“Case,” said Mull, “grab the shoes, and let’s head out to the courtyard.”
They headed up the stairs and out into the courtyard outside the hotel’s main entrance. However, even with his shoes removed, each footstep left a reminder of the pungent, putrid, rancid smell that emanated from Mull’s feet. Once out in the courtyard, Mull quickly removed his socks, even though the temperature hovered just above freezing.
“Can you still smell it?” asked Mull.
Case bent over and took a big whiff of his father’s foot. He almost gagged.
“No need to answer,” said Mull. “Let’s head back to the room and try to wash this off.”
They were met at the door by the manager of the hotel. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I cannot allow you back in the lobby.”
Case could see employees of the hotel vigorously mopping the floor behind the manager.
“But I have to get back to my room,” Mull pleaded.
“Again, I’m sorry, but that . . . smell . . . it won’t come off the floor. I cannot allow you back in the hotel under these circumstances.”
Mull turned to Case and handed him the key. “Go back to the room and get me an extra pair of socks and my tennis shoes. I have a bottle of cologne in my overnight bag. Bring it with you as well. I’ll wait out here.”
Case headed back into the hotel. The whole lobby reeked. He ran into the elevator lobby, where members of the hotel staff were attempting to calm several outraged guests. Seconds later an elevator appeared. Fortunately, it was not the same elevator that they had taken down to the lobby. The ride up seemed to take forever. Finally the doors cracked open, and Case rushed down the hall to their room. He quickly located an extra pair of socks, his father’s tennis shoes, and the bottle of cologne.
Back downstairs, Case found his father sitting on the far side of the courtyard, his feet in a bucket of hot, soapy water.
“The hotel was kind enough to bring this out to me,” Mull said as he pointed to the bucket and a stack of towels lying next to it. “I think it may be working,” he said optimistically. “Grab one of the towels, and let’s check.”
Case handed a towel to his father, who then proceeded to dry off each foot.
“OK,” Case said, “let’s see if we can still smell it.”
Case closed his eyes and took a deep sniff. For the briefest of seconds—very brief indeed—Case had the illusion that it had worked. That thought came to a devastating end as the pungent odor of his father’s feet once again assaulted his olfactory sense.
There was no need to state the obvious. The smell remained—as strong or stronger than before.
“Let’s try the cologne,” suggested Mull. “Maybe we can’t kill the smell, but we can sure try to cover it up—at least long enough to get through my meeting.”
Case took the bottle of cologne—a lime scent—and carefully placed a couple of drops on each foot.
“This is not the time for half measures,” Mull said. “Dump the whole thing.”
Case unscrewed the top of the green bottle and proceeded to pour half on one foot and half on the other. Mull then took a towel and used it to spread the cologne over each foot, between his toes, and up each ankle.
“Quick,” Mull said, “hand me the clean socks before this stuff dries completely.”
Case handed his father the pair of socks he had retrieved.
“Now the tennis shoes,” Mull said.
Case handed his father the tennis shoes.
Mull stood up. “OK,” he said, “how is it now?”
What Case smelled and saw was disaster. The pungent smell remained; now, however, it was highlighted by a lime scent that reeked of rotten fruit. His father’s appearance was equally disarming. From the belt line up, Mull looked every bit the businessman that he was. From the belt line down, it was a different story. The steam from the bucket had wrinkled Mull’s pants, which, to be fair, were already soaked from sitting on a wet bench in the courtyard. He wore a pair of dingy white running shoes and white socks.
And he stank.
He stank bad.
Mull Letterford did not wait for an answer—the look on his son’s face was clear enough. It was, however, now nine-thirty a.m., and he could no longer sit around in the hotel’s courtyard. He needed to head in the direction of his meeting. He would try to figure something out once he was near the restaurant.
“C’mon, let’s grab a cab,” Mull said to his son as he stepped out into Madison Avenue. He threw up his right arm, and almost immediately, a bright yellow taxicab pulled up to the curb. Mull and Case climbed into the back.
“Where ya heading?” asked the cab driver.
“Natural History Museum,” replied Mull.
The cab pulled away from the curb—and then pulled right back over.
“Get out of the cab,” the driver said.
“Why?” asked Mull, although he knew exactly why.
“You smell,” the driver replied. “You smell bad.”
“But I have to get to the museum,” replied Mull.
“Good for you,” replied the driver, “but you’re not doing it in my cab. Now get out.”
Mull and Case exited the cab. After two more failed attempts at securing a cab, they had barely made it one block. They stood on the sidewalk.
“We’re going to have to walk,” Mull said.
“But Dad, the museum is more than thirty blocks away. Can’t we take the subway?”
“Not unless you want to start a riot. I don’t think we have much choice. We need to get started.”
Mull Letterford looked down at his shoes and grimaced. “Good thing I have my walking shoes on.”
