Secret of the White Rose Page 7

  Following Alistair’s train of thought, I turned to Judge Porter. “Why did Judge Jackson want your advice?”

  “To ensure he was being fair.” Judge Porter spread his hands wide. “It was tough with the Drayson case. Hugo bent over backward to be impartial, but he hated Drayson. It wasn’t just what Drayson had done, killing innocent people, especially the child.” He leaned toward us confidentially. “He had nightmares because he believed Drayson was threatening him.”

  “Threatening him?” I raised an eyebrow.

  The judge nodded sagely. “No matter what testimony was presented at trial—no matter who was being questioned—Drayson’s eyes never left Judge Jackson. Hugo found it tremendously unsettling. He’d even begun to dream about those eyes watching him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.”

  I could well imagine. I recalled from this morning’s interview how Drayson had a penetrating gaze—the kind that seemed to see through you and past you, all at once.

  “Did he have other reasons to believe that Drayson meant him harm?” I asked.

  The judge shook his head. “No. Not physical harm, at least. He thought it was a strategy on Drayson’s part to unnerve him.”

  “Did Drayson seem to be in communication with anyone in the courtroom?”

  The judge shrugged. “Nothing that Drayson initiated. But his sweetheart tried to pass him messages in court. The judge intercepted a number of them: love notes, really—not anything sinister.”

  I put down my cup of tea and pulled my small leather-bound journal and pencil out of my breast pocket. “I didn’t know he was sweet on any girl. Do you know her name?”

  “Of course.” His eyes flickered with amusement. “China Rose.”

  “Not her real name, I presume.”

  “No, her real name is Guo Mei Lin.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She works in her parents’ Chinese restaurant on Mott Street.”

  “Any idea how long he’s known her?”

  The judge’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “You give me too much credit. I’m just repeating what Hugo told me about disruptions in his courtroom.”

  “So he mentioned nothing else that was significant?”

  “Only the usual crowd who assembled each morning outside. Over half were citizens hoping to tear Drayson limb from limb. The others were anarchists spouting their drivel about reform and workers’ rights. Emotions ran high at court, every day, and if your downtown policemen hadn’t done their part to maintain order, the crowds would’ve torn each other apart.”

  I’d heard something similar from within the ranks.

  Alistair had been sitting back for this part of the conversation, reviewing his private notes, but now he rejoined us. “What about earlier cases?” he asked. “Are you aware of any other recent case on Hugo’s docket—other than Drayson—that might have led someone to wish the judge harm?”

  “Absolutely not.” Judge Porter’s voice was tinged with defiance.

  “No other anarchists?” I asked.

  “Not that he mentioned to me,” the judge said.

  “Nonetheless, we ought to check Judge Jackson’s recent docket.” I looked to Alistair. “I can obtain it through official channels, but it may be faster if you request a list of his recent cases from Mrs. Jackson.”

  “Of course,” he said with a nod.

  Judge Porter pushed his glass of sherry aside impatiently. “You wanted to talk about the symbols—”

  “Yes, we’ll get to that.” Alistair cut him off. “First, let me quickly share with you the results of the autopsy conducted on Judge Jackson.”

  “How did you…?” I stopped myself before I finished the question. I had no doubt that Alistair’s connection to Mrs. Jackson was the reason—and he immediately confirmed it.

  “Of course, the judge’s widow wanted me to see it right away,” he said, passing a sheaf of papers across the coffee table to me. “It supports what I had thought.”

  “Which is?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “That Judge Jackson’s killer was supremely organized and capable; his preparation cannot be faulted.”

  “And that is stated in this autopsy report?” I tapped my fingers against it.

  Alistair smiled. “Not in so many words. But if you look at the notes made by the coroner’s physician, you’ll see my point: this killer knew exactly what he was about.”

  I scanned the report, focusing on the most pertinent sections. Judge Hugo Jackson had died due to exsanguination, bleeding to death after his throat was slit from ear to ear. The incision was nine inches—both long and deep enough to cut both carotid arteries and the jugular vein. Alistair was right: the report noted that the injury had been inflicted in such a way as to ensure almost immediate death. The judge’s head had been pushed forward into his chest, bringing the jugular and carotid arteries together.

  An amateur might have leaned his victim’s head back, better exposing the neck to his knife—but, in the process, risking that the knife would miss the major arteries. By sliding his knife under his victim’s forward-leaning neck, the murderer had exhibited confidence and knowledge. But what amount of strength had been needed?

  I skipped through additional pages, but there was nothing on that subject. “Either the killer was strong enough to subdue Judge Jackson—or he took him by surprise.”

  “That’s my theory, as well,” Alistair said. “Either way, it was carefully planned.”

  “And he wanted to kill the judge efficiently; he had no interest in making him suffer by prolonging the process,” I added.

  “What does that tell us? This autopsy is no help.” Angus waved away the report that I offered him. “And all your talk of how well this murderer planned his kill doesn’t take you even one step closer to solving this crime.”

  “Which is why we need you, Angus.” Alistair then turned to me, saying, “I asked Judge Porter here today because he is an expert symbolist.”

  “A symbolist?” I gave them both a quizzical look.

