Monday, June 11
8:45 a.m.
Three people now stood between Mull Letterford and Trigue James. James could see Letterford behind him in the windows of the cars passing through the intersection. Timing would be critical. James gripped his cane tightly.
Chapter Ten
Amazement
Amazement—A state of extreme
surprise or wonder; astonishment.
Corpus Christi College
Cambridge, England
Monday, June 11
12:45 p.m.
The taxi dropped off Colophon and Julian just outside the college’s main gate.
“I still don’t know how you plan on getting about the college,” Julian said as they walked toward the entrance. “And why all the secrecy for the last few days?”
“Trust me,” she replied. “They’re going to let us see whatever we want.” And with that, she brushed past him and entered the porter’s lodge inside the main gate.
Julian paused momentarily and stared at the open door to the porter’s lodge. Three days ago Colophon had announced that they needed to be at Corpus Christi College on the following Monday. Despite his best efforts, she had refused to discuss the matter any further. “Monday,” she had said. “You’ll find out on Monday.”
She stuck her head outside the door. “Are you coming?” she asked impatiently.
Julian nodded and followed her into the office.
A proper-looking older gentleman stood behind the counter. On his dark blue blazer was the crest for the college—the same pelicans and lilies that Colophon had found on the cap of the inkwell. Several other gentlemen—all similarly dressed—milled around the office.
“May I help you?” the gentleman asked politely.
“Yes, my name is Colophon Letterford, and I believe Ms. Cadewaller is expecting me.”
The gentleman smiled. “She is indeed expecting you. I’m Ashby Scolfield, the head porter. I’m afraid that Ms. Cadewaller is running a bit late. She asked me to extend her apologies and offer you a cup of tea or, if you prefer, hot chocolate, while you wait.”
“A cup of hot chocolate would be great,” she said.
“Excellent choice,” the porter replied. “The dining hall makes a magnificent hot chocolate—the key is the steamed milk.” He motioned toward a door on the far side of the office. “If you will please follow me. Ms. Cadewaller asked that you wait for her in the fellows’ combination room.”
They followed Scolfield out of the lodge and into a large square courtyard within the college. In the center of the courtyard was a huge, immaculately maintained grass lawn. Small brass signs around the perimeter reminded the forgetful to stay off the grass. A broad stone walkway surrounded the lawn, and in turn, the courtyard was enclosed on all four sides by massive stone buildings that belonged in some fairy tale. At the far side of the courtyard was a tall building with two spires that towered high above the surrounding structures. A large stained-glass window looked down over the courtyard, and above the stained glass was a large clock with gold hands and a deep red face.
Colophon stood on the pathway and took it all in. “Wow.”
“First time to Corpus?” asked the porter.
“Yes, sir.”
“I came here forty-five years ago from a small village in Ireland,” Scolfield said. “I can still remember the first time I stepped into this very courtyard.” He paused and looked down at her. “I know how you feel. It can be a bit overwhelming.”
She nodded. It did seem overwhelming. How would they ever find the next clue? It seemed an impossible task.
“As odd as it may sound,” the porter continued, “this is actually New Court. The large building with the clock tower is the chapel. The building to the right of the clock tower is the Parker Library. And over to the left—where we are headed—are the dining hall and combination room.”
“New Court?” said Colophon. “This place looks like it’s been around forever.”
“True,” the porter replied. “But relatively speaking, it’s a modern addition to Corpus.” He motioned for them to follow him along the stone path, which took them around the corner to a small passageway. The passageway led to a smaller—but no less impressive—courtyard.
“This, on the other hand,” he said, “is Old Court.”
“How old?” she asked.
“Well, the exact date is not known, but it’s believed that construction was completed sometime around 1352. What you see here today is basically the exact same scene that would have greeted a Cambridge student six hundred years ago.”
“Wow,” Colophon said again.
Scolfield opened the door at the corner of the courtyard. “This way.”
Julian and Colophon stepped into a large wood-paneled hall with a high ceiling painted in gold, red, and black. Three rows of long tables with white linens, table settings, and straight-back wooden chairs ran the length of the hall. Large, ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and huge ancient portraits crowded the walls.
“This is the dining hall,” the porter said as they walked. “Members of the college and the fellows take their meals in here—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
They continued to the far end of the room—to a raised platform and yet another long table. It too was set with white linens and surrounded by wooden chairs.
“Who sits up here?” asked Colophon. “It looks important.” It all seemed so Harry Potterish to her.
“This table is reserved for the fellows of the college,” replied the porter.
“What’s a fellow?” asked Colophon.
“My sincerest apologies,” he said. “A fellow is a teacher. I should have taken the time to explain that.”
Scolfield opened a door behind the fellows’ table and escorted Julian and Colophon into an ornately decorated room. On the far side was a large fireplace. A small portrait hung over the mantel. A window on either side looked down over New Court. Large portraits with thick gilded frames hung on every wall, and in the middle of the room stood a couch and several chairs. Empty teacups and newspapers were scattered on small tables throughout.
