Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave

by Deron R. Hicks

  She took a few steps back. He reached over, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

  Nothing.

  The door didn’t budge.

  “Hmm,” said Julian. “Perhaps there’s some sort of hidden lock.”

  “Or,” said Colophon as she squeezed past her cousin, “perhaps we should simply push.”

  She pushed the door forward. It swung open with ease.

  They entered the room beyond the wooden door. It was easily twenty feet across and at least thirty feet long. The walls were made of cut stone, and the vaulted ceiling was composed of small bricks. The whole room looked as if it could collapse at any moment.

  Colophon scanned the room with her flashlight.

  “Look!” She pointed her flashlight at the far end of the room.

  “Remarkable!” said Julian.

  Approximately five feet off the ground, on the wall at the far end of the room, was what appeared to be an exact copy of the Shakespeare monument in the church above them, albeit covered with cobwebs.

  Colophon pointed her flashlight at the piece of paper held in the statue’s hand. “I’ll bet something’s written on THAT page!” she exclaimed. “That has to be the page from the poem.”

  “Without a doubt,” agreed Julian.

  “What is this room?” asked Colophon.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he replied. “But I think it may be part of the old Saxon church on top of which Holy Trinity was built.”

  “How is that possible? Wouldn’t they have simply torn it down?”

  “Not necessarily. This part of the old church may have served as a crypt or the foundation for the new church at some point. It was a fairly common practice to build churches in that manner.”

  “Well, no sense in waiting. Let’s check out that monument,” said Colophon.

  “Wait.”

  “Why?” she asked impatiently. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Listen.”

  She paused. “Why do I hear running water?” she asked.

  Julian had not noticed the sound of running water when they first entered the room, but it was now unmistakable. He scanned the floor of the room with his flashlight. What he saw made his heart drop.

  Colophon and Julian stood no more than ten feet from the Shakespeare monument.

  It might as well have been a mile.

  Approximately two feet in front of the Shakespeare monument was a gaping hole that ran directly across the room. The sound of rapidly running water rose up from somewhere deep in the hole.

  “How did that get here?” asked Colophon.

  “Well, the church does sit next to a river. Underground streams are certainly not uncommon.”

  “Do you think Miles Letterford planned this?”

  Julian stared down into the hole. “I don’t think so. It appears as if the floor collapsed after the monument was placed on the wall. The water probably eroded the ground underneath the floor over a period of years, and then one day—bam!—the floor was gone.”

  Colophon placed her hands on her hips and stared across to the monument.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter how it got here. The question is, how do we get across?”

  Julian scanned the sides of the hole with his flashlight. On the right side of the room, a small portion of the floor remained attached to the wall. The ledge was little more than eight inches wide and, in places, substantially less.

  “Perhaps,” said Julian, “I could make my way along that ledge to the far side.”

  His voice, Colophon noted, was not brimming with confidence.

  There was, however, no other way across.

  “I’m smaller than you,” she said. “Let me do it.”

  “No,” he replied. “I can’t allow you to do that. It’s far too dangerous. And besides, your mother would kill me.” He handed her the flashlight. “If anything happens to me,” he said, “get out of here immediately.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Just leave and get help. OK?”

  She looked up at him. “OK.”

  He took a deep breath. “All right. Now make sure you shine the flashlight so that I can see the ledge.”

  He tentatively tested the first foot or so of the ledge with his left foot. It appeared firm, so he scooted a little farther down the ledge. Slowly he made his way across the chasm.

  Colophon glanced down at her watch. “We only have ten minutes left.”

  “Not a real good time for me to hurry,” he huffed under his breath. “I would prefer not to get sucked into this dark underground river.”

  About two thirds of the way across, he stopped. He stuck his left foot out and pushed down lightly on the ledge. It crumbled into the darkness below. He was still three feet from the far side.

  “I’m going to have to jump,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” replied Colophon. “Just come back. We can find some other way.”

  “There’s no other way. And as you said, we don’t have time. I need to get over there now.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t have time,” he repeated. “I have to do this.”

  She knew he was right.

  “Be careful,” she said. “You only have a foot or so of floor left on the other side.”

  Julian tensed his body, bent his knees, and jumped.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In the Bottom of a Tomb

  Julian crashed hard against the wall and crumpled onto the small ledge.

  “Are you OK?” called Colophon.

  He lifted his head and peered over the edge into the darkness.

  “I’m fine. Who knew that a stone wall would be so hard? Better than the alternative, I suppose.”

  He stood up and brushed himself off. Then he quickly made his way down to the monument.

  “Well,” said Colophon, “is there anything on it?”

  He looked back across at her with a broad smile.

  “Yes.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says ‘EX LUNA SCIENTIA.’”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means ‘From the moon, knowledge.’”

  “Another clue,” she said, exasperated.

