Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

  The more I reflected . . . upon the fact that the document must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good purpose . . . the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.

  Torres looked up and saw anticlimax written across the faces of the three students.

  “Well, if this ‘document’ isn’t concealed, then where is it?” Caitlin asked.

  Phil shrugged. “Out in the open, I guess.”

  “No kidding, Einstein,” Caitlin said. “But where out in the open? Up in another stupid tree somewhere?”

  Leo leaned back in his chair. “I suppose the least covert and most natural place for a document is a library,” he said without much conviction. “We could check the archives.”

  Torres shook her head. “If it’s already been catalogued and shelved somewhere in Tillinghast, it might be obscure, but it wouldn’t be a secret.”

  Leo stared glumly at the screen. The message displayed there seemed paradoxically both lucid and opaque, its meaning maddeningly tangible yet evanescent.

  Torres patted Leo on the shoulder. “You didn’t expect this to be a piece of cake, did you?”

  “No, but you’d think that at least once Prospero could be a little less ambiguous and a little more candid. Why must he always revel in these riddles and circumlocutions? I get the feeling that if he were alive right now he’d be having himself a big laugh.”

  “C’mon, chief. We’re really close. I can feel it,” Phil said, trying to revitalize his counselor’s spirits.

  “If it’s ‘at hand,’ then it must be fairly accessible and conspicuous,” Caitlin reasoned. “What about these fragments? They’re right here.”

  “That’s right,” Phil concurred. “Maybe Prospero isn’t teasing us at all. Maybe he’s just trying to tell us to take a closer look.”

  Reluctantly, Leo turned his attention to the last fragment and typed in what little was left to transcribe.

  xxi xii mdxcix

  Dear Hippolyta and Rosalind,

  Take care, lest you play at playing with one better versed in play. I am no clownish Costard, prating for your delectation. When I say ‘Not one sou more!’ I do not equivocate. Again, know well this soundest sense: that authority rules longest that need not make itself manifest. The player who removes the mask before play’s done, does in play and player too. Why hamper your own good office? Why must you always haggle with me tooth and nail? Know well it is well within my office to enforce our law, and I know well how to fence other than with words.

  Yours, D. Constable

  “There’s that word ‘play’ again,” Phil observed, studying the computer screen. “And look at ‘mask.’ We were right: Hippolyta and Rosalind must be actors.”

  “We don’t have to take it literally,” Caitlin said. “Whoever D. Constable is could be using the word ‘mask’ metaphorically. Perhaps the author’s urging them not to divulge their identities.”

  “And the term ‘authority’ in the earlier sentence puts their role as actors into question,” Torres said. “After all, who ‘rules’ in the realm of the Elizabethan theater?”

  Leo scratched his head. “If Shakespeare’s case was representative, the ’author’ had ’authority’ over the troupe. Perhaps these two are playwrights, and they’re demanding payment for a script.”

  “But if they had so much power, why wouldn’t they be more frank about it?” Phil asked. “Why the pseudonyms and masks?”

  “Good question,” said Torres. “Any thoughts, Caitlin?”

  “Maybe these people with authority weren’t supposed to have it, and therefore the authority of this D. Constable depends on their not letting on they’re the ones with the real authority.”

  “Who wasn’t supposed to have authority?” Phil asked, not following Caitlin’s convoluted analysis.

  “Hippolyta and Rosalind.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, to begin with, what if they were women?”

  “I thought they were.”

  “We can’t take their sex for granted,” Leo said. “They may have adopted pseudonyms as a deception.”

  “What about this D. Constable?” Phil asked dubiously. “Do you think that’s a man?”

  “In the play he is,” Torres said.

  “Which play?” Caitlin asked.

  “Love’s Labours Lost. The D stands for Dull, specifically Anthony Dull, a minor character who happens to be a constable. As I pointed out before, Costard, the clown, is also a character in the play.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Leo said, “but are we beginning to entertain the notion that this D. Constable is none other than Shakespeare himself?”

  Torres nodded. “I must admit, the allusions to the theater, the choice of aliases, and the date of the letter all make that a distinct possibility.”

