“The Dead Teach the Living”: A Mystery LbNA #36640

“The Dead Teach the Living”: A Mystery


Placed by: The Six Wizards
Placement Date:
State: Massachusetts
County: Suffolk
Nearest City: West Roxbury
Number of boxes: 1


Terrain: easy, city walk with some uphill
Time: 30 minutes

CLUES:

He had heard about the murder.
Everyone at Roxbury Latin School probably had at one time or another. His best friend, Farley “Fatty” Taos, claimed to know a fair amount of the truth, or whatever truth there was in the legend. Tim had heard about an obnoxious kid in the first year who claimed to know about it too. He himself had only ever heard snippets, so he was fairly excited when the legendary Simon Viddy cornered him after History and declared that he would tell him the real story.
Mrs. Estis’ lectures were always boring in the extreme, and that day’s had been about Joseph Warren whom, from what he had gathered, had taught the school, as well as being a doctor and a revolutionary war hero. Sy, as he liked to be called, was in Tim’s history class, and he had seen snickering with some friends while Mrs. Estis was rhapsodizing about Joseph Warren.
Fatty stared at Sy open-mouthed.
“You … ?”
“That’s right,” said Sy, smirking at the younger boy, “Got it from my brother. He went looking for the body, you know.
“What?” Tim couldn’t help himself now. Part of him was afraid he would miss his next class, but he stayed where he was. Sy turned his smirk on Tim.
“If you think you can keep quiet long enough, Morse, then I’ll tell it to you.” He paused for a few seconds, then continued. “See, when he was teaching at Roxbury Latin, Doc Warren had this herd of cows, that were famous all around for their milk.” Students were passing by, but Fatty and Tim still didn’t move.
“Well, it happens the good doctor was also a fan of drinking and gambling. One night, at a pub, he lost his whole herd at a game of cards. Playing with the father of a kid that was going to his school, in fact. Straight A student, whatever they called it back then, one of Warren’s favorites. Edmund Swett Rous-maniere was his name.”
At this point, neither Fatty nor Tim would have dreamed of doing anything to interrupt Sy. Even though Tim had a good record and didn’t wanted to miss class, he wasn’t thinking of very much else at the moment except for Sy’s story.
“Anyway,” continued Sy. “The doc woke up the next morning and realized what had happened. He tried to buy the cows back, but ol’ Mr. Swett Rous-maniere wouldn’t let ‘im. But the thing that really got him mad,” Sy smirked again, “he didn’t use his famous cows for their milk. He slaughtered them for their meat, and sold the meat to the British Army. Well, you can bet that didn’t go down too well with Mr. Joseph Warren, Revolutionary doctor and Roxbury Latin professor. Even though lil’ Eddie was one of his favorite students, Warren still decided that he’d take his revenge on his father, and eventually he got it.”
Tim happened to glance at Fatty at this point; he was staring at Sy open-mouthed.
“And he got his chance when ol’ Mr. Swett Rous-maniere got sick. Doc Warren went out drinking the night he was s’posed to come and see him, probably with his revolutionary buddies. Well, you can imagine what happened after that. The drunk doc went down to Swett Rous-maniere’s house, decided he’d had enough, took a sword and, that was that. Course, he didn’t feel to good when he found out what he did. He tried to cover it up, saying Mr. Swett Rous-maniere had died of his sickness. But the problem was, lil’ Eddie saw it all.
“If anyone ever had a look at the body it would be obvious it was no sickness that killed Mr. Swett Rous-maniere. So ol’ Doc Warren got some of his buddies to hustle it out of there and hide it. Doc was pretty well connected to all those guys like John Adams and Paul Revere, so they never investigated. Course, Mrs. Swett Rous-maniere and her son were pretty keen on findin’ the body, so Doc Warren had to dig it up and move it to a real good hiding place. Mr. Swett Rous-maniere’s wife and kids didn’t feel too good about it though, so they took Eddie out of school. But Eddie never stopped looking for his father’s body.”
At this point, the late bell chimed in the clock tower. Tim started, and made a move to go along, knowing that he was late already, but Sy blocked his way.
“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my story?” Tim hesitated, glanced at Fatty, then, after a few seconds, nodded. Sy gave him the benefit of another of his famous smirks. “Good. So anyway, when his favorite kid moved off, Joe started to feel guilty, so he changed the school buildings and stuff in a lot of ways, and he made the school motto what it is today.”
“Mortui Vivos Docent,” muttered Tim.
“That’s right, Mr. Latin scholar,” smirked Sy. “’The Dead Teach the Living.’ Now you know what it really means.” The hall had been empty for some time now, but Tim stood immobilized, listening to the story.
“And you know where he hid the body?” said Sy. His smirk got bigger, if that was possible. “He hid it right here, on this campus.” Tim didn’t move. Neither did fatty. “Lots of people have gone looking for it, but no one’s found it yet. He hid it real well. Of course, if you found it, you’d probably be pretty famous. Picture in the paper and all that. But if you ever try, you’d better watch out.”
There was silence for a second or two, than Fatty whispered, “Why?”
Sy looked at him, that famous smirk still on his face.
“Because the ghost of Edmund Swett Rous-maniere haunts this place nights, looking for his father’s body.”

