February 16, 1889 Morning
It was a long and fitful night for Mira.
She tossed and turned, her mind repeating conversations from the day previous.
When she wasn’t dwelling on her improved relationship with Mrs. Sherard—Mamma, she mentally corrected herself—she was fretting over Mary.
One sunset left. Would Hoddle really kill her?
The familiar ache of loss settled in her chest. It didn’t make sense. Her interactions with Mary Sherard were fraught with vitriol and tension. The row on Valentine's Day was evidence of that. And yet, she was grieving her all the same.
Was she feeling this way because it brought up the memory of when she learned about Emilie’s death?
Perhaps it was because she could already sense how the loss of Mary would affect Byron’s family.
Or was it because somehow, despite it all, she had some sort of attachment for her future sister-in-law, even if Mary would never return such familial affection?
It was still dark outside, but Mira couldn’t stand to lie in bed and wait. Her anxiety urged her to move. She rose exhausted, limbs drooping as she dressed for the day in her rumpled clothes.
As she buttoned her boots, she noticed some papers strewn on the floor near the hearth.
Strange, considering that everything else in Mary’s room was in pristine order.
She hadn’t seen the mess the night before due to her own fatigue and the darkness of the room.
She took a seat on the floor and examined the disarray.
A stack of envelopes had toppled, splayed across the floor with a loose ribbon beneath them.
A few of them were open and set to the side, the pages of each letter scattered.
Against her better judgement, she picked up one of the stray envelopes and read the sender’s name: Wilburn Treadway.
The evidence around her formed a scene in her mind’s eye, so distinct and clear, it was as if Mira was watching it in the waking world.
Mary had returned from the Risewell’s Valentine’s party, devastated from the conversation—whether with Wilburn or Mira and Byron, it was impossible to know. She came into her room, unable to hide her tears.
There were certainly tear stains on the letters.
Opening a drawer kept shut for twenty years, she retrieved Wilburn’s love letters. She pulled on the ribbon that held them and read each line, knowing that her future with him had been lost.
One of the letters was singed near the top edge, as if Mary had intended to burn it before blowing out the flame. There were enough empty envelopes that she had likely succeeded in burning some of them before this one. Did it contain something that convinced her to save it?
If it was a love letter, it certainly didn’t start like one.
***
My dear Miss Sherard,
Thank you for asking after my wife and her recovery following the birth of our son. She is doing well, and so is the baby. Our oldest, Silas, is already doting on him.
I am troubled to hear of the death of your sister and cannot imagine the devastation your family must feel.
It is such a tragedy to have lost all your sisters, and Alice so soon after Edith.
I remember you telling me how much you valued your relationship with them, how important their confidence was. I am so sorry for your loss.
Please give my love to your family. Even after all this time, I still care for all of them, though society does not allow us to be friends.
Sincerely,
—Wilburn Treadway
***
Mira swallowed, setting the letter down again.
She never should have intruded on Mary’s correspondence.
But there was a glimpse, a glimmer of a past Mary as seen through Wilburn Treadway’s eyes.
Mary loved her sisters dearly—loved her family dearly—and to lose so many of them had left her in ruins.
It didn’t excuse her behavior, not for a moment, but Mira could understand it.
The light finally crept over the windowsill, reminding her of the impending deadline. One more sunset. Two more days. Sister or not, Mira would do everything she could to save Mary.
She crept downstairs and into the sitting room, finding the papers arranged as they were the night before.
She gathered the ones that had fallen to the floor and sorted them in her hands.
Soon, she’d stacked the various ciphers and attempts in piles on the low table.
The sheet music was in its own stack and the letter that accompanied the package sat alone.
She picked it up, scanning it again. It really was a strange letter. For instance, if it were sent by Maureen’s great-uncle to her mother, why was it signed “H.M.” instead of “Your loving uncle,” or something to that effect?
And why go to the effort of sending the letter, and the musical box too, if the sheet music sufficed in relaying the desired message? Perhaps the letter was a screen or disguise, in case someone opened the package, making it appear a harmless gift.
The letter mentioned three separate composers: Mendelssohn—whose piece was the focus of the musical box—Bach, and Haydn’s brother.
