Thriller (70 page)

in my mind. Our newly fledged country has, as yet, no true

ruler—no chief of state. General Washington, everyone’s choice,

has—like Julius Caesar—thrice been proffered a kingship, and

thrice declined. A great man, who is married to a long-barren

wife with useless offspring of her own. Shall he produce the necessary dynasty to keep us safe?”

“Dynasty?” cried Adams, leaping to his feet. “Why have we

fought a revolution? Are you gone mad, sir?”

“Look about you, my friend,” said Franklin coolly. “Is there a

country on any continent that exists with no line of succession?

What would ours be? Kings deal with kings. Washington knows

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this—that is why he’s sent a private delegation to ask whether

the Stuarts are prepared. My message suggests that the Stuarts

are prepared—their ship departs for the coast by the canonical

hour of Matins—that is, by midnight, this very night! They are

bound for America, and the children of the Kilmarnock Order

will greet them when they arrive.”

Adams was blathering, tugging at his wife’s arm, as the

younger folk around the table scrambled to their feet.

“This is monstrous!” Adams informed Franklin. “I shall see

you tomorrow, sir, when you’ve had time to reflect!”

Franklin nodded gravely as the Adamses took their leave.

Taking Mme Helvetius by the arm, he retired to the salon as

customary, to bid all his guests adieu before his afternoon nap.

But as he passed the windows, Franklin noticed that the French

contingency—his hosts, the Chaumonts, and the playwright,

Beaumarchais—had stepped into the garden and were close at

heads with the American mission’s secretary. After a moment,

Beaumarchais reentered the house as the others were still collecting their things to depart, and he took Franklin aside.

“Look here, my dear doctor,” said the dashing playwright,

“we’re flustered at this turn of events. Though no one believes a

Scottish king is in the stars for America, it will create a furor if

true. You mentioned that your message suggested a spy among

us. However did you deduce such a thing from a nursery song?”

“Ah, a mere ruse,” Franklin assured him. “I know who the spy

is, you see! Despite the revolution, I’m afraid there are those in

our ranks who remain Anglomanes. I’ve had this particular gentleman recalled to America more than once, but our Congress

keeps sending him back. I wasn’t surprised that he left our company so abruptly today—off to send a message to his friends

across the channel, no doubt!”

“You mean Adams?” whispered Beaumarchais in amazement.

“Please don’t share it with a soul,” Franklin said. Then he

turned to Mme Helvetius, a short distance away. “A game of

chess before my siesta, my dear?”

535

Midnight in the Gardens of Le Valentinois

The gardens were beautiful by night, thought Franklin. “Canonical hour!” He laughed to himself at his own cleverness. It was the

best time to be abroad in the world. Beneath the star-filled August

sky, a breeze ruffled the citrus trees. Moonlight drenched the pools

and fountains a milky white. In the distance, the river Seine snaked

across the land like a serpent of liquid silver.

At first sight, no one would imagine that this fairyland was

only a short carriage ride from the steaming streets of Paris.

Franklin knew he was fortunate, indeed, to have a host like

Chaumont. When it came to intrigues and money, the man was

a true rapscallion, but he wasn’t the worst of his lot.

As he strolled along the promenade, Franklin took Mme Helvetius’s arm.

“You did well this afternoon, my friend,” Franklin told his

companion. “I refer not only to your prowess at chess, but to your

flair for intrigue.” He paused to sniff at her clothes, and added,

“I’ve become quite attached to that fragrance. Might we send your

milkmaid by some afternoon to share tea with me in my boudoir?”

“Vieux cochon,”
Mme Helvetius replied with a naughty smile.

But as she glanced over the railing into the lower gardens, she

tensed. “I thought everyone had long gone. Who are those men

down there by the pool?”

Far below, at the edge of the cliff that rose from the Seine, was

the large, octagonal pool designed by Donatien le Ray de Chaumont, with its famous, water-driven carillon of bells, which

struck the hours. Close together at the pool’s edge, two figures

were sitting in shadow.