  “If that’s the case,” Phil said, “then isn’t Shakespeare being ironic when he calls himself ‘dull’? That’s not the usual adjective you’d think of to describe the Bard of Avon.”

  “True,” Torres said, “but let’s consider the situation in historical and psychological context. It’s no secret that many great creative artists have difficulty dealing with the pressures of success. Harried by their own and others’ expectations, they often become unproductive and ineffectual. Perhaps this was the case with Shakespeare. Remember, his output was prodigious.

  “By 1599, when this letter was written, he’d composed twenty plays in half as many years and was establishing himself at The Globe. This deep involvement in the theater, the need to produce more work, and the responsibility he felt toward his actors all might’ve begun to take their toll. Thus it wouldn’t surprise me if Shakespeare wrote this letter at a point when he had begun to feel a bit worn around the edges—in other words, ‘dull.’”

  “And so,” said Caitlin, picking up the professor’s train of thought and taking it one step further, “this letter could demonstrate the validity of the theory you proposed last Sunday at the radio panel. You said that Shakespeare may have hired a woman to write for him. This might prove that Shakespeare hired two anonymous women to write a play for him, possibly even the sequel to Love’s Labours Lost.”

  Torres smiled. “Exactly. Nor do we have to assume that Shakespeare played the employer’s—or constable’s—role only once. Look at the phrase ‘your own good office.’ That seems to imply a relationship that had already proved fruitful.”

  “The ‘always’ in the next sentence would substantiate that reading,” Leo said.

  “However,” Torres said, “fascinating as this theory may be, it’s still inconclusive because it’s only conjecture. There’s nothing explicit in the letter that links it to Shakespeare. We still need incontrovertible proof.”

  “Which brings us right back to where we started,” Leo said ruefully, “sitting here with the answer to the puzzle right under our noses and not knowing where to look.” He sighed. “Maybe what I need to do is put myself in Prospero’s place, just try to get inside his head for a minute and think, if I were an old practical joker, I’d probably hide my literary treasure in—”

  “Tooth and Nail!” Caitlin shouted. She was staring at the transcription of the letter on the monitor.

  “Huh?” Leo said.

  “Look at this sentence,” she cried, pressing her finger to the screen. “It says, ‘Why must you always haggle with me tooth and nail?"’

  “What about it?” Phil asked.

  “Tooth and Nail. The secret society. It’s where the treasure’s hidden!”

  “Of course. That must be it!” Leo said, slapping his forehead. “Way to go, Caitlin.”

  Torres chuckled. “It figures. Prospero founded the place.”

  “So it was right under our noses after all,” Phil said. He looked at Caitlin and Leo. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  “Hold on just one minute,” Torres said. “You’re not thin
king what I think you’re thinking, are you?”

  “We’re not thinking anything, Carmen,” Caitlin said, flashing the professor her most ingenuous smile.

  Torres, unconvinced, gave the three students a dubious frown. “Look here,” she remonstrated. “Don’t do anything impetuous or unethical. I have to go to The Taming of the Shrew tonight at the Stink. We can discuss this problematic situation tomorrow, okay? Just be prudent and sleep on it.”

  The three students nodded. “Sure, Carmen,” they replied in unison.

  Once outside the professor’s house, Caitlin could hardly contain herself. “How are we going to get in?” she asked her companions as they began walking down Cedar Street toward campus.

  Phil zipped his jacket up against the light rain. “Good question,” he said. “Got any ideas, chief?”

  “Maybe Bill can help us. I think he once interviewed a disgruntled Tooth and Nail member who’d gotten sick of Teddy’s shenanigans and quit the fraternity.”

  “Great,” Caitlin said, taking hold of Leo’s arm. “Then let’s go see what our intrepid Herald editor has to say.”

  “Wouldn’t you know,” Bill Berkowitz said to the ceiling. “Just as I was getting into it.” He put a marker in The Impossible H. L. Mencken: A Selection of His Best Newspaper Stories and set the volume on the coffee table on top of Bliss and Patterson’s Writing News for Broadcast. Then he dragged himself out of his chair and trudged across the living room.

