Two Tocks before Midnight (The Agora Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Two Tocks before Midnight

  The Agora Mystery Series 1

  Clay Boutwell

  www.ClayBoutwell.com

  Copyright © 2012-2018 by Clay Boutwell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 9781973555810

  Visit the author's website at http://www.ClayBoutwell.com

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Continue Reading

  The Handkerchief, a Short Story

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  Chapter One

  October 24th, 1889

  Carl Brooke

  Boston

  I have never been fond of sentimental ramblings so I will keep this short. Indeed, were it not for the insistence of my friends, I would soon let the matter slip away with the sands of time. But repeated pleas from the curious and the morbid alike compel me to share with you the strange affair of October 24th, 1859.

  I cannot say with certitude the events of this date occurred exactly as I remember them. As time passes, so do the minute and myriad details; rough edges are made smooth, and the inevitable romanticizing of the past is liable to play havoc with true fact.

  Still, as I am a Christian and an honest man, what follows is as accurate as my fallible mind can relate.

  Nearly two score years separate us from those days and that night in particular. I, alone—so I am told—am survived out of the lot of us.

  Before I begin to describe the events of that night, I think it important to share a little more about our group.

  We were the Agora Society, an open marketplace to foster ideas for the betterment of man. That was the aim; the structure, however, was modeled after Dr. Franklin’s Junto Society. In a show of hubris that even today causes me to shudder with embarrassment, our charter set forth the goal of leaving to the world a greater legacy than that of the good Doctor. Indeed, we had the mind to compete with the man who “took lightning from the sky and the scepter from the tyrant’s hand” as Turgot put it. He surely laughs at my friends in the hereafter. I fear there are times when I hear his laughter echoing in my dreams, beckoning for me to come.

  I do not think it wrong, however, to recollect our accomplishments—as dim as they may be when held up to Dr. Franklin’s light.

  During the years of our club’s existence, we established a Freeman’s society which secured the release of one hundred and thirty-six slaves. We also ensured these men and women were taught a trade and their letters. It is of considerable pride to report nearly all of them transitioned well after the War between the States. Indeed, several families prospered. To this day, I have no greater joy than to receive a letter or a visit from a member of one of these families.

  Another source of pride came when the Society financed the repairing of the dam in Clarkesville, which was completed a mere month before the great flood of fifty-six. Over the years, we were involved with building libraries, windmills, schoolhouses, and churches.

  It is also true that our services were used on a number of occasions by the police, as this letter will attest. Though small, we were well-connected and able, by merit of our collective talents, to be of some value to law enforcement.

  In short, our efforts saved the lives of hundreds of mortal and immortal souls. However, again remembering our foolish goal, Dr. Franklin’s invention of the simple lightning rod alone, has surely saved millions.

  Our society, the Agora Society, had a dozen members at its zenith. Each brought to the group his individual talents and ambitions. Mine lay in ancient Near Eastern languages.

  To give a brief sampling of the others pertinent to our discussion, my dear friend, Dr. Christopher Harding, an expert in papyrus, cuneiform, hieroglyphics, and other writing methods of antiquity, led the initial discussion of the matter; Mr. Thomas Phillips, knowledgeable in ancient warfare and weaponry, could always be heard quoting some obscure Greek or Roman philosopher; and of course, Mr. Charles Tock could converse in thirteen languages and read five more. Charles Tock and Thomas Phillips are of special interest to our story.

  The weekly meetings were held every Monday evening at precisely six of the clock. If someone was absent or tardy, he was made to do “community service.” This usually meant clearing the streets of horse manure. The delights of such an occupation was a great incentive to arrive on time, and it was a rare occasion when one of us failed to do so.

  Charles Tock joined our august group a few years before the events of that dreadful night. I should note, as a matter of protocol, we referred to each other by our first names no matter our age or status outside the Agora. I distinctly remember Charles’ introduction the first evening he appeared before our group. I relate it now because it accurately illustrates his dry humor and the breadth of his academic knowledge.

  “My name is Charles,” he said, pausing to allow his eyes to greet each of us. “That can’t be helped, but I always intended to marry royalty to avoid being churlish.”

  Only a few of us caught the etymological jesting. Having a name, Carl, that shares the same cognate as Charles, namely “churl,” I was one of them. “Churl,” as you know, came to mean the opposite of nobility, a rude man somewhat above a peasant.

  Despite his poor taste in arcane humor, Charles’ broad knowledge and experience soon propelled him to something of an elder position among us—a natural state of affairs, since the majority of us were more than two decades his junior.

