“What did you say?”
“I told him that I had business there that had nothing to do with him and walked away. He stared at me the entire time. Really creepy guy with his bald head and beady eyes.”
Dalton moved the box between us.
“You ready?” he said.
I nodded.
He lifted the lid off the box, unwrapped the tinfoil, and slowly opened the book’s cover. His hands trembled slightly. The thick paper had turned sepia around the edges. We stared at the first page.
SIR RANDOLPH T. WINTHROP ’36 KG
JULY 15, 1956
No. 4
SERVA SODALITATEM
“What do you think that date is?” Dalton asked.
“I’d guess his initiation date into the Ancient Nine?” I said. “At least he picked the best day of the year.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s my birthday.”
Dalton rolled his eyes and then carefully turned the page.
STEP ONE
CONCEAL THE GARTER IN THE INDUCTION BOX AND PLACE IT IN A SAFE-DEPOSIT BOX AT A REPUTABLE INSTITUTION. INFORM COUNSEL OF THE LOCATION OF SAID BOX AND OBTAIN TWO KEYS. ONE KEY IS TO BE KEPT WITH YOU, WHILE THE OTHER IS TO BE SENT TO COUNSEL TO BE USED FOR THE RETRIEVAL OF THE GARTER UPON DEATH. ARRANGEMENTS MUST BE MADE AHEAD OF TIME WITH THE SELECTED INSTITUTION TO PERMIT COUNSEL OR APPOINTED REPRESENTATIVE IMMEDIATE ACCESS TO THE BOX. THESE INSTRUCTIONS MUST BE FOLLOWED WITHOUT FAIL.
“This is why he was so adamant about us returning the garter to the safe-deposit box,” Dalton said. “He knew he might not get there himself, and he wanted to make sure everything was in place.”
Dalton turned the page.
STEP TWO
MAKE INSTRUCTIONS KNOWN TO STAFF AND/OR SURVIVING RELATIVES THAT UPON YOUR DEATH, THE FIRST NOTIFICATION SHALL BE GIVEN TO THE DESIGNATED REPRESENTATIVE AT WILKINS, PRATT, AND DUNN. ONCE THIS NOTIFICATION IS MADE, THE FIRST STEPS OF SUCCESSION SHALL QUICKLY FALL INTO PLACE. THE GARTER SHALL BE RETRIEVED IMMEDIATELY AS SHALL THE COAT OF ARMS. A PROPER SEARCH OF THE PRINCIPAL RESIDENCE SHALL BE SWIFTLY CONDUCTED TO ENSURE THAT ANYTHING RELATED TO THE ORDER IS COLLECTED IMMEDIATELY AND DISPOSED OF ACCORDINGLY. THIS IS A FIRST-RESPONSE SITUATION, AND ALL MEMBERS OF THE ORDER MUST BE PREPARED TO JOIN THE RESCUE MISSION IF THE SITUATION CALLS FOR SUCH ASSISTANCE.
“That explains the helicopters, Brathwaite, and his banning the staff from the main house,” I said. “They sealed off the estate while they searched through everything. There’s something strange about that name.” I concentrated on the page. I had heard it before, maybe on a TV show or in some movie.
“Which name?”
“Wilkins, Pratt, and Dunn.”
“Probably a law firm,” Dalton said.
I could see the name in typeface, but I couldn’t place where I had seen it.
Dalton turned the page.
STEP THREE
THE TRANSFER OF $5 MILLION US TO A PRE-SELECTED OFFSHORE ACCOUNT SHALL BE EXECUTED UPON THE OFFICIAL CONFIRMATION OF DEATH. THIS CAN BE ARRANGED IN A NUMBER OF WAYS, BUT IT IS SUGGESTED THAT A STANDING ORDER FOR TRANSFER TO COUNSEL BE SIGNED AND WAITING FOR EXECUTION. THE CHOICE OF TRANSFER MODE ULTIMATELY REMAINS THE DECISION OF THE MEMBER, BUT IT IS VITAL THAT COMPLETE DISCRETION BE MAINTAINED THROUGHOUT THE PROCESS. IF THE AMOUNT IS NOT CURRENTLY LIQUID AT THE DATE OF EXPIRATION, THEN ASSETS OF EQUAL OR GREATER VALUE SHALL BE BEQUEATHED TO COUNSEL, WHO IN TURN WILL LIQUIDATE THE ASSET AND TRANSFER THE APPROPRIATE MONIES.
