The air tasted of dust. Rachel felt her nose crinkle, and she sneezed. “Sorry.”
Joon handed her the tissue.
After wiping her nose, she carefully folded the tissue and put it into her pocket before climbing the rest of the way. Reaching the top, Rachel held out her hand to help Joon. As soon as he was up the ladder, they both looked around.
There were beams everywhere, like the bones of a massive creature. It felt as if they were within its ribs. The walls were made of wood slats, nailed to more beams. No paint. No wallpaper. Just plain, very dusty, old wood. It reminded Rachel of her attic, where this had all begun, except minus the boxes of forgotten stuff. It did have just as much dust, though.
So where was the clue? Find me on high.
Well, they were high now.
The steeple had no windows, and the only light was from a solitary bulb that dangled from one of the beams. Shadows crisscrossed the dusty room.
Rachel spotted the nylon rope that ran from the top of the bell down through the hole. Her fingers itched to pull it. She wondered how loud it would be within the steeple.
She thought of the story of the boy with the hammer. What was the proof for that story? There might be accounts of the cracked bell and its replacement. Or a written record of who the bell ringer had been. And then there was the story, passed down from generation to generation.
It wasn’t so different from what they knew of the Culper Spy Ring. Or anything in history, really. It’s all a treasure hunt, she thought. So where did this treasure hunt lead them? “Look for any words or numbers,” Rachel said.
Together, she and Joon peered at each of the beams. Some of them, Rachel noticed, were charred on one side—a stretch of black that had eaten at the corners.
“Was there a fire?” Joon asked.
“The church burned down in 1811, a year before Anna Smith Strong’s death,” Terry said. “They reused some of the original beams when they rebuilt it. No sense in wasting good timber.”
Rachel touched one of the charred beams. Specks of black dust clung to her fingertips. She marveled at it—this wood, this ash, was here when Nancy was here. Perhaps she came up into this steeple herself, near the end of her life. Rachel pictured her coordinating it all—with the jeweler who engraved the ring, with the lawyer who wrote her will, with the miller who owned the millstone, with the clockmaker who added the hidden key, with the artist who painted her and Selah’s portrait, and with the builder who rebuilt the steeple.
Joon was peering at the wood slats that made the walls. “Hey, there are numbers.”
Excited, she joined him in front of one of the walls. If there were numbers, then there could be a clue. Maybe a code they could decipher.
Joon scowled at the slats. “All the boards are numbered.” He sounded disgusted. “This doesn’t narrow it down.”
Taking out her phone, Rachel used the flashlight to see better. All the numbers were small and as black as charcoal, as if they’d been branded into the wood. “Do you see a three-five-five?”
Behind them, Terry muttered, “You can’t be serious.”
Rachel ignored him as they scanned the boards. The numbers appeared to be in random order, but a lot of them were three digits.
“Whoever sold them the lumber labeled their wood,” Terry said. “It has nothing to do with George Washington’s spies or with Anna Smith Strong and this supposed treasure hunt.”
“Do you know that?” Rachel countered.
Terry hesitated. “I don’t. It’s an educated guess.”
“Check for six-three-three,” Rachel suggested.
She and Joon looked at each board, searching for a 355 or a 633. What else could it be except one of those numbers? she wondered. She didn’t see any dates or words, and Nancy couldn’t have used invisible ink up here.
“Find me,” Joon murmured.
“Find me on high,” Rachel echoed.
None of the numbers leapt out as special or especially meaningful. Maybe they were missing something? They had to be.
What if they’d missed an entire clue, or what if it had been lost?
What if whatever Nancy had left to mark the clue hadn’t survived the centuries?
“Hey, remember at the grave when we looked for the word ‘me’?” Joon said.
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the clue,” Rachel said. The word “me” had appeared in the word “time” . . . and the word “time” itself turned out to be a later clue. Could Nancy have left multiple ways to find her secret? She might have guessed that some clues would be lost over the years.
Or maybe she hadn’t, and she’d just been counting on the right person solving her puzzle. The right two people.
“Well, there is a Culper code for ‘me,’” Joon said, holding up his phone to show her the photo he’d taken of the codebook. “It’s three-seven-eight.”
“Could it be that?” Rachel wondered. “Find ‘me’? Find three-seven-eight?”
“It’s clever,” Joon said. “Nancy had to know that only someone she wanted to solve her riddle would have the codebook and known to find ‘me.’”
“And only someone who had found the powder horn clue and had the family Bible would have known to come up here ‘on high’ to look for it.” Rachel climbed the second ladder, up by the bell. She ducked around it to view another section of the wall.
She left us clues.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Terry was looking too. She’d expected the grumpy man to be watching them, arms folded, wearing a judgmental expression. But there was something about Nancy’s clues that was contagious. Or maybe it’s the fizzing feeling that’s contagious, she thought. Hope is contagious. Rachel bent beneath a charred beam to read another number, branded into the wood. Nope, this one was 29. And the next one was 782.