Why would someone writing a false letter mention all three? If Haydn’s brother and Bach were the inspirations for the sheet music, could their names be a clue? Or even a code in and of itself?
She brought the letter with her and went searching for a library. She had no doubt the Sherards would have one. Only a week ago, she would have assumed if they had a library it would merely be an ornament for appearance, but she knew better now after her conversation with Mamma.
The thought of calling someone “Mamma” again warmed her from head to toe. It all seemed like a dream, so strange and new. But she wouldn’t have woken up in Mary’s room if it were only a fantasy.
She found the library without issue and went encyclopedia hunting again.
Would Haydn’s brother have his own listing?
She pulled the proper volume from the shelf and flipped through the pages.
Yawning, she skimmed over Franz Joseph Haydn’s section until she found his brother’s name: Michael.
She licked her finger, thumbing forward a page or so. There. Michael Haydn.
She scanned the entry: Younger brother of Franz Joseph Haydn.
Born in Austria. Skilled composer of church music.
Intimate friend of Mozart. She yawned again, her eyes drifting over a small diagram showing a few measures of music with notes from G to a high B with every conceivable note—flat and sharp—between them.
Beneath each note was a letter of the alphabet. The notation included every letter and some symbols which were unfamiliar to her. Her exhaustion melted away as she dragged her finger down the page to find the relevant paragraph.
In 1808, Haydn developed a type of chromatic cipher with symbols for thirty-one letters of the German Alphabet.
Each letter corresponded with a symbol in musical notation.
Due to enharmonic pitches, the cipher can only be understood as visual steganography, not via musical sound, which presents as atonal and dissonant.
Based on the diagram, the letter A would correspond with the note G, and the letter B with G sharp. Was this what H.M. intended? She packed up the encyclopedia and the letter and returned to the sitting room, intent on finally deciphering the sheet music.
She settled onto the floor, arranging her skirts around her and turned over a new sheet of paper. With careful lettering, she wrote out Haydn’s cipher, skipping over the parts of the German alphabet she didn’t recognize. She was writing out the W line when Byron came into the room, yawning.
“So it wasn’t a dream. You did stay the night.”
Mira nodded, finishing Y with a flourish. “Mamma insisted that I stay in Mary’s room.”
Byron’s eyebrows practically flew into his hairline. “Mamma?”
She smiled up at him. “Your mother and I have found common ground.”
“I . . . see.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped farther into the room. “And how did the search go?”
She set the pencil down. “We talked with Elvina, one of the thieves we met in the ruins? Apparently, an older gentleman that matches Hoddle’s description is staying with Sibyl.” She pulled out the slip of paper with the address.
He read over it. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”
“It was a joint effort.” She smiled. “I now understand where you get your investigative instinct from.”
Byron tucked the address into his pocket, hiding his own tired smile. “Well, regardless, we have a lead now, thank goodness. I’m getting absolutely nowhere with the sheet music. But now that we know where he’s holding her, we just need a plan of attack.”
Mira shook her head. “He’s expecting us to deliver the documents to his post box. If we show up at Sibyl’s house, won’t it be dangerous for Mary?”
“What else can we do?” He threw an arm out in frustration. “I’ve tried just about every combination of musical ciphers that I know—Porta’s, Bach’s, Philip’s, Amadi’s—and I can’t make any headway on it.”
Mira lifted the encyclopedia and set it closer to him on the low table. “I looked up Haydn’s brother and found this.”
He sat beside her on the floor, pulling the book closer to him. “A chromatic cipher,” Byron mumbled and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Musical ciphers are meant to be heard in the music, not merely seen.”
“Shall we try it?”
He let out a long breath. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
They worked through the first few measures of the piece and when no words became clear, they moved on to the measures following the BACH motif. It still didn’t work.
“I’m beginning to believe there are no secrets in this music and the documents must be somewhere else in that house,” Mira said.
“No, there must be something we’re missing,” Byron said. “Why did you look up Haydn’s brother?”
“It was in the letter.” She pulled it out, handing it over. “I thought it strange that Maureen’s great-uncle mentioned three composers.”