11:00 a.m.
“Coly!” yelled Mrs. Letterford. “It’s your brother on the phone. He needs to speak with you.”
Colophon sprinted down the stairs, grabbed the cordless phone from her mother, and headed for the dining room.
“You’re up early,” she said. “What is it, five o’clock in the morning in Manchester?”
“Don’t remind me,” Case responded.
“So,” she continued, “how did it go in New York?”
Case let out a short laugh. “Go get your laptop and then come back to the phone.” Colophon put down the phone and raced upstairs to retrieve her laptop. Once back downstairs, she opened it up and grabbed the phone. “I have it in front of me.”
Case told his sister to go to YouTube and search for a video labeled “Dog Day in New York.”
There was silence on the phone for several moments.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah,” Case answered.
“Has Dad seen this?”
“Not yet,” replied Case.
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, I got that the first time,” Case said. “So tell me, Sherlock, have you solved the mystery yet?”
Case’s sarcasm usually drove Colophon nuts, but something in his voice seemed different this time. He seemed more good-natured—less mean. “I’m getting there,” she replied. She spent the next ten minutes describing the events of the prior day.
Not bad, Case thought when his little sister finished. Not bad at all.
Trigue James was equally impressed by Colophon and what she had found. He had listened to the conversation between Colophon and Case from the relative comfort of his rental car, parked across the street from the Letterford home in London. It had been easy enough to listen in on the call, particularly since the Letterfords insisted on using a cordless phone and not a landline. James simply had to dial into the correct frequency, and voilà, instant access to the Letterfords’ private conversations.
James texted a short message to Treemont: “They have a key.” Then he sat back in his seat, sipped his coffee, and waited. A moment later his phone pinged. The text back from Treemont was equally short and concise: “Get it.”
Chapter Thirty
With Golden Promises
London
Thursday, December 18
2:05 p.m.
The cold London air and a chilling mist enveloped Colophon and Julian as they made their way along the crowded streets of London. They walked for several blocks in silence, their frosty breaths trailing behind them. Suddenly, Julian stopped.
“Why have we stopped?” asked Colophon.
“This is the intersection of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street,” said Julian as he turned and gestured at the cross streets in front of them. “Threadneedle Street used to be—as the name suggests—the street where you could find a good tailor. It’s now the heart of London’s financial district. The Bank of England is located just down this street. Millions of people entrust the financial institutions here to take care of their most valuable financial assets. But as we discussed this morning, when Miles Letterford was alive, there were no banks.”
“Yes,” Colophon said, “and people used goldsmiths to protect their treasures. But what does that have to do with where we are now? This wasn’t the goldsmiths’ district.”
Julian gestured for her to follow as he proceeded down Threadneedle Street. “It’s true that there were no banks and that this was not the goldsmiths’ district. Goldsmiths, however, had to be very careful. The items that they worked on were valuable. So they had to develop ways of protecting them from thieves and burglars. Out of necessity, they became very good at doing just that. Many goldsmiths soon discovered that it was more profitable to hold items of value for a fee than to produce gold objects.”
Colophon stopped. “Wait,” she said, “are you trying to tell me that the goldsmiths became—”
“Banks,” interjected Julian. “Not all of them, of course. There are still goldsmiths. But yes, that is essentially how many of the banks in England were founded.”
Julian then pointed to the building in front of where they had stopped.
“This is B and C Bank of London,” he said. “Care to guess what the B in B and C stands for?”
“Bartwick!” exclaimed Colophon.
“Exactly,” replied Julian. “B and C Bank of London, or more formally, Bartwick and Cavendish Bank of London.”
Colophon patted the pocket in which she had placed the key prior to leaving the house. “Do you think that they would still have whatever this key opens?”
“Well, my dear, there is only one way to find out. Shall we cross the street and go see?”
Trigue James had followed Colophon and Julian as they left the Letterford home and now watched from across the street as they entered the bank. A quick Internet search on his phone told him everything he needed to know about the bank—private institution, rich clientele, world-class security, and a reputation for strict confidentiality. This would not be easy.
James knew he didn’t have much time, but he had already started formulating a plan. Fortunately, he knew people—people who would do anything if they got paid and who had rather unique skills.
He dialed a number on his cell phone. The phone rang twice and was picked up on the other end. James did not introduce himself. “I have a job for you,” he said.
Colophon and Julian entered the lobby of the bank through a pair of large, ornate brass doors. The lobby—such as it was—did not appear anything like the banks she had been to in America. In the middle of the room was a small glass desk, behind which sat an extremely proper-looking middle-aged woman. There was no other furniture in the room.
“This doesn’t look like a bank,” whispered Colophon.
“It’s a private bank,” replied Julian. “It serves a very limited number of select customers. In many ways, it still operates much like the goldsmith who founded it.”
