by D. B. Gilles
What he saw gave Dalton a chill. Furrowing his eyebrows, he stared at the drawing more closely. He ran the fingers of his right hand over it. “I’ve seen this before.”
“A drawing?”
“No. The real thing. It’s not a charm bracelet. My father had it with him when he died. It’s called a chatelaine?”
Juliet tilted her head, as if to say, “A what?”
“Chatelaine. It hooks to a belt or waistband and held keys and small items used in daily life. Chatelaines reached their high point in Europe during the late eighteenth century. I never even heard of a chatelaine until my father died.”
“And he had one with him?”
“No. He had that one. Your sister drew a perfect rendering. It looks different from most of the ones I found on-line. I had no idea why it was with my father, but I knew in my gut there had to be a reason. I was twenty years old. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Then there has to be a connection between the chatelaine and the drawing in my sister’s journal.”
“That’s one of the questions.” Dalton flipped the sketchbook pages back to the Cleopatra’s Needle drawing. “The one that’s been uppermost in my mind since the day he died is: what was he doing in Central Park at the obelisk? The coroner placed the time of death around midnight.”
“I’m convinced he was with my sister.”
Juliet ran her right hand through her hair and took a deep breath as if she was preparing herself to reveal something complex.
Dalton noticed that she seemed nervous and suddenly was having difficulty breathing.
“What I’m about to say will make more sense after you’ve read what my sister wrote. Maybe I should wait.”
“Just tell me.”
“I told you that the last words my sister wrote were ‘We leave tonight’. There’s actually one more entry. A date.” She turned to the last page of the journal. “October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine.”
“Okay.”
Juliet’s lips quivered. “I don’t know how, but... I think what my sister meant when she said that your father found the way... I think he found a way to go back in time to Paris on October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine. I think she wanted to be with Toulouse-Lautrec.”
Juliet paused, hoping that Dalton wouldn’t kick her out of his apartment.
Chapter 3
Dalton said nothing and the look on his face gave no indication of what he was thinking.
She continued. “October sixth, eighteen-eighty-nine, is the day the Moulin Rouge opened. Toulouse-Lautrec hung out there. I believe that your father and my sister were planning on going back in time to Paris on that day. But something went wrong. She went. He didn’t. It was probably the lightning.”
Dalton had a faraway look that Juliet didn’t know how to interpret. “If you’ll just take the time to read what’s in my sister’s sketchbook, you’ll see that it’s the only explanation.”
Though Juliet continued talking, Dalton didn’t hear her. He was in a different place, almost as if he were floating on air. He was somewhere he hadn’t been in years, since before the rift with his father. He was in his comfort zone, that satisfying place where the job of fact checking became much more than the verification of information. He was in a place where fact checking turned into an adventure.
“Dalton?” said Juliet with concern. “ Are you okay? Please tell me you don’t think I’m nuts.”
“Quite the contrary,” he said excitedly, snapping back into the moment. “It all makes sense. Everything I couldn’t understand is now perfectly clear!” He was smiling intensely. “All the pieces fall into place!”
“What pieces?”
Dalton picked up the photograph of Peter Hillyer.
“When I claimed my father’s body, they gave me the clothing he was wearing. They weren’t his normal clothes. They were old. Not tattered and faded old, but clothes that a man would’ve worn in the late nineteenth century. And he had a thousand francs in his pocket, which was the equivalent of two hundred dollars. France hasn’t used francs since two thousand-two. And the ones in his pocket were from the late eighteen-eighties. I still have them. I called the money specialist my father used who said he bought ten thousand francs from him. He specifically requested bills from the late eighteen-eighties.”
“If he only had a thousand with him, I bet he gave the rest to Eliza.”
Dalton nodded in agreement, then read the last entry in the sketchbook again. “’Peter Hillyer found the way.’” He turned to Juliet, then in a low, serious tone said, ‘To go back in time.’ The question is how?”
“Why did you keep the francs?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. My father and I weren’t on very good terms. He tried to text me something before he died. Four words. Actually, one word and a few letters. I’ve never been able to figure it out: ‘call qi mdfo lxg’.”
“What happened to the chatelaine?” asked Juliet.
“I have it.” Dalton walked to a non-descript file cabinet in the far corner of the room and opened the bottom drawer. Years before, he’d wrapped the chatelaine in a simple, yellow cloth hand towel. He removed it and held it out towards Juliet. He’d forgotten how heavy it was. “See, there’s a small knife, a timepiece, locket, magnifying glass, compass and this one thing. I don’t know what it is. How my father obtained this was another unanswered question.”
“I can answer that,” Juliet said matter-of-factly. “It belonged to my sister.”
Dalton perked up. “How did she get it?”
“There’s something Eliza wrote that explains it.” She turned to the beginning of the sketchbook. “Here. It contains the first mention of your father.” She handed it to Dalton. “Read it. It’s not very long.”
Dalton read the entry.
December 5
Charlotte Twill sent me a piece of jewelry
from Paris called a chatelaine that she found
in a flea market. She said something weird
happened. A stranger wanted to buy it.
