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And then the last peak is way up. So what does it mean? So Pietro was being poisoned all right. Which means that either our poisoner kept notching up the dose, and finally got impatient for some reason and hit him with the chemical equivalent of a two by four…". When a detective investigates a crime in a house, he needs a house plan. Cosimo shrugged. Perhaps I can borrow an assistant from one of the grand duke's architects; he'll do a better job than we could. I want the length and height of every wall measured, and every corner checked to make sure that it's a right angle.

I want to know the apparent thickness of every wall, beginning to end. Or even just a little hiding place. The dimensions of the study aren't right. This wall should be a foot further away from the windows, to match the next room over.

Cosimo did just that. The thought of a little authorized mayhem, even directed against the inanimate, was apparently pleasing to his martial spirit. Lewis rubbed his chin. If the secret compartment, or whatever, was accessed frequently, his lordship certainly wasn't bashing in the wall each time. Start feeling around for a hidden panel. They found it eventually, just below the ceiling. It had been superbly designed; it was no wonder they hadn't found it the first time they searched the house.

The compartment it concealed wasn't that big, but it was big enough to hold some oddly marked vials, and a journal. Lewis handed them down to Cosimo, then stepped off the chair. One of the vials contained a white powder. Lewis pointed to it, and Cosimo handed it over. Lewis pulled out the cork, and waved his hand over the top, wafting the released air toward him. I wonder what the book says. After reading the Latin mumbo-jumbo the alchemists write, I am pretty good at understanding esoterica. Not to mention reading really bad handwriting. Lewis had taken the first steps to solving the secret text.

First, he tabulated all the symbols used on the first few pages. There were 26 different ones, which implied that each stood for a letter of the Renaissance Latin alphabet. However, Lewis couldn't be sure whether the cipher was in Latin or Italian, and in any event, Lewis didn't have frequency tables for either language. That problem was easy enough to solve; he gave Cosimo and Marina a few texts in each language, and had them compile tables for him.

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In the meantime, he made a frequency table for the cipher. He was relieved to discover that it seemed to have the characteristic look, in terms of variation in frequency among the letters, of a monoalphabetic substitution cipher. That is, one in which each letter of the plaintext was replaced with a single cipher letter, and always that letter. Lewis had read that polyalphabetics had been invented in the fifteenth century, and wasn't at all sure that his deciphering skills were up to tackling one. I'll go blind if I look at any more Latin gobbledegook today.

Lewis looked it over.

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Assuming that Lewis hadn't made any mistakes in converting the symbols into letters, and that Pietro, or whoever, hadn't thrown in too many nulls, abbreviations, code names or mistakes. Although each entry begins with a date. So I will decipher the first few entries, and then switch to the last ones.

Summon the coach, have them wait for you, don't go off with any strange men. Actually, with any men. Lewis went back to work. He was still working when she returned, late in the evening. But he was able to tell her something important. The text wasn't a diary, exactly.

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It was a journal. An experimental journal. The next morning, when Cosimo arrived at the door, Lewis was waiting for him. We are going to collect information, not to make arrests. I'll explain along the way. Lewis held up his hand. He questioned and fired a few servants, but of course he then had to hire new ones, who he soon suspected in turn.

In desperation, he began his experiments. Leopold smiled at her. He fought three wars with Rome. He was afraid of assassination, and he protected himself from poisoners by taking tiny doses of many different poisons. Then when he was about to be captured by the Romans, he tried to poison himself, without success. Had to ask a friend to run him through with a sword. See, brother, I wasn't sleeping during my history lessons. Ferdinand pretended to yawn. I guess you came awake if you heard the words 'poison' or 'sword. Lewis coughed, and Ferdinand motioned for him to continue.

Probably every other month, which is why the arsenic level in his hair fluctuated the same way. And he kept increasing the dose, as his tolerance increased, which is why the peaks got higher and higher. A poisoner got through his defenses? And I suppose I can't rule it out, completely. But his secret journal records where he bought his arsenic. On those mysterious solitary trips in disguise that Cosimo told us, I believe.

Pietro usually went to Cinelli's. But this last bottle, he got it from Rossi. I'm not sure why; perhaps Cinelli was out of town. I made tests on the arsenic in the secret compartment, and also bought arsenic from both Cinelli and Rossi directly. Cinelli's, on the other hand, was, excuse my French, crap. I think Cinelli was adulterating his arsenic all these years, and Pietro never realized it. Rossi, on the other hand, was an honest man. When Pietro bought arsenic from him, it was pure stuff.

