Tim Heaton's Blog, page 2

Tip early and Tip more than you should.

Nigel (Trick) Roddey Albright is featured in Tim Heaton’s series of Southern Gothic Techno-Thrillers. Trick is from Holly Springs, Mississippi, where his mother’s family settled in 1830. Trick’s father, Alistair, was English. In high school, the family moved to London, where Trick finished schooling at the Harrow School and the University of Cambridge. After a dozen or so years with an international hedge fund, and surviving a failed marriage, he returned to Holly Springs in semi-retirement to explore civilization’s mysteries as they come his way.

Visit Trick’s Amazon page https://www.amazon.com/Trick-Albright/e/B083Y6184N%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

Trick Albright is featured in TETRAGRAMMATON available now https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07XPJJVM1/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i2

Just released!

Let’s Get Naked! All the Southern Expressions Revealed.

“Let’s Get Naked” is Trick Albright’s catch-phrase
for “Lets’s get going.”  “Naked” might be
the finest word in the English language, and it’s a lot of fun to
pronounce. 

Try it yourself, in Allegro, like this: “Neck –
Id.”

See? I told you so.

(Trick Albright is featured in TETRAGRAMMATON and INKARRI, Tim Heaton’s Southern Gothic Techno-thriller series.

Let’s Get Naked: All the Southern Expressions Revealed. Just released and FREE today(3/5)

“Let’s Get Naked” is Trick Albright’s catch-phrase
for “Lets’s get going.”  “Naked” might be
the finest word in the English language, and it’s a lot of fun to
pronounce. 

Try it yourself, in Allegro, like this: “Neck –
Id.”

See? I told you so.

(Trick Albright is featured in TETRAGRAMMATON and INKARRI, Tim Heaton’s Southern Gothic Techno-thriller series.

Trick Albright’s thought of the day

Own a handcrafted shotgun. It’s a beautiful thing.

Trick Albright’s concerns for the weekend.

It’s not that I’m unlucky at love, It’s just that I’m just incredibility lucky with celibacy.

Trick’s Thursday Thought

It’s okay to trade luxury in your 90s for guaranteed fun in your 20s.

Trick’s Master-Class Tips for Valentine’s Day

Unveil your performance in a target-rich environment so that it will be noticed and envied by new prospects.

Favorite Trick Quotes

Being unencumbered with ideals and a conscience is a highly successful advancement strategy, as glance at your betters certainly confirms.

TETRAGRAMMATON Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Ethel Voynich

Two days after
the manuscript’s delivery, the grounds of Shadowlawn, Holly Springs, MS.

Through a column
of ancient magnolia grandiflora trees in full bloom and downwind from the big
house at Shadowlawn, stands a garage that any car lover would cherish. Outside
it looked like the antebellum era stable it once served as, but now it held a
different sort of horsepower: a 1934 Rolls Royce 20/25 HJ Mulliner Limousine, a
rare 1938 301 Frazer-Nash BMW 328, and a basket-case of a Bugatti that the late
Mr. Albright, Trick’s father, found in a barn over in Clarkdale, MS. Trick
shared his late father’s passion for cars, although his current love is not
quite a car and a bit more than a motorcycle—a Morgan 3-wheeler.

The Morgan
Company describes the 3-wheeler as “a rebellion against sanitized, modern
motoring” and that the machine represents “no frills, all thrills motoring with
character.” The experience of driving a Morgan is incomparable by modern
automotive standards. A 1998cc V-Twin engine propels the Morgan from 0 to 60 in
under 6 seconds. It features a space-frame chassis, a handcrafted ash wood
frame, and aluminum body panels, which all conspire to hold the weight—less
than 1,200 pounds–1/3 of a Porsche 911. Unlike a Porsche, the Morgan 3-wheeler
would be a poor choice for long-distance travel. Trick barely fit into the car,
he had to slouch down to keep the top of his head under the windscreen.

Veronica walked
up to Trick with the Voynich under one arm. “Trick honey, I worry about
you in this thing.” She frowned and added. “How do you fit in here?
One nudge from a Piggy Wiggly truck and you’re arse over teakettle.”

Mousse, who sat
in the only other seat in the car, wagged her tail, looked up at Veronica and
let out a “woof” of expectancy.

“Well, good
morning, Mousse. Talk some sense into Nigel, will you?”

Mousse grinned at
Veronica as much as a dog could, then pawed Trick’s arm as if to say,
“Let’s go!”

Trick ignored his
mother’s use of his given name unless she used his full name “Nigel Roddey
Albright,” which from childhood to the present day always meant deep trouble.

“Don’t worry
about me; this June-bug can move!” Trick nested his butt in the bucket
seats. The seats were the authentic bucket-type and were as confining as
sitting in a water bucket.

Veronica folded
her arms in admiration. “Bless your heart; it does look like a
June-bug.”

