The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

‘Last night.’

  ‘How’d she sound?’

  ‘You know, it was a traumatic thing for her. She thought the worst was going to happen. To the both of you.’

  ‘I feel terrible and yeah, I’ve been staying at the Charles Hotel.’

  It was as swanky as Cambridge got and Murphy knew it. ‘Slumming it. You should get in touch. She says you’ve been ducking her calls.’

  ‘I should. I will. I feel guilty for what happened to her.’

  ‘Wasn’t exactly your fault.’

  ‘You know how the mind works.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do. Still, call her.’

  ‘Yes, Father. And I’ll say ten Hail Marys.’

  ‘Twenty. So, where’s the magic mirror?’

  Cal had the shoulder bag under his desk. He brought it out to show Murphy then slid it back, saying he wasn’t letting it out of his sight.

  ‘You’re taking it with you to Arizona, I expect,’ Murphy said.

  ‘More important than a toothbrush and change of underwear.’

  ‘What’d you think of Eve Riley?’

  ‘Actually, it was kind of strange. I got the impression she’d been expecting my call.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  The department secretary knocked on the open door, some mild concern creasing her face.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Cal, but you’ve got some visitors to see you.’ She dialed herself back to a loud whisper. ‘The FBI.’

  Murphy sprang up. ‘That would be my cue to take my leave. Stay safe and keep in touch, will you?’

  The two special agents were wearing suits. His gray one was a half-size too large, her pants suit, a bland ecru, a half-size too small. Richard Nesserian produced a business card from the Boston office. Julia D’Auria’s was from New York City.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ Cal said.

  Nesserian asked, ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because I didn’t get any response after my call.’

  ‘This is the response,’ D’Auria said. ‘Maybe things work faster at a university.’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Cal said.

  ‘The matter was referred to me,’ Nesserian said. ‘I did a little digging around here then got Special Agent D’Auria involved down in Manhattan.’

  D’Auria said, ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  She was a small woman with brown hair feathered to a short length and a nose a tad too delicate for the rest of her squared-off features. Cal guessed she was somewhere in her thirties.

  ‘Yes, of course. I can have some coffee brought in.’

  She answered no, her partner yes. Nesserian was a good two decades older than D’Auria. His face was as baggy and rumpled as his suit. Its centerpiece was a mustache that looked like a couple of dirty toothbrushes had been pasted onto his upper lip.

  Nesserian reacted to a shirty look from her and said, ‘You know what, forget the coffee, I’m good.’

  ‘You gave a description of your attacker to the Cambridge police,’ she said. ‘Tell us again what he looked like.’

  ‘Big guy, very big actually. I’d say six-four, maybe six-five or six, the better part of three hundred pounds. But solid pounds, not a lot of flab.’

  ‘How could you be sure of that?’ Nesserian asked.

  ‘Because I slammed my fists into his gut a few times. I’m a boxer. Club-level. I’ve hit my fair share of guts. This guy works out.’

  ‘But you got the better of him,’ D’Auria said.

  ‘I kicked him in the nuts. Works wonders.’

  Her shoulder bag was generous enough to hold a folder. She drew out some photos, and showed him one.

  ‘Think this is your attacker?’

  It was a screen grab from a security camera of a large man with an untucked, loose-fitting dark shirt and a baseball cap. Because of the high camera-angle, his face was obscured by the bill of the cap.

  ‘Where was this taken?’ Cal asked.

  Nesserian told him it was on Brattle Street, the day the bookseller was killed.

  ‘It could be him,’ Cal said. ‘I mean it’s hard to gauge his size without some kind of reference, but his shoulders are massive like the guy.’

  She threw down another photo. ‘What about this?’

  The first image was in bright sunlight. The second was in the dark, a sidewalk lit by street lights and maybe the headlights of passing cars. It showed the same man, similar loose shirt, similar baseball hat. Again, his face wasn’t visible.

  ‘It could be the same guy,’ Cal said. ‘I wish I could tell his size.’

