The Rose Conspiracy Read online

  “I will double-check my field findings,” he said, “and then feed the data on the gross outline of the impressions on the notepad into a special lexicon/epigraphy software system. I’ve used it in other document impression cases. I’ll start with the assumption that Horace Langley was writing in English when he made his notes. But if the results are inconclusive, then I will try some other language variants. The software system I designed contains one hundred and five language identifiers. So my hunch is that we will be able to decipher the impression he left on the notepad.”

  When Blackstone got back to the office later that day he noticed the light on in Julia’s office down the hall. After he picked up a fistful of phone message slips from Frieda, he strolled down to Julia’s office. He strode in and plunked himself down on the leather chair across from her desk.

  Blackstone sat for several minutes silently, until Julia finally put down her pen, pushed her file to the side of her desk, and gave him a cold, hard look.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I just like watching you while you work,” he said with a smile.

  “And I don’t like being watched,” she snapped back.

  “Well, I did have something to say,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Julia continued to give him a cold stare.

  “I admit I was condescending with you,” Blackstone said. “Sorry about that. Personality defect. Probably a defense mechanism as a result of my deep-seated insecurities.”

  “Oh please,” she groaned.

  “Okay. Apology given. Apology accepted. Moving on,” Blackstone said with a smile, “I just got back from our examination of the notepad. Dr. Coglin’s going to call me at home tonight with the results. Do you want me to conference you into the call?”

  “Not really,” Julia said with a look of manufactured boredom. “I have a date tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful,” he said. “What’s his name?”

  “Oh, no. We’re not going there,” she replied.

  “Fine. Let’s keep the professional hermetically sealed off from the personal.”

  “Good,” she said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Where’s the results of your investigation into this Lord Magister Dee character?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Julia said. Then she tapped a few times on her keyboard, waited for two seconds, and then turned to him and said, “There—I just e-mailed you my report on Lord Dee.”

  “Why don’t you just boil it down for me right here?” he asked. “I prefer the human touch.”

  She sighed and then launched in.

  “Strange guy. A member of the House of Lords. Mega-rich. Comes from old aristocratic money. Lives in a castle estate. Owns several other castles. He is a direct descendant of a guy named John Dee, who was a sixteenth-century mystic and astrologer in England. John Dee was full-blown occult practitioner and the personal mystic advisor to Queen Elizabeth I of England.”

  “Why is Lord Dee’s pedigree important?” Blackstone asked.

  “Because,” Julia continued, “he’s done a nice job of carrying on the family tradition…occult beliefs, theosophy, really medieval kinds of stuff.”

  “Why did he want the Booth diary?”

  “Really not sure.”

  “Any wild guesses?”

  “Well,” she continued, “he lectures in Europe and in the UK on what he describes as the ‘esoteric religious philosophy of the ancients.’ That was the title of one of his talks. He hasn’t published anything. But I notice that in his lectures he occasionally talks about the Freemasons. And also about the religious ideas of a very narrow slice of the Confederate leaders involved in the Civil War, who he describes as the ‘Gnostics.’ ”

  After a pause Blackstone asked, “Anything else?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Julia added. “And this Lord Dee guy…he is a thirty-third-degree Freemason himself. That’s as high as you can get in the hierarchy.”

  Blackstone stood up quickly and announced he was heading home to his condo. He added, “I think I need to do some reading up on the assassination of President Lincoln, John Wilkes Booth, and the War Between the States.”

  “You mean like this?” Julia asked, and reached down to the floor to the side of her desk and picked up several books and held them out to Blackstone.

  He glanced at their covers.

  “Yes, exactly,” he said with a smile. Julia was waiting for a thank-you, but she didn’t get one. Blackstone turned and quickly strode out of her office.

  At ten-thirty that night, Blackstone was well into one of the books, when his phone rang. It was Dr. Coglin.

  “Are you ready to jot this down?” Coglin asked.

