The King James Conspiracy

by Phillip DePoy

“I am a sensitive man,” Andrews whined. “Occasionally my brain erupts and my body collapses. I am better now. Call the constables.”

  “For what purpose?” Chaderton asked.

  “To arrest this Brother Timon,” Andrews shot back, gaining strength.

  The other two scholars in the room had joined the group, gazing down at Andrews with what appeared to be amusement.

  Timon knew them. One, Dillingham, was known as the great Grecian. The other, Richardson, considered himself the most superior scholar in Europe, or so Timon had heard.

  Richardson spoke, barely hiding his delight. “Andrews, are you on the floor?”

  Richardson was dressed in a most royal manner. His dark coat was exquisitely quilted, stitched with a fine filigree. His clothes beneath were satin, pale cream, and spotless. His shoes were dyed to match the coat. The cap was white but so heavily embroidered in gold that it appeared to be a halo, an appearance, no doubt, that had been calculated. He also sported the best-trimmed beard in England.

  “Dr. Richardson,” Timon said, standing, “you are, I know, the foremost Latin expert among your fellows, perhaps in all the world. I am greatly honored to meet you.”

  Andrews exhaled noisily, and Dillingham looked downward.

  “I joust with the great Latin experts.” Richardson’s head leaned forward eagerly. “I unhorse them all. Even the Italians. Mine is the sword of knowledge, the shield of absolute confidence. I am, in short, a knight of old: true to a grail, a quest. I would have sat with Arthur, you know. No man on earth is my equal in this language of emperors and poets.”

  “Quite so.” Timon folded his hands in front of himself.

  “I do not boast in this matter, I only announce the facts.”

  “Dr. Chaderton is sharing our secret texts with a murderer and that woman!” Andrews protested.

  “Well, if we all know about these things,” Richardson drawled languidly, “then they can hardly be called secrets, can they?”

  “And it has always been our intention to share our work here, Dr. Andrews.” Chaderton raised his eyebrows.

  Richardson clapped his hands. “Only last week I delighted in sharing with the group my discovery of an ancient text in Greek written by none other than—”

  “Dr. Richardson!” Andrews exploded.

  “Yes?” Richardson asked, irritated.

  Andrews struggled to his feet without aid. “I demand that you cease this discussion with these persons!”

  “You have made certain discoveries, Dr. Richardson?” Timon asked, deliberately vague. “Discoveries that would alter the content of the King’s Bible?”

  “Thousands!” Richardson asserted. “And nearly all result from deliberate suppression or addle-brained interpretation by Catholic monks. I could have discovered more, but Mr. Harrison refused to allow me any latitude. He provoked us to wander in the darkness, do you see? He would not permit me to go over all the texts, the entire Bible. But you must see that a man with my breadth of scholarship must take, as it were, the entirety of the . . . how does one say it?”

  “You must see the whole to better understand its parts.”

  “Exactly!”

  “And Harrison was a little man,” Timon needled, “unable to see a grander scheme.”

  “Incapable of it.”

  “One wonders how such a man came to a position of selecting the others for their assignments,” Timon goaded conspiratorially.

  “Search the body politic,” Richardson whispered, suddenly hushed, “for answers there.”

  “I have been told,” Timon responded in similar tones, “that Harrison somehow had the support of our King in this regard.”

  “You refer to the fact that Harrison was a Scot, as was our King.” Richardson pursed his lips. “But his appointment was never the King’s, surely. It was the work of some minor court clerk, someone who wrote a recommendation with one hand when he discovered that his other was filled with coins.”

  “Doubtless.” Timon glanced quickly at Marbury.

  Richardson noticed the glance. “You understand, of course, that what I say is mere speculation.”

  “I demand—,” Andrews began at the top of his lungs.

  “I wonder, Dr. Andrews,” Richardson bellowed, “that you have not yet discovered the reason Marbury set Brother Timon upon this investigation.”

