The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “The scones and jam at tea are to die for. But we walk it off. We have been spending at least half the day outdoors. I have never felt healthier in my life.”

  “That sounds great. Glad I came,” he said, laughing. “By the way, how’s your fella?”

  “Oh, Jim, I love him. He’s so perfect.”

  “Glad to hear that, honey. I get a good feeling about him.”

  “Tom and Marian have practically adopted him.”

  “Good. Now you should too,” he joked, winking. “Well, here’s your book,” he said, presenting her with the brown paper package. “I had to turn London and New York upside down to get it.”

  “Thank you so much, how wonderful!”

  “I got it from a rare-book dealer in New York. Sorry it took so long, they had to overnight it from the States.”

  “A 1908 edition of Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Printed in America,” Cordelia marveled, opening the brown wrapping and looking at the cover.

  “Now that I found your book, are you going to tell me what is going on?” asked Gardiner.

  It was nearly dusk and the light reflected on the pane of glass covering the book cipher. Sinclair was bent over it with great intensity.

  Cordelia read the key text aloud: “Page thirty-five, line sixteen reads, ‘We were lying on the back of a sort of submarine boat, which appeared, as far as I could judge, like a huge fish of steel.’ ”

  “Oh!” Marian exclaimed. “Cordelia, a submarine! How lovely!”

  “That sounds like a good omen,” Tom said encouragingly.

  “Submarines were pure fantasy at this time,” observed Sinclair. “Elliott Stapleton would be surprised that his great-great-granddaughter actually ended up working on one.”

  “He would be so proud of you,” Marian said, smiling at her.

  Sinclair wrote the text out, assigning a number consecutively to each of the letters. When he finished, they examined the document.

  They began with Cordelia calling out each number of the sequence and Marian writing down the corresponding letter of the alphabet.

  “The last letter is R,” said Marian, sitting up and rubbing her neck.

  “Read what it says,” said Sinclair.

  Cordelia took the paper from Marian with shaking hands.

  “THE DEED IS BURIED WITH MY PARTNER.”

  They all sat looking at one another.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Gardiner.

  “The deed is buried with his partner?” said Sinclair.

  “Would that be Sir James Skye Russell?” asked Marian.

  “It would have to be Sir James,” said Cordelia.

  “But why would the deed be buried with Sir James?” mused Marian.

  “Where is his grave?” asked Cordelia.

  “Right here. Next to the family chapel—about half a mile away from the house.”

  “So we need to dig up the grave?” asked Sinclair.

  “It would appear so,” said Tom.

  “That’s horrible,” said Cordelia.

  “Not really,” said Tom. They all looked at him. “This couldn’t have happened at a better time.”

  Tom’s voice took on the scholarly cadence that replicated the tone of an academic lecture.

  “Sir James died in Paris in 1918. He was a British diplomat who was sent to prepare for the Paris Peace Conference after World War One. But while he was in Paris, he was hit suddenly by a flu that killed him in less than twenty-four hours.

  “His body was immediately sealed in a lead-lined coffin,” continued Tom.

  Sinclair had his arm around Cordelia’s shoulder and watched her reaction. She was listening very carefully.

  “There was a very great fear of this disease,” Tom was saying. “A person could go from the peak of health to his death overnight. It was a horrible, gruesome death, and the corpses were highly contagious, which is why they buried the victims so fast.”

  “So Sir James’s body was shipped back to England to be buried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait, there is something missing here,” interjected Sinclair. “The 1908 journal led us to the Bradford folio. But the note saying ‘The deed is buried with my partner” was not written until 1918. Why the ten-year gap?” asked Sinclair.

  “Why would Elliott Stapleton have buried the deed in that grave?” Cordelia puzzled.

  “Everything we have discovered would seem to suggest that he did,” assured Gardiner.

  “Why would he have buried the deed?” asked Sinclair. “They sure wouldn’t have opened up that coffin to put it inside.”

  “True, but it may not be in the coffin. It may be in another container next to the coffin,” suggested Tom. “Lots of people were contesting the land. Elliott and Sir James were often away on expeditions. They probably would always put the deed in a safe place before they left.”

