The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

“Come closer,” Uncle Randolph said. “My voice is getting tired.”

  I walked over to the old man and sat on the bed beside him. I slid my hands under my legs to keep him from seeing them tremble. Then I looked in his eyes. They were large, watery, and pale blue. He had those filmy white rings around his pupils that I had only seen in old people.

  “You could be in grave danger, Spenser,” he said. “Keep your eyes and ears open and make careful decisions. He took a couple of shallow breaths, then said, “Everything is not as it seems. Think carefully and trust few. You are their biggest threat.”

  “Threat to who?” I asked.

  He grabbed my hand with all his fading strength and put his trembling finger to my lips. “There’s no more time,” he said. “Get to the bank and do as I’ve instructed. You stay back in the car, because they might be watching. Don’t tell Dalty what I’ve told you. It’s for his own good.” He motioned toward the door.

  I got up from the bed and slowly walked across the room. Before I opened the door, I turned back toward him. There was such calm in his face.

  I met Dalton in the hallway, and we walked to the car in silence.

  “What did he say?” Dalton asked.

  “He was rambling,” I said. I was afraid to say more than that. I needed time to figure out what Uncle Randolph meant.

  “Did he say anything about the safe-deposit box?”

  “Only that we should follow his instructions carefully.”

  “I’d bet my life that book contains the secrets,” Dalton said.

  “You gave him your word that you wouldn’t open it,” I said.

  “Yeah, but he didn’t say we couldn’t read the title.”

  “If there is a title,” I said. “This whole thing is freakin’ me out.”

  “He knows we’re getting close,” Dalton said. “He’s protecting their secrets with the last bit of life that’s left in him.”

  Dalton pulled over to a gas station and got directions to the Union State Bank in Tarrytown. We drove the rest of the way in silence, both of us prisoners of our imaginations as well as our fears. We pulled into the empty lot of the Union State Bank, a small brick building surrounded by a cluster of towering pine trees on an oval lawn. Dalton parked in the back, and I waited in the car.

  After almost thirty minutes, I started getting concerned. Only two customers had come in that time, and both had already finished their business and gone. Then I saw the doors to the bank open and Dalton walk out with the bag slung over his shoulder. A short, bespectacled man in a gray suit and yellow tie stood at the door watching him as he left.

  “What took so long?” I asked as he jumped into the car.

  “I had to practically give blood to get down there in the vault,” Dalton said, starting the car and racing out of the lot. “Tippendale had a security clearance list a mile long.”

  “Did you get the book?”

  “Yup. But I had to ask Tippendale for some privacy. He kept hanging around.”

  “Did you look at it?”

  “I didn’t open it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I looked at the cover.”

  “And?”

  Dalton made sure we were out of sight from the bank before bringing the car to a stop on the side of the road. He opened the tote bag and pulled out a package bundled in tinfoil. He carefully removed the tinfoil and exposed the book. It was small, no bigger than the palm of my hand. The blue had faded with age and the spine was starting to crumble. The images and wording had been pressed in gold ink.

  Succession Plan

  9

  “What if we just took a little peek?” Dalton said. “There’s no one here but us.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, remembering Uncle Randolph’s last words. “He was adamant about what had to be done and we gave him our word.”

  “You’re scared,” Dalton said.

  “I think we’re getting involved in something that’s way over our heads,” I said. “Maybe we should step back for a minute and think about what we’re doing. There have already been two deaths around this stuff, and I don’t want to add my name to the list.”

  Dalton looked down at the book and ran his hand over the cover before sliding it back in the tote bag. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Maybe Uncle Randolph will change his mind once we get back. I found something else in the box.”

  Dalton turned over his right palm and showed it to me. He had written several lines in blue ink. The letters were too small for me to read.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I copied it from a laminated card that fell out of the book. It’s some kind of poem.” He held his hand closer to me and I read the words out loud. There wasn’t a date or name next to the five lines.

  A son of Waldorf not far from the Rhine,

  Brother in the Gas of standing quite fine.

  Downed off Newfoundland in waters icy and wide,

  Now stands as our protector with loyalty and pride.

  RMS 240

  “What do you think?” Dalton said.

  “It sounds like a riddle buried in a poem,” I said.

  “Poetry isn’t one of my strong suits,” Dalton said.

  “Theirs either, by the looks of this thing,” I said. “They weren’t trying to win the Pulitzer, that’s for sure. Maybe this poem was a way to send a message.”

  “The first line seems simple enough,” Dalton said. “A man who is the son of a guy named Waldorf and lived pretty close to the Rhine River.”

  “The second line is just as simple,” I said. “This man was obviously a Delphic member who others respected and admired.”

  “And according to the third line, it seems like he was killed in the waters off Newfoundland,” Dalton said.

  “Either murdered or died in some kind of accident,” I said. “That line might be almost impossible to figure out since there’s no date. This could’ve happened centuries ago or last year. And it doesn’t specifically say how the person died. It could’ve been a plane crash, a boat accident, anything.”

