by David Wood
“Don’t bother,” Maddock said. “The code’s not your sister’s birthday anymore. I changed it.”
“I knew you would,” Bones said. “Which means you changed it back to your dad’s birthday.” He held up the phone so Maddock could see that he’d successfully unlocked it. “Seriously, Maddock, you need to pay better attention to security.”
“Says the guy who uses 6969 for every pin number.”
“Touché.” Bones frowned. “Bad news, bro. It wasn’t a sext. She says somebody came asking about us not long after we left. She let slip that we’re investigating Israel Hands. Unbelievable.”
“She’s a civilian. Probably unaccustomed to hiding things.”
“She’s a chick. It’s in her DNA.” Bones frowned. “Just got one from Avery. She went to Caesar’s Rock and found an artifact with a code carved in the bottom. She’s going to try to decipher it.”
“Nice.”
“She also says she’s fine, but she did almost get killed by Nomi and some other chick.”
Maddock snatched the phone away and read the text message, then fired off a hasty reply, thanking her for the discovery and encouraging her to lie low going forward. He knew it was futile. She, too, had inherited their father’s stubborn streak. At least she had Maddock’s crew, plus her fellow Myrmidons to watch her back. Hell, she was probably safer than him and Bones at the moment.
Although it was very early in the morning in Key West, her reply came immediately.
Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.
He grinned and pocketed the phone. They’d arrived at the cathedral entrance. He’d call Kendra later. For now, they had a search to conduct.
They each paid the fee for the guided tour which was about to begin. Their guide began by describing the vastness and complexity of the cathedral. “There are so many parts of the cathedral that many rooms and sections are unknown to most employees. I dare say one would have to work here for quite some time before learning most of her secrets.” Given that the man appeared to be well into his seventies, Maddock wondered if he might have learned of a few out of the way places.
The interior of the cathedral was magnificent. The nave was nearly one hundred feet in height and separated from the aisles by piers with attached Corinthian pilasters. The rectangular bays were topped with domed roofs and surrounded by clerestory windows high above. Far above them, the dome was supported by eight piers. It was difficult to believe that such an incredible structure had been built using seventh-century equipment.
The tour continued, their guide pointing out many interesting details, including many important works of art, and seemingly more impressive to most of the tourists, a staircase made famous by the Harry Potter movies. He described at length the grand organ, which had more than seven thousand pipes, and had been played by both Mendelssohn and Handel. Finally, they made their way down into the crypt. This was where Maddock had hoped to discover something about the last resting place of Israel Hands, but he was disappointed. The crypt was nothing like he’d expected. Rather than a dark, dungeon-like space, it was bright and open. There was little here to suggest it served as a burial site. It even boasted a Crypt Cafe. As they navigated the crypt, their guide discussed the many luminaries who were buried here. Tombs and memorials included those of artists, scientists, musicians, even royalty stretching back to the early days of Anglo-Saxon England. Furthermore, there were cenotaphs dedicated to the memories of those who were buried elsewhere, including William Blake, whose grave was lost after he died in obscurity; Florence Nightingale, who was buried with her parents in Hampshire; and Lawrence of Arabia, who was laid to rest in Dorset.
At the heart of the crypt stood the tomb of Admiral Horatio Nelson, who died in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. He was laid to rest in a coffin made from the timber of L’Orient, a French ship he had defeated in the Battle of the Nile. His black marble sarcophagus had originally been made for a Cardinal Wolsey, who fell from favor during the reign of King Henry VIII.
Though he found everything interesting, Maddock kept an eye out for any indicator of a secret burial site, a hidden door, anything that might lead to the remains of Israel Hands. Nothing caught his eye. At the end of the tour, he approached their guide.
“Are there any paupers buried on this site?”
The guide scratched his bulbous nose, frowned, and shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“Any secret burial chambers. Maybe some that aren’t safe for tourists to visit?”
Again the guide shook his head. “Sorry, but no.”
Bones let out an impatient huff of breath. “Look, dude, my friend’s not exactly a people person. Here’s the deal—we research myths and legends for a television show. Ever heard of Joanna Slater?”
The guide shrugged. “No, afraid not.” But the mention of television had changed his demeanor. His eyes brightened and his thin lips curved into an insinuation of a smile.
“Anyway,” Bones continued, “can you tell us who knows the most about this place? You know, the secret stuff—the stuff a tourist would never see. Things that don’t show up on photo galleries or YouTube videos.”
“I would have to say that would be me,” the man said. “I’ve worked here for more than twenty years.”
“Sweet.” Bones took out his money clip and began peeling off twenty pound notes. “How much for a private tour? Show us all the cool stuff. If we think the viewers will like it, we’ll pass it along to the producers.” The guide hesitated, eyeing the money as Bones peeled off a fourth note. “Nothing sketchy,” Bones assured. “Nobody’s office, nothing like that. Just the interesting places. For a hundred?” He held out five twenty pound notes.
The guide grimaced, then accepted the money, tucking it into his pocket. “Very well. It’s not against the rules and I have my lunch break next. Where shall we start?”
“Down here if there’s anything you can show us,” Maddock said.