The Swiss-watch-like
jewel of an automobile had no doors, windows, or roof. Because it was terrifically
light, the car did not have power-assisted steering or brakes. Driving it is a
visceral experience. Mousse loved riding in it too.

“Mousse and I are
going to the Pig to get a few things for dinner.”

Mousse’s ears
flicked at the mention of her name and dinner. 
Mousse knew several commands, as well as the words: bowl, treat, and
squirrel.

“We must be on a
diet. You don’t have much room for groceries in this machine.” 

Trick caressed
the steering wheel as his bottom held fast in a bucket seat. It didn’t have a
trunk, but it did have a luggage rack over the rear wheel. The Morgan interior was
crafted of leather, walnut, and machined aluminum. The cockpit was complete
with aircraft-like dials, instrumentation, and lots of toggle switches; it gave
the sensation of flying an open cockpit biplane.

“Fitting in
this car is the only reason I torture myself at the gym,” Trick paused,
“Well, that and eating, wine, and bourbon.”

“Speaking of,
what are you making for supper?”

Hearing the word
supper, Mousse sat up and let out a loud “woof.”

Trick gave the
dog a chin scratch and said, “Well mother, what would you and Mousse like?”

Veronica placed
her glasses on top of her silver page-boy haircut and looked at Mousse as if
for approval, “I was thinking that since we have leftover lamb, you could make
stuffed peppers with egg-lemon sauce.”

“Done. With
peppers or grape leaves?”

“Either is fine,
but Piggly Wiggly in Holly Springs probably won’t have grape leaves.”

“Right,” Trick
drawled.

“Do wear goggles,
please.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Does it
have seat-belts?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Veronica pointed
to the dash, “What do all these toggle switches do?”

“Mousse
knows. I’m not quite sure.”

Mousse raised her
muzzle and answered, “Woof, bark, bark, bark!”

Veronica gave
Mousse an ear scratch and noticed the instrumentation. “Smith’s gauges. I
recall how dependable those are from that Mini we had in London. Do they
work?”

“They sure
do.” Trick smiled, “Just not on days ending in ‘y’.”

Veronica shook
her head in wonder; boys and their toys. Her husband loved driving this
car.  He wanted to go to the Cranwell,
the Royal Air Force Academy, but chose a big football school in America instead.
He went pro but never got around to learning to fly. This car was as close to
flying as he got. Southerners love their eccentrics. But it must have been
quite a sight around Marshall County—a former All-Pro lineman barnstorming down
the back roads wearing goggles, bow tie, and seersucker jacket.

Trick heaved
himself out of the tiny car and walked over to the lounge area of the garage. He
beckoned his mom to follow. Mousse curled up in the car to nap until riding
time.

“What else
did you learn about the book?”

Veronica handed
the book to Trick. “The Voynich is a mystery that some of the greatest
minds in cryptography have failed to crack. Some researchers believed it to be
a lost book by Roger Bacon and worth a fortune.“ Veronica looked over Trick’s
shoulder as he examined a page with fanciful botanical illustrations.
“Some speculated that it was the young Leonardo da Vinci’s coloring book.
Others believe it to be a forgery.”

Trick looked over
to his mother. “Leonardo da Vinci!?”

“Yes. A Yale
scholar noticed a similarity between the drawings and Leonardo’s work. Da Vinci
was born into a wealthy family, and it would have taken a king’s ransom to
create this book. The leaves are goatskin, and the ink often included crushed
gems.”

Trick turned the
page.

His mother referred
to a page containing flowering plants, “That explains why the colors are
still vibrant after five centuries. Also, a gifted artist created the pictures.
Veronica pointed to a drawing of a woman bathing in a bright green pool.”
These may look like childish doodles, and that might be the point, but painting
with crushed gem pigments is extremely difficult.”

Tricked furrowed
his brow. “So, you’re saying that someone painted it to look like a
doodle.”

“Could be.
But bear in mind the original book cost around $100,000 in today’s dollars to
make.”

Trick gave an
astonished whistle.

Veronica looked
over Trick’s shoulder and pointed to some ordinary-looking black ink.
“Pigment and ink formulas were a closely guarded secret and made of stuff
from a witch’s cauldron: insect parts, soot, a virgin’s urine.”

“Well, virgins
are probably rarer today than back then,” Trick puckered his face. “Wasn’t velum
expensive as well?”

“Right. The
leaves are made from goatskin, not wood pulp. It’s very labor-intensive to be
sure. Essentially the book is a stack of large leather gloves. Parchment this
size came from the center of the hide and is very expensive. Large, foldout
pieces like the ones found in the book are very rare and would be an
extravagance. ”

Trick flipped
through the book until he got to one of the large foldout pages, “Look,
it’s a medieval centerfold.” He held out a depiction of naked women
dancing in a circle.

