“See,” Colophon said. “A Greek letter followed by a Roman numeral. I knew it as soon as I saw the paneling.”
“Remarkable,” Julian replied. “We have the coordinates! Have you deciphered the answer yet?”
She sighed. “I tried. I mean, it was easy enough to get the words from the dedication. I’m just not sure what sequence to put them in. The sides of the box weren’t numbered.”
Julian looked at the photograph of the ceiling. “What if they’re already in the correct order?”
“But what order is that?”
“The order in the dedication.” He took the photograph of the ceiling and wrote the Roman numerals across the top of the photo just as they were positioned on the panels. He then wrote the Greek letters down the side of the photo. Ten Roman numerals across—ten Greek letters down. “Now we just have to match them up with the words in the dedication,” he said. “Give me a set of coordinates from the box.”
“Alpha and Roman numeral eight,” she read.
He found the Greek letter alpha down the side of the photograph and placed his left index finger on it. He then found the Roman numeral eight on the top of the photograph and placed his right index finger on it. Slowly he moved his right finger down and his left finger across the dedication until his fingers met at the word sixteen. He circled the word.
“Next set of coordinates?” he asked.
“Zeta and Roman numeral two,” said Colophon.
In a similar manner, he located and then circled the word ye.
Colophon continued, “Gamma and Roman numeral eight.”
Julian located and circled the word plow.
“Zeta and Roman numeral five.”
Julian located and circled the word north.
They continued through the entire list with Julian circling each word on the photograph as Colophon read off the coordinates. When they reached the final set, Julian picked up the photograph. “Write this down,” he said to Colophon. “ ‘Sixteen oxen plow north of ye Thames along ye river fleet thy servant leave his mark.’ ”
Colophon looked confused. “That doesn’t make much sense.”
“Let’s see if we can clear it up a bit,” Julian said. “First, let’s change the word ‘ye’ to ‘the.’ It means the same thing.”
Colophon made the changes.
It now read: Sixteen oxen plow north of the Thames along the river fleet thy servant leave his mark.
“Still doesn’t make much sense,” she said.
“Patience,” he replied. “Let’s assume that there are different phrases, and it’s not one long confusing sentence.”
“That’s reasonable, I suppose.”
“Okay,” he said, “so the phrase ‘north of the Thames’ is clearly a direction of some sort.”
“The River Thames?” she said. “The one that runs through London?”
“Correct,” he replied.
“All right, so at least one phrase makes sense. But what does ‘sixteen oxen plow’ mean?”
Julian stared at the photograph. “I hate to suggest this,” he said. “It goes against everything I believe. But why don’t you Google it?”
Colophon flipped open her laptop. “Finally, you see the light.”
She typed in the phrase “sixteen oxen plow.”
“How many results?” he asked.
“Almost two million,” she replied.
“Ouch,” he said. “Well, it looks like we are going to have to—”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “One of the first results is an encyclopedia entry for the word furlong. It says that a furlong was the distance a pair of oxen could plow without resting.”
“So sixteen oxen—or eight pairs of oxen,” he noted, “could plow eight furlongs.”
“And according to this entry,” she continued, “a furlong is equal to forty rods—whatever that means—or one-eighth of a mile.”
“So eight furlongs would be—”
“A mile!” she exclaimed.
“Let’s try this again,” he said. “A mile north of the River Thames, along the river fleet, thy servant leave his mark.”
“We’re getting closer,” said Colophon. “I’m guessing ‘servant’ refers to Miles Letterford and his ‘mark’ would be the symbol for the Greek letter sigma.”
“Clever work!” said Julian. “So that leaves one phrase—‘along the river fleet.’”
“Maybe it’s referring to a river named Fleet. Is that possible?”
Julian sat down. “That’s entirely possible. The Fleet River was a prominent landmark in London during Miles’s time.”
“So we’ve solved the hidden message!” Colophon said excitedly. “A mile north of the River Thames, along the Fleet River, Miles Letterford left his mark.”
“Except for one small detail,” Julian said. “The Fleet River no longer exists.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Negotiate
Negotiate—To confer with another in order
to come to terms or reach an agreement.
Letterford residence
Clerkenwell, London, England
Saturday, June 16
11:00 a.m.
“What do you mean, it no longer exists?” asked Colophon. “How does a river just disappear?”
“It didn’t disappear,” Julian replied. “It was covered up. The river used to be a fairly substantial waterway that flowed into the Thames. But then as London grew, it started being used more and more as a sewer.”
“Eww,” she said.
“Well, London in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was not exactly known for its pleasant smells and sanitation. But even by those standards, the Fleet River was considered bad. The river was converted into a canal, and then the canal was covered up because of the stench.”
