Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Frontispiece
Copyright
Dedication
PART I
Prologue
Auspicious
Exposure
Pedant
Hint
Perusal
Luggage
Fitful
Instinctively
Accused
Amazement
Mimic
Gossip
Puke
Questioning
Gnarled
Nervy
Rumination
Gloomy
Dishearten
PART II
Prologue
Vulnerable
Discontent
Viewless
Multitudinous
Dawn
Denote
Dauntless
Ode
Eyeball
Excitements
Engagements
Negotiate
Stealthy
Forward
Premeditated
Remorseless
Misgiving
Sanctimonious
Design
Unreal
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Appendix
Colophon
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright © 2013 by Deron Hicks
Illustrations copyright © 2013 by Mark Geyer
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Hicks, Deron R.
Tower of the Five Orders / by Deron R. Hicks ; illustrations by Mark Geyer.
pages cm. — (The Letterford Mysteries ; book 2)
Sequel to: Secrets of Shakespeare’s grave.
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Colophon Letterford and her cousin Julian continue their quest to uncover their family’s treasure as new clues lead them to Oxford, England, seeking to unravel a connection to Christopher Marlowe.
ISBN 978-0-547-83953-0
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 3. Marlowe, Christopher, 1564–1593—Fiction. 4. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616—Fiction. 5. Cousins—Fiction. 6. Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. 7. Oxford (England)—Fiction. 8. England—Fiction.] I. Geyer, Mark, ill. II. Hicks, Deron R. Secrets of Shakespeare’s grave. III. Title.
PZ7.H531615Tow 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012045195
eISBN 978-0-547-83954-7
v1.1013
To Maggie. We miss you.
PART I
“I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains,
And with my hand turn Fortune’s wheel about.”
Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great (1588)
Prologue
Elanor Bull’s Public House
Deptford, England
May 30, 1593
The smell of roasted meat and the noisy clank of kitchen pots filled the room. A young potboy whistled as he gathered dishes from a table and shuffled them off to the back of the house.
Christopher Marlowe gazed out the window at the rapidly fading sunlight. He took a long draw from his tankard of ale, closed his eyes, and savored the brief moment of peace. It had been, to say the least, a bad year. The plague had once again cast a spell of death across London. In an effort to slow its progress, by order of the Crown, the theaters had been closed. As if the loss of his livelihood was not sufficient, Marlowe had—in just the previous month—been arrested, charged with heresy, and forbidden to leave the city until called upon for trial.
Marlowe was not a fool. He knew that the trial would be a mere formality. It was clear that forces were aligned against him—the same forces that had once called upon his assistance. The charge of heresy was utter nonsense. Facts, however, were of no consequence. He would be lucky to escape a date with the executioner’s sword. Two days earlier it had seemed all but certain that he would spend the remaining days of his life in shackles and under guard. And yet for some reason, he had been allowed to remain at liberty until the time for his trial.
Odd, Marlowe thought as he took another drink from his tankard. The Crown is usually not so . . .
He paused in midthought.
Fie! What a fool I am. Of course they let me go.
He contemplated the obvious: that they had never intended to provide him a trial. He knew far too much—his fate had already been decided.
I shall leave for France forthwith.
Marlowe started to rise from his seat when he noticed that the room had suddenly turned silent. No banging of pots in the kitchen. No scuffing of chairs along the stone floor. No murmur of conversation.
Nothing.
Marlowe peered around the room. It was empty. Elanor Bull, who owned and operated the public house, was nowhere to be seen. The potboy’s whistle was silent. Marlowe had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had failed to notice what was taking place around him.
Fie again!
He set his tankard on the table, and his hand went instantly to the dagger at his side. The front door creaked open. Marlowe shielded his eyes from the light of the late afternoon sun as it streamed through the open doorway. He could not see who had entered or how many.
When the door shut, a large man dressed in black turned to face him. He held a sword at his side. Two men stood beside the man in black—their swords drawn.
“Robert Poley,” said Marlowe to the man standing at the door. “What news? Have ye come on behalf of God, the Crown, or the Devil?”
Poley spoke slowly, his voice deep and raspy. “Neither God nor the Crown has any use for thee, Christopher Marlowe.”
“Aye, ’tis true, Robert Poley,” Marlowe replied, “but I suspect that it is on the Devil’s behalf that a man such as yourself was sent.”
Marlowe held the dagger close to his hip as he stood and moved toward the center of the room. He needed time to assess the situation. “So the Earl of Essex prefers his secrets in the grave?” he said.
