The Quest to Break America’s Most Mysterious Code—And Find $60 Million in Buried Treasure

Photo Illustration by Lucy Quintanilla. Image: iStock.
Photo Illustration by Lucy Quintanilla. Image: iStock.

A set of 200-year-old ciphers may reveal the location of millions of dollars’ worth of gold, silver, and jewels buried in rural Virginia. For the past century, the quest to break these codes has attracted the military, computer scientists, and conspiracy theorists. All have failed. Which raises the question: Are the ciphers and the treasure even real?

 
 

The medium gazed into the crystal ball and looked deeply into the past. The year was 1898, and the room in which he sat was dimly lit. But inside the mysterious orb, the year was 1819, and the scene was about to become blindingly bright.

The medium claimed he could see into the upper bedroom of Paschal Buford's tavern, an old watering hole below the Blue Ridge Mountains near modern Montvale, Virginia. The room was dark. Shades blanketed the windows and a wad of paper was plugged into the door's keyhole. Inside, a lone frontiersman named Thomas J. Beale eyed a pair of saddlebags resting on the bed.

Gently, he opened them. Light burst through the room. The medium shielded his eyes and shrieked.

“Jewels, by gosh! Diamonds! Rubies! Pearls! Emeralds!!”

Inside the crystal ball, Beale stared at the gems, smiled, and gingerly tucked the saddlebags under a pillow. The light receded.

Back in 1898, Clayton Hart watched the medium with jittery anticipation. Clayton’s brother George, a skeptic, stood nearby in silence. The two were trying to gather potentially life-changing information: Seventy-nine years earlier, Thomas Beale had reportedly buried millions of dollars of riches in the foothills near Montvale. The readings were the Hart brothers’ last-ditch effort to divine its location.


The Peaks of Otter tower over the purported location of Beale's treasure.
iStock

Lucky for them, the medium claimed to see the pioneer's every move: Beale had arrived at Buford’s tavern on horseback with a rifle resting on his lap, a pair of pistols on each hip, and two jewel-filled bags slung from his saddle. Five covered wagons followed him, some hauling iron pots of gold and silver. After resting at Buford's, Beale and his men buried that gold, silver, and jewels deep in the Virginia woods, approximately four miles from the tavern.

As the medium described its location, Clayton clung to every syllable.

Months later, under the cover of nightfall, Clayton and George steered a buggy full of shovels, ropes, and lanterns into Montvale. Joining them—reluctantly—was their trusty medium. Clayton hypnotized the mystic, who led the brothers up Goose Creek, over a fence, and across a burbling stream to a slumped depression in the earth.

The medium pointed to the dirt. “There’s the treasure!” he said. “Can’t you see it?”

Guided by lanterns and moonbeams, the Hart brothers dug. Hours passed. The hole deepened and the sky reddened. As daybreak loomed, tendrils of morning fog began to roll between the ridges. Clayton Hart thrust his pick into the red, iron-rich dirt and heard a hollow thud.

The brothers exchanged glances. Clayton dug frantically. When a large rock emerged, the brothers excitedly flipped it over. Nothing was below it.

The medium (who had refused to help all night, opting instead to lounge on a bed of dead leaves) was re-hypnotized and told to explain himself. He pointed to the roots of an oak tree just feet away and exclaimed: “There it is! You got over too far! Can’t you see it?”

The Hart brothers, exhausted and annoyed, left.

One week later, Clayton returned to that same spot with dynamite. The sky rained dirt, pebbles, and the splintered remains of that old oak tree—but no gold.

These events, described in a pamphlet written by George in 1964 [PDF], convinced the Hart brothers that mesmerism was not the path to fortune. If they wanted to discover Thomas J. Beale’s buried treasure, they’d have to search like everybody else: By solving a puzzle.

 
 

Beale's first cipher, revealing the location of the treasure.
Lucy Quintanilla

If the numbers above mean anything to you, congratulations: 2921 pounds of gold, 5100 pounds of silver, and $1.5 million of precious jewels—together valued at approximately $60 million—are yours for the taking, because you just cracked a cipher purported to reveal the location of the treasure Thomas J. Beale buried nearly 200 years ago.

The backstory of Beale’s treasure has been re-hashed countless times: Beale was a 19th century adventurer who supposedly discovered gold and silver on a hunting trip near the modern New Mexico-Colorado border. He lugged the riches home to Virginia and buried them, reportedly concealing the details—the location, contents, and heirs of the treasure—in three separate ciphers. So far, only one of those codes, Cipher No. 2, which describes the contents of the treasure, has been decrypted.

The codes are basic substitution ciphers. Each number represents a letter of the alphabet, which can be found by numbering the words in a “key” text. (Take the cipher [87 118]. If the key text is Mary Roach’s book Stiff, just number each word in her book. The 87th word starts with “h.” The 118th word starts with “i.” Therefore, the code spells “hi.”)

As long as a key is available, a substitution cipher is a safe, simple way to encrypt a message. The trouble with Thomas J. Beale’s ciphers, however, is that we don’t have the keys.

For the past two centuries, attempts to solve the Beale codes have been a guessing game. In the late 19th century, an anonymous amateur cryptanalyst stumbled on the key to Beale’s second cipher—the Declaration of Independence—and revealed this opening sentence:

I have deposited in the county of Bedford, about four miles from Buford’s, in an excavation or vault, six feet below the surface of the ground …

The message describes the treasure in detail and ends with this maddening sweetener: “Paper number one describes the exact locality of the vault so that no difficulty will be had in finding it.”

So far, it’s been nothing but difficulty.

Amateur and professional cryptanalysts have desperately searched for the lost key texts, consulting the Louisiana Purchase, Shakespeare’s plays, the Magna Carta, the Monroe Doctrine, the United States Constitution, "The Star-Spangled Banner," the Lord’s Prayer, the Songs of Solomon, the Book of Psalms, old local newspapers, and even the thrilling text of the Molasses Act of 1733. “Cryptanalysts say a second-grader could break the ciphers if he lucked in on the documents on which they are based,” journalist Ruth Daniloff writes [PDF]. Until that happens, the other two ciphers will remain an unintelligible jumble of numbers.

That’s a problem. Like all good riddles, the Beale codes have an addictive quality that curious people can’t resist. But unlike most riddles, solving them could make you a millionaire. Because of those stakes, the codes have the potential to consume—and ruin—people’s lives.

 
 

They come with metal detectors and magnetometers, Geiger counters and dowsing rods, backhoes and pickaxes, psychic mediums on speed dial and sticks of dynamite stuffed into their back pockets. They come motivated by a quirky Virginia state law that says buried treasure is finder’s-keepers (even if it’s discovered on private property). They come gripped by a monomaniacal belief that they—and only they—know where Beale’s treasure hides: the foothills, a farm, a cave, a grave, a cistern, a creek, an abandoned road. One treasure hunter insists it's buried at a local visitors’ center, right under the ladies room.

For these treasure hunters, a survey of the past 70 years of newspaper headlines shows a bleak pattern:

MAN HOT ON THE TRAIL OF THOMAS BEALE’S TREASURE.

FOLLOW-UP: MAN WRONG.

