The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  He muttered, “I’ll have to figure out how to clean this lid. We need to know more about who this person is.”

  Suddenly Belinda let out a bloodcurdling scream and ran across the musty room. Thomas was startled and dropped his flashlight. As he bent to pick it up, he saw the source of her alarm – a rat over a foot long was partially illuminated by the beam of the torch. Thomas attempted a kick with his foot and picked up his light as the animal moved slowly away, undaunted by the presence of humans.

  “I hate rats! I have to get out of here!” Belinda ran to the ladder, shining her light here and there to ensure no more nasty creatures lurked nearby.

  “Give me another minute. I have to see if we can open that door.” He walked to the wooden door with the iron struts crisscrossing its surface.

  “I can’t, Thomas! I have to go upstairs and you can’t stay here alone!”

  “Climb the ladder and sit on one of the rungs. Rats can’t go there. You can help by shining some light over here.”

  Like the stone coffin, the door also looked very old. It was about six feet tall and four wide, curved at the top, with a large keyhole opposite three enormous iron hinges. Thomas hoped after all this time the door might open without a key. That had probably disappeared centuries ago. There was no knob – opening the door required inserting and turning a key, then pulling it open. At least that was how it appeared.

  As Belinda sat on the ladder, Thomas put his fingers into the keyhole and gave the door a tug. It held firmly, not even a tremor as he pulled as hard as he could. The damn thing could be a foot thick, he thought grimly. There’s no way to break through this or knock it down. Somehow I’m going to have to find a key that’ll work.

  He shot several pictures of the door and the keyhole. Then he pulled out a tape measure, pad and pencil. He measured the door and the lock area, drew a picture of the keyhole and noted its dimensions.

  Further efforts proved futile, so he went over to the last thing he’d seen while lying down there – several dark-colored boxes on the floor. He saw that they were made of some type of metal and were perfect cubes about two feet on each side. The top of each was hinged and a hasp with a tiny lock kept each lid tightly closed. He tried to pick one up; it was heavy and obviously had something inside. In his weakened state he couldn’t lift it.

  “What is that?” Belinda asked from across the room, the beam of her light picking up the box he was examining.

  “It’s some kind of metal box and there’s something in it. It’s got a tiny lock.” He looked at the others. “They all do. I’m going to see if I can break this one.”

  Pulling a screwdriver from his pants pocket, he inserted it in the hasp of the small padlock. It easily snapped when he applied pressure, and he eagerly removed the lock and stuck it in his pocket. He opened the metal lid.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Books. It’s full of books. Maybe seven or eight of them. They look really old.”

  “I have to get out of here, Thomas. This place is really giving me the willies. Take the box upstairs and let’s look at the books there.”

  “I can’t lift it,” he responded, walking over to her with one of the books in his hand. “You take this one up and I’ll take another. Maybe tomorrow I’ll rig a pulley system from upstairs and we’ll raise the boxes that way.”

  Back in the bookshop, they sat at the table, each with a book, sandwiches and tea laid out for lunch. As they ate, they looked at the books. The one he held was large and its covers were made of wood. It reminded him of an old family Bible, maybe four inches thick and filled with heavy pages probably of vellum. Hers was similar in size and with the same type of pages, but it was bound in rich leather. Their conditions were remarkable given they’d sat in a metal box for centuries. Fortunately they’d stayed dry and secure.

  The Russells were familiar with ancient books. After all, they’d owned a witchcraft bookstore for fifty years. Their primary stock in trade was musty old volumes – works of magic, sorcery and necromancy. Many of the books for sale in their shop were centuries old, just like the ones they held now.

  They also knew how to approximate the age of the old tomes. Books had become much more lightweight with the introduction of paper pages around the fifth century. The ones Thomas had found today were older, their pages folded into sections and bound by being sewn together. It was a process they had seen countless times.

  Thomas ran his fingers over the wooden cover. “Sixth century or earlier, wouldn’t you agree? This title’s in a foreign language. It’s not Latin, but I can’t say for sure what it is. Maybe Welsh? It’s hard to make out after all these years.”

  She was thumbing through the first few pages of the volume she held. “Mine’s in old English, as far as I can tell. I recognize one word in the title. Angleland. The Anglo-Saxon word from which the name ‘England’ is derived.”

  “Remind me how long ago the Anglo-Saxons arrived, dear. My schoolboy English history isn’t coming to mind as quickly as it used to.”

  She smiled at him and said, “I can look it up, but from memory I’m thinking around 400 AD. Given how it’s made, this book may be from that period, but it could also be a history of those times that was written several centuries later. But if it’s much past 500 or so, I’d think it’d have paper pages.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They didn’t get back into the ancient chamber that day or for the next week. Once Monday came, the shop got busy and there wasn’t time for the two of them to close the store, rig up a pulley system, climb down the ladder and move the metal boxes full of old books. Things could wait; whatever was down there had sat undisturbed for centuries. A few more days wouldn’t matter.

