The Sacred Cipher (13 page)

“Good,” said Bohannon, tossing the packet on top of an overflowing in-box. He tried
to turn his attention back to the performance evaluation, but Stew wasn’t moving.
Reluctantly, Bohannon looked up.

“Stew?”

Manthey got out of his chair, closed the office door, then returned to his seat and
faced Bohannon.

“Tom, what’s going on? What’s wrong? The last week or so, you just haven’t been yourself.
Ever since the accident, you’ve been withdrawn, distant. You’ve been out a lot, and
when you are here, most of the time you’re only here in body. I’m worried about you.”

Stew Manthey was a few months short of retirement, his full, grizzled gray beard a
testimony to his hastening transition to gentleman golfer. More than friends, more
than coworkers, they had prayed together for this ministry to the homeless and addicted
men God placed in their care. Like his wife, Annie, there was little Bohannon could
hide from Stew Manthey. He needed to tell somebody.

Twenty minutes later, the sound of singing voices drifted up from the mission chapel
below as the morning service began in earnest.

“Wow, that’s quite a story,” Manthey said, massaging the space between his eyebrows.
“What are you going to do, now?”

Bohannon wearily shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t know what
to do. What do you think, Stew?” Bohannon grimaced at the pleading in his voice.

“I think you’ve done the right thing. You’ve asked God what he would have you do.
And it appears you’ve received an answer.” Manthey paused, apparently weighing his
response. “Now, I think you have to go tell Marcus and the board what you’ve found
and that you’d like to pursue the meaning of the scroll. See what they say. If God
wants you to pursue this, I think Marcus will give you his blessing.”

Bohannon’s hand was already reaching for the phone.

Rizzo liked his office. It contained everything he needed to fulfill his responsibilities
as assistant manager of research and authentication. More importantly, he was away
from the big kahunas up on the library’s main office floor. His space was peaceful,
comfortable . . . and private. Now it was crowded.

Rizzo was working on his computer in the curve of the horseshoe desk, while Richard
Johnson was to his left, engrossed in the screen of Rizzo’s second computer. Bohannon
had his laptop at the small, round meeting table, and Joe was at the whiteboard. Each
one had taken a different track of Dr. Schwartzman’s life and was pursuing anything
that might connect the man to the scroll.

Rodriguez was playing the role of quarterback—proposing relevant research portals
on the Internet, cataloging each piece of information that was collected, and trying
to form a picture that made sense. Thus far, they were encouraged to discover that
a Dr. Elias Schwartzman was the eighth rector of Trinity Parish Episcopal Church in
downtown New York City. Schwartzman, a native Belgian, had emigrated to America in
1846 after attending seminary in Great Britain. Following five years in the Boston
diocesan office, Schwartzman secured a coveted post as assistant rector at Trinity
Parish, a haven for the rich and powerful tycoons of America’s emerging industrial
colossus.

From the limited accounts available, Schwartzman appeared to be a competent parish
administrator and an effective preacher whenever he was called upon to step in for
the rector, Dr. Warren Dix. Schwartzman also appeared to be quite adept in social
and political graces, gradually establishing for himself a high level of visibility
and significance in the social life of Manhattan’s nouveaux riches. But Schwartzman
was certainly no scholar or linguist—so how did he fit into Spurgeon’s directions
to Klopsch?

“Hey, here’s something that tightens the connection,” said Rizzo. “Trinity has a history
of ministry to the poor and disadvantaged. It began a ministry to African Americans,
both slaves and free, in 1705. Can you imagine that? But here’s what looks interesting.
Back in 1857, in response to the economic panic of that year, Trinity started an outreach
center on the Bowery to provide food for needy families when unemployment reached
almost forty thousand. Then in 1879, Trinity set up a Mission House to oversee its
growing list of social programs. It appears Dr. Schwartzman received a lot of help
from Dr. Klopsch in getting the Mission House started. So at least we’ve confirmed
that they knew each other.”

