The Penitent Thief (The Agora Mystery Series Book 2), page 1
The Penitent Thief
CJ Martin
Published by Kotoba Books
Copyright 2015 by CJ Martin
Visit the author's website at http://www.CJMartinBooks.com
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The Penitent Thief
February 14th, 1890
Carl Brooke
Boston
I had no intention of spilling any more ink chronicling the history of our Agora Society. However, to my shock—and I must admit, my immense pleasure—I received numerous letters of encouragement to divulge more of its secrets. It seems, the Agora’s long and colorful history still holds interest to these modern times.
While I had been willing to consign our Agora past experiences to the grave, I now realize what a disservice this would have been to the record of history. Yes, the Agora Society should be remembered and, if modesty permits, I am the only one still living who is able to share some form of accurate and in-depth knowledge on the subject.
So, with the full acceptance of this burden, I shall, to the best of my abilities, recount in a series of letters remarkable cases and events in which the Society was a major player.
In the last letter, entitled Two Tocks before Midnight, I wrote of the downfall of Charles Tock and Thomas Phillips. Both of whom, I have nothing more to report.
Thomas’ daughter, Lottie, however, in recent days wrote me a letter of the most amiable nature, thanking me for regaling her with tales of her father’s youth. I realize by publishing her name as I did in the previous letter, that I put to risk the possibility she may one day learn the truth of her father and that I had some hand in his downfall. I do hope she never does, but there is very little I can do now. I hadn’t the faintest thought that my words would have spread as far and as fast as they did. My deepest apologies to her and to all those who may be so concerned.
I was not surprised to discover that many of the letters I received seemed to be most interested in our encounters with the police. Captain Barnwell and I did become close friends and I do have much to share regarding our collaboration—this current letter only touching on it—but if there is to be only one other event from our society’s long and colorful history that I could write about, it would be regarding the Penitent Thief.
One evening shortly after the war, Captain Barnwell came to my door late, well after I had retired.
“Mr. Brooke, are you in?” he shouted from the street.
I woke to a half stupor, thinking the knocking and voices were remnants of the dream I had just left off. But as I readjusted my pillow and allowed my eyelids to close, I heard the man shout again.
“Yes, Captain Barnwell,” I shouted back through the open window of my second floor bedroom after taking a moment to fully awaken.
“Very sorry to bother you, but it is a matter of some urgency.”
I nodded and after a “I shan’t be a moment,” I closed the window and quickly dressed. It was very much unlike Captain Barnwell to come calling after sundown, let alone close to midnight. Something important was on the man’s mind and I meant to find out what it was.
Once I made my way out the door, my friend bombarded me with the most peculiar request.
“Mr. Brooke, would you mind coming to the office? Rutherford Nordlinger has… murdered someone.”
“Nordlinger? The thief?”
“Yes, sir, the same.”
“If you say he returned to thieving, I would have a hard time believing that, but murder?”
“The evidence is certain.”
“And he has confessed?”
“He says he will make his confession only to you.”
Only to me. I was more than a little puzzled. I had had a hand in helping Captain Barnwell arrest the man several years before. As serious of an offender as Nordlinger had been, he became just as serious at becoming a reformed man. He served his time and made a great effort to right his wrongs—even going as far as paying double of what he took from his victims. At his request, I oversaw much of the distribution of moneys. By all accounts, I believed him to be truly a new man.
The last I had heard of him, he had joined a monastery, forsaking all worldly desires. I am naturally skeptical of sudden conversions, but in Nordlinger’s case, I had become convinced it was genuine. Even those he had stolen from extolled the new man.
“And this certain evidence?” I asked the captain as I popped my head inside to grab my hat.
“He was caught fleeing from the scene of the crime. His fists and sackcloth, bloodied. Let’s go.”
“Sackcloth?” I said following my friend to the street and then to his brougham.
“Yes, he had become something of an ascetic hermit. Clearly all for show.” The captain barked his orders to the driver and climbed in the carriage behind me.
Nine years of show… I was not at all convinced that Nordlinger was capable of murder even after the captain enumerated the seemingly clear evidence. He had been—as far as I knew—without fault for nine years. Why would he suddenly commit a murder?
“Is this the first you’ve heard of him in recent years?” I asked.
“Yes and no. There have been at least two peculiar robberies in the past month. In each instance only one thing of value was taken—something Nordlinger the thief was fond of doing—and both left a note. A third note, strikingly similar to the other two notes, was found on the body of the deceased this very night.”
“A note? Stealing one valuable item is certainly reminiscent of Nordlinger’s past modus operandi, but a note? I cannot think of an instance that the old Nordlinger did that. What did these letters read?”
“Both were simply signed, ‘The Penitent Thief’.”