* * * * *
As the day went on, Tim could think of nothing but the story. He didn’t know if it was true or not, and after Latin class he decided to find out. As the rest of the class filed out, Tim stayed behind. Professor Nidio was sitting at his desk. He was one of the school’s oldest professors, with gray hair and the beginnings of a beard. After a little while, he looked up.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Tim?”
“I was just wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“Well, go ahead.”
“It’s just that … I heard a story today. Simon Viddy told me. What do you know about the … murder?”
There was silence. Tim looked at the old professor. He had suddenly frozen, and his face seemed pale. Tim waited. After a short while Prof. Nidio spoke.
“All I’ll say is, look to the statues. On the left hand side … I mean, left foot. Oh …. Oh, Holy Mary ….”
And then he buried his face in his hands, and would not say any more.

* * * * *

The pickup truck motored down St. Theresa’s Ave., and paused by the church.
Tim glanced nervously at Fatty. They were here at St. Theresa’s church, 2078 Centre St., West Roxbury, late on a Saturday night to act on what Tim had heard from Sy and Professor Nidio. Together the two of them had decided that they would try and find the body, and, as Sy said, get their name in the paper or maybe even be on TV. Fatty’s brother had agreed to drive them in exchange for a mention when their story came out.
But now, of course, Tim was having second thoughts. The night was unusually dark, with a crescent moon hanging in the sky, and Sy’s story echoed in Tim’s head, particularly the part about the ghost of Edmund Swett Rous-maniere. Tim and Fatty had chosen this time for the expedition so that they wouldn’t attract attention, and because there was limited parking on weekdays when school was in session (8 a.m. to 3 p.m.).
“I can park behind the church, right?” their driver asked.
Tim swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“All right. And Morse?”
“Yeah.”
“I better get on TV for this.”
Tim didn’t reply. The pickup pulled into the nearest parking spot and Fatty’s brother killed the motor. At first, the plan was for Tim and Fatty to get out and search together, based on the scant clues provided by Prof. Nidio, but on the way to the church, Fatty had decided that he would stay in the car and keep in touch with Tim via cell phone while he searched. With one last glance at his friend, Tim opened the door and stepped out into the dark parking lot, switching on his flashlight. He closed the door and looked around, figuring that this would be as good a place to start as any.
Suddenly his flashlight beam lit on something. He moved closer. It was a statue of a woman. He walked around to the front, and saw that her heart was pierced by a sword. At first Tim was shocked, then he remembered he was at a church. This must be the Virgin Mary. “Holy Mary.” That was what Prof. Nidio had said. He had also mentioned something about left, or left hand.
Tim turned to the left and followed the path. His flashlight beam traced over another small statue under a tree, remembering something from his Art History textbook. This was St. Theresa of Avila, the church’s namesake. She was a 16th century Spanish nun and mystic, who founded the Carmelite order. Tim racked his brains searching for something in what Prof. Nidio had said. He turned left at the end of the path and walked through the parking lot and up a set of stairs to Pine Lodge Road. He cast a furtive look at the convent, but was glad to see he hadn’t awakened any of the nuns.
So far, he had seen two statues. He remembered that Bernini had made a famous statue of St. Theresa showing her pierced by an arrow. Could that be it? Mary’s heart had also been pierced too? Why did all these statues have somebody being stabbed? Mr. Swett Rous-maniere was stabbed too; maybe that’s what the statues were saying. What else had Prof. Nidio said?
Suddenly, directly behind him, he heard a footstep. Tim’s heart swooped, and, without thinking, he broke into a run. Forgetting the clue, he turned right, and pelted along. But after a few yards he glanced over his shoulder. His heartbeat slowed.
Walking much more slowly, but still very much on edge, he turned left onto St. Theresa’s Ave, dimly thinking of Prof. Nidio’s hint about turning left. Soon he turned left onto the next street, Homewood Road.
At the end of this street was a stone wall covered with vines with a stone scroll at the top. What was that odd shape? He peeked around the other side of the wall, and shone his flashlight on a strange stone face, that seemed to be staring at him. He thought for a little bit, and another memory surfaced, this time from his last Classics class. This was Bacchus, or Dionysus, a Greek god. Bacchus was the god of ….
Tim thought some more. Wine…. Bacchus was the god of wine. “Look to the statues,” the professor had said…. Wine…. An Inspiration struck him. That was it! Sy’s story! Joseph Warren getting drunk and losing his herd of famous cows to Mr. Swett Rous-maniere, who used them for…
At that moment, his flashlight fell on another statue in they yard behind the wall. This one was of a cow, not a normal one, with brown spots, but with a white hide that had something bright red all over it. Tim spoke the end to his thought:
“Beef.”
This was scary. This was just someone’s house, not even part of the old school. Where had the statues come from? Who lived here? Why were they displayed outside? Tim started to back away slowly, down the street, then turned and hurried back to St. Theresa’s Avenue.