Veronica ignored
Trick’s fake infatuation with the nude pictures. In grade school, she caught
him with a stack of Playboy magazines, and they still teased each other about
it.

“The
manuscript was known by several names, the Bacon Manuscript for one, but eventually
the manuscript took the name of the rare book dealer, Wilfrid Voynich, who
discovered the book in the early 20th century.”

Trick held the
book with both hands, flipping it sideways as if to scrutinize the nude
drawings. “If it has been around since da Vinci, who else owned it?”

 “The book’s history may be more
interesting than the book. The owners run the gamut from a Holy Roman emperor
whose favorite portrait depicted him as a vegetable platter, to the Voynichs who
were center stage during the great social revolutions of the early 20th
century.

“Did you say,
‘He had a portrait done as a vegetable platter’?”

Veronica pulled
up a Wikipedia page on her phone and showed the portrait to Trick–it did indeed
depict a face looking out of a salad.

“Meet Rudolph
II,” Veronica said. “A Hapsburg Dynasty ruler of the 16th century and an
eccentric’s eccentric. He kept a full division of dwarf soldiers at his castle
and let lions and tigers roam the corridors. He also collected erotic art.”

 Trick snorted a laugh. “Are we
related?”

“Your father’s
side, I suspect.”

Trick paged
through the Wiki images. “Lions and tigers and midgets, oh my.”

Taking the time
to scrutinize some of the erotic nudes that Rudolf collected, “The emperor
was an ass-man,” he thought, but dared not say in front of his mother. He
knew when to stop. But to tease her, he twisted the phone around and magnified
the artwork.

Veronica let out
an “ugh” of disgust and attempted to rescue her phone. Trick was
quicker, so she had to settle for putting her hands on her hips. “‘Dwarf’
is the preferred term, not ‘midget.'”

Veronica grabbed
Trick’s ear like she did when he was caught with the Playboy magazines. He let
out an exaggerated “Owwww” and dropped the phone in her hand.

“Thank
you.” Veronica dropped her phone in her purse. “There is something else.”

Trick looked up,
“Yeeesss,” he drawled.

“There is a
reward for decrypting the book,” Veronica’s face darkened, “three billion
dollars.”

Trick’s mouth
gaped open like a landed cod, “Did you say ‘billion’ with a ‘B’?”

“Yes, billion
with a ‘B.’”

“This is
unbelievable. It’s fantastic!” Trick’s eyes sparkled at the thought. Then he
looked into his mother’s eyes, “What’s wrong? You’re not excited, in fact, I’d
say you were worried.”

“There’s a
catch.”

“Always is.”

“The prize money
must be used as an educational endowment for a K-12 school, and there are
strict rules about how the money is to be used.”

“Who cares!”
Trick began to pace the floor in long strides. “Finally, we have money to
provide the very best education to our local kids. Yale and Harvard will be
beating down our door. Three billion is enough to drive poverty out of this county
forever.”

“Yes, Veronica
admitted, “It would be a wonderful thing, and money attracts money so I would
expect that Holly Springs would be completely revitalized.”

“So why are you worried?”

“I haven’t found
the ‘gotcha,’” Veronica picked up the manuscript, “Also, the group that is
offering the prize insists on anonymity. How do we know the money is there?”

“Good point.” Trick
stroked his chin. “The other problem will be preventing politicians and other ne’er
do wells from lining their pockets with the prize money.”

“Yes, and that is
typically what happens when some well-meaning donor throws a lot of money at a
problem. People come out of the woodwork looking for a big payday.”

Veronica placed
her hand on Trick’s shoulder, “Honey, this would be a game changer for
this community.” She met Trick’s eyes, “Can you decrypt the manuscript?”

They both knew
that attempting to decrypt the manuscript without analyzing its provenance
would be like trying to break the Japanese Imperial Naval Code in WWII without
knowing the messages were sent in WWII, in Japanese, or about the Navy.  Trick developed an advanced machine learning computer
program which was christened “The Gin”  from his hedge fund career to help solve
mysteries like the Voynich Manuscript. But the data in this case was hundreds
of years old. It would be very challenging.

 “I reckon we should try.” Trick
said, exaggerating his drawl. “If the machine learning model can’t find
patterns in the text, then the Voynich Manuscript is likely a fraud. Our first
step shouldn’t take much time or expense.”

Trick picked up
his phone and searched for more of Rudolf II’s erotic art.

“Men!”
Veronica said as she typed out a group text that read ‘RUIN.’ This alerted all
the local Cassile Society members.

Tricked
wolf-whistled at the erotic portraits that came up in his phone. Veronica tried
to grab Trick’s phone and missed again.

“Perhaps it
is because I am a woman, but I feel the most interesting thing about Wilfrid
Voynich is his wife, Ethel. She was a novelist and composer of world renown who
counted among her friends the Who’s Who of the era.”