There’s the Chicago refrigeration contractor, certain he had broken the ciphers in five days, who convinced local officials to dig up a graveless patch of a cemetery, only to find clothes hangers (metal) and horseshoes (unlucky). There’s the Texas man who drove to Virginia, wife and kids in tow, simply to borrow a local roadmap that he believed would lead to the treasure. (It didn’t.) There’s the Massachusetts man who jumped out of bed, jolted by a dream, and drove bleary-eyed toward the Blue Ridge Mountains to test his prophecy. There’s the Oklahoma psychic who surveyed the Goose Creek Valley from a helicopter. There’s the Virginia Supreme Court Justice who scouted the location by bicycle; the Washington state man who hired armed guards; the anonymous man who kept an armored truck idling on a nearby road.

Beale treasure hunters are overwhelmingly male, though locals still chatter about one Pennsylvania woman, Marilyn Parsons, who cashed a disability check in 1983 and rented a backhoe to test her theory that the treasure was buried in an unmarked plot of a church graveyard. When she unearthed a coffin handle and human bones, she was arrested and advised to never step foot in Virginia again.

Like the Hart brothers, many treasure hunters trespass under starlight. In 1972, The Washington Post reported that local landowners regularly fired warning shots at strangers tip-toeing on their property. “People would sneak onto their land and blow big holes out of the ground and leave them that way. Cows would step in and break their legs,” Ed Easterling, a local Beale expert, says. “Most people here have resented it.”

The federal government owns swaths of land near Montvale—the Blue Ridge Parkway and Appalachian Trail weave through the peaks near town—and it doesn’t take kindly to unpermitted treasure-digging either. In the early 1990s, a Pennsylvania church group tore up the Jefferson National Forest on federal holidays, believing they’d elude the fingerwagging of rangers if they worked on the government’s day off. (They were caught and forced to re-fill the pits.)

A map of some of the possibilities of the location of Beale's treasure.
Lucy Quintanilla

Even those considerate enough to ask for permission are treated with hesitation, says Danny Johnson, a local farmer and winery owner. “A guy will sign a contract, saying he’ll put the land back in shape after digging. Then they go broke and leave! Then the landowner has to go and put their land back.”

A lot of treasure hunters, Johnson mentions, appear to go broke.

The guy who cracked the second Beale cipher is among them. Upon breaking the code, the anonymous cryptanalyst rode a wave of adrenaline that, according to one 19th century author, compelled him “to neglect family, friends, and all legitimate pursuits for what has proved, so far, the veriest illusion.” Peter Viemeister, a Bedford-based author who wrote the book The Beale Treasure: A History of a Mystery, said, “Once you get the Beale treasure in your system, it is hard to get it out. You could get possessed by it. Like drugs or gambling, it can lead a vulnerable person to stake everything on a dream.”

Families have crumbled, bank accounts have evaporated, and jobs have disappeared. One man, Stan Czanowski, spent $70,000 over seven years on dynamite and bulldozers. In the early '80s, one treasure hunter bankrupted himself after blasting rocks for six months. (He abandoned town still owing the local motel money.) An editor at the American Cryptograph Association spent so much time focused on the ciphers that he was fired. The researcher Richard Greaves, who investigated the Beale story for decades, called it “possibly the worst decision I ever made. If I would have devoted all the hours spent pursuing this treasure legend to the study of medicine, I would easily have become an accomplished neurosurgeon.”

Which makes it all the more painful to consider that Beale’s treasure—the ciphers, the story, the gold, the silver, and the jewels, even Thomas J. Beale himself—might all be a big, fat hoax.

 
 

In April 1817, Thomas J. Beale and a party of about 30 men reportedly left Virginia and moseyed west with the goal of hunting buffalo, grizzlies, and other critters frolicking in the wild frontier. When Beale’s party reached Santa Fe—then Spain’s domain—his crew split up and aimed for what is now the Colorado border. There, in a ravine, they discovered gold and silver. Over the following year, they mined thousands of pounds of precious metal.

The bonanza kept Beale looking over his shoulder. He knew his men were in hostile territory and eventually “decided that it should be sent to Virginia under my charge, and securely buried in a cave near Buford’s tavern, in the county of Bedford,” he wrote.

A mule train plodded east to St. Louis, where Beale exchanged some ore for jewels. When he arrived in Virginia, he buried the haul not in a cave as intended, but in a grave-sized plot about four miles from Buford's tavern.

Beale would repeat that trip once more before returning west for good in 1821. Prior to his final journey, he lodged at the Washington Hotel in Lynchburg, Virginia and befriended the hotel’s owner, Robert Morriss. As the story goes, before leaving, Beale handed Morriss a iron lockbox and advised him to open the box if he failed to return. Morriss didn’t know it, but that box contained the three ciphers.

That detail isn’t as fanciful as it may sound. Exchanging secret messages was common in the early 19th century—many men, especially veterans of the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812, had basic ciphering skills—and it’s likely that Beale and Morriss knew something about secret codes. But Beale never sent a key. And after 10 years, he failed to return.


Morriss would spend nearly two decades attempting to unravel the codes. In 1862, a year before his death, he handed the materials to an anonymous acquaintance who lucked onto the Declaration of Independence as a key. In 1885, that unknown man enlisted the help of James B. Ward to publish a pamphlet telling Beale's story. In 1885, “The Beale Papers” was published as a thin blue booklet. The price was $0.50.

It has created controversy ever since.

 
 

If that whole story sounds fishy, that's because it is.

To start, the story of Beale's trip west overflows with damning anachronisms. If history books are to be believed, Beale’s men found gold more than 30 years before precious metals were discovered in that region. Furthermore, there are no records documenting a party of Beale's size—one that almost certainly would have been arrested for trespassing on foreign soil—going west.

There are also problems with the ciphers. As Dr. Todd Mateer of the N.S.A. notes in a 2013 paper for the journal Cryptologia, if you decrypt Cipher No. 2 with the original Declaration of Independence, you don’t get:

I have deposited in the county of Bedford about four miles from Buford’s ...

You get:

A haie deposoted tn ttt eointt oa itdstrrs aboap thrr miles troa baaotts ...

Beale’s letters are suspicious, too. In 1982, the linguist Dr. Jean Pival compared Beale’s prose to the writing of the pamphlet’s anonymous author and found that both used reflexive pronouns incorrectly, copied the prosody of the King James Bible, and overused negative passive constructions such as never to be realized and never be told. “The striking similarities in the Ward and Beale documents argue that one author was responsible for both,” Pival wrote. Further scrutiny by the myth investigator Joe Nickell showed that Beale’s letters contained words such as stampeding and improvised, terms Beale never would have used—because they did not exist when he wrote the letters.

This evidence (and much more) has convinced most casual observers that the treasure story, the codes, and even the character of Thomas J. Beale are part of a canard designed to sell pamphlets. In other words, the reason nobody has found Beale’s treasure is because there is no treasure to find.

Beale enthusiasts refuse to accept this. In fact, when they first encountered these anachronisms, few dropped their shovels or chucked their maps; rather they picked up books and dove into special archives rooms to start a new hunt—a search to find counter-evidence in the historical record that would pile doubt on the doubters. It’s here, in this madcap search for a factual knockout punch, that doing research on the Beale treasure story can become just as addicting as searching for the treasure itself. Because when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you might keep looking … and keep looking … and keep looking … until you can no longer afford to stop.

