The Five Keys Enigma

By Paul TN Chapman

The mysterious Miss Pertwee has left behind a legacy no one can find. In life, she was hooked on mysteries and spy stories - this is how she patterned her life. Peter Hatch and company need to track down meagre clues and determine what her legacy was - and where.  Aided by a former soldier, Thekla Nevraki, and an irascible cracksman named Samu, Hatch follows the clues, one by one, to make the final discovery!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul TN Chapman
• Release date: Jan 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223823940

Paul TN Chapman

Paul TN Chapman is a freelance writer and authors, living the the US East Coast. He maintains a monthly website of his essays, edits publications, and spends most of his time writing novels.  

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Copyright 2024

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form, in part or whole, without permission of the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any for, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author/copyright owner. No part of this publication may be used in any manner for the purposes of training artificial intelligence technologies to generate test, including without limitation, technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as the publication.

Disclaimer:

This is entirely a work of fiction, written solely for entertainment. Names, characters, places, businesses and organisations, or incidents included are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, businesses entities, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Books by Paul TN Chapman

Behind These Red Doors: Stories a Cathedral Could Tell

The Inn of Souls

The Lives of the Ain’ts:

Comedic Biographies of Directors Errant

The Sydfield Spy

The Souls of Grace Cove

Tea with Violins

The Sacrament of Poison

The Well of Tears

The Five Keys Enigma

About Gaelia

Icreated the English -speaking Kingdom of Gaelia, because people speculated about where my stories took place and I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give them a straight answer.

Gaelia might be located in the northern Atlantic, somewhere near Great Britain, or possibly in the vicinity of New Zealand and Australia, or even floating somewhere near Canada.

Proper English is used there, so they spell correctly – colour and honour, not color and honor. They play football, not soccer, like most of the English-speaking world. When they accept newcomers to their shores, they do not force conformity, but embrace uniqueness and individuality.

The Gaelian monetary unit quizon mores (Kweezon mores) is my own invention. I could never decide how many quizon mores equal a Euro or a US dollar, so I am intentionally vague. It took several books for me to admit to the necessity of a quizon mores sign, similar to the signs for the dollar ($), the pound (£), and the euro (€). I decided on ‘Þ’ to represent the currency of Gaelia.

One reason for these ‘vaguenesses’ is that by creating my own country, I have wiggle room in cultural, historic, and legal matters. Again, these represent the world I would like to live in, and unfortunately, not the world I do live in.

Notes and Acknowledgements

The Five Keys Enigma is a continuation of the Gaelian novels I’ve been writing for some time. It is not the first time I’ve used characters from a previous novel, but in this book, many of the characters had their genesis elsewhere. A description is provided at the end of this volume.

I had the advantage of guidance from an ancestor, Katherine M Marinos (my mother), a first-generation Greek American whose family came from the island of Chios. I speak just enough Greek to get slapped, but my mother is fluent, and was a great help to me in the areas of language and cultural traits. I’ve included a brief Greek-English glossary in the back of the book.

I also had the invaluable support and guidance of Mariah Bell, a novelist, short-story writer, and artist, with whom I often exchange works for review and critique. I’m sure I’d still be stumbling through my text and overlooking duplications and errors without her. Alexander Istomin and Katherine M Marinos also read the manuscript before publication and made suggestions. I am grateful to all of them.

Paul TN Chapman

[e-mail]

January 2024

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In the Beginning

Ceolfrith was a noble King.

When the Kingdom of Gaelia was established in the year 530 AD, Ceolfrith was first to wear Gaelia’s Royal Diadem, crowned by Archbishop Bodwyn. Ceolfrith’s ascendency to the throne followed a bloody war against Nordic invaders on the southern and western shores of the country. When the battles were won and the invaders repelled, there was a gathering of noble candidates. Each candidate made a speech; Ceolfrith made friends of his enemies, and was unanimously chosen to be King-Unifier of the country.

Ceolfrith set the tone for the rest of Gaelian history: he converted to Christianity, and then offered it to his people. Many subjects were Pagans, or believed in no God at all – the King-Unifier proclaimed this their right. He merely offered another Path. He ruled with wisdom, kindness, and compassion.

Ceolfrith died in 554, and for centuries, Gaelians came to Ceolfrith’s tomb (Ceolfrith’s Rest) to offer homage and prayer. They asked for his help with national issues, personal issues, the vanquishing of enemies both domestic and foreign; for crops, for children, for healing. They swore he never let them down.

