A Fugitive Truth
Page 23
“In that case, my best guess is that it’s a code based on a book or a poem or something. You know, you take a passage with a lot of different letters in it and number the letters according to their appearance in the passage. How about those?”
“I could try that,” I said slowly. “She read an awful lot, though. I’d have trouble pinning down what was the most important book in her life.”
“I thought you were always telling me that the Bible would have been the one book that most people knew. Y’know, in the olden days.”
For Brian, a native Californian and born hard scientist geek, the olden days were those prior to 1960. “It was and I’ll try that first, but I honestly don’t think it’s going to be Genesis chapter one, verse one, you know what I mean? I think she was a little more sophisticated than that. But it is a starting place.”
“Oops! Cab’s here, gotta go. You’ll do it, sweetie, just start at the begin—”
He hadn’t even finished the word, but Brian’s unconscious use of Kobrinski’s mantric phrase hit me like a speeding freight train. I knew what the key to Madam Chandler’s code was.
“Start at the beginning! Holy snappers!” I looked around frantically for my briefcase. There! By the chair!
“What?” I heard his voice over the phone, but now it seemed as though it was coming from a very great distance. “What’s wrong? Emma?”
“Nothing, but you’ve got to hush, I can’t—” The phone cord wasn’t long enough for me to reach my briefcase, even though I strained every inch of muscle. “I think I know what the code is—hang on!”
“I can’t!” Brian insisted. “Look, you’re okay, right?”
“Yeah, but I just need two minutes to check whether I’m right—”
“Look,” he interrupted. “When you sound like that, you’re right. Don’t worry, just go do it, okay? The cab’s here,” Brian said. “I’ll call you if it’s not too late when I get into Stanford, okay? I love you.”
I felt torn in half, rotten for ditching Brian, desperate to check my new theory. “I love you too, I really do—!” But even as I was saying it, I was scrambling over to hang up the phone. It took me a couple of tries to get the receiver back on the cradle, because it kept bouncing off, with all the force I used.
I pounced on my bag like a hungry lion on a slow gazelle. I tore the buckles open, and ripped through the thicket of legal pads, folders, and filing cards until I found my research notebook and my computer. Flipping the screen up and switching the machine on, I then rifled through the notebook until I found the first page where I’d copied out the first epigram that opened Madam Chandler’s third diary for Michael to look at:
Since it is possible that thou mayst depart from life this very moment, regulate every act and thought accordingly…
During the eon that it took my computer to boot up, I sat there on the floor and started numbering the letters in consecutive order as they appeared in the quotation: 1 for S, 2 for I, and so on.
Okay, “it.” I is repeated, so T is 6, skip to P, that’s 7, O—“Oh, man! It’s going to work!”
Finally my word processor program came up, and I opened the file that contained my transcription of the diary, so far. Excitement flooded me, and I kept overshooting where the first series of code numbers started.
Finally, a brief entry with code appeared and I struggled to calm myself to compare the series of code numbers with the key I had just worked out: 12, 14, 8, 1, 6, 6, 5, 17, 17, 2, 9, 10, 5, 16, 12, 15, 9, 17, 5…Then I wrote down the letters that corresponded to each number.
“A, M, O—” Amo? That didn’t make any sense unless—Please God, no! Don’t let her be writing in encoded Latin, my tired heart just won’t take it! Amo was “I love,” and that was about the extent of my knowledge of Cicero’s language. Never mind, Emma, keep going, keep going!
“A, M, O, S, T, T, E, R, R, I—” That double T didn’t look like Latin after an S. Keep going, keep going! There’s still a chance.
“—B, L, E, D, A, Y, B, R—” I kept scribbling down letters, not even looking at them, just praying that I would get enough to tell me how to start making sense of them. The problem was, there were a couple of letters that weren’t contained in the quote, so I knew that I’d have to get them from the context.
