“Bellerophon? I assume it has a meaning?”
“In Greek mythology, he is a hero—a slayer of monsters. He tamed Pegasus and killed the Chimera. Alistair appears to have been a founding member, along with the other murdered men … and there are references to the club as representing Order triumphing over Chaos.”
“Heroes triumphing over monsters,” I said. “But perhaps not in this killer’s view…”
“And you’ll find this even more interesting. Look at the signatures in back. There’s a page where the members of Bellerophon have written notes to one another.”
She flipped the pages to a section at the back.
I took a sharp breath.
I didn’t quite trust what was before my eyes—for the page was entirely covered in musical notations. It was just like the ciphers we’d seen, except that there were real signatures beneath the bars of music so carefully hand-drawn. And they matched the list of names we’d just seen under the Bellerophon Club.
“All musical ciphers?” I asked her.
She confirmed it. “I deciphered the first several bars, as you’ll see here.” She passed me her notebook, explaining, “The ciphers are filled with the usual sentiments: good wishes upon graduation, have a nice summer, and keep in touch. My guess is that to make the club feel more like a secret society, they used the musical ciphers to communicate. So that is how they all were able to interpret the blackmail notes they received.”
“Which raises the question: How did the killer know this?” I asked, thinking aloud. “Maybe he had some association with Harvard himself, to know about the cipher’s connection to these four men.”
“Or—imagine if he figured it out later and then used it to his advantage. It would be an effective way of telling them: I know exactly who you are and what you’ve done.”
Mrs. Mellown’s knock on the door was brisk—and I knew we’d not be permitted much more time in this room. We’d found what we needed, anyway. I swept the classbook and relevant newspaper clippings into my satchel, then returned the other items to their home on Alistair’s top shelf.
Mrs. Mellown stared at us. “Did you discover the professor’s whereabouts?”
“Not exactly,” I replied, “but we did find some information that may help us. Were you able to locate the men whose names I gave you?”
“Just one. The other, unfortunately, has passed on.”
Isabella gave her a horrified glance. “How did you find that out?”
“The family told me. I went ahead and called both men—because I think there’s more going on with the professor than you’ve told me.” She shot me a knowing look. “The Yale man died in a train accident fifteen years ago. But the Columbia man is here, still practicing law in New York. I have his number and he’s willing to talk with you, if you’d like to telephone him.”
I started to thank her, but she cut me off as she tightened her apron.
“Now, along with the both of you. I need to straighten up this room so the professor doesn’t find out you’ve been here. Else he’ll have all of our heads.”
* * *
“Call him from my apartment,” Isabella said the moment we left.
I agreed, now almost as worried about Isabella as I was Alistair.
Across the hallway, we opened Isabella’s door to find not Isabella’s housemaid but her rambunctious golden retriever, Oban. His leash in his mouth, he circled us repeatedly, refusing to be ignored.
Reaching down to rub his head, I attached his leash and passed it to Isabella. “I’ll make the call. Take Oban to the park, and I’ll catch up with you there. A walk will do you good.”
She gave me a look of protest.
“I promise to tell you everything,” I said, giving her my most reassuring smile.
Her eyes were pools of worry, but with only one backward glance, she went into the hallway and pressed the button to call the elevator operator.
Closing the door behind me, I went into Isabella’s library, picked up the earpiece of her candlestick telephone, and waited for the operator.
“Columbus eight-fourteen,” I said—and waited again for her to make the connection. It was several moments before I heard a booming baritone voice on the other end of the line.
“James Ford, here. Who’s calling?”
I introduced myself as a colleague of Alistair Sinclair’s and explained what I wanted.
“Are you a historian or a detective, Mr. Ziele?” he asked, amused. “You’re asking about a time almost thirty years ago.”
“It does feel a bit like a history exercise,” I said. But I went on to explain how I was interested in Alistair’s time working in the district attorney’s office—especially in light of the fact that three attorneys who began work there in 1877 had been killed just this week. “I’m wondering if you could tell me about these men—specifically, anything you remember about working with them there.”
Sobered by the mention of murder, Mr. Ford took some time composing his thoughts. “I didn’t know them well. They were a tight group, at least in the beginning. They’d gone to school together for so long, they’d formed strong bonds. Howie—the other entering attorney that year—and I didn’t ever join them.”
“Socially or at work?”
“Neither,” he said, his answer making clear that he’d never before thought about it.
“They worked cases together?”
“They partnered often—not all four, of course, but in groups of two or three.”
“How long did you work for the district attorney?”
“Nearly seven years. I went into private practice from there. Great experience, of course.”
“Were the four Harvard men still working there when you left?”
“No. Only Hugo, I think. The other three had drifted away to their own careers.”
“But they remained a tight-knit group the entire time they were there?”