In 1677, his descendent, Aodh, was crowned king.

One of his first acts was to raid Ceolfrith’s Rest and destroy both body and tomb.

One

The Immemorial Merles Pertwee was ready to retire.

For more than half a century, she’d been Parish Secretary for Trinity Cathedral in Capitol City, the administrative mainstay for a series of Deans. She’d been practically infallible, and her excellence endeared her to clergy and parishioners alike. In time, she became known as the Immemorial Miss P – there could never be a Trinity Cathedral without her.

That needed to change. She was old. Worse, she was tired.

Being in harness as member of the Cathedral staff for so long felt like an eternity. When she retired, people had to understand it was her due, not ingratitude. It was important they understood.

She’d grown considerably as a person in fifty-one years, despite what she believed were inescapable disadvantages. For one thing, she maintained she had a face like a turtle, and her front side and back side were so flat, only her short, beaky nose showed which direction she was headed. For a long time, she’d raged at God for how He had fashioned her. When she finally accepted what could not be changed, she discovered that it didn’t matter – people liked her, even loved her, for the Merles Pertwee inside.

One attribute that people noted when she first started at the Cathedral was that she was utterly devoid of a sense of humour. She didn’t make jokes, smile or laugh at jokes – some people believed she didn’t even understand jokes.

The more astute realized she was actually an intensely hurt person and was trying to hide it.

She didn’t strike out at people, she didn’t say nasty things. She didn’t respond to, or demonstrate, humour because to do so would make her vulnerable; hurt might leak out.

So, when this changed, people were caught unaware by the emergence of her sly whimsy. At her retirement celebration, she’d mentioned she’d been at Trinity ‘for ages, as in O God our help in ages past. I was His secretary too!’

She never married, had a suitor or a lover. Her maternal feelings were devoted mostly to a succession of cats. She’d discovered mystery and spy novels, which she read voraciously. She buried her nose in puzzle books for at least half an hour each day. She’d taught herself to play the piano, was finally convinced to take real lessons with a real teacher, and developed into a better than an average pianist. She grew as a musician and spiritual person, which she believed to be intertwined.

Along the journey, though, she was not devoid of love. She loved to dance; she joined the Trinity Social Club, and cut the rug on Friday evenings until the club was closed because of the war. It was like losing a husband, or in her case, a succession of husbands.

She discovered and sponsored an immigrant girl with unique musical talent. In time, Miss P began looking on the child as a secret daughter – secret even from the girl herself.

'Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away.' was from her favourite hymn. The ever-rolling stream had borne her into retirement and new life.

Now a woman of 77, living alone in a walk-up flat at 15 Barn Street was less than ideal. Merles had lived on Barn Street almost for as long as she’d been at the Cathedral. She knew every nook, cranny, creak, and crack in the apartment. Originally, she’d rented it for Þ25 a month; now it was Þ911. It was more impressive when she wrote it out: nine hundred eleven quizon mores.

Although she’d left the Cathedral, many Trinitarians remembered her. She received regular visits and calls from clergy and parishioners, and they celebrated several birthdays with her.

Then a social work student, Vicki Sanky, came forward with a bright idea.

‘Miss P!’ she said one Sunday afternoon, ‘you’re getting priced out of existence here in Barn Street!’

‘It’s true,’ Miss P moaned over her cuppa. ‘Apartments rented for Þ400 five years ago are being sold as condominiums for Þ750 thousand, and the shop prices are going up!’

‘That’s how the ambitious announce their success – they overpay because they can.’ Vicki, whose earnest spirit shone from her like a nova, firmly set down her tea cup. ‘I’ve been thinking, the Cathedral has a Conference/Retreat Centre in Bogminster, right? I’ve done some checking, and there’s a lovely house for sale in Bogminster at a good price. The worst of it is that the road it’s on is Cemetery Lane, but it’s gorgeous! I’ve often admired it.’

Vicki frequently attended Cathedral retreats; she was doing an internship at the Cathedral Counselling Centre, and often travelled to Bogminster for therapeutic regrouping sessions. She regularly drove past Number 15 Cemetery Lane on her way in and out of Bogminster, and thought it was a lovely house on a dreary road. When she saw a FOR SALE sign, she became excited.

