“Stab away,” replied Reverend Mackey.
Julian adjusted his glasses and read: “‘A Pylos in judgment, a Socrates in genius, a Maro in art. The earth buries him, the people mourn him, Olympus possesses him.’”
“Very nice,” said Reverend Mackey.
“Well, this is certainly the poem we’ve been looking for,” said Colophon. She wondered whether Miles Letterford would use another poem as a clue. Perhaps there was something else. “Is there anything about the monument that is—well—unusual or strange?”
“That’s the first time anyone has asked me that particular question.”
“So, nothing strange?”
“Actually,” replied Reverend Mackey, “there are a few items that some people might consider odd. For example, did you notice the skull on top of the monument?”
“A skull?” She had not noticed it.
“Yes, a skull,” replied the reverend. He moved Colophon and Julian back away from the monument and then pointed. There, sitting on the very top of the monument, was a human skull.
“Why did they carve a skull into the monument?” Colophon asked.
“Oh, that skull is not carved,” replied Reverend Mackey. “It’s a real skull.”
“A real skull!” she exclaimed. “Whose skull is it?” Maybe it was the next clue.
Reverend Mackey shrugged. “No one is really sure, and no one knows exactly what it means.”
Colophon was disappointed. “Is there anything else odd about the monument?”
“Well,” he replied, “as you can see, the final line of the poem references a single page written by Shakespeare, not his entire body of work. That has always struck me as strange, considering the volumes and volumes he produced. Why erect a monument to a single page? And what page?”
“That does seem odd,” said Colophon.
“And,” Reverend Mackey continued, “do you see that piece of paper in Shakespeare’s hand?”
Colophon nodded. “Is that the page mentioned in the poem?”
“That would seem to make sense, but there’s nothing written on it. Not a single word.”
“Perhaps it was painted on and has worn away with time,” suggested Julian.
“Others have entertained that same thought, but I’m afraid not,” replied the reverend. “As far as we’ve been able to determine, it has always been blank. And no one is quite sure why. In the end, it is a mystery—and we must accept it as such.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Julian.
“Well, the monument itself has been through quite an ordeal since it was placed here in the early seventeenth century. The quill has been stolen several times and replaced. In the nineteen seventies, thieves actually removed the sculpture from the wall in an effort to locate manuscripts that they believed were hidden inside the monument. Of course, they didn’t find anything. And then there’s one last bit of trivia that you might be interested in. See that door to the left?”
Julian and Colophon both looked at the large wooden door, below and to the left of the monument.
“Do you know where it leads?” asked Reverend Mackey.
“Outside?” asked Colophon.
“It leads nowhere,” replied the reverend.
“Nowhere?”
“Nowhere,” he repeated. “It used to lead into a small storage building that held a set of stairs that went down to a crypt below this very room. When the storage building was torn down, the door was bricked up from the outside.”
“What about the crypt?” asked Colophon.
“Still down there, I suppose, but no one is really sure. If we started digging under the foundations of a church this old, who knows what would happen? I don’t think anyone wants to be responsible for the floor collapsing—or worse.”
Reverend Mackey looked down at his watch.
“I do apologize for monopolizing your time,” he said. “I’ve bored you good folks long enough, and I must tend to my duties before the church closes. I do hope you enjoy your visit to our fair church.”
“It has been our pleasure meeting you,” said Julian.
“Yes,” chimed in Colophon, “and thank you for all your help and information.”
“Remember,” said Reverend Mackey, “we will be closing in ten minutes. I hate to rush you, but—as they say—rules are rules.”
And with a slight bow in Colophon’s direction, he departed. Colophon waited until he was back in the nave before she turned to Julian and said, “I don’t get the first part of the inscription. I heard you mention Socrates, but what about King Nestor and Virgil?”
“Ah yes,” replied Julian, “that does appear a bit confusing, although it really is not. You see, Nestor was the king of Pylos.”
“What about Maro?”
“What is your last name?” asked Julian.
“You know very well what my last name is.”
“Of course I do,” replied Julian, “just as you now know Virgil’s last name.”
“Maro,” answered Colophon with a grin.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Let Slip the Dogs of War
Central Park, heading east
New York City
Wednesday, December 17
Janice Waterstone struggled to maintain control over the five dogs that she was attempting to walk through Central Park.
Twenty-two years old. An art degree from NYU. Fluent in French.
Walking dogs for rich people.
Perfect. Just perfect.
She watched as a large golden retriever named Max excused himself on the grass for what seemed like the tenth time that morning.
What do they feed him?
She pulled a plastic bag out of her pocket and prepared to scoop up the remains.
It can’t get any worse than this.
And yet it did get worse.
Janice didn’t see Mull Letterford pass by her, but she sure smelled him.
So did the dogs.
All at once, the five dogs tethered to Janice lurched in Mull’s direction. Janice, who was bending over to clean up after Max, fell backwards and lost her grip on the leashes.
