The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  When Stirling fell silent, Drake shared the other tidbit that had grabbed his eye.

  “Not sure what to make of this, sir, but Mr. Chase has recently suffered a series of personal losses. His father was killed in what is described as a hunting accident several years ago, and his uncle was murdered earlier this year. Furthermore, his mother died shortly after giving birth to him. It appears Mr. Chase has no living relatives.”

  “Murdered, you say? Any motive given?”

  “That’s the tickler, sir. The police report lists the motive as robbery, though it clearly states that nothing of value was stolen.”

  “So Mr. Chase has had a string of bad fortune. I hope that doesn’t have to continue. What is your take on this incident?”

  Drake had meticulously crafted the proper response. If he betrayed his true feelings, that this was no random incident, he had no doubt that Stirling would inject himself into the situation when he was least welcome. For years now, Drake had been in control of their stateside operations. The last thing he wanted was for Stirling to take the reins.

  “I don’t believe this threatens our plans. I must admit that at first I was worried, but the more I consider everything, the less sinister it appears. All we know is that two kids were found with a drawer in their hands, albeit a drawer with a hidden compartment. We have no idea if anything was ever inside that compartment. Without proof, I would suggest staying the course.”

  “Even though the two people involved are a history professor and a financial professional? Does that not sound the alarms?”

  Drake needed to cut Stirling off before he convinced himself to get involved.

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, sir, but the fact remains that we have no proof of anything. The only reason we’ve been paying for information at that museum for the past century is because of a rumor. A rumor, sir, and a two-hundred-year-old one at that.”

  Nigel seemed to take the bait.

  “I suppose you may be correct.”

  “On top of that, now is not the time to get distracted. Now is when we finally remind the world of its rightful leaders.”

  Drake knew that little shot of patriotism would knock Stirling off course.

  “You’re right, damn it. We’re too close now.”

  You still have it, Spencer old boy.

  “As soon as our operative completes his mission,” Nigel said, back on track, “you will initiate a call.”

  Drake had expected as much.

  “Of course, sir. I look forward to updating the membership as to our progress.”

  “Good man. Stay the course, Spencer. God bless the queen.”

  “God bless the queen, sir.”

  After hanging up, Spencer shook his head. Stirling was a bit long in the tooth, but he was no fool. Spencer had gotten lucky. Nigel Stirling could be a meddling old fool when he was of a mind, and that was the last thing Spencer needed right now. His plans back on track, Drake punched his intercom button.

  “Liz, I need the head of security in my office immediately.”

  A minute later, Aldrich Securities head of protection walked into Spencer’s office.

  Tom Becker was a Marine Corps veteran, who had served two tours of duty in Iraq during Operation Desert Storm. Highly intelligent, he’d served as Aldrich’s head of security for the past ten years, and Drake knew that whatever task he was given would be completed successfully and without question.

  “Tom, I have a project for you.”

  “What do you require, sir?”

  Even now, the man stood at attention, back ramrod straight, muscular shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. Except for the graying hair at his temples, he could have passed for half his fifty years.

  “We have two individuals who I suspect may be plotting to defraud Aldrich Securities. I need you to establish surveillance on them, both physically and electronically.”

  Becker never questioned the legality of his assignments, which routinely included wiretapping private phone lines. He was extremely well paid for his discretion.

  “Understood, sir. What intel do we have on the subjects?”

  “Everything you need is in here.” Drake passed across the bio sheets for Parker Chase and Erika Carr. “I require daily updates as to their movements, contacts, and conversations. The usual, Mr. Becker.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  He saw Becker’s arm fight the urge to salute before he twisted on his heels and left. The man was a machine and dependable as hell. With any luck, he would be able to check Mr. Chase and Ms. Carr off Spencer’s radar by tomorrow. However, should they happen to be more attuned to his plans than he suspected, Spencer Drake owned a luxurious yacht with which to ferry two unwanted corpses out to sea for an anonymous burial.

  Chapter 14

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The taxi back to their hotel was silent, Erika and Parker both lost in their thoughts. Ten agonizing minutes later, they were safe, secure in their hotel.

  At the sight of Erika’s white cotton gloves, he muttered to himself. “Of course you have those.”

  She seemingly never went anywhere without a pair of the anti-moisture gloves used to handle delicate paper-based artifacts. When a historian or archeologist dealt with material of any great age, it was necessary to protect the artifact from the natural oils on their fingers, which could destroy such fragile pieces. Erika was the consummate professional, and Parker knew she wouldn’t rush her examination.

  “What do we have here, Professor?”

  “It’s a leather container, about the size of a modern envelope. The material is well made and at least several hundred years old. It appears to have been cared for, which accounts for the limited deterioration.” With exaggerated care, Erika turned it over, peered closely at the browned rawhide. “I don’t see any markings that would identify ownership. The back flap is secured with a slim length of the same material.”

  Gloved hands delicately unwound the strip. The string fell away and Erika opened the artifact.

