“Swain built a submarine?” I gaped.
“I think he’s built dozens,” Mike said, dropping a stack of papers in front of us. We flipped through page after page of fantastic sketches that could have come from the pages of a Jules Verne novel.
“Do you think any of these really worked?” I asked, clicking pictures furiously.
“Without a doubt,” Mike said, pointing out a few more recent plans and some photographs as well. “The theory of submarine travel was developed by an Englishman named William Bourne in 1580, and the first successful vessel made a journey down the Thames River just forty years later. Somewhere along the line, it appears Swain took an interest and became involved in making improvements.”
Ranofur still studied the original plan. “This is smaller than a military submarine, but it has a similar propulsion system.” He pointed out some features that made no sense to me.
“Why?” Elena asked. “Is he going to start a war? Blow something up? Interfere with shipping lines?”
“I don’t know,” Ranofur admitted. “I don’t see any weapons, but the design has an unusually large cargo area that appears subdivided into scores of berths.”
Elena’s face drained of color. “A slaver?”
Ranofur could give no answer.
“What’s behind it?” I asked, noting the paperclip in the corner.
“Another design,” Mike said, flipping to it. “A small, shallow boat, probably portable.”
I took a dozen more pictures. Then Elena hit the filing cabinets while Ranofur and I moved on to the boxes lining the shelves. They were full of gadgets, possibly prototypes of the products sold by Ivy Intrepid.
Elena’s low whistle soon filled the room. “Hey guys, you better come look at this.”
“What have you got?” Mike asked.
“This cabinet holds files on submarine technology and more of what we’ve already seen. But this one,” she indicated the one on the left, “is filled with geographical information. Maps of the world’s oceans, major rivers, mountain ranges, and file after file on individual volcanoes.” She lifted one out. “All of them stamped ‘Negative’ except this one.”
Mike spread the contents on the table. “Topographical maps, satellite images, seismographic information, clips of the 1980 eruption,” he listed.
“1980?” I mused. “Hey, wait a second!” Elena smirked and flipped over the folder. I read the label out loud. “Mount St. Helens.”
“Now look over here,” she said, leading the angels back to the bulletin board on the wall. She flicked the red circle. “Between the file and the map, Swain’s destination seems clear enough, doesn’t it? We just have to figure out his game plan.”
Mike narrowed his eyes. “I understand Swain’s interest in oceans and marine products, but what is this sudden passion for geology?”
“None of this is sudden,” Ranofur mentioned. “The maps, the files, the submarines, they go back centuries.”
“Mount St. Helens,” I murmured thoughtfully. “Do you think—?” I paused. “No way. No way!” I grabbed Mike’s arm. “Do you think Swain found Findul?”
My three companions gave me their undivided attention.
I was growing excited with the possibilities. “Findul left to find a suitable location for a forge, right? What if he decided on a volcano?”
Elena’s eyes began to sparkle, but Mike stopped me. “Why would Swain be searching for Findul? He wants to destroy the Tree of Life.”
“That’s what we’ve been assuming. But how do we know that?” I asked. “The prophecy never mentions it.”
“Swain’s past encounter with the tree, his acquaintance with its power, his marine interests, his submarine. It just makes sense,” Mike persisted.
“All circumstantial,” I argued.
“What about Davy’s DVD?” Mike asked.
“What about it? The DVD told us nothing.”
Elena backed me up. “Swain wants power. If he destroyed the tree, he’d bring about his own destruction. I think Taylor’s right. He’s after the forge. He wants to control the fire, the weapon that will bring about the end of the world.”
“Exactly!” I said with a note of triumph.
“You could be right,” Ranofur said thoughtfully. He gestured to the blueprints and maps. “But what about the submarine? It ties in better with Mike’s theory. Mount St. Helens is landlocked.”
He had me there.
Mike flipped his laptop open immediately. “Whatever Swain is planning, it’s not good. Taylor, snap pictures of those blueprints and everything in this file,” he said, beginning to type. “We need to bring them with us when we visit the command center. I’m scheduling appointments with the brass now.”