All five dogs broke loose at once.
Central Park, heading west
New York City
Wednesday, December 17
11:00 a.m.
With all the background noise in New York City, the sound of the barking dogs did not instantly register with Case. However, as the barking grew louder (and closer), he turned to discover that they were being approached by a pack of dogs led by a large golden retriever.
“Dad!” cried Case. “Watch out!”
But it was too late. The dogs—all of them—hit Mull Letterford at full tilt. Mull fell backwards and tumbled down a muddy embankment. He rolled over and over until he landed face first in a shallow pool of dirty rainwater at the bottom of the hill.
Case scrambled down the embankment and pulled his father to his knees. He glanced back up. At the top of the embankment, more dogs were beginning to descend.
“Run!” Case yelled.
And so he and Mull did.
They headed north along a path through the park. Case glanced back over his shoulder. The dogs were gaining ground rapidly, empty leashes flailing from their necks. The pack seemed to be growing—as was the group of annoyed dog owners in fast pursuit of their charges. Case accelerated to catch up to his dad.
The barking grew closer with every step. Case realized that it was only a matter of time before the dogs caught up with them. They needed to do something—and do it fast. Ahead and to his left, Case spied what appeared to be a large playground. “This way!” he yelled as he took a sharp left turn through a covered walkway and into the playground.
With the sudden change in direction, a dog in the lead stepped on the loose leash of another. The leash pulled tight, and several dogs tripped over it and became entangled. The momentum of the dogs was too great for them to stop. Case could hear yelps and yips as the dogs piled one on top of anoth
er behind him. Seizing the opportunity, he and his father sprinted across the playground, past several confused children and their parents, and toward a large rock outcropping that marked the playground’s far boundary. If they could make it up the rock and into the woods before the dogs regrouped, they might have a chance.
No such luck.
The dogs quickly untangled and, after a brief moment of confusion, resumed their pursuit. Case and his father scrambled up the rock. The barking grew louder behind them.
“Hurry!” Case yelled. “They’re coming!”
He reached the top of the rock and turned to look at his father. Mull Letterford—weighed down by his heavy wet clothes—was struggling to make it to the top. The dogs had now reached the base of the rock and were starting to clamber and claw their way toward Mull.
There was no way they were going to make it to the restaurant in time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Unquiet Meals Make Ill Digestions
Deorio’s Italian Restaurant
New York City
Wednesday, December 17
11:15 a.m.
“Welcome back, Mr. O’Dally,” the maître d’ said as he opened the door to the restaurant. “We are so honored that you are joining us for lunch today. It has been a while since you last dined with us.”
Patrick O’Dally looked like an uptight high school math teacher from the 1950s. He was fifty-nine years old but seemed at least a generation older. His black hair was combed back tightly against his head and held in place by some sort of cream. He wore a red bow tie, a white shirt, a black jacket, crisply ironed gray pants, and a pair of highly polished shoes.
O’Dally peered over the top of his glasses at the maître d’. “I assume you have corrected the problem?”
The “problem” that had plagued O’Dally on his last visit to the restaurant was that his table was not ready at precisely the time he had requested. His reservation had been at 11:15 a.m. His table had been ready at 11:16 a.m. It was, in O’Dally’s opinion, an outrage. That had been over a year ago. Under most circumstances, the restaurant owners would have lost no sleep over the loss of such a customer. O’Dally was, in many ways, a complete distraction every time he entered the restaurant. However, in addition to penning a number of best-selling novels, he also blogged daily—in excruciating detail—about his every meal. His blog was followed by millions of gourmands across the planet. Even the slightest hint that a restaurant had not met his exacting standards could result in a dramatic drop in business.
“You have my personal assurance that the problem has been corrected,” replied the maître d’. “If you will follow me, your table is ready.”
Actually, the table had been ready since the restaurant closed the night before. It was not simply that O’Dally demanded that everything in his life follow a specific timetable. No, everything had to be done in a specific manner. The linens on the table had been ironed the previous evening, with each corner folded over right to left in the postmodern fashion, not left to right. The table setting was carefully measured to ensure that each element was appropriately and proportionately spaced on the table—according, of course, to the basic requirements of service à la russe.
Normally only one place setting was set up, lest the removal of another place setting leave an unseemly indention in the linens. However, because O’Dally was going to be joined for lunch, two identical place settings were set up. O’Dally surveyed the table as the maître d’ anxiously watched. “It is acceptable,” O’Dally finally pronounced as he sat down. “My guest should arrive within the next fifteen minutes.”
Central Park
Wednesday, December 17
11:15 a.m.
“Dad!” Case yelled. “Climb!”
But Mull Letterford did not climb the rock. In fact, he sat down.
“Dad!” Case pleaded.
But Mull ignored him.
The dogs were now just a few yards away. All Case could do was stand there and watch.
And then, just as the dogs were about to reach him, Mull Letterford stood up and, with a quick motion, tossed something over their heads. The dogs stopped instantly, turned around, and headed back down the rock.