“Five million dollars?” I said. “Jesus Christ!”
“A spit in the ocean for these guys,” Dalton said.
“You think there’s any way you can find out if this transfer happened?” I asked.
“Doubtful,” Dalton said. “Uncle Randolph probably had this set up and ready a long time ago. And if Brathwaite finds out I’ve been nosing around about a transfer, he’ll know I have the book.”
“Why would they trust Brathwaite with their secrets?” I said. “He’s not even a member.”
“But he’s a lawyer, which means it’s privileged information. By law, he can’t reveal anything.”
Dalton turned the page.
STEP FOUR
THE CAREFUL RECRUITING FOR NEW KNIGHTS OF THE ORDER IS EQUALED ONLY BY THE NEED FOR EXTREME PRIVACY IN ALL RELATED MATTERS. THEREFORE, EACH MEMBER IS CHARGED WITH PROPOSING, UPON THE IMMINENCE OF THEIR DEATH, A CANDIDATE EITHER WITHIN THE CLUB’S GENERAL MEMBERSHIP OR EXTERNAL TO IT. CAREFUL CONSIDERATION MUST BE MADE WITH THIS PROPOSAL, FOR IT IS ONLY BY THE INTELLECT AND HONOR OF ITS KNIGHTS DOES THE ORDER CONTINUE TO STAND. ONLY ONE CANDIDATE SHALL BE PROPOSED BY EACH MEMBER, BUT PRIORITY WITH GOOD REASON SHALL BE GIVEN TO THE CHOICE OF THE MEMBER WHOSE SPECIFIC SEAT WILL BE VACATED BY HIS DEATH. THIS NAME SHALL BE RECORDED TWICE, ONCE FOR SUBMISSION TO THE SOVEREIGN OF THE ORDER, AND ONCE IN THE TABLET PROVIDED IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK. ONLY IF THE SUBMISSION HAS BEEN RECEIVED AND VERIFIED SHALL THE RECRUITMENT PROCESS BEGIN.
“This sounds a lot like the British orders,” I said. “The whole Knights of the Garter thing.”
“And it was obvious these guys took it seriously,” Dalton said. “Muriel told me that Brathwaite was joined later that afternoon by two more men, and they went through the entire house, opening and closing doors as if they were looking for something.”
“Do you think the Ancient Nine were doing something illegal?” I asked.
“If so, I’m not sure I really want to know,” Dalton said. “Uncle Randolph was very good to me, and that’s how I want to remember him.”
Dalton turned to the next page.
STEP FIVE
THIS IS THE LAST AND FINAL ACT. ONCE THE OTHER STEPS OF SUCCESSION HAVE BEEN COMPLETED, THIS MANUAL MUST BE PERMANENTLY DESTROYED BY FIRE. ONLY THE EYES OF THE GARTER KNIGHTS SHALL SET UPON THE WORDS OF THESE PAGES AND ALL OTHERS WHO SO TRESPASS AGAINST THE WILL OF THE ORDER SHALL RIGHTFULLY PERISH IN THE NAME OF GOD AND CHURCH.
Dalton and I quietly looked at each other. The message was clear. Murder was fair punishment for those who dared to read the secrets on these pages. Were we now threats and thus foes to the Ancient Nine? Was this why Uncle Randolph was so adamant about our not opening the book? Did he fear for our lives?
Dalton turned to the next page, where we found a mysterious diagram that seemed to be sketched by hand.
“Holy shit!” Dalton said. “It’s the floor plan to their chamber!”