And then suddenly, magically, the letters seemed to shift into place, separating themselves into words I could recognize. In English. Once my eye distinguished the first couple of words, breaking up the rest was easier:
“A MOST TERRIBLE DAY BREA22S AND I 22NO24 NOT IF I HAVE THE STRENGTH TO FACE IT…”
“A most terrible day breaks and I know not if I have the strength to face it…” I whispered to myself. A quiet calm stole over me, and I automatically assigned J, K, Q, W, X, Z—the letters that weren’t in the quote—the numbers 21 through 26, thus completing the key.
Sitting on the floor, I stared at the translated sentence in silence. Almost three centuries ago, a woman found herself in a strange new world, isolated from her family, her husband, and her community. Alone in that wilderness and faced with the threat of being hanged, she poured out her heart into a book that was her only companion. I thought of Margaret Chandler trying to exorcise her fear by writing. She’d literally written volumes. I imagined the burden of complete despair she must have borne by the end of this journal, when she was convinced she would be executed and still, in plain, uncoded words, steadfastly maintained her innocence. I thought of the pride she must have had to keep those fears concealed from casual glance, even in the face of public condemnation. The woman carried herself with outward dignity with those thoughts carefully hidden away. Hidden until I had cracked her code and read the secrets in her heart.
“Margaret, now I know,” I whispered.
Realizing that I couldn’t properly do work on the hallway floor, I gathered up my papers and computer into my bag and bounded up the stairs. I had a long night ahead of me, but at least I knew that I would be in the best of company.
Chapter 16
A DREADFUL POUNDING WOKE ME THE NEXT MORNING, and it took a moment before I could determine whether it was a real noise or a product of the eerie dreams I fled. Vague images of a shadowy forest with fluttering letters pinned to every tree fled irrevocably as the banging persisted on the door to my room. With an effort, I pried open my eyes and was brutally assaulted by bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.
Over the racket at the door, I could hear Michael calling my name. I froze, trying to gather my wits. Harry had unconsciously made some pretty damning comments about Michael’s proximity to all of the events here. In spite of Michael’s apparent willingness to share his theories with me, I had only just started to consider his role when I had been distracted by Brian’s call and my epiphany that led to breaking Margaret Chandler’s code.
Shaking myself awake, I decided I needed to keep my suspicions hidden until I had better evidence. “Hold your horses, I’m coming,” I called grouchily. The clock told me that it was after nine o’clock. I’d had only five hours of sleep and was exhausted, and it took a huge effort to shove myself upright on the bed. As I did so, a cascade of printed pages slid off my chest, where apparently they’d rested all night after I fell asleep reading them. They sailed gracefully along the floor until they were hampered by a pile of dirty clothes. I kicked the whole mess to one side and, with a grunt, managed to shove my desk aside and open the door before it splintered under another burst of hammering.
Michael stood there, panting slightly, looking red-faced and expectant. His hair was curling every which way; his eyes were bloodshot, but that didn’t detract from their appeal.
“Well?” I said.
He was practically hopping. “Don’t you ‘well’ me! Where the hell have you been?”
I could tell he was really ticked off, but why, I didn’t know. “Well, what do you think, Michael? I’m in sweats, in a locked room, where I retired last night. To sleep in a little. What do you think I was doing?”
And why was he so suddenly interested in my whereabouts? That “should” and the fact that he was right only nettled me further. I’ve always hated the “you should know better” sort of remonstrance more than any other.
“For a change, I thought I’d work on my real work, what brought me here in the first place. Sue me,” I said, feeling prickly.
He ran his hand through his hair and I was startled to discover that I wanted to do the same thing. “Snipe all you want, but in spite of Detective Kobrinski’s optimism, nothing’s been conclusively solved yet. I prefer to know your whereabouts. Purely for safety’s sake, if not yours, then mine.” With that he turned and headed downstairs, but called coldly over his shoulder, “If you want the luxury of forgetfulness, you might leave here.”
