whatever coin he had, if he happened to be staying in an area that was overrun by King Philip’s warriors in ’75. But ’twould have been a cache hidden away in haste and gone back for, I think, the moment the Indians were driven off.”
“Which our Governor,” said John grimly, “seems to wish to conveniently forget. You’re sure there’s no record of his owning land in the west?”
“Nothing.” Sam flipped open the lantern’s door, held it steady while John lit the candle within it from his own. “Which has never stopped Hutchinson from going after something he thinks is there for the taking. Well, I wish the man joy of those books, cracking his so-called scholarly attainments against Arabic chemistry texts and alchemical discussions of how to make gold out of lead . . . Believe me, I’ve been over all seven of them with a magnifier and calipers, and haven’t found anything in them that looks like a cipher to me. Fear not,” he added, and bent over Abigail’s hand. “All will be well.”
He turned to where Revere and Warren waited for him on the doorstep. Abigail folded her arms beneath her shawl and watched from the doorway as those three bobbing blurs of yellow light disappeared down Queen Street. Far off, the crier’s voice could be heard in the still night,
Twenty-three
True to his word, Sam sent the seven books, made up in a package thickly bound with string and crusted with blots of sealing wax, via Paul Revere. The silversmith arrived in Queen Street midmorning, driving his own light chaise with his quick-stepping little mare Ginny tethered and saddled behind. Johnny and Nabby had been sent off to school with instructions to go to Aunt Eliza’s in Milk Street when they were done: Pattie had taken Tommy there as soon as the house was tidied and the marketing done for Thaxter, who would remain in the house. Neither Johnny nor Nabby had been much comforted by John’s explanation that he and their mother were going across to the mainland to widen the search (“How would he have got over there, sir?” had been only the least acute of Johnny’s questions), and it cut Abigail like a knife to see the confusion and suspicion in her son’s eyes as he understood that he was being kept outside of the truth.
She tormented herself on the drive by conjuring visions of some independent scheme of Johnny’s to discover the truth of his brother’s whereabouts for himself. Nabby, silent, had simply nodded, her blue eyes a world of wretchedness—as if she, too, understood that something was appallingly wrong beyond what was being said—and Tommy had only cried.
They crossed the Neck to Roxbury, Katy riding pillion behind Revere, and reached Cambridge a little after noon. Weyountah and Horace were horrified at Abigail’s news and offered a) to immediately try to decode whatever might be in their books and b) to stand watch with as many of their classmen as required, all around Harvard Yard, that night at midnight, to apprehend the villains when they came to the appointed meeting-place. Abigail firmly quashed both suggestions.
“What I will ask of you,” she said, “is that in the meantime you show us old Reverend Seckar’s house, that was Emmanuel Whitehead’s.”
Revere went off in search of Sheriff Congreve—he seemed to know everyone in the colony—and returned with the keys to the Seckar house, which had been closed up upon the quarrelsome old professor’s death, pending disposal by the College.
“’Tis the closest we’ll come, I presume,” added John, as they crossed the Common from the Golden Stair and made their way along the road that eventually led toward Waterford, “to this stone castle Old Beelzebub was supposed to have built.”
“He
“Stories get conflated, Nab,” returned John patiently. “Especially family stories. You remember Tilda Farren back in Braintree? The one who’s convinced her parents fled England because her mother was the true heir of King James—the daughter for whom the baby Prince James was substituted for political reasons in 1688.”
Abigail privately suspected that their neighbor back in Braintree was far too partial to the medicine she took for her so-called rheumatics and back pains, but was too distracted with dread to reply. Part of her prayed that there was something at the Seckar house that would solve the entire question—some hidden map or cipher that Grimes and his cohorts were actually looking for that could be handed over to them . . .
Another part of her was despairingly aware that if a map of the colony had been drawn on one of the bedroom walls complete with large red letters saying, HERE LIETH THE TREASURE, such was her mental state that she would be incapable of realizing what it was.
The Seckar house turned out to be one she’d seen a hundred times in passing through Cambridge, its newer portion—facing the Waterford Road—built of brick and timber in the ’80s of the previous century, tall and old- fashioned like Sam’s house on Purchase Street, with most of the lower floor taken up by a great keeping room and a fireplace at one end that a family of four could have set up housekeeping in. The older portion of the house was hid from the road, lying perpendicular to the new, and had been built of a combination of stone and “nogging”—clay mixed with twigs and horsehair—a single story with a loft over part of it.
“This must have been the original keeping room,” surmised John, as Congreve led them through its ancient door and into the chamber that had—for as long as anyone recalled—been the laundry. The big coopered tubs had been moved, and its northern wall knocked out and rudely patched over with boards. The eastern wall—what had been the gable end of the original house—joined to that of the newer structure but had never been pierced with a door: one entered the old wing from the yard, with no communication between the old part of the house and the new.
Abigail stood back while John—who must, she knew, be in as great an agony as herself—methodically examined the space and the shelves. She herself looked around the old laundry-room, toward the great fireplace at its other end, where the copper and the racks of irons still stood . . .
Here in this long, narrow chamber, the whole tangled knot of circumstance had begun: at the great old table, worn marble-smooth and so big it could not have fit through the doors, Old Beelzebub had undoubtedly copied out his original notes about the Governor of Jamaica into script unreadable by anyone in the colony and shoved it for safekeeping into one of his books.
This was the room where he—or perhaps his sanctimonious son—had walled his books away.
Why?
A man who’d sailed the seas, burned Spanish towns for their gold, studied the writings of the Mahometans, practiced sorcery, chatted with Satan, been worshipped as a god?