Tricked had his
head in his phone as he made a series of comments to share on his social media
profiles. 

Veronica wished
she had a long-handled wooden spoon from the kitchen, instead she folded her
arms and said in her ‘you best be paying attention voice,’ “Aaaaaand.”

Trick looked up
from the paintings of women’s behinds.

“Apparently,
Ethel had an affair with James Bond.”

[image error] [image error]

TETRAGRAMMATON Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Stirred, But Not Shaken

December 23,
1895, after the accident at Shepherd’s Bush railroad crossing.

Wilfrid Voynich
rushed to Sergey’s aid, but there was nothing left of his friend save for bits
of white bone, entrails, and blackened meat. He fell to the ground and heaved
his stomach on the track ballast. His fellow revolutionary and lover, Ethel
Boole hurried to his side. “Stay back!” Wilfrid shouted through spittle
and bile. “He’s gone.”

 Ethel appraised the scene like it was the
conclusion of an experiment. “I shouldn’t wonder.” Her dark-grey,
puritan dress mirrored a detached scientific demeanor. Ethel hid her natural
beauty and pleasing figure with a plain dress, no makeup, and utilitarian hairstyle.
She eschewed the frill and lace of Victorian clothing and the ‘New Woman’
fashion of feathered hats and tailored suits favored by the English upper
class. She looked past the grizzly scene hoping to spot the men that chased
Sergey onto the tracks.  She recognized
one of them as Sidney Reilly, a man soon be known as the “Ace of
Spies.”

Reilly is easy to
pick out in a crowd. He isn’t a handsome man. His slim build supported a head
too big for his body, and his long Roman nose and prominent ears were too big
for his head. He wasn’t much better up close—skinny and with an overly large
penis that most women found uncomfortable to manage. But he had a patrician
bearing, was charming in bed, and he made her laugh. They met on the quay while
boarding a liner to Italy last summer. Confirming that ocean voyages were
fertile soil for romantic adventures, they made love on the second night and
spent the rest of their holiday together.

Wilfrid heaved
again then struggled to his feet. Wobbling like a drunk, he stood up and wiped
the spittle off his chin with the sleeve of his coat, his eyes bloodshot from
stress, and his face pale. He shouted above the crowd. “Stop them! Who are
those men?”

The train’s
progress was unaffected by the accident. Neither of the train engineers noticed
Sergey due to the weather, impending darkness, and the disadvantage of sitting
behind the enormous boilers that blocked the crew’s view. Not that it would
have mattered much, the train needed a quarter mile to stop. As the trains
moved away from the crossing, crowds of gawkers began to stream in from every
direction. The only people walking away from the scene were Sergey’s two
pursuers.

“Hey, you
two!” Wilfrid’s courage swelled with the incoming throng. “Stop! Police!
Stop them!”

But he could not
be heard over the cries of the onlookers, and the two assassins began to fade into
the screen of falling snow.

“Who were
those men?” Wilfrid said to no one in particular. “Someone find the
police!”

“They are
the police,” Ethel took his arm, “At least they are a type of police.”

For a moment she
carried herself back to the bedroom in the Italian villa. Sipping champagne on
black velvet bedclothes in front of a fire and relishing the afterglow. Sidney
taught her many things about lovemaking, and she proved an avid student. But
his personal life was closed to her. Sidney evaded questions about himself and
his background. It got to be a running joke; he told her he was the son of an
Irish sea captain, the bastard son of a Cardinal, and the scion of Russian
aristocrats.

Whatever his
pedigree, Sidney was well-educated and knowledgeable in the finer things of
life. Most importantly, he made her laugh. Wilfrid, like all the radical left,
were humorless creatures who demanded to be taken seriously. Ethel smiled as
she recalled the shocked look on Sidney’s face when she drizzled warm chocolate
fondue on his body, then licked it off – the teacher had become the student.

As if he had read
Ethel’s thoughts, Sidney turned and tipped his hat in her direction, then
disappeared into a curtain of snow and people. Sidney trained himself to be
observant, and it was clear he spotted her. Ethel found his gesture arousing and
made her yearn for his body. Struggling to clear her mind of him, Ethel grabbed
Wilfrid by his elbow to lead him away.

 “Let’s go, Wilfrid.”

Wilfrid stared at
Ethel like a stranger, then jerked his arm away and ran after the two men.
Ethel watched Wilfrid fight the tide of gawkers coming the other way. It was a hopeless
attempt to catch them, and fortunate for Wilfrid, as he would have been a casualty.
It was peculiar that dangerous men never touted their skill, the same with
great lovers. Ethel allowed herself one last fantasy of the glorious nights
they spend at the Villa Aldobrandini south of Rome.

She murmured
under her breath, “Goodbye, my love.”

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