  “He told us that it was to discover a murderer,” Andrews answered simply, “but—”

  “No!” Richardson adjusted his coat. “You have been duped.”

  “Duped?”

  “Brother Timon,” Richardson said in soothing tones, turning his gaze Timon’s way, “you have been misled and misused. Mr. Lively, before he died, tweaked your interest in academic matters of which you doubtless have little comprehension. I can see that he did. He was distracting you of a purpose. He was in league with Marbury, you must realize it.”

  “In league with Marbury?” Timon stared, utterly unable to see where Richardson was going.

  “You have not fooled me, Deacon,” Richardson said to Marbury, waving his hand grandly, “though I dare not reveal all of my knowledge until the time is right. You chose this Timon to investigate for one reason and one reason alone: so that the real killer could have some pawn to blame for the murders!”

  Timon fought back laughter, turned it into a brief moment of coughing.

  “I see you are stunned, Brother Timon.” Richardson nodded sagely. “But that is the way of it! I have determined that you have been set upon your task in the belief that you will stumble, fall, and be revealed as if you were the killer. The particulars of Marbury’s scheme I do not yet know, but shall discover them by and by. He is a clever man, but as you see, he is not my match. No Puritan could be. I have found him out.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Marbury stammered, barely controlling his derision.

  “Dr. Richardson, your mind is peerless,” Timon interrupted, managing to hide part of his face behind his hand.

  “You have not yet realized the full import of my deductions,” Richardson said, tapping Timon’s forearm with a single finger, absolutely delighted with himself. “You do not realize that I know the true identity of the murderer!”

  “God in heaven!” Andrews gasped

  “Or, in truth, I should say murderers,” Richardson sniffed. “I have deduced it almost from the start.”

  “Pray tell me instantly, sir, what is your meaning?” Andrews demanded.

  Richardson closed his eyes. “Let me see if I can lead you all to my conclusions with a few well-chosen questions, as I often attempt to do with my students.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Who hired Timon as Anne’s tutor?”

  “Marbury, of course.” Andrews folded his arms tightly.

  “And who assigned him to the task of finding the killer?”

  “Marbury.”

  “Just so. Now. Who now first railed most adamantly against Timon?”

  “Lively,” Andrews answered, softening a bit.

  “Exactly!” Richardson exploded. “You have your answer!”

  “I do?” Andrews responded weakly.

  “Marbury and Lively are the guilty parties, man! They conspired to murder Harrison.”

  “Why?” Andrews stammered.

  “For his gross insults to us all. Harrison was removed from this project in the only manner possible. He was a King’s assign, after all, and could never be simply dismissed.”

  “But, then—Lively—,” Andrews gasped.

  “Ah! Marbury disposed of Lively in order to assure his own safety. Now he has Timon to play the fool—a poor monk, an outsider, a pawn, as I say.”

  “God in heaven,” Andrews whispered, taking a step away from Marbury.

  Richardson turned his benevolence toward Timon. “Never doubt it, Brother Timon. Marbury will formally accuse you of the murders ere long.”

  “So Marbury hired me,” Timon began hesitantly, “and then set me to find the dead body, only to have Lively accuse me, v
ociferously, of the murder in order to plant the seeds of my supposed guilt.”

  “There you have it.” Richardson folded his arms in front of him, a mask of great satisfaction refining his features.

  Timon looked to Marbury, whose lips were thin and whose shoulders were shaking with barely controlled silent laughter.

  “What am I to do?” Timon asked meekly. “I am lost.”

  “Fear not,” Richardson answered valiantly. “When the time is right, Sir Galahad will come to your aid and set all aright.”

  “You?”

  “Precisely. I am your salvation,” Richardson assured Timon. “In the meantime, continue your investigations. Who knows, you may stumble upon evidence that could be of some small use. I shall strike when the perfect moment presents itself, when Marbury least expects it.”

  “Well.” Marbury cleared his throat. “I may expect something now.”

  Anne, no longer able to contain herself, burst into laughter.