Chapter Twenty-one
A Monument Upon Thy Bones
Stratford-upon-Avon, England
Wednesday, December 17
Colophon and Julian arrived in Stratford-upon-Avon in the late afternoon. The day was cold, overcast, gray, and wet—the usual conditions for much of England. As they crossed the Avon, Colophon could make out the tall spire of the church rising along the banks of the river. Dusk was setting in quickly, so the duo wasted no time in parking the car and heading to Holy Trinity Church, the location of Shakespeare’s monument. Before leaving the car, Julian retrieved a well-worn leather backpack from the trunk and threw it over his shoulder.
“That thing is huge,” said Colophon. “What do you carry in it?”
“Oh, the usual,” replied Julian. “A couple of bottles of water, my journal, my backup journal, flashlights, a map, my Swiss army knife, chewing gum, breath mints, a GPS locator, tracing paper, a camera, trail mix—the kind with cranberries—tissues, my Fiji Islands good luck charm, my cell phone, an extra cell phone, and—”
Colophon rolled her eyes. “Forget I asked—let’s just get to the church.”
The entrance to the church was located at the end of a long stone pathway lined with large weathered gravestones. Everything seemed to take on a gray, flat tone.
Colophon grabbed Julian’s hand as they walked along the path. “The tombstones are kinda spooky, don’t you think?”
“Of comfort no man speak,” replied Julian. “Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.”
“Gross. Shakespeare?” asked Colophon.
“Yes, from King Richard II.”
“Are you going to keep quoting Shakespeare?”
“Probably,” replied Julian.
A small group of tourists mingled outside the church as they approached the entrance. The large wooden door creaked slightly as Julian pushed it open and they stepped inside. The light was dim, and it took a couple of minutes for Colophon’s eyes to adjust.
“Do we just wander around until we find the monument?” Colophon whispered.
“Apparently there is an admission price,” said Julian. He pointed to a sign that requested a donation of £1.50 for adults and 50 pence for students. “Maybe they’ll have a guidebook. Wait here while I go pay.”
Julian walked over to a sm
all stand and returned shortly thereafter with a brochure.
“Well,” said Julian, “according to this guidebook, the monument is located in the chancel.”
“What’s the chancel?” asked Colophon.
“Follow me,” replied Julian as they walked to the center of the church. “The church is shaped like a cross. Many old churches and cathedrals were constructed in that basic shape. This long central hall is where the congregation sits. It’s the longest part of the cross. It’s called the nave. The short parts of the cross, which extend off to either side of the nave, are the transepts. Now, Shakespeare’s monument is located in the chancel, which is located at the top of the cross, separated from the nave by the crossing of the transept.”
Colophon and Julian walked slowly up the center of the nave toward the crossing of the transept. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Colophon realized that there were a number of other visitors in the church.
“This place seems really popular,” she said.
“I should say so. Just think about it. In this very building are buried the remains of the greatest playwright who ever lived. This is where he was baptized, this is where he worshiped as a young boy, and this is where he was buried. Did you know that they still have the record of his baptism from 1564?”
“Wow,” said Colophon.
Julian stopped and looked down at Colophon. “It’s one thing to read about history. This is history. Construction of this church started almost eight hundred years ago. Eight hundred years! And—what’s even more remarkable—this building was built on the remains of an old Saxon church. You are literally walking through history. Look at this stone floor. Thousands upon thousands of people have walked through this church and across this stone floor. Kings, queens, presidents, and William Shakespeare have walked these stones. Shakespeare was not simply some abstract, fictional character from history. He was a real man. And this is where he lived, breathed, worshiped, and died. This was already an old church when he was alive.”
Julian looked around.
“So much in this world does not seem real,” he continued. “We think we are so connected nowadays—cell phones, Internet, and constant access to everything and everybody. But we’re not really connected. We’ve forgotten what’s real. We’ve forgotten how to interact with the world around us. Not just to see something on a screen but to feel it, to smell it, to taste it. That’s reality.”
Julian bent down to the floor and motioned for Colophon to do the same. “Touch the floor.”
She put her hand on the cold stone floor. It was smooth and cool to the touch.
“This floor has been here for almost eight hundred years. Shakespeare walked on it. At some point, Shakespeare may have stood in this very spot and looked at the same thing you are looking at.”
Colophon closed her eyes. The whispers of the other people and the other sounds melted into the background. She could feel the coolness of the stone floor. She could smell the faint odor of the thousands upon thousands of candles burned over the centuries in the church. She felt herself transported back hundreds of years. Julian was right. History was alive in a place like this. Shakespeare was not simply a character in some story. Here, he felt real.
“Can I help you?”
The voice startled Colophon, and she fell back onto the floor. She looked up to see a white-haired man in a black clerical robe staring down at her.
“Terribly sorry, young miss—I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure you were OK. I’m Reverend Mackey, the vicar here at Holy Trinity.”
“Not a problem at all,” interjected Julian. “We were having a bit of a history lesson. You know—here is where Shakespeare walked, worshiped, and all that.”
“I completely understand. To tell the truth, I guess I take it for granted, having worked here for so long. However, I must confess that I once touched an Egyptian sarcophagus at the British Museum just to see what it felt like. Received quite a scolding from the guard. But it was worth it.”