  The digital clock next to the phone said 11:58. He picked up the receiver and answered in a tone that was not particularly cordial.

  “It’s me,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  Bill’s face relaxed into its usual benign expression. It was Tony Scolari, his assistant editor for campus affairs and right-hand man at the Herald.

  “Hey, Tony. What’s up?”

  “Something big, and I thought I’d better call in case you wanted to make any last-minute changes for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “Well?”

  “Somebody broke into Professor Torres’s house up on Cedar. Apparently a neighbor found Torres’s cat howling on her front stoop in the storm, and it’s a house cat, so when the neighbor went over and rang the professor’s doorbell—”

  “Forget about the neighbor. Was there any vandalism? Anything stolen?”

  “The town police are checking the place out. All I know so far is that they found some Sasquatch-sized footprints, broken glass, and a wall safe that’d been forced open.”

  “Tony, you’re an ace. Where are you now?”

  “Down at campus security.”

  “Can you meet me at the professor’s house in ten?”

  “I’m on my way,” Tony said and hung up the phone.

  Bill threw on a raincoat and grabbed an umbrella. As he flew down the stairs, his brain raced, wondering about the documents Leo said he’d given to Carmen Torres and worried about what might be happening to his friends right now inside of Tooth and Nail.

  Chapter 29

  Descent into the Maelstrom

  It was pouring. The granite tombstones in the old cemetery behind Holyfield Chapel were tilted at odd angles, as though huddling for warmth against the storm.

  Just inside the spiked iron fence, Leo knelt in the mud, trying to remove the hinges from the heavy wooden door that Bill’s clandestine contact had said would lead to a subterranean passage into Tooth and Nail. On one side, Caitlin, in foul-weather gear, aimed a flashlight, while on the other Phil, in a jacket that was far from impermeable, held a bag of tools he’d borrowed from the radio station.

  Leo gave the screwdriver a good twist. It slipped. “It’s no use. The heads of the screws are caked with paint and I can’t get any purchase.”

  For a few moments the three students looked at the seemingly impregnable door, trying to think of what to do next. Then Caitlin, shivering, broke the silence.

  “Are you sure this is the way Bill’s friend said to get in?” she asked Leo.

  “I don’t see any other doors around here, do you?”

  “Why don’t we try knocking out the pins,” Phil suggested.

  “Good idea,” Leo said. “Got a hammer?”

  Phil pulled one from the bag and handed it to Leo. As he wedged the head of the screwdriver under the lip of the pin and then tapped the butt of the screwdriver with the hammer, the tumultuous storm seemed to redouble its efforts. The tempestuous clouds rumbled and the malevolent wind howled through the graveyard, lashing the old elms and oaks and whipping the wet clothes of the students.

  Caitlin jumped up and down to stay warm. “We sure picked a great night,” she said ironically.

  Tap, tap, tap. The first pin popped out.

  Phil leaned against the heavy door to keep it steady.

  Tap, tap, tap. Out came the second pin.

  Phil and Leo shimmied the door to free the protruding deadbolt. Then, grunting with the effort, they slid the door sideways and leaned it against the wall. As Phil gathered the pins and tools and put them in the bag, Caitlin aimed the beam of the flashlight into the opening.

  The dark maw was forbidding, but whatever indecision they might have felt at the prospect of crossing the threshold was obliterated when a bolt of lightning and concomitant thunderclap exploded in the sky. The storm was right on top of them. Before they knew what they were doing, the three students scrambled down the stairs into the gloom.

  “Well, we’re in a tunnel,” Leo said. “That’s a good sign.”

  “If anybody’s claustrophobic, it’s too late to apologize,” Caitlin joked.

  “I’m just not wild about cramped spaces,” Phil quipped back.

  As they made their way along the narrow tunnel, Caitlin kept the flashlight focused a few feet ahead. The brick walls and low brick ceiling were damp and stained, and the dirt floor was slick with a thin layer of mud. Here and there the serpentine roots of trees had burst through the surface of the earth in their search for sustenance.