She said no. He tried to haggle with her
and when she still refused he said people
had been looking for it for many years and
that it was valuable and powerful. I’m going
to have my friend Peter check on it for me.
He’s a professional fact checker.
“She owns a shop on the Upper East Side specializing in French antiques,” said Juliet. “She and my sister were in a French book club. Here’s her phone number.” She handed Dalton a Post-it.
“Did you call her?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
‘Let’s see what she has to say?” He dialed Charlotte Twill’s number and put the call on speaker.
“Twill’s Space!” a high, cheery female voice said.
“Charlotte Twill, please.”
“This is she.”
“Ms. Twill, my name is Dalton Hillyer. I’m calling about a friend of yours. Eliza Kinkaid.”
“Dear Eliza,” she said softly.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of the fact that seven years have passed since she disappeared.”
“Lovely girl,” she said almost in a whisper.
“I’m calling on behalf of her sister, Juliet. Some months before Eliza vanished, she received a gift from you that you bought at a flea market in Paris.”
“The chatelaine.”
“Eliza wrote in her journal that someone tried to buy it from you.”
“An odd incident. I’ve tried to put it out of my mind.”
“Did Eliza ever mention the name Peter Hillyer?”
“No. Didn’t you say that your last name is Hillyer?”
“Peter was my father. According to Eliza’s journal they knew each other. We think they were together the day she disappeared. I was hoping you knew of a connection.”
There was silence for several seconds. “Nothing comes to mind. Sorry.”
Dalton was about to thank her for he
r time when Charlotte said, “Actually, I do remember something. The man who wanted to buy it made a peculiar comment. In a very menacing tone, he tried to intimidate me by saying, ‘There are those who will stop at nothing to obtain it.’ Is that of any help?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“I just assumed he was trying to bully me.”
“Thank you, Ms. Twill.”
He gave her his phone number, hung up, pointed his iPhone at the chatelaine, snapped a photo then said, “I need to know more about this thing. Gonna have one of my specialists check it out.”
“What’s his specialty?” asked Juliet.
“Her. Ursula Borkart. Rare gems, but she has a side interest in magic and curses.”
“Someone can specialize in curses?”
“There are specialists in everything. I have contacts throughout the world. People who hire fact checkers want things done fast. When you know the right people, you get answers quickly. A phone call, e-mail, text, a tweet. If Ursula can’t help, she’ll know someone who can.”
He then sent the photo along with a text to:
Ursula, what do you know about chatelaines?
Chapter 4
Ursula Borkart read Dalton’s text message and saw the photo seconds before she was about to speak at the annual meeting of The Society of American Magicians at The Roosevelt Hotel, of which she had been a member for thirty-nine years, since she was twenty-seven. She was so taken aback by what she saw that two words slipped out of her mouth in a whisper: “The Brimstone.”
She seriously considered making up an excuse for not giving her speech, calling Dalton and asking to see the object for herself. But she couldn’t afford to. She was on a panel and she needed the fifteen hundred dollars. Instead, she opted not to be bad mannered, walked purposely to the podium and rushed through her scheduled fifteen minutes in a compact eight.
Unlike the speakers before her who returned to their seats, Ursula mouthed the words “ladies room” to the moderator, slipped out of the auditorium and made a beeline to a quiet corner where she studied the photo on her Droid. It was difficult to detect any details and she knew that the key was the three indentations on the bottom. Without seeing it in person she couldn’t tell for sure.
As she scrolled to Dalton’s phone number, she knew she had to make a decision. She could call two people to do the verification, Proctor Newley in Manhattan and Henri Arpin in Paris. She was certain she could get more money from Henri, but he would need at least 24 hours to fly to New York. She was too excited to wait.
Seeing Ursula’s name on the Caller ID, he answered immediately. “Got anything for me?”
“It’s out of my wheelhouse, Dalton,” she said, which was a lie. As a member of The Brimstone Society she knew as much about the object as any of the others. “But I know someone who can help you.” If it were indeed the real thing, better to let, Proctor, the president of the Society make the official call. It would show respect and be a way of laying the groundwork for her plan. “It’s his area of expertise.”
“And that is?”
“Enchanted artifacts.”
Dalton had first been exposed to the mythology of magical objects in high school before the rift with his father. More elegantly referred to as enchanted artifacts. they come from legends and myth: Excalibur, the sword of King Arthur, the magic carpet from Arabian Nights and the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter.
“Dalton, are you in possession of the object in the picture?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my! Answer me this: Is it a cheaply designed piece of costume jewelry or more ornate?”
“Ornate.”
“Is it light or heavy?”
“On the heavy side. Looks like sterling silver and something else. Maybe quartz. It feels older rather than new.”
“The little charm-like things hanging from it: how many are there?”
“Six.”
“And what are they?”
“A small scissors, knife, compass, magnifying glass, a tiny clock and something I don’t recognize hanging from the bottom.”
