“This is incredible,” he said, staring at the unopened letter in his hand. “It’s from Prospero. I can tell from the handwriting on the envelope.”
Caitlin nudged Phil with her elbow. “You see? I told you it was important.”
“I bet this is the real letter I was supposed to get with my book,” Leo said. “Somebody must have stolen it and replaced it with the other one.”
“What do you mean ‘the real letter’?” Phil asked.
“Reggie—Reginald Burton-Jones, Prospero’s valet—came to the executors’ meeting at the library yesterday morning and handed out gifts from Prospero. There was a letter similar to this one in the Edgar Allan Poe book I got, but it didn’t look right to me. There were some dubious things about it that made me suspect it might be a forgery. So I showed it to Reggie and Professor Hargrave later, and Reggie agreed. Phil, do you have any idea how the letter got in your book?”
Phil shrugged. “Not the foggiest notion. I checked the book out of the library this morning. I hadn’t even cracked the binding yet when Caitlin found the letter inside. Who knows how it got there.”
“Hey, Leo,” Caitlin said, growing impatient. “Are you just going to stare at the envelope all night?”
Leo smiled. “Sorry. My head’s still throbbing a bit, and I guess I’m a little confused—and surprised. Would you mind turning on the light on the nightstand for me?”
“Sure,” Phil said, leaning over and switching it on.
“Thanks.” Leo removed the letter from the envelope and gently unfolded its two pages. As he read, his eyes grew wide and a soft whistle escaped his lips.
Caitlin leaned forward. “Well, what does it say?”
“Don’t be so insistent,” Phil chided. “He doesn’t have to tell us if he doesn’t want to.”
“No,” Leo said quietly, “I’d like to share it with you. This letter is amazing. It’s a miracle you guys found it, and you deserve to hear what it says.”
Phil and Caitlin settled themselves in chairs at the foot of the bed and listened intently as Leo read the letter aloud.
My dear Leo,
By the time you read this, I will have departed this life, having left my mark, such as it is, upon the world. By way of thanks for all your assistance, and as a token of my esteem for you, I give you this little book by Poe. It doesn’t look like much, I know, but it’s quite rare—one of my most cherished pieces.
Now, on to more pressing matters—and the real reason for this letter.
As you know, I have led an unconventional life, perhaps (if I may flatter myself as I face eternity) even a notable life. Throughout my diverse career, three things have motivated and sustained me: an insatiable appetite for knowledge and experience; a disdain for complacency; and, perhaps most important, a vivacious sense of humor.
In you, Leo, I detect similar qualities. You are modest, articulate, and mature for your age, with an admirable sense of humor. (We’ve had many a good laugh, haven’t we?) You are also a perceptive fellow, brimming with potential and a keen intelligence that, in the best sense, begs to be put to the test. And that is precisely what I intend to do.
Now, please don’t think I’m teasing you, for the challenge I have devised will demand all your insight and powers of deduction. Allow me to explain what it entails.
Among the many valuable items in my collection is something no one knows about, something unique, my most prized possession. Without doubt it would be the crown jewel of any library or museum, but I already have given generously to such institutions. Instead I have decided it should go to someone worthy and eager to prove his mettle.
If you’re clever enough to uncover the map and follow the arduous trail to the treasure, you will be richly rewarded, for the prize is also a heretical truth (that’s a clue!) whose unveiling, I am sure, will astound not only you but also the world.
Many would consider it perverse to keep such a prodigious thing secret, but whenever that scruple troubled me I thought of a line from Poe. “There are some secrets,” he once wrote, “which do not permit themselves to be told.” Indeed, over time I came to feel a profound moral satisfaction in knowing I was the judicious guardian of something that might tempt corrupt people to do great evil if they knew of it.
As a man of wisdom and restraint, I have been steadfast in keeping this secret, but the time has come to pass it on, for I cannot presume to take something of such significance with me into the grave. That would make my death—and in retrospect, my life—only a hindrance to the advancement of knowledge and the quest for truth.