Consequently, Pietro received a much greater dose than he was expecting. I will tell Silvia that she and her son are now free of suspicion, and there will be no interference with the disposition of the estate. I am most gratified with your work on this matter. But please, while you are welcome to mention your Marsh test in your lectures, please say nothing about the ability of this atomic absorption spectrophotometer in Grantville to detect arsenic in even a hundred-year-old corpse.

At least, not to anyone other than a member of my family. Do you know how to dance the gagliarda? Wouldn't he want to discourage future would-be poisoners from practicing their art in his realm? The archduchess leaned over, and whispered her explanation. In , my Uncle Francesco and Step -Aunt Bianca"-she carefully enunciated the "step"-"both suffered a sudden illness.

Francesco was the grand duke at the time, Papa being his younger brother. Fortunately, Papa had arrived at the villa a few days earlier. He took charge, seeing to it they had the best possible care. The grand duke's death was, according to Papa and his physicians, because of Francesco's terrible eating habits.

And Bianca's grief was too great for any mortal to bear, so she died the same day. From the stress of watching Francesco's decline, no doubt. The autopsies confirmed that the deaths were completely natural, and Papa bowed to the inevitable and became the next grand duke. Ferdinando the First. His first son was my older brother Cosimo, who fathered Ferdinando the Second. The word 'poison' was trotted out. It is really annoying, the way people think 'poison' as soon as you say 'Medici. If the results were anything but unambiguously negative, then they could be used to question the legitimacy of Ferdinando's rule.

One of Henrich's company-probably his daughter, the timing was right and she looked just like him-had a fever. The stout lass was down and likely would not be getting up. She had been no help with loading the mules for three days and then, unable to walk, she had to be carried the last half day to the inn. Now she was out of her head with fever and out of milk for her child. He never should have taken her on as hostler help. But she had gone ahead loading and unloading the mules through it all with nary a word of complaint or a hint of expecting things to be different.

Indeed, when someone started to help her out when her belly was at its biggest, she cursed the lad roundly. Then she gave birth in the night after having done her full share of the work the evening before and she did her full share the morning after. Her boy was now a toddler and could have been weaned already but the mother thought breast-feeding would keep her from getting pregnant.

They tried giving him solid food, but he would not eat and now he would not stop crying. Her man died in that corner…" The innkeeper pointed with his chin at a spot in the front room. We buried him in the churchyard. It is damned good the Irish are all Catholics. The priest was not about to let any but Catholics be buried there.

She gave birth in that same corner and buried her man and babe on the same day. I need her gone. She hasn't enough language to wait tables, the regulars are fighting over who gets her, and the other girls are deathly jealous. Here, she's poison. You need a nurse, I need her gone. Take her. The innkeeper snorted.

What an odd question, he thought. Who did the merchant think he was dealing with? He had no intention of giving the girl a choice. She will be quite agreeable. Once again Maire was off to where she knew not. That was the story of her life since leaving Dromiskin in County Louth with Tadhg. It was all a grand adventure until Tadhg didn't come back from his last battle. Maire found him on the field with his face blown away. She lost his child when it came too early into the world. Ruairi looked after her in her bereavement, but he failed to come back to camp before everyone fled when a battle became a rout.

If he lived, he never did find her. Alexander was next on hand to see to her needs but he caught the wound fever and wasted away. She stayed with him when he could not keep up and the rest of the band moved on. She was delivered of his child the day before he died. Father and son were laid to rest together in the church yard. Now a traveling merchant had taken her on. Oddly, he saw to it that she slept alone, except for the babe.

The merchant fed her often and well, much better than he needed to just to keep her in milk. He was buying meat daily and watching to see that she ate everything on her plate… almost as if he wanted to fatten her up. He also insisted that she learn English and a start on being able to read. We are going southeast. England is west of here. They got as far as Nijmegen in the Netherlands. There weren't enough Englishmen in County Louth to call the language at all common. She had heard it a few times in the inn as a child and young girl, but no more than that.

When we arrive, there may be a good job for you there. If there is, you will need to speak English. But there is a man there who speaks English and his wife is due any day now. They will want a nurse. If we are lucky, that will be you. It will help if you speak English. Maire asked no more questions. It did not matter. She was eating well and sleeping warm and dry, and she had a child to care for and love.

