lower it, he threw the pistol with a great force across the room. Instinctively my eyes followed the flight of the pistol. Turning back to Thomas, I watched as he leapt out the broken window.

  We all rushed to see him roll off an awning and fall into the street.

  “Quick! Downstairs!”

  The men followed the police downstairs, breathlessly expecting a fourth body for the night. But reaching the location mere seconds after Thomas had jumped, we found no body. Bits of bloodied glass and wood fragments lay scattered on the cobbles, but no Thomas.

  The street, at that time, was poorly lit. Even with the lantern the captain carried, the fiend had ample shadows in which to hide. We scoured the neighborhood but found… nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  In the morning’s light, minute trails of blood led us to believe our fugitive had entered the apartment building across from our meeting hall. Somehow, the bloodied mess of a man had crept inside while we were all flying down the stairs.

  A door to door search revealed his hiding place. By morning, he had vanished, but the occupant, a middle-aged woman living alone, was tied and gagged. We had expected the worst, but he had left her alive. She had watched, bound, as he mended his wounds and left before the sun broke through the mist.

  Neither the police nor the Agora Society ever found Thomas. The search for the missing killer would remain a pet project that would pester Captain Barnwell until the day he died some ten years ago.

  But stranger still, every year,
on October 24th, I have, without fail, received a curious card in my mailbox. The card always arrived with but one word on it.

  The first year—the first anniversary—I received the card, it read, “Tick.” I discarded it as some nonsensical childish prank without even considering the date. However, the second year, the card read, “Tock,” and I was terrified. Of all the Agora members, I had been most integral in discovering Thomas’ hand in the matter. Captain Barnwell had a man stay at my house for the following week.

  Of course, nothing ever happened. Except for the card alternating between “Tick” and “Tock” every year, I never saw or heard from Thomas again.

  A few times I stayed vigil all night watching for him to insert the card. I learned he used delivery boys to leave the cards, never exposing himself directly. I always interrogated the boys—a different one each year—but they all said the same thing: the benefactor was a stranger. A tall man with a scarred face. And they were all paid handsomely for the delivery. Investigating the location the boys gave presented no clues and no Thomas. Ever.

  The cards came religiously every year on October 24th. Every year until last year... It now being November of the following year, I feel that I truly am the last of the Agora Society.

  The mystery has only recently been made manifest. Shortly after writing the above, a woman named Lottie Phillips visited me in my lodgings. In her mid-thirties, she was a charming woman, well-spoken and regally dressed. She presented to me a letter sealed and addressed with my name, care of the Agora Society.

  She discovered the letter after her father’s death. Being curious, she traveled from Georgia to deliver it herself, hoping to learn something of her father’s mysterious past. The contents of the letter revealed her to be Thomas Phillips’ daughter. I then realized that Thomas had taken his wife down south to hide from the law. As befitting a lady of honor, she did not open the letter nor did she demand I read the contents aloud.

  The letter reads as follows:

  My Dear Carl,

  By receipt of this post, you have evidence that Thomas Phillips is dead. What I did after the Agora Society is irrelevant and by offering you this information, I only ask you not disturb my family.