  On Friday Thomas suggested they try the chamber again on Saturday afternoon. Belinda agreed but only if he’d string a set of proper lights to keep the creatures at bay and allow them to see well.

  Late Friday afternoon it was almost closing time when the bell tinkled on the front door. A stranger entered, a man perhaps in his late forties, dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit and a beautiful silk tie. Gold cuff links glistened on his starched white sleeves. He’s a banker, I’ll bet, Thomas thought to himself as he asked how he could help the gentleman.

  “I’m hoping actually that I can help you,” the man replied cordially. “May I presume you’re Thomas Russell, the owner of this establishment?”

  “At your service. And whom may you be?”

  “I’m Gordon Peterson. I have a client who’s looking for real estate in the City and, to cut to the chase, I’m here to ask if you’d consider selling your property.”

  Belinda had come from the back room by this time. “You’re American, I’d guess from your accent and your abruptness. Where are you from, and why are you interested in this particular building?”

  “You’re absolutely correct – I am originally from the States, but I’ve been living in London for over a year. My client’s looking to acquire properties that have historical value, put several million pounds into renovation and restoration, and generate greater value and returns. These two blocks along St. Mary Axe are perfect for his plans to create a medieval-themed shopping experience that puts tourists straight back into the Middle Ages.”

  “We’re not interested–”

  “One moment, Thomas. At least let’s give this nice gentleman the courtesy of listening to his proposal.”

  “But, dear, with what…” He gave her a sideways glance and glanced down at the floor.

  She shushed Thomas with a fierce glare. “Mr. Peterson – is that correct? May we excuse ourselves? Feel free to look around. Won’t be a moment.” She tugged at Thomas’s arm.

  In the back room they spoke in whispers. “What if he’s offering us millions in profit, Thomas? What does it hurt to listen to him?”

  “I suppose nothing, but now we have the crypt. I want to know more about what it is before–”

  “Don’t say another word about that. That’s no one
’s business. If we had to, we could take care of the things down there before the building was sold. I’m not saying do it. I’m saying we can listen.”

  “And we’ve talked about passing the shop and the building along to Edward…”

  “That’s true, and certainly that’s still my thinking. We’re set to live comfortably the rest of our lives already, and Edward, bless his heart, needs to stop studying and get into the real world at some point. But what if this is too good to pass up? We have to hear him out.”

  “All right, all right. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  The man stepped from behind the counter seconds before they pulled the curtain and emerged from the back room. He had heard everything. The fireman who had contacted him was telling the truth! The subterranean chamber truly did exist. Excellent.

  “See anything you can’t live without?” Thomas joked as he saw the man browsing the strange assortment of wares.

  “You have some very unusual things here, that’s for sure. If I ever want to put a hex on someone, I’ll know where to come!”

  “All right. We’re willing to listen. At least my wife is.”

  They invited the American to the back room and sat around the table. He described his client, the former CEO of a major British company, now retired and wealthy. The man believed that London real estate was currently an excellent investment.

  “He’s prepared to make you a cash offer for both your business and the building, and I think you will find it better than going market rates.”

  Belinda was surprised. “You want the store too? Why in Heaven’s name would you want it?”

  “It’s part of the charm of St. Mary Axe. He’d be happy to leave you with it as tenants if you’re willing to sign a long-term lease.” He paused and smiled at the couple. “Frankly, at your ages, I wondered if you might not like to take a break from the grind of running a store and relax. With the money you’d get, you could spend your retirement years in the south of France.”

  Thomas asked, “Who would run our store if we sold it to your client? It’s our own creation. We built it from scratch and it’s been part of our lives for decades.”

  “I assure you our goal is to make St. Mary Axe an attractive street for shopping, having a coffee or a pint and absorbing its charm. From what I’m privy to, his initial thought would be to turn your store into a museum. You have so many old things here – a museum of antiquities would be perfect. It could look almost exactly as it does today. You must admit that Harry Potter could step inside at this very moment and no one would raise an eyebrow. It’s that kind of shop.”

  Tired of the banter, Thomas said, “All right. Let’s get down to brass tacks. How much money are you talking about?”

  “I’ll need a few days to present a formal proposal, but I’m authorized to offer you six million dollars.”

  Belinda’s eyebrows rose as they both sat silently. Finally she said, “Why would any sane person pay six million for this building? We’re not stupid people, Mr. Peterson. We keep up with property values in this area. You know and we know that’s twice what the building is worth, maybe more. And the store? You surely can’t place much of a valuation on a bookshop catering to the black arts. What exactly do you and this anonymous ‘client’ really want?”

  Peterson smiled. “The man has deep pockets and a keen sense of the future value of this part of the City. You needn’t worry about his valuation methods – think more about the cash offer I’ve set in front of you. It’ll make you safe and secure for the rest of your lives, free from the worry of running a business and financially able to do anything you want. And frankly, you’re the first people I’ve approached in this area. My client’s willing to pay more for the first parcel of land than the second or third. The first one gives him a presence, a foothold in this quaint street. The others would be mere additions, properties he can do without if need be. He likes your ancient building and thinks it’s an ideal place to start our project.”