Merles should move out of Barn Street, even though she’d lived there for decades.

‘I’m usually in Bogminster all summer,’ Vicki urged Merles, ‘and I come to a lot of meetings and retreats during the year, so I’d be able to visit you often. And there are tons of people to look in on you. Bogminster is gorgeous – lots of rich people there, especially that Florentina Peeterson who took over Peeterson International from her wicked brother. Please, Miss Pertwee, give it a thought!’

Miss Pertwee gave it steady thought, and knew that Vicki was right, although the people to look in on you bit was over the top. She didn’t need a minder!

The area around Barn Street was undergoing gentrification; a different variety of neighbour was making quiet Barn Street home on their terms. The shops in the vicinity raised their prices to flatter fantastic nouveau riche egos. Paying too much for something was their way of saying, ‘I have arrived!’

Vicki explained Bogminster was a wealthy city, but the people had a better understanding of community. The elite thought, ‘Why stay in a place where resources are priced so high that the servants can’t afford to live, except off us? I’m not paying for wives and wean!’

Prices were manageable – the serving staff and the general populace didn’t sit in box seats at theatre performances, of course, and the hoi polloi were welcomed to the neighbourhood social events so long as they brought the beer. There were discount stores adjacent to speciality shops. Everyone got along.

Miss Pertwee made her decision.

At the end of the spring, Vicki and a large group of her friends gathered in Barn Street one Friday morning, packed the goods and chattels of Miss Pertwee, and moved en masse to Number 15 in the ominously-named Cemetery Lane. They were especially careful of Miss P’s Schimmel Mini-Royal upright piano, over which she hovered like a hawk. ‘No scratches, no scratches!’

By Sunday evening, the elderly Miss was moved, unpacked, and practically settled in. The Schimmel was unharmed, and given it’s special place in the front room. All was well.

‘Not bad,’ she thought as she tucked herself into bed, ‘for a seventy-eight-year-old chick!’

After Vicki and her crowd of house movers had gone, Miss P was on her own. Vicki hadn’t been heartless or thoughtless; there were simply things that Miss P had to do for herself, as she always had.

It was serendipitous that she was introduced to a local physician, Dr Charles Fleming. He was connected to a line of famous (or notorious) Bogminster people.

He’d married Florentina Peeterson, (famous) daughter of an extraordinarily wealthy (famous) man, Roald Peeterson, the fifth-generation CEO of Peeterson International. On his death, the office of CEO should have gone to his son Per (notorious), but Per was revealed to be an unscrupulous, embezzling scoundrel. When his crimes were discovered, he’d fled Gaelia, and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

Florentina took on the role of CEO pro tem until a permanent CEO could be appointed. She inherited Roald’s entire estate. She married Dr Fleming and they lived in Peeterson House, her life-long home. She was unimpressed at being the wealthiest woman in the district, and one of the wealthiest people in the nation. Money was a tool for building, growing, healing, and enlightenment, nothing more.

Serendipity began with the Dean of Trinity Cathedral, a friend of the Peetersons. He called Florentina to tell her of Bogminster’s newest elderly resident, and asked if she would occasionally look in on the Immemorial Miss.

Occasional visits became weekly, and then frequent events. Florentina put Miss Pertwee in touch with a Greek woman, Petroula Nevraki, who ‘charred’ for some of the locals. Petroula often brought along her grandson, Tino (short for Constantinos) to do heavy lifting and minor repairs. Occasionally her granddaughter Thekla joined her.

During a visit with Florentina, Miss Pertwee confided that she was feeling ghastly; might her husband take a look at her? That evening, Dr Fleming stopped on his way home from the medical centre, and after a ten-minute examination, drove his new patient to hospital for admission.

Serendipity. She spent a week in hospital.

The news spread quickly. Every evening, the corridor outside her private room was cluttered with by Pertwee visitors, some of whom had come from Capitol City to look in on the old lady. Her good friend, The Bishop of Blakemore, called her every evening. Vicki Sanky came several times, with messages from Trinitarians who couldn’t make the trip. The despairing nurse staff did their best, but exasperation mounted. ‘Decorum must be maintained!’ one staff member proclaimed, and visitors had to take turns to see Miss P.

Late one evening, Dr and Mrs Fleming looked in. Dr Fleming asked questions, poked and prodded, and said, ‘I’d like to try a different medication. It’s used for a different condition, but it’s known to relieve some of your symptoms. I think it would help. I’ve read about this, but I haven’t tried it before.’