I am old. My day is nearly done. I no longer yearn for self-aggrandizement. I want only to set my house in order and go peacefully to the great theater of the beyond. I bequeath my secret to you because you have proved yourself both an able young scholar and a trustworthy friend. I know you will use this gift wisely and well.
I have great faith in you, Leo. I know you will prevail. Good luck and Godspeed.
With affection, E. A. P.
As he read the final lines, Leo’s voice cracked with emotion. When he finished, they all sat in stunned silence. Finally Caitlin spoke.
“That really was amazing, Leo. Do you have any idea what this treasure might be?”
Leo pondered the question for a moment. “It’s hard to say. Prospero had all kinds of incredible stuff: autographed books by Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway; first editions of Twain, Melville, and Hawthorne; beautiful old originals by Locke, Voltaire, and Rousseau from the Enlightenment; musical scores by Mendelssohn, Brahms, Mozart, and Bach; letters and poems by Goethe and Dante; a couple of Gutenberg Bibles; a bunch of medieval and Anglo-Saxon illuminated manuscripts—you name it, he had it. And all of these things, of course, are tremendously valuable but hardly secret.”
“What about Shakespeare?” Phil asked. “Did Prospero have anything by him?”
Leo smiled. “No one has anything by him, Phil.”
“Get out of here! He’s the most famous writer ever.”
“Famous, yes, but still largely unknown.”
“You’re being cryptic,” Caitlin said. “What do you mean?”
“Simply that no one has seen anything actually written by Shakespeare. His work was printed and disseminated both during his lifetime and after his death, but there are no extant manuscripts. Nothing in his handwriting has ever turned up—nothing, at least, that could be verified.”
“Not even a letter?” Caitlin asked.
Leo shook his head. “Not the merest scrap of paper.”
The three students were quiet for a moment.
“Well, whatever it is,” Caitlin said finally, “I’m sure it’ll be the scoop of the century. I want to be right there with my notebook and pen when you find this great literary treasure.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Caitlin,” Leo said. “I think I’m going to need all the help I can get on this.” He looked at Phil. “How about you, my man? You want in?”
“Sure. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Then it’s settled. We’re a team.”
“So what’s our next move?” Caitlin asked.
Leo shrugged. “Beats me. Got any good ideas?”
“Would you mind if I took a look at the letter?” Phil asked.
“Be my guest.”
While Leo and Caitlin brainstormed, Phil scrutinized the letter. Prospero’s handwriting was distinctive—so small as to be almost minute, yet entirely legible. The delicate lines of words were perfectly straight and evenly spaced down the length of the two unruled pages, which were of light and somewhat translucent stock. Phil thought it remarkable that a ninety-three-year-old man could write with such a steady and scrupulous hand. Then something else occurred to him.
“Leo,” he said, looking up, “you remember the other night in the dining hall when you were telling us about Prospero?”
“Of course.”
“You said he was a good calligrapher, didn’t you?”
“Yes, very good.”
“And he was crazy about puzzles and riddles, right?”
“Right. He would spend hours solving the most esoteric crosswords and acrostics I’ve ever seen.”
“And didn’t he also decipher codes during World War II?”
“He never actually told me that, but that’s what I’ve heard. Why do you ask?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Phil said, “but I think I’m getting an idea. This letter was supposed to be included with the book by Edgar Allan Poe that Prospero gave you, right?”
Leo nodded.
“Did you ever notice that Edgar Allan Poe and Edward Anthony Prospero have the same initials, E. A. P.?”
“My God, I never thought of that,” Leo said. “What an interesting coincidence. Do you think it’s significant?”
Before Phil could answer, Caitlin interrupted. “What’s the meaning of this interrogation, Phil? I’m dying to know what you’re getting at.”
