She agreed that it did. “Whose coffin is that?”
“They don’t know his name. The picture’s from Somersaete, what today is called the county of Somerset in western England not far from Wales.”
He read the entry in the book. “The coffin is that of a knight, a Briton, buried in Somersaete, a region first mentioned in a Saxon law code around 675 AD by Ine, the king of Wessex.
“The carving on the lid depicts a helmeted man holding a six-foot staff in his right hand. When the lid was removed, they discovered a shield lying on the knight’s chest. One of only two known to exist, today the shield is displayed in the British Museum.”
He finished and said, “My God, Belinda. The coffin in the book dates to the Middle Ages, maybe even earlier. We apparently have another British knight right here. We have to figure out how to get this lid off without letting anyone know what we’ve found. We have to get that door opened too. This could be something really incredible.”
“There’s no way you and I can move this lid. Let’s be realistic. I agree we shouldn’t get outsiders involved, but don’t you think Edward can help figure it out?”
They turned to the faint inscription on the lid, writing down each letter they could read and leaving a space where a mark was illegible. Thomas would ask Edward about this; given his education, he was their expert in all things medieval.
Before leaving for the day, Thomas and Belinda moved a circular rug to the basement, covered the hole that led into the chamber below and set a couple of boxes on its fringes to keep anyone from stepping there. Although not secured, the hole to the crypt was at least well hidden.
At home that evening they talked things over and agreed they required Edward’s help. They’d call him tomorrow.
At two a.m., a man wearing a headlamp flashlight stood in the crypt below The Necromancer’s Bookshop in St. Mary Axe. His hands covered by latex gloves, he opened one of the metal boxes and looked at its contents. He snapped photos of several book covers, then closed the lid without taking anything.
Finally he ascended the ladder and the staircase into the shop and left through the same small side window he’d easily jimmied to climb inside.
Belinda called Edward first thing Sunday morning. His answering machine message advised he was out of town. Remembering he had gone to Oxford to research his thesis, she asked him to call when he returned.
Thomas spent most of Sunday and Monday studying the seven ancient books he and Belinda had carried up the stairs. There were several varieties – some had covers of wood, others appeared to be leather, and two were encrusted with dull stones. None was in modern English although when he flipped through pages some words resembled the old English in The Canterbury Tales Thomas had studied in school. The script in most was totally foreign to him. All were equally old and in remarkably decent condition for having lain for centuries in metal boxes in an underground room. In-depth examination would take time and probably require outside resources such as those available at the university Edward attended, he thought.
FedEx delivered an envelope to the bookshop on Tuesday morning. It was a formal offer on the letterhead of a company called City Properties Limited Partnership IV with an address in North Carolina. The Russells had five days to accept the offer and return the document. Gordon Peterson’s business card was clipped to the offer letter with the words “call me, please” written on it. His cell number was highlighted.
Less than a mile from The Necromancer’s Bookshop, Gordon Peterson looked closely at the photographs of the things that lay in the room below the bookshop in St. Mary Axe Street. Regardless of the couple’s decision, he was ready to implement his plan.
Thomas and Belinda gave the American’s offer serious consideration despite the fact that it seemed too good to be true. Three days after they received the FedEx packet, Thomas called Gordon Peterson and declined.
Peterson’s response surprised him. The man’s previous cordiality was gone. A hard voice said, “That’s a mistake, Mr. Russell. You’ll be sorry you turned me down.”
Thomas angrily fired back, “Sorry? What are you planning to do – kill me?”
Ten feet away, Belinda heard only his side of the conversation. She stifled a scream and said, “Thomas, hang up now. Hang up the phone.”
Before that could happen, Peterson responded. This time his attitude and voice were that of the man who’d visited their store.
“Of course I’m not planning to kill you, Mr. Russell. What a thing to say! It’s just that you’re missing the chance of a lifetime. Are you certain of your decision? You still have a couple of days.”
“We’re absolutely certain. Don’t call us again.” Thomas slammed down the receiver, still surprised and angry at the man’s hostility.
St. Mary Axe Street lay dark and deserted two nights later when someone lobbed a concrete block through one of the large front windows of The Necromancer’s Bookshop. The next morning the police cordoned off the area as Thomas and Belinda took a rough inventory. From what they could see, nothing had been taken in the showroom itself, and the cash register still held the same fifty pounds sterling they always left in the till overnight. While Belinda talked with a detective, Thomas went down the basement stairs, spent a few minutes then returned.
“What’s down there?” one of the investigators asked.
“Just a storeroom. I took a look around. Nothing’s been disturbed.”
As the policemen compared notes and began wrapping things up, Belinda pulled Thomas aside. She whispered, “I think we need to tell them about that American, Gordon Peterson. I’m sure he threw the block through our window because we turned down his offer.”
Thomas leaned in and responded, “Don’t say anything. Nothing. Trust me. I’ll explain when they’re gone.”