“This is the fellows’ combination room,” Scolfield said. He looked at Colophon. “You’ll have to excuse the mess—it’s sort of a gathering place for the fellows.”
He once again extended his hand to her. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, young Ms. Letterford. I’ll have someone from the kitchen bring around some tea and hot chocolate in short order. I do hope you have a pleasant visit to Corpus.”
And with that Ashby Scolfield excused himself.
“Okay,” said Julian, “who is Ms. Cadewaller, and how did you get us in here?”
“Ms. Cadewaller works for the college’s library. I asked if she would provide a tour in exchange for an . . . opportunity for the college.”
“An opportunity?”
Colophon opened her backpack and pulled out a small object that she placed on a tea table. It was the inkwell.
“You didn’t!” he exclaimed. “You can’t give that away!”
“I didn’t give it away,” she replied. “I would never do that. I simply told Ms. Cadewaller about the inkwell and asked if the college could help authenticate it. She jumped at the chance to see it. They’re going to take some photographs of it while we tour the college.”
Julian looked down at her. “Clever. So what’s next?”
“We start where we can,” she replied. “In this room.” She pointed at the portraits on the walls. “For example, who are the people in these paintings? Any of them could be the next clue. We need to find out who all these guys are and whether they had any connection to Shakespeare or Miles Letterford.”
“That’s a pretty tall order,” he said. “What if we start by narrowing it down to portraits painted around the same time as the portrait of Miles—say, the early seventeenth century?”
Colophon agreed. After all, the portrait of Miles Letterford had provided their first clue.
&
nbsp; Julian and Colophon examined a massive painting that hung near the entrance to the dining hall. According to the brass plate on the frame, the very large man it depicted was a former master of the college. The date of the portrait, however, was all wrong—it had been painted at least a hundred years after the portrait of Miles Letterford.
They looked at three more portraits in the room—but all failed to satisfy their basic criterion.
“Perhaps Ms. Cadewaller can provide a list of the portraits at the college and the dates they were painted,” suggested Julian. “That might narrow it down.”
Colophon nodded. His suggestion seemed reasonable—but there was so much ground to cover and so many potential clues, and they had not even started their tour. Still, there was one more portrait in the combination room, and since Ms. Cadewaller had yet to make her appearance, Colophon decided that there was no sense in wasting time. She gazed up at the portrait hanging high over the fireplace mantel. It seemed oddly out of place. It was small compared to the rest of the portraits in the room. It had a simple wooden frame. And the man in the portrait was young—very young.
A student perhaps?
The man in the painting lacked the stately bearing of the men in the other portraits. He had a thin mustache, and his brown hair was long and unkempt. He stood with his arms crossed—almost defiant. And on his face was the slightest hint of mischief, almost as if he was mocking the formality of the other paintings. He certainly didn’t look like a fellow or a master of the college. And yet the portrait hung in such a prominent place.
Curious.
And then something else caught Colophon’s attention. The young man wore a coat with large gold buttons that ran down his sleeves and up his chest. With his arms crossed, the buttons formed a symbol she had seen time and time again—a sigma. The symbol was turned sideways—but it was unmistakable.
Probably just a coincidence, she thought.
Still, a very curious coincidence.
Colophon walked over to the fireplace to get a better look. She noticed some writing in the painting’s top-left corner, but the deep shadows from the frame made it difficult to read the words from below.
Colophon pointed to the portrait. “Can you read what it says?” she asked Julian.
He walked over to the fireplace. “No, it’s too high on the wall—too many shadows.”
Her eyes never left the painting. “I need to get closer.”
Julian pulled over one of the chairs. “Quick,” he said. “See what it says before they get here with the tea and hot chocolate.”
She climbed up on the chair, stood on her tiptoes, and moved as close to the painting as she could. The light was dim, and she had to squint to read the words. Calmly, she climbed back down and stepped back off the chair.
“Well,” he asked, “what did it say?”
“Do you think the hot chocolate will be here soon?” she asked nonchalantly.
“What did it say?”
She smiled. “See for yourself,” she said.
He stood on the chair and looked at the top-left corner of the painting. Immediately to the left of the man’s head were five words: QVOD ME NVTRIT ME DESTRVIT.
Chapter Eleven
Mimic
Mimic—One who copies or imitates closely,
especially in speech, expression, and gesture.
Corner of Spring and Marietta Streets
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:46 a.m.
The light changed. Mull stepped off the curb and into the intersection. The crowd streamed around an elderly man who was shuffling across the street with a cane. The man and Mull reached the far side of the intersection at the same moment. Just as Mull stepped onto the curb, the elderly man tripped and fell to the sidewalk. His cane dropped at Mull’s feet.