  “It’s my hobby,” Angus said with a grin, “and has been, since my college days.” He and Alistair exchanged a look before he continued. “It was an outgrowth of my studies in Greek, for Greek letters are often used as symbols. Slowly, I came to appreciate that we have symbols all around us, and my interest spread to all forms of symbolism.” He shrugged. “I suppose I like the challenge of unlocking secret, private meanings.”

  “The symbols at the crime scene, I believe, are the key to identifying Judge Jackson’s killer,” Alistair said. “You see, in terms of method, he was the model of expediency: he entered and exited the judge’s home without anyone noticing, and he dispatched his victim quickly, without so much as a sound.” He paused, looking both of us full in the face. “This behavior is entirely at odds with what we see when we consider the symbols he left behind. He risked precious time he might have used to escape by choosing to leave the white rose, and by making the effort to place the judge’s left hand upon the Bible. The question becomes: Why were these symbols important?”

  I spread my hands wide. “The Bible could signify any number of things … how can we determine one meaning from among many possibilities?”

  “Because only one meaning will make sense in context,” the judge explained. “Hugo’s killer used more than one symbol, which is to our advantage: it means he meant them to work together.”

  “Was Judge Jackson religious?” I asked.

  “He attended church with his wife most Sundays,” the judge said with a bland smile. “Religious affiliation was important to him.”

  “So he liked socializing at church,” I said.

  “That’s actually a good way of putting it,” Judge Porter said, nodding. “He was socially religious.”

  I helped myself to another scone. “Then it’s unlikely that the Bible is meant to suggest anything about Judge Jackson’s personal religious practice?”

  “Highly unlikely.” Judge Porter’s reply was decisive.
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br />   “So we are left with my initial thought—that the Bible signifies something about his professional life. Every time he swore in witnesses at trial, he would have instructed them to raise their right hand while placing their left on the Bible. Am I correct?” I looked to both of them for my answer.

  “You are,” the judge said.

  Alistair added, “And Hugo would have taken his oath of office in exactly that manner, too—affirming his loyalty to the law and his commitment to upholding it.”

  “Do you know the oath he would have taken?” I asked.

  “I took it myself, just two years after Hugo joined the bench,” Judge Porter said good-naturedly. He recited from memory: “‘I, Angus Jervis Porter, do solemnly swear that I will administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and to the rich, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon me under the Constitution and the State of New York. So help me God.’”

  “And it was the judge’s left hand that was placed on the Bible, correct? As though taking an oath?” I did my best to mimic the gesture, trying to copy what I’d seen time and again in courtroom testimony.

  Judge Porter jumped and made a move to disagree but was silenced when Alistair gave him a stern look—something I couldn’t let pass.

  “What is it?” I asked the judge.

  The judge coughed to clear his throat. “It sounds like overreaching to me. Just because Hugo’s hand ended up on top of a Bible doesn’t mean the killer intended it.”

  Alistair, more diplomatically this time, said, “I know you’ve got doubts, Angus. But I need you to trust me on this one: nothing we discover in a crime scene like Judge Jackson’s is unintentional.” He turned to me again. “Yes, the judge’s left hand was positioned on the Bible as though taking an oath. And that is the meaning I believe the killer intended.”

  “So you believe the killer is gesturing to a failing in office … some abrogation of judicial duty?” I asked.

  Angus interrupted with a sharp reply. “No one can accuse Hugo of being derelict in his duty—in fact, to the contrary. He was one of the most esteemed members sitting on the bench in this city.”

  “No one is saying otherwise,” Alistair said. “Remember, what we are discussing is the killer’s own flawed perspective. Not your usual standard of a reasonable person.”

  The judge grumbled some more but seemed mollified. “Don’t forget: even if we believe Hugo’s killer was making a point about the judge’s oath of office, there is another important symbol we’ve not yet discussed.” He leaned forward and looked us both full in the eye. “I mean, of course, the rosa alba. The white rose. You said one was left on the judge’s desk, next to his corpse.”

  I confirmed it.

  “Assuming it was left by Hugo’s killer, then it is of the utmost importance. To clarify, however—is there any chance that Hugo could have picked it up himself, as a gift for his wife?” The judge looked first to Alistair, then me.

  I could only respond with what seemed to be common sense. “In that case, wouldn’t he have given it to her right away, the moment he arrived home? It seems unlikely he would have delayed.”

  I didn’t mention it yet, but I was also thinking about the symbol of the rose that appeared in the musical score.

  “Angus,” Alistair said, chiding him gently, “you of all people know the meaning the white rose has accrued over the years.”

  Angus blanched, and for a moment I thought he would be ill. “Another refill, please,” he said, holding up his glass.

  Alistair poured more sherry, almost emptying the glass decanter, while Angus’s jaw worked back and forth—as though he was trying to say something but couldn’t manage it. Then he took a large swallow of his drink, gathered his courage, and began to explain.

  “The rose itself is a flower that symbolists have imbued with multiple meanings over the ages. But of all roses, the white rose is invested with the most complicated of meanings. The easy meanings are the ones you will know: purity and innocence.”