The lead investigator, a man named Dalton, closed his notebook. “Unless you find something missing later, this one will go down as an act of vandalism. Looks like maybe some kids got their kicks destroying the front of your shop.” He suggested the Russells consider installing video surveillance cameras inside and on the street. Thomas thanked him for his advice.
As soon as the officers were gone, Belinda lit into Thomas. “What in the world did you shush me up for? Why shouldn’t I have told that policeman about that man and his threat that you’d be sorry?”
Thomas’s face was grim. “I went down into the basement while you were talking to the policemen. The rug that covered the hole was thrown aside. Whoever broke our front window went straight to the hidden chamber. We need to go see what he took.”
They hurried to the basement. He’d hastily dragged the carpet over the hole and now he removed it again. Slowly maneuvering the ladder, they went into the crypt and turned on the lights.
The stone sarcophagus appeared untouched. Thomas wasn’t surprised. It would take more than one or two intruders to find out what was under the massive stone lid.
There were pry marks on the wooden door next to the keyhole. Belinda ran her hand over them. “Looks like he worked on the door but didn’t succeed.”
Thomas wasn’t listening. She saw him staring at the metal boxes on the floor, deep in thought.
“Have you found something?”
“I guess it’s what I haven’t found that matters. There were seven of these metal boxes originally. We took one upstairs. That left six. But now there are five. He took one of the metal boxes and the books inside it.”
Their immediate chore was to ensure the books were safe from now on. They spent an hour carrying the rest of the books upstairs into the shop. There were many ways to hide these particular old tomes among thousands of ancient volumes lining dusty shelves throughout the store. They chose one particular shelf that was situated safely behind the sales counter and away from browsing customers. The fifty-odd books from the crypt blended perfectly with hundreds of others scattered everywhere throughout the crowded store. They were in a perfect hiding place, right in plain sight.
CHA
PTER SIXTEEN
Because of the unusual nature of The Necromancer’s Bookshop and the strange assortment of wares it sold, one of the London television networks picked up the vandalism report from the police blotter. It sounded like a great human-interest story. A reporter called Belinda for an interview. The couple decided to do it because the publicity would help increase both sales and visibility of their odd shop. The crypt would remain their secret alone – there would be no mention of it.
When the story aired on the nightly news, spooky music and scenes from a Halloween haunted house merged into a shot of St. Mary Axe Street and the newly repaired front of the store. The place really did look straight out of the Middle Ages and the reporter capitalized on the strange things that were sold at the store by the wizened old couple who had owned it for years. Belinda pointed out wands, books of sorcery and amulets as the reporter asked question after question. The piece wrapped up with news that someone had vandalized the place a couple of nights before. “Beware. Beware,” the reporter said in an ominous, deep voice. “The forces of darkness will seek out those who attacked this shop. Betsy Conklin, ITV News, reporting from St. Mary Axe Street in sixteenth-century London. Back to you in the studio.”
Disturbed by the news story, a man at home on his couch, watching TV, made a phone call. The next morning he gave his statement at the police station in Leadenhall Street, six blocks from The Necromancer’s Bookshop.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two days after the news story on television, things were crazy at the shop. The number of curious browsers had skyrocketed and sales were higher too. Today a dozen customers were shopping – two more were in line to pay. The phone rang – neither could break away to answer it, so they let it go to the answering machine. Belinda heard the caller’s message as she took a customer’s money.
“This is Inspector Dalton of the Metropolitan Police. We have important information about the crime at your shop the other night. Please call me urgently.” He left a number.
Around one there was a break when no customers were in the store. In the back room Thomas heated soup in the microwave while Belinda returned the officer’s call. She listened for several minutes, nodding her head now and then. Thomas strained to hear her side of the conversation but didn’t get much of it. At the end he heard, “Thank you so much for working on our case. Of course we want to cooperate. I’ll see you at five.”
Belinda said, “Well, this is interesting.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Our news story on television apparently created more than sales for our bookshop. One person felt guilty after seeing it and called the police.”
“Really? Who in the world would that have been?”
“It was one of the firemen who helped pull you out of the chamber. Remember how they looked around at everything and told you that we should call the antiquities people? Apparently he told people about it that night at his pub and–”
The tinkle of the bell on the front door signaled the arrival of another customer.
“Hold that thought,” Edward said as he walked into the showroom. As anxious as she was to tell him, it would have to wait.
One shopper after another traipsed through the bookshop that afternoon, and it was four before they had a moment to themselves. As they handled customers, several phone calls went unanswered, including one from Edward. Belinda recognized his voice when he left a message.
“Tell me the rest of what the inspector said,” Thomas said eagerly when they were finally alone.
“Let me listen to Edward’s message first. We need him to help us with the things in the crypt as soon as he returns from Oxford, and I want to know when that’ll be.”
Edward’s voice was cheery. “Well, if it isn’t my famous grandparents! On the national news, no less! And proprietors of one of the strangest shops in London. Congratulations on all the free publicity. And condolences on having a rock thrown through your front window, although in this case prosperity may follow adversity! I’m home soon and can’t wait to hear all about it!”