James Ford thought for a long moment, then finally said, “I’m not sure. It’s been a long time, but I seem to remember they had a falling-out. They split in two, literally. Alistair and Allan left quickly afterward. Angus stayed on a while and continued to be friendly with Hugo.”
“Any idea why it happened?”
“No. But your colleague Alistair was always very opinionated. Extremely sure of himself. When others disagreed with him, he didn’t tolerate it well. So I always assumed that their falling-out had to do with that.”
I smiled in spite of myself. Alistair had changed little during the past thirty years.
“Just one more question: Can you read music, Mr. Ford?”
“I enjoy music—especially a Sousa band,” he replied. “But I can’t read a note of it.”
“So you’ve never received any music in the mail?”
“You mean concert tickets?”
“No. Actual music that a pianist might play.”
“Why would I? It would be preposterous.”
The note of truth in his voice led me to believe him—so I thanked him for his time.
“There’s just one last thing,” I said. “Do you know a law clerk I might hire for a couple of hours to help me look through old cases?”
* * *
Isabella sat, looking very small, on a park bench near the open green field. She tossed a ball repeatedly, and Oban dutifully retrieved it. When I appeared, Oban dropped the ball and nuzzled my hand. I picked it up and threw it long—sending Oban hurtling after it.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked, her voice dull.
I took the seat beside her. “Enough to want to look deeper into Alistair’s time with the district attorney’s office. The four men were close when they entered, but their friendship had splintered by the time Alistair left.”
“Mr. Ford himself … do you think he’s involved?”
“No. He sounded genuinely surprised by most of my questions.”
“So maybe nothing happened at the district attorney’s office,” she said, brightening.
> Oban returned the ball, and I threw it again, even farther. “Not necessarily. James Ford didn’t work often with the Harvard men; they were too close-knit.”
Her face fell.
“I just don’t understand,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “Alistair is a good man. I know that from every interaction I’ve had with him over the years. How is it possible that we’ve come to this—searching among his private things? Wondering why he’s being blackmailed?” She paused. “You can only blackmail someone if there’s some wrongdoing they want to hide.”
I turned to face her. “What we’re searching for is rooted deep in Alistair’s past. It changes nothing about who he is today—or how he has treated you over the years.”
“It makes me wonder: how well do I know him really?” She whispered the question as though she was afraid to ask it.
Oban returned, this time collapsing at our feet, deciding to chew the ball.
“Everyone has secrets, Isabella,” I said. “Alistair’s secrets matter because they’re placing his life in danger—and they’re thwarting our investigation into three murders.”
“What if we discover something that changes things?”
There was no good answer to that, so I didn’t try. “Alistair has always been willing to bend the rules, if you will, for his professional goals. But he’s remained loyal to you and all his family.”
It was a polite lie, for I’d never seen him with family other than Isabella.
She shook her head vigorously. “I understand that family was important to him. He loved Teddy; no one could love a son more. He even stood up for me when no one else did. You see, no one approved of me as a match for Teddy, at first.”
“Why?” I held my breath, wondering if she’d answer.
A curious expression crossed her face before she said, “My mother was Italian.”
She was matter-of-fact, as though that admission should explain everything. And perhaps it did—at least, in the Sinclair social circle.
But it had not mattered to Alistair, and I found myself admiring that about him.
“But now he’s disappeared without saying anything. What problem could be so terrible that he wouldn’t confide in me?”
“I don’t know.” I’d asked myself the same question—and I had yet to come up with a good answer.
“The problem is, I depend on him.”
There was nothing I could say, so I put my arm around her and held her as she cried quietly, grieving for something precious, now forever lost. To depend on someone, you have to be able to trust him—or her. And Isabella would never manage that with Alistair again.
CHAPTER 24
The Legal Archives Office. 1:30 P.M.
I’d had no luck tracking down Alistair himself—but at the Legal Archives Office that afternoon, I believed I was close to discovering part of his past.
“Do you know what you’re looking for, sir?” Jeremy Jacobs, the twenty-four-year-old clerk at James Ford’s law firm who would be helping me, looked at me with earnest eyes. “What you told the records keeper made it sound as though we’re searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
I grinned. “We are—though I do have more information than I shared with the records keeper.”
I’d spun a general tale about Judge Jackson’s anarchist cases to gain entry here, into the vast building that housed the district attorney’s nearly one hundred years’ worth of archival records. With Drayson still at large, no one questioned any undertaking related to the anarchists.
Jeremy gave me a blank look—and I worried whether he would be up to this morning’s task.
“We don’t typically do criminal work,” Mr. Ford had said, “but Jeremy is my brightest clerk.”
“Has he been with you long?” I’d asked, worried about his lack of experience.
James Ford had laughed at me. “Three years. But don’t worry: In law, it’s not what you know. It’s how well you discover the things you don’t know. And Jeremy’s research skills are superb.”