  “Another clue,” he replied. “Expecting something different?”

  “A treasure map would have been nice. Now we have another problem to solve.”

  Julian stood by the edge and looked across at Colophon. “Actually,” he said, “we now have two problems to solve. One happens to be a lot more urgent than the other—at least for the moment.”

  It took a second for the realization to hit Colophon.

  Oh no! she thought. Julian couldn’t come back the same way he had reached the monument. The ledge had started to crumble—there was no way it would hold his weight a second time.

  “I’m going to have to try and jump,” he said.

  The gap between them seemed enormous. “You’ll never make it!” she exclaimed.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?” he replied. “We have to get out of here.”

  Colophon scanned the room with her flashlight. It was empty. She could not see anything that could be used to bridge the gap. There was only one way back across. Julian would have to jump.

  “All right,” she said. “You can do this.”

  He stepped back as far against the wall as possible and braced himself. “On the count of three,” he said.

  “One.

  “Two.

  “Three.”

  He took a short step and jumped. The jump was awkward, as was he. His lanky arms and legs splayed to all sides.

  His right foot landed first, followed shortly thereafter by his left hand. He stood there briefly, balanced on one foot and one arm, at the edge of the hole. His left leg hung back over the abyss—his right arm was forward. He looked up at Colophon and smiled.

  “And you were worried that I wouldn’t make it.”

  The smile, however, faded quickly. He leaned
backwards as his left hand came off the floor. As Colophon watched in horror, he started to pitch back into the darkness.

  Palace Hotel, the basement

  Wednesday, December 17, late evening

  Mull Letterford sat on a metal stool, wrapped in a robe bearing the name of the hotel, with his feet soaking in a bucket filled with a mixture of baking soda, vinegar, and hydrogen peroxide. Case had found the recipe on the Internet—an all-purpose and powerful formula for odor removal—and it seemed to be working. They would probably be allowed back up into the hotel now that the smell had subsided.

  Mull stared across the small utility room at his son. “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?” Case asked. “I didn’t do anything special. Anybody could have found a way to get rid of the smell.”

  “No, it’s not just about the smell. I’m thanking you for being there for me today.”

  Case turned and looked out a small window into a storage area beyond.

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” he finally replied.

  “It’ll be OK. There are other authors.”

  Case turned back to his father. “But there aren’t others. There’s only one left. Isn’t that true?”

  His comment took Mull Letterford by surprise. “How do you know that?”

  Case explained to his father how Colophon had overheard the entire conversation in the library.

  “And Coly sent you here to keep an eye on me?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Mull laughed. “You didn’t have to go to the museum, did you?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I know you’re probably mad at me.” Case’s eyes were tinged with red.

  “Mad at you?” Mull replied. “How could I be mad at you? You came here to help me—to help the family business. I couldn’t be prouder of you than I am right now.”

  “But what if they take everything away from you—from us?”

  Mull stepped out of the bucket and walked over to his son.

  “It doesn’t matter. Really. As long as I have my family, that’s the only thing that matters. That’s what’s real.”

  Case reached over and hugged his father. “You’re not going to tell Coly about this, are you? It could ruin my reputation as the mean older brother.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Mull sat back down, grabbed a towel, and started drying his feet.

  “You know,” said Case, “Coly has a theory about why all this bad stuff has happened lately.”

  “And the theory is?”

  “She thinks some guy named Tree-something is behind all this.”

  Mull leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “Treemont,” he said.

  “That’s the name. I told her she was crazy, but you know Coly.”

  “I don’t think your sister’s crazy.”

  “You mean it’s possible he did all of this?”

  “Yes,” Mull replied. “I think it’s entirely possible.”

  “So what did you do to get this guy mad at you?”

  Mull paused. “I was born,” he finally replied. “He’s my second cousin, and he has always resented the fact that the company was going to be passed down to me.”

  “Wow—this guy Treemont is your cousin?”

  “Yes, but don’t let that fool you. Family means nothing to him.”

  Case turned back around and stared out the window. “Dad, have you always wanted to own Letterford and Sons?”

  “Hardly,” Mull said. “When I was your age, I had no interest whatsoever in running a publishing house. I mean, what self-respecting fifteen-year-old would?”

  The answer caught Case off guard. He had assumed that his father had always wanted to run the company.

  “So what changed your mind?” he asked.

  “I simply realized at some point that running the company wasn’t an obligation, it was a privilege. I was born a Letterford, but I made the choice to be part of Letterford and Sons—no one forced me.” He paused. “And when the time comes, it will be your decision and your decision only.”

  “Promise?” replied Case. He had never thought of it as a choice he could make—he had always viewed his birthright as a burden.

  “Promise,” replied Mull.

  Then he looked at his son. “I have a question to ask you.” His voice took on a serious tone. “Did my feet actually make someone throw up?”