“Alas, you’ve seen everything on this level, but I can show you some fascinating sights upstairs. Let us go.” As they ascended from the crypt, the guide, whose name was Timothy, began listing the various rooms he’d stumbled across which were apparently unfamiliar to most of his colleagues. Most were simply small, empty spaces that had served no use for a long time. Maddock doubted any of them would be of interest, but he was determined to earn the man’s trust, so he listened politely.
Timothy guided them to a place high above the cathedral and took them out onto a roof. Far below them, London swept out into the distance.
“Dude, you can see for miles from up here,” Bones said. “We should ride the London Eye later.” He pointed to the giant Ferris wheel in the hazy distance. “Kidding,” he said to Timothy, who was frowning in disapproval. “That thing screws up the skyline.” Timothy’s grin vanished and he began pointing out different sites in the distance. Bones looked at Maddock and winked.
“Well played,” Maddock said quietly.
Next, Timothy showed them the vast swathes of black on sections of the wall, caused by acid rain due to the polluted air of London. The problems stemmed mostly from coal smoke up until the late twentieth century. Maddock nodded along, trying not to show impatience. He sensed they hadn’t yet reached a level of comfort at which they could broach the subject of Israel Hands. He asked a few questions, made conversation, showed interest in everything Timothy showed them until, finally, the guide’s lunch hour was drawing to an end.
They stood in a secret room above the choir. Timothy jokingly urged them not to feel nervous knowing that only a centuries-old, nine-inch thick stone floor lay between them and a fall to certain death. Maddock and Bones laughed along.
“I should probably move,” Bones said. “I weigh more than you two put together.”
“I hope this has been helpful,” Timothy said. “Perhaps there’s something here that will interest your producers.”
“Absolutely,” Maddock said. “I do have a question about a story we were asked to follow
up on. It’s about a man named Israel Hands.” He recounted the story they’d been told at the Docklands Museum. Timothy listened and nodded along, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that particular story. In fact, the only story I know about a man named Israel is quite far-fetched, but it might actually be of interest to your viewing audience.”
“What’s that?” Maddock asked.
“It’s absurd, really, but there have been many accounts of,” he paused and cleared his throat, “of ghosts haunting the grounds of the cathedral. Superstition, of course, but there is one story that stands out.”
“What story would that be?” Maddock asked.
“Most the accounts of ghosts are the usual claptrap: a whistling clergyman, a kneeling worshiper, the sorts of things you always hear about in old cathedrals. They are lighthearted, amusing tales that add color to the history of the church. No one takes them seriously. There is, however, another ghost, the ghost of a man who calls himself Israel, which is so frightening, so real, according to those who have seen him that it gives them the chills to even talk about him. We don’t share that story with the public.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Bones said.
“A gaunt man, he paces back and forth, never covering more than a few meters, as if he is confined to a cell.” Maddock raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. “He mutters about the people he killed, about atoning for his sins, about the secrets he hides, and the spirits that torment him. And he always talks about wanting to teach, as if he has a lesson to share.”
A smile creased Bones’ face at the mention of the word “teach.” He was obviously thinking the same thing as Maddock. The ghost could be talking about Edward Teach.
“What else can you tell us?” Maddock asked. “Anything at all.”
Timothy’s face went ashen and he wobbled.
“You okay?” Bones reached out a hand to steady the old man.
“I’m quite fine. It’s just that I’m one of the people who has seen Israel. I’ve never been a believer in ghosts, but I believe he is very real.”
“If it helps, I’ve studied this sort of thing for a long time,” Bones said, not untruthfully. “The hauntings that appear to be most real are still harmless. They’re just trying to work out their own issues. Think of it as, I don’t know, a patient lying on a therapist’s couch.”
Timothy nodded. “Quite right. You asked about other details. I can tell you he wears colonial garb, and he always disappears into exactly the same spot in the wall. In fact, construction workers back in 1925 found a secret door in that exact spot.”
Maddock’s heart skipped a beat. “What was behind it?”
“Just an empty room. Would you like to see it?”
“Definitely,” Maddock said.
“You can actually get a look at the spot from up here. Follow me.” Timothy moved to the middle of the room, leaned down, and plucked a wooden peg from the floor to reveal a hole a few inches wide. “This hole looks directly down upon the Book of Remembrance, but if you look over to the left, you can see the tiny door.”
Bones went first, but backed away quickly. “Holy crap, that makes me dizzy. Sorry. No disrespect.”
Timothy smiled and waved the apology away. “I understand. It underscores just how high up we are...and how far we would fall should anything happen.”
Maddock put his eye to the peephole and his head began to swim. Bones was right. The floor seemed impossibly far below them, the splash of colors blurred into a kaleidoscope. He blinked a few times, took a breath, and refocused. Pretend you’re looking through binoculars, he told himself. That helped a little. His vision now steady, he scanned the area until he spotted a tiny door set in the wall. “I see it. Can we go down there and...” The words died on his lips.
“What’s up, Maddock?” Bones asked.
Maddock was speechless. Far below, a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair wandered through the cathedral. It was someone he knew very well.