Bohannon raised his head from the laptop. “But why would Spurgeon direct Klopsch to
Schwartzman?” he asked. “If Klopsch already knew Schwartzman, why would he need Spurgeon’s
urging?”

“Perhaps Schwartzman possessed knowledge that Klopsch didn’t, but which would be critical
in deciphering the scroll,” offered Johnson, his eyes not leaving the computer screen
in front of him.

“Schwartzman sure knew a lot of people,” Rizzo joined in, reaching his arms behind
his head and stretching out the kinks. “I don’t know how he could have time to do
any work at Trinity Church . . . hobnobbing with the Astors and the Roosevelts; spending
spring in Paris with J. Pierpont Morgan, February and March in Florida with the Audubons;
accompanying Edward Elgar on his American tour in 1866. Looks like he spent more time
on the road than in the rectory. I wonder—”

Rizzo never got a chance to finish the sentence, or to lower his arms. Without a word,
Dr. Johnson launched himself from his chair and, in one fluid move, grabbed Rizzo’s
arms, spun him and his chair away from his computer, and planted himself in front
of the screen. “Edward Elgar? Where? Come on, Mr. Rizzo, make it clear . . . you found
a connection between Edward Elgar and Schwartzman?”

The silence of shock circled the room. Rizzo, now in the middle of the room, pushed
himself to the edge of his chair, his hands squeezing its arms.

“Doc, I only want to say this once.” Rizzo’s stomach was tumbling like the inside
of a clothes dryer and fury lurked behind his lips. “I may be the size of a child,
but I will not be treated as a child or disrespected just because of my size. This
is a challenge I’ve faced throughout my life, and a challenge I’ve never shirked.
I have fought and scraped for the respect I deserve, and I have not given an inch.
I am not about to accept such treatment from anyone, certainly not from another academic,
who should know better, and certainly not from you, not in this circumstance, where
I am carrying an equal weight and responsibility in deciphering this riddle. I assure
you, sir . . . treat me with such disrespect once more, and I will prove to you just
how well I can defend all that I have accomplished.”

Rizzo wasn’t sure how he was going to defend himself, but Johnson had reopened an
old wound, and he was tired of bleeding in silence.

“Sammy, my deepest apologies,” said Johnson, seemingly willing to settle for form
rather than substance. Then to Rizzo’s relief, he added, “Really, that was a stupid
and thoughtless thing to do. Please, forgive me for being so rude. I deeply regret
it. You, sir, certainly have my respect. And I ask for your forgiveness.”

Rizzo felt outrage wash away in the cooling shower of apology. Bohannon and Rodriguez
both cast a furtive glance in his direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Just as I thought,” Rizzo growled, leaning closer in Johnson’s direction.
“You’ve heard about my black belt and ruthlessness in battle. Well, good. Fear is
an effective motivator. So,” he said, pushing himself back to his computer, “out of
my way. You’re not the only one who knows something about Edward Elgar.”

Johnson barely escaped Rizzo’s speeding chair.

“You think Elgar has something to do with this, eh?” Rizzo asked.

“Well, tell me what you know of Elgar, and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.”

“I already know what you’re thinking,” said Rizzo, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
“You’re thinking of the Dorabella Cipher.”

Johnson cracked a smile, took two steps behind Rizzo’s chair, and gently laid his
hand on his collaborator’s shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Rizzo, sir, yes, I am thinking of the
cipher. I will never underestimate you again. But you would be wise to not underestimate
this old man, either.” Slowly, Johnson’s hand moved from Rizzo’s shoulder to a pinching
position between Rizzo’s Adam’s apple and the base of his neck. “You should know that
I’ve studied the ancient art of Xiang Shen, or Silent Death, while I lived in China.”

“Okay, okay, I surrender,” Rizzo said, swatting away Johnson’s hand. “We can have
our Cage-of-Death match later. But for now, look at this.”