  “Maybe there was some famous accident or murder that has some historical significance,” Dalton said.

  “Or maybe it was some guy out fishing on a small boat and got lost at sea,” I said. “This line won’t be easy.”

  Dalton read the last line, Now stands as our protector with loyalty and pride. “What is he protecting?” Dalton asked.

  “You’re thinking too literally,” I said. “If the guy was downed off Newfoundland, then he’s dead. It sounds like his protection is more symbolic than anything else. This guy was a member, and his initials are RMS.”

  “That makes sense,” Dalton said. “But the two-forty doesn’t fit.”

  “That has me stumped right now,” I said. “But let’s divide the lines in half and work on them. You take one and two. I’ll take three and four.”

  We drove along the winding roads of the small town until we had climbed up the mountain where Wild Winds sat overlooking the Hudson Valley. We pulled up to the gate and Dalton pressed the intercom. There was no answer. Dalton pressed the intercom again. Suddenly we heard the loud sound of helicopter propellers overhead. We looked up through the trees and saw a black chopper moving toward the house.

  “What the hell is a helicopter doing here?” Dalton said. He pressed the intercom button again.

  “May I help you?” a man’s voice called out.

  “Yes, it’s Dalton.”

  There was no response.

  “Hello,” Dalton called out, pushing the intercom button. “Is anyone there?”

  I looked up and saw the cameras on the gate move and tilt down in our direction. No response. Dalton pressed the intercom again.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Winthrop, but you must come back some other time,” the man’s voice returned.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Dalton said. “I need to see my uncle. Open up the gates.”

  “Please come back later,” the man s
aid.

  “Who the hell is this?” Dalton screamed.

  “It’s Mr. Brathwaite, your uncle’s attorney.”

  “Is there something wrong up there, Mr. Brathwaite?”

  “Everything’s under control,” he said. “Please come back later, and I’ll explain.”

  There was the loud buzz of another chopper traveling toward the mansion. I could barely make it out through the trees.

  “Something’s not right,” I said. “Maybe we should get outta here.”

  Dalton pressed the intercom button again, but there was no answer. “They can’t keep me away from my uncle,” Dalton said. “I have a right to know what’s going on!”

  “I think we better leave,” I said. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  “What about the book?” Dalton said. “We have to get it back to him.”

  “We either take it back to the bank or take it with us. But there’s no way we’re going to get it to him now.”

  Dalton started to back the car away from the gate, but just as we were about to turn and leave, I saw something coming toward us through the bushes.

  “Hold on for a minute,” I said. “There’s someone coming.”

  Dalton rolled down his window. “It’s Muriel,” he said. “What in the hell is she doing?”

  Muriel was driving toward us in a golf cart, waving her hand. When she got closer, we noticed that she was pointing at a spot farther along the fence. She made a driving motion with both hands, pointing at the spot again.

  “She wants us to drive down there,” I said. “Away from the cameras.”

  Dalton slowly drove along the fence and Muriel shadowed us from the other side. We drove like that for a couple of hundred yards before she signaled us to stop. We pulled the car over and jumped out. Muriel ran to the gate.

  “He’s dead!” Muriel cried. “Mr. Winthrop is dead!” She kept repeating the same words. She looked nothing like the cheerful woman I met when we first arrived. Her eyes were big and swollen and her skin had turned a ghostly white. Her right leg shook underneath her dress.

  “Dead?” Dalton said. “What are you talking about? We’ve only been gone a little more than an hour. What the hell happened?”

  Muriel put her hand to her chest to catch her breath. The tears were coming down harder. “Did you open his window before you left?” she asked.

  Dalton looked at me and we both shook our heads at the same time.

  “When Selena went back in to get him dressed to take him outside, she noticed the big window next to the bed was open and the room was very cold,” Muriel said without taking a breath. “She looked at Mr. Winthrop and he was just lying there with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. She called his name, but he didn’t move. She did it a second time and he just kept still. That’s when she ran to the bed and noticed he wasn’t breathing.”

  “Who the hell is this Brathwaite person?” Dalton said.

  “The man with the special number,” Muriel said.

  “What special number?”

  “Mr. Winthrop had given us strict instructions that if something ever were to happen to him, we were to call this number he had written on a card next to his bed. We were not to call the police, 911, or anyone else. He made all of us promise him that we’d follow his instructions. So, when Selena came running down to the kitchen and said Mr. Winthrop was dead, I went up to confirm that was true. Then we called the number, and that’s when Mr. Brathwaite came over. He was here in less than thirty minutes.”

  “How did he come?”

  “He drove up in his car.”

  “Was he by himself?”

  “Yes, he came alone.”

  “Why is he stopping me from going up there?”

  “He won’t let anyone into the main house,” Muriel said. “When he came, he sent all of us to the carriage house and told us to stay there until we were called back.”

  “So, who’s with Uncle Randolph?”