Again, he seems to want me out of here, or at least accounted for, I thought. I was so beleaguered with confused thoughts of retort, apology, and suspicion that he got away before I could say anything, which was probably all to the good. I didn’t have time for him, anyway, not until I had some better proof, because Sasha had promised that the Chandler letters would be ready today. At the thought of being able to learn more about the trial of Madam Chandler, I didn’t even bother showering, but tied my hair back into a short pony tail, dressed fit to be seen, grabbed my notebook and jogged to the library.
Sasha was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was still recovering from her ordeal at the station yesterday, maybe she was on break, but there was no way I was waiting for her, so I took a chance and headed upstairs to Harry’s office. As soon as I got there and raised my hand to knock, I almost turned around and left—Harry was obviously on the phone, speaking in an angry, choking voice. As much as I knew I shouldn’t listen, I couldn’t help myself. It sounded as though his world was coming to an end.
“—You can’t do that! It’s a travesty! We’ve discussed this already, and you swore to me…No, that won’t work. How can you even consider…? This is outrageous!…No, no, I’m coming right down.”
I heard the phone slam and had just decided that I wouldn’t bother knocking, in fact, I would scurry away as quickly as possible when the door was flung open. Harry was as tidily dressed as ever, pulling on a smart gray over-coat, but the real evidence of his emotion was in his eyes. They were red-rimmed and agony-filled.
That’s what a saint looks like, I thought, the instant before he’s accepted his martyrdom. I was so stunned by the force of this pain that I was rooted to the spot.
For a moment, I didn’t think that Harry would recognize me, or even stop, but to our mutual embarrassment, he did. “Emma. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat; he took off his glasses and carefully began rubbing at them with a clean linen handkerchief and I was reminded of how a cat washes itself to cover embarrassment. “Have you been waiting long to see me?”
I couldn’t believe his voice was as normal, as calm as it was. Not with those eyes. “Er, no, Harry. I was just going to knock.” Fortunately, my hand was still raised, preparatory to that action.
“What can I do for you?” He sounded insistent, as if he wasn’t going to allow his unseemly show of emotion to interfere with his work.
“No, sorry, it can wait. You look like…” Hell, I thought to myself. “You look like you’re on your way someplace. I’ll wait ’til I can find Sasha. I was just going to ask for the Chandler correspondence, that’s all.”
“Oh, I can get you that.” He started off for the conservation room and I followed dumbly behind.
“You don’t have to do that, Harry,” I protested. Though I was desperate to see the letters, I didn’t want to add to whatever was dismaying him so.
Harry sighed as he unlocked the door. “Between you and me, I need a moment to count to ten, if you know what I mean. I just got a call, and well…You know. You think you’ve got something important settled, finally, and then someone comes along and ever so casually upsets the apple cart. Hard not to feel like Sisyphus, some days. But I’ll get it straightened out.”
I was considering how large a rock it was he was pushing, or whether the tipped cart contained the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, to evoke that kind of response. And yet, here he was obliging me on his way to remedy the situation, above and beyond the call of duty.
“How’s work on the diary going?” Harry asked briefly as he handed me the folder.
“Harry, I managed to decipher Madam Chandler’s code!” Even as I said it, I marveled. I hadn’t even said the words out loud since I’d done it. It almost was like I was realizing the implications for the first time myself.
Harry looked shocked, then a delighted smile broke through the clouds in his face. He grabbed my hand and began pumping it enthusiastically. “Congratulations! My God, congratulations! Emma, that’s wonderful! This is extraordinary! Tell me, tell me all about it!”
“I did it, didn’t I?” I sat down suddenly at a table and tried to collect my wits. “Well, it was based on the quote with which she started the diary. It was there all the time. Waiting for me. Or, you know…whoever.”
“Emma, this is a discovery of the first water! I don’t know what to say.” Harry was as dazed and happy for me as I could have been for myself. He shook my hand again, encasing it with his left hand as well, grinning with childish excitement. “Thank you, Emma! I have to go now, but you…you know, you’ve just about managed to restore my faith in humankind!” And it was with a great lightness of step that he went off on his delayed errand.