It took a second for Case to realize what had occurred.
And then it hit him—his father was now barefoot. The dogs were fighting over Mull Letterford’s shoes and socks in the playground below.
“Let’s go!” Mull yelled as he scrambled over the top of the rock and leaped into the woods. Case turned and ran after him. Within minutes they were out of the park and heading north along Central Park West. They slowed their pace to a quick walk as they caught their breath. Case looked at his father. He was bruised, scraped, disheveled, and shoeless. Case knew he was freezing.
“Do you think we lost them?” Mull asked.
“I don’t know,” Case replied. “You still smell like roadkill—and I don’t think there were enough shoes and socks to satisfy that crowd.”
He looked back to see if they were being followed. There was a jogger, a woman pushing a stroller, a group of teenagers, and an elderly couple walking hand in hand—but no dogs.
Relieved, Case turned to tell his father the good news.
And that’s when he heard it.
It was faint, but Case knew exactly what it was—a dog’s bark. Mull Letterford heard it too. In unison, they turned and looked back down the sidewalk. Half a block behind them—at the same spot where they had exited the park—a small dog scampered out onto the sidewalk. It stopped, put its nose in the air, and turned toward Case and his father. For a moment there was silence. Everything was still. The dog stared at them, and they at the dog. And then it started.
Suddenly dogs of every size, color, and breed poured out of Central Park and headed directly toward them. Case and his father broke into a sprint. Behind them, the symphony of car horns, angry shouts, and barking dogs was deafening. Case and his father scrambled between cars to cross the avenue and headed down a side street.
The dogs followed.
They reached Columbus Avenue at the end of the block and turned north. They were less than a block from the restaurant, but the dogs remained in determined pursuit.
“There!” yelled Mull Letterford. “There’s the restaurant!”
Mull burst into the front of the restaurant, while Case braced himself at the entrance for the onslaught of canines that was rapidly descending upon him.
Pat O’Dally pulled out his pocket watch and glanced down at it. It was 11:28 a.m. The restaurant was already packed with the usual crowd of locals and a handful of tourists.
But no Letterford.
O’Dally put his pocket watch away and surveyed the table. Over the course of the last few minutes, he had made numerous minor adjustments to the placement of the utensils and the fold of the napkins. Everything was perfect and in its place, except for the empty seat directly across from him.
O’Dally pulled out his pocket watch again.
It was now 11:29 a.m.
O’Dally started to put his watch away when he heard a loud voice from the front of the restaurant.
“Sir! You can’t—”
This exclamation was followed by footsteps coming toward O’Dally’s private room, the sounds of a tray falling and glass breaking, and several more gruff comments. The noise stopped, and after a brief moment of silence, the door to the private dining room opened. In the doorway stood a middle-aged man, his salt-and-pepper hair dripping with sweat and sticking out in all directions. He wore a muddy gray suit that looked as if it had been crumpled in a gym bag for a week. A red tie hung asunder from his neck. He was barefoot. And he stank. He stank really bad.
It was, O’Dally realized, Mull Letterford.
“I am . . . ,” Mull panted, “here.”
O’Dally—notwithstanding the initial shock of Letterford’s entrance, his appearance, and his odor—glanced calmly down at his watch. It was now 11:31 a.m.
Letterford was late.
<
br /> O’Dally started to admonish Letterford for his breach of etiquette when he was interrupted by the sounds of sirens blaring, dogs barking, and people yelling.
Was there a parade? O’Dally wondered. Perhaps a fire?
The noise grew louder.
“Can we speak about the contract?” Mull Letterford panted as he nervously looked back over his shoulder.
Again, O’Dally started to open his mouth. The noise, however, grew even louder—and closer.
And then things got worse.
A small terrier came running into the room and jumped onto the dining table. The dog glanced briefly in O’Dally’s direction, turned, and started barking at Mull Letterford.
Letterford and O’Dally stared at each other and then at the dog on the table.
And that’s when it happened.
A tsunami of dogs flooded the restaurant. There was a crash of glass and tables.
Pasta flew everywhere.
Sparkling water spilled from every table.
Waiters slipped.
Meatballs shot through the air.
Spaghetti sauce splattered across the walls.
And Parmesan cheese dusted everything in sight.
It was a culinary and literary disaster, the likes of which had not been seen since the unfortunate Hemingway-gorgonzola incident of ’48.
O’Dally sat in his chair. Several large dogs surrounded Mull and barked intensely at his feet.
“I don’t know what to say,” Mull shouted above the barking.
O’Dally stood up, straightened his jacket, and turned to Mull. “There is,” O’Dally said bluntly, “nothing to say. You were late by fifteen seconds.”
And with that, he stepped over several dogs and between two fallen waiters and exited the restaurant.
Chapter Twenty-Four
With Hidden Help and Vantage
Holy Trinity Church
Stratford-upon-Avon
Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave Page 10