The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

I OPENED MY eyes to the sound of an emergency siren. I soon realized that I was flat on my back, strapped to a rigid pallet, staring at the interior of a speeding ambulance.

In another case of stone-cold irony, the wailing vehicle brought me directly to Benevolent Heart Hospital. Only now, instead of marking time in the dreary old waiting room, I was treated like royalty.

While a helpful administrator processed my medical insurance information, I was whisked by stretcher into the triage center where my cuts and scrapes were cleaned and bandaged, injections were offered and accepted, and X-rays were taken. At last, I was placed on a gurney and wheeled into a white, featureless room.

Through an interior window, I watched the medical staff scurry around. A nurse arrived after fifteen minutes or so and took my blood pressure and temperature—for about the hundredth time.

Finally, a young intern arrived to pronounce sentence. His shaved head and the barbed-wire tattoo encircling his muscular biceps threw me for a moment, but I soon figured out he was a doctor because he wore green OR scrubs and had a stethoscope draped around his neck.

Cripes, Jack said, this guy looks like a Merchant Marine. With male nurses and docs as tough as this palooka, the medical profession must be hell these days.

I wasn’t sure what threw me more, my woozy head or being back in the present again. I was about to speak to Jack about the dream when the doctor spoke up first—

“Mrs. McClure? I’m Dr. Fortino, a physician on staff here at Benevolent Heart Hospital.”

I figured he was giving me his job description because I was eyeing him kind of funny, like I thought he should be out drinking with his fraternity buddies instead of staffing an emergency room.

“Uh-huh,” I said eloquently.

“Fortunately there’s no sign of a concussion that we can find, but by your own admission you lost consciousness for a period of time right after the accident, and that’s never a good thing. So I’ve scheduled you for a more thorough evaluation in the morning. We’ll take another look at that bump on your head, and I’d like a specialist to check out the hairline fracture on your left forearm.”

The arm in question was black and blue, and every beat of my heart caused it to throb with a pain that radiated from my wrist to the tips of my fingers. I was actually surprised the damage was not much worse.

“You could get out of here tonight, but I recommend you remain here for observation, until the tests are conducted in the morning. If all goes well, you’ll be out of here by noon.”

I agreed to stay for a lot of reasons. I was tired and a bed sounded nice, and I didn’t relish the look on the face of my son when he got his first peep at his mommy the mummy. But mostly I agreed to stay overnight because it fit in with my plan.

Dr. Fortino said goodnight, and I was wheeled by a pair of nurses—both young and attractive women, to Jack’s delight—into an elevator and transported to the fourth floor, where I was placed in a bed. It wasn’t a private room, but the other bed was empty. The room was an antiseptic-white space with a single window overlooking the parking lot.

Outside, the sky was purple and the rain fell much lighter now, dewing the window with tiny drops that twinkled in the glow of the halogen street lights.

I waited until the nurses tucked me in and left me alone, then I grabbed my scuffed purse and fumbled for my cell. I checked that the digital pictures had survived the crash. Of course, before I’d left Chesley’s mansion I’d dispatched a copy of the files to my aunt’s cell, just in case. But I was relieved to find my own digital files inside the phone’s memory.

Next, I called my aunt. She hadn’t heard from me since I phoned that afternoon, and she was worried sick. It didn’t help her state of mind that Brainert had phoned her requesting information, and mentioned that I was headed for the Chesley mansion.

I told Sadie that I’d made it in and out of the mansion in one piece, and had an encounter with Peter’s son, Raymond. I left out that nasty part about being run off the road, and being admitted to the hospital. No need to trouble my aunt now, she’d only make herself sick with worry.

“Garfield Platt came by the store this afternoon,” Sadie said. “He gave me the keys from behind the register. Found them in his jacket this morning, he said. He figured he must have walked out with them on Monday when he left work.”

“You buy his explanation?” I asked, still wondering if those keys were used by my attacker to get through the back door.

“I believe him, Pen. I believe him because today Garfield gave me his two weeks’ notice—”

“What?”

