February 15, 1889 Midday #2
He spun on the piano bench, facing her. “We need to convince Maureen to let us take it out of the house. It will take some work, but if we can decode it, we’ll have the information we need to hand over to the foreign office.
Then, and only then, can we work to remove Maureen from Hoddle’s guardianship. ”
Mira nodded. “Do you think—”
Maureen’s heels clicked down the hall and Mira fell silent.
“Here it is,” Maureen said, handing over an old sheet of paper.
Byron skimmed it, sitting next to Mira so she could read it too.
***
My dear niece,
I know how much you enjoy Mendelssohn, so I knew you would enjoy this little musical box. It plays one of his songs without words, Book 1, Op. 19b No. 1 in E minor. I always find that his music contains more than any words can convey.
Did you know that Franz Joseph Haydn had a brother? I used his work and Bach as inspiration for my own song without words. I’m worried that all I’ve done is created words without a song. If you would kindly give me your opinion on it and write me back.
Give my love to Sanford.
- H.M.
***
“What a strange little note,” Mira said.
“I thought so too,” Maureen said. “My mother didn’t play the piano. Why would he send her sheet music?”
“Do you know a Sanford?” Byron asked.
“That’s my father.”
Byron hummed again. “I do believe you were right about there being a hidden message here, Miss Harris.”
Maureen’s eyes widened. “Really? It isn’t just a jumble of notes?”
“Your great-uncle was quite obliging: ‘words without a song,’ suggests it isn’t meant to be music at all. Do you have some fresh paper and a pencil I could use?”
Maureen nodded and moved to the credenza, bringing back the writing implements. Byron wrote the alphabet down the long side of a sheet of paper, A to Z.
“Usually with these sorts of musical ciphers, A is always A,” Byron said.
“And B is B and so on?” Mira asked.
Byron paused, tapping the pencil to his cheek. “Possibly, but whoever wrote this used the BACH motif. In which case, B is B flat, C is C and B natural is H.”
“I don’t follow,” Mira said.
“In some German compositions, the seventh diatonic scale note is denoted as H. So in C major: B flat, A, C, B natural spells BACH.” Byron played the alternating notes on the piano. “But then, of course, we have the rest of the alphabet to account for.”
Mira frowned at his explanation. It was rather technical, and she wasn’t certain she understood it.
But Byron fell silent and she didn’t want to interrupt him as he consulted the score and wrote in possible notes next to each letter.
Every so often he would move to the piano and play something out before coming back to the paper.
“This is exactly what my father did,” Maureen said.
“That bodes well for us,” Byron mumbled before returning to the piano again.
After a little while he had a complete cipher. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and flipped to the beginning of the score.
“Now to test it.”
He wrote out each letter as it corresponded to the music notes in his neat, consistent hand. After a line or so he sat back, frowning.
“It’s not making any words. Though . . .” he flipped forward a page in the score. “Perhaps the cipher doesn’t start until after the BACH motif.”
He went at it again, beginning after that point in the music, but a few letters in he stopped again. “No, that’s not right either. I suppose it’s possible that B natural isn’t H after all.”
“None of it makes sense to me,” Mira said, leaning over. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if the alphabet was in order instead of skipping around?”
“Well that would be an entirely different cipher.” He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “One I’ve never heard of. But there’s no harm in trying it.”
He continued in this manner for nearly an hour, with Mira or Maureen offering occasional suggestions, but every attempt yielded a stream of nonsensical letters. Nothing they tried worked.
“Maybe we were wrong about it being a cipher,” Maureen said. “It could just be that my great-uncle is a terrible composer.”
Byron shook his head. “There’s more to this, I’m certain. Might I borrow it to work on at home?”
“As long as you promise to bring it back,” Maureen said.
“You have my word.” Byron tucked the score into the folder along with the letter. “Best go check on my brother and your guardian, eh?”
“Oh, I do hope they are getting on well,” Mira said.
They descended the stairs with Maureen leading the way to the billiard room, but as they approached there wasn’t a sound. No voices or laughter or billiards crashing into one another. A sense of dread settled over Mira as they turned the corner into the room.
At first, they noticed nothing amiss, aside from the unoccupied room. Byron moved before Mira had realized what was wrong.
“Castel!”
His brother was slumped in a high-backed leather armchair, a brandy glass on the floor beside him, a dark stain spreading out from it on the rug. Byron rushed to his side, holding his head up to check for a pulse. Mira stood frozen in the doorway, Maureen beside her.
“I-is he . . . ?” Mira stuttered.
“He’s alive and breathing well.” He picked up the glass and smelled it, making a face. “An Old fashioned, I think. Which means anything bitter would have been masked.” He took his brother’s hand and slapped the back of it, hard, a few times.
Castel groaned, shifting in his chair.
Mira slumped against the door. “Will he be all right?”
“I think so,” Byron said. “Though we ought to get a doctor just to be safe.”
“How did it happen?” Maureen said, voice shaky. “Where’s Admiral Hoddle?”
Mira glanced at Byron, at a loss for words.
“We can explain everything, but can you send for a doctor first?” Byron said.
Maureen nodded, finally taking her eyes off of Castel as she rushed down the hall.
Mira rubbed at her arms, stepping into the room. “I never thought that he would be in any danger. I didn’t realize—”
“Neither did I,” Byron said. “And I should have known better.”
Maureen’s steps sounded down the hall, coming back.
“I don’t understand,” Mira said. “The only reason why Admiral Hoddle would do such a thing is if he knew who we were, but we’ve been so careful.”
“H-he did know,” Maureen said, stopping next to Mira, still bewildered. “Bertie Corbet told us last night.”
“He . . . what?” Mira said.
“Bertie was boasting about how he helped the famous Byron Constantine search Silas Treadway’s room and figured since the murder was solved that keeping it secret didn’t matter anymore.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?” Byron asked.
“Since you hadn’t told me yourself, I thought you’d rather I didn’t mention it. But what does that have to do with Admiral Hoddle?”
“You may want to sit down,” Mira said.
Maureen did as she was told, confusion and concern clouding her features.
“Your guardian is not who he said he was,” Byron said. “This may sound ludicrous, but he’s an operative working for a criminal organization intent on stealing political documents from your father’s papers.”
“Oh,” Maureen said, quite still. “You mean . . . that’s what everything has been about?”
Mira nodded. “That’s why there were all those break-ins in London. And then your aunt. And now . . .”
“Yes. Yes. I see. This . . .” Maureen swallowed. “I’m sorry, that’s just a lot to take in.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mira said.
Maureen shook her head. “I knew something was wrong. There was always something off about him but I didn’t know what it was. Is . . . is this the reason my father was killed too?”
“I’m afraid so,” Byron said.
The tension in Maureen’s shoulders dropped and she let out a breath. “Well then.”
“Are you certain you are all right?” Mira asked.
Maureen frowned. “Somehow I feel better knowing the truth, awful as it is. I never understood why I was placed under Hoddle’s guardianship. Now I know.” She looked up at them. “It’s because of those documents you mentioned. You don’t suppose he found them, do you?”
“I doubt it,” Byron said. “If he had, I don’t think he would have been here to greet us this morning. He would have brought them straight to Circe and never returned. And all this,” he gestured to his brother, “would have been avoided.”
Castel mumbled something in his sleep.
“The question now is what is Hoddle up to?” Byron said. “He knows who we are and took the effort of dosing Castel, but where did he go and why? Circe wouldn’t give up on the documents so easily, not after searching for them for a decade. What’s his play?”