“That’s called a vinaigrette. It was designed to hold smelling salts. Are the charms flimsy or sturdy?”
“Sturdy.”
“How did you come into possession of it?”
“My father had it with him when he died. There’s a possibility it may have had something to do with his death.”
“Goodness. So you’re not calling me on behalf of a client.”
“Indirectly. She’s here with me now, but this is personal, too.”
“The person I have in mind will need to see it up close to verify that it’s The Brimstone.” She immediately regretted uttering the word. In her excitement, she’d lost all caution.
“I thought it was called a chatelaine.”
Not wanting to say anymore, she said, “It would be better if Proctor explained. I’ll call him now.”
“Are you referring to Proctor Newley, the Director of The Morgan Library and Museum?”
“Yes.”
“He was my father’s primary specialist on rare books. I wonder if he contacted him about this Brimstone thing?”
To herself, Ursula thought No way in hell. Proctor would have reported it to the Society.
She continued in her singsong voice. “Enchanted artifacts are Proctor’s guilty pleasure. He plays it down to most people. Unless your father knew of Proctor’s interest in them he would have no reason to inquire about The Brimstone. Besides the rare books, The Morgan has a world-class collection of manuscripts, drawings, prints, and ancient artifacts. Those that fall under the enchanted umbrella are less visible. As soon as Proctor examines it he’ll know right away if it’s The Brimstone. And Dalton, don’t bother doing any research on The Brimstone. You won’t find any information of consequence. The Brimstone Society is a secretive bunch and have been know to put out false information. Wait for Proctor’s call.”
Ursula immediately called Proctor Newley only to get his Voicemail. “It’s Ursula. You may be getting an early birthday present.” Proctor would be turning seventy-four in six days. “Call me.”
Ursula couldn’t take her eyes off the image on her Droid screen. She wasn’t sure what held more interest for her, the powers The Brimstone had or its financial value.
She had fallen on hard times. At this point in her life, getting the seven-figure finder’s fee was clearly more appealing than being able to travel back in time.
Chapter 5
Proctor Newley was in a meeting discussing the forthcoming exhibit of The Brontë Sisters, which would be opened to the public beginning next week. When the meeting ended he turned on his Smart Phone and checked his Voicemail. After listening to Ursula’s tantalizing message he called her right back. “I love presents,” he said.
Unlike older people who eschewed birthdays, he indeed loved celebrating them.
Other than the fact that his vision was declining, Proctor Newley had aged well and gracefully. He had an almost beatific aura about him: rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, teeth that had not yellowed with age, an easy smile and full head of white hair.
“What’s the one thing you’ve been searching for all your life?”
There was no hesitation. “Obviously, The Brimstone.”
“I may have found it.”
She paused for the statement to sink in.
Proctor immediately felt flush, light-headed and a tad uneasy. A part of him wanted to jump for joy, but another part of his psyche was resistant to going through the agony of disappointment if it weren’t the real thing. He’d already gone down that road twice before.
“Remember Peter Hillyer, the fact checker?” said Ursula. “His son has it. The boy’s name is Dalton. He’s a fact checker too. Thought it was a chatelaine. He sent me a photo of it on my cell. If it’s not The Real McCoy, it’s the most perfect replica I’ve ever seen.”
“Does it have all six charms?” He asked the question half hoping the answer would be no. He
was getting a knot in his stomach.
“Yes. He’ll bring it to you at your earliest convenience. He’s had it for seven years. Seven years, Proctor.”
“I’m aware of the significance. Did you bring up Paris and the flea market sighting?”
“No. I was going to, but I accidentally mentioned The Brimstone.”
“Ursula!” he snapped.
“I was caught up in the moment."
“What did you tell him about it?”
“Nothing. Just the name. He thinks it may have had something to do with his father’s death. I don’t believe he told me everything.”
“Well, we’ll soon find out. Thank you for sending this opportunity my way, Ursula. Needless to say, if it’s for real, I’ll contact the other members. You’ll get full credit for bringing it to us.”
“What about the finder’s fee?”
The question surprised Proctor. “The finder’s fee would only be awarded to a non-member.”
“I’d like an exception to be made.”
Proctor was confused. “I don’t know what to say, Ursula. You’ve been part of The Brimstone Society for decades.” He paused for a moment. “Are you implying that...?“
“I’ll be direct. I’m barely keeping afloat. I lost it all with bad investments. The finder’s fee will get me back on my feet.”
“I’ll bring it up to the others. I imagine there will have to be a vote.”
“No. This is between us. I don’t want anyone to know my situation. It’s embarrassing enough telling you. I don’t need to be credited with finding The Brimstone. I need the money. Figure out a way to get it to me. Make up a name and claim that someone else found it. Do whatever is necessary.”
“That could be complicated.”
“I don’t care. Look, Proctor, I called you first. I didn’t have to. I could’ve called Henri Arpin. I could’ve bypassed him and contacted The Duchess directly.”
“Don’t mention either of those names in my presence.”
“I’m not in your presence.”