Two Tocks before Midnight Read online

  Two Tocks before Midnight

  Plus a Short Story: The Handkerchief

  Clay Boutwell

  Previous published under the name, CJ Martin

  Published by Kotoba Books at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012-2016 by Clay Boutwell

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

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

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  Two Tocks before Midnight

  October 24th, 1889

  Carl Brooke

  Boston

  I have never been fond of sentimental ramblings so I will keep this short. Indeed, if not for the insistence of my friends, I would just as 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 can’t even say with certitude that the events of that 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 plays 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.

  Our 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, Dr. Christopher Harding was an expert in papyrus, cuneiform, and writing methods of antiquity; Mr. Thomas Phillips was skilled at ancient weaponry; and of course there was Mr. Charles Tock who could converse in thirteen languages and read five more. Charles Tock and Thomas Phillips are of special interest to our story.

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

  We called it the Agora. It was to be an open marketplace to foster ideas for the betterment of man. That was the name; the structure, however, was modeled after Dr. Franklin’s Junto society. In a show of hubris that even today causes me to cower 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. There are times I fear 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 humble as they may be when held to Dr. Franklin’s light.

  We established a Freeman’s society which secured the release of one hundred and thirty-six Negroes. Our society also made sure 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. Indeed, several families prospered. To this day, there is no greater joy than to receive a letter or a visit from one of the families.

  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.

  We financed the repairing of the dam in Clarkesville, which was completed a mere month before the great flood of fifty-six. Several of us were involved with building libraries, windmills, schoolhouses, and churches.

  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.

  We met every Monday night precisely at six in the evening. If someone was absent or tardy, he was made to do “community service.” This usually meant clearing the streets of horse manure. The honor of such a job was a great incentive to show up on time, and it was a rare occasion when one of us did not.

  Charles Tock came to us a few years before the events of that dreadful night. (As a matter of protocol we all referred to each other by our first names no matter our age or status outside the Agora.) I distinctly remember Charles’ introduction the first time he appeared before our group. I relate it now because it accurately illustrates his dry humor and breadth of 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, his broad knowledge and experience soon propelled him to something of an elder position among us. Most of us at the time were, after all, two decades his junior.

  Many people have asked me if we suspected anything unusual about him from the beginning. Well, we all knew that he could be willing to compromise his principles to get what he wanted. He had demonstrated this vice in small ways over the few years we knew him. Still, none of us anticipated his spectacular downfall.

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

  On the third meeting after his initial absence, it was decided a party should be sent to learn what had become of him. The talk of discipline from the week before turned to genuine concern. I was not chosen to join the search party, but I did hear their report. His 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 time he had been with us.

  But the mystery was only to begin.

  Winter turned to spring, spring to summer. A full six months after his disappearance, Charles Tock quietly walked through the doors of the Agora Society once more. He was bearded, dirty, and wore a tattered frock coat. He looked churlish to say the least.

  While not against club rules, facial hair was not encouraged among us. Only one of us, Thomas Phillips, had a mustache. The rest of us were clean-shaven.

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

  There was a hushed pause as we all turned and stared at the two men standing before us.

  Please allow me to indulge in a bit of narrative. While the phrasing may be slightly off, I shall be as true to my memory as old age allows.

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

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

  We were in shock, both by the sight of seeing Charles after these many months of absence and meeting this stranger whose presence was in clear violation of the society’s charter.

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

  “Joseph will leave shortly, but there is something of his that will undoubtedl
y be of considerable interest to all, and to you, Carl, in particular.”

  Our interest piqued, the president motioned for Charles to come forward to 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 on his forehead. It seemed some heaviness hindered him from continuing. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joseph move his fist slightly, prompting Charles to continue. “Yes, well, Joseph, please present the document.”

  With rough hands, 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 rushed to observe the object closer. Dr. Christopher Harding, the expert on papyrus and other ancient writing utensils, was equally inquisitive and also came forward.

  It was clearly ancient. The writing was Paleo-Hebrew. The sheepskin was prepared in the proper way befitting an ancient Torah scroll. But it wasn’t a Torah scroll.

  “Can you read it, friend?” Joseph grunted, giving the word “friend” a quite unnatural feel.

  My hand trembled as fingers hovered an inch above the precious parchment. Christopher examined the physical document with special interest in the edges and tears torn by countless years. I, meanwhile, canvassed 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. He was not more specific.