“He’s leaving. The reason Garfield missed work was because he was busy selling his Web site.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s wonderful for him. Apparently Garfield developed a unique type of software program. It allowed his Web site customers to download novelty ring tones into their phones. He said a young marketing executive at a major Hollywood studio contacted him. They want to use his software exclusively. They’ve hired him to head the ring tone unit, or whatever they call it. I’m so proud of that boy! He’ll be leaving for Los Angeles in three weeks.”

“Well, that’s great,” I said with mixed feelings. I was happy for him, of course, but sorry we were losing a reliable employee. “His parents must be proud. Now he’ll have a chance to explore the world beyond Quindicott while he’s still young.”

“When you come home, I’ll tell you more about it,” Sadie said. “You are coming home soon, aren’t you, Pen?”

“I…I have to do something first.”

“Where are you?” My aunt’s voice was suddenly filled with concern—and suspicion.

“I’m at the hospital, Aunt Sadie.” (No lie there.) “I’m going to visit Brainert, show him the photos I took.” (True again.)

“But how will you get inside, Pen? Visiting hours ended a long time ago.”

“You’d…uh, be surprised,” I replied. “And don’t wait up for me, I may be here all night.” (Again, a statement as true as George Washington could have given.)

“But—” I could hear the concern in my aunt’s voice.

“Gotta go. Give Spencer my love. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

I climbed out of my bed. The hospital didn’t provide much in the way of clothing—I wasn’t walking the halls in that opened-back nightshirt they gave me—but fortunately I found a terrycloth robe in a plastic bag hanging in the tiny cubicle that passed for a bathroom. I donned that and a pair of blue, rubber-soled socks I found (also swathed in vinyl) in the dressing table.

I retrieved my purse. Then I crept out of my hospital room, into the dimly lit corridor. I didn’t risk taking the elevator, for fear of being spotted. Instead I found the stairwell and went down one flight. The corridors on the third floor were as quiet as the fourth, and I made my way to Brainert’s room without being seen by any staff or patients.

I found my friend sitting up in bed, illuminated by a pool of light, papers scattered across his silver meal table. He squinted through his unbandaged eye at the pages he’d been writing. I had no doubt Brainert was attempting to re-create the research that was stolen from him during the assault.

“I didn’t appreciate your calling my aunt,” I announced. “If I’d wanted to worry her, I would have phoned her myself.”

“Pen, you’re back—” He looked up at the sound of my voice, and the color drained from his face. “My God! What happened?”

I slid a padded fiberglass chair next to Brainert’s bed and told him about my evening, in reverse order.

“You’re sure you were run off the road deliberately? It wasn’t just an accident?” Brainert asked when I was through telling him about my Allstate moment.

“Trust me, this was no accident. The driver rammed my bumper at an angle, just enough to push my Saturn off the ramp and into a tree. I didn’t get a look at the driver, but I know before I passed out that he got out of his vehicle and searched my car. He was looking for the treasure, Brainert. I’m sure he thought I’d retrieved it at the mansion.”

“Did you?” Brainert asked excitedly.

“We’ll get to that later.”

Brainert nodded. “It sounds as if your attacker was lying in wait for you.”

“Apparently. Unless it was Raymond Chesley, in which case he followed me. He did have a motive to kill his father, and he pretty much fits the description of our mutual assailant, down to a raspy voice caused by a bad case of the sniffles.”

“What about Claymore Chesley? Could he have been stalking your movements?”

“That seems really unlikely. What is possible, however, is that he had your code-breaking papers and figured out what the treasure was. He could have arrived at the mansion to steal it, but saw me leaving and assumed I’d gotten it first.”

“Yes, Pen, yes. That’s very possible.”

“I have one more theory,” I said. “Did you know that Nelson Spinner was working for Peter Chesley, helping the old man archive his extensive library?”

Braniert blinked. “I had no idea.”

“So Spinner never indicated to you that he may have had direct contact with the Phelps editions, or that he knew the books were in the Chesley mansion?”

“Never,” Brainert replied.