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Parker, there’s something inside.”

  “That’s the general idea with envelopes.”

  Her eyes were daggers.

  “It’s a piece of paper, tri-folded. The paper appears to be made from a combination of cotton and linen, which is typical of an eighteenth-century letter, the timeframe during which Revere would have penned any correspondence.”

  As she continued to study the off-white artifact, Parker’s impatience bubbled over. “Erika, I appreciate the historical aspect of this as much as anyone, but could we please get on with it?”

  “We have no idea what this is. Well, actually we have a good idea, but that’s no reason to hurry. If we’re right, this has been inside that bureau for two centuries. Five more minutes isn’t going to kill you.”

  Despite her lecture, she started to unfold the linen artifact. Small, concise script covered the page.

  “The handwriting is similar to the first letter we found.”

  More to the point, Parker could read the letters. It wasn’t encoded. Erika laid the unfolded sheet on their room’s desk, gently pressing it open on each side.

  25 Sept. 1783

  Alexander,

  I am afraid that I bear distressing news. The associate of whom I spoke has been uncovered. I found him only yesterday, murdered.

  We were fortunate, however, that he was able to deliver one final report, though I fear this is what led to his demise. As I mentioned, a plot has been launched to infiltrate our government, and I now know that the focus of this nefarious scheme is our young nation’s economy.

  Though I cannot confirm my suspicion, I believe that a traitor may be assisting King George’s men, possibly within America’s borders. Thankfully our murdered comrade was not the only source of information lodged within His Majesty’s Court, and I anticipate further knowledge from these loyal patriots within a week’s time.

  As a fellow American, you must inspe
ct beneath the golden grasshopper from the town of my birth to find enlightenment.

  Yr. Faithful Servant,

  P. Revere

  A small magnifying glass appeared from Erika’s suitcase. The paper was inches from her face as she studied the writing.

  “The ink and style of writing are appropriate for the time period. Revere’s signature is correct.” She finally glanced at him. “This is authentic.”

  “It looks like you were right,” Parker said as he studied the text. “Alexander Hamilton was the first secretary of the Treasury. He would have gone to any length to ensure America’s economy wasn’t undermined from within.”

  “I don’t believe this was his last message,” Erika offered. “Revere clearly says he expects to have more information, so unless he planned to deliver the details in person, there should have been a third letter.”

  Parker had been thinking the same thing.

  Erika’s finger hovered over a final few words on the sheet.

  “This last line, the part about finding enlightenment. What do you think that is?”

  “If I had to guess,” Parker answered, “I’d say that’s Revere’s way of telling Hamilton where his next message will be. One of his spies was just shot, so he’d probably be pretty careful with his next report.”

  One gloved hand was on her chin, forehead creased with thought.

  “If we’re right, and that is a clue about where his next message will be, then what in the world is a golden grasshopper?”

  “That’s your department, Dr. Carr. I have no idea.”

  Erika’s rose-tinted lips moved silently, eyes closed.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the phrase before. Pull out your phone and see what you can find.”

  He knew how much she hated having to resort to using search engines to locate material. Erika was just like him in some ways. She never wanted to admit failure. As he typed the phrase, she continued her interpretation of the letter.

  “The date on here tells us something. Do you know what else happened in September of 1783?”

  One cocked eyebrow was all he’d give her. She loved to lecture.

  “That’s the month the Treaty of Paris was signed.” His expression remained neutral. “Which,” she said, exasperation creeping into her tone, “was the treaty America signed with Britain ending the Revolution. We may have declared our independence seven years earlier, but it wasn’t acknowledged by the crown until this treaty was executed.”

  “And what exactly does that mean to us?”

  Erika tucked a strand of silky blonde hair behind an ear. “This period of transition would have given the British government an ideal situation for planting a traitor in America’s leadership. Think about it. We were creating an entirely new form of government for a brand-new nation. There were hundreds of posts that needed to be filled, hundreds of jobs for which there was no blueprint. How hard do you think it would have been for England to slip a few loyalists in there? Remember, not every colonist wanted their independence. Many of the wealthy, educated people in America wanted a monarch.”

  “I doubt there were many people who were loyal to the king.”

  It was her turn to smirk.

  “Some estimates put the number as high as twenty percent of the population. In fact, the state with the highest concentration of Loyalists was New York. Which, I might add, was a major center of commerce. It’s not much of a stretch to assume there were a few powerful people in the city who were actually working for England. Again, they were mostly affluent white men.”

  “I guess if it was working for you, why change?” His phone finally responded to the query. “All right, here’s what I found. The Sign of the Golden Grasshopper is a biographical novel published in the late nineties, that’s no good. Wait a second, look at this.” On the screen was an image of a golden grasshopper, hung above a stately wooden door. “This is a statue or sculpture on Lombard Street in London.”

  Erika grabbed the phone before he could research any further.

  “It’s the family crest of one Thomas Gresham,” she stated.

  “That’s who the biography was written about, the one I just mentioned. What does Gresham have to do with this?”