  “See how the daughter reacts with hysteria,” Richardson confided in the silent Dillingham. “Tragic, is it not?”

  Dillingham responded by closing his eyes and sighing. “I believe,” he said, his tolerance obviously strained to the limit, “that I shall return to my work.”

  Without another word, Dillingham shuffled to his desk, the hem of his long brown coat whispering across the stone floor. He sat, ran a hand through his unwashed auburn hair, and picked up his pen.

  Timon knew Dillingham’s reputation. Everyone in England had heard of the debate conducted in Greek between Francis Dillingham and William Alabaster. The disputation was so famous that it had already become a benchmark of the age: Greek scholars were considered old if they came to prominence before the argument; new if they came after.

  Certainly Dillingham had a greater understanding of Greek and its subtleties than any other man alive. That he appeared uninterested in murder, politics, or competition made him more interesting to Timon.

  “Well, then,” Chaderton grumbled, his plan of getting the others to share secrets in an obvious shambles.

  “I do not trust myself in the presence of this company,” Richardson announced grandly, glaring at Marbury. “I may forget the proprieties and lash out before I am entirely able to prove my thesis. So I take my leave.”

  Richardson turned as a monarch would turn, hand clutching his bosom, and rolled toward the door.

  Timon addressed Andrews. “Calling for the constable at this moment may be ill-advised,” he said confidentially, “since you and I and Deacon Marbury are suspects.”

  “God in heaven!” Andrews bellowed. He gathered up his academic robes as if he were carrying a half bushel of apples in his arms and ran from the room to catch up with Richardson.

  41

  “Is it worth pointing out that I was in London when Lively was killed?” Marbury asked once Andrews was out the door.

  “Probably not,” Timon answered.

  “As entertaining as that was . . . ,” Anne began.

  “Entertaining? This is the devil’s work!” Chaderton lamented, his head swaying like a tree limb in the wind. “Satan is making fools of these men. Brother Timon, I see the wisdom of your assertion that some great force is at work to hide greater truths from the world. What shall we do?”

  Timon leaned against the desk closest to his hip, a wave of exhaustion rolling over him at the prospect of the task before him. “We must work with all our might to assure that this Bible—the entire project—is completed without interference from anyone or anything. The King James Bible must be perfectly translated, free of errors. It must also contain all of these hidden books. We must not allow another year to pass on this planet in the darkness that has been created by the lies and deceits of the past.”

  “We should visit Lancelot Andrews,” Marbury said nearly to himself. “He has the King’s favor above all other scholars. He presides over the first group, and his men have been threatened. He is the ally we need.”

  “I do begin to think that Roger Andrews,” Anne said softly, “despite his obvious inabilities, may be the man who is killing translators here.”

  “Could a man with so weak a stomach have carved Harrison’s face?” Chaderton wondered.

  “A man seized by a moment of rage and fear,” Timon answered quietly, “is capable of a thousand things which he would never ordinarily consider.”

  “What must we do?” Anne demanded. “What else can be done to assure that this Bible tells, at last, the Truth of truths?”

  “Speed the work,” Chaderton suggested.

  “Protect the men,” Marbury added.

  “And stop the killer,” Timon concluded.

  Timon kept other silent decisions to himself, locked in the darkest chambers of his heart.

  Suddenly, in one of the hidden shadows at the far end of the hall, Timon saw a sickly blur.

  The others saw Timon’s face change. His muscles tensed and all mirth left his eyes. Something had alerted him.

  “Someone is watching us,” he whispered.

  Chaderton’s head shot back.

  “Where?” Anne whispered. “Is it Andrews?”

  Timon raised a finger to his lips.

  “Let us not make a show,” he cautioned urgently, his voice barely audible. “Dr. Chaderton, would you please lock the Gospel of Thomas back in your drawer? The intruder may want to destroy it.”

  Marbury’s eyes shot in the direction of the cellar door. He saw something too.

  Timon nodded once, acknowledging the likely position of the intruder.