“Now tell me one more thing. This is very important. Did you contact Nelson Spinner tonight?”

“Yes, I did. I called him and asked him to research a piece of information for me. He refused. Said he had papers to grade—”

“What time was this?”

“Right after you left for Newport. When he turned down my request, I immediately called Sadie and she helped me out.”

“Did you tell Spinner that I was going to Newport?”

Brainert paled. “I…mentioned it to him…in passing…oh, my God, Penelope, you don’t think my colleague…”

“Yes, I do, Brainert. And I’m sure you boasted that you were on the verge of solving the Poe Code mystery—”

“Not on the verge. I solved the mystery, Pen. Or my end of it. It all depends on what you found at the mansion. So what did you find?”

I drew the cell phone out of my purse, called up the images on the tiny screen. “There were four portraits on the wall, hanging above a Victorian-era globe that was definitely a part of the Mystic House collection. Look at the images and tell me what you see.”

I handed Brainert the phone. He studied the artistic renderings, first. “Nothing here,” he said with undisguised disappointment.

Then he shifted to the first photographic image.

I rose to look over his shoulder. “I think I’ve seen this photo before,” I said.

“It’s not a photo, Pen. It’s a daguerreotype—silver etched on glass,” Brainert clarified. “And this”—he tapped the cell phone screen—“has to be a copy, made of paper. This image is not new. It’s well known, taken in the final year of Poe’s life. The original is in the Brown University Library collection.”

“He looks a mess,” I said. “Bags under his eyes. Hair uncombed. His vest is unbuttoned.”

“The image was taken locally. Poe was visiting Providence to woo a woman named Sarah Helen Whitman. He wanted to present her with a photo. Sadly, their affair ended tragically; and, before another year passed, Poe was dead—he died raving in a Baltimore hospital, probably suffering from acute alcohol poisoning and the throes of withdrawal. Kept screaming for someone named Reynolds. ‘Reynolds, Reynolds,’ over and over again until he fell into a final coma.”

“Who’s Reynolds?”

Brainert shrugged. “It’s a mystery still.”

Brainert’s attention shifted back to the cell phone images. He flipped to the digital picture of the final portrait. He squinted as he stared at it. Then he blinked. “What in the—”

To get a better look, Brainert lifted the bandage that covered his other eye. I winced at the sight of the ragged black cut held together by stitches.

Brainert made sputtering sounds of excitement, then he looked at me, breathless.

“What is it? Tell me!”

“You’ve found it, Pen. The treasure. This is it—or part of it.”

“This picture?”

“This picture,” Brainert affirmed. “In the past few days, I’ve immersed myself in Poe’s life, his works, in the images of him taken while he was alive.” He tapped the phone screen again. “This is a previously unknown picture of Poe.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Toggling the button, Brainert jumped back to the previous image. “If you look closely you can see that Poe is wearing the same suit of clothing in both daguerreotypes. But in the known image, his hair is uncombed, the lower buttons of his jacket are undone, his shirt ruffled and unkempt—”

Brainert called up the image of the second daguerreo type. “Same suit, same overcoat—but the jacket is no longer undone, his hair is combed. My guess is that Poe was unsatisfied with the first image, so he commissioned a second.”

“I didn’t know old Edgar was so image conscious.”

“Oh, but he was Pen. Like many orphans, Poe suffered from an inferiority complex, a constant craving for love, attention, and self-esteem. He once wrote a short biographical sketch of himself that was, shall we say, wildly exaggerated.”

“You mean he made it up?”

“Indeed he did.” Brainert raised an eyebrow. “What? You thought only certain modern writers did that?”

To that, I had no comment and Brainert went back to ogling the cell phone image. “You see how thick the frame is? This is not a paper copy. It’s likely the original daguerreotype. A veritable treasure!”

Suddenly Brainert’s mouth widened into a toothy grin. “And there’s more…Much more.”

“Oh my God,” I said. “I know what you’re going to tell me!”

“You do?”

I thought of Jack’s dream—and knew at once why he’d shown me that case from his past. “There’s something else, something of equal or even greater value behind that photo! Hidden in the frame!”

