Grace and Disgrace

A Novel

Kayne Milhomme

For Jayson and Michael

It was rare for a man to be walking in these mountains alone. For a dead man to be doing so was remarkable.

The moon shifted behind silvered clouds, dousing the dead man in shadow. From high among the emerald mountains he came, using ancient footpaths to guide his way. The clannish roads led him to an isolated valley of lush growth where an enduring population survived among the wilderness. Such mundane details did not interest the dead man. Only his destination.

The dead man forded a mountain river two miles from a village, his trousers pinned above his knees to avoid getting wet. The water was cold and clear and moved at a whispering pace. The dead man could have been a mere shadow, so little did he disturb the olden flow. He regained dry land at the settling stone where the villagers came daily to claim their ration of water.

The path to the village was well marked from here. The moon was now in full flight behind the scattered clouds, the sky black and the stars filling its exposed depths like the remnants of a crushed diamond, their pattern ancient and bright.

The course was steep and would be treacherous in such conditions. Only the tremulous glow of the village was visible, a scattered dust below. Such was the distance that it seemed he could cradle the glowing embers upon the palm of his hand and send them swirling into the night.

The dead man was weak, the disease slowly ravaging his body. Breathing was difficult with his rattling lungs. Reaching into his haversack, the man broke off a piece of bread and moistened it in the river. He chewed upon it slowly. For several minutes he looked into the darkness below, lost in contemplations that bore profoundly upon him. Occasionally his thoughts were broken by fits of deep coughing that left him gasping for breath. At length the moon alit from behind the slumbering clouds, the way made clear once again. With a patient step, he moved on.

The dead man was dying, a seemingly ironic state of affairs. But in truth, the foregone conclusion of his nearing demise was the very reason for his return to this place. Death itself, draped in black and bearing a gleaming scythe, was his inspiration.

Never before had he strayed from the rules of a confidence game. Yet poignantly, in the midst of his most elaborate con of all, he had been forced to procure an amendment. There was no purpose in taking the prize for himself, after all. He would be dead. It would have to be passed on, but in a style of his making. With a twist.

He trusted that those who he eventually sent invitations to would accept, for nothing promoted chaos into an endeavor more assuredly than the simple inclusion of people. People with diminutive concerns, apprehensions of contrived importance in their own minds. Trials and tribulations and other laughable complications. Foolish, contrite distractions.

The dead man hoped they would prove obstructive to one another. He had no intention of letting this be easy. Not with such a rich reward at stake. But there was a long time to wait before any of that occurred, and he turned his attention back to his current endeavor.

An old church rose above the gnarled trees, its bell tower stabbing at the moon like a spear. As he approached, the tower’s jagged finger dug deeper into the night sky’s luminescent heart, the protrusion finally piercing through the moon entirely to merge with the starlit canvas. 

The remains of the small church were more or less intact, the single desolate building appearing as lonely and windblown as a treeless island. It was a simple stone edifice, able to house no more than a room for worshipping. It had been years since he had last seen it, but everything looked the same.

The dead man stepped through the front entrance, a vacant archway that had not seen a door in over a century. A small chamber with gaping windows and leaning pews awaited him, cluttered and smelling heavily of mildew. Rubble and debris were scattered across the floor, a lone moonbeam highlighting their mundane existence.

Assorted tools, wooden ladders, and rough-hewn scaffolding clustered at the center of the opposite wall, shadowed evidence of more recent and orderly endeavors. Canvas bundles were carefully situated in wooden crates.

The work had begun.

But it was the moonbeam itself that caught the dead man’s eye, his weakened heart skipping a beat at the spectacle. Hues of cobalt, burgundy, and dark green swirled together into riotous patterns, bringing to mind the promise of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds where the fantastical light spread across the floor. And enclosed within the darker radiance a softer tone drifted down like a collection of glittering snowflakes, gifting all that they kissed with a frosted white light.

His gaze shifted upwards towards the stars, dazzling in their splendor.

Yes, he decided, this new confidence game would do very nicely.

March, 1902

The man in the fashionably short frock coat walked with a slight limp under the evening shadows of Cross Street. With every other step, a click, sharp and metallic, resounded off the clapboard buildings surrounding him. A handsomely formed mahogany cane, silver tipped, was the cause, the thin apparatus gripped tightly to lend support to his left side. He stood erect, as if to contradict the conclusion that his unbending leg should collapse under the weight of his body. Nobler still was his ability to keep his left arm from shaking as it transferred the brunt of his weight to the cane. If one at first considered him lessened by imperfection, that observer would think again upon viewing his nonchalant countenance. Dark eyes like soft coal stared from beneath a slim brow from which a thin-ridged, rather neat nose protruded. Cheeks deepened under the shadow of a wide-brimmed top hat, the chin prominent and clean-shaven. Forty-one years in the making, it was an experienced face, not without its share of misgiving and sorrow.