He turned left and went along for two blocks, passing Churchill Road and Latin Road, following the black iron fence that surrounds Roxbury Latin School. The trail of the left-hand clue had gone slightly cold, and he decided the best course of action would be to enter the school grounds. He passed a small gate, which appeared to be locked, until he came to the Main Entrance. He paused, and shone his light on the shield at the top of the large gate. It bore a golden tree, and two signs that he recognized as Alpha and Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet.
As he stood looking at the shield, there was suddenly another noise behind him. Instead of running, he froze and turned slowly around. Behind him was a tall, shadowy figure. Its identity was indiscernible in the night, but one thing was certain; it was walking towards him.
Tim turned and ran, pelting up the street, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the mysterious figure. He reached Quail Street, and charged through the entrance into the school grounds.
He ran down the roadway for what felt like ¼ of mile, searching for a way to escape the figure. The playing fields, to his right, were bathed in moonlight, but he could see no way into them. A long row of evergreens cast dark shadows, and suddenly he spotted a small gap between the trees. Veering toward it, he passed a fire hydrant, into the fields beyond.
Up ahead he saw three arches. He ran to them, and as he passed beneath them he bent over, out of breath. Regaining his senses, he stopped and looked around.
At this point he wasn’t sure where the clues were leading him, and the memory of the dark figure filled his mind. Suddenly he remembered the cell phone in his pocket. He hesitated, then reached for it. It was time to end this adventure. If that man hadn’t been a ghost, what was he doing here, at this hour? He flipped open his cell phone and stared at it aghast. The screen was blank. The batteries were dead. He was trapped here, alone, with that sinister figure.
Tim tried to calm himself down. If there was someone here now, it didn’t mean that they were a ghost. It was probably just a janitor, or some security guard. Anyway, he had gone to all this trouble to find the body of Mr. Swett Rous-maniere, so he might as well keep going.
He took the path on his left, not really believing it would take him the right way, but eager to get somewhere. He passed diagonally across the small courtyard, then followed the path toward a tunnel of trees. Above the trees he saw something high on the wall. It was a bas-relief sculpture of a familiar looking man’s head. Recognizing it as another classical figure, this time Plato, the great Greek philosopher, he stopped and looked more closely at it. He remembered reading Plato’s description of the death of Socrates. He had committed suicide by drinking hemlock. Another clue?
Looking around, he noticed that the path led through a small tunnel of trees. He glanced back at the carving of Plato. The figure was there, looking intently at the ground below the carving. Tim froze, but the figure didn’t seem to have noticed him. He crept slowly along the path to the overhanging shade of the trees, then, when the figure was out of sight, broke into a run and dashed through the trees, coming out in another courtyard.
Looking up, he saw the school Clock Tower, topped by a weather vane. The bells in this octagonal tower chimed him and the other students to classes every day. On the brick building on his left he saw the school shield, but this time the arbor, alpha & omega flanked by two scholars and topped by a rampant lion. And the school motto “The Dead Teach the Living.” Was it Joseph Warren’s way of apologizing for what he had done to Edmund Swett Rous-maniere’s father?
He shone his flashlight around and spotted something else. It was a plaque. He came closer to read it. It commemorated Edmund Swett Rous-maniere, 1879, A Roxbury Latin Schoolboy.
His flashlight slid from his grip and fell to the ground. This whole time he somehow hadn’t really believed it. Even after the cow, Bacchus, the mysterious dark figure, he had doubted the story. But here it was, proof, that Edmund Swett Rous-maniere was real; all of it was real.
Numbly, Tim picked up the flashlight and followed the path clockwise around the courtyard. He passed two more bas-reliefs of angles reading a book, and, as he came back toward the tunnel of trees, turned left up a path toward a brick courtyard.
On his right was another statue.
The statue was of Joseph Warren, holding a sword. His heartbeat quickened. Edmund Swett Rous-maniere’s plaque, and now Joseph Warren’s statue, right next to each other.
Was that it? Was the body here?
At that moment, however, he thought of something else. The dark figure looking at the ground near the caving of Plato. No. The dark figure was looking where Plato’s feet would have been. Left foot, the professor had said, not left hand.
He looked at the statue’s left foot, but didn’t notice anything. Then turned his flashlight beam, and his eyes, to the spot where the statue’s left toe pointed. Beyond a brick wall, two Mockernut Hickory trees were growing together, the smaller tree growing out of the base of the larger tree. Could the body be there?
He hurried over to the trees and looked behind them, but there were no clues there. One last hope, then. He turned left.
Walking down the sidewalk, with a brick wall on his left, he found himself counting his steps. These trees were tall; probably about 150 years old. That’s when the body would have been buried. And some were hemlock trees, like Socrates drinking hemlock. Did one look warped, or twisted, like it had something in its roots?
After about 16 paces, he came to another tree, a maple, with a V-cleft in it. Behind it was a rocky outcropping, with a crevice in it.
On a hunch, he shone the flashlight into the gap. He gasped.
And then a hand seized him from behind….