“It is Jefferson and John Quincy Adams,” Franklin explained.

“I asked them to stay on and meet me here to watch the show.

They told the boy’s parents he’d be staying in town at Jefferson’s

rooms. Come, let’s descend to join them.”

“But isn’t it dangerous to involve others?” asked Mme Helvetius.

“Just as dangerous as a game of chess,” Franklin replied. “And

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very like it. Young Quincy wants to learn the art of encryption

and decryption. What better opportunity than tonight?”

When they reached the spot, Jefferson and young Adams rose

to greet them.

“Dr. Franklin,” said Quincy. “I believe we’ve broken most of

your code, and Mr. Jefferson’s headache has quite vanished in the

process. But we’ve still a few questions.”

“Broken my code?” scoffed Franklin. “Very well—out with it,

if you please.”

John Quincy glanced for approval to Jefferson, who nodded

for him to proceed.

“First, the delivery of the message by Mme Helvetius,” said

Quincy proudly. “She tried to arrive privately. When all the world

recognized her, you admitted you had a message. But to throw

the spy off the trail, you focused on the French version of the

song, thereby diverting attention from the words in English—

‘Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, Brother John, Brother John.’

That would give a wholly different meaning.”

“And precisely what would that be?” said Franklin, with a

pleased smile.

“The mention of ‘Brother,’” explained Quincy. “It’s the word

by which Freemasons greet one another, with no titles like

Seigneur, for all men are thought equal, regardless of their circumstances of birth. Then there was the repetition ‘Brother John,

Brother John.’ This would refer to the two patron saints of the

Freemasons—St. John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist—

whose saint days are celebrated at summer and winter solstices,

indicating a message meant for Masonic, not just Scottish, ears.

So ‘Are you sleeping,’ and ‘Morning bells are ringing’ would

mean ‘Wake up, Brothers!’ I’m afraid in our decipherment, this

is as far as we’ve come.”

“Excellent!” Franklin commended him. “You have covered

much ground.”

“But, my dear doctor,” said Jefferson, “we don’t know the real

meaning of the message sent by the Masons of Scotland. For

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surely if there was a spy in our midst, as you say, your story by

now has likely raised many eyebrows among London’s cohort at

this side of the channel—‘Bonnie Prince Charlie sailing on the

morning tide to become first emperor of the United States!’ Do

you think anyone swallowed that?”

“I hope so, for it’s quite true!” said Franklin. “I should know.

I myself was initiated into the very Rite of Kilmarnock I spoke

of, not long after my evening in Annapolis in 1759, when I went

up to St. Andrews University on the Scottish coast to receive my

honorary doctorate. The Bonnie Prince still has an enormous following there, and in America—though not, of course, with General Washington, myself or our fellow Masons. The arrival of a

prince of the blood on our shores could be devastating at this

moment—so soon after our revolution, with as yet no fixed government and a gaggle of factions bickering like brainless geese.

Hence, the urgency of my warning from the Scottish Masons.

What better hope have we than to stop the problem before it arrives? And what better chance than to place a bug into the ear

of King George III and his British Secret Service? The idea of a

Scottish king on the throne of his former colonies should frizzle George’s wig something proper!”

“So one coded message was hidden within another,” Quincy

observed. “‘A coup is under way, and the Masonic brethren must

awaken to the call!’”

“It has traditionally been our way,” Franklin agreed, “to conceal layers within layers…often within other layers.”

“But who shall bell the cat?” asked Jefferson. “Who is the spy

that carried your message away into British hands this afternoon?”

“I’m afraid I had to suggest someone to divert attention,”

Franklin said. “So I chose your father, Quincy. Please forgive me.

