In addition to Charles Tock and Joseph, the director mentioned that another man had been among those who had sold the parchment to the museum. They went by different names, but a quick description of their physical attributes and mannerisms left no doubt. The third man—unknown to us—added to the mystery.
About the same time, one of us discovered an advertisement in the prestigious Journal of Antiquity. Some book dealer was offering a parchment from the Book of Jasher to “some museum or lover of the classical Biblical world” for $400.
Christopher and I made the forty mile journey and met the man. He had, of course, bought the parchment from Charles, Joseph, and another man, again under false names.
Charles Tock had considerable talent and the knowledge needed, but we wondered if he alone could have created the forgeries. They were, after all, marvelous in design, and while skilled in modern language, Charles was not known to be a biblical language scholar. We surmised this third man, whoever he may be, must also have had talent in this regard.
It was then that I realized the whole matter if left unchecked would blur the lines between truth and falsehood. Through books and articles, it could influence scholarship for years to come. They had to be stopped and we were best suited to do just that.
Back at our weekly club meeting, I suggested that our society should direct all our collective energies and talents into stopping these rogues. 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. Deliberate falsehoods, however, could not be tolerated. 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 in 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 we could think of. 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 in warning the public.
But that was only the beginning.
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. Key duty meant I was in charge of coming in early to unlock and leaving 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 there at the door, waiting for me.
“Carl, how are you this evening?”
“Fine. Fine. Shall we enter?”
I proceeded to unlock the door and walk inside. Hearing a creaking noise, I looked up and in the stale light seeping through the curtained windows, I saw Charles hanging from the rafters, dead. He was swinging slightly and a note was attached to his chest.
Thomas rushed to the body, steadied the swinging, and snatched the note.
“Carl, it simply reads, ‘Two Tocks Before Midnight.’” There was no footstool around. This was no suicide.
The police were soon all over. Fellow members poured in with concerned and stern faces as the situation was explained to them. Immediately, we all suspected the mug who had accompanied Charles the night of the parchment: Joseph.
We each described him to the best of our abilities to the police detective, Captain Barnwell, who was taking notes.
“You say this Joseph seemed belligerent and treated Mr. Tock roughly?”
“Yes, that is correct,” I answered. “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.”
“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, it was decided that, in the interest of safety, all members would spend the night in the society room. Those with family were encouraged to bring their loved ones or else take them to a safe place elsewhere. Whoever the murderer was, he was able to freely enter the club room where the records and addresses of members were stored.
I then remembered that over the years that 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 who had entered the room with me and had co-discovered the body.
I searched about for Thomas, but he wasn’t there. I further remembered that 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 got his attention, “a word, please.”
We huddled in a corner as I expressed my concerns about Thomas. We both commented on how quiet he was 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, the society records had a false address for Thomas: 114 Elm Street. One of us lived nearby and assured us there was no 114 on Elm Street.
Someone remembered seeing him at a bank as a teller. It was after six in the evening, but we managed to track down a janitor 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. Like Charles, he had given us a false address. He arrived early to be the first to discover Charles’ body and then 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?
My mind raced.
I thought about the encounter with the body of Charles. It had been swinging slightly—the murder had just occurred. Thomas as the murderer seemed inescapable.
By eleven o’clock, we were mostly regrouped and waiting at the club meeting room. Thomas was still absent as were a few members—mostly those with families—who had decided to visit relatives.
Due to the extraordinary situation, the fact the killer potentially had studied our personal addresses, and the specific time given for the promised crime, Police were dispatched to each of our houses to watch in case the killer dared to attack. 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. Charles once told me of his collection and how he enjoyed hunting with nothing more than a bow and a quiver full of arrows.”
Christopher began to talk to the others about our little theory while I looked around the room. We had only 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 the bowman were to shoot from 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 coming in and out, asking for more information about Thomas. I realized we needed everyone in and the door needed to be locked immediately.
Then, a thought caused my spine to shiver: the kill
er had entered through the locked door before.
“Barricade the door and all, do stand clear from the window!” I shouted to everyone’s alarm.
Before the thought could lead to action, at precisely 11:30—thirty minutes until midnight, Thomas reappeared.
Conversation ceased and all heads turned to him.
“I do apologize for my late arrival.” Noticing that he had everyone’s total attention, he continued, “I wanted to get here earlier, but I had to make sure my property was secure.” He explained he had run into his landlady and that encounter had delayed him further.
I walked up to 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 seemed 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 was listening intently. “I suggest we not point fingers. ‘Two Tocks Before Midnight’ it said. We have but thirty minutes to discover if the whole message is nothing but a trick. Then, with clear minds, we shall discover who is behind all this business.”
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 not convinced he had no part in the affair.
“Everyone, listen,” I said after letting Thomas have 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.
He had become 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 victim could be killed.
I was about 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 arrow, however, pierced through Thomas’ right arm, taking shirt cloth and skin alike until it landed with a thud in the far wall. From the outside, I heard the sound of a piece of wood cracking and then a soft thud.
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.
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.
It was Joseph.
By the look of it, Joseph had taken the shot with the bow and then fell the two stories to his death. A bow, scattered arrows, and broken pieces of wood were all found within a few feet from the body.
Looking up, we saw the balcony from the second floor had missing boards. The wood was assumed to be rotted and Joseph had simply applied too much of his heavy frame to it.
But it was curious in that we heard only a single crack of wood and a soft thud. There was no scream and no one poured out from the buildings awakened by the noise.
The captain, feeling the criminal had been caught, turned to go back to the others.
“Captain, there remains one more. The third man. He most certainly is still in the vicinity.”
“Quite right,” he said, remembering our earlier conversation. Looking at me kneeling beside the body, he asked, “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,” I said, revealing a pistol I had hidden inside my coat pocket, “I’m 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-delayed trick I’d learned during my 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 that we wanted the room with the third balcony from the left, he led us upstairs in his pajamas.
The room was let to an elderly woman who rarely left her apartment. Fearing the worst, the manager used his key after only 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 was 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 lurching over, I retrieved a small nail from the corner. Next, I rose and stepped out onto the balcony examining the remnants of the railing. The wood was old and weak, but not rotted. 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 bit of acting?”
“‘All the world’s a stage,’ so saith 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.”
Captain Barnwell and I returned to the group. He asked his two officers to fetch some materials from the department and then wait outside the door of the society.
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 and the new information had simply opened my eyes to it.
The captain raised his hands to get the attention that was already his. My eyes were fixated
on Thomas, throughout Captain Barnwell’s speech.
“Joseph is dead. Mr. Brooke here 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.”
Faces 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 was gone.
“Joseph’s murderer? Could this be the third man?” asked someone.
“That is our belief. 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.
The captain continued: “A neighbor saw a mustached stranger wearing a dark coat enter the room across the street there,” the captain said while pointing 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 resolved tonight.”
Two Tocks before Midnight Page 2