It had been nine years since Jack Tuohay had walked the meandering streets and crooked alleys of Boston, and much had changed in that time. But one thing inevitably had not—he was once again late for an appointment. The faded, silver clasp-watch in his right palm announced as much, ticking nearly in time with the click of Tuohay’s cane. The smell of the sea was sharp and thick, the wail of the gulls outperforming the animated banter of two poverty-stricken youths, evidently drunk, lounging aimlessly on the corner of Fifth and Center streets as Tuohay passed by. The buildings rose above him shoulder to shoulder, hiding the view of the harbor. Many were on blocks, reminiscent of a time when the shallows of this part of the city, the “Neck” as it had been called, were regularly swept under the frothing sea. At that time the crabgrass had shared space with the cobblestone, and instead of trade buildings and shops, docks and warehouses had filled the landscape. But that time was long ago.  

The building of interest came into view just as the electric lights flared to life above him. Jack Tuohay eyed the tall sentry-like posts with distaste. The soft aura of the gaslight with its shadowy embrace had been replaced by the crisp and utterly unnatural incandescent Edison bulbs, casting their white and artificial haze upon everything in their grasp. The unnatural light cut the darkness to ribbons where the gaslight had been kinder to it, allowing the darkness to dissolve into a coherent embrace with the light. Perhaps the man was not a progressive. He certainly was not among the throng of people who clamored into the newly glowing electric streets when they had first come into vogue. And for his taste, there was something to be said for shadows. Progress allowed less room for such things.

Tuohay stopped at the base of the landing and looked up the small flight of wooden steps to a maple porch. Above it, shutters were closed, save on the third floor where a single window perched in the darkness unspoiled by the electric streetlights, which seemed to avoid the place. A sign above the front door indicated the building as ‘The Offices of McBarronThayer’.

Pulling three folded pieces of paper from his pocket, Tuohay checked the contents.

              The Western Union Telegraph Company

              RECEIVED at Harrington Hotel  845 AM.

Meeting set up at law firm of McBarronThayer, 25 Center Street.5 PM. Ring bell on arrival. Interview in Loft Room. Telegram sent to John too. He will be there. He has questions, of course. So do I.

Eliza.

              The Western Union Telegraph Company

              RECEIVED at Harrington Hotel  855 AM.

I just noticed the emblem on your original telegram. District Inspector 2nd Class. At least the ten years in Belfast were not wasted.

Eliza.

              The Western Union Telegraph Company

              RECEIVED at Harrington Hotel  915 AM.

Telegram received from Eliza this morning. She wire
s“
Meeting set up at law firm of McBarronThayer, 25 Center Street.5 PM. Ring bell on arrival. Interview in Loft Room
.
” Will meet you there. Just like the old Sleuthhound days.

John Eldredge.

With a practiced step he ascended the porch and exchanged the silver pocket watch from his pocket with the telegrams. The working of the minute gears chirped like a lonely cricket, incessant and unchanging. He was still late, of course, as confirmed by the slim hand that had barely budged from the “2” since his last glance. He snapped the case shut with a flick of his wrist and deposited the watch into his coat pocket. His eyes fell upon the door, and for a moment a chill flickered in his chest. Coughing slightly, he raised his hand towards a thin rope indicating the house bell, but a voice called out behind him.

“Jack!” A thick man hustled down the walkway and onto the stairs, his hand pressing his bowler cap safely to his skull.

Tuohay watched the approach with a measured smile. “Mr. Eldredge. You have not changed a bit.” Tuohay removed his top hat and bowed slightly at the arrival of his friend.

John Eldredge, forty, with a deceptively childlike face and bulbous blue eyes, was short of breath. Slowly he nodded, his pudgy frame jiggling. He was informally dressed, still the daytime attire, dark waistcoat and tweed breeches the color of molasses. The points of his highly starched shirt were pressed into wings, and a loose ascot, its token white jewel embedded at the bottom, hung somewhat askew at his rounded belly. 

“Jack Tuohay,” said Eldredge happily, offering a hand that was accepted with enthusiasm. His voice dropped to a whisper as his face crinkled with curiosity. “So it takes the possible discovery of a lost artifact to bring you back to Boston after all these years?”

“Not just any artifact,” Tuohay corrected, “the Templar Diamond.”

“The Templar Diamond,” Eldredge asserted. “Disappeared from St. Peter’s Cathedral in Belfast six years ago.” He took a moment to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead. “But that’s not all that brings you here.”

“The priest’s death, yes.” Tuohay replied somberly.  “Aiden Kearney was an old friend.”

“I recall. We ran a few investigations for him years ago,” said Eldredge. “I am sorry to hear of his death. But you are also here following a suspect from Belfast?”

“From across the ocean, yes. You and I have much to discuss, but the interview awaits.”

“Of course,” said Eldredge. He pushed open the door and stepped in. “Shall we?”

“Should we not ring?”

“Ah yes,” Eldredge said. “I thought perhaps you were already making your way in.” He tugged on a small rope hanging from a brass loop. No ring was discernable. Waiting a few moments, Eldredge tried again. Again no ring was forthcoming, or any sign of welcome from within.

“No matter, the offices are empty save our interviewee.” Tuohay reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced an envelope. “Before we go on—this was sent to me anonymously several months ago.” Tuohay handed it to Eldredge. “Are you still working with codes?”

“On occasion.” 