  “A safe place, like the Bradford folio. Clearly in 1908 they left the deed there,” said Marian, quoting, “ ‘to entrust it to Bradford is as good a choice as any for safekeeping.’ ”

  “So why isn’t the deed in the Bradford folio now?” asked Jim Gardiner.

  “It was their usual hiding place. But Elliott must have decided that their usual hiding place wasn’t secure in 1918,” said Sinclair. “What was different?”

  “Sir James’s death,” said Tom. “The house changed hands in 1918 and went to his cousin.”

  “Elliott would have had to find a hiding place other than the library!” Cordelia agreed.

  “So he buried the deed but took the extra step of leaving a coded note in the Bradford folio to indicate where it was hidden?” Marian ventured.

  “Wait,” said Cordelia. “Where was Anne Skye Russell, Sir James’s wife? Why couldn’t he just give it to her?”

  “She died the year before, in childbirth. The child survived and was raised by Sir James’s sister in Yorkshire.”

  “The house was off-limits, so he buried it. But why was he hiding it in 1918? Why that year specifically? Did Elliott Stapleton go on expedition that year?” asked Sinclair.

  “Yes, he did,” said Cordelia. “He made an attempt on the North Pole that year.”

  “If Elliott buried the deed, how do we know he didn’t dig it up again?” asked Gardiner.

  “He couldn’t have. He died in 1919,” said Cordelia. “He never came back to England.”

  “And the code was still in the Bradford folio. No one found it. And he didn’t remove it. So the deed must still be buried,” said Tom.

  “Tom, why do you say this couldn’t have happened at a better time?” Cordelia asked.

  “As it so happens,” said Tom, “the grave is being exhumed next week.”

  “What!” said Sinclair and Cordelia together.

  “I gave permission to my former colleague, Paul Oakley, to dig up Sir James’s grave. Oakley is looking for a good sample of the 1918 virus.”

  “For research?” asked Cordelia.

  “Yes, it’s critical. There are only a few places to get samples now. Most remains have been destroyed by time. Traditional wooden coffins break down—the tissue becomes so badly decomposed that the virus is lost. But in a lead coffin there is a chance the lungs are still intact. Even after all this time.”

  “I can’t believe you would let them dig up your great-grandfather’s grave,” said Gardiner.

  “This pandemic killed possibly fifty million people. More people died than in World War One, World War Two, or even from AIDS. But the 1918 virus is extinct now. And anything we can find out about it will be helpful in developing a vaccine for the next pandemic.”

  “So they are digging up Sir James to do genetic decoding?” asked Cordelia.

  “Yes,” said Tom. “When I was still at the Royal London Hospital, we were already linking this virus with avian flu. It may be that the two viruses are related. The swine flu we recently experienced was just a scare, but this virus is really deadly. So when Oakley asked me about finding victims o
f the 1918 pandemic, I volunteered Sir James.”

  “And I agreed,” affirmed Marian. “I think it is the only responsible thing to do. It may save lives.”

  “What if you spread another pandemic?” asked Jim Gardiner.

  “We believe the virus is no longer able to infect people, but we are taking all kinds of measures to prevent an accidental release if we are wrong.”

  “So it’s safe?” asked Gardiner.

  “We can’t be a hundred percent sure. So we will use a secure biocontainment tent over the grave,” said Tom. “Marian and I will be watching the whole thing from inside the house on closed-circuit monitors.”

  “Will monitors be good enough to see if the deed is buried?” asked Cordelia.

  “Probably not, but you will need to stay inside,” said Sinclair.

  “What about you?” Cordelia asked Sinclair.

  “I’ll be standing there watching every shovel full of dirt. We simply must find that deed,” Sinclair said with such finality, no one argued with him.

  Sinclair watched Cordelia and Marian cross the lawn to the east terrace. Three dogs were running wild circles around them. Cordelia was wearing a shooting sweater for warmth, and it swamped her figure, falling well below her hips. Her legs were clad in jeans and rubber wellies. Unobserved, Sinclair enjoyed watching her elegant grace as she walked. What a beauty she was!