  In the years since these events, many people have asked me if we suspected anything unusual about him from the beginning. In retrospect, he could be willing to compromise his principles to achieve his aims. He had demonstrated this vice in small ways over the few years we knew him, but so subtle and inconsequential were these incidents, no one made mention of them in complaint. None of us could have anticipated his spectacular downfall.

  He arrived suddenly, and one winter morning, left just as suddenly—and without telling anyone. As I have already attested, missing even a single meeting was heavily discouraged. This transgression was doubly shocking considering how integral he had made himself to the club.

  On the third meeting after his extended absence, we decided a party should be sent to learn what had become of him. The talk of discipline from the week before tur
ned to genuine concern. I was not among those chosen to join the search party, but I did receive their report. Charles’ lodgings—the address he gave in the society’s records—was an abandoned slaughterhouse. As it turned out, no member had visited Charles outside club meetings during the entire time he had been with us. Being a band of honorable men, we took our members word as fact. This trust, unfortunately, allowed opportunity for abusers.

  But the mystery had only begun.

  Winter turned to spring, and spring to summer. It is difficult to overstate our total and utter amazement when a full six months after his disappearance, Charles Tock quietly walked through the doors of the Agora Society once more. Bearded and dirty, he wore a tattered frock coat and carried a lantern that cast a circle of yellow light, illuminating his features. He looked churlish to say the least.

  While not against club rules, facial hair was a rarity among us. Only one of us, Thomas Phillips, had a neatly trimmed mustache. The rest of us, during those days, were clean-shaven and therefore seeing Charles with an abundance of facial hair was doubly shocking.

  With him stood a large, similarly dressed man in dark clothing carrying a leather case with a large brass buckle.

  A hushed pause descended as we all turned and stared at the strange sight.

  Chapter Two

  Please allow me to indulge in a little narrative. While the phrasing may be somewhat inaccurate, I shall be as true to my memory as my venerable age allows.

  “Charles, where the devil have you been?” one of us blurted out.

  He walked to the front and set his lantern on the table. His companion remained near the entrance.

  “I’ve been traveling. This is… Joseph,” Charles answered while nodding toward the large man to his side. Charles looked as though he had aged ten years. Beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks and into his beard. This was not odd considering the heat of the summer, yet, somehow, the sweat seemed to be of a different sort.

  We were in shock, both by Charles’ unexpected return after these many months of absence and by the presence of this stranger, a clear violation of the society’s charter.

  “Charles, there are certain rules with which you must surely be acquainted,” I said, trying to admonish him as lightly as I could.

  “Joseph will leave shortly, but he has something that will undoubtedly be of considerable interest to all, and, Carl, to you in particular.”

  Our interest piqued, the president motioned for Charles to step forward and address the meeting. Charles nodded and moved to the front while patting his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “I do apologize for the abrasive nature of my reappearance. It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.” He paused to once again pat a fresh bubbling of sweat. It seemed some heaviness hindered him from continuing. Surely hidden from the crowd, but not from me, Joseph move his fist slightly, prompting Charles to continue. “Yes, well, Joseph, please present the document.”

  The room was quiet save for the striking of a clock and the occasional hawker announcing his wares on the street below. I doubt any of us noticed those things, however. Such was the tense atmosphere.

  With rough movements, the stranger pulled a parchment from his case. Even from that distance, the manner in which he handled what seemed to be an ancient document brought a shudder to my frame.

  Contrary to club protocol, I pushed through the others to observe the object closer. Dr. Christopher Harding, the expert on papyrus and other ancient writing utensils, was equally inquisitive and also stepped forward.

  The scroll was clearly ancient, and the writing, Paleo-Hebrew. The sheepskin had been prepared in the proper way as befitting an ancient Torah scroll. But it most certainly was not a Torah scroll.

  “Can you read it, friend?” Joseph grunted, baring his teeth. The tone, rather than the words, betrayed an aggressive impatience.

  My hand trembled as fingers hovered an inch above the precious parchment. Christopher examined the physical document, devoting special interest to the edges and damage wrought by countless years. I, meanwhile, studied the language.

  “My word,” Christopher said. “Where did you discover this?”

  “A dig in the Middle East,” Joseph answered before Charles could open his mouth. Neither man elaborated further.

  “What is it?” a member asked.

  It seemed the entire room refused to breathe until we made known the contents of the parchment.