  A stark stillness filled the hall. Every shadow, every flicker of the candles, the very air, seemed frozen for a moment; all eyes strained for signs of movement. Anne’s breathing was shallow, trying not to make a sound. Marbury’s fingers twitched in the direction of his hidden dagger. Chaderton’s wide-eyed gaze was a grotesque counterpoint to Timon’s intense stare as he explored the darkest corners of the far wall.

  Without warning the cellar door flashed open and clear footfalls could be heard on the stairs. Someone was plummeting into the lightless room below.

  “We have frightened him away!” Chaderton called out.

  Timon broke into a run. The blade in his hand seemed to come from nowhere. He careened around tables and chairs, flying toward the open cellar door.

  Marbury set out behind him, reaching for his own knife, gasping deep breaths.

  Timon hit the top step peering downward into darkness. He paused for a split second, willing his eyes to adjust to the lack of light below. A strange scraping sound at the far end of the cellar assured Timon that the wraith was not waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. He plunged ahead, nearly blind, spilling down the steps.

  His foot hit the solid stone floor as a slap of icy air stunned his face. More scraping and a low grunt told him where the intruder was. He lunged, but hit only stone wall.

  Wood on stone betrayed the intruder’s whereabouts again. Timon flailed, spitting out a sharp breath.

  The intruder grunted, dodging Timon’s blade, and the scraping sound intensified.

  Timon fell forward in the direction of the noise, hoping to land his bulk against the man, careless of any weapon the intruder might have. His head cracked on the cold wall, his knee caught an edge of other stones. Around him there was only air.

  Was the intruder a ghost? It was a maddening nightmare, fighting something unseen.

  Timon’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the complete absence of light, and he thought he could make out the bulk of the man beside the potato bin. He kicked high, hoping to catch the man’s stomach. The man’s breath exploded, but Timon’s blow had not connected, and the shadowy image of the man was gone.

  Where was he? The sound of his breathing seemed to come from everywhere. The movement in the cellar was some invisible force, not a man.

  Abandoning all caution, Timon leapt again, throwing himself in the direction of the scraping sound. The potato bin stopped his forward motion; he cr
acked his right elbow hard against it.

  Timon jumped back, waiting for an attack, trying not to breath, trying not to give away his position. He stood in utter silence, hoping that stillness might accomplish what frenzy had not.

  His tired muscles twitched. He willed himself to close his eyes, to depend on other senses. There was no sound, no smell, and the taste of the air in the cellar was stale against Timon’s tongue.

  The killer is holding his breath too, Timon thought, waiting for me to make a move.

  A sudden noise at the top of the stairs announced Marbury’s arrival.

  “Timon?”

  Timon did not respond for fear of giving away his position.

  “Bleeding hell,” Marbury muttered.

  He stepped on the second stair. It creaked.

  In the cellar there was no sound. Timon’s lungs pounded, his blood throbbed in his ears, he had no breath left.

  “Timon!” Marbury called again.

  Nothing.

  “Well, then!” Marbury bellowed, and leapt forward. He landed close to Timon, lunging wildly in all directions with his blade.

  Timon realized that Marbury might easily stab him mistakenly in the dark.

  “Deacon,” he exhaled, six inches from Marbury’s ear.

  “Uh!” Marbury exploded, startled.

  Both men froze.

  Timon knew they had given themselves away, but his eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness.

  “Can you see anything?” Marbury whispered.

  “Shh!” Timon commanded. He took several steps sideways toward the table where Lively’s body lay. With his free hand, he struck his flint and quickly lit a candle.

  The flame flickered, revealing all.

  Marbury was crouched low. His left hand was a fist; his right hand clutched a dagger.

  Timon stood upright, knife held in his fingertips as a painter might hold a brush, ready to throw.

  Lively lay still on his cold table.

  No one else was in the room.

  42

  In the gray light of the candle, it was all too obvious that the intruder was not in the cellar.

  “How could he have gotten past us both?” Marbury whispered.