Phil stood up. “If what I’m thinking is right, you’ll see in a second.” He handed Caitlin one of the two pages of the letter. Then he walked to the head of Leo’s bed, removed the shade from the lamp on the nightstand, and proceeded to hold the other page directly over the hot, exposed bulb.
Caitlin jumped up. “Are you crazy? You’ll burn it!”
“Don’t worry,” Phil said as he began moving the paper in a slow circle to distribute the heat evenly. “Even if this doesn’t work, the letter should be fine.”
“What are you up to?” Leo asked, craning his neck in an effort to see.
“Just hang on and I’ll explain in a minute.”
Caitlin peered over Phil’s shoulder as he continued to move the paper methodically over the bulb. To her amazement, within a few seconds, cryptic, obscure markings began to appear between the lines of handwriting on the page. “Holy cow! What’s happening?”
“Son of a gun, I was right!” Phil cried.
“Hey, keep it down or the night nurse’ll hear you,” Leo commanded in a stern whisper. “What’s going on?”
“Get a load of this,” Phil said, turning to show Leo and Caitlin the paper. While they marveled at it, Phil heated the second page of the letter over the bulb, and soon more writing appeared. He placed the two pages side by side on the bed so they could examine what had been revealed.
This is what they saw:
HLTLA LORWE TASSD NEAGA TLLAD
NMEEH ODWNA ENMEM PLYER RYEALS.
NMIAI FISHT TESRO NDINA ANSAM EARPPL.
0001104 2925207 1270226 1877106
2910221 0966123 1528331-S 0966123
1253312 2181134 0836228.
O I know two O may a man undo.
O813 093W O35534 5Y3 E9D7J3H5 8W
Q5 YQHE 59 7W3 59 T99E 07409W3.
“Wow, this is incredible!” Caitlin exclaimed. “Prospero hid the map to his treasure right in his own letter.”
“Excellent job, Phil,” Leo said. “You’re a paragon of ingenuity. Prospero would be proud.”
Caitlin looked at Phil. “That was really astute. How in the world did you figure it out?”
Phil was about to explain when he remembered Caitlin’s callous and patronizing remark during Romeo and Juliet. Here was a perfect opportunity to return the condescension in kind. “It was pretty simple, actually,” he said with a sly smile. “I guess you just have to learn to read between the lines.”
Caitlin groaned and slumped into a chair. “Touché. All right, are we even now?”
Phil grinned. “The slate is clean.”
“Now that you two have settled whatever petty rivalry you had going,” Leo said, “Phil, would you please tell us how you deduced that the map was hidden in the letter?”
“I guess I just put two and two together and got lucky,” Phil said. “When you mentioned the letter was supposed to accompany the book by Poe and when it dawned on me that Poe’s and Prospero’s initials were the same, something clicked. I remembered that Poe’s story ‘The Gold Bug’ is all about a coded map, written in invisible ink, that leads to a fantastic treasure. That made me wonder if the story might have been Prospero’s inspiration here.”
Phil pointed to the letter. “Look at the lines of the original. See how even they are, with the same amount of space between them? The whole thing’s so neat and meticulous, it practically looks typed. Why would someone leave spaces like that in a handwritten letter? I figured it might be to make room to write a message in between, in invisible ink.”
“I thought invisible ink was something kids played with,” Caitlin said. “I had no idea it really worked.” She paused. “How does it work, anyway?”
“There are lots of ways to make invisible ink,” Phil explained, “with sugar water, honey water, various juices, even straight white vinegar. When the ink dries, it disappears. Usually all you need to do to reveal the message is expose the paper to heat. In ‘The Gold Bug’ they held the parchment before a fire, but as you can see, the heat from a lightbulb will also do the job.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” asked Caitlin.
Phil chuckled. “I used to mess around with invisible ink when I was a kid, and I’ve learned a few things about codes and ciphers from reading a lot of mysteries and spy novels.”