My hands instinctively gripped my knees and I bowed my head down to the carriage floor. It was pure shock, those words. Over the clap-clap sounds of the single horse strutting upon the cobble stones, I told the captain what Nordlinger said to me upon paying his debt to society. The thief’s tone of voice and pained facial expression had seared the words into my memory. He said he felt camaraderie with the Penitent Thief on the cross next to Christ’s. I didn’t believe him then, but in subsequent years, he proved it to me and many others. And yet, upon hearing the contents of that note, there seemed to be little doubt the man had returned to his old tricks—a dog to its vomit. But if that were so, why would he ask for me?
“And the man murdered, who is he?” I asked.
“A Mr. William Ferris, by the card in his pocket. The corpse wore fairly shabby clothing—once a fine coat jacket now threadbare and dirtied. He had a bottle of whiskey in his pocket and a few coins. Nothing else. We are still investigating who he was and where he lived.”
“Has Nordlinger admitted to knowing the man?”
“When we questioned the murderer, we had not discovered the dead man’s name, but Nordlinger swore he didn’t know.”
During that short ride to the jail, I became convinced of Nordlinger’s guilt. The blood on his fists and clothes, recent thefts reminiscent of his past transgressions, and most pertinent to my mind, the note. The note was unusual in itself, but not the words: Penitent Thief, the very same phrase he had so long ago spoken to me. Despite all that, there was only one doubt in my mind: why would he call me? I would be the one most likely to see him hanged for betraying my trust, the most solemn promise he gave me.
Captain Barnwell ushered me through the Charles Street Jail where Nordlinger was to be kept until arraignment. The entrance opened up into an octagonal rotunda with a tall atrium allowing some of the splendid August moonlight in. We entered a small hallway that led to a room with two chairs facing a window with bars. A minute later, Nordlinger appeared still wearing his sackcloth. I engaged my old nemesis through iron bars.
“Who was he? A Jealous husband?”
“I’ve renounced worldly pleasures.”
“Pleasures, yes, but not murder, I see. Were you looking for the most displeasing act imaginable and your mind came upon murder?”
“I am innocent of this murder, Mr. Brooke.”
Captain Barnwell said, “Now see here, Nordlinger. You were caught fleeing from that dead man’s body seconds after killing him.”
“I was told to go there. While waiting, I was hit on the head. When I came to, there was the dead man not twelve inches from my eyes. I swear by all that is good, I had no hand in this.”
“But your hands had his blood on them.”
“I awoke with my hand on his bloodied head. Someone wants me brought down by this.”
“And this someone is not the only one,” I said. The last time I saw him, I swore I would hunt him down should he renege on his promise.
“I am guilty, Mr. Brooke, of many things. The more penitence I seek, the more wrongs I discover from my past and, most frighteningly, from my present. But this, I did not do. I would never take a man’s life, sir. It is sacred.”
Captain Barnwell placed three pieces of paper in front of Nordinger.
“What’s this?”
“Your letters, perhaps?”
“The… Penitent Thief?”
“The very words, Mr. Nordlinger, you said to me when you left prison.”
“But… I
“In the homes of the recent burglaries.”
“Burglaries?”
The captain’s fist came down on the table in front of the thief.
“No more games! The monastery’s records have you leaving three times in the past month and three times only. The first two were exactly the time of a theft. The last was tonight and that ended in a murder. Now, I’ve done as I have promised. I’ve brought Mr. Brooke. Honor your word. Make your confession!”
“I said I would tell Mr. Brooke the truth and I aim to do just that. I swear I had no hand in this.”
I watched the face of a terrified man. Deep lines scored his forehead above raised eyebrows, causing sweat to bead and then fall from a bald head down over his cheeks. Lips shuddered as if trying to coax words out of his throat. Voiceless trembling. His eyes fell to his hands resting uneasily on the table. He was examining it for remaining traces of the man’s blood. The blood had been wiped clean upon arrival at the jail, but for a few heavy moments, he continued his examination.
Returning his eyes to my face, he said, “It is true, I left three times but each time, I arrived at the location to find no one… The first two times, I simply returned. Tonight, I found myself attacked and upon coming to… Please, Mr. Brooke, discover who has done this.”
He let out tears that did not seem false.
“Why did you ask for me?”
“Because, in you I know there is an honesty that is lacking in most of humanity. You helped me once do right to those I wronged. Please.”
“That will be quite enough...”
“One moment, captain,” I said, curious as to what could possibly be Nordlinger’s defense. “You said, you were told to go there. By whom and for what purpose?”
“I received three letters from a man I had stolen from over a decade ago. Mr. Phillip Strauss was his name—on Elm Street. I had forgotten the incident, perhaps because I stole something of no value, but somehow the man found out and demanded that I meet him to make restitution. It has been my solemn duty for the past few years to right all my past wrongs. I was compelled to go—even if it was impossible to confess a particular wrong.”
“And you have no idea what it was that you stole?”
“I… can’t remember.”
More than a slight trace of anger flowed from the captain’s words as he spoke. “What do you mean? You do admit stealing from the man, correct?”
“I believe so. It would have been in an area I frequented, but I honestly have no recollection of the event.”