  He was glad they had decided to stay at Cliffmere until the excavation. For one thing, Cordelia’s town house was off-limits until the investigation could be concluded. And as Thaddeus Frost had said, Cliffmere was infinitely safer and more secure than a London hotel and they both were beginning to feel very much at home with Tom and Marian, who would not hear of them returning to London.

  The extra week had done Cordelia good. Tom and Marian’s support was therapeutic. They had kept her busy and productive. She was less jittery and almost appeared to forget her danger.

  Sinclair had stayed vigilant, but with the farmworkers about and Thad-deus Frost monitoring the house, he had felt relatively secure during the day. So much so he actually started to relax and enjoy Cliffmere. He shadowed Tom as he went about the daily review of the free-range poultry operations and livestock. Tom was particularly proud of his cattle.

  This morning, Sinclair and Tom had stood at the five-barred gate looking over his English longhorns.

  “These Dishley longhorns are quite in demand,” Tom had explained. “One of the chefs in London has said ours is the best beef in Britain. Now all the finest restaurants want to buy our organic grass-fed beef.”

  To Sinclair, they looked a lot like American longhorns except their coronet of horns swept forward and not up like handlebars.

  “That is fantastic,” Sinclair had enthused. “You must be so proud of your operation here.”

  “So much to do, my boy. So much to do. No time to gloat quite yet.”

  Sinclair had a wonderful time learning about the farm. Tom spoke to him at length about free-range poultry farming and the threat of avian flu. Sinclair learned more than he could ever have imagined. Tom’s expertise extended well into the virology of the disease.

  While the two men spent the day together outdoors, Cordelia and Marian stayed closer to the house and the outbuildings. Together they helped inventory the produce: eggs, cheeses, meats, and organic fruits and vegetables. They also packed the famous baked goods: gingerbread, shortbread, and scones, stacking them in the hunter green Cliffmere boxes, tying them up with grosgrain ribbons.

  This afternoon Sinclair watched from the library window as he caught up on Herodotus Foundation business. He could keep an eye on Cordelia, sitting on the terrace with Marian, her feet in green wellies propped up on a stone wall. Marian was leaning forward, speaking earnestly. The two women looked relaxed and happy. But this could not last forever. They had to make plans about what to do next. Sinclair picked up his phone and dialed Charles.

  “Hi, Sinclair. Still in England?” Charles answered.

  “Yes, it’s going well. But a lot has happened.”

  “Anything wrong?” asked Charles.

  “I’m in a little over my head. We had some trouble in London. When we go back, I could use some help.”

  “Certainly. I’ll meet you at Claridge’s as usual?” asked Charles.

  “Yes. In a day or so. I’ll let you know when.”

  The special biocontainment tent had been erected and inflated over the work site at the family chapel at Cliffmere. Necropolis, the grave excavation company, had come and prepared the ground, carving up the lawn into oblong rectangles and rolling it up like carpet. Now three men in space suits were clearing the uppermost layer of soil, careful not to strike anything that offered resistance.

  It was his imagination, but Sinclair thought he could smell the damp earth rising from the open grave. Of course, that was ridiculous; his air was filtered. He chafed inside the sealed suit and tried to breathe normally, but there was a slight feeling of suffocation. He fought it.

  Sinclair was used to open-air excavation, and all this felt very claustrophobic. To quell the feeling, he had to keep telling himself that excavation was excavation; it was all the same. After all, what was the difference between digging up old bones in Ephesus and digging up the remains of Sir James Skye Russell? About a couple of thousand years, he mused.

  In front of him the three gravediggers were perspiring inside their sealed hoods. Their shovels struck resistant earth.

  Again Sinclair tried to concentrate on something else. Breakfast with Cordelia. She had looked luminous as she drank her chocolate. How could she eat all those croissants and stay so slim? Butter and marmalade too.