Poley grunted and spat on the floor. “Impertinent dog,” he growled. “’Tis worms who shall bear witness to what secrets ye hold.”
Marlowe knew that there was a rear door leading to a narrow alley behind the tavern. He could make it to the alley before Poley and his men had time to react. But he also knew Poley—he would have the exit covered. The only way out would be through the front door and at the point of his own dagger. Marlowe cursed himself for lack of more substantial arms.
At that moment, Marlowe heard a faint shuffle of feet in the darkness behind him.
He smiled. Clumsy fool.
Marlowe pivoted backwards just as a sword thrust at him from the shadows. His dagger flashed from his side and into the right arm of his attacker. The man screamed as the sword fell from his hand and clanked onto the hard stone floor. Marlowe grabbed the sword and turned to face Poley and his henchmen. He grinned as he ran the steel of his dagger down the blade of the sword. “Ye may seek to whet thy swords on my bones,” he said, “but ye will find me a most unwilling grindstone.”
“So be it,” growled Poley.
The clank of steel on steel rang through the room and into the street beyond.
Chapter One
Auspicious
Auspicious—Presenting favorable circumstances
or showing signs of a favorable outcome.
The discovery of the Sh
akespeare manuscripts by Colophon Letterford and her cousin Julian did not go unnoticed. Universally hailed as the most important literary discovery of the last century, if not of all time, the story seized the public’s imagination.
The New York Times ran a five-part series about the discovery. The Boston Globe featured a picture of Mull Letterford, Colophon’s father, on the front page of its Sunday edition. An editorial in Le Monde praised the Letterford family and their contributions to literary history.
Magazines such as Time, Newsweek, National Geographic, and Bon Appétit profiled the discovery with cover stories.
Mull Letterford was interviewed on NPR, CNN, Fox, CBS, NBC, ABC, the BBC, the CBC, CCTV, and Radio Liechtenstein. Colophon was invited to the set of MythBusters—her all-time favorite TV show—and celebrated her thirteenth birthday with the cast and crew. Julian appeared on Good Morning America. It was the first time Colophon had ever seen him with his hair combed and his face shaved—and wearing a tie.
The academic community—which could barely contain its collective glee—geared up for what was anticipated to be years of research, examination, interpretation, and explication of the manuscripts. Requests poured in to Letterford & Sons from researchers for opportunities to study the original manuscripts. Every reputable (and not so reputable) Shakespearean scholar on the planet offered his or her services free of charge just for the opportunity to have access to the manuscripts. Preorders for the summer edition of the Shakespeare Quarterly overwhelmed the limited staff and resources of the Johns Hopkins University Press. Meg Letterford, Colophon’s mother, received invitations from across the academic spectrum to join faculties as a visiting professor. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., held a symposium that coincided with a week-long exhibit of several of the manuscripts. Tickets for the exhibit sold out in minutes.
Numerous offers were made to purchase the manuscripts, for stunning amounts. But Mull Letterford held firm. The manuscripts, he said repeatedly, belonged to humanity. He could not bear the thought of them ending up in the private collection of some billionaire, never to be studied or enjoyed by the rest of the world.
The Letterford name, well known and respected within literary circles for centuries, had now become well known and respected in the world at large.
It was a glorious time.
And it was short-lived.
Chapter Two
Exposure
Exposure—An instance of being subjected
to an action or an influence; revelation,
especially of crime or guilt.
Carbondale, Pennsylvania
Secure-Tite Specialty Storage
Tuesday, April 17
2:05 p.m.
“Unit number?”
“Two hundred thirty-five.”
“Name in which the unit is registered?”
“Reginald Whitmore.”
“Identification, please.”
Whitmore placed his driver’s license into the sliding drawer and pushed the drawer back under the inch-thick bulletproof glass. The clerk checked the identification, entered some information into the computer, and returned the license.
“Please enter your code on the keypad,” the clerk said.
Whitmore punched in his five-digit code. The light on the keypad turned green.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitmore,” the clerk replied as the secure door opened.
Whitmore picked up his briefcase and stepped through the doorway. He walked to the elevator and pressed the call button. He did not mind the security precautions. To the contrary, that was one of the primary reasons he had selected this particular facility. Security, however, was only one of its aspects that had interested him. The facility served a specialized clientele—antique dealers, art collectors, and anyone else who needed to store delicate items of value under proper conditions. The entire facility was maintained at a constant temperature of seventy-two degrees and a humidity level of fifty percent. Its fire-suppression system was based on foam, not water. The facility’s owners understood that antique tables and ancient oil paintings do not respond well to a dousing of water. The air was recirculated at least twice a day through specialized filters that removed any trace of airborne contaminants that might damage the precious items stored within.