  ‘We had some work done on the photos, looking at some of the image references – size of the sidewalk squares, that type of thing,’ D’Auria said. ‘This man is six-five, approximately three hundred pounds, just like you indicated. In these and every frame we have on him he’s savvy enough to know the cameras are above him and he doesn’t look up. He’s a pro.’

  ‘Where was this one taken?’

  ‘On your mother’s block on the night she was killed.’

  Cal looked out the window. Pale-green early summer foliage moved in the breeze.

  ‘Looks like you were right,’ Nesserian said. ‘He was probably looking for your – what-do-you-call-it – your artifact thing.’

  ‘Now we need to figure out why,’ D’Auria said.

  ‘So, is the FBI going to take the case?’

  ‘We already asserted jurisdiction based on crimes committed in New York and Massachusetts,’ she said.

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it. Look, there’s a lot I don’t understand about motives, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out how he knew my mother even had the stone. I didn’t know she had it. I’m not even sure she knew she had it. It’s been sitting in the back of her closet for thirty years.’

  ‘It’s going to be one of the things we investigate,’ D’Auria said. ‘We’re going to need to have a look at it.’

  Cal told then they could see it now and pulled it from his bag. She handled it first and unimpressed, passed it to her partner, who laid it on Cal’s desk and snapped a series of photos with his phone.

  ‘I can’t believe people got killed over this,’ he muttered.

  ‘You made some statements to Detective Gilroy about the piece,’ D’Auria said, referring to her notes. ‘You said you understood that it was something called a showstone that was allegedly used to communicate with spirits.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you told him that you didn’t think it had a particularly great monetary value.’

  ‘Look, I could be wrong about that but it’s hard to believe it would fetch more than a few hundred to a few thousand at auction.’

  She said she understood and asked about this thing the intruder was also looking for – this 49th Call. ‘You told the detective you didn’t know what that was. On further thought, any ideas?’

  ‘I think it may have something to do with how one supposedly makes contact with spirits. I’m going to be visiting with an expert in the field, a woman in Arizona.’

  ‘You’ll let us know, right?’ Nesserian said.

  ‘I will. Which one of you should I contact?’

  Nesserian pointed to D’Auria. ‘I’m the pretty one but she’s the smart one.’

  ‘You realize he could come back,’ D’Auria said. ‘He seems pretty determined to get his hands on the stone.’

  ‘I haven’t gone home since the night it happened and I’m having a security system installed.’

  ‘That may not be enough to keep you safe,’ she said.

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You should get one,’ D’Auria said.

  ‘Getting a permit in Cambridge, Massachusetts is a bitch,’ Nesserian said.

  D’Auria said that getting one in Manhattan was probably even harder but that they’d try to pull strings at the local police departme
nt and the state firearms bureau.

  ‘That would be good, I guess,’ Cal said.

  D’Auria smiled for the first time. ‘Can you shoot? I mean other than nailing your floor?’

  Cal smiled back. ‘I hit the exact spot on the floor I was aiming at.’

  ELEVEN

  Mortlake, England, 1582

  Edward Talbot returned to Mortlake at his appointed time. It was evening and the river traffic on the Thames had thinned to a few barges and skiffs making their way to night dockages. Talbot stopped for a moment outside John Dee’s door to compose himself and steady his breathing. He had ridden his horse hard from London so as not to be late, but he did not wish to present himself as a man lacking in steadiness and composure.

  He had come from Whitehall Palace, where he had taken his first meeting with Francis Walsingham. Walsingham was a fearsome presence. He was not given to ranting or indeed raising his voice beyond a mild, conversational tone. If anything, it was his calm demeanor and quietness that proved so disconcerting to Talbot and all others who found themselves summoned for an audience. Walsingham, with his own hand, had never killed or even harmed a man. Yet, as the Queen’s spymaster, he could destroy lives simply by affixing his signature to a writ of arrest or torture. After a long presence at court, Walsingham had been elevated to Secretary of State. Elizabeth did not like him, for how could one take to a man with the personality of a viper, even one’s own reptilian servant? But she valued him for what he did, which was to dedicate his life to keeping her safe from plotters, foreign and domestic.