 
 

Jennifer Thomson drops a stack of nine books on my table at the Bedford County Museum and Genealogical Library with a thud. “That’s everything we have on Beale,” the resident genealogical librarian tells me. She recedes to a back room, and I begin leafing through the books—only to be startled by a sudden plop.

A 9-inch stack of manila folders stuffed with papers has materialized on my desk. “Oh, sorry,” Thomson says. “And these.”

She repeats this back-and-forth dance three more times. “And these ... Oh, and these ... Ahhh, yes! And finally—these.”

On this last assault, she sympathetically places the folders on the table, smirks, and whispers: “Have fun!

I look down. I can no longer see the desk.

The materials held at the Bedford Genealogical library near Montvale, Virginia are a mixed bag of serious historical research and total crackpottery: There are copies of ancient maps, genealogies of people related to the treasure story, unpublished academic papers, handwritten letters, manifestos alleging the National Forest Service is engaged in conspiracy, “solutions” to the ciphers, and tortured sketches that evoke A Beautiful Mind. It would take weeks to consult it all.

Beale's second cipher, which revealed the contents of the treasure.
Lucy Quintanilla

Some people wave off Beale-ievers as nutters, but, looking at these materials, I think that’s lazy. People with legitimate talent have done legitimate work on the mystery. One of the top Beale experts, Dr. Stephen M. Matyas, was a skeptical IBM cryptanalyst with dozens of digital security patents. (He wrote a 700-plus page two-part book; one section was entitled The Hoax Theory Deflated.) Another Beale investigator, Victor Theyer, was a professional writer with proven research skills: He once found a missing woman who had been AWOL for nearly five decades. Dr. Albert C. Leighton, a professor of cryptology history, was a Fulbright Research Scholar who cracked a cipher linked to Pope Gregory XIII that had baffled codebreakers since 1573.

“Some of these people who come in here digging for it, heck no, I wouldn’t call them nuts,” Bedford County’s sheriff told The Ledger-Star in 1989. Thomson agrees. “There are people who want to solve the historical part of it—just to see if it’s accurate—and most of them are good, normal people just trying to solve a mystery.”

Many of these researchers believe the inconsistencies can be explained away. The archival research they’ve done to achieve this aim is, in some cases, hard to deny.

Take the criticism that silver and gold hadn't been discovered yet. The specifics, they point out, are blurry. Beale researchers have dredged up old reports showing rumors of precious ore swirling decades earlier, with small traces of gold possibly being discovered before Beale’s trip.

The lack of evidence that Beale went west? Carl Nelson Jr., an ex-C.I.A. agent, combed through old newspapers from St. Louis—what would have been Beale’s last checkpoint before the frontier—and discovered a postmaster’s notice in an October 1817 copy of The Missouri Gazette for an “S. T. Beall” and an 1820 notice for a “Thomas Beall” in The Franklin Intelligencer. As for Beale's ability to avoid arrest, researchers point to the Adams-Onis treaty of 1819, which redrew the border between the United States and what was called “New Spain.”

The rebuttal to the clunky cipher solution is impressive. Stephen Matyas researched this discrepancy and compiled one of the world's most complete collections of Declaration of Independence copies. From 1776 to 1825, the Declaration appeared in more than 350 publications, each of which made slight alterations to the text: Unalienable over inalienable, mean time over meantime, institute a new government over institute new government. A single extra word or space, Matyas argued, can corrupt a decipherment. Choose the wrong version and your solution will resemble alphabet soup.

As for the consistent language and the linguistic anachronisms in the pamphlet? That’s nothing, researchers say. Have you ever heard of an editor?

Some of their most remarkable work is genealogical. Researchers discovered that there was not one, but at least two Thomas Beales living within 20 miles of Montvale, Virginia during the early 19th century—and there’s a curious wrinkle in their stories. In the early 1800s, one of them dueled a Lynchburg, Virginia man named James Risque. Afterward, Beale reportedly fled town. Risque, who suffered a nonfatal gunshot wound to the gut, would stay and raise a family that included a grandson named James B. Ward; the same James B. Ward who would later help publish "The Beale Papers."

What this all means is anybody’s guess. Not every crumb of information passes the courtroom test, though each discovery has undoubtedly helped Beale-ievers deflect criticism—and has encouraged an ecosystem of theories to bloom.

Indulge here in a small sample platter:

It’s a hoax perpetrated by James B. Ward! (Ward’s children denied this. His daughter “believed the story as she believed the Bible," reported the Lynchburg News in 1934.) No, it's a Freemason plot! (Beale hunter Brian Ford argued that it’s a “brilliantly-crafted Masonic allegory that teaches its moral, not just by stating it but by having the reader pursue or be tempted to pursue an illusion.”) The treasure is real … but was dug up decades ago! (“We know that in the late 1800s people were working in the Montvale area doing construction, and the next thing you know: They’re rich!” Thomson tells me.) The federal government found the treasure! (“[I]t has long since been removed by an N.S.A. task force disguised as U.S. Forest Service workers,” treasure hunter Frederick W. Chesson wrote.) It’s all a cover-up! (The treasure was stolen from the Confederate Treasury and it’s now hidden in—wait for it—Jerry Falwell’s attic!)

 
 

The list goes on. For people like Nick Pelling, a British computer programmer who runs the website Cipher Mysteries, the speculation makes his eyes roll. “I don’t think anything in it corresponds to historical fact,” he says of the Beale story. “Discussions about the Beale have lost a lot of focus, lapsed into argumentation based on the minutiae of the pamphlet.”

Pelling belongs to the third species of Beale hunter. In his view, the endless bickering over the story's historical authenticity distracts from the true mystery: the codes. The real treasure isn’t what’s buried underground, but what’s buried in the numbers.

That's been the opinion of cryptanalysts for nearly a century. In the 1930s, William F. Friedman, leader of the U.S. Army Signal Intelligence Service, or S.I.S.—the forerunner to the N.S.A.—spent his leisure hours attempting to untangle the Beale codes. He took them so seriously that his legal counselor drafted an agreement in case he solved them.

He never did, of course. In a letter, Friedman wrote: “So far as my attempts to produce an authentic reading is concerned, I can most earnestly say I have tried to the best of my ability and now must confess myself beaten.”

But Friedman never quit. Instead, he included the ciphers in the S.I.S training program. According to Frank Rowlett, an S.I.S. cryptologist who helped crack Japan’s PURPLE cipher machine during World War II, the trainees concluded the ciphers were phony. Friedman’s wife Elizebeth, also an accomplished cryptanalyst, dubbed them as a lost cause with a “diabolical ingenuity specifically designed to lure the unwary reader …. In fruitless research … or searching for a key book.” Friedman himself shrugged: “On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I think it is real,” he said. “On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I think it is a hoax.” (Sunday, it appears, was a day of rest.)


The U.S. Army Signal Intelligence Service, which used the Beale ciphers as a training exercise, in front of their vault in 1935. At center is William F. Friedman (standing, dark suit). Frank Rowlett stands at the far right.
Courtesy of National Cryptologic Museum, National Security Agency

Other cryptologists of the era approached the ciphers with similar ambivalence. Herbert O. Yardley, whose 1931 tell-all book The American Black Chamber revealed the workings of America’s cryptography units, believed the Beale ciphers could be solved—but also admitted they looked “a bit fishey.”