“You mean Heaven?” I gulped.
“Of course I mean Heaven. The brass doesn’t live in London.”
“Me and Elena, too?”
“You and Elena, too. Ranofur, we need to leave as soon as possible. Can you arrange transportation?”
“Oh, no,” Elena interrupted. “You can just cancel those plans until tomorrow.”
“She’s right,” I said with a glance at my watch. “It’s closer to morning than midnight. Don’t you guys ever sleep?”
“We can,” Ranofur answered, “but, like food, we don’t require it as frequently as you.”
“Well, Elena and I need eight hours,” I pronounced.
Mike began to protest, but Elena and I stood firm. When Ranofur took our side, he had to stand down. “All right,” he sighed. “First thing tomorrow.”
We checked into a hotel, and I was sawing logs within the hour. Mike let me sleep till noon before bursting into my room. He set a McDonald’s bag on the bedside table and threw a department store shopping bag at me.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Elena’s already been out shopping this morning. She bought these for you and told me to tell you to throw your old clothes away because they smell like a locker room. Her words, not mine.”
“If they’re cowboy duds, I won’t wear them,” I groused as I pulled a pillow over my head.
Mike yanked it away and smacked me with it. “Wake up. We have an appointment with Nigel at two o’clock.”
“Who’s Nigel?” I yanked the blanket as high as it would go and covered my face.
“You remember. The guy on the DVD. He’s my boss. Come on, get up.” He ripped all the bedclothes off and pulled them over the foot of the bed.
“All right, all right.” I pulled myself to a sitting position and blinked blearily at him. “Oh no!” I croaked. “Tell me I’m still dreaming.”
Mike stood before me dressed in a white powdered wig, red embroidered jacket, and knee-length breeches. He had so much lace tied around his throat it looked like he was being strangled by a tablecloth.
He pulled himself up to his full height. “This happened to be the peak of fashion in its day.”
“When was that? 1775? You look like George Washington.”
“Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,” he answered proudly. “A most accomplished musician. It’s such a tragedy that he died so young.”
“Are you going to wear that outside the hotel?” My voice had a desperate pleading quality to it I’d never heard before.
“Of course.”
I sighed. “Maybe we can tell people you’ve just come off a movie set.”
I wolfed down my Big Mac and fries then carried the shopping bag into the bathroom. A peek inside revealed medium washed jeans, a zip-up black fleece, and even new socks and underwear. I could have done without the T-shirt with Michael Jackson’s face on it—very funny, Elena—but overall, the clothes were pretty cool. I took my time in the shower. I was in no hurry to leave with Mike in his freakish attire.
Elena looked me over appraisingly when I joined the others in the hotel lobby. “You cleaned up okay, Davis.” Then she smirked. “Took you long enough.”
“Yeah, thanks for the, uh—” I pulled at my shirt and tried not to think of her picking out my tigh
ty-whities.
“You’re welcome.” She looked pretty okay, too, in jeans and a graphic T-shirt. I was glad she had lost the boots. At least she couldn’t rest her chin on top of my head anymore.
“Are you kids all set?” Ranofur asked. Mike was checking out at the main desk—and drawing every eye in the place. His costume was worse than I remembered.
“Tell me he’s not wearing rouge,” Elena grimaced.
“Can’t you just whisk us off to Heaven and save us the pain of going out in public with him?” I begged the big angel.
“Soon. We have to make one stop first.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Somewhere underground, I hope,” Elena quipped.
“Mike wants to check out the location of the Tyburn Tree.”
“For what?” Elena questioned. “If Swain, you know, dropped his wallet or something, it’s long gone.”
Ranofur just shrugged his massive shoulders.
Mike approached, his buckled shoes tapping on the tile. “We have forty-five minutes till we’re due in Nigel’s office. Let’s be off, shall we?”