  “Sure,” Blackstone said, grabbing his pen and legal pad. “Ready.”

  “Okay,” Coglin said. “I have no idea what any of this means. But I’ve reconstructed the impressions left on the remaining pages of the notepad. Here we go. The first line appears to be Langley’s own comment. The remaining four lines I presume are a copy of what he read in the Booth diary pages:

  A strange cipher appears in the Booth diary as follows:

  To AP and KGC

  Rose of 6 is Sir al ik’s golden tree

  In gospel’s Mary first revealed

  At Ashli plot reveals the key

  There was a dead silence on the phone.

  Then Blackstone spoke up first.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep,” Coglin replied.

  More silence.

  Then Blackstone grunted.

  “Well, happy hunting, J.D.,” Dr. Coglin said, and hung up.

  Blackstone looked over the cryptic four-line poem that, according to Dr. Coglin, was the last thing communicated in writing by Horace Langley before he was murdered.

  Then Blackstone, staring at the four lines of coded nonsense as he sat in his empty living room, spoke out loud into the air.

  “Rats!” he yelled out in mock anger. “I knew Mom should have never thrown away my secret agent decoder ring.”

  CHAPTER 14

  When J.D. Blackstone got to his office at 8:15 the next morning and opened up his e-mail, the prosecutor had a surprise waiting for him.

  AUSA Henry Hartz had electronically filed an emergency motion with Judge Templeton. In it, the AUSA was demanding that “defense counsel, J.D. Blackstone, be ordered not to divulge, to any other person, any impression made upon, or notes or other writings contained within, the notepad of Horace Langley found at the scene of the crime.” The motion also asked that Dr. Coglin be ordered not to further disclose his findings to anyone else at least until trial. Hartz was further demanding that Blackstone not reveal what Langley wrote on the notepad even to his own client and his own law firm staff, including his partner, Julia Robins.

  After reading the motion on his computer screen, Blackstone was stunned. He had been engaged in legal disputes over confidentiality issues before. But nothing like this.

  Hartz wants to bar me from disclosing the strange little poem that Langley wrote, clearly a key piece of evidence, even to my own co-counsel, Blackstone thought to himself. He’d better have some blockbuster arguments for something as mind-boggling as that.

  Unfortunately for the defense, he did.

  In a court hearing conducted by telephone that afternoon, Hartz explained that even limited disclosure of the Langley notes “could jeopardize our ongoing criminal investigation into the Langley murder.”

  “I thought you’d indicted the person you consider to be the culprit here, Henry,” Blackstone replied. “You’re going after my client, remember?”

  But Hartz cut him off.

  “You’ll note that she is charged with being a conspirator. We’re still investigating the other conspirators. If Langley’s notes get out, the others may flee our jurisdiction.”

  Then Hartz added, “Your Honor, you will note in the sworn affidavit we filed from Detective Victor Cheski, our chief investigator in this case, that exact allegation is set out i
n detail.”

  “I suppose you don’t want to give me a teeny-weeny little hint on who those ‘other co-conspirators’ might be?” Blackstone said sarcastically.

  Judge Templeton brought things to a head.

  “You know, gentlemen, I know you both enjoy being my special phone-pals on these emergency motions, but I’ve got a docket full of other cases. Let’s cut the squabbling and get to the point. I have to give a great deal of deference to Detective Cheski’s affidavit. As a result, I am not going to allow an ongoing federal investigation to be interfered with.”

  “The rights of due process and a fair defense trump that, Your Honor,” Blackwell interjected, his voice rising. “I need to share this information with my client—that’s a fundamental part of trial preparation. And I need to give it to my law partner who is assisting me on this case.”

  “Yeah, but there’s always one lead counsel, Blackstone, and that’s you,” Hartz chipped in. “You know what the notepad said—that should be sufficient. And you’ve shown no compelling need to have your client possess this sensitive information, either. Remember, Judge, Miss Archmont is out on bail, something I objected to. She is out there in the community, where she could share this critical information with others…and if she does, the remaining conspirators could hide or destroy evidence to make themselves unavailable for legal process.”