  “Mr. Brathwaite and some other men I’ve never seen before. They arrived in helicopters.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been in the carriage house. We have an intercom in there also. That’s how I knew you were down here.”

  Dalton buried his face in his hands, then after a few moments said, “You did the right thing by coming down here, Muriel. Now I want you to go back to the carriage house and follow Brathwaite’s instructions. But make sure no one mentions that we were here earlier. That’s very important.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she said.

  “I’m sure someone from the family will be here shortly once the call is made,” Dalton said.

  “I’m scared, Master Winthrop,” she cried.

  Dalton put his hand through the gate and rested it on her shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will be all right. Just go back to the carriage house and make sure everyone remains calm. You took good care of Uncle Randolph. The family is very appreciative of your service.”

  Muriel waddled back to the golf cart and sped off into the woods. When Dalton and I returned to the car, we sat in silence for a while. I could see he was fighting back tears, so I gave him time and space to do it.

  “I’m good,” he finally said. “It’s just tough. Uncle Randolph was one of the good ones in the family. I always wondered why I couldn’t have a father that was more like him.”

  We sat in silence for a minute; then Dalton motioned for me to pull out the book.

  “What do you think’s happening?” I asked.

  He pointed to the gold letters on the book cover. “The succession is under way.”

  16

  DALTON AND I drove back to Cambridge, debating whether we should read the book or honor Uncle Randolph’s dying words. One minute he would suggest that we pull off at a rest stop and get it over with; then, when I agreed, he’d suddenly get moralistic and change his mind. By the time we had reached the Mass Pike and were seeing signs for Boston, I had an immense headache. I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep before practice, but I couldn’t stop thinking that the book lying only inches away from me might contain all the answers to our questions about the Ancient Nine, the secret room, and the disappearance of Erasmus Abbott. The temptation was unbearable.

  By the time we turned into Cambridge, we had beaten the trip down to New York by exactly one minute.

  “So, what’s our plan?” I said before getting out.

  “I’m not going to read the book,” Dalton said. “Yet. First, I want to find out what happened at Wild Winds. We can go from there.”

  “Promise me you’ll only read the book when I’m there,” I said.

  “That’s a deal.”

  We shook hands firmly.

  “Something is definitely wrong,” Dalton said. “I’m having a hard time processing how Uncle Randolph was alive just hours ago and now he’s gone.”

  Without saying, both of us thought it was possible he had been killed.

  * * *

  WITH ALL THAT WAS going on, I forgot that the Head of the Charles Regatta, a wildly popular weekend of boat races, was being held that weekend. I had never seen people row crew before I got to Harvard. While it wasn’t the kind of sport that got the average spectator’s adrenaline pumping, it was beautiful to watch, something akin to ballet on water, eight people lifting and planting those long oars in such perfect synchrony, propelling the long narrow boats gracefully through the water.

  The Head weekend had become something like a mini Olympics for the rowing world, with more than six thousand international rowers and 250,000 spectators converging on the banks of the Charles for the two-day extravaganza. The campus would suddenly be overrun with prepsters in their L.L.Bean moccasins and tie-dyed ponchos. Travel around the Square was always difficult even during normal times, but with the crush of visitors on this particular weekend, it became virtually impossible. This was also the first time since the race began in 1965 that it was being held in November
instead of October. An alum who had rowed on the varsity team had made a windfall on Wall Street trading junk bonds, and donated a pile of cash to give Harvard’s venerable boat houses much needed facelifts. The university lobbied to have the race moved back a few weeks so that all the renovation work would be completed in time for the rowing world to admire these architectural gems.

  Dalton was spending the weekend at his parents’ place on Beacon Hill. He left the book under the mattress in his room for safekeeping.

  Saturday afternoon, I built up the courage to call Ashley. A woman, I assumed Ashley’s mother, answered the phone.

  “May I speak to Ashley, please?” I said.

  “Who’s calling?” the woman said.

  “Spenser.”

  “Is this the young man from Harvard?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One moment, Spenser. Let me get her.”

  I could tell she was trying to cover the mouthpiece, but I still heard her say, “He sounds like a nice young man, Ash.”

  Then Ashley said, “Give me the phone, Mom.” Seconds later I heard, “Hey, Spenser.”

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “Nothing, just catching up on some work.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Writing a paper.”

  “You’re doing schoolwork on Saturday night?”

  “It’s due on Monday, and I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Have you eaten yet?”

  “It’s a little early for dinner.”

  “Not if we go to a movie first.”

  “Do you make it a habit of always asking girls out at the last minute like this?”

  “It’s not the last minute. The movie doesn’t start for another three hours.”

  “Very cute,” she said. “If I come, it’s because I’m bored, and it’s still not a date.”

  “Of course not. You would never date a Harvard preppie.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nothing more than a study break,” I said, holding back a laugh.

  “That’s right. And one that doesn’t go late into the night.”

  * * *

  I WAS SHOWERED and dressed and ready to leave the room when the phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it, worried that it might be Ashley calling to cancel.