  Case grinned. “All over the floor in the elevator lobby.”

  Stratford-upon-Avon

  Wednesday, December 17

  Colophon seized Julian’s jacket and held fast. She could feel herself being pulled forward into the crack with him.

  “Let go!” he yelled. “You can’t hold me!”

  Colophon stared into Julian’s eyes.

  “I . . . WILL . . . NOT . . . LET . . . GO!”

  Colophon threw all her weight backwards in one swift motion. She and Julian tumbled backwards and landed with a thump on the stone floor.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” said Julian.

  “And you’re heavier than you look,” said Colophon, as she stood up. Her whole backside ached from falling on the stone floor and from serving as a landing pad for Julian.

  She glanced down at the illuminated dials on her watch.

  “Run!” she cried. They now had thirty seconds to reach the door before it slammed shut.

  Flashlight forward, they scampered quickly across the room and through the door into the hallway.

  CLICK . . . CLICK . . . CLICK

  The clicking noise echoed down the hallway.

  CLICK—CLICK—CLICK—CLICK—CLICK

  The pace of the clicks increased as they sped down the hallway and started up the stairs.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  Julian made the final turn first and burst through the opening. As Colophon put her foot on the final step, she tripped and fell forward. Her flashlight fell from her hands, hit the wall, and rolled back down the stairs. As she watched, the light from the flashlight bounced against the wall of the stairs and then was gone. The alarm on her watch started beeping. The clicking had stopped.

  “Julian!” she cried.

  As soon as Julian made it through the door and into the mausoleum, he heard the thud behind him and Colophon’s cry. He turned back to the door. It was slowly closing.

  Colophon tried to get to her knees, but she felt as if she were moving in slow motion. The light from Julian’s flashlight illuminated the opening into the mausoleum, but it was growing dimmer. The stone door was starting to shut. Suddenly the light was gone.

  She was trapped.

  Julian threw down his flashlight and thrust his arms back through the narrowing opening. He groped around for Colophon. Nothing.

  Where was she?

  Colophon was scrambling on her knees in the direction of the door, or at least where she thought the door was.

  It was so dark

  Was the door already closed?

  Suddenly something grabbed her right hand.

  This was no time to be delicate. As soon as he felt it, Julian grabbed her hand and pulled. Her feet barely made it past the stone door before it slammed shut. The sounds of metal bolts locking into place—for the final time—rang through the cold and dark mausoleum.

  Julian and Colophon sat on the floor. Despite the cold, they were covered in sweat.

  “You know, you’re stronger than you look,” said Colophon.

  Julian paused and caught his breath. “And you’re heavier than you appear,” replied Julian.

  They both laughed nervously. The laughter, however, ended quickly as the room filled with light and a deep voice from behind them announced: “What ’r you doing in here?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Of Other Men’s Secrets

  Colophon and Julian stood in front of Reverend Mackey’s large oak desk in the church. Behind them stood the graveyard’s caretaker—Charlie Thompson—a man o
f considerable size and girth, whose flattened face matched his grim demeanor.

  Reverend Mackey leaned back in his chair. “I was in the middle of watching a terrific match between Northampton and Worcester, in front of a very warm fire with a nice brandy, when Mr. Thompson telephoned to inform me that he had found some trespassers in one of the mausoleums.”

  “Just sittin’ there, they were,” added the caretaker, “right in the middle of the bloody mausoleum. I saw the light from their flashlight under the door. I knew I had caught me some trespassers, I did.”

  “This is not,” the reverend continued, “the first time we have had a break-in. It seems to be a favorite rite of passage for much of the youth in this area. I was, however, shocked to learn that the trespassers this evening were members of the respected Letterford family. Quite a catch, I must say. Mr. Thompson certainly does an excellent job of keeping an eye on the grounds.”

  Charlie Thompson puffed out his chest in pride. “Thank you, sir. I do my best, I do. Now, shall I ring for the constable?”

  Colophon and Julian looked at Reverend Mackey.

  “No,” the reverend replied.

  The air instantly went out of Charlie Thompson’s chest. “But sir? These two—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. You have done an excellent job this evening, but I believe I will handle this particular matter myself.”

  The caretaker shrugged his broad shoulders, grunted a brief goodbye, and then departed the room.

  “I sincerely apologize,” said Julian. “This is all my fault. I should never—”

  Reverend Mackey held up his hand. Julian stopped speaking.

  “You know,” the reverend said, “you gave Mr. Thompson quite a start this evening. He’s a superstitious sort. There’s no telling what was going through his head.”

  “Are you going to call the police?” asked Colophon.

  “Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it?” replied Reverend Mackey. “As you are probably aware, the mausoleums are private property. They are not open to the public. That’s why they have locks.” He shot a glance at Julian.