  “He was an English financier.” Her enthusiasm abruptly dimmed as she read on. “He died in 1579. Keep looking.”

  The next entry demanded his attention.

  “Guess what kind of weathervane is above Faneuil Hall, right here in Boston.”

  The fire in her eyes was back.

  Parker read from his phone. “The most famous weathervane in Boston is Faneuil Hall’s golden grasshopper. I take it you’ve heard of the place?”

  “Faneuil Hall Marketplace is right down the road. We could walk from here. I know it was originally built in the mid-eighteenth century, and that during the Revolution it was used as a platform to speak out against the British.”

  “Not bad. It was built in 1742, and both George Washington and Samuel Adams used it as a spontaneous bully pulpit. Now it’s one of four adjacent halls that have stores, restaurants and other touristy stuff.”

  “And I have to assume the golden grasshopper weathervane is still there?”

  “It’s been looking out over Boston for two hundred sixty years.” As he perused the “History Of” section of the Hall’s website, one blurb caught his eye. “Listen to this. In 1761 there was a fire at the hall, and the weathervane was damaged. After it was repaired, the blacksmith who fixed the piece put a ‘time capsule’ of some kind inside. Additional capsules have been added over the past few hundred years.”

  A frown darkened Erika’s face.

  “You realize if people have been in and out of that grasshopper for two hundred years, there’s a chance that any message inside may be gone?”

  He nodded. “Agreed, but there’s something else that’s bothering me.”

  “What did Revere mean by beneath the grasshopper.”

  She had read his mind.

  “Considering that people have been looking inside the actual weathervane for years,” Parker said, “either the message would be gone, or it could be mixed up with a whole bunch of newspaper articles and children’s poems.”

  “You’re right, but we might be missing the point here. Why would Revere go to the trouble of hiding a message inside a weathervane that’s a hundred feet in the air? There would be no easy way for Hamilton to retrieve it without attracting attention.”

  Parker took a step back, recalculating his angle of attack. Sometimes it truly was a case of not seeing the forest for the trees.

  “All right, we’ll keep it simple. What if Revere’s message was literal? As in, directly beneath the golden grasshopper?”

  Erika reverently set Revere’s second letter on the hotel room desk before grabbing Parker’s phone. Seconds later, an enlarged picture of Faneuil Hall Marketplace as it existed today was on the screen.

  “Right now, there are three main levels with a small attic area.” Her finger dotted the three rows of windows that lined each floor. Above the top row, a triangular half-window marked the attic space. “The cupola that supports the weathervane is on the east side, atop the attic. If you look at this photo from 1776,” she said as one appeared on the phone, “the building structure is identical.”

  “What’s your take?”

  Erika didn’t answer immediately, eyes flipping between the two photos. “You go first, Mr. Chase. I want to hear your opinion.”

  “Fine. To me, Revere is telling Hamilton that he put a message inside Faneuil Hall, directly beneath the weathervane. That means we need to get on the first and second floors, figure out which is east, and start looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a hidden area in the ceiling or the floor, a hollowed out space where Revere could hide a message that wouldn’t be too difficult to access. Like you said, it wouldn’t make sense to hide it a hundred feet in the air.”

  “Not bad. That’s exactly what I was thinking.” His chest swelled jus
t a bit. It felt good to hang with Erika on her own turf. “Since we’re in agreement, let’s get moving.”

  The recently recovered letter disappeared into her leather briefcase.

  “Hold on a second.” Parker held up his hands. “I don’t think we need to go right now. We just finished desecrating one historical landmark. We’ve reached our quota for the day.”

  “Nonsense. There’s still plenty of daylight left, and right now the place will be filled with tourists. No better place to hide than in plain sight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The white gloves were in her back pocket as she tied her shoes.

  “Unless you plan on breaking into the Marketplace after it closes, we should get moving. With hundreds of tourists around us, no one will notice if we take a casual stroll and look for a sign from Revere. Chances are any guards or tour guides are just like the old man from Revere’s house, retired and slow. We’ll blend in while we search.”

  He knew she was purposefully avoiding what came next.

  “So let’s say no one notices us poking around. What happens if we find what we’re looking for? You realize if a message has been hidden for over two centuries, it was hidden very well. It could be in the floorboards or the ceiling, like you said. Unless those tour guides are deaf and blind, they’ll notice when we start destroying their building.”

  She was already on her feet and in front of the door.

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there. You’re good at improvising.” Halfway out the open door, her eyes focused on his shoeless feet. “Any day now.”

  As much as he thought she was crazy, it was what he loved about her.

  “If we get arrested, you’re paying my bail.”

  While they walked down the plush hallway, his phone began to vibrate. It was his old schoolmate with whom he’d had a meeting yesterday.

  “It’s Ben. We need to figure out where to meet tonight for happy hour. He said there were some great places just down the road.” Parker connected the call. “Hey buddy, what’s up?”

  “Are you near a television?”