He advised his train would arrive Saturday around ten. He’d drop off his things at home then come straight to the shop. They couldn’t reach him this week – he hadn’t left a contact number in Oxford – but Saturday would work fine. The store closed at twelve, and they could work on the crypt all weekend.
Thomas said impatiently, “Now may I please hear the rest of the story?”
“All right, where was I? Oh yes, at his pub the fireman apparently regaled a few people around the fireplace with a story of what lay in our basement. Four people, to be exact. Four good friends of his whom he’s known for years. He’d trust them implicitly, he told the policeman.”
“Then why the guilt? He told a few close friends about the secrets in our basement. That doesn’t seem too nefarious.”
“There was something else. The pub was crowded. He apparently made no attempt to lower his voice – he was excited about the things he’d seen in our store and it made a good story. A man was having a pint at a table two feet away. An American, the fireman assumed from the blue jeans and tennis shoes he wore. That Yank heard everything he said. And he came over and introduced himself.”
“Gordon Peterson.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock Holmes! Peterson handed the fireman a fifty-pound note and asked for information. He said he was an archaeology professor from the States. He told the fireman he wanted to visit us and maybe see the subterranean chamber. Having had enough ale to dull his caution, he did something he regrets now. He believed the American. He gave him our names and said our shop was in St. Mary Axe. He called the police after he saw our story on the television and realized that man could have been the perpetrator.”
“So the police are looking for Gordon Peterson, I presume? Do they think he threw the rock through our window? He didn’t seem the type for vandalism to me. And did I hear you tell the inspector you’d see him at five today?”
“Yes. He asked me why we hadn’t told him about the crypt. He thinks that’s the entire reason for the window breakage, and of course, we do too, now that a box of books is missing. He wants to see the chamber and I said he could. I hope you agree with that. I think now he has to see it.
“I also told him about the man’s business card and the offer agreement he sent over, and he wants to borrow those. He needs to find Gordon Peterson and these things might help. They don’t know what Peterson’s involvement might have been, but they want to talk to him. The inspector said it sounds suspicious. I agree!”
Inspector Dalton arrived right on time. They spent a half hour showing him the underground chamber and the volumes of ancient books they’d found. He took pictures and notes. He concentrated on the metal boxes that had held the books, since the perpetrator had stolen one of them.
Finally he was finished. Back upstairs he said, “I’ve no idea what you have down there, but it’s imperative you contact the antiquities authorities. I’ve no doubt it’ll create a firestorm of interest and publicity because whatever’s there is both ancient and interesting. You may end up with more traffic than you can handle. It’s your decision whether to involve them. Who knows if that stone coffin might impact the history of our very nation! The archaeologists should be examining all this. I can’t force you to do anything, but I strongly urge you to make that call.”
Inspector Dalton took Peterson’s offer letter and his business card. He promised to keep them informed of developments. They agreed to do the same.
Over the next couple of days when he had a free moment, Thomas pulled down one after another of the dusty volumes. He wrote each title on a notepad. He had no idea what language most of them were written in. Some might be Welsh, but he wasn’t sure. Languages weren’t his thing. Edward’s background in medieval literature and history was what they required.
As usual these days, there were lots of customers Saturday morning at The Necromancer’s Bookshop. Inspector Dalton came by around ten to give the
Russells some good news. The man who called himself Gordon Peterson had been located, interrogated, charged with burglary, surrendered his US passport and was now in jail. The policeman requested the Russells attend his arraignment in a couple of weeks.
Peterson’s real name turned out to be Gordon Foxworth. He was from Raleigh, North Carolina, and was engaged in two occupations. Primarily he was a tomb robber who masqueraded as an antiquities dealer. He’d spent two decades in one exotic locale or another, entering sites after dark to take what he found. He’d arranged the disposition of some very nice and quite rare objects, none of which was legally his to sell. His ultra-wealthy customers turned a blind eye in order to acquire unique pieces that unfortunately would never be examined by archaeologists.
Gordon also had been a financial advisor. Since his advice to clients consisted solely of his selling them stolen artifacts, the authorities eventually shut him down. One time he’d been charged with fraud but never convicted. By the time his trial date came around, he had disappeared. The alleged fraud was perpetrated against a wealthy, greedy individual who knew better than to trust Gordon. Once Foxworth skipped town, the police closed the case for lack of interest. Gordon changed his last name to Peterson and assumed the social security number of a long-deceased individual. Voila! He was back in business.
During the interrogation, Inspector Dalton learned that the break-in at the shop was just what it appeared to be. An antiquities huckster from America was now plying his trade in London. In a stroke of luck he’d overheard the fireman’s tale of ancient things hidden beneath a sorcerer’s bookstore. Foxworth decided to see for himself if there was something worth stealing.
The first time he visited the crypt he had gone in through an unlocked side window and looked around. His second visit was after they turned down his offer, and this time he was intent on burglary. He used that same side window again to gain entry and went downstairs.
The Crypt Trilogy Bundle Page 7