In fact, it’s our secretary, Edward Bancroft. We have long followed

his movements. Bancroft leaves Le Valentinois each Tuesday

night and retires to the gardens of the Tuileries at the heart of

Paris. There, at eleven-thirty, under cover of darkness, he deposits a packet of papers inside the hollow of an old oak tree—

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a packet containing all the intelligence he’s gathered from us in

the week. The British Secret Service pays him five hundred

pounds per annum to spy upon us, and we pay him to spy on

them. It’s the only way we can be certain that the British are receiving the news we want them to know. When you, my dear Jefferson, replace me in this French mission, I pray you may find

him useful!”

Jefferson laughed modestly. “As I often say, I can only succeed

you—no one can replace you. It seems now you’re a master of

the French art of espionage, too. But if that message was calculated to trick the British into thwarting a Jacobite plot, something

remains unexplained. Why did you invite us to meet you in the

gardens here tonight?”

At that moment, the carillon of water bells from Chaumont’s

octagon pool began striking the hour of twelve. When the tones

had died out, Franklin said, “Invite you? Why, to attend the

salon of Notre dame d’Auteuil, of course!”

Mme Helvetius had stood all this time gazing down at the

river. Now she said, “The Loge des Neuf Soeurs. They arrive with

the water bells.”

Slipping from shadow on the river below, they saw a long boat

rowed by nine sturdy men that was pulling toward the

moonwashed pier.

“Nine muses, and a carillon of bells in E-flat major,” Franklin

explained to Jefferson. “That is the missing code that you and

young Johnnie here were seeking. In both versions of our ditty,

one hears three chimes of the bell, three notes that are repeated:

Din-Dan-Don…Ding-Ding-Dong. These three notes represent

the Masonic code—the number three. Masonic songs are always

written in E-flat major, containing a musical signature of three

flats—with the E itself being the third note of the octave music

scale. The repetition of the bell, three and three, represents threesquared, which is nine, reflective of the name of Madame’s lodge

down there, filled with musings and dedicated to muses.” He

laughed.

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“But then, at last, as in any code,” Franklin added, “there is

always that final question which explains all the rest.”

Jefferson had joined Mme Helvetius in gazing down at the nine

men below, who had lashed down their boat and were disembarking on the pier. Despite the warm night, they were shrouded

in black. For a time, no one beside the pool spoke. It was Jefferson who broke the silence.

“Tuesday,” was all he said.

“Precisely!” agreed Franklin in astonishment. “What made

you think of it?”

“And what does it mean?” asked Quincy breathlessly.

“The message was not about something that would happen on

a Tuesday,” Jefferson explained. “Nor was it about a Tuesday.

No—just as the doctor’s Annapolis frères had meant to communicate to him—the message is ‘Tuesday’!”

“Ah, oui!”
said Mme Helvetius in comprehension. “The Day

of Fire!”

“Tuesday,” Jefferson added for John Quincy, “was the day in

the ancient calendar dedicated to fire. Delphi was the Greek

temple of fire, conquered by Apollo, the sun god. The number

three forms a triangle, a pyramid, a temple of fire, as its name

suggests. And while there are many music scales that contain

three flats or sharps, the E that Dr. Franklin mentioned is the

only one of these carved above the door of the Delphi temple—

a sign so ancient that no one has ever learned what it signified…”

“And do not forget,” chimed in Mme Helvetius, “we French

have a royal family descended from a Sun King, too! But, like

others, this light does not burn so brightly any longer. Perhaps

it is time to replace it with a new flame.”

“Good Lord!” cried Jefferson. “You are both speaking of revolution! A revolution in France! In Europe! Tuesday really does

refer to fire—and Mars, the god of war!”

“I’m afraid,” said Franklin, “that I am a very old revolutionary. You know what they say of revolutionaries—‘Once it is over,

we must vanish, for the fire that destroys cannot build.’ But you,

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my noble colleague, have wits so full of fire they’ve made your

hair fiery red!” He patted Jefferson on the shoulder. “Do not forget, my friend—three knocks, three bells, three points that form