“May I help you?” the receptionist interrupted. Her tone was pleasant but matter-of-fact.
“Ah,” replied Julian, “is there a banker with whom we may speak?”
She looked at Julian and then at Colophon, and then back at Julian. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” replied Julian.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “Our bankers meet with customers by appointment only.” Colophon noted that the tone of this statement was decidedly cooler, and she most certainly did not sound “terribly sorry.” “If you will leave me your name and contact number,” she continued, “I will have someone call you at their earliest convenience.”
Colophon bristled at the receptionist’s tone. She knew that they were running out of time. She took out the key and placed it on the receptionist’s desk. “We need to speak with someone about this immediately,” she said.
The receptionist picked up the key and examined it. She offered no indication as to whether she recognized it. Her outward demeanor did not change.
“Please wait,” she said. The receptionist then exited through a door hidden in the panels of the wall behind her desk, taking the key with her.
Colophon and Julian stood in the lobby. The only sound was the faint whoosh of the heated air as it entered the room through vents in the white marble floor. The receptionist returned moments later and took her seat. “Someone will be with you shortly,” she said. No other commentary or explanation was offered.
Finally, after almost five minutes, a door in the wall to their left opened, and a proper-looking older gentleman in a pinstriped gray suit entered the room. The man stood ramrod straight, with a shock of white hair on top of his head. Dark, thick-rimmed glasses sat on the end of his nose.
“Good day,” he said in a pleasant manner. “I am Walter Davenport. I am in charge of the stored assets collection. Would you care to follow me?”
Julian and Colophon followed Mr. Davenport through the door, down a short nondescript hallway, up a short flight
of stairs, and into an office overlooking Threadneedle Street. He directed Julian and Colophon to a set of chairs in front of a large oak desk. The room was devoid of anything other than three chairs and the desk. Nothing on the walls. No bookshelves. And nothing on the desk except for a single folder. Colophon could make out the word on top of the folder—LETTERFORD.
Mr. Davenport sat in a chair behind the desk and peered over his glasses at Julian and Colophon. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this afternoon?”
“My name is Colophon Letterford, and this is my cousin, Julian Letterford.”
“Very good,” replied Mr. Davenport. “That offers at least a partial response to my next question.”
“Which is?” asked Julian.
“How you happened to come into possession of this particular object?” Davenport placed the key on the envelope on his desk.
“It belongs to my family. Do you know what it is?” asked Colophon.
“I should say so,” replied Davenport.
“And what is it? What does it open?”
“In due course, Ms. Letterford, in due course. As you may know, we are a private bank. We maintain a strict code of protecting both our clients’ assets and their privacy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but we normally don’t hand over information to people simply because they show up with a key with our name on it.”
Davenport paused. He ran his fingers across the key.
“This is not,” Davenport continued, “a normal situation, is it?”
He did not wait for a response.
“We have, for centuries, maintained and protected our customers’ most treasured assets—many in safe boxes. Once someone has purchased a safe box from our firm, it is that person’s property forever. We, in turn, are obligated to secure that box forever. We have several safe boxes that are extremely old. None, however, are older than one particular box.”
Davenport held up the key.
“This is the key that opens that particular box.”
“What’s in the box?” asked Colophon.
“I have no idea,” replied Davenport. “My job is to protect the box and its contents. What it contains is of no relevance to me. That particular box has remained locked for almost four hundred years. I doubt that there is a living soul who knows what it contains.”
“Can I open it?” asked Colophon excitedly. “I have the key.”
“I am afraid not,” replied Davenport. “According to the registration documents”—Davenport patted the envelope on his desk—“the only person authorized to access the box is the owner of Letterford & Sons, and no one else.”
“But my father—”
“Is not here, is he?” responded Davenport, politely but firmly.
Chapter Thirty-One
Foul Deeds Will Rise
B&C Bank of London, the lobby
London
Beatrix Rutherford sat at her desk in the lobby of B&C Bank of London. The unexpected appearance of the young girl with the key had caused a great deal of excitement in the bank’s back rooms. No one, however, had bothered to explain to her what the excitement was all about—they never did, of course. Secrecy was the first principle of the bank—if you didn’t need to know, you weren’t told.
Beatrix’s musings were interrupted by the chime of the bank door.
She looked up to see a man entering. He shook the rain off his umbrella and placed it in the brass umbrella stand by the door.
Beatrix took a quick, almost imperceptible, glance at the scheduling calendar on the computer screen built into her desk—there were no appointments scheduled for another two hours.
“I’m terribly sorry,” the man said as he approached the receptionist’s desk, “but I am looking for the offices of Smith and Bickward. I have an appointment in ten minutes.”