  “What is it?” It seemed the entire room refused to breathe until we made known the contents of the parchment.

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

  Christopher’s matter-of-fact response of a “gevil” was unsatisfactory for our fellow members not schooled 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, not well versed in ancient Hebrew, backed away to give me room for the examination. I said nothing for a few minutes. Understanding my need for concentration, no one said a word or made a sound.

  “A Bible, please.”

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

  “Most extraordinary.”

  “My dear, Carl. 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 bit too playfully.

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

  “No, my good man. Not A.D. The ninth century B.C.”

  There was a hush as all waited for Christopher to respond.

  “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 shouldn’t give pause for someone with even rudimentary college Hebrew.

  “Melech,” he said after sounding out the three characters. “Achazyah… Chai. Melech Achazyah Chai!” His arms flew up and his eyes were now dancing with excitement. “My dear fellows,” he said turning to the other men who had—against all society etiquette—crowded around us with great 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 own excitement.

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

  “There is little doubt. I’ve only had a few minutes to examine it, but if I had to make a judgment this very moment, I’d 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 that was named in scripture but not 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 Book of Jasher was kept 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 somewhat unhappy. Joseph had a smile on his face as he spoke, “Would you, then, gentlemen, certify its authenticity?” Just as before with “friend,” the way he muttered “gentlemen” seemed somehow disturbing.

  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 when he spoke.

  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. “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 dark by that time and two candles were kept lit to illuminate the text.

  Then I saw something that would condemn three souls to their deaths.

  “What is the matter, Carl?” asked Christopher after noticing the drop in my complexion.

  “I… I’m afraid there may be a problem.”

  I pointed to two Hebrew letters and asked Christopher to read them.

  “Yes, yes,” Christopher replied, “it is the common Hebrew word ‘shel’—meaning, ‘of’ or ‘belonging to.’ What is your point?”

  “‘Shel’ is a syntactical innovation of a much later date.”

  I could feel the disappointment all around.

  “Not only that, Christopher, look closely at the ink here and here.”

  I held out the magnifying glass that I had been using. Christopher took it and bent over the parchment.

  “My word. I didn’t see it before, but while the parchment does appear to be quite old, the writing seems to be newer. The flaking here,” he said, pointing to a tiny area missing some ink, “indicates the ink has not had time to bond. And here, we see a scratch in the parchment that runs through this aleph and yet the ink is unharmed. Good eye, Carl.”

  “And,” I said, driving the last ounce of doubt from my mind, “if held against the light, one can see nearly invisible pencil marks—very modern pencil marks, undoubtedly a practice run before inking.”

  We were all, of course, greatly disappointed, but in the end, we all agreed the specimen was nothing but a clever fraud. Even Thomas Phillips who had offered the best counter-arguments eventually conceded after facing the overwhe
lming evidence.

  Our name would not be soiled, but we would have to break the news to Charles and Joseph. By their reactions, we thought, we could discover if they had foreknowledge of the forgery.

  A few minutes later, Joseph returned without Charles.

  “Well?”

  “I’m afraid,” I said, speaking up as the representative of our club, “you have a clever forgery here.”

  “What do you mean?” Joseph’s mouth shut tight and his eyes turned blood-red.

  “I mean, the text can’t be but a few months old,” I said, handing the carefully rolled parchment back to him.

  Joseph clenched his fists and then relaxed them, apparently thinking better of it. He snatched the parchment and then stormed out without a word or a tip of his hat.

  That bit of excitement filled the club with talk the next week, but it was soon forgotten as time went on. We were concerned about Charles of course, but as before, no one had any idea where to find him. No one wanted to say it out loud, but we all suspected that Charles was responsible for the forgery.

  Weeks went by and then months. One day, a member came to my door quite excited. He told me he had been traveling to Chelsea and discovered the very parchment that Joseph and Charles had brought. It was on display at a museum—which museum, I will not say out of respect for the director.

  We immediately called the others and most of us made the trip to see if it was so. Thomas, as excited as he had been when he thought the parchment was authentic, declined to go.

  It wasn’t the same one, but it had similar content. We were amazed to find out many—but not all—of the flaws we discovered were absent. This parchment was a second attempt and much better.

  The museum director was far from pleased. With the director’s gracious permission, we collected all the information we could about these strange forgeries and forgers.