‘You’d like me to be your guinea pig,’ Miss Pertwee said as cheerfully as she could. ‘Of course.’

Within forty-eight hours, Miss Pertwee was considerably better. The only side effect of the new medication was vivid dreams, most of which she forgot as soon as she awoke. She recalled only one because it was poignant.

She was wandering in a forest, following a leaf-strewn path between great trees. She strolled along until she came to an enormous table at which sat an old man.

‘My daughter,’ he said in deep and creaky tones, ‘you must restore....’ The sound of his voice was swept away in a sudden gust of wind and she awoke.

Restore what? She thought of S Francis of Assisi, to whom God had said in a dream, ‘Francis, restore my church, which you see is tumbling down.’

Francis began restoring the physical Church of San Damiano with his own hands, setting rock upon rock.

But God had meant something else for Francis. And to her (if it was God)?

Transform yourself.

A command? A prophecy? A drug-induced dream?

By the end of the week, she was back at Cemetery Lane, her healthy vastly improved. Petroula Nevraki had other clients, and couldn’t spend the amount of time she wished caring for her employer. Thekla, her granddaughter, a quiet teen, had just finished secondary school. She arrived each day to make breakfast, and left after clearing the evening’s dishes. She’d learnt everything she knew about cooking from Petroula, and had been a marvellous student.

Miss Pertwee’s strength and colour returned, and soon she was on her Schimmel Mini-Royal upright, hammering out Jelly Roll Morton, James Scott, and Eubie Blake by the hour.

She threw a party for Thekla, about to leave for national service. She played many lively songs by modern stars, to everyone’s surprise (and her own astonishment).

Merles, restore yourself.

Immemorial Miss P developed new interests. She kept silent about them, but enjoyed a new level of activity.

Whatever those interests were, they involved changes in the old lady’s lifestyle. Once an opponent of modern conveniences, she’d rejected suggestions of microwave and toaster ovens, CD players (although she did own a Walkman), and the thought of a computer with WiFi connexions was simply abhorrent!

It was a wrench for Miss P. She knew advances in technology had been useful for many, but had invited problems and expense. She’d meditated on the subject for weeks – she’d even prayed about it – and abruptly, asked Tino Nevrakis to take her on a shopping trip.

On a bright Monday morning that should have been recorded in history books, Tino helped Miss P into his car and drove to a shopping mall, Miss P’s equivalent to going on safari.

Four hours later, they returned to Cemetery Lane with a toaster oven (a concession to Petroula, who was sure Miss Pertwee would burn down her house while reheating prepared meals). Tino suggested a microwave; Miss Pertwee came the closest she’d ever been to rude – she was not irradiating the neighbourhood to produce plastic food!

She wanted a computer; Tino and the sales clerk talked her through a variety of options. She dithered between a desktop computer and a laptop, finally settling on a Dell laptop. The clerk talked her out of a couple of recommended enhancements – they were duplications of other programmes, etc, and simply boosted the cost of the machine. However, she could have email, keep all her accounts, watch streaming entertainment and DVDs, and listen to CDs as well.

‘How many speakers can I add?’ Miss P asked eagerly. ‘I want to have music all over the house!’

‘I don’t think you could use a computer for that; you’d be better off with a CD player – we have some really good ones at decent prices, and you can add speakers for each room.’

‘I can set that up for you,’ Tino said. ‘It’ll be easy!’

Merles realised she’d been silly and stubborn about modern equipment. She relented and bought the toaster oven, the laptop, a WiFi modem, and a tiny printer. With a little prompting, and because Tino and the clerk had been so helpful, she even agreed to a mobile telephone. (Why? she demanded silently. I already have a landline! But I do plan to travel....)

Miss P was delighted with her purchases – even the toaster oven – and launched into the next phase of her renewal. She was becoming a modern woman!

Packages of books began arriving at Miss P’s door with regularity. Petroula saw the books, but didn’t read English well enough to understand all the titles. Tino did, but didn’t understand their significance.

Over the months, more books appeared. Her collection of CDs and DVDs also grew – she had no idea there were so many Ragtime pianists, or arrangements of her favourite orchestral pieces. She liked some of the newer films, and many of the old ones.

Miss P devoured each book, reading hungrily into the night. Her study included hours-long searches on