Beatrix looked out through the front window at the sign for Smith and Bickward across the street. She suppressed her natural inclination to offer a smart comment. It was, she understood, not appropriate for a person in her position.
“Smith and Bickward is located immediately across the street,” she replied in her polite but firm voice. “There is a sign on the door.”
“Thank you so much,” the man replied as he turned and departed.
Later, when asked to describe the man, all Beatrix could remember was that he wore thick-rimmed glasses and a broad-brimmed bucket hat. She didn’t know what color hair he had, how tall he was, his approximate age, or whether he spoke with an accent. Nothing stood out—she had not even noticed that he failed to retrieve his umbrella as he left.
Threadneedle Street
London
Trigue James walked half a block from the bank before removing the glasses and the hat. He deposited them in the nearest garbage can. He next removed his coat—a rain jacket with reversible lining—and turned it inside out. He knew that he could walk back into the bank right now, and the receptionist wouldn’t recognize him.
But that wasn’t his plan.
“Only your father can access the box,” Davenport reiterated. “Is he, by any chance, in London?”
“No,” replied Colophon, “and he won’t arrive until late on Christmas Eve.”
She slumped into her chair.
Julian stood up from his chair and walked over to the window overlooking Threadneedle Street. “I want to apologize for so rudely interrupting your day without an appointment,” he said. “You have been quite helpful.”
“Thank you. It was not an inconvenience at all,” replied Davenport. “Quite fascinating, in fact.”
Julian turned toward Davenport. “May I ask one last question?”
“Please,” replied Davenport.
“Is the owner of the box required to open it here at your office?”
Davenport paused briefly. “No,” he finally replied. “It has long been our practice to accommodate our customers in whatever manner necessary.”
Julian continued to stare out the window. “Then perhaps I might make a simple request?”
“Of course.”
Davenport listened intently to Julian’s request. When Julian had finished, Davenport sat silently for several moments in deep thought. “I believe,” he finally replied, “that we may be able to accommodate that particular request.”
Davenport reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black case. Engraved on top of the case was the bank’s name. Davenport placed the key in the case, closed it gently, and handed it to Colophon. “Take great care of this key, dear girl.”
Colophon placed the case in her shoulder bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not going anywhere.”
Trigue James stood across the street from the bank. He dialed a number on his phone, waited, and then pushed the pound symbol. Within seconds, smoke was pouring from the front of the bank. James turned and walked down Threadneedle Street, away from the bank.
Davenport was in the process of escorting Julian and Colophon back to the lobby when the alarm sounded. They all stopped in midstep. Several bank employees stuck their heads out of their offices to see what was happening.
“Don’t worry,” said Davenport reassuringly. “It’s probably just a false alarm. I don’t believe we had a drill planned for today.”
But then they noticed the smoke coming from under the door leading into the lobby.
“Fire!” someone yelled, and panic ensued. Employees poured out of offices and headed for the back of the building. The hallway was suddenly packed with people.
Colophon noticed that even in the middle of all the chaos, Davenport remained calm. “We have an emergency exit in the back of the building,” he said. “Please follow me.”
Colophon and Julian followed Davenport down a short hallway. They turned right and then back to the left to a steel door leading to the alley behind the bank. The alley was packed with bank employees. Colophon could already hear the distinctive sirens of the London Fire Brigade headed their way.
&
nbsp; Davenport pointed down the alley. “We need to make our way to the street,” he said. The crowd, seemingly acting on Davenport’s instructions, moved collectively in that direction. Colophon held tight to her bag with her right hand as she was bumped and jostled from all sides, and she grasped Julian’s arm with her left. She could now see the alley opening into the street beyond. At least one fire truck had already arrived, and a crowd had gathered to watch. Just as she was about to push her way out of the alley, however, Colophon felt a jerk on her right arm. She looked down. Her bag was gone. In front of her, a man in a dark suit was walking quickly out of the alley with her bag in his hand.
“He took my bag!” Colophon screamed at Julian. “He took the key!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
This Chase Is Hotly Follow’d
Threadneedle Street
London
Followed closely by Colophon, Julian pushed his way through the crowd and burst out of the alley onto Threadneedle Street. Chaos was everywhere. Sirens blared, and lights flashed. Firemen ran up and down the sidewalk. Smoke poured from the front of the building. A large crowd had gathered to take in all the excitement.
Colophon pointed at a man in a dark suit walking quickly down the sidewalk and away from the crowd. “There he is!” she exclaimed.
Julian and Colophon took off in pursuit. The man turned and glanced back at the crowd. When he saw Colophon and Julian gaining on him, he broke into a sprint and rounded the next corner.
Colophon and Julian turned the corner just in time to see the man closing the back door of a taxi, which sped off. In seconds the taxi reached the end of the block and turned left. It was gone, as was the key.
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