The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

to disguise his real voice—but it was all a ruse, and a clumsy one. He was really after the solution.”

“Solution?”

“He grabbed my wallet, emptied it of cash. Then he pocketed my wristwatch. As he was stuffing his ill-gotten gains into his jacket, I jumped him.”

“You what!”

“I fought him, Pen. I know how to stick up for myself! I sunk my fist into his gut. I even whacked him on the snout—”

“Snout,” I thought. “Oh, my God. Jack, did you hear—”

I heard.

“I was doing well,” Brainert went on, “until he rammed my face into the Victorian mirror—”

“Oh, God, Brainert, you poor—”

“That mirror was a treasure. I hope it brings him seven years bad luck. He was the one who broke the glass, you see. My skull was merely the instrument.”

Brainert was really getting worked up now. The shock obviously had worn off, anger and outrage replacing it. I saw a nurse pause at his door, curious about the commotion.

“Shush, Brainert,” I said in a whisper. “Calm down.”

“Yes, yes, sorry,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not every day a guy fights for his life.”

“What happened next?”

“When I was on the ground again, and bleeding all over my beautiful custom-weave Persian rug, the intruder found the papers I was working on. He gathered all of them up, stuffed them into his jacket. I tried to stop him, but, frankly, I couldn’t get up. My assailant must have seen all the blood, probably thought he’d killed me. He fled. I remember trying to stand up…”

Brainert touched his battered nose. “The next thing I knew I was in the hospital, doctors working on me.”

“Are you sure he came for your notes?”

“I’m certain, Pen! The way he gathered up every sheet of paper, this wasn’t a casual swipe. He was very careful…He wanted my secret!”

“The solution to the Poe Code?”

Brainert nodded.

“What is it?” I asked. “You were about to announce the solution when Detective Marsh showed up at the Quibblers meeting to arrest me. The last thing I heard you say was something about an obscure quote…”

Brainert smiled. “‘This is indeed Life itself.’”

“What’s it from? What’s it mean?”

“It’s from Poe’s story ‘The Oval Portrait.’”

I think I gasped just then. Jack exclaimed something in my mind, but he didn’t have to remind me. The case I’d been dreaming about in Jack’s time involved an oval portrait. The missing man, Vincent Tattershawe, had taken it off the desk of his secretary—and old lover—and sent it to his fiancee, Dorothy Kerns, just before he disappeared with most of her inheritance.

“Is that the treasure then?” I asked Brainert. “Is it an oval portrait?”

Brainert nodded. “I believe it is, yes—although it could be just another piece of the puzzle, another part of the larger treasure hunt.”

“And all of your papers, the copies of the title pages Sadie made for you, they’re all gone?” I asked.

“The intruder took the papers, but I have backup files.” Brainert tapped his index finger to his temple. “And I recall what I’ve learned.”

“Then you really did solve it?”

Brainert sighed. “While I’m certain an oval portrait is involved, I’m still missing one small piece of the puzzle. There is, however, a very promising theory I have yet to put to the test…”

“Go on.”

“You see, my attacker didn’t get one vital piece of information needed to solve the mystery and obtain the treasure, because I never got a chance to write it down…. I was curious to find out what happened to the estate of publisher Eugene Phelps after the man committed suicide. My Providence friend examined the estate sale records and discovered that Miles Chesley—Peter’s grandfather—purchased the entire contents of Eugene Phelps’s library in 1935. He had it transported to his Newport mansion. This occurred years before Phelps’s home burned to the ground.”

I gave Brainert a blank stare.

“Don’t you see, Pen? It all makes sense. Miles Chesley solved the first riddle of the Poe Code, the same one that Dr. Conte solved.”

“What was it again?”

“‘Mystic Library east wall sunset reveals all.’ Dr. Conte thought the reference was to the library in Mystic, Connecticut. But he was wrong. Miles Chesley, who was alive in Eugene Phelps’s day, knew Mystic referred to Phelps’s mansion in Newport—Mystic House. That’s why he purchased the entire contents of Phelps’s library after the man killed himself. And that’s why the Poe Code treasure would not have been destroyed in the 1956 fire that burned down Phelps’s home. Miles Chesley had already moved the library’s contents to his mansion! It’s probably right there in Prospero House as we speak.”

I didn’t buy Brainert’s theory and said so. “Surely Miles Chesley discovered the secret. He owned the library. How could he miss it?”

“Miles Chesley died of a sudden stroke the same year he bought the library. According to tax records—which I assure you are quite thorough—the Phelps auction took place in May 1936 and Miles died in early July. There’s no evidence in Miles’s notes that he’d been able to locate a treasure amid the vast contents of the library or solve the riddle pointing to an oval portrait.”

“But something of great value would be obvious, wouldn’t it? How can you be sure some descendant of Miles Chesley didn’t find it?”

“Oh, Penelope! I doubt very much that this ‘treasure’ is some crass piece of gold or silver, some meaningless trinket.” Brainert shifted position, and a groan escaped his bruised lips. “I’m betting that only an expert on the subject of Poe would be capable of recognizing the treasure’s true value.”

“Now that you mention it…the men who inherited the mansion had no interest in Poe.” I remembered the maritime artifacts and yachting trophies all over Prospero House. “Miles Chesley’s son—Peter’s father—was obsessed with all things nautical,” I told Brainert. “And Peter Chesley himself was a historian focused on the Revolutionary War period. He didn’t seem to care about Poe, either.”

“The Phelps editions were in the mansion’s library, weren’t they?” Brainert asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, Miles Chesley’s papers survived two generations of neglect—until they were stolen today, of course. If those items remained, then the treasure might be there, too.”

I was beginning to warm to Brainert’s theory. I remembered the creepy Poe clock in Peter’s library. I also remembered the daguerreotypes and old photos on the walls. At the time, I thought they were simply images of Peter Chesley’s ancestors. Now I mentioned them to Brainert.

“This oval portrait we’re looking for would likely have something to do with Poe,” Brainert insisted. “Perhaps a portrait of the author, or even the wife he loved so much and who died so young, Virginia Clemm—”

Excited, Brainert tried to rise, but immediately appeared woozy and sank back into his white hospital pillows. “If only I could go there now! See for myself!”

“Where?” I cried. “To the mansion? Are you sure that blow to your head didn’t do more damage than you think?”

“This is no joke,” Brainert insisted. “We have to know the truth. Two men may have been murdered over this treasure. You were attacked, and so was I. When will this calamity end if we don’t end it?”

I mulled this over—along with the decision of whether to share what I’d learned today about Peter’s nephew, Claymore.

Might as well tell him, Jack advised. He’s in as deep as you now.

“Of course,” Brainert was saying, “there is one more piece of information I require to confirm the last part of