That attitude would reign among professional cryptanalysts until January 1970, when Dr. Carl Hammer, Director of Computer Sciences at Sperry-Univac, made a startling revelation at the Third Annual Simulation Symposium in Tampa, Florida. He had analyzed the Beale ciphers with a UNIVAC 1108 computer and compared the codes to the musings of a random number generator. The results showed signs of an intelligent pattern.

“Beale Cyphers 1 and 3 are ‘for real,’” Hammer concluded. “They are not random doodles but do contain intelligence and messages of some sort. Further attempts at decoding are indeed warranted.”

 
 

At Fort Meade, Maryland, a few hundred yards from the barbed wire fences surrounding N.S.A. headquarters, the National Cryptologic Museum library holds a printout of Hammer’s computer analyses from 1965 [PDF]. It’s an unassuming, carefully folded stack of perforated paper. If you stood at the window of an eight story building and unfurled it, the scroll would tickle the sidewalk. Its only distinguished feature is a stream of faded, indecipherable text:


Photo Illustration by Lucy Quintanilla. Image: iStock.

Hammer’s discovery, buried in a potpourri of text like this, reignited professional interest in the Beale ciphers. In 1969, an organization he kickstarted—later called the Beale Cipher Association, or B.C.A.—hosted a symposium in Washington, D.C. in an attempt to pool the best minds to tackle it.

Well, some of the best. Approximately 70 people showed up. The club attracted big names in the intelligence community such as Carl Nelson Jr., who had helped the C.I.A. intercept communist signals in a secret tunnel under Berlin; big names in data processing such as Per Holst, the Chief of Research at Massachusetts Foxboro Laboratories; and big names in government, including a U.S. District Judge and the Governor of Minnesota.

It also attracted people who, to put it kindly, had vivid imaginations.

With the aroma of Sanka wafting through hotel conference rooms, the B.C.A. symposiums presented a delicate balance of serious academic theories and New Age hocus pocus. Presenters raved about confusion matrices, 10x10 Hogg-Hugerman networks, and the application of neural networks to computer algorithms. Other presentations included a talk on inductive geodetic reasoning—a fancy way of saying, “If I hid treasure, where would I bury it?”—and a lecture on how to improve your dowsing rod accuracy. (One tip: Hug a tree.)

Over the following decade, the B.C.A. grew to boast more than 200 members from places as close as Michigan and as far as Holland. It hosted three more symposiums and published a quarterly newsletter, both of which presented sober scholarship and half-baked whataboutism.

Hammer, for his part, cared little for the treasure story. He saw the Beale ciphers as a cryptologic puzzle that could advance the field of computer programming. “I think it is fair to say that this effort has engaged at least 10 percent of the best cryptanalytic minds in the country, and represents much more than the value of the treasure even if it should be just as described,” Hammer told The Washington Post in 1979. “And not a dime of it should be begrudged; the work—even the lines that have led into blind alleys—has more than paid for itself in advancing and refining computer research.”

But for those who still cared about the treasure, the B.C.A. was a vital place to foster community. Beale researchers have always been a solitary, if not paranoid, bunch. They share a passion but rarely share detailed insights or leads with each other. “Why give away secrets only to find that someone else has found the treasure using your information?” Stephen Matyas once said. The consequence of keeping these ideas private, however, has turned the decoding process into a time-sucking vortex, with hundreds of researchers wasting hours as they test possibilities somebody else already ruled out. The B.C.A. was an organized attempt to overcome this atmosphere of distrust and streamline the search.

That said, most people's "solutions" made Thomas J. Beale sound like a hepcat who had been couchsurfing at a bad beat poetry club.


Photo Illustration by Lucy Quintanilla. Image: iStock.

Then, in 1980, James Gillogly, a computer scientist at the think tank RAND and the president of the American Cryptogram Association, discovered an even stranger message in the first Beale cipher—just not the kind the B.C.A. was hoping for.

 
 


Lucy Quintanilla

The alphabet never looked so depressing. If you decode Beale's first cipher with some versions of the Declaration of Independence, as James Gillogly tried in 1980, you'll get gobbledygook—with the exception of this pseudo-alphabetical string in the middle of the code. Gillogly published his discovery in a Cryptologia essay called “A Dissenting Opinion" and calculated the chance it could occur randomly was 1 in 10,000,000,000,000.

Gillogly offered two interpretations: that the message is buried under a second level of encryption; or that this measly string of text was the intelligent pattern Hammer's computer had detected. That is, the codes are almost certainly a hoax.

“I visualize the encryptor selecting numbers more or less at random, but occasionally growing bored and picking entries from the numbered Declaration of Independence in front of him, in several cases choosing numbers with an alphabetical sequence,” Gillogly wrote. In other words, a prankster was practicing his ABCs.

For the B.C.A., the news was deflating. Hammer could not deny Gillogly’s discovery but disagreed with his conclusion. It didn’t matter. Over the coming decade, enthusiasm at the B.C.A. waned. “Jim Gillogly’s article basically says ‘Give up,’” Pelling says. “And when one of the most respected historical codebreakers in the world says, ‘Pffft, don’t even try,’ a lot of codebreakers will say, 'You know, I trust Jim on this one.'”

By 1999, the Beale Cipher Association had dissolved. Today, many of its members are dead. Any centralized attempt to decode the Beale ciphers has faded with them.

Pelling is one of the few who insists there is still work to be done. Like Carl Hammer, he believes the "Gillogly string" is a sign that something lurks in the message, a code beneath the code. “The presence of a pattern is presence of a signal,” Pelling says. “The Gillogly strings are evidence that there is something going on. The level of improbability is so high that this is not a freak chance ... It’s just that the solution is one step sideways, and we don’t know where that step is.”

But computers might.

 
 

There are hundreds of supercomputers in the United States. At the Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee, the supercomputer Titan has a memory of 693 tebibytes and is capable of running at a speed of 27 petaflops, or approximately 27,000 trillion calculations per second. Which begs the eternal question: Shouldn’t computers have solved this sucker by now?

“I get this all the time,” Pelling says. “For Every. Single. Cipher.”

Computers aren’t magic. To decode a cipher, a human must write a program that can break it—and that means a human must understand how that individual cipher ticks. This becomes especially difficult when a code contains typos (the Beales certainly do) or requires a two- or three-step process (the Beales certainly might). “The computer is not the answer," Hammer said at a Beale Cipher Association Symposium in 1979. "Even if it does all the work, we still have to find the type of work for it to do.”

To do that, a programmer has to grapple with two basic cryptologic concepts.

First, repetition. It’s easier to crack a cipher if the code contains repeated symbols. The short cipher [16 43 97 64] is impossible to crack without a key because it could signify nearly any four letter word. Now compare that to [16 43 43 16]. The repetition narrows our options. The code is clearly a palindrome—it could signify Anna, or Otto, or Elle, or deed, or peep, or poop, or sees, or noon, and so on. The problem is, without added context, we can never be sure which answer is correct. This problem is called unicity distance: When a cipher is too short, we might find multiple solutions.

These two principles are what convinced the great William F. Friedman to give up on the Beale ciphers decades ago: “I saw no hope at all of solving a cipher text so short and with so few repetitions of even single numbers,” he wrote. The first Beale cipher is 520 characters long and contains a whopping 299 unique symbols—an impossibly low rate of 1.74 repetitions per character. Friedman lamented: “[T]he application of scientific principles is impossible.”

