Neidelman tapped the page. "If the Pit is Macallan's armor, then this is the soft joint where we can slip in the knife. Very soon now, we'll have the second half of the code deciphered. And with it, the key to the treasure."
"How can you be so sure this journal contains the secret to the Pit?" Hatch asked.
"Because nothing else makes sense. Why else would he have kept a secret journal, not only in code, but written in an invisible ink? Remember, Red Ned Ockham needed Macallan to create an impregnable fortress for his treasure. A fortress that would not only resist looters, but would physically endanger them by drowning, or crushing, or whatever. But you don't create a bomb without knowing how to disarm it first. So Macallan would have had to create a secret way for Ockham himself to remove his treasure when he chose: a hidden tunnel, perhaps, or a way to defuse the traps. It stands to reason Macallan would keep a record of it." He leveled his gaze at his guest. "But this journal holds more than just the key to the Pit. It gives us a window into the man's mind. And it is the man we must defeat." He spoke in the same low, strangely forceful tone that Hatch remembered from earlier in the day.
Hatch bent over the book, inhaling the aroma of mildew, leather, dust, and dry rot. "One thing surprises me," he said. "And that's the thought of an architect, kidnapped and forced to work for pirates on some godforsaken island, having the presence of mind to keep a secret journal."
Neidelman nodded slowly. "It's not the act of a fainthearted man. Perhaps he wanted to leave a record, for posterity, of his most ingenious structure. I suppose it's hard to say what motivated him, exactly. After all, the man was a bit of a cipher himself. There's a gap of three years in the historical record, following his leaving Cambridge, during which he seems to have disappeared. And his personal life as a whole remains a mystery. Take a look at this dedication." He carefully turned to the title page of the book, then slid it toward Hatch:
With Gratefulle admiration
For shewing the Way
The Author respectfully dedicates this humble Work
To Eta Onis
"We've searched high and low, but haven't been able to determine the identity of this Eta Onis," Neidelman went on. "Was she Macallan's teacher? Confidante? Mistress?" He carefully closed the book. "It's the same with the rest of his life."
"I'm embarrassed to say that, until you came along, I'd never even heard of the man," Hatch said.
"Most people haven't. But in his day he was a brilliant visionary, a true Renaissance man. He was born in 1657, the illegitimate but favored son of an earl. Like Milton, he claimed to have read every book then published in English, Latin, and Greek. He read law at Cambridge and was being groomed for a bishopric, but then apparently had some kind of secret conversion to Catholicism. He turned his attention to the arts, natural philosophy, and mathematics. And he was an extraordinary athlete, supposedly able to fling a coin so that it rang out against the vault of his largest cathedral."
Neidelman stood up, returned to the safe, and placed the volume within it. "And an interest in hydraulics seems to extend through all his work. In this book, he describes an ingenious aqueduct and siphon system he designed to supply water to Houndsbury Cathedral. He also sketched out a hydraulic system for locks on the Severn canal. It was never built—it seemed a crazy idea at the time—but Magnusen did some modeling and believes it would have worked."
"Did Ockham seek him out deliberately?"
Neidelman smiled. "Tempting to think so, isn't it? But highly doubtful. It was probably one of those fateful coincidences of history."
Hatch nodded toward the safe. "And how did you happen to come across that volume? Was that also a coincidence?"
Neidelman's smile widened. "No, not exactly. When I first started looking into the Ragged Island treasure, I did some research into Ockham. You know that when his command ship was found floating derelict, all hands dead, it was towed into Plymouth and its contents sold at public auction. We managed to dig up the auctioneer's list at the London Public Records Office, and on it were the contents of a captain's chest full of books. Ockham was an educated man, and I assumed this must be his personal library. One volume, On Sacred Structures, caught my eye; it stood out among the maps, French pornography, and naval works that made up the rest of the library. It took three years, on and off, but we finally managed to track that volume down in a heap of rotting books in the undercroft of a half-ruined kirk in Glenfarkille, Scotland."
He stood closer to the fire and spoke in a voice that was low, almost dreamlike. "I'll never forget opening that book for the first time and realizing that the ugly soiling in the margins was a 'white' ink, only then becoming perceivable through the ravages of time and rot. At that moment, I knew—I knew—that the Water Pit and its treasure were going to be mine."
He fell silent, his pipe dead, the glowing coals of the fire weaving a mazy light through the darkening room.
Chapter 21
Kerry Wopner walked jauntily up the cobbled street, whistling the theme from Star Wars. Every now and then, he would stop long enough to snort derisively at the shopfronts he passed. Useless, all of them. Like that Coast to Coast hardware store, there, sporting dusty tools and yard implements old enough to be preindustrial. He knew full well there wasn't a decent software store within three hundred miles. As for bagels, he'd have to cross at least two state lines before he found anyone who even knew what the damn word meant.
He stopped abruptly in front of a crisp white Victorian structure. This had to be it, even if it did look more like an old house than a post office. The large American flag that hung from the porch, and the STORMHAVEN, ME 04564 sign sunk into the front lawn, were dead giveaways. Opening the screen door, Wopner realized that it was a house: The post office itself took up the front parlor, while a strong smell of cooking indicated that domesticity was hidden farther within.
He looked around the small room, shaking his head at the ancient bank of PO boxes and decade-old Wanted posters, until his eyes fell on a large wooden counter marked ROSA POUNDCOOK, POSTMISTRESS. On the far side of the counter sat the woman herself, gray head bent over a cross-stitch panel of a four-masted schooner. Wopner realized with surprise that there was no line; that, in fact, he was the only patron in the place.
"'Scuse me," he said, approaching the counter. "This is the post office, right?"
"Yes, indeed," said Rosa, tightening one last stitch and carefully laying the panel on the arm of her rocker before raising her eyes. When she saw Wopner, she gave a start. "Oh, my," she said, a hand moving involuntarily to her chin as if to reassure herself that Wopner's straggly goatee wasn't catching.
"That's good, because I'm expecting an important package by courier, see?" Wopner squinted at her from across the counter. "The pony express delivers to these parts, doesn't it?"
"Oh!" Rosa Poundcook repeated, rising from her rocker and knocking the cross-stitch frame askew. "Do you have a name, I mean, may I have your name, please?"
Wopner let out a short nasal laugh. "It's Wopner. Kerry Wopner."
"Wopner?" She began searching through a small wooden cardfile filled with yellow slips. "W-h-o-p-p—"
"No, no, no. Wopner. No h. One p," came the annoyed response.
"I see," said Rosa, her composure recovering as she found the slip. "Just a moment." Taking one last, wondering look at the programmer, she disappeared through a door in the back.