After a few more, she called to Joon, “Any luck?”
“Not—” Joon began.
“Found it,” Terry said suddenly.
Ducking under beams, they joined him. One of the boards beneath the bell, near the floor, was branded with the number 378. Rachel touched the numerals with her fingertips.
The board was squeezed between a 509 and a 951. She tried to slide her fingers into the gap between the slats, but they were crammed tightly together. She tried to tug on the board, but it didn’t move. It was nailed in place, a part of the wall. There was no hinge, no hook, no sign that it was meant to move or open.
“Now what?” Joon asked.
“The board is nailed in,” Rachel said. “If there’s something behind it, we’d need to remove the board to see.” She didn’t know how they were going to convince the grown-ups to let them take apart a historic church. Frankly, she was surprised they’d followed her and Joon this far. Asking them to open up a wall was too much. Even though it did say 378. . . .
“I’ll find tools,” Terry said.
Rachel and Joon sat cross-legged beneath the church bell as Terry went to retrieve a hammer or a crowbar or whatever tool he thought he’d need. She felt as if she were vibrating and couldn’t decide if she was nervous or excited or some mix of both. What if there was nothing back there? And what if there was something?
“What do you think is behind it?” Joon asked. “The legend says the Strong family treasure was silver. Do you think we’ll find silver?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said. But no matter what’s behind that board, this wasn’t a waste. Linda was right: the overlooked heroes—the ones who were discounted, ignored, and erased—they deserved to have their stories told. Chasing the truth was important, even if you could never be certain you’d found it.
Still, though, she really hoped it was treasure.
She heard footsteps on the ladder, and a few seconds later, Terry poked his head through the opening.
They scooted back to make room for him. Kneeling, Terry began to pry out the nails.
Rachel couldn’t believe what she was seeing. All he had was the word of two kids that there could be treasure, and he was willing to take apart the wall? “You’re really doing this?”
“It’s for history,” Terry said. “And friendship.”
Rachel glanced at Joon.
“I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but Linda has been a friend for a long time,” Terry said. “Even if we don’t agree on . . . well, pretty much not much of anything.”
Especially about Nancy, she guessed.
He continued. “A while back, we had a death in the family. Most people are kind after that, for a few weeks, but as time goes on, people move on, and they expect you to too. But Linda knew it doesn’t work that way. She’d show up on a random Tuesday morning with a casserole so we wouldn’t have to cook that night. Or she’d refresh the flowers on the grave when we were out of town. Thoughtful gestures like that. And she’s been a fixture at the Three Village Historical Society. We had a retirement party for her a year ago, but she keeps coming back.”
Rachel said firmly, “She cares. That’s why she doesn’t want to let go, even though she wants to move.” She glanced at Joon as she said it. She took a breath. “If there’s nothing there . . .” She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted him to say, but she needed him to know that their friendship wouldn’t change. Even if he was far away. They could make sure of that.
Joon met her eyes. “If there’s nothing there, I’m still glad we tried.”
All the nails removed, Terry grabbed hold of the board. He lifted it out of the wall and laid it down. Dust swirled, and Rachel sneezed again. She pulled out the tissue, used it, and shoved it back in her pocket.
“Bless you,” Terry said.
Joon held up his phone with the flashlight on. The beam swept into the interior of the wall. Wrinkling her nose to prevent another sneeze, Rachel squeezed next to him to see.
Inside were the slats of the outer wall. Also, a lot of spiderwebs.
“Hey, what’s that?” Joon pointed to the corner.
His flashlight beam swept over an object, also covered in dust.
Rachel held her breath.
Reaching in, Terry pulled out a wooden box that was about the size of a shoebox. It was gray with dust, and the wood was cracked. Rachel brushed some of the dust off the top to show a deep brown. On the front of the box was a keyhole. It looked familiar. . . .
“That’s it,” Joon breathed. “The box from the portrait.”
Was it? It had to be. Yes, it was covered with dust, but it was the right size and shape. She felt tears prick her eyes. “Nancy’s box.”
“Don’t make assumptions,” Terry scolded gently. “It looks to be a document box, used for storing valuables and important papers, but we don’t know whose it was.”
“What’s in it?” Joon asked.
“Can we open it?” Rachel asked. “Please?”
Shaking his head, Terry said, “We should bring it down for the others to see first. There’s far too much dust up here and not enough light. Besides, it has a keyhole. It’s most likely locked.”
Still holding the box, he got to his feet, and a cloud of dust followed him. Rachel sneezed again. He carefully carried the box to the stairs. Rachel and Joon followed.
“I can’t believe there was actually something there,” Terry muttered.
I can, Rachel thought.
She grinned at Joon, and he grinned back.
When they reached the bottom of the ladder, Rachel pulled out the slightly used tissue and waved it at Dave and Linda, who cheered.