Beale's third cipher.
Lucy Quintanilla

That, of course, hasn’t stopped cryptanalysts from assaulting the Beale ciphers with every vocabulary word you can find in a cryptology textbook: higher-order homophony, super-encipherment via a keyphrase, Chi-square values calculated on a vector, concatenation, 2-gram statistical analyses, visible outer cipher and hidden inner cipher, beam search approaches.

In 2014, this last method was used by a Ph.D. student named Malte Nuhn and two fellow researchers at Germany’s Aachen University. They were developing an algorithm intended to improve the accuracy of machine translations, and they occasionally tested the strength of their program by feeding it ciphers such as the Zodiac-408 and the Beale Cipher No. 2.

The Zodiac-408 cipher, created by the eponymous serial killer in 1969, is the easiest of the four Zodiac codes. It’s 408 characters long and contains 54 unique symbols. Originally, it took one week to solve. Nuhn's program, however, solved it in three seconds [PDF].

Meanwhile, the Beale Cipher No. 2—the longest and most repetitious of the Beale ciphers—took eight CPUs roughly 30 hours of work. The program muscled the correct solution with just 5 percent error. It was the first time a computer had automatically deciphered a Beale cipher without any reference to the key.

For fun, Nuhn and his colleagues fed the program the two unsolved Beale ciphers, which contain far less repetition and are much shorter. Nothing intelligible appeared.

“Maybe the algorithm is still not good enough,” Nuhn says. “Or maybe it’s because there’s nothing there.”

 
 

Treasure hunters. Researchers. Cryptanalysts. The Beale treasure mystery has defeated everybody who has approached it—and yet, despite it all, people regularly claim to have found the 'X' that marks the spot.

One Pennsylvania steelworker made 36 trips to Bedford County before asserting that he found an empty treasure vault under an abandoned icehouse. In 1989, the treasure hunter Mel Fisher, who previously discovered 40 tons of gold and silver in the Florida Keys, failed to find Beale’s loot but insisted he dug in the correct place. (“The treasure has been moved!” he reportedly grumbled.) Earlier, a 19-year-old high school graduate phoned journalists to tell them he had dug up the treasure and sent it to South America for smelting. "He was positive he found it," writes Estes Thompson for the Norfolk Ledger-Star. "But he was the only one who was."

The press has breathlessly reported countless claims of the codes being broken, sometimes with head-spinning results. In February 1974, after an an auto mechanic alleged he had solved the ciphers, the Roanoke World-News published two contradicting headlines on the same day.

CODE BROKEN, BEDFORD TREASURE A HOAX, MAN SAYS

CACHE LEGEND GENUINE, LOCAL AUTHORITY INSISTS

Such claims usually occur when a hunter has exhausted all other possibilities. Take Colonel J. J. Holland: Over his lifetime, Holland drove more than 150,000 miles—and spent untold dollars on gasoline, lodging, and digging equipment—pursuing Beale’s treasure, reports Norfolk’s The Virginian-Pilot. He passionately believed in the treasure's existence, and he spent the final three years of his life scribbling solutions during the midnight hours. But as his health crumbled, and any chance of finding the treasure evaporated, the wheezing Colonel made a stunning reversal that negated two decades of work: He claimed that the treasure was fake and that he had cracked the codes.

This is a familiar theme. Some Beale hunters would rather declare the mystery solved than admit defeat. The pursuit, after all, is more than a hobby or preoccupation—it's an obsession ingrained within one's identity. To declare the case closed not only validates the effort made, but validates life’s chosen purpose.

Perhaps that explains why so many people have gone to such great lengths to verify their theories. In the 1960s, the author Pauline B. Innis, an expert on the Beale mystery, received desperate telegrams, letters, and calls from people in places as far as Ethiopia. Once, a man dressed as an FBI agent demanded that Innis hand over her Beale files. Another time, somebody attempted to bribe her into spilling her secrets with a complimentary jar of pickles.

And perhaps it explains why most Beale hunters never dig at all.

“The people who think they know for sure where something is, they are the most likely not to dig at all because they don’t want to burst their dream,” Beale expert Ed Easterling says. “They enjoy the euphoria of knowing—well, thinking they know—where it is. Because if they go and it’s not there, it would take their dream away.”


Bedford County, Virginia
iStock

One time, Easterling received a call from one of these treasure hunters. The man explained that Jesus had revealed the location of the treasure in a dream. Easterling patiently listened, contacted the appropriate landowner, and secured the man permission to dig. He never showed.

One year later, the same man called with an update: Jesus had changed his mind. The treasure was elsewhere.

Easterling was less sympathetic the second time. “I’m a Christian. And knowing Jesus, I know that he’s not flippant,” he laughs. “I think if Jesus ever tells somebody where the treasure is buried, then that’s where it would be!”

Few people know as much about the Beale mystery as Easterling. He's lived near Montvale since his boyhood. He’s talked with old-timers and collected the oral history of generations who’ve lived there. He's studied brittle, yellowing maps and has wandered the woods looking for the overgrown stagecoach roads that Beale would have traveled upon. He wrote a book about the treasure (which he hesitated to publish, fearing it could spread an obsession that could destroy families). He's confident that Beale’s treasure is buried somewhere below his feet. He even owns a 2-box metal detector, just in case.

But when I spoke to Easterling over the phone last fall, he sounded resigned. “I’ve had so many people tell me, ‘I know exactly where it’s buried,’” he sighed. “I pay no attention when I hear that anymore.”

The Mysterious Bronze Objects That Have Baffled Archaeologists for Centuries

The Roman dodecahedron Brian Campbell found in East London
The Roman dodecahedron Brian Campbell found in East London
Brian Campbell

One August day in 1987, Brian Campbell was refilling the hole left by a tree stump in his yard in Romford, East London, when his shovel struck something metal. He leaned down and pulled the object from the soil, wondering at its strange shape. The object was small—smaller than a tennis ball—and caked with heavy clay. “My first impressions," Campbell tells Mental Floss, "were it was beautifully and skillfully made … probably by a blacksmith as a measuring tool of sorts.”

Campbell placed the artifact on his kitchen windowsill, where it sat for the next 10 or so years. Then, he visited the Roman fort and archaeological park in Saalburg, Germany—and there, in a glass display case, was an almost identical object. He realized that his garden surprise was a Roman dodecahedron: a 12-sided metal mystery that has baffled archaeologists for centuries. Although dozens, and perhaps hundreds, of explanations have been offered to account for the dodecahedrons, no one is certain just what they were used for.

AN ANCIENT PUZZLE

A dodecahedron at the Saalburg Roman Fort Archaeological Park
A dodecahedron at the Saalburg Roman Fort Archaeological Park
Rüdiger Schwartz/Saalburg Roman Fort Archaeological Park

The first Roman dodecahedron to intrigue archaeologists was found almost 300 years ago, buried in a field in the English countryside along with some ancient coins. "A piece of mixed metal, or ancient brass, consisting of 12 equal sides," read the description of the egg-sized object when it was presented to the Society of Antiquaries in London in 1739. The 12 faces had "an equal number of perforations within them, all of unequal diameters, but opposite to one another … every faceing had a knobb or little ball fixed to it." The antiquarians were flummoxed by the finely crafted metal shell, and what its purpose may have been.

