Wednesday, December 17
“OK,” said Colophon, “so we’re in the right place. What next? The poem? It seems like it could be full of clues. And look around this room—carvings, graves, and stained glass. They could all be clues. Where do we even begin?”
Julian and Colophon turned and stared at the Shakespeare monument.
“It has to be the monument,” said Julian. “Perhaps something is hidden in the statue?” Julian paused. “It could be anything. My guess is that the clue is staring right at us. The reason I couldn’t find the clue in the portrait of Miles Letterford was because I tried too hard—I was looking for hidden clues and codes. But the real clue was right in front of me the whole time. It was a brilliant move on the part of Miles Letterford. I suspect that the same approach will apply here. The next clue is probably right in front of us.”
“OK,” replied Colophon, “let’s look at what we have. The inscription appears to refer to a single page.”
“Correct,” agreed Julian.
“And,” she continued, “the sculpture shows Shakespeare holding a single piece of paper.”
“Correct.”
“And yet,” she said, “the paper is blank.”
They stared at the sculpture.
“I want to see it,” Colophon said.
Julian looked around. No one was in the immediate vicinity of the monument. The church would be closing in mere minutes.
“Go quick, before anyone comes.”
She scooted over the brass rail that separated viewers from the monument and approached it. Next to the monument was a large marble ossuary. She climbed quickly on top of it and examined the paper held under the statue’s left hand.
She looked over at Julian and whispered: “Nothing.” Then she retreated back over the rail. “So again, what next?” she asked Julian. “We’re running out of time.”
They continued to stare at the monument. Just then the bells of the church started to ring.
“Closing time,” said Julian.
They could hear the church volunteers politely asking other visitors to exit. In only a matter of moments, they would reach the chancel.
“But we haven’t figured it out yet!” Colophon protested.
“No, we haven’t,” replied Julian. “But unless your plans involve hiding in this church, I suggest we depart.”
She started to object, but stopped and simply nodded.
Outside Deorio’s Restaurant
Wednesday, December 17
11:35 a.m.
Case paced outside the restaurant waiting for his father. Policemen, firefighters, employees of the restaurant, and irate dog owners worked diligently outside the restaurant and around the block to bring some order to the chaos. To his credit, Case had made a noble, and completely unsuccessful, effort to keep the dogs from entering the restaurant. Now he didn’t have the heart to look inside. The front door opened, and Mull Letterford walked out.
“Dad?”
Mull walked over to his son.
“Dad,” asked Case, “are you OK?”
Mull looked down at his watch and wiped a meatball from his forearm. He was covered in red sauce. Spaghetti hung from his shoulder. A Boykin spaniel sniffed persistently at his feet. He appeared stunned.
“I’m fine,” he finally answered in a quiet, resigned voice. “We need to get you over to the museum so that you can work on your report. I’m sorry—I should have had you at the museum this morning.”
Case stared at his father. Obviously, he did not get the contract. That meant he was one step closer to losing the family business. And yet, Case realized, despite all that had occurred this morning, his father was still concerned about him.
“The report can wait,” Case said. “Let’s get you back to the hotel—it’s been a long morning.”
Mull Letterford looked down at his son and nodded. “It has been a very long morning.”
Stratford-upon-Avon
Wednesday, December 17
Colophon and Julian stepped out of the church and started down the long path through the graveyard. Although it was early evening, a full moon illuminated the path and the graveyard. It had turned very cold.
“Are you OK?” asked Julian.
Colophon stopped and looked down at her feet. “I—I just thought the clue would jump out at us. I was so sure.”
He bent down and looked at her. “I know. I was certain we’d find something. Some hint of a new clue. I guess I forgot how hard this journey really can be.”
Colophon stared straight ahead over his shoulder into the graveyard beyond. Her face betrayed no emotion.
“Listen,” he continued. “Perhaps your mother will let us come back here in a day or so. We can spend some more time in the chancel. Maybe something new will turn up.”
Colophon continued to stare straight ahead.
“Are you all right?” asked Julian.
She looked at him. A slight grin crossed her face.
“I’ve found the next clue.”
Before he could comprehend exactly what Colophon had said, she had sprinted past him into the graveyard.
“Wait!” Julian yelled. But she was already several yards into the graveyard and moving quickly between the headstones. He gathered his backpack and headed after her. He found her less than a hundred feet from the path, standing in front of a mausoleum.
“Colophon, you can’t run off like that. Your mother would absolutely—”
Colophon pointed to the family name on the mausoleum, carved into the marble exterior.
WITT
He stared at the name.
“This has to be it,” she said. “The name is the same as the last line of the poem on the monument: ‘Leaves living art, but page, to serve his WITT.’ ”
“It can’t be that simple,” he stammered.
“Look at the date on the mausoleum,” she said.
Julian looked at the bronze door. It read simply 1623—the same year the Shakespeare Monument had been erected.