A valet dressed in the blue uniform of the hotel brought the car around and grinned broadly as he handed over the keys. I’m not sure if he was laughing at Auntie Myrtle’s Hand-Crocheted Cat Vests or at Mike. I couldn’t really blame him for either. Swallowing the last shreds of my dignity, I squeezed into the backseat.
Thanks to Mike’s ability to slip into life-threateningly small places, we made good time, considering we had to navigate one of the largest shopping districts in London. “The Tyburn Tree was located west of the city on the London-Oxford road,” he recited as he weaved through traffic, “right in the middle of a crossroads. It was a powerful crime deterrent to see it looming up on the horizon bigger than life.”
“Is it still standing?” I asked.
“No, it’s long since been removed, but the site is marked with a round plaque.”
We parked in a lot at the entrance to Hyde Park. “What’s the story on that thing?” I asked, nodding my head at a huge, white, triple doorway to nowhere.
“That’s Marble Arch. It used to be the ceremonial entrance to Buckingham Palace,” Mike said, “but it had to be relocated when a new wing was added.”
We walked through the arch. The outside of the monument was carved with angels and scrollwork and ancient people. The sheer size was pretty impressive. “You really can see it better at lower speeds,” Elena jested.
Mike led the way across a busy five-lane carriageway to a concrete triangle where the main road merged with a side street. A separate turn lane veered off the side road, completing the traffic island’s third angle. Inlaid in the concrete was a round stone marker about as big as a manhole cover that bore the metal image of a cross. A massive crack split the circle into unequal halves. Around the outside, blocky metal letters spelled out THE SITE OF TYBURN TREE.
“That’s what we came here to see?” I asked, totally unimpressed.
Mike was studying our surroundings. Hyde Park stood on one side of us, its fountains merrily tinkling; buildings dotted the other two sides. “I just want to see the layout again. Maybe something will come to me.”
“You stay here and wait for it,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I’m going to pop into a store or two.” Aside from the Superbowl halftime stage, I couldn’t think of a single place more conspicuous to stand than a London thoroughfare when trying not to be seen with a dead German composer.
Elena followed me to a little storefront with a hand-painted sign that read “The Hangman’s Noose.” We were greeted by a rough-looking character with an unshaven chin and a belly as round as a beach ball. He wore a white undershirt three sizes too small and would have looked more appropriate selling hot dogs on a New York street corner. He punched his chin at us. “Alright, mate?”
“Hi.” Elena smiled. “We’re just looking.”
He grunted in reply.
We browsed the aisles, stopping now and again to comment on some item. The shelves displayed your standard tourist fare—Queen Elizabeth bobble-heads, bags of polished rocks not native to London, greeting cards with bathroom humor that I enjoyed more than Elena did, and a mini-gallows with stuffed criminals hanging from it. I was favoring a travel mug suspended from a noose-shaped hand strap when Elena lost interest. “Do you have anything about the true history of the Tyburn Tree?” she asked the proprietor.
“Sure.” Sensing a sale, he came out from behind the counter and led Elena to a wall of books at the back of the store. He highlighted a few titles. “The Terror of Tyburn presents a general history of the gallows. Capital Punishment Through the Ages gives it more of a political slant, including laws that governed the practice. I have calendars, artwork collections, cookbooks...”
Elena flipped through a few volumes. “Do any of these contain information on the more notorious criminals who died here?”
He drew her attention to the highest shelf. “Jenny Diver, 1740, a famous female pickpocket and thief. Edmund Campion, 1581, Catholic priest martyred for refusing to convert to Anglicanism. Claude Duval, 1669, the gallant French highwayman who won the hearts of the women he robbed. Jack Sheppard, 1724, who escaped from prison four times, but alas, not the fifth.”
I was impressed. The fellow definitely knew his stuff. On a whim, I asked, “Do you have record of any, uh, unusual accounts?”
He thought for a minute. “You mean, like the time the spectator stands collapsed, killing six people?”