“Well, guys, we’ve made it over the first hurdle,” Leo said. “But now it looks as if we’ve got four more to go. I’d love to stay up and try to decipher these messages, but it’s late, my head’s pounding, and I’m exhausted. I think we should pack it in and get a fresh start on it in the morning.”
Phil looked at his watch. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s already after one. C’mon, Caitlin, let’s let Leo get some rest. He’s had a rough night. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”
“Wait a minute, everybody,” Caitlin said. “Aren’t we forgetting something?”
“What’s that?” Leo asked.
“The letter. What are we going to do with it?”
“Why can’t Leo just keep it here?” Phil asked.
“We need to put it in a safe place.”
“I see what you mean, Caitlin,” Leo said. “Now that we know that the letter is also the map, it’s even more imperative that we guard it carefully. Unfortunately, I’m still a vulnerable target. Whoever clobbered me could come after me again anytime. There’s really no place to hide the letter here at CHS. Why don’t you guys hold onto it until I get out?”
“I’ll keep it,” Phil offered. “It’ll be safe with me.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Caitlin said. “The letter was in your library book. Whoever put it in there could easily discover that you checked the book out and track you down.”
“Excellent point,” Leo said. “Can you hide it safely?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Caitlin said. “Women are very subtle creatures. We have lots of good hiding places.”
Caitlin had just climbed into bed and gotten comfortable when the telephone rang. Lucy groaned and rolled over, but Juliet leapt out of bed like a sprinter off the starting blocks.
“I knew it. I just knew it,” she cried as she scampered into the living room. “It’s my parents. They’re worried because I didn’t call tonight.”
After a moment, Juliet appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. “Caitlin, it’s for you. It’s Phil. He says it’s important.”
Caitlin rushed to the phone. “Hello?”
“Caitlin, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, suddenly apprehensive at the solicitous tone of Phil’s voice. “I was just going to bed. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got some more bad news.”
Caitlin sat down on the couch, gripping the receiver hard. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. But we’ve got major trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you were right about the library book. My room was searched tonight. Somebody came up the fire escape and through the open window. When Jimmy and Chris got back here around midnig
ht they found the place ripped apart.”
Caitlin could feel her heart pounding in her ears.
“It’s the letter, Caitlin. Somebody’s definitely looking for that letter.”
Chapter 18
Round Up the Usual Suspects
Tuesday
“Did you get that?” asked Bill Berkowitz, reaching for the thermos of coffee on his desk and pouring himself a cup.
Caitlin took a moment to scrutinize her notes before replying. The previous night’s excitement had taken its toll. She had overslept and just missed the morning staff meeting. Now they were going over her assignment alone.
She yawned, covering her mouth. “I think so. You want me to track down Professor Bibb and see what he has to say about the assaults on Harold Hargrave and Leo. My last class ends at two-thirty today, so I can do that this afternoon.”
“Good,” Bill said. “And don’t forget to ask if he thinks there’s any connection between the assaults and the contents of Prospero’s rare book collection.”
“Okay, but what about Professor Martext?”
“Steve Rosenblum’s handling him.”
Caitlin nodded. “There’s also Teddy Prospero. Isn’t he the most likely suspect? Shouldn’t his interview be a priority?”
“Don’t worry about Teddy. I’ve got him covered. I’m running an article by Tony Scolari tomorrow on the lawsuit Teddy’s been threatening to file against the college and the executors of the collection. You just talk to Bibb. I’ll handle the rest.” Bill took Caitlin’s cup, refilled it from the thermos, and handed it back to her.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip of the hot brew. “And what about Hargrave? As chief curator, he’s probably best acquainted with the collection. Maybe he knows something about whatever it is this person wants.”
“Maybe he does,” Bill said, “but as a victim, he’s off our list of suspects. Besides, you talked to him already, and he didn’t mention anything specific that might have instigated the attacks. As I recall, he felt the motive was personal.”
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