Colophon pulled herself up and stood in front of the reverend.
“Actually, maybe you can help us. We’re looking for the Shakespeare monument,” Colophon said.
“That’s odd,” replied Reverend Mackey.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s just that most people ask to see his grave, not the monument.”
“I’m confused,” she said. “Aren’t they the same thing?”
“No,” said Reverend Mackey. “The monument was actually erected several years after his death.”
“Which one has a poem on it?” asked Julian.
Reverend Mackey smiled. “Again, I don’t mean to cause more confusion than necessary, but both of them have poems. Now, the fact that you have actually inquired about one of the poems is intriguing in and of itself. I certainly can’t let a budding scholar flounder on her own. I guess we’d better look at both of the poems and see exactly which one you are looking for. Why don’t we start with the grave? But we need to hurry. Closing time is almost upon us.”
He led them over to the church chancel. Colophon was speechless. The chancel was stunning. The high walls were lined with tall stained-glass windows that shimmered with color from the last flickers of daylight. Candles burned throughout the room, lending a golden glow to the otherwise pale limestone walls. A short brass rail, however, prevented access to the heart of the room.
Reverend Mackey pointed to a small sign on the floor just beyond the low rail. It read THE GRAVE OF THE POET WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE—1564–1616.
“He’s buried in the floor of the church?” asked Colophon.
“Yes, around twenty feet or so below your feet,” replied the Reverend. “And his wife Anne is buried there to the left, and his son-in-law to the right. That was quite a common practice back in the day. There are bodies buried all throughout this building. But do you know why Shakespeare was buried here in the chancel?”
“Because he was so famous?” replied Colophon.
“Well, he may have been famous, but that’s not why he’s buried here.”
“Then why?”
“The Bard is buried here because he actually purchased part of the taxing privileges for the church. You see, in his day Shakespeare was known for being a businessman as much as a playwright, although many of his fans are loath to admit it. They think it tarnishes his image—not very romantic, you see. But the truth is that playwrights were considered an unsavory lot back in his time. And to make matters worse, he was also an actor. Quite a disreputable group in the sixteenth century.”
“An actor?” replied Colophon. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” said Reverend Mackey. “But you must forgive—I do tend to ramble.” He pointed to a plaque on the grave. “Is that, perhaps, the poem you are looking for?”
The poem read:
Good frend for Jesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare.
Blese be ye man yt spares thes stones,
And curst be he yt moves my bones.
“That’s the wrong poem,” said Colophon. She looked at Reverend Mackey. “Is that a curse?”
“Of sorts, I suppose,” he replied. “Shakespeare was very concerned that someone would dig up his remains. That’s one of the reasons he is buried so deep. He reportedly wrote the poem himself as a warning to would-be grave robbers.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Creepy indeed, but it has apparently worked. His bones have remained undisturbed for close to four hundred years. Now, let’s see if we can find the poem you’re looking for. Perhaps it’s the poem on the Shakespeare Monument.”
Reverend Mackey turned to his left and pointed to the wall of the chancel. “And there, dear girl, is the Shakespeare Monument.”
High in a recess in the wall was a full-size painted sculpture of William Shakespeare—at least from the waist up. He was dressed in red and black with a starched white collar, a quill in his right hand and a piece of p
aper in his left. Beneath the sculpture was an inscribed plate that read:
IVDICIO PYLIUM, GENIO SOCRATEM,
ARTE MARONEM,
TERRA TEGIT, POPULUS MAERET,
OLYMPUS HABET
STAY PASSENGER, WHY GOEST THOV
BY SO FAST?
READ IF THOV CANST, WHOM EN-
VIOVS DEATH HATH PLAST
WITH IN THIS MONVMENT SHAK-
SPEARE: WITH WHOME,
QVICK NATVRE DIDE: WHOSE NAME,
DOTH DECK YS TOMBE,
FAR MORE, THEN COST: SIEH ALL,
YT HE HATH WRITT,
LEAVES LIVING ART, BVT PAGE, TO
SERVE HIS WITT.
Colophon looked at the reverend. “Is that the poem?” she asked. She was an excellent reader—the best in her class—but most of the inscription didn’t seem to make sense.
He gave a short laugh. “Not exactly modern English, is it?” he said. “The second part, as you can probably tell, is a poem. In modern English, it would read:
“Stay, passenger, why goest thou by so fast?
Read, if thou canst, whom envious Death hath placed
Within this monument: Shakespeare, with whom
Quick nature died, whose name doth deck this tomb
Far more than cost, since all that he hath writ
Leaves living art, but page, to serve his wit.”
Colophon listened closely and absorbed every word. The poem on the monument seemed so similar to the poem from Miles Letterford’s portrait. Could this be the next clue?
“What about the first part?” she asked. “That’s Latin, right?”
“Yes,” interjected Julian, “and with the good reverend’s permission, may I take a stab at it?”
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