“It’s Isla,” he rasped. “She’s here.”
Chapter 20
St. Paul’s Cathedral, London
Isla looked around at the ornate interior of St. Paul’s. She’d seen plenty such cathedrals in her time as a travel writer, but this was one of the finest. The architecture was impressive, the sense of history undeniable. Still, it left her feeling empty.
“I always enjoy visiting here,” Gowan said. The big man stood, hands in pockets, looking around. “I wouldn’t say it brings me closer to God, for obvious reasons. But there’s something about the dedication it took to build this place that inspires me.”
“It’s not a patch on Glasgow Cathedral,” Isla said. In fact, she had no opinion on a comparison between the two, but she was still annoyed that Gowan had come along. It seemed Nineve didn’t want her working alone anymore.
“I’d like to see it someday,” Gowan said. “Just think of what was required to build this place—the planning, the resources, the engineering, the labor, the expense. It makes the task before us seem almost trivial, does it not?”
“I dare say mending a fractured Britain will be a far sight more challenging.” She checked her watch. “Almost time.”
“Time for what? You’ve been maddeningly circumspect about why we’ve come here. I am on your side, remember?”
Her eyes fell on the Book of Remembrance. Encased in a glazed box atop an altar, the illuminated manuscript listed the names of the 28,000 Americans, based in Britain, who lost their lives in the Second World War. We fight a new war, now, she told herself. A war against hate and intolerance. We must come together. That’s why I’m doing this. She mulled over similar thoughts on a regular basis these days. They were a balm for the disquiet she felt about Nineve and her aims.
“I tell you what you need to know,” she said to Gowan as she turned and headed in the direction of the library.
“You tell me nothing. I might actually be able to help you, or at least do a better job of watching your back, if I knew what we were about. Also, it might help if you and I developed even a modicum of trust between us.”
“Fine. We have an appointment at the library.”
“What are we looking for in there?” Gowan fell into step beside her.
“Information.” At the sound of his tired sigh, she went on. “I’ve been looking into the life of H. Rider Haggard.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, muscular man with deep umber skin snap his head around and stare in her direction. Lovely. Couldn’t a woman even walk through a church without being ogled?
“The adventure writer?”
“The man who wrote King Solomon’s Mines.”
“A fiction tale.”
Isla grimaced. This was precisely why she hadn’t wanted to have this conversation with Gowan. “A good writer does extensive research. Haggard was no exception. My research suggests he was, in fact, an expert in Solomon lore. He didn’t merely write a novel about the mines; he studied them thoroughly. And he explored angles no one else has ever mentioned, at last, not that I’ve uncovered.”
“You’re telling me you think H. Rider Haggard found Solomon’s Ring?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect he might lead us to the ring or to the mines.”
Gowan scratched his chin. “I suppose anything is worth a try. Considering how many have sought the mines, it seems clear that an out-of-the-box approach is in order.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Isla winced as soon as she’d spoken. Gowan was supporting her, and there was no need for her sardonic tone. “Sorry. I’m on edge. Nineve has set us what seems like an impossible task. If the Haggard angle doesn’t bear fruit, I’m fresh out of new ideas.”
“Understood.”
The library of Dean and Chapter was located on the triforium level behind the cathedral’s southwest tower. Designed by Christopher Wren, the library's collection was almost completely destroyed in the Great Fire of London. It was later restocked during the rebuilding of St.
Paul’s.
The library itself was much as Isla had expected. Lots of polished dark wood, shelves overflowing with thick tomes of theology and church history, and the faint musty odor of old paper. She felt immediately at home.
The librarian was an owlish man with thick glasses and pointy tufts of white hair over his ears. He introduced himself as Vernon and fell over himself making Isla feel welcome, but kept glancing nervously in Gowan’s direction. Isla wasted no time in explaining what she was looking for.
“Sir Haggard,” he mused, removing his glasses and wiping his rheumy eyes. “I have heard tell that he spent a great deal of time at the cathedral and made many donations. As to time spent in the library, I fear I cannot help you.”
Isla had expected as much. “I know of one book in particular which was apparently of great interest to him. Perhaps I could take a look at it?”
“Of course. What is the title?”
“The Stories of Father Febland.”
Vernon frowned. “Not familiar with that one. Let me have a look.” He led the way to a desk where a PC stood in the midst of a jumble of discarded volumes. He saw the bemused expression on Isla’s face and winked. “You expected a card catalog system?”
“Or a monk with an ink-smudged face riffling through stacks of parchment?” Gowan jibed.
Isla resisted the urge to call him a bawbag. She didn’t know if Vernon was clergy or a layperson, but it still felt wrong to curse inside a cathedral, regardless of her religious leanings.
After a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse, Vernon’s brow furrowed. “Nothing by that name. I’ll try some alternate spellings of Febland.” They waited as he worked, the lines in his forehead growing deeper, until finally, he pushed away from his desk. “I’m sorry, but as far as I can tell, there’s never been any work in our collection with ‘Father Febland’ in the title.”
“I don’t understand.” Again Isla resisted the urge to swear. “Haggard was very specific about visiting this cathedral so he could learn from those stories.”