  “Mr. Blackstone,” the judge finally ruled, “I can appreciate your desire to share this with your client, Miss Archmont. And I realize that my order is highly unusual. But for now, I am going to prohibit further disclosure of the contents of the Langley notes, subject to this: If you can show me a genuine, material need you have to get your client’s input on this piece of evidence, then file a motion. Detail it. If you don’t want opposing counsel to know your strategies on why your client needs to see what’s on that notepad, I can understand that—in that case, request that the Court review your arguments in chambers. There’s my ruling. Henry, prepare the order accordingly. And gentlemen, please let me get back to the rest of my docket.”

  After hanging up the phone, all Blackstone could do was shake his head in disbelief. He was being sandbagged. He didn’t mind the typical dash to trial…the frantic search for exculpatory evidence…mounting a defense against the government’s unlimited resources and manpower. In fact, J.D. Blackstone usually exulted in that kind of race.

  What he didn’t like was having to run it in a gunnysack.

  But there was another thought he had. And it wasn’t about the notepad.

  Ever since putting Tully Tullinger on the tail of the tan Taurus that had been following him, he had stopped checking his rearview mirror. But that morning, on the way to the office, he happened to catch a glimpse of the Taurus a few car lengths behind him again.

  He dialed Tully, who picked up on the fourth ring. Blackstone wanted a status report.

  “I was intending to put this in a written report,” Tully said.

  “Forget that,” Blackstone said. “Give me a verbal. Who’s the tail?”

  “Guy named Howard Mercer,” Tully replied. “He works for G & B Investigations, headquartered in New York. They are a national private-investigation firm. Mercer is the PI who heads up the DC branch. I know him a little. So I found out where he eats breakfast every morning and ‘accidentally’ on purpose sat next to him at the counter. Did some small talk. Asked him if he had any interesting cases lately—that sort of thing. He clammed up, paid his bill, and scooted out of there so fast you’d think I’d just asked him to pick up my tab.”

  “You didn’t leave it there, did you?”

  “Come on, J.D. you know me better than that. Course not. But just don’t ask me how I came upon the information I came upon, if you know what I mean.”

  “So?”

  “He made a series of international phone calls after every other tail of you, like clockwork, always to the same number.”

  “Where?”

  “A number in the greater London area.”

  “Whose number?”

  “Last name of Dee…does it ring a bell?”

  “Yeah—like the hunchback up in the bell tower.”

  “I sort of figured you already had a handle on this,” Tully said. “See, you take all the fun out. So you want me to keep tracking him?”

  “No. I’ll take it from here,” Blackstone said.

  After hanging up, Blackstone located the number Vinnie had given him for Lord Dee. Then he called it. It was early evening over in London.

  As before, Dee’s personal secretary, Colin Reading, answered.

  “I need to speak to Lord Dee,” Blackstone insisted. “Right away.”

  “I’m sorry,” Reading replied stiffly, “Lord Dee is rather engaged at the moment. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “You can tell Lord Dee that I know all about Howard Mercer and G & B Investigations, who he hired to shadow me. You tell him that. And then remind him that if he wants me to help Vinnie Archmont he is going to have to deal with me directly. No personal secretaries. No backstairs staff. I want Lord Dee personally.”

  Less than an hour later, Blackstone’s cell phone rang as he was preparing to head home for the night.

  “Lord Dee has an opening,” Reading announced coldly. “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Shall I call him, or vice-versa?” Blackstone asked.

  “Oh, no—Lord Dee won’t be on the telephone. He wants to meet you in person. Fly into Heathrow. Lord Dee’s personal driver will pick you up. I’ll give you my private e-mail address, and you can e-mail me your itinerary. We’ll make all the other arrangements for you for a night’s stay at Lord Dee’s estate in Wessex.”