  Talbot, when finally ushered into Walsingham’s chambers, felt his knee joints go soft. He leaned heavily on his walking stick. The Secretary of State clearly knew he was standing there in front of his mighty desk, but he kept his eyes glued to a letter and kept his visitor in an uncomfortable state of suspended animation. Walsingham’s hair and beard were unusually dark for a man of fifty but it was his eyes that defined him. They were set wide, deeply buried in their sockets, with hooded lids that seemed so weighty, it was a miracle they were not tightly shut. And when he finally put his parchment down and looked up at Talbot, those eyes revealed themselves to be as dark and blue as the finest lapis stones.

  ‘Tell me what I should call you?’ Walsingham asked.

  ‘Talbot, my lord. Edward Talbot.’

  ‘But that is not your real name.’

  ‘It is the name I am currently assuming, my lord.’

  ‘Why the subterfuge?’

  ‘Doctor Dee has many colleagues and acquaintances. I wish to remain beyond reproach should he make inquiries.’

  ‘But you are not beyond reproach, are you?’

  ‘I have led a colorful life.’

  Talbot then noticed that a middle-aged man as small as a boy was in the chamber, stoking the hearth and making the flames leap. Had he been there the entire time or had he snuck in like a furtive creature? The flames conjured a vision of Hell fires.

  Walsingham was talking again. ‘In fact, you are a scoundrel, sir. You have borrowed irresponsibly and failed to repay debts. You have fraudulently altered bills of lading. You are a liar and a cheat.’

  ‘I have paid a price for my crimes, my lord.’

  ‘Some say you should have lost more than the tops of your ears and the use of two good legs.’

  ‘I assure you, I am a changed man.’

  ‘If so, it affirms the righteousness of a good cropping and a vigorous beating that has left you crippled. In any event, Mr Clerkson vouches for your piety and that is why you are recruited to my service. I am told you are a scryer.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Further, I am told you have considerable talents in this regard.’

  ‘I cannot deny that.’

  Walsingham lifted his eyelids to the utmost and fixed his visitor with a luminous, blue stare. ‘How am I to know if your scrying is real or the product of a devious heart?’

  Talbot’s walking stick shook from the pressure he was applying. He looked toward a chair but permission to sit was not forthcoming.

  ‘You will simply have to believe me, my lord. I have had the gift since my youth.’

  Talbot could not have known that Walsingham’s interrogation methods included sudden shifts of subject.

  ‘What will you say to Doctor Dee when he discovers your true name, as he surely will?’

  ‘Hopefully I will have engendered enough trust, if and when this should happen, that I will be able to weather the storm.’

  Another shift. ‘What do you know of Doctor Dee’s past?’

  ‘That he is a very learned man, expert in the natural sciences, languages, and philosophy and that he has a profound interest in Kabbalistic and spiritual realms. He is said to be a foremost magus. This from Clerkson and others I have met in scrying circles.’

  ‘My interest in John Dee arises not from these pursuits. I want to know if he is a traitor.’

  ‘A traitor, my lord?’

  ‘Her Majesty has many enemies. Some Catholics are as easy to spot as a pope bedecked in red robes and bearing a scepter. Others are cleverly hidden from view and must be ferreted out. Doctor Dee may be such a man.’

  ‘I am ignorant of this side to him, my lord.’

  Walsingham finally seemed to notice Talbot’s difficulty standing.

  ‘You look like a tree about to topple. Sit yourself down before you fall.’

  He found the cushion just in time and thanked Walsingham for the kindness.

  ‘Were you aware that thirty years ago, Dee was ordained as a Catholic priest?’

  ‘I was unaware.’

  ‘It was done under the direction of the then Earl of Pembroke at a time, following the death of young King Edward, when Mary Tudor, during her unfortunate reign, was purging the Church of Protestant clergymen. Dee took his holy orders from none other than the notorious priest and traitor, Edmund Bonner.’