The 1739 dodecahedron was far from the last discovery of its kind. More than 100 similar objects have since been found at dozens of sites across northern Europe dating to around the 1st to 5th centuries CE. Ranging in size from about a golf ball to a bit larger than a baseball, each one has 12 equally sized faces, and each face has a hole of varying diameter. The objects themselves are all hollow.

By the mid-19th century, as more were found, the objects became known to archaeologists as dodecahedrons, from the Greek for “12 faces.” They're on display today in dozens of museums and archaeological collections throughout Europe, although given how little is known about them, their explanatory labels tend to be brief.

What's more, they have no paper trail. Historians have found no written documentation of the dodecahedrons in any historical sources. That void has encouraged dozens of competing, and sometimes colorful, theories about their purpose, from military banner ornaments to candleholders to props used in magic spells. The obvious craftsmanship that went into them—at a time when metal objects were expensive and difficult to make—has prompted many researchers to argue they were valuable, an idea that's supported by the fact that several have been found stashed away with Roman-era coins. But that still doesn't explain why they were made.

ARMED AND DANGEROUS?

A Roman cavalry charge, a relief from the Arch of Constantine in Rome, circa 315 CE
A Roman cavalry charge, from the Arch of Constantine in Rome, circa 315 CE
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

In the 19th century, some antiquarians favored the theory that the dodecahedrons were a type of weapon—perhaps the head of a mace (a type of club with a heavy head), or a metal bullet for a hand-held sling. But as other scholars later pointed out, even the largest of the dodecahedrons are too light to inflict much damage. Moreover, Roman soldiers usually fired solid lead balls from their slings—nothing that looked like the intricate, and hollow, dodecahedrons.

Yet weapons aren't the only items useful in a war. Amelia Sparavigna, a physicist at Italy’s Politecnico di Torino, thinks the dodecahedrons were used by the Roman military as a type of rangefinder. In research published on the online repository arXiv in 2012, Sparavigna argued that they could have been used to calculate the distance to an object of known size (such as a military banner or an artillery weapon) by looking through pairs of the dodecahedrons' differently sized holes, until the object and the edges of the two circles in the dodecahedron aligned. Theoretically, only one set of holes for a given distance would line up, according to Sparavigna.

The theory is strengthened by the fact that several of the dodecahedrons have been found at Roman military sites. Sparavigna tells Mental Floss that “the small little studs [on the outside allow for] a good grip of the object. So an expert soldier could use it in any condition,” while the many pairs of holes allowed them to quickly select between a variety of ranges. “The Roman army needed a rangefinder, and the dodecahedron can be used as a rangefinder,” she explains.

But many modern scholars disagree. Historian Tibor Grüll of the University of Pécs in Hungary, who reviewed the academic literature about the dodecahedrons in 2016, points out that no two Roman dodecahedrons are the same size, and none have any numerals or letters engraved on them—markings you might expect on a mathematical instrument. “In my opinion, the practical function of this object can be excluded because ... none of the items have any inscriptions or signs on [them],” Grüll tells Mental Floss.

He points to the distribution of the objects as an important clue. They have been found across a northwestern swath of the former Roman Empire from Hungary to northern England, but not in other Roman territories such as Italy, Spain, North Africa, or the Middle East. That lack works against the idea that the objects were military devices. "If it was a tool for ranging artillery," Grull says, "why does it not appear all over the empire in a military context?"

GUESSING GAMES

Perhaps the dodecahedrons were used for play, not war. Some scholars have suggested they may have been part of a child’s toy, like the French cup-and-ball game known as bilboquet, which dates from the Middle Ages. Their shape also invites comparisons to the dice used for gambling, a common pastime in the Roman era. But most Roman dice were six-sided, smaller, and carved from solid wood, stone, or ivory. Plus, the differently sized holes on each face of the dodecahedrons makes them useless as dice: One side is always heavier than the other, so they always fall the same way.

Many scholars have suggested that the items had a special cultural significance, and perhaps even a religious function, for the peoples in the formerly Gallic regions of northern Europe. The 1939 discovery of a well-preserved bronze dodecahedron in Krefeld, near Germany’s border with the Netherlands, lends credence to this idea. The object was found in the 4th-century CE grave of a wealthy woman, along with the remains of a bone staff. According to an essay from the Gallo-Roman Museum at Tongeren in Belgium, the dodecahedron was likely mounted on the staff like a kind of scepter head, and "probably ascribed with magical powers, bestowing religious power and prestige on its owner."

Or perhaps they had a different kind of cultural significance. Divination or fortune-telling was popular throughout the Roman empire, and the 12 sides of the dodecahedrons could suggest a link to the astrological zodiac. Others have suggested a link to Plato, who said that the dodecahedron was the shape “used for embroidering the constellations on the whole heaven.” (It's not quite clear exactly what Plato was talking about.)

Rüdiger Schwarz, an archaeologist at the Saalburg Roman Archaeological Park near Frankfurt in Germany—where Campbell first identified the curious object he'd found—explains that any discussion of the cultural significance of the objects is purely speculative. “We have no sources from antiquity which give an explanation of the function or the meaning of these objects,” Schwarz says. “Any of these theories may be true, but can neither be proved right or wrong.”

Schwarz points to another theory: The dodecahedrons may have been a type of “masterpiece” to show off a craftsman's metalworking abilities. This might be why they rarely show any signs of wear. “In this respect, the technical function of the dodecahedron is not the crucial point. It is the quality and accuracy of the work piece that is astonishing,” he tells Mental Floss. “One could imagine that a Roman bronze caster had to show his ability by manufacturing a dodecahedron in order to achieve a certain status.”

SOLDIERS IN THE BACKYARD

Of course, the internet loves an ancient mystery, and ideas about the purpose of the Roman dodecahedrons have flourished there. The work of Dutch researcher G.M.C. Wagemans, detailed at romandodecahedron.com, proposes that the objects were astronomical instruments used to calculate agriculturally important dates in the spring and fall by measuring the angle of sunlight through the different pairs of holes. Other internet researchers, perhaps less seriously, have used 3D-printed models of the Roman dodecahedrons for knitting experiments, and suggested that the true purpose of the objects was to create differently sized fingers for Roman woolen gloves.

Campbell has taken his artifact to several museums in London, but beyond confirming what it is, they could provide no further clues about its particular origin or purpose. "Many [is] the time I have handled it wondering as to its exact use," he says.

While Campbell has no clear idea what the Romans were doing with the dodecahedron—which he now keeps in a display cabinet in his house—he does propose how it might have come to be in his garden: by being left behind by soldiers traveling between London and the early Roman provincial capital of Camulodunum, now Colchester in Essex. Romford was at that time a river crossing and the probable site of a fortified posting station used by Roman troops for changing horses and resting in safety.

“Two thousand years ago, I believe this area was forested and the River Rom's flood plain was much wider than today,” Campbell says. “I often form a picture in my head of 100 or so Roman soldiers in full uniform bedding down in the area, now the bottom of my garden.”

Roman dodecahedrons are still being found today. Recent examples have been unearthed by metal-detectorists in the north of England, and by archaeologists excavating a late-Roman rubbish pit in the north of France [PDF]. It's likely more will be found in the future.

But unless someone also finds an instruction manual—and after more than 1500 years, that seems doubtful—the Roman dodecahedrons will continue to baffle, and fascinate, for many years to come.