I could only hope that Mr. Ford was right, now that Jeremy and I had descended into the bowels of the archive building. We stood in a dusty, ill-lit basement storage room, where hundreds of boxes were stacked on metal shelves, representing thousands of old case files.
“We’re lucky,” Jeremy said, “that the more recent case files are right over here.” He gestured to an area by the window that was noticeably brighter and cleaner than other sections.
“Unfortunately, I don’t need recent materials. I’m looking for case files from almost thirty years ago: September 1877 to January 1880, handled by one of four attorneys.” I recited their names.
His jaw dropped. “Excuse me, Detective—but you can’t be serious. Thirty years ago? I thought your research was related to the Drayson matter.”
I ignored him, saying only, “Judge Jackson and three of his close friends began working in the district attorney’s office in September of 1877. I need to know what they were working on. And I believe the name Leroy Sanders will come up somehow.”
“Was he the defendant in a case they were prosecuting?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you tried looking up People versus Sanders?”
“I would if I knew how. I’d asked a colleague of mine to check, and he claimed there was no such case. It’s possible that he lied.”
Jeremy adjusted his black-framed glasses. “I’ll check for you now, Detective.”
“Meanwhile, could you direct me toward the case files for September 1877?”
“Of course, sir.” He consulted his map. “We’ll need to find stacks section number three hundred thirty-five.”
“These case files should include their personal notes, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir—to the extent there are any.”
He directed me to the relevant area of the stacks before he went upstairs in search of People v. Sanders.
I opened the box nearest me and began thumbing through papers. The files made clear that Hugo Jackson had pursued center stage in the courtroom—and by December 1877, he was being permitted to run a handful of easy cases as lead prosecutor. Angus Porter had similar early success; he served as lead prosecutor on smaller cases by 1878.
Alistair had played a different role in the district attorney’s office. He had been expert, I soon realized, at building strategy for the most challenging parts of a case—instinctively understanding what pieces of evidence would be most compelling to a jury. From the trial notes, it seemed everyone wanted Alistair’s advice. He had often sat in the second chair at the prosecutor’s table.
But he hadn’t served as a lead prosecutor himself. In fact, it looked as though he hadn’t even sought the role—and I wondered why. It wasn’t typical of Alistair to embrace a supporting part.
Then again, looking at a newspaper sketch artist’s illustration that depicted Alistair’s younger self at twenty-five, I realized how odd it was to observe Alistair through the lens of so many years. If I didn’t truly know the present-day Alistair, then how could I pretend to know his much younger self?
Out of nowhere, Jeremy’s voice startled me. “Here you are, Detective. It’s the opinion of the appeals court on the matter.”
I’d not expected him back so quickly—and yet, a quick check of my pocket watch showed me that he had been gone nearly an hour. It was a reminder of how easily one could lose track of time down here.
Jeremy practically beamed with pride when he handed me a file in a tattered brown file folder. “Appeal in the Matter of People versus Sanders.”
“Thank you. But what about the original trial?” I asked. That was the trial Alistair and the others would have worked on—and thus what interested me most.
“It’s the oddest thing, sir. The transcript is entirely missing. Several people have looked for it over the years, according to the records keeper’s log sheet. But it’s been missing since the mid-1880s. I’m afraid the appellate court opinion will have to do, si
r.”
So Alistair hadn’t lied, exactly—but I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d had anything to do with the trial transcript’s disappearance. I wouldn’t put it past him.
I glanced at the multiple stacks of boxes around us. “I’ll want to see the case notes surrounding it. Does the appeal tell us when the case was originally tried?”
“November 1878, sir. I’ll locate the box while you review the case.”
I muttered my thanks and read.
The People of the State of New York, Respondent,
V
Leroy A. Sanders
Court of Appeals of New York
Argued June 17, 1879
Decided October 15, 1879
Opinion of the Court
Laskey, J.
In various forms the indictment herein charges the defendant with the crime of murder in the first degree. The substance of the charge is that defendant killed one Sally Adams, age ten, by strangulation and other violence done upon her body. The legal question, which it is our duty to consider upon this appeal, cannot be intelligently discussed without a clear understanding of all the complicated facts and circumstances upon which the prosecution seeks to sustain the judgment of conviction against the defendant.
I skipped through several more paragraphs of legal language until I finally reached a concise summary of the case. The facts were that Leroy Sanders, a carpenter, had done work on the Adams family home in Fordham. Shortly after his project for the family was completed, their youngest child, Sally, had disappeared. After a week, her battered, violated body had been discovered in an outhouse a half mile away. Suspicion had fallen upon Leroy Sanders almost immediately, but it was the testimony of his own partner that had convicted him. Harry Blotsky had testified that Leroy gave undue attention to the girl, and that he had seen him take the girl and walk with her some distance from the house. The appeal challenged the trial judge’s decision that had admitted Blotsky’s evidence at the last minute; the appeal was denied and the conviction sustained.
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