The Sacred Cipher Page 9

  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.”

  Before them on the screen was an intriguing series of semicircles assembled in clusters of varying positions, quantities, and locations. It looked like a series of the letter c, or little half-moons, compiled into differing arrangements. Clusters of the same symbol were in groupings of one, two, and three symbols, oriented in one of eight directions, along three horizontal lines. That was it. Bohannon looked at the series of clusters, at the little symbols, and figured Rizzo must have made a mistake.

  “This is a code that no one has been able to break?” Bohannon asked. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is so simple. What could be the problem?”

  “The problem,” said Dr. Johnson, “is in its simplicity. Where do you start? What can you compare it to? It’s not like the codes that were used in World War II, where letters were scrambled in random series, sometimes with some letters designated as triggers that would change the pattern. In those kind of codes, all that was required was deciphering the key, and then the rest of the pattern would fall in line. Time, patience, a natural proclivity to random thinking, and usually those codes broke down.

  “But the Dorabella is treacherous,” said Johnson. “It isn’t what it seems to be. The cipher consists of eighty-seven characters, or groupings, but it appears to be constructed of an alphabet of twenty-four letters. The groupings are aligned in one of eight directions, but the alignment appears to be random and ambiguous. And there is a small dot following the fifth character on the third line, but no one knows why. Even Dora Penny was at a loss. While speaking with Elgar about the cipher, the composer told her, ‘I thought that you, of all people, would guess it.’

  “Well, Dora Penny died in 1964. She may have been the only living person outside Elgar with the key, but she never deciphered the code. Elgar died in 1934 and never revealed the key. This code has been in existence for over hundred years. It has been relentlessly pursued by the best cryptographers of each generation. It has been subject to countless computer scans and analysis. It has been assumed to be alphabetical, numerical, geometric, and algebraic. Researchers have applied the Chart of Elements of physics, the DNA formula, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, even the monetary system of world currencies, anything they could think of that has a system or sequence, and no one has yet come up with a solution to this cipher.”

  Johnson turned from the computer screen, stepped behind Bohannon and Rodriguez, and leaned into the drafting table, studying the copy of the scroll’s symbols. “But I believe that Spurgeon sent Klopsch to Schwartzman because Spurgeon knew that Schwartzman possessed the key to the cipher of the scroll.”

  “How can you be sure?” Bohannon asked with some frustration.

  The light snapped on in Rizzo’s head so unexpectedly he jolted.

  “Because Spurgeon had cracked the code!” Rizzo exulted. “Spurgeon was fearful, remember. From his message, it appears he believed his life was in danger and that Klopsch’s life could also be in danger. He wouldn’t have sent the decoded message to Klopsch; that would have been too risky. But he would have sent the key. Schwartzman must have had the key to the Demotic symbols.”

  “Well, okay, Sammy, say all of that is true,” said Rodriguez. “Where does it get us in deciphering the scroll? We don’t have Elgar, we don’t have Schwartzman, and we certainly don’t have Spurgeon or Klopsch. How is this going to help?”

  The light went out. They were all looking at Rizzo as if he could come up with the magic answer. “Don’t look at me,” he said, settling back into his chair. “At least I came up with something. You guys got zilch.”

  Rizzo could feel the spirit draining from the room. It was Bohannon, the hardheaded Irishman who had adopted this adventure as one of his offspring, who grabbed it by the coattails and refused to let it go.

  “Okay, we’ve hit a hurdle, but we’re not done yet,” Bohannon said to the others. “There are at least two different places we can look for some insight, either into Elgar and his codes or into what Spurgeon shared with Klopsch. I’m going back to the mission and look through every drawer and every scrap of paper in Klopsch’s office, but this time for anything that may even look like a code or a key or something, anything that would have to do with Schwartzman or Elgar. Dr. Johnson, how about if you go down to Trinity Parish? I think you might have the best chance of getting the rector to allow us access to the church archives. See what you can discover about Schwartzman, about his relationship with Elgar, and particularly about any contact or correspondence with Spurgeon or Klopsch. We know there is a connection here. We’ve just got to find it. Come on,” said Bohannon, grabbing hold of Joe’s shoulder, “let’s not give up now. Especially now that we’re getting closer.”

  Rizzo had a momentary vision of a football locker room, players pounding their helmets against the metal lockers.

  “Yo, Bo . . . what were you in your youth, a salesman?” Rizzo asked. “Sounds like you want us to go out and win one for the Gipper. And I don’t have the foggiest who this Gipper guy was.”

  “Hey . . . Sammy,” snapped Rodriguez, standing up to his full height. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you ever take anything seriously?”

  Rizzo planted his best snarl on his face as Rodriguez turned to Bohannon. “You’re right, Tom, this is no time to back off,” said Rodriguez. “I’ll go to the mission with you; we’ll get through the documents a lot quicker if two of us are working on it.”

  Rodriguez towered over Rizzo and his chair. “Well, Sammy, what do you want to do? Stay here and keep working the Internet?”

  “Actually, I’d rather go to the movies,” he said, ducking under Rodriguez’s arm and dropping to the floor. “The new Bourne is out, and it’s a doozy.” Rizzo stepped to the door, then turned around. “But I’d better go along to take care of you two. At this point, I think we’re more likely to find something valuable either in Klopsch’s records or at Trinity Parish. I agree with Tom, Doc is the man to deal with the rector of that church. And I’m dying to get a look at that scroll.”

  Rizzo stared as the others failed to move. He felt like a leader with no followers. “So . . . are we leaving?”
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  11

  Rodriguez had the scroll on the table, this time pouring over it with a powerful magnifying glass. Rizzo stood on a chair at his side, while Bohannon slowly sifted through every folder in the filing cabinets.

  “Hey,” said Rodriguez, continuing his scan, “this language is really wacky. One symbol looks like a mouse, another looks like a scorpion. Some letters look like they stand apart by themselves; others are linked together in strips. And all of them have little sweeps or flourishes at the end like an artist might have been playing mind games. I don’t see any kind of pattern here, except that it’s all weird. Like this circle here at the bottom of the left column . . . there are no other circles on the scroll. But here’s this circle at the bottom of the first column.”

  “Bottom of the last column,” corrected Rizzo. “Remember, Demotic is written right to left, so the left-hand column is the last column. So the circle would be the last thing written.”

  “What?” said Bohannon, startled out of his search of the files. “What did you just say, the last thing written? Could it be . . . ?

  All three at once blurted the same idea. “A signature!”

  In less than a heartbeat, they were huddled over the scroll. But Bohannon and Rizzo were at a disadvantage. Rodriguez had the magnifying glass.

  “I really hadn’t paid any attention to this before,” he said, moving the glass up and down, trying to get the clearest view. “It’s a circle, but there’s something inside the circle, something written or drawn. Get me a piece of paper, will you?”

  Rodriguez brought the overhead light down even closer to the scroll and pulled a chair over to the table. Taking the piece of paper and grabbing a pencil, he hovered unmoving like a predator waiting to strike, only inches from the mysterious circle. Slowly, his hand began to move—first a line, then a “v” on its side, intersecting the line. Again he hovered. “This one is tougher to see.” Another line at the other side of the circle, then another, smaller “v” attached to the top of the line, looking like a pennant.