  “Now I know how Jonah felt,” Leo said.

  “Who’s Jonah?” Phil asked.

  “A character in a biblical allegory,” Leo explained. “While fleeing from God, Jonah was thrown overboard, swallowed by a whale—otherwise known as Leviathan—and after a protracted sojourn in the belly of the beast, spewed forth.”

  “So the whale barfed him up?” Phil said.

  “In no uncertain terms.”

  “I’m not so sure the analogy holds,” Caitlin said. “What happened to him was involuntary. But we’re down here of our own accord. And we’re not running away from anything. We’re on our way toward something.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Leo said.

  A moment later Caitlin’s flashlight revealed a concrete platform and the foot of a spiral stairway. Slowly and silently they ascended the winding steps. At the top was a small landing that ended abruptly at a wall.

  Caitlin shone the beam over the smooth surface. There was no door—only a door-sized rectangle recessed into the brick wall. There were no knobs, handles, or levers in sight.

  Caitlin turned to Leo. “What now?”

  Leo studied the surface of the wall. “It doesn’t look too promising,” he conceded.

  “It figures,” Phil muttered. “First ‘The Gold Bug’ and now ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ I think I’m living in a tale by Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Why’s that?” Caitlin asked.

  Phil’s face was grim. “In the story, a character named Fortunato is fettered to a wall in a crypt and then sealed in, brick by brick.”

  “Sealed in? You mean he was buried alive in there?”

  “That’s right. It’s a revenge story.”

  “Hey, keep it down,” Leo whispered.

  Phil and Caitlin watched as Leo, his head half-turned in concentration, began to rap the wall gently. The recessed area produced a more resonant sound than did the area around it. After half a minute, Leo stood up and stroked his chin. “It must be a trick door. Phil, will you give me a h
and?”

  “Sure, chief.”

  Phil and Leo tried to slide the panel open, but it was too heavy and smooth. It wouldn’t budge.

  Phil reached into his bag and produced a small crowbar. “Maybe this will help.”

  Leo wedged the tapered tip into the crack between the panel and the brick wall and pulled hard. A chunk of brick broke off and fell to the landing, but that was all. The effort was futile. They were at an impasse. Phil scowled and gave the intractable wall a swift kick.

  “Kicking won’t help,” Caitlin said. “What we need to do is think.”

  “More like pray,” Phil sighed.

  Leo began to pace the small landing. “There’s got to be some way to get inside, probably a secret switch or something.”

  “This is a secret society, so maybe there’s some kind of chant or password,” Caitlin suggested half-seriously. “Anybody know any incantations?”

  Leo shrugged. “Abracadabra? Shallakazam?”

  “How about ‘Open Sesame’?” Phil suggested.

  Caitlin laughed and leaned against the wall. Her hand pressed against a brick, which moved under her weight. There was a grinding sound as the recessed panel slid to the left, disappearing into the surrounding wall.

  “Well, how about that,” she said. “Phil, I didn’t know you dabbled in necromancy.”

  Phil grinned. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “A subject for some other enchanted evening,” Leo said, ushering them quickly through the opening.

  The beam of Caitlin’s flashlight searched the interior. Indistinct, amorphous objects danced in the light. Phil felt along the wall until he found a switch.

  The three students could not believe their eyes. Speechless, they wandered around the room, marveling at all the relics of hunting, heraldry, and war from bygone eras. On one wall, stuffed hawks and falcons hovered over the menacing heads of wild boars and elk, their glass eyes bulging fiercely. On a second wall, and in several display cases around the room, were all manner of archaic implements of mayhem and carnage: pikes, battle-axes, crossbows, broadswords, sabers, muskets, and pistols. There were spiked maces for breaking armor, stout shillelaghs for cracking skulls, and dirks for swiftly cutting a throat or skewering a belly. On the other two walls hung less grisly fare: a row of shields bearing colorful coats of arms and splendid tapestries depicting valorous knights and vanquished dragons.