The "Impossible" 1930s Murder That Still Fascinates Crime Writers

William Herbert Wallace
William Herbert Wallace
Keystone/Getty Images

On the evening of January 20, 1931, after a long trek through the Mossley Hill neighborhood of Liverpool, England, insurance agent William Herbert Wallace finally made it home. The house was dark, which seemed strange—his wife, Julia, should have been awake. He entered through the back door and went through the rooms calling her name, but received no answer.

When he arrived at his front parlor, he struck a match—his usual first step in lighting the room's gas lamps. The dim halo of light fell on the prone figure of a woman on the floor: Julia.

She was lying on her stomach, her feet pointed toward the gas fireplace, her head pointed toward the doorway in which Wallace stood, momentarily stunned. At first unsure of exactly what he was looking at, Wallace bent forward to examine his wife—and saw the blood pooled around her head. He quickly lit the gas light, which threw the brutal scene into stark relief.

Julia's head had been viciously bashed. The walls were covered in her blood, with some spatters up to 7 feet high. A partially burned raincoat lay underneath her. The quiet and retiring woman had met a terrible end.

The ensuing investigation and trial dominated headlines around the U.S. and UK and fascinated the public. Raymond Chandler called the case the "nonpareil of all murder mysteries," and "the impossible murder." The famed British crime writers Dorothy Sayers and P.D. James analyzed the evidence and put forward their own theories. Countless internet sleuths have scoured the web for damning details. And yet to this day—despite an arrest, a trial, a conviction, and a historic move by the Court of Appeal—mystery abounds: No one knows for certain who killed Julia Wallace.

THE FACTS OF THE CASE

A sign for Wolverton Street in Liverpool
Rept0n1x, Wikimedia // CC BY-SA 3.0

The mystery began the day before William Wallace made the gruesome discovery in his parlor. At around 7:15 p.m. on January 19, 1931, Wallace—a 52-year-old employee of the Prudential Assurance Company—left his house at 29 Wolverton Street in the Anfield section of Liverpool, England. He walked to a tram and took it to the City Cafe, where he was due to play in the Liverpool Central Chess Club's 2nd Class Championship. A mediocre but enthusiastic player, Wallace was an off-and-on-again attendee.

Around the same time, a phone rang at the City Cafe. The caller asked for Wallace, but was handed over to Samuel Beattie, captain of the chess club, since Wallace had yet to arrive. The caller, who Beattie would later note had a "strong" and rather "gruff" voice, asked for Wallace again. Beattie told the caller that he wasn't there, and to try back later.

The caller said he couldn't call back, as he was at his daughter's 21st birthday party, but he left a message asking Wallace to see him about a business matter at 25 Menlove Gardens East, Mossley Hill, at 7:30 the following evening. He gave his name as R.M. Qualtrough.

Beattie caught up with Wallace not long after the latter arrived at the cafe. When he delivered the message, Wallace replied that he didn't know any Qualtrough, nor did he know where Menlove Gardens East was, but he figured he could probably find it. It was the Depression, after all, and Wallace wasn't keen to lose out on what he thought might be a new commission.

The next night, after having his tea, bidding his wife goodbye, and asking, per usual, that she bolt the back door of their home behind him, Wallace set off for Menlove Gardens East. He left his home shortly before 7 p.m., minutes after his wife was seen accepting their milk delivery, and around 7:06 was on a tram in the general direction of his destination. He made a point to ask the conductors on each leg of his trip if they knew how to get to Menlove Gardens East, and if they could tell him where to get off. Once he alighted at Menlove Gardens West, he began to search on foot, asking passersby, a policeman, and even the resident of 25 Menlove Gardens West if they knew where he could find the address. Everyone had the same answer—they had never heard of a Menlove Gardens East, or any Qualtrough, in the area. Finally, after checking a directory at a newsstand and striking out there, too, Wallace made his way home.

The next people Wallace interacted with were his neighbors, the Johnstons. They were leaving their house for an evening out at about 8:45 p.m. when they passed Wallace walking toward his back door. "Have you heard anything unusual tonight?" he asked Mrs. Johnston, his words shot through with anxiety. Their homes shared a wall, so there wasn't much that would have gone unnoticed by the parties on either side.

Mrs. Johnston said she hadn't noticed anything unusual. When she asked what the matter was, Wallace told her he'd tried his front door with his key, but it wouldn't open. The back door, too, wouldn't budge. Mr. Johnston suggested he try the back door one more time. Wallace approached the door, grasped the knob—and this time it opened easily.

Wallace disappeared into his home while the Johnstons waited outside. He lit gas lights in a couple of rooms before he arrived at the front parlor and the body of his wife, her head surrounded by a pool of blood. Wallace hurried back and called to the Johnstons, still waiting outside: "Come and see—she has been killed."

Julia Wallace's head was a battered mess, beaten so viciously that the brain was exposed on the left side. When the police arrived about 9 p.m., they discovered that four British pounds (about $350 today) was missing from Wallace's collection tin in the kitchen, which had been put back in its place with the lid on, but no other money—not from Julia's purse nor from the cache hidden in a vase in the bedroom upstairs—had been taken. Later, a cleaning woman would state that an iron bar and a poker used for the gas fireplace were both missing. No other weapon was ever identified.

Within a month, William Wallace was arrested and charged with the murder of his wife. A self-described stoic, he was unemotional in court, which led to some antipathy from a jury expecting to see a grieving widower. Some observers have speculated that it was that, more than anything else, that resulted in his conviction—all of the evidence against him was circumstantial at best.

Wallace was sentenced to hang, but in an historic move, the Court of Criminal Appeal in London overturned his verdict due to lack of evidence. It was the first time the appeals court had tossed out a verdict on those grounds.

Wallace was a free man, but he wouldn't live long to enjoy it. Within two years he succumbed to chronic health problems and died.

Did he get away with the perfect crime—or was he a victim as well?

THE THEORIES

A Liverpool street in the early 1930s
A Liverpool street in the early 1930s
Fox Photos/Getty Images

In a case like the Wallace mystery, the facts can often weigh equally toward guilt or innocence. Three main theories have emerged out of the body of evidence so far.

Theory 1: William Killed Julia

Police considered William Wallace the primary suspect. But the biggest question mark in this theory is his possible motive. In short, there isn't much of one. Julia had very little life insurance and the Wallaces weren't especially hard-up for cash. According to friends and acquaintances, their 18-year marriage was not fraught with conflict. Wallace's diaries from prior to the murder indicate a placid and unexciting but contented union, one in which he shared his interests in music, chemistry, and chess with his wife. His later entries, made months after his conviction was overturned, indicate a deep grief over the loss of Julia. While one friend of the couple told the police there was tension between the two, the Johnstons had never heard any fights or raised voices coming from the other side. There was no suggestion that either Wallace or Julia was having an affair.

Setting the lack of obvious motive aside—perhaps William Wallace was unhappy with his wife in some way we'll never know—how would he have done it? Various authors and amateur sleuths have suggested some version of the following timeline: On January 19, Wallace left his house at 7:15 p.m., as stated to police. He called the cafe from a pay phone near his house, disguised his voice, gave a false name, and essentially created an alibi for himself for the night of the murder. (Police did establish that the call to the cafe came from a phone booth about 400 yards from Wallace's house, one that he would have passed on his way to the cafe at about the time the call was made. However, Beattie, who had known Wallace for years, testified that the caller didn't sound like his friend.)