The elevator pinged and the door opened. Whitmore stepped in and pushed the button for the second floor. The trip took less than five seconds. Once the elevator door opened, Whitmore stepped out, turned right, and headed to unit 235. Upon reaching it, he punched a code into the keypad adjacent to the unit’s door.
There was a slight pause, then . . . click click click.
The door unlocked. Whitmore stepped inside, turned on the light, and shut the door.
Another short pause, then . . . click click click.
The door was secure once again.
Whitmore looked around the room. Several pieces of antique furniture were arranged neatly against the walls. One particular piece towered over the rest—an early-eighteenth-century armoire. Heavy and thick, it stood at least eight feet tall and six feet wide. It seemed impossibly deep. Made of chestnut, the wood glowed with a patina that could have been achieved only by centuries of care and use. Whitmore walked over to the armoire and opened wide its large doors.
He stood back and admired his collection.
It had taken years to assemble: pages from illuminated manuscripts, old maps, papyrus scrolls, and rare books that had languished for far too long on forgotten shelves. His position allowed him access to some of the most prestigious libraries and collections of ancient books and manuscripts across the globe. Access had been important. Patience, however, had been the true key to building his collection.
Don’t get greedy, he had told himself frequently. And he had not.
He had passed on opportunities to add many, many items to his collection. And his patience had paid off. The opportunities inevitably presented themselves. People were lazy, sloppy, and easily distracted.
And they trusted him.
After all these years, no one suspected. Not a single librarian. Not a single curator. Not a single collector.
No one.
His acquisition process was decidedly low tech but effective: wait until no one was paying attention, then simply slip the book, manuscript, or map into the hidden compartment in his briefcase. Using this process, he had built an impressive collection. But it had its limits. He would never be a member of the Roxburghe Club. His collection would never rival many of the private collections held across the globe. Put together by kings, industrialists, and tyrants, those collections were symbols of power and wealth—nothing more. His collection would always pale in comparison.
Whitmore grinned. Until now.
Now, he thought, I have something that only one other person on the planet has.
Whitmore opened his briefcase, pulled out a large aluminum notebook, and placed it on a small table next to the armoire. He opened the notebook to reveal a single document. He took a pair of tweezers from a drawer and carefully lifted the fragile document. He placed it on a piece of green felt on the table.
Magnificent.
This single page, he knew, would be the crowning jewel of any collection—an actual page from a manuscript in William Shakespeare’s own hand. He relished the thought of all the collectors, libraries, and curators who would give anything—pay anything—to have the document that now lay in front of him.
And then the phone rang.
Whitmore looked around, confused. He always set his cell phone on vibrate. Had he somehow forgotten?
His hand instantly went to his belt, where he kept his phone.
It wasn’t vibrating. And it certainly wasn’t ringing.
He looked around in horror. The phone rang again.
The sound was coming from the armoire.
Whitmore made his way over to the armoire and looked inside. The phone rang again.
The sound appeared to be coming from the uppermost shelf. He re
ached up and felt along the tops of the books. His hand came across a small metallic object—completely out of place atop vellum-covered books from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. He grabbed the object and pulled it down.
He held in his hand a small cell phone. A phone that was not his. A phone that he had not placed on the shelf.
It rang again.
How is this happening?
The phone rang again.
This isn’t possible.
The phone rang again.
No one knows about this place.
No one.
But, he suddenly realized, someone did.
The phone rang again.
He had no choice—he had to answer it. Whitmore pushed the button, closed his eyes, and held it up to his right ear.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Whitmore,” a voice responded. “How is the collection coming along? Quite an impressive new addition you’ve obtained, isn’t it?” The voice was pleasant and conversational.
Whitmore’s heart froze. His voice cracked as he spoke. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about? What collection? I think you have the wrong number.”
The voice laughed. “Come now, Dr. Whitmore, please don’t take me for a fool. Your collection is very impressive. I enjoyed looking through it.”
“What do you want?” Whitmore asked.
“Merely a favor—nothing more.”
Whitmore sat and listened as the voice told him what it wanted him to do.
“I truly appreciate your assistance in this endeavor,” the voice concluded.
“I have no choice,” Whitmore replied.
The tone of the voice immediately changed. It was no longer pleasant, but cold and flat. “Correct,” it responded, “you have no choice.”
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