Brainert stared at me speechless. “How? How did you figure it out?”

It’s a cinch, Jack whispered through my mind with a laugh. She had out-of-this-world advice.

I stammered. “I really can’t tell you,” I said. “It just came to me.”

Jack laughed again.

Not to be outdone, Brainert sniffed, “Well, I’ll be happy to explain why you’re right.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from the pages scattered across his meal table. I reached for it, but Brainert held it out of my reach. “Not so fast,” he said. “We must start at the beginning.”

I sat back down and crossed my arms like an obedient student. Like it or not, I was in for the long haul.

“Poe was fond of riddles, and he was a romantic man who thirsted after love. He married Virginia Clemm when she was only in her early teens. Knowing his fondness for riddles, and his literary talent, in her girlish way she wanted to impress him. So one day Virginia wrote a poem to her husband. The poem was also a riddle, but a simple one. The feat delighted Poe as she hoped it would, and he always cherished that moment, even long after her death.”

Brainert sighed. “Now, I don’t have that poem in front of me, but the riddle is easily explained. Virginia wrote the poem so the first letter in each of the thirteen stanzas spelled out Poe’s name. Thirteen stanzas, EDGAR ALLAN POE.”

“Seems simple enough,” I replied.

“So simple that both Miles Chesley and Dr. Conte tried that solution with the Phelps volumes—that is, taking the first letter of each of the thirteen volume titles to see if a cryptogram existed.”

“And?”

Brainert displayed the paper in his hand. “It spells this,” he said. “FRMEWIHDOAPTE, which is—”

“Gibberish.”

“Right.”

“Exactly the conclusion both Miles Chesley and Dr. Conte came to,” said Brainert. “But you recall that much has been made of the unscholarly nature of the Phelps books. How he chose the names from sometimes-insignificant works as titles to his volumes. I mean, who ever heard of Poe’s essay ‘Music’? Hardly anyone beyond scholars, yet he chose to give that title to Volume Three.”

“Okay, but where are you going with this?”

Brainert slipped me another page. “Here are the titles and volume numbers of the Phelps editions. The first letter of each title is highlighted.”

For Annie, Volume 1

Romance, Volume 2

Music, Volume 3

Eleonora, Volume 4

William Wilson, Volume 5

Israfel, Volume 6

Hop-Frog, Volume 7

Dream Within a Dream, Volume 8

On Imagination, Volume 9

A Descent into the Maelstrom, Volume 10

Pit and the Pendulum, Volume 11

The Poetic Principal, Volume 12

Eureka, Volume 13

“I still don’t get it.”

Brainert sighed as if he were dealing with a particularly thickheaded pupil.

“It’s simple, Pen. The Virginia Clemm riddle solution doesn’t work because the Phelps books weren’t published from volume one to thirteen, in that order. They were actually published out of order.”

“Huh?”

“His contemporaries thought Phelps was again being slipshod. Those who purchased his volumes assumed as the operator of an amateur press, he didn’t do things in the proper order because of production delays and whatnot. But they were wrong.”

Brainert waved another piece of paper under my nose. “Eugene Phelps was very careful and deliberate in the order he published the books, and in the controversial titles he chose. When taken together, these elements combine to break the code and solve the mystery!”

Brainert shoved another page into my hand. “It was your aunt Sadie who researched the actual order of publication.

She called me with the results of her labors. She’d been on the Internet all evening, checking collector sites. And it paid off. The Poe Code is broken.”

I scanned the paper in my hand and found the order of publication was off drastically. Volume One published first, Volume Thirteen last, but everything in between was a mess:

“And the secret message reads…”

“FRAMED WITH POE,” Brainert declared.

I smiled smugly. “Just like I already figured out.”

Jack grunted in my head.

“Okay,” I silently conceded to the ghost. “Like we already figured out.”

Brainert nodded and grinned, gesturing to the image on the cell phone. I leaned in for a better look at the tiny screen. The portrait glowed like an unearthed jewel.