What else could one ask for in this life? You're too late. Dietrich passed me several days ago with two in tow. Dietrich's Irish were turned down. Dietrich abandoned them at the first inn he came to when he left Augsburg. They were still there when I came through. Caspar, annoyed at being upstaged, looked across the room. How is the dispatch business going? The American insisted that his wife could only hire an Irish nanny with red hair, but when he saw the two Dietrich brought to town he said to Dietrich, 'they look like they were rode hard and put away wet.

What are they, camp followers? He claims he said, 'What did you expect, a virgin wet nurse? The other version says the American told him to leave and to take his bedraggled guttersnipes with him. The next day Henrich resolved to instruct Maire in behaving like a shy maiden, something she never had been. Shy, that is. After all, every girl was a maiden once upon a time. He began by instructing Maire on her back-story. You were raised on a small farm.

Maire snorted and let off with a string of obscenities. My mother had no idea who my father was. I was raised in the barnyard of an inn with the chickens and the pigs. A boy I knew wanted to follow the wild geese and asked me to go with him, or most likely I'd be there still. The boy was a lad from the same barnyard, not much older than she.

He was a gentle lover and a sweet lad As he was reaching a man's height there was no place for him in the staff. If you look up, you are ready to fight. Fight with me, girl, and you will lose. The only question is how badly you will hurt when we are done. But that is not the point. A sweet, young, blushing maid will not make eye contact; she will avoid confrontation. I can land you a good job as a sweet, young widow.

They will have no use for a loud, harsh wench out of some inn's barnyard with shit between her toes. They will not want a whore raising their child. Maire blinked and thought about what he said. When the blink was over, her eyes were on her feet and she was pulling her lower lip into her teeth. Very good. I almost believe it myself. And another thing, this boy was your husband. He was the only man you ever knew carnally. I doubt you have ever been married, but from now on you refer to any man you laid with as 'my husband. Do you understand? Don't look up. Just nod your agreement while counting your toes.

At the next inn there was a troupe of wandering entertainers who had exhausted their welcome and were moving on. Since they were traveling in the same direction, Henrich arranged for someone to instruct Maire in singing as they walked. It turned out the lass had a good ear, as well as a clear, sweet voice, and clever hands. The instructor convinced Henrich that she had promise as a lute player and just by chance the company had an extra lute they were willing to part with. Someone died or left it or couldn't pay? Who knows? He couldn't or wouldn't pay us but he offered me the lute instead.

The strings were dead but I've restrung it. A little oil and a lot of rubbing made it look good. It would take a professional to know it had suffered from neglect. It had also been left with the strings taut so the neck was warped. Thomas strung it over the backside. After a month of careful adjustment the instrument was playable, at least enough to be passed off on some rank amateur.

When they parted company, Maire had the basics for the lute down. Her teacher's parting words were, "Don't worry about speed. That will come with practice. Work on your chord changes and your rhythm. Play a little everyday you have a warm place, and remember to let the instrument warm and cool slowly.

Henrich saw to it she played every night, after dinner. He even taught her a few songs he remembered from his visit to the theater in the Higgins' Hotel in Grantville. One night, after he had spent over an hour helping her get the tune and the words to an English song just right, Maire finally asked, "Why are you doing this? Henrich smiled. In a voice full of piety he answered, "It is an act of Christian charity, my child. Marie looked down and counted her toes. She couldn't bite her lip because she was too busy gritting her teeth. It might make things go better if you know. There is a man in Augsburg, an American from Grantville.

I'm sure you've heard of those. He is doing quite well. He is the merchant's agent in Augsburg for a great many concerns. The business that passes through his hands is worth several fortunes. I want a slice of that trade. If the man owes me a favor then I will turn a profit on it.

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You are that favor. For some reason, he has told his wife she may only hire a redheaded Irish lass as a nursemaid for his child. There isn't one to be had in all of Augsburg. I know at least three men who are racing to Ireland and back or scouring the army camps for such a lass. By chance, I stumbled over you. If they will take you on as part of the household, then every time I come to Augsburg, your uncle Henrich will look in on you to see how you are doing and he will leave you some small trifle he has found on his journeys that he thinks you will like.

And perhaps they will let you keep…" Henrich looked to the toddler on Maire's hip. If not then perhaps I can find someone near by to raise him where you can keep an eye on him. I would like it if I knew that someone who loved the boy was watching out for him. If not, then I need to find something else to do with my grandson. Is that enough reason for you? By and by she found herself in the city of Augsburg, freshly bathed, in new and modest apparel, on her way with Henrich to a meeting with H.