  Blackstone made a quick call to his travel agent to line up the flight. Then Julia poked her head in his office.

  “You never told me what Dr. Coglin found out about the notepad,” she said.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said with a scowl. “And it looks like I won’t.”

  Julia gave him a puzzled look.

  “The Court granted a government motion barring me from divulging Dr. Coglin’s findings to anybody.”

  “That’s pretty over the top.”

  “I’m still stewing over that one. I also found out who hired the guy who’s been shadowing me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. His Strangeness, Lord Dee of Mysticville,” Blackstone griped.

  “You’re kidding. The guy who’s footing the legal bill.”

  “I am flying out tomorrow night to England, for a meeting the following day with Dee. He’s putting me up at one of his castles. Then we talk. Which is good, because I’ve got a burning question for him.”

  “Like?”

  “Simple question,” Blackstone said with a wry smile. “Like…how are you with metaphysical riddles, m’Lord?”

  CHAPTER 15

  J.D. Blackstone was standing in the swarm of international humanity at Heathrow Airport’s baggage claim area. Elbowing in around him were hundreds of Europeans, Pakistanis, a South Korean tour group, and pockets of business travelers, backpackers, and students on vacation. After craning his neck, he finally spotted a man in a black suit, tie, and cap holding a sign with his name on it. He grabbed his overnight bag and briefcase and headed over.

  “Teddy Darrow,” the driver announced with a smile and took Blackstone’s bags. Then he added, “I’m the chauffeur for Lord Dee. But I’m picking you up today.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean that your boss is stuck having to use a bicycle,” Blackstone remarked.

  Teddy laughed and assured him that Lord Dee had several other drivers on call. He walked Blackstone outside to a double-parked black-and-silver Bentley. It was a special edition limo with a glass partition. In the backseat Blackstone found that day’s editions of the London Times and The Scotsman and a bottle of sparkling water, a glass, a bucket of ice, and a few slices of lime.

  On the ride to Lord Dee’s manor estate, a several-hour ride from Heathrow, Blackstone was thinki
ng back on his attempt to connect with Vinnie before his flight. He had called her both at her home and her studio but got no answer. He wanted to let her know he would be meeting with Dee, and whether she had any more background on her “mentor” that she needed to tell him. But Vinnie didn’t pick up at either number.

  During the ride, Blackstone glanced again over the file of clippings Julia had supplied him on Lord Magister Dee. Clearly, this was a man of eccentricities. He had sponsored several global conferences on Theosophy, a religious philosophy officially founded in the late 1800s, but which claimed to have ties to ancient Eastern mysticism. As a belief system, it stressed the inner spiritual powers of human potential and the brotherhood of man. Dee had delivered the keynote addresses at some of the conferences, and had spoken at several conventions of world religions. But he hadn’t published any of his theories. Several of the articles had mentioned his high-ranking status among the Freemasons, but no details were given.

  For some reason, none of the research Julia had produced contained a recent photo of Lord Dee. Blackstone regretted that. He often found that the appearance of a person was a key to some of their most important personality quirks. Blackstone would have to assess Lord Dee on a first-impression basis when he met him.

  It was late afternoon when the Bentley pulled up at the front gates of Lord Dee’s estate. The limo stopped in front of a large, black-iron gate that had the words Mortland Manor inscribed in large letters across the top. Teddy made a call on his cell phone, and momentarily, the gates swung open. The sun was lying low and reflected in vibrant colors across a small lake on the side of the road as the car slowly motored through the grounds. The main entrance road wound through thick, gloomy woods, and then up through a rocky incline and finally into a clearing. That is when he saw the manor house off in the distance.

  Mortland Manor, the name of Dee’s estate home, was more castle than mansion house. It was surrounded by vast, winding gardens and precisely manicured hedges. The structure itself was a huge, tan, stone edifice, with peaked towers on the right and left, and a mammoth three-story house connecting them in the middle. Blackstone counted ten chimneys.