“And yet, you went not once, but thrice at the man’s command,” I said watching his reaction closely.
“As I have said, I took a sacred oath to repay all I have wronged. That of course even includes wrongs I may have forgotten. I have done much evil, Mr. Brooke. I have much to repent of. You of all people know that. I do not think it unlikely this was one of them.” Nordlinger paused a moment and then asked, “Tell me, who was the dead man?”
“You have never seen him before?”
“No, sir. Never.”
I nodded to the captain who then said, “We believe his name is Mr. William Ferris.”
I watched Nordlinger’s face for deceit or surprise. I saw nothing. I then stood. “If you are telling the truth, someone has gone to extraordinary measures to implicate you. Who could that be? Who are your enemies?”
“I… I can think of none. Please,” he pleaded. “Help me.”
I retained a stern appearance, but deep inside, my thoughts ran uncontrolled. It was certainly possible someone from his past would wish to see him locked up for life. He had been a drunk, a fighter, and of course a thief.
“I will consider it. Where are the three letters from Mr. Strauss?” I asked.
“Placed in the pages of my Bible in my cell. The head of the monastery will surely allow you entrance.”
I nodded and left with the captain following close behind. Once we had returned to the rotunda, Captain Barnwell asked, “What do you mean you ‘will consider it’? The man is guilty as the devil.”
“The devil’s guilt is evident in every inch of the world, within all of humanity. Evidence of Mr. Nordlinger’s current guilt is much narrower. I dare say almost non-existent.”
“But he left the monastery exactly at the times of the crimes and only at the times of the crimes.”
“Doesn’t that seem overly convenient?”
“And he was seen leaving away from the dead body.”
“But not seen in the act. Also convenient.”
The captain stopped me and stood in front with his mouth agape.
“You believe the man innocent!”
“I did not say that. At this junction, there is a greater than fifty percent chance the man is guilty. His past crimes and their similitude to the current events cannot be easily dismissed. However, if he is innocent, it means we are dealing with someone quite familiar with the old Nordlinger and someone who has a great desire to see him hanged. He is, after all, a man with much history, someone easy to frame. I’d like to visit his home, the monastery in the morning. Would you have time to join me?”
“The man is guilty.”
“Vincit omnia veritas—truth conquers all. If he is guilty, let us prove it beyond all doubt and sleep well at night. However if there is but the slightest chance the man is telling the truth, it is our duty to find that truth. I could not live with myself if I didn’t.”
“All very true, but I’m afraid I will be busy with Nordlinger’s arraignment in the morning. Please do come by the station should you learn something.”
I shook the captain’s hand and left for a quiet night’s sleep at home.
The next morning, I went to the monastery. I was received by a chamberlain busily tending to the grounds, but before announcing my presence, I spent a few quiet moments observing him. His careful raking of the pebbled garden made my heart envious of the secluded and simple life. His ancient, bony hands worked deftly in creating order out of the random pile of pebbles. Order out of chaos. Ah, the freedom to read, learn, pray… In recent years, having long retired from public and private service, I have often reminisced upon that gardener and the peaceful thoughts that scene from so long ago brought to mind.
I had watched him unseen from the corner for some time before I shook my mind free of thoughts of books and quiet meditations and announced my presence. Upon hearing the purpose of my visit, he quickly shuffled off to call the abbot. The abbot appeared wearing a simple brown tunic with the hood pulled back. Upon hearing the reason for my visit, his previously peaceful eyes turned stern, suspicious eyes that spilled distrust.
“Are you with the police?”
“I am here at the behest of the police, but I am a private citizen, an acquaintance, you might say, of Mr. Nordlinger.”
“Tell me. Do you believe Brother Nordlinger to be innocent?”
“I cannot say.”
“You do not wish to say.”
“In all honesty, I believe he is more than likely guilty. But I would reserve judgment until after investigating the facts, that being the purpose of my visit. I would like to examine his cell.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, I am simply here in an informal capacity.”
“Then I must refuse.”
“It will only take…”
“I’m sorry, but we are quite strict with our rules. Outsiders are not permitted within the living quarters unless extraordinary circumstances demand it. You may return with a warrant.”
“I see. A pity. However, I did receive a personal request from Brother Nordlinger. His Bible. His one request is to find comfort in its pages.”
The abbot paused in thought before acquiescing. “Very well. Wait here.”
Five minutes later, I left the monastery with Nordlinger’s Bible in hand. Once out of sight of the abbot, I thumbed through the pages. As Nordlinger had said, there were three small letters folded and placed in the early chapters of Jeremiah—the weeping prophet.
Once home, I examined them carefully. The three letters came from the same stock of stationary, quite well made. I was later able to compare the letters with the stock used for the crimes—the papers with “The Penitent Thief” written on them. There were all the same. All six papers were a composite of hemp and esparto grass—old fashioned and of exceptional quality. It was a fine paper, marking the owner as having considerable pride and station.