“So the river’s gone?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “It’s still there—but it’s now underground. In the middle of the nineteenth century, it was incorporated into London’s sewer system.”
“An underground river?”
“Yes, I suppose so. And did I mention it’s part of the sewer system?”
“Still, an underground river is pretty cool,” she said. “So all we have to do is find the entrance to the underground river and head north for a mile.”
Julian sighed. “I was afraid you’d feel that way. Our last experience with an underground river does not make me eager to give it another try.”
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad,” Colophon said. Their adventure in Stratford-upon-Avon may have been treacherous, but it had also provided an important clue. “And what choice do we have? This may be the final clue—the clue you’ve been looking for your entire life. And we know that Treemont is looking for it too. Even if Treemont doesn’t have the information from the paneling in the tower, what if Miles Letterford left other clues—clues we haven’t uncovered? Isn’t that possible?”
Julian nodded. He thought of the book he had found in Wales. It was quite possible—perhaps probable—that Miles Letterford had left other clues—other paths to the same end.
“So what if Treemont gets there first?” she asked. “Could you live with that?”
Julian leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve put you in enough danger already,” he finally responded. “I can’t do it again.”
“Then I’ll do it without you,” she insisted. They had followed the clues from the inkwell to the quill to the dedication in the Tower of the Five Orders. She couldn’t stop now. “You can either help me or get out of my way. It’s your choice.”
Colophon stood up. “Treemont trashed my father’s name and stole his business. I have to do this!”
Julian sat up in his chair and stared across the table at her. He had come to recognize that determined look in her eyes.
“I have one condition,” he said finally. “We have to let someone know what we’re doing. If anything happens down there, someone needs to know where we are.”
She s
tarted to object, but he interrupted her. “We have to. This isn’t a game.”
She considered what he had said and knew he was right. Someone had to know what was going on. “Case and Aunt Audrey will be here after lunch,” she said. “Mom’s in Oxford for the day, and Dad’s at work. I’ll call my dad and let him know that we’re going out for a bit, and then I’ll leave a note for Case that explains everything. By the time Case gets here, we’ll be back home. This’ll be easy—you’ll see.”
The note was simple and straightforward:
Case:
Julian and I have discovered the next clue. It is located a mile up the Fleet River. The Fleet River is part of London’s sewer system and is underground. The entrance to the river is below Blackfriars Bridge on the Thames. It is perfectly safe, so don’t worry. We are leaving immediately.
Colophon
She scribbled the time—11:55 a.m.—on the bottom of the note and placed it in an envelope. Then she wrote Case’s name on the outside of the envelope and set it on his bed. Julian was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs when she finished. He had a worried look on his face.
“This could be dangerous,” he said. “There are more than thirteen thousand miles of sewer lines below London. There’s no cell service and no one to stop and ask for directions. If we get lost, it could be days—weeks—before anyone finds us.”
“We won’t get lost,” she assured him. “We’ll head straight up the river, find what we’re looking for, and head straight back.”
“Straight in and straight out. Nothing more?”
“Nothing more,” she repeated. “I promise.”
Trigue James watched the girl and her cousin step outside the Letterford home and make their way down to the sidewalk. The fact that they both had bags slung over their shoulders did not escape his notice. He sent a text to Treemont: “Something is happening. Be ready.”
A few moments later a cab pulled up in front of the Letterford residence, and the girl and her cousin climbed inside. James waited until the cab was halfway down the block before following it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Stealthy
Stealthy—Marked by or acting with quiet,
caution, and secrecy intended to avoid notice.
Blackfriars Bridge
London, England
Saturday, June 16
12:30 p.m.
The taxi pulled over to the side of the roadway at the north end of Blackfriars Bridge. The traffic on the bridge was heavy, so Colophon and Julian quickly pulled their bags from the seat and exited to the sidewalk. The taxi sped away and was swallowed by the mass of cars heading south.
“The entrance to the Fleet River is directly below this end of the bridge,” Julian said as he threw his bag over his shoulder and started for a set of stairs at the side of the bridge.
Colophon put on her backpack and hurried after him. “How do you know so much about the Fleet River?” she asked as they descended.
He laughed. “Honestly, are you really surprised that I would know about a mysterious river hidden for hundreds of years below London?”
She paused. Julian knew every obscure fact that there was to know about anything that could have any impact on his search for the Letterford treasure. And facts about Miles Letterford’s hometown—London—were particularly relevant to that endeavor.
“No,” she finally replied. “I’m not surprised.”
The traffic thundered above them as Colophon and Julian wound their way down the stairs to a path that ran under the bridge and along the Thames. They stepped into the deep shadows cast by the bridge and over to the black iron railing that separated the path from the river below. They stared over the railing at the Thames.