Burston and his wife Catharina. This Henrich hasn't had time to go to Ireland and back. So this girl will have been through the wars like the last two you turned down. I do wish you would be sensible and just let me hire a local girl.

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It was by way of being formal. He thought he had her, mostly, trained to his more comfortable, informal, West Virginian ways. It would be unthinkable to not even look at what he has to offer. Yes, the last two prospects were not what we wanted, but in time, if we are patient, what we want will walk through the door. When it comes to business you have all the common sense in the world.

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Why can't you apply those same principles to a simple family matter? Any wet nurse, will have a sad tale of misery and woe or she would not be hiring herself out while she is still in milk. The best cooks were French chefs, so he insisted they hire a Frenchman to cook for them. A rich man got into his car and said, "Home, James," in that upper class almost-British accent, so he wanted an English coachman named James.

In the movies, the servants who knew how to have fun were Irish. It was okay to have straitlaced, stern German chambermaids keeping things clean, but his children should have fun growing up. He was rich. He should be able to have what he wanted. What he wanted was an Irish lass to raise his children. There is no perhaps about it. You are not being fair with me in this matter. At best, a wet nurse is a tragic woman who recently lost her child or she wouldn't be in milk. She probably just lost her husband as well, or she wouldn't need to be self-supporting.

And that is if she ever had a husband. The truth is, most likely, her tale will be a sordid one. Or if she has been a wet nurse for a long time, and she is looking for a job, then you can be sure she has no personality or no skills. If she had either she would have been kept on in the household after the child was weaned and she would no longer be a wet nurse. It is just that… well… oh, never mind. Henrich said Maire recently buried her husband and her child. Catharina didn't let her smile show.

Horatio was on the verge of giving in. She was sure, when the coming interview was over, he would give up and let her hire whomever she wanted. There was no possible way any woman could look good after she got through questioning her. What she said next was carefully calculated to make her seem reasonable, to disarm her spouse and set him up for the next round, which she was now-finally-sure she would win. After all, maybe she will be what you want. One of the maids showed Henrich and Maire into the room H. He started to rise to greet his guests but Catharina's hand on his arm kept him in his seat.

She had, after all, her own firm ideas on what was and wasn't proper, and she also was working on training her new spouse. Catharina watched H. She took one glance at her husband's face and sharpened her questions to be sure the girl came off looking badly lest Horatio should decide to let her hire this one. The girl was young. She was clean and appeared demure or even shy. Her long, dark red hair framed a pretty face. Indeed, if Catharina did not already have someone picked out and waiting she might have wanted this girl as part of the household. Catharina squeezed his arm. He did not agree.

Besides, if the lass played the lute she probably needed to be seated to do so. Maire looked down and bit her lip to smother a chuckle. She unwrapped the lute, risking the rapid change of temperature just this one time. She quickly tuned the stings and began to sing a slow song in her native Irish tongue in a soft, sweet voice. It was nice but H. Maire started a second song in charmingly accented English without a pause, "Dough is for the rising bread, ray is for the rising sun. Me is a name for my rising self-". The words and the tune were almost, but not quite, familiar.

It nagged H. At last he made the connection. The song was almost like one of the signature tunes from the Maria von Trump… or von Trap… well, von something, anyway… story, the one where the failed nun was sent to raise a family of children and ended up marrying the father. When she finished the song H. We'll take her. Catharina's mouth fell open and was as quickly closed.


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She was not given the chance to ask the new nursemaid a single question. What could her husband be thinking? She sighed the most exasperated sigh imaginable and said under her breath, " Americans! Who can understand them? If she was going to get anything out of this other than the embarrassment of not getting to hire who she wanted, now was the time to get it.

And with the diapers to be washed the laundress will need some help. I was wondering if we might buy a sewing machine and hire a girl to help out for a bit. Catharina smiled. It wasn't the job the girl was expecting but at least she wouldn't have to turn her away after letting her think she would have a place in the household. Horatio was a generous man when he wasn't being stubborn. Catharina was sitting at the dining table, waiting for him. Her air of intense concentration clearly told H. It seems one of the help brought a sick child into the house.

Heads would be rolling just as soon as she found out who did it, who knew about it and didn't say anything or who didn't know about it but should have. Considering the history of plagues and epidemics and the high mortality rate of young children, her wrath was fueled as much or more by fear than anger. But, still, H. Catharina was a loving mother and a thoughtful, compassionate wife.