The next day, Julia was seen between 6:35 p.m. and 6:45 p.m., very much alive, by the milk delivery boy and another witness. Wallace could have left his house no later than 6:50 p.m. to make the 7:06 tram toward Menlove Gardens, where he was seen by a conductor. If he killed his wife before leaving the house, he had only about 15 minutes to do so, then clean himself up, before going on his way. Let’s say he worked quickly.

Wallace then would have taken his trip to the fictional Menlove Gardens East, making sure to engage with plenty of people along the way: the resident at 25 Menlove Gardens West; a young man he met on the sidewalk; and a police officer. He asked them all for directions, and even checked the time with the policeman at 7:45 p.m. He then went to the post office and a newsstand, pretended to check the directory, engaged the clerk, and left shortly after.

He was next seen near his home on Wolverton Street at 8:45 p.m. by the Johnstons. It's also possible that he killed Julia after his return, but given the travel time back from Menlove Gardens, he probably only had 15 minutes to commit the deed, clean up, and make it outside before the Johnstons left their house.

Following this theory, regardless of when Wallace killed Julia, he needed witnesses to his "discovery" of the body. That's where the Johnstons come in. In this line of thinking, Wallace waited until he heard them coming out, made his way to the back of his house, and told them about his trouble getting in.

What about the mess in the parlor? Where were Wallace's blood-stained clothes? It is easier to stay clean if you wear nothing but a raincoat to murder your spouse, and then leave it under her blood-drenched body and change into your suit—which is exactly the theory the prosecution put forward. It should be noted no blood was ever found on Wallace's suit, nor was there evidence of anyone washing up in the house; aside from a small clot of blood on the toilet in the bathroom, and a smear on one of the pound notes in the bedroom, no other blood was found outside of the front parlor. (Wallace had touched the pound notes when he went through the house with the police shortly after Julia's body was discovered, although it's unclear if the blood on the money was his own.)

Dr. John MacFall, a professor of forensic medicine who served as medical examiner that night, put Julia's time of death at around 8 p.m. Problem was, he based his conclusion solely on rigor mortis, which is often considered an imprecise measurement. He'd later change his estimate to sometime closer to 6 p.m. Neither estimate pointed to a strong case for Wallace's guilt. For one, Julia was seen alive after 6 p.m. And at 8 p.m. Wallace was still traipsing around Mossley Hill.

Ultimately, the lack of time he had to commit the murder has exonerated Wallace in the eyes of many. Combined with the sketchy report on time of death and the lack of motive, it's hard to imagine Wallace himself committing the crime.

Theory 2: A Hired Assassin Killed Julia

A black-and-white photo of a person making a telephone call on a UK street
Three Lions/Getty Images

One popular theory of the crime follows the first fairly closely, except that instead of getting his own hands dirty, Wallace hired someone else to kill Julia. The hired man made the "Qualtrough" call, and the next day let himself into the house with a key provided by Wallace. He then killed Julia, and shortly afterward Wallace returned home, waited for witnesses, and then performed the discovery scene. This theory clears up the timeline, as well as other details problematic for the prosecution, such as the lack of blood on Wallace's clothes.

The theory is strengthened by the fact that during the trial a young typist testified that she saw Wallace talking to another man near Wolverton Street at about 8:35 or 8:40 p.m. the night of the murder. Wallace, meanwhile, had told police he spoke to no one on the way home. Is it possible that the typist caught Wallace speaking to his hired man?

We may even have the identity of the assassin, thanks to an investigation by journalist Roger Wilkes. In the early 1980s, Wilkes interviewed one John Parkes, who was a mechanic at a garage in Allerton, about seven miles from Wolverton Street, in 1931. At 1 a.m. on the night of the murder, Parkes was visited by Richard Gordon Parry, a local amateur actor and one-time colleague of Wallace at Prudential. Parry was also a known troublemaker who'd had multiple run-ins with the law for crimes of theft and sexual assault.

That night, an agitated Parry reportedly demanded Parkes wash his car with the high-powered hose. When Parkes opened the car door and saw a bloody glove inside, Parry said, "If the police got that, they would hang me!" He then recounted a strange and disjointed story about dumping an iron bar down a drain.

Parkes kept the story to himself until Parry died in 1980, after which he told his story to Wilkes as part of a radio documentary. Of course, the fact that half a century passed between the crime and the witness statement detracts from the credibility (Parkes claimed he kept the story to himself because he was fearful of retaliation by Parry). But Wilkes was not the first person to mention Parry in connection with the murder of Julia Wallace.

Theory 3: Someone Else Killed Julia

A stack of vintage diaries
iStock

Shortly after his conviction was overturned, a series of articles purportedly by Wallace appeared in the press. In one of those articles was the shocking (or, depending on your point of view, not-so-shocking) revelation that Wallace knew who the murderer was. The man was never named in the articles. However, Jonathan Goodman's examination and publication of excerpts from Wallace’s diaries in The Killing of Julia Wallace reveals who Wallace thought the murderer was.

During his initial police interviews, Wallace named a few people as suspects, and one of them was Richard Gordon Parry. He and Parry had worked together at Prudential. Parry would occasionally make Wallace's collections when Wallace, who suffered from chronic kidney problems, was too ill, and he'd been to 29 Wolverton Street and met Julia several times. He was also known to have visited the same cafe where Wallace's chess club took place. A notice on the board at the entrance of that club listed the dates each member was due to compete, so Parry (or anyone else) could have seen Wallace's name down for January 19. All it would have taken was some discreet surveillance of Wolverton Street that night to spot Wallace leaving home and heading toward the tram.

Parry was in fact investigated at the time of the murder, and had an alibi provided by his then-fiancée Lily Lloyd, who said the pair had been together that night. According to Goodman, when Parry broke their engagement in the summer of 1933, Lloyd told one of Wallace’s lawyers that the alibi was made up—she hadn't been with Parry that evening. However, no one followed up on her claim (and modern scholarship has suggested that Parry's alibi did not rely on Lloyd's story alone).

Alibi or not, there is evidence that two years prior to the murder Parry made an agreement with management to leave Prudential after it was discovered that he’d been siphoning money from his collections. Some authors have said that Wallace actually noticed the missing funds from the collections that Parry ran for him, and informed his superintendent; whether or not Wallace informed on him, Parry's parents were forced to step in and repay what he'd taken, and Parry left the company. Did Parry know, or think, that Wallace had informed? Was this a revenge killing?

Or maybe it was just a case of robbery gone awry. Parry was known for his love of cars and his tendency to live beyond his means. Perhaps he assumed Wallace would have more than four pounds in collections at his home, and that if he got him out of the house, he could swipe the money out from under Julia. Maybe she saw him take the money and threatened to call the police. Or maybe murder was on his mind the entire time? Though far from perfect theories, the idea that Parry killed Julia—whether motivated by money or revenge—does provide the "why" that prosecutors of Wallace never could.

The fact is, barring a signed confession unearthed from some Liverpudlian attic, we'll probably never know exactly what happened at 29 Wolverton Street on the night of January 20, 1931. Eight decades from now, amateur gumshoes may still be debating this irresistible whodunnit. And with questions as maddening as these still unanswered, who could blame them?

Additional sources: The Trial of William Herbert Wallace

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