“Do you see the bubbles and the frothing water directly below us?” Julian asked.
Colophon nodded. “It seems to be coming from the bank of the river.”
“Exactly. That’s where the Fleet flows into the Thames,” he said. “We can enter there and head north.”
“That’s a long way down.” She was looking at the swirling waters below.
Julian pointed to a narrow set of iron stairs that led to the embankment below. An iron gate in front of the stairs read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Colophon tried the knob, and it turned easily.
“I guess they aren’t worried about people wanting to get into the sewers,” she said.
Julian casually opened the gate just wide enough for them to squeeze through. “When I say ‘Go,’ follow me as quickly as you can. And don’t look back. We need to make it inside the entrance to the sewer before anyone spots us.”
Julian waited until a young couple strolling on the walkway passed them, then whispered “Go,” slipped inside the gate, and clambered down the iron stairs. Colophon stepped inside the gate, carefully pulled it shut, and scampered down behind him. Within seconds, they were inside the entrance to the sewer and outside the view of the rest of the world.
Colophon looked down the passageway. It was constructed of a deep red brick. A small ledge ran down the length of the passageway and into the darkness. The gurgling of water and other strange sounds echoed down the long chamber. And it was cool—almost cold—inside the entrance.
“Welcome to the Fleet River,” Julian said.
Trigue James cursed himself for being caught off guard. He had not expected the taxi to stop on the bridge. From several car lengths back, he watched the girl and her cousin get out of the taxi and head down a set of stairs at the side of the bridge. Looking down, he saw a walkway running beneath the bridge and along the Thames. If they made it to the path before he could get down there, he would almost certainly lose them.
But he didn’t have time to backtrack and find a parking space.
James looked around. There were no police cars in sight. He would have to take a chance—something he didn’t like to do. He pulled the van up onto the sidewalk, jumped out, and rushed to the stairs. At the first landing he stopped and looked down at the walkway. The girl and her cousin were still there. They were standing by the railing at the side of the river. He moved back up the stairs to be out of their line of sight.
James peeked around the corner. They were now standing by an access gate at the edge of the walkway. It led to a set of iron stairs running down the side of the embankment to the river below. The girl’s cousin scanned the walkway—James snapped his head back to avoid being seen. He paused for a moment, then looked back around the corner just in time to see the girl descending the stairs. At the bottom she vanished into the embankment.
James fired off a text to Treemont: “Meet me at north end of Blackfriars Bridge—immediately.” James put the phone away and hurried back to his van to find a place to park. He knew he needed to hurry—Treemont would be there soon.
Case was exhausted.
He had not slept a wink on the entire flight from Atlanta. The large man in the seat next to him had sneezed, hacked, and coughed for eight straight hours. But that wasn’t the only reason Case couldn’t fall asleep. Colophon had been right all along—Treemont was at the center of everything. And now there were even more questions. How was Brantley involved? And the tall woman in the library? Was there anyone else?
Treemont had destroyed his father’s reputation and stolen his company. But recently Case had also become convinced of something else: Treemont was dangerous. He wasn’t going to let anything or anyone stand in his way. And that worried Case.
He trudged up the stairs and threw his duffel bag into the corner of his room. His sister was not at home, so he sent her a text: “Call me—I’m home.”
Case yawned deeply. He needed to talk to his sister. It was time for Colophon to tell their parents what was going on.
He checked his messages. Colophon had not yet responded.
He dialed her number. No answer.
She’s probably with Mom—or Dad.
Case yawned again.
A short nap won’t hurt.
Chapter Thirty-Thr
ee
Forward
Forward—Ardently inclined; eager.
Fleet River
London, England
Saturday, June 16
12:45 p.m.
Julian handed Colophon a flashlight.
“Be careful,” he said. “I’ve heard tales of things that live down here.”
“Things?” she asked. “What things?”
“The usual. Rats, white crabs, scorpions.”
She made a mental note to watch where she stepped.
Julian shined his flashlight down the tunnel. “Pirate ships once sailed this river,” he said.
“Pirate ships? How could anything have sailed on this?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” he said. “But the Fleet was once wide and deep. Barges, boats, and yes, pirate ships once sailed its waters.”
Julian stepped up on the brick ledge that ran along the length of the wall. He extended his hand to Colophon and pulled her up.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” he said. “We’d best start.” He pointed his flashlight into the darkness and started walking.
Colophon followed quickly. “How will we know when we’ve traveled a mile? I doubt they have signposts.”
Julian pulled a small round object from his belt and showed it to her. “A pedometer.”
She recognized it instantly. Her mother used a pedometer when she took her evening walk to let her know how far she had gone.
“It’s not entirely precise.” He clipped it back on his belt. “But it should get us close enough.”
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