On the screen was a picture of two men, both mustached and wearing straw skimmers
and high, starched collars. They were facing each other while sitting on a bench,
but had turned their faces to the camera. In the distance was the Golden Gate Bridge.
A caption to the side of the photo read,
Reclusive composer Edward Elgar was rarely seen in public, even during his infrequent
concert tours. This photo, with his friend and traveling companion, Pastor Elias Schwartzman
of Trinity Parish in New York City, is one of the very few photos showing Elgar anywhere
other than his study in Wolverhampton, England
.

“Elgar and Schwartzman,” Johnson said, a trace of awe in his voice. “This is precious.
I’m gaining more respect for Charles Spurgeon with every passing minute.”

“Excuse us,” said Bohannon impatiently, “but what in the world are you guys talking
about?”

Rizzo turned in his chair and looked at Johnson. “Dr. Johnson, would you like the
honors?”

“No, Mr. Rizzo, no. I believe you have earned the privilege this time.”

In tandem and in triumph, they turned to their colleagues on the other side of the
room.

“Edward Elgar was one of the most original and inventive composers of the nineteenth
century,” Rizzo began. “His compositions were intricately intertwined, actually more
like arithmetic formulas than musical compositions. Elgar was a self-taught musician,
and in the early stages of his career, his music was not created for the purpose of
being commercially or critically popular. Elgar composed music more like Einstein
pursued relativity or Pasteur pursued microbes—more scientist than artist, more theoretical
technician than seeker of the sublime. He accepted a job as bandmaster in a lunatic
asylum for the express purpose of being able to compose out of the public eye. Fame
came later, mostly on the popularity of his
Pomp and Circumstances Marches.”

Rizzo caught the looks on the others’ faces. He was comfortable sharing his knowledge,
grateful for their silently expressed respect. What he wanted was to know more of
what they knew.

“While, at first, his audience was limited, it was passionately loyal. Elgar aficionados
were almost a cult, the earliest ‘Dead Heads,’” said Rizzo. “Such commitment and loyalty,
not surprisingly, fostered close connection in the Elgar community. Not only did his
followers communicate with each other, they frequently corresponded directly with
Elgar himself. Elgar was likely a more prolific letter-writer than he was a composer.
And it is one of those letters that has become the most interesting legacy of Elgar
to this day.”

After a long drink from his stainless steel water bottle, Rizzo continued his story
for his increasingly attentive audience.

“Elgar was married in 1889 to Alice Roberts, a former pupil and writer—”

“Mr. Rizzo,” said Johnson with a sense of aplomb, “I am quite taken by your grasp
of the facts in this matter. Well done!”

“You have my humble thanks, Dr. Johnson. I am only trying to be precise.

“Now, where was I?” asked Rizzo. “Oh, yes . . . one of Alice Elgar’s closest friends
was Mary Baker, who married the Reverend Alfred Penny, a widower and rector of St.
Peter’s Church in Wolverhampton. That winter, just before Christmas, the Elgars visited
the new Mrs. Penny and her family, and the composer was introduced to the Reverend
Penny’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Dora. Those two struck a lasting friendship,
perhaps because of their mutual mania about English football. The friendship lasted
over twenty years, but its most remarkable moment occurred in 1897. Here,” said Rizzo,
turning to the computer screen, “let me show you what I’m talking about.

“Elgar’s fascination with mathematics led him to experiment with more than just music,”
Rizzo said as he surfed the Web, the others gathering at his back in the apex of the
horseshoe. “One of his greatest fascinations was with mathematical codes, riddles,
puzzles, and ciphers. He was quite an amateur cryptologist. And this, my friends,
is the birthday gift he sent to Miss Dora Penny on July 14, 1897 . . . the Dorabella
Cipher . . . a code that no one has ever been able to break. It remains as much of
a mystery today as the day in 1897 when Elgar first scratched out its elements.”