Still dazed by Harry’s warm response to my news, I realized that Christmas wasn’t over, that there was one more package under the tree with my name on it. I composed myself hastily, found an empty carrel, and opened the folder. On top of a pile of sheets of heavy linen paper, each encased in its own clear plastic conservation envelope, was a type-written conservator’s report, prepared, no doubt, by Sasha, who had been hard at work in the little conservation lab.
I took a look at the report to prepare myself for the goodies that lay beneath. Under the Shrewsbury laboratory’s letterhead it read:
Chandler MSS. 2/2/3. Three letters (one incomplete) in fair to good condition, on linen rag, oak-gall and iron ink. Work completed by S. T. Russo (see attached conservation notes). Correspondence between (“Madam”) Margaret (Chase) Chandler of Stone Harbor, Massachusetts, and Daphne (Radcliffe) Mainwaring, of London, probably dating 1723.
Biographical Notes: Madam Chandler and Mrs. Mainwaring were cousins through the maternal line. Margaret Chandler was wife to Justice Matthew Chandler (see Alarick Springer, 1933, Lives of Massachusetts Jurists, 1620–1750, privately printed; Records of the Quarterly Courts of Massachusetts, Exeter County, Volume II) and has been remarked as a diarist of the colonial period (see Chandler MSS. 1/2/1; Alison Lairde, 1902, Helpmeets and Housewives of the Old Bay Colony, Boston). Mrs. Mainwaring was married to John Mainwaring, and after his death, later married Sir Robert Chomondeley (1725); Sinclair Deauville (1732); and Peter, Lord Buckleigh (1740) (see Debrett’s Peerage).
Keywords: Domestic life, social events, childbirth, 18th century, London, colonial Massachusetts, housewares, clothing.
In careful, faint pencil beneath, Sasha had left a note to herself: “See also Fielding, Emma J., 200–(article? book?).”
Bless the girl, she was already anticipating my own work on the subject! I thought gleefully. I wouldn’t disappoint her, not when I had to live up to Madam Chandler’s own high standard. I picked up the first envelope, feeling the plastic folder buckle a little as I examined the letter inside, hoping for the answers to all the questions I had about the trial. I recognized Margaret’s clear, elegant hand and was immediately disappointed to find that the first
letter was a fragment; the first two pages were missing:
-3-
I must finish quickly if this is to find a Place with the Post bound for Capt’n Sherman’s Antelope. As you will already have read, I cannot stress too greatly Mr. Chandler’s Role in my Salvation. It was his Faith in me, his entire comprehension of the Truth, and his Perspicacity that rescued me, and had he not the Fortunate Willingness to give Credence to my Observations, all would have been lost.
I realized with a sharp pang of disappointment that the first part of the letter probably had contained a description of the trial and Margaret’s escape from a death sentence. I read on, hoping to find some other clue.
His sense of Justice is so utterly even-hand’d that had it not been impossible, I sho’d have worried about his strict Preservat’n of the Law. As it was, I was rather more concern’d w/ the immediate Preservation of my Selfe, and will keepe as a dear Lesson that Truth is more than a Summe of Factes. But all’s well that ends so, and we are quite—happily!—returned to a well-regulated Life. Please take Care in how you mention this to my Mother, as I have been reluctant to trouble her with Details until I knew the Outcome for certain, and have just sent her Worde.
We are determined to continue construction on the new House, and I cannot fathom why I sho’d be so disappoint’d to leave this one. It is a very anchient and creakey sort of Place, fantastickal in its Antiquity, but I have discovered a Fondnesse for it that is nigh on inexplicable. Perhaps the Reason of it lies meerly in that it was the first place I set to House-keepinge. I wish you would send me, as soone as is Convenient, a new Suit of Bedcloths, Vallances (with a Fringe), Bolsters, Coverlids, and Curtains, embroider’d, a dark Greene if it can be got, otherwise Blew, but not so light a Shade as that we saw in Mistress Stephen’s new Chamber. Also, if you can send some Holland diaper Napkins, it wo’d be a blessing to me, for Mr. Chandler’s Guests must expect the best. I have given the Monie (£50) to Capt’n Sherman for this.