  Talbot could have continued to listen passively, but he had a lively mind and had been an active debater at university. ‘I had thought that many young men made such a decision if for no other reason than to stay in the good graces of the Crown for purposes of advancement.’

  Walsingham did not seem annoyed by the challenge. ‘True enough and not in and of itself grounds for branding Dee a menace to Her Majesty. I offer it as one brick in a wall.’

  Talbot, encouraged by the benign response, weighed in further. ‘And I have heard that when Queen Elizabeth was a young princess, she consulted with Doctor Dee and asked him to cast her horoscope to divine the future that awaited her. Was she not aware that he was a priest?’

  ‘Indeed she was. I do not believe she was troubled. The times were different, the threats of a different nature.’

  ‘Surely Doctor Dee has abandoned his vow of celibacy. He is thrice married with children. Is this not a mark in his favor?’

  ‘Certain men will go to great lengths to hide their true religion.’

  ‘You mentioned a wall,’ Talbot said. ‘There are other bricks?’

  ‘Indeed there are. My predecessor, Lord Burghley, long harbored suspicions that Doctor Dee did engage in conjurations and incantations of evil spirits, contravening the Witchcraft Act that Parliament did enact. This goes back many a year, but when he was arrested and confined to the Tower on charges of treason during the reign of Queen Mary, the child of one of his accusers went blind and the suspicion turned to Dee as a conjuror.’

  ‘But he was acquitted by the Star Chamber, as I understand.’

  ‘He was set free, yes, but this was Catholic justice which, as we know, was an imperfect instrument. It was the priest, Bonner, who argued for his innocence, the same Bonner who later ordained him. That alone was enough to bring Dee to my attention and over the years, I have encouraged my network of informers to keep a watch on his activities both in England and during his various and sundry sojourns abroad. From time to time I have received reports regarding his spiritual actions. Some recent reports suggest that he may have strayed into the
realm of the dark arts.’

  The small man by the hearth poked at the fire again and made it roar. Talbot might have wondered whether this had been done to effect.

  ‘Toward what end, my lord?’ he asked.

  Color came to the minister’s pale face. ‘Conjuration of evil spirits, man! To subvert and weaken Her Majesty the Queen! This is my vexation. This is my fear. A papist plot against her person.’

  ‘You have evidence for this?’

  ‘Hearsay evidence, I would say. We have a man inside Dee’s household who has heard certain cries and incantations.’

  ‘Not his scryer, Barnabus Saul.’

  ‘Not Saul, no. He is loyal to Dee and not to be turned. There is another, his servant, Robert Hilton, who is in my employ, although his access to Dee’s spiritual actions is limited. Barnabus Saul could not be cajoled into becoming our ears and eyes but we were able to persuade him to cease his scrying and leave Dee’s service.’

  The way he said persuade made Talbot shudder.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You met with Doctor Dee last week. How was that meeting?’

  ‘I believe it went well. Clearly, he was interested in seeing me again. When I leave you today I will proceed apace to Mortlake for supper, to be followed by a scrying action.’

  ‘I will want to hear your report from this and all other spiritual actions. Be keenly aware of Doctor Dee’s attitudes and adverse motives with respect to Her Majesty.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘And make sure and certain that you poison the well of Master Barnabus Saul. We do not wish Doctor Dee to feel that he can return to that bosom. In future, you are the only scryer that gentleman shall use. Do I make myself clear?’

  Dee’s servant, Robert Hilton, answered the door. If Talbot had given Hilton a knowing, conspiratorial glance, it went unanswered. Perhaps Walsingham’s other man did not know that he too was a spy. Perhaps the servant had also been instructed to spy on Talbot. Such were Walsingham’s methods.

  Talbot was received in the sitting room, where Dee was lounging with his second eldest son, Rowland, a gangly youth. For sport, Dee was drilling the lad in Greek grammar, and Talbot’s entry allowed Rowland to escape his father’s academic clutches and seek out one of his sisters for a game of Nine Men’s Morris.