  This morning he had decided to skip eating. Too risky. As he had left, Tom and Marian’s faces reflected the green glow of the closed-circuit monitors. The library had been dim and quiet.

  He had crunched up the gravel path to the chapel a half mile away. A local official had stood at the gate. An orange containment fence circled the church and the cemetery. Sinclair had produced his letter of admission, and endured the squint of the uniformed officer as he peered suspiciously at it. The guard was being especially officious, telling him to stay on the gravel walkways and not cut across the lawn. Only after multiple directives had he reluctantly waved Sinclair through.

  The large vinyl enclosure looked like a wedding tent at first glance, especially because it was so near the chapel. It was huge, inflated, and sealed with a double air-lock door. Sinclair had dressed in the vestibule, with help from the assistants, who made sure he was sealed into his suit before entering.

  Professor Paul Oakley—thin and intense—had greeted him.

  “Mr. Sinclair, a pleasure to meet you. I know your work at Ephesus. That gladiator graveyard is spectacular. Incredible work there, if you will permit me to say so.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you would stand just to my left, we will avoid any mishaps. Gently now, lads,” he said to the diggers.

  “It won’t do to contract this stuff,” he said in an aside to Sinclair. “It’s deadly.”

  “No worries, I’ve had my flu shot.”

  Paul Oakley snorted behind his mask.

  “A flu shot? That won’t be much help. They estimate this disease killed twenty-five million people in the first month.”

  “Just goes to show, you shouldn’t skip that flu shot.”

  Sinclair’s nerves were making him crack jokes. Oakley didn’t have an ounce of humor about him.

  “No joke, Sinclair. Most influenzas kill the young and the very old. This pandemic killed the strong and those in the prime of life—because of cytokine storms. You are a prime target.”

  “What is meant by ‘cytokine storms’?”

  “They trigger the overreaction of the immune system. The stronger the immune system, the stronger the reaction,” Oakley explained. “People would contract the disease and collapse within hours, attacked by their own body fighting the disease.”

  “That fast?”r />
  “At best, they’d be dead by the next day: bleeding from the nose, ears, coughing up blood, losing bowel control, bleeding from the intestines—a real horror show.”

  Sinclair checked his mask to make sure it was secure.

  “The majority of deaths were from bacterial pneumonia, a secondary infection, but the Spanish influenza of 1918 also killed people directly, causing massive hemorrhages and edema in the lungs. They called it the Spanish influenza because they originally thought it came from Spain.”

  “This flu is an old one—extinct. Why the interest?” Sinclair asked.

  “This is a version of H1N1. The recent swine flu was H1N1 also, a different strain. One of our chief goals is to see if it is in any way related to the H5N1—the avian flu we are seeing around the world today.”

  “I see.”

  “One theory is that the 1918 flu started with birds also, although it has never been proven. We are looking at human-to-human transmission of present-day avian flu. If we can find the link to the 1918 flu, it may put us one step ahead if another pandemic hits.”

  “I think I’ll stick to my Greek and Roman inscriptions. You can handle the pestilence.”

  Oakley didn’t hear; he was leaning over the grave. “Will you look at that. . . .” Oakley said in awed surprise.

  Ten hours later, they were all seated around the long wooden table in the kitchen of the estate. The remains of steak-and-mushroom pie were before them, and they were drinking mugs of hot sweet tea with milk. Fruit and cookies had been brought out, and the staff had retired. Tom, Marian, Cordelia, Paul Oakley, and Jim Gardiner were all still talking about the exhumation.

  Sinclair was silent. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. There had been no sign of a document in or around the coffin, and that had been a big disappointment. Sinclair reviewed in his mind the procedures he had witnessed. He kept telling himself there was no way he could have missed it. After the topsoil had been removed, the diggers had worked steadily until they stood chest high in the trench. They had to dig much wider and longer than the coffin, to give the scientists room to maneuver and to avoid putting any foot pressure on the coffin. Hours later, the coffin had become visible. Sifting the layers of soil from the lead-lined coffin was painstaking. Sinclair had remained alert, looking for anything else that might have been buried in the soil.