I shrugged half-heartedly.
“Or,” he continued, “the time King Charles II had the bodies of Oliver Cromwell and two others dug up and hanged for beheading his father?”
I made a face. “Okay, that’s gross.”
“Or do you mean,” the man leaned closer and lowered his voice, “really unusual accounts?”
He piqued my interest. “What have you got?”
The man looked around as though he was afraid of being overheard. Elena closed the book she was holding and gave him her full attention.
“There’s a local legend,” he spoke in an undertone, “about a fellow who couldn’t die.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t verify all of this, you understand. But in the late sixteen hundreds, a fellow calling himself the Gray Admiral was hung for murder. He dangled ten or fifteen minutes before he finally stopped jigging. After being cut down with the others, he was brought to the burial grounds where, according to the sworn testimony of one of the gravediggers, he revived and attacked the second digger, strangling him to death.”
“What happened?” Elena breathed.
“No one believed the fellow. He was put on trial for the murder of his companion. It was assumed he tossed the criminal’s body in the river and made the story up to cover his tracks. A week or two later, a body was found in the Thames, which sealed his fate. He was hung on the same gallows.
“The odd thing is,” he added, “the corpse in the river was later proven to be a woman dressed in men’s clothing.” He eyed us carefully. “But the body of the criminal was never found.”
Lesson #14
You Can’t Catch a Troll with a Squirrel Trap
The sound of traffic grew dim as Elena and I exchanged significant glances. It was Swain. It had to be!
“Do you have that tale in print?” Elena asked.
“Sure,” the man said. “I have a new shipment of that book behind the counter. Would you like a copy?”
“Yes, please.”
I chose a hanging coffee mug in metallic green and met Elena at the cash register. After paying for our souvenirs, we departed the store in search of Ranofur and Mozart.
“Can you believe our luck?” I asked. “What are the odds we’d stumble onto that legend?”
“Mike is going to want to read this,” Elena agreed, slapping the book against her palm.
He wasn’t hard to find. In fact, he was sitting cross-legged on the plaque, right in the middle of
pedestrian traffic. Every thirty seconds or so he’d rotate ninety degrees. Ranofur waited near the fountains with his arms crossed.
“Mike!” I shouted, jogging over the crosswalk. “You won’t believe what we found! While you were out here doing, uh, whatever it is you’re doing, we tracked down the information you wanted. We found the story of Swain’s execution!”
That got his attention. He scrambled to his feet. “Where?”
“It’s all right here in this book.” Elena handed him her purchase.
Mike flipped it open and eagerly scanned the pages. Then his face grew irritated and he closed the book. “Ha, ha. Very funny. Joke’s on me.”
“There’s no joke,” I replied in confusion.
“You gave me a book with empty pages.”
Elena snatched it from his hands. “Let me see that.” She fanned the pages. There was nothing on them. “There must have been a mistake at the printer,” she reasoned. “The guy said this was a new shipment.”
“Wait! Go back!” I was looking around her shoulder. “I thought I saw something.”
Elena fingered back several pages. “There!” She found it and held it open.
The only phrase written in the entire book was “Courtesy of the Gray Admiral.”
My back went rigid.
“Where was this store?” Mike asked in a strangled voice.
We both turned and pointed, but the Hangman’s Noose was gone. In its place stood an empty storefront.
Mike spun in a tight circle, every muscle tensed. “Ranofur!” he shouted. The big angel was beside us in an instant. “We’re going to need that ride you arranged. Now!”
“Too late,” Elena shouted. “Look!”
Striding from the empty storefront and stopping traffic was the most hideous beast I’d ever seen. Twelve feet tall, obese, and wearing a white undershirt several sizes too small, the creature looked fresh from some mountain troll trailer park. Hair sprouted from the neck of its shirt and hung in limp tangles from an oversized head. Fleshy rolls jiggled at every ground-shaking step, and in its hand it dragged a spiked club.
Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul Page 11