“Well, I’ll be.”
“We have to get inside,” said Colophon.
Julian stared at the door to the mausoleum.
“Well?” she asked.
Julian continued to stare at the door. Finally he looked at her and said: “I guess we’d better call your mom and tell her we’re going to be late.”
The Limpton Club
Boston, Massachusetts
December 17, noon
Treemont sat in a deep leather chair and peered out the window at the city of Boston. His gaze was unfocused. An unread newspaper sat on his lap. The reading room in the club was usually quiet at this time of day. The lunch crowd had all headed to the dining room, leaving Treemont alone, as he preferred.
His cell phone buzzed in his coat pocket. Although cell phones were forbidden in the club, none of the staff had the courage to enforce this rule when it came to Treemont.
He looked at the number on his phone. “Yes?” he said.
“It’s done,” James replied.
“How was it?”
“Spectacular. Want to see the video?”
“Video?” replied Treemont. “You videoed it?”
“Of course.”
“Send it to the secure e-mail,” Treemont responded before ending the call without another word.
A moment later Treemont’s cell phone buzzed yet again. This time it was to notify him that he had received an e-mail. He took a look around the reading room to confirm that he was alone before opening the attachment. The video played across the phone’s small screen.
“Spectacular indeed,” Treemont said to himself. He returned his gaze to the city beyond and contemplated the days to come.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Secrets of the Grave
Stratford-upon-Avon
Wednesday, December 17
It took less than two minutes for Julian to pick the lock to the mausoleum door.
“I’m impressed,” said Colophon.
“Well,” he replied, “I have picked up a useful skill or two in my travels. Just don’t mention this particular skill to your mother, OK?”
“Our secret,” she assured him.
He looked around the graveyard and church grounds. There was no one in sight. He gave a tug on the door, which reluctantly swung open a foot or so. He retrieved a flashlight from his backpack.
“Wait here for a second,” he said as he stepped into the dark interior. A moment later he stuck his head out the door: “Quick, step inside. It looks safe.”
Colophon stepped into the mausoleum, as Julian pulled the door shut behind her. The room was cold. She could smell the dust and age of the stone crypt. He illuminated the room with his flashlight.
“More dead people,” Colophon said.
“Yes,” replied Julian. “More dead people.”
The left and right walls of the mausoleum appeared to be divided into three tiers. A name and date of birth and death were engraved on each tier.
“Here, take this.” Julian handed Colophon a flashlight from his backpack. “Look around and see if you see any clues.”
Julian headed to the right side wall, and Colophon to the left.
Colophon read from top to bottom:
HON. ADALMUND WITT 1675–1723
EADRIC LYNDON WITT 1700–1763
DEAKIN NEWEY WITT 1729–1801
There was no other ornamentation on the wall. No other writing.
“Nothing,” Colophon announced. “I don’t see anything here that looks like a clue.”
Julian walked over to her. “Same on the other side,” he said. “Just names and dates. Nothing else. Two down, one to go.”
They swung their flashlights toward the back wall of the mausoleum. What they saw stopped them in their tracks.
There was only one inscription on the back wall, and it read:
ARTHUR WITT 1554–1623
MAY HIS MEMORY LIVE IN OUR HEARTS FOREVER.
Above the inscription was an oval brass plate with a large W engraved in the middle of it.
“Arthur Witt! Art Witt!” said Julian. “Incredible! Just like the poem from the monument: ‘Leaves living Art to serve his Witt’! And look at the date of his death—1623—the same as Shakespeare’s monument!”
“This cannot be a coincidence!” exclaimed Colophon. “This has to be the next clue.”
“Oh, of that I am certain,” responded Julian. “But I return to our favorite question—what next?”
They stood and stared at the wall in which Arthur Witt was apparently entombed.
Was there even a person by that name? Colophon wondered.
With their flashlights, they scanned the entire wall, looking for some clue or hint as to where Mr. Witt intended to take them next.
Nothing.
With the exception of the inscription and the brass plate, the wall was blank. Again, no mysterious ornamentation, carvings, or engravings. No buttons to push or Scooby-Doo-esque candlesticks to pull. Nothing. Just a gray, dusty, cobweb-covered wall.
And yet, thought Colophon, something seems strangely familiar. But what?
“We seem to spend a lot of time staring at walls,” she said.
Julian chuckled. “Welcome to my world.”
He looked down at his watch. “We don’t have much time. I promised your mother we’d be on the road by seven, and it’s almost six-thirty-five right now.”
“I know,” replied Colophon. “But we are so—”she paused. Could it be?
“What?” asked Julian. “Do you see something?”
She cocked her head to the side, her flashlight illuminating the back wall. Julian looked from her to the wall and back.
“I have seen that W before,” she said.
He turned his flashlight onto the brass plate.
“Where?” asked Julian. “In the church?”
“No,” she replied. “In my father’s office.”