  “Has this person ever been inside our store?”

  “No, but he’s seen it from the outside. It’ll work perfectly for him, he tells me.”

  Thomas responded curtly, certain now that things weren’t right with this sudden offer. “This is all too strange for me. You have a client willing to give us millions more than this place is worth and he hasn’t even seen the inside of it? I don’t think so. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’m having no part of it. I listen to your talk of being interested in our welfare, but that’s really none of your business. There are a lot more things to consider than money, and you can’t just breeze in here one Friday afternoon, throw down a lot of cash and expect us to give up something we’ve spent a lifetime building. Yep, there’s more than money. So why don’t you just run along? We need to close up now.” He pushed his chair back and stood, the meeting over.

  “We’ll think about it, and thank you for talking with us.” Belinda diplomatically lightened the conversation. One never knew if things in their life might change overnight. They might want to accept the offer someday. It never hurt to leave people in good spirits.

  Gordon Peterson said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and send over a formal offer just so you’ll have it. Take a few days to think it over. We don’t need an answer tomorrow. But I must caution you that our offer will carry an expiration date. If we can’t make a deal with you, I promise you we will find others who are more amenable to our concepts. Please consider this opportunity carefully.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At home that Friday evening the Russells discussed the stranger’s visit. Out of the clear blue, a man walked in their shop and offered them millions of pounds more than the building and business were worth. What was really going on? Who were this man and his client? What did they really want? Thomas and Belinda had all the questions but none of the answers. They went to bed confused and more than a little concerned.

  Saturday morning in the store was a busy time for Belinda. There were more customers than usual, and she hardly stopped once the entire time. Thomas worked in the basement, stretching out the lights he’d brought from home and hooking up an extension cord. He laid out a toolbox and nails, everything ready for their descent into the crypt at noon when the store closed for the weekend.

  After a quick lunch the elderly couple carefully crept down the ladder. Thomas put nails into ancient timbers that supported the ceiling of the dank room. He strung a set of lights and plugged them in. Suddenly the room was flooded and bright. A solitary rat, watching from a corner, jumped a foot when the lights came on and scurried through a hole at the base of the ancient stone wall.

  Belinda went up and down the ladder with the rest of the books in the metal box Thomas had opened earlier. Thomas used his screwdriver to pry off the little padlocks from the other metal boxes. He opened each lid and saw each box was full of more old volumes. There were dozens – he thought the ones on top looked to be in pretty decent shape. He closed the lids. They’d take the other books up later on.

  He’d put the first little padlock in his pocket the other day when he pried it off. He’d searched the Internet in a futile attempt to find something similar in order to see how old it might be. He found nothing remotely resembling it. The lock itself was very simple and not designed to keep anyone from breaking it. It was more for keeping the lid tightly shut and protecting its contents.

  Today his efforts were aimed at unlocking the heavy wooden door. There was a box full of old keys that had sat on a shelf in the basement for many years. He had no idea where most of them belonged, but every time a key turned up he threw it in the box. Some were quite large, others very small. Some were skeleton keys, others perhaps used to wind a clock, and some looked very unusual. Belinda brought the box of keys to the crypt, and Thomas rummaged through them. He tried first one, then another. None of them was large enough.

  He carefully inserted a long screwdriver into the keyhole and moved it up and down, side to side. He co
uld feel an ancient tumbler mechanism move slightly, but the screwdriver wouldn’t open the door. He finally gave up and turned to the stone sarcophagus.

  The lid was four inches thick. He gave it a halfhearted push but wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. It would take a winch to move it.

  He’d taken pictures of the coffin the last time he was here. After having the photos developed, he researched those too. One thing was clear. Just like others he’d seen, the cross on the side of the sarcophagus was definitely Norman. That alone wasn’t enough to date the coffin or whoever lay inside, but if they found other evidence, this could help narrow the time frame.

  One of the old books for sale in the store gave Thomas exactly what he needed. Burial Practices in Medieval Britain had lithographs and descriptions of stone caskets. They were in cemeteries and crypts in England, Scotland and Wales. He found a picture that showed one very similar to the coffin here in the chamber. Thomas was excited. The one in the book was truly ancient. Maybe theirs was too!

  They had to clean the stone lid to see its carvings. Belinda brought down a pail of warm water, a scrub brush and some rags. Starting at the carved head, she daubed water on the stone lid. Thomas came along behind her with the brush, carefully removing centuries of caked dirt and grime. Within thirty minutes nearly half of the carving was much more distinct, and now they could see faint writing on the lid.

  “Do you still think this looks like one in your book?” Belinda asked when she’d finished.

  “It does! It absolutely does! I’m going upstairs to fetch that book.”

  “No sir. I won’t have you go climbing that ladder and stairway again. I’ll get it.”

  Shortly he was comparing the lithograph to the coffin.

  “See? Doesn’t it look very similar to you?”