Mull picked up the cane and reached down to help the man. “Are you okay?”
The elderly man appeared embarrassed and barely made eye contact with Mull. “Guess I missed the curb,” he muttered.
“Happens to everyone now and then,” Mull replied.
“I suppose.”
Mull looked at his watch. He had to get on over to the studio at CNN Center. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“Heck no,” the man replied. “If I can survive the Korean War and fifty years of marriage, I think I can survive a fall on the sidewalk.”
Mull grinned and handed the man his cane. “I suppose you can. Take care of yourself.”
“That I will,” the elderly man replied. “And thanks for the help.”
“All in a day’s work,” Mull said as he turned and walked toward CNN Center.
Corner of Spring and Marietta Streets
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:48 a.m.
Trigue James stood and watched Mull Letterford walk away. James never ceased to be amazed at the ability of people to see what they expect to see rather than what is directly in front of them. To the casual observer, James looked like an old man. He shuffled when he walked. He was bent over. He wore a soft-brimmed fishing hat to shade his face. His hair and eyebrows were gray. Thick glasses covered his eyes. With a brown eyeliner, he had added just a few wrinkles around the corners of his mouth. But that was the extent of the disguise. Letterford had simply expected to see an old man, and that was what he had seen.
He never even noticed that James was wearing gloves.
James watched Letterford enter CNN Center. He then turned and walked two blocks back to a parking garage just off Marietta Street. It was an old, poorly maintained concrete mess that seemed on the verge of collapse. But it offered one particularly redeeming feature—it had no security cameras. James took the stairs up to the third level. He had parked his car in a corner, at a spot overlooking an alley.
Down below in the alley was an open trash bin. James had a clear view of it. No one was there. He looked around the parking deck, then used a disposable wipe to clean off his face. He ran a brush through his hair to remove the traces of gray. He dropped the wipe, the hat, the glasses, the wig, the cane, and the gloves into the open bin below. He knew that the solution on the cane would lose its potency within half an hour. Even if someone found the cane, the solution wouldn’t be strong enough to kill.
Within ten minutes James was headed for the Atlanta airport.
Chapter Twelve
Gossip
Gossip—To engage in or spread rumor or
talk of a personal or sensational nature.
Fellows’ Combination Room
Corpus Christi College
Cambridge, England
Monday, June 11
2:00 p.m.
Julian stepped off the chair and away from the fireplace just as the tea and hot chocolate were delivered. The server placed the tray on a butler table near a small group of chairs and exited without a word.
Colophon took her hot chocolate and sat in a chair facing the fireplace. “Who do you think he is?” she asked as she slurped the mound of whipped cream off the top of the cup.
Julian sat down next to her and took a sip of tea. “I don’t know. But don’t get too excited. It could be just a coincidence—some sort of motto for the college. I told you, the inkwell might be just a souvenir. Maybe that phrase is on a lot of the paintings around this place. You know we’ve only seen one room.”
She smiled. “Did you notice the shape of the buttons?”
“The buttons?” He turned in his seat and stared up at the painting. After a moment, he slowly turned his head sideways. He then straightened back up and took a sip of tea.
“Well?” she asked.
He looked down at his tea. “It steeped a bit long”—he paused—“and it needs more milk.”
“The buttons! I’m talking about the buttons!”
“Oh,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s not a coincidence. That’s clearly a sigma.”
“Yes!” she said. “We found it—the clue! I just knew it!”
“A clue to what?” The voice came from the door at the back of the room. Colophon and Julian turned in their seats. In the doorway stood a tall, attractive woman. She wore a blue suit, and her dark brown hair was pulled back tightly into a bun.
The two visitors jumped up out of their seats. “Ms. Cadewaller?” said Colophon.
“Yes,” said the woman as she strode across the room. “And I presume you are Ms. Letterford?”
“Yes.” Colophon nodded. “And this is my cousin Julian.”
“A pleasure,” Doris Cadewaller said. “Now, you were saying something about a clue?”
“Oh,” said Colophon, “we were discussing the portrait over the fireplace. Neither of us has a clue as to who it is.”
“Ah, you have a good eye for a mystery.”
Colophon and Julian looked at each other and then back at Ms. Cadewaller.
“What do you mean?” asked Julian.
Ms. Cadewaller walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. A small light over the portrait flickered and illuminated the entire painting.
Suddenly the colors seemed much richer than they had appeared earlier. And something seemed almost . . . familiar about the painting to Colophon.
“That,” Ms. Cadewaller said, “is believed to be the only known portrait of Christopher Marlowe.”
“Marlowe!” Julian exclaimed.
Colophon shot him a look.
“Who’s Marlowe?” she asked.
“Next to William Shakespeare,” Ms. Cadewaller responded, “Marlowe is perhaps the most important playwright and poet of the sixteenth century. And, I might add, he was a graduate of this college.”
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