  “Like a bride,” Alistair said.

  Angus nodded. “Exactly. It can also be a symbol of remembrance or honor. White roses are often displayed at funerals.”

  “So it could be a sign of death, like at a funeral. Nothing more.” I looked from Alistair to Angus, watching their reaction. Both appeared unsatisfied.

  “Certainly it could,” Alistair said. “But given that the killer planned the murder so well, the fact that he included it at the crime scene—”

  “Means it signifies something more.” I finished his sentence for him.

  He nodded.

  Angus let forth a deep sigh. “One of my favorite stories surrounding the white rose comes from Greek mythology. Aphrodite gave a white rose to her son, Eros, who in turn gave it to Harpocrates, the god of silence, as the price of hiding her indiscretions.”

  “So another reading that points to a misdeed,” I said.

  Angus agreed with a vigorous nod. “Exactly.”

  The symbols were beginning to make some sense to me now, especially when I thought of the Bible as representing the judge’s oath.

  “Just to make sure we’re not missing anything, is it possible that the rose signifies a different kind of religion? Like the Rosicrucians, perhaps,” Alistair said.

  “What are Rosicrucians—some kind of secret society?” I asked.

  Angus chortled. “My sister is a practitioner. Or was. She got caught up in their promises of secret knowledge. They believe their followers can unlock the secrets of everything from reincarnation to astral projection!” He laughed again. “Next, she drifted into an even more bizarre movement—Spiritualism—and now she spends her days trying to communicate with our dead mum. Nothing but malarkey, I say.” He coughed loudly. “And no, I don’t think this rose is connected with the Rosicrucians. Their rose symbol is always entwined with the cross.”

  We sat in silence for some moments, just thinking.

  I turned to Alistair. “You mentioned something earlier about the white rose in the War of the Roses—that it was given to anyone who betrayed his oath as an omen of death.”

  “Yes. I meant the sub rosa: death to him who under the rose’s secrecy betrays his oath,” he replied.

  Angus gave us both a stern look. “It’s just another line of thought about a betrayed oath. But this symbolic meaning is given to us by literary writers, not historians. That means it’s the stuff of legend, not necessarily truth.”

  “Does it matter how the meaning of the symbol is established?” I asked.

  “I suppose not.” Angus leaned back, his gut practically bursting out of his shirt. “You recall that the War of the Roses was a civil war fought over the British throne, pitting descendants of Edward III, or the House of York, against descendants of Henry IV, or the House of Lancaster. Much later, Renaissance writers like Shakespeare depicted noblemen as choosing sides by plucking a white or red rose from the garden. White represented the House of York and red the House of Lancaster.”

  Alistair beamed. “‘This brawl today … shall send, between the Red Rose and the White, a thousand souls to death and deadly night.’ You may recognize it from Shakespeare’s Henry VI.”

  I swallowed hard, forcing myself to follow their argument. It was hard not to feel completely out of my element—for my brief stint on scholarship at Columbia had given me little of the knowledge these men took for granted. I’d wanted an education, thinking it would guarantee me a life different from the one I’d known growing up. But when family obligations intervened, I had to abandon those plans.

  “It wasn’t just a matter of choosing sides,” Angus added. “Those who betrayed their loyalty to their chosen house, be it York or Lancaster, were considered traitors and put to death. But according to legend, they always received fair warning first: the delivery of a single, white rose.”

  “So the judge could have been a traitor in the killer’s view: someone who had to be p
ut to death for betraying his oath,” I said.

  “I think so. An oath on the Bible implicitly invokes God as our witness, to judge and avenge us if the person taking the oath doesn’t stay true,” Alistair said.

  “So the judge was a traitor—but to what cause?” I asked. “Earlier, we talked about his duty to the law. But what if his killer is thinking of a different duty? I’m struck by the fact that we’re talking about a number of closed societies not unlike the anarchists—from the Rosicrucians to members of the House of York.”

  Angus gave me a severe look. “I’d not go that far. The anarchists are like no other group. They’ve no positive goals. They want to overthrow church and state—in short, everything good, hardworking men have tried to create.”

  “Only because they feel they’ll never be treated fairly as our society currently exists,” I responded. “I can see how someone from their cause might believe the judge had betrayed some higher duty to the working man in general—or to the defendants in his courtroom, particularly.”

  “Careful, Ziele,” Alistair said, eyes twinkling, “you’ll make me think you’ve become an anarchist follower.”

  “Hardly.” I smiled in return. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand—and even sympathize—with the sources of their discontent.” And my smile disappeared when I thought again of this morning’s meeting with the commissioner.

  “If images of betrayal—and specifically betraying one’s oath—are repeatedly associated with the white rose,” I continued, “then this fits with how the killer posed the judge’s hand on top of the Bible. But is there anything in this to help us identify the judge’s murderer?”

  “We must look to the remaining piece of the puzzle,” Alistair said, his voice sober. “Ziele, I know you noticed it, as well: the white rose symbol that was embedded in the musical score we found among the judge’s papers. Did you bring it?”

  I nodded as Judge Porter nearly choked on the scone he was eating. “Alistair, you said nothing about a musical symbol.”