“What?” he asked. “You have seen that W in your father’s office?”
“Not just the W,” she replied. “The entire brass plate. My father has an exact copy.”
He was stunned. “But how? Where?”
“And, for the record,” she said, “it’s not a W.”
He turned the flashlight back to the brass plate. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s a W.”
Colophon walked over to the wall next to the brass plate. “No, it’s not a W. I knew there was something very familiar about the W—the entire brass plate. I just wasn’t sure why.”
“I simply don’t see where you are going with this.”
“It’s the key!” replied Colophon.
“The key to what?”
“No, not a key to something. It is the same symbol that’s on the key—the Letterford key that my father keeps in his office.”
“I don’t understand.”
Julian paused, then slowly cocked his head to the left. As he did so, the W transformed into a sigma—∑—exactly the same as on the Letterford key. Even the brass plate—in an oval shape—matched the key.
“Remarkable,” Julian muttered under his breath. “OK,” he said. “Same question as before—”
“What next?” answered Colophon. She walked over to the wall, ran her hand across the brass plate, and then turned to face her cousin.
“I think,” she said, “we need to straighten it out and see what happens.”
“Just turn it?” he asked.
“Just turn it,” she responded.
Julian walked over to the wall. Peering over his glasses, he closely examined the brass plate. It extended from the wall by approximately a half inch. Two bolts on either side held it securely to the wall.
He looked back at Colophon. “Just turn it?”
“Yes,” she repeated. “Just turn it.”
He shrugged, turned back to the wall, and tried turning the brass plate to the right.
Nothing.
He tried turning the plate to the left.
Nothing.
“It won’t—”
“I know,” said Colophon. “It’s not budging. There has to be some sort of trigger or release.”
She handed her flashlight to Julian and then walked up to the brass plate.
There wasn’t much to it. It was about six inches wide, four inches high, oval in shape, with a bolt on either side.
The bolts!
Colophon placed a thumb on each bolt and, with a deep breath, pushed. For a moment, nothing happened. And then each bolt slowly started to withdraw into the wall. Once the bolts were completely withdrawn, Colophon turned the plate clockwise ninety degrees. The oval now stood upright, and the W was transformed into a ∑. Colophon stepped back from the wall.
CLICK
The sound came from within the wall.
CLICK
CLICK
“Get back,” said Julian.
CLICK CLICK CLICK
Silence.
“Is that it?” asked Colophon.
The sound of metal striking metal came from behind the wall. Then in rapid succession . . . CLICK CLICK CLICK
Silence again.
Then, as they watched, the entire back wall started to move.
CLICK CLICK CLICK
The right side of the wall rotated approximately three feet into the room. The left side retreated back into a space hidden behind the wall. As it did, it revealed . . .
“A stairway!” exclaimed Colophon.
Julian and Colophon pointed their flashlights down the circular staircase, which wound into the darkness.
“Look!”
Julian pointed to an engraved plate above the staircase. Below it was a clock of some sort. And it was ticking.
The inscription on the plate read:
BE FOREWARNED THOSE WHO SEEK THE PAGE
TRAVEL SWIFT, LEST TIME PRESERVE YE FOR ALL AGE
“It’s not a clock,” said Julian. “It’s a timer. It appears we have exactly thirty minutes.”
Colophon set the a
larm on her watch to go off in thirty minutes. “And what happens if we don’t get back in time?” she asked.
“I don’t think we want to find out,” he replied.
Julian led Colophon down the narrow stone stairway. The stairs wound in a tight circle, which prevented them from seeing more than a few feet ahead at a time. The only light came from Julian’s flashlight.
He stopped suddenly and without warning. Colophon ran into his back.
“We’re at the bottom,” he whispered. She stepped off the last step and stood beside him. He pointed his flashlight into the darkness. It illuminated a narrow stone corridor covered in dusty cobwebs. The light tapered off into darkness. The air was thick and musty.
“Well,” she said, “it looks like there’s only one way to go.”
“That’s usually not a good thing,” he noted. “Follow me.” He started down the corridor. “And watch your step. There’s no telling how structurally sound this corridor may be. There’s an awful lot of dirt above our heads.”
They moved forward slowly. After fifteen feet or so, he stopped.
“Is something the matter?” asked Colophon.
He pointed the flashlight back down the corridor.
“Look,” he said.
“What?”
“Our footprints. You can see our footprints in the dust.”
“So?”
“There are no other footprints in the dust. None. I think,” said Julian, “that we may be the first people in this corridor . . .”
“. . . in almost four hundred years,” replied Col-ophon. “That is so cool.”
The corridor ended at a small wooden door.
Julian moved the beam from his flashlight across the door and examined it carefully.
“No lock,” Colophon noted.
“Perhaps Miles Letterford decided that if someone got this far, another lock would simply be overkill. However, we’re not taking any chances. Stand back while I try and open it.”
Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave Page 11