Unfortunately, those traits did not seem to apply when she was dealing with servants. I quite agree. We can't have the servants bringing sick children into the house. That's why I sent the doctor around to see him. You knew about this? Briefly H. Then he remembered that this was the s, that the money was his, and that she really didn't have much of anywhere else to go if she wanted to continue living in the manner to which she was accustomed. He hired Maire to care for the child and then he brought her here.

When she took this job he made arrangements with his usual inn to look after the boy for him. That is where Maire goes when she has time off. As I said, I've known for some time that she was unhappy with how the boy was being looked after. If she cares for the last lot, then she will care for the next.

I like knowing she cares. Now, I quite agree that we can't be having the help bring sick children to work, but this is the only home Maire has, so she sure couldn't leave the child with its grandmother, now could she? So I sent a doctor. That last girl you hired, Anna, can look after the boy and still get her work done. She's been unhappy and pining away over not having a child to care for since you hired her. Vance explains and a new two-part story from Jack Carroll and Edith Wild explores justice in Grantville.

Nonfiction concentrates on the aforementioned dirigibles, with highways in the air and the specifics for building a dirigible from Iver Cooper and Kerryn Offord. Kristine Kathryn Rusch discusses the past and the future, e-publishing, mass culture and more. You want to read this. Oh, my! Blood in the streets of Erfurt! Whatever could have happened?

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It's easy to find out. Just read Bjorn Hasseler's "Blood in Erfurt. We'll wait. The Amazing Dr. Gribbleflotz is back in Grantville Gazette, Volume Running for President? You must be wondering: President of What? Check out Kerryn Offord's "Dr. Phil for President. Dove's "Buddy" will bring tears to your eyes. Keeping Murphy in front of you is important in life. It helps stop accidents. Philip Neri, folks.

The conclusion of Jack Carroll's and Edith Wild's two-part story "Equal Rights" appears in this volume, and we're sure you'll be interested in what happened to the bad guys. Garrett W. Vance has characters deep in the Indian Ocean, stranded on an island. Nonfiction this issue is, as always, full of information.

And quite a good read, too. Iver P. Hard science fiction, a story that will set your heart to racing. Robert E. Waters, a new author for us, presents "The Game of War," in which you'll experience an area that hasn't been explored by our other authors. Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris are back with "The Play's the Thing," with intrepid reporter Betsy Springer and her sidekick although he'd hate that description Denis Semsa and a surprise guest. Kerryn Offord gives up "Paper Mate," a love story by any description. Herbert Sakalaucks is back, this time with "Aerial Donkeys," and no, that doesn't mean the donkey's have sprouted wings.

Tim Roesch brings us more up-timer oddities in "Letters Home, 1 and 2," a new serial written from a down-time perspective. Nonfiction covers a lot this issue. You'll enjoy it, we're sure. Join us for our November issue, number 38 in the ongoing saga of what's happening in Early Modern Europe. Did you ever wonder what would happen to some of the famous philosophers in the universe? Gotta go look this up "You must know, then, that there are two methods of fight, the one by law, the other by force: the first method is that of men, the second of beasts; but as the first method is often insufficient, one must have recourse to the second epub.

The famous astronomer Edmond Halley speculated on a hollow Earth, as did mathematician Leonhard Euler. Adolph Hitler expended considerable energy attempting to prove the theory, and tales of secret Antarctic nazi bases are still told Oceans Apart Oceans Apart. John Dee and others, actually was practiced in the Renaissance; positing a secret history of effective magic makes this an alternate history with a POD, Sir Philip Sidney 's surviving the Battle of Zutphen in , and shortly thereafter saving the life of Christopher Marlowe. If you make your own maps, what program do you use?

As an example, here's an alternate political map for the 21st century Western Asia. I go to the nearest university bookstore and buy a large sheet world or regional map, printed in blue in on white paper pdf. Under her watch, the city was completely rearranged. A detailed and organized street grid plan was laid out, that would become a model for numerous other cities Archimedes Slaked Volume 2 Archimedes Slaked Volume 2. This article possibly contains original research. Please improve it by verifying the claims made and adding inline citations.

Statements consisting only of original research should be removed. This article needs additional citations for verification. Please help improve this article by adding citations to reliable sources Parables: From the German of Krummacher Parables: From the German of Krummacher. The blaze was eventually quenched, and the crowd was brought under control by loading horse manure on to the alcohol on the street. While Guinness was celebrated in Dublin as an employer and for encouraging growth in the city, the success and expansion of the brewery was not welcomed by all download Grantville Gazette Volume 40 epub.