“Good. This letter is a peculiar invitation, as you will see. Regardless of the rather outlandish content, there is at least a grain of legitimacy to be found within. I also have a hunch that it is encoded.” Tuohay stepped past Eldredge into the hall beyond the door. He was peering into the gloom as he spoke. “I must admit, I was not certain you would accept my request for help on this case.”

“What’s a decade between friends?” Eldredge murmured, flushing slightly. He followed Tuohay inside. “Besides, I have been in want of some excitement. Generating population and agricultural statistics for the government does not exactly stimulate the senses. Neither does writing telegram and pocket codexes, despite what one may believe. To be frank, the idea of working on another Sleuthhound Case is tantalizing.”

“This endeavor will be far more involved than any of our amateur cases,” warned Tuohay, facing his companion. “I am still working for the RIC and as a liaison for Scotland Yard, as well as consulting with the Boston authorities.”

“You have become important in the last ten years,” Eldredge remarked, only half-kidding. “So how has your time been with the Royal Irish Constabulary? I hear Belfast is…tense.”

“Belfast is a booming industrial city,” Tuohay replied, his attention drawn down the hall as he spoke, “mostly known for its remarkable shipyards. I will tell you this—there are floating wonders along the city’s emerald shores the likes few have seen. To a visitor, it must seem as if Belfast believes it can conquer the very sea with the elegant monstrosities it is erecting.” Tuohay’s eyes lit with dry humor. “But there is still a place for a man such as me as well, especially in my old stomping grounds of Ardoyne. Action abounds.”

“Indeed. I would love to hear about it.”

“We must catch up later, old boy. For now, the present.” Tuohay patted Eldredge on the shoulder. “You are officially deputized, along with Eliza, for this investigation.”

“Miss Wilding.” Eldredge smiled, his voice reminiscent. “It will be good to work with her again. So you can do that? Assign any partner to an official case, just as the mood suits you?”

“No one has told me otherwise. At least not yet.” Tuohay winked. “Come along.”

Tuohay focused on the entrance hall. Dark pine stretched across the floor, the pitted boards gleaming from countless polishes. A heavy Persian rug hugged the far corner of the room where the staircase began, a steep and narrow affair. The walls of the room were of similar make and demeanor, but were burgeoned with pictures and paraphernalia—announcements for the South Catholic glee club abutted a call for volunteers at Saint Elizabeth’s, “to be paid by the hour with the adoration of His Grace”. Beside this was a daguerreotype of the 1892 Champion Boston Beaneaters, the hero slugger, Hugh Duffy, center front.

“Do you remember their 1891 season?” Eldredge asked, following Tuohay’s gaze. “It was the last before you left Boston. We took Eliza to one of the final games, a whopper. The only thing missing was Hugh Duffy—he was still with the Reds.”

“Of course. When it comes to Eliza my memory is intact, as I am sure is yours, even after a decade. I am looking forward to seeing her again.”

A silence followed Tuohay’s words. “So, let us speak of Sara Conall. All of this conversation about ourselves, and yet we are late to the very meeting that I requested.”

“Before that…” Eldredge peered at the envelope Tuohay had handed him. “If I may?”

“We are already tardy for the interview. I assume she is waiting?”

“I assume so,” Eldredge shrugged. “But she can wait just a moment more, no?” He looked at the envelope with a longing gaze. “You mentioned a code ….?”

Tuohay sighed. “As you will.”

Eldredge opened the envelope with care and unfolded the document, scanning it quickly. The paper was as black as night on both sides, the script in flowing silver. A white border contained two winged serpents beautifully drawn in gold. The creatures were in circuitous pursuit of each other, bending around opposite corners of the border with fangs bared. 

“Rag paper,” Eldredge commented, rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger. “Soaked with ink, it would seem.” It was soft to the touch, but left no trace of ink on his fingers.

AN INVITATION TO THE CHASE

February, 1896

Dear Mr. Jack Tuohay,

I hope you will allow this unforeseen intrusion on your time. This correspondence is presented with humility and no intention to mislead. It is, plainly stated, an INVITATION.

You of course have heard of the Star of Bethlehem, otherwise known as the Templar Diamond.

I, the writer of this correspondence, am at fault for the recent dramatic theft of the diamond. As I am sure will come to light, there was a company of three individuals responsible for its disappearance. I was one.

You should be receiving this invitation almost six years after the crime. I am certain the diamond will not yet have surfaced. Thus, this letter is the cue that the chase to recover the great Star has begun.

To explain, I am dying. The entire enterprise of stealing the diamond was an elaborate confidence trick that even my two partners were not aware of. For that reason, I alone now know the location of the diamond.

Because of my failing health, I have decided to change the rules of the game and share the diamond’s whereabouts to anyone clever enough to properly listen. I am enclosing information to that effect. For me, it has always been about the chase, and not the prize. Therefore I am honored to now share that experience with you.

However, know this. You are not the only recipient of an invitation, for what measure of game would that make?

And be aware—the other beneficiaries may be out for more than just riches. They may be out for blood.

Your information is as follows:

A man named Kip Crippen will sail for Boston, America, in late February of 1902. He will be searching for the diamond.