  “It is a... gevil,” Christopher answered, “written in the Paleo-Hebrew script, but as to the contents, you will have to ask Carl.”

  Christopher’s matter-of-fact response of a “gevil” remained unsatisfactory for our fellow members unschooled in ancient writing materials.

  I explained. “A gevil is a specially prepared animal skin used by Jewish scribes, particularly for Torah scrolls.”

  “Is it, then, a Torah scroll?” asked one member.

  “No.”

  I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was no Torah scroll. Christopher handed me a magnifying glass and backed away, giving me room for the examination. I said nothing for a few minutes and, understanding my need for concentration, no one spoke or made a sound.

  “A Bible, please,” I asked.

  We kept a large Bible on the shelf inside the stand for the initiation ceremony and for occasional reference. It was handed to me and I consulted two places to confirm my memory.

  “Most extraordinary.” The elation I felt at that moment brought forth a grin to my face I could not contain.

  “My dear, Carl,” said Christopher, eyes wide and glowing with anticipation. “Please do not keep us in suspense. I shall have to leap from London Bridge if you are not forthright this moment.”

  “My apologies, Christopher. Based on your experience, how old would you say the parchment may be?”

  Christopher cleared his throat before answering. “It would be impossible to know for sure. The quality is unsurpassed. Lesser specimens would still have traces of animal hair. Clearly, this was from a roll and not a codex which would be similar to a modern book. In general that suggests pre-fifth century A.D., but I dare not hazard a more specific guess.”

  “Would you say… mid-ninth century is possible?” I asked, perhaps a little too playfully.

  “Yes, but as I mentioned, as it is from a roll, pre-fifth century is…”

  “No, my good man,” I said, raising my eyebrow and managing to wipe the smile from my face. “Not A.D. The ninth century B.C.”

  A hush fell around us as all waited for Christopher to respond. Only the hiss of the two gas lamps on the wall broke the silence.

  “Yes,” he said, bracing his arms on the table for support. “It is possible. The parchment is in very good shape, but if it had been kept in a dry, cool storage and undisturbed… yes, it is possible. But how can you be so specific?”

  “The corner,” I said, pointing to the lower left area. “Can you read it?”

  The line wouldn’t have given pause for someone with even rudimentary Hebrew.

  “Melech,” he said after sounding out the three characters. “Achazyah… Chai. Melech Achazyah Chai!” His arms flew up and his eyes danced with excitement. “My dear fellows,” he said turning to the other men who had—against all society etiquette—crowded around us with the greatest of curiosity. “King Ahaziah lives! This was written during the reign of the great, great, great, great, great grandson of King David. Mid-ninth century B.C. would be on target.”

  “The Paleo-Hebrew style is consistent,” I said finding it increasingly difficult to withhold my excitement.

  “But,” spoke up one of the men behind me. “What of its contents?”

  I answered promptly. “There is little doubt. I have only had a few minutes to examine it, but if I had to make a judgment this very moment, I would have to say this may well be a segment of the Sefer HaYashar—the Book of Jasher.”

  I went to explain the Book of Jasher was one of the “lost” books from the biblical period, being named i
n scripture but no longer extant. When the sun stood still for Joshua, the book is mentioned for further reference. David bade them to teach the sons of Judah the use of the bow as mentioned in this book.

  “If memory serves, Josephus said the Hebrews stored the Book of Jasher in the temple nearly two thousand years ago. It was thought lost after the destruction of Jerusalem in seventy A.D.,” added someone.

  Charles seemed relieved, but somehow unhappy. Joseph smiled as he spoke, “Would you, then, gentlemen, certify its authenticity?” Just as before with “friend,” the way he muttered “gentlemen” seemed somehow quite unfriendly.

  Thomas Phillips, who had been one of the more excitable among us regarding the parchment, spoke: “It would be our honor, wouldn’t it, boys?” His curled mustache wiggled with the words.

  I held up a cautious hand. “My good fellow, I would love to—upon further examination, of course. I must study the text in detail and compare it with other so-called ‘Books of Jasher’ discovered in the last century.

  Joseph’s smile dropped and he snatched his lantern from the table. “You have an hour. I shall return to collect the parchment then.” With that, Joseph and Charles were gone.

  I spent the next few minutes rapt in joy. The others took turns peering over my shoulder or standing in front, occasionally interrupting my examination with their comments—sometimes helpful, sometimes not. It had grown too dark for the wall lamps by that time and two candles were brought near to illuminate the text.