I ran my finger over the page. “There’s nine of everything,” I said. “Nine positions along the perimeter of the room, and the same around the star.”
“What do you think the S stands for?” Dalton said.
“Maybe ‘Sovereign,’” I said, remembering what I had read about the titles within the British Order of the Garter.
“I’ll buy that.”
An image flashed into my mind. “Shit!” I yelled.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just remembered where I saw the name of that law firm.” I flipped back to step two and took another look at it. “It was in the alumni directory. Collander Abbott’s last point of contact.”
“Are you saying this firm is the same that represented Abbott’s father?”
“A hundred percent sure,” I said. “Stromberger and I looked at it together.”
“That means Abbott was a Knight of the Order.”
“And that could explain why he was acting so strangely about his son’s disappearance. He had interests on both sides of the fence. If the investigation pressed too hard, he’d run the risk of exposing the Ancient Nine.”
“This connects some of the dots,” I said. “We know Erasmus made it into the club that night. Let’s say he either came close to discovering the chamber or actually found it, and was murdered as a result of that. His father finds out what happened and is left with two choices. He could push for the investigation, which would eventually incriminate the club and possibly expose the Ancient Nine, or since he already knew what had happened, he could let the whole thing
quietly go away, thus protecting the brotherhood.”
“So, it was a cover-up,” Dalton said. “And Collander Abbott, the supposed grieving father, was behind it all.”
Dalton turned to the last page, and things got confusing again.
CREED OF THE ORDER OF THE ANCIENT NINE
WHOSOEVER THEREFORE RESOLVE TO BE GOD’S SERVANTS, MUST MAKE ACCOUNT TO BE HIS SOULDIER ALSO; AND WHILST WITH NEHEMIAH’S FOLLOWERS, WITH ONE HAND THEY PERFORM THE WORKS OF THEIR CALLINGS AND CHRISTIANITY, THEY MUST WITH THE OTHER HOLD THEIR WEAPONS TO REPEL THEIR SPIRITUAL ENEMIES, WHO CONTINUALLY LABOR TO HINDER THE LORD’S BUILDINGS: FOR NO SOONER DO WE BECOME FRIENDS TO GOD, BUT PRESENTLY SATAN ADVANCETH AGAINST US HIS FLAGGES OF DEFIANCE, LABOURING BOTH BY SECRET TREACHERIE, AND OUTWARD FORCE, TO SUPPLANT AND OVERCOME US.
“You’re the religious scholar,” Dalton said. “What do you make of it?”
“Attending a Catholic high school doesn’t exactly make me a religious expert,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life. But it looks and sounds really old. The archaic English and talk of Christianity and Satan make me think these could be the words of a Reformationist. But I can’t be sure. There’s not enough here.”
“It sounds to me like someone heading off to war to save Christianity,” Dalton said.
“That’s what the Reformationists thought they were doing when they broke from Catholicism,” I said. “I’ll copy this down and see if I can find out where it came from and what it means.”
Dalton closed the book and started wrapping it back up in the tinfoil when I stopped him.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“We forgot to look at the tablet in the back,” I said. “The fourth step said that your uncle had to propose a candidate to join the Order.”
Dalton carefully turned to the back of the book, and when he flipped over the last page, I felt like someone had slammed a battering ram into my gut and a screwdriver into the base of my skull. The name that had been scribbled across the crumbling paper was mine.
19
DALTON AND I sat there for an entire hour after seeing Spenser Q. Collins of Chicago, Illinois scribbled on that writing tablet. It seemed unreal, impossible. We just sat there like two village idiots trying to figure out how in any universe my name could be written on that page. Finally, Dalton wrapped the book up and we retreated to our separate corners of campus.
The next day, I went to the Lowell House Library, determined to find out about Mike Donahue. If I could show that Donahue was once an employee of the Abbotts, it would implicate Collander Abbott even more in both Donahue’s death and his son’s disappearance. This could be the centerpiece of the puzzle.
After more than an hour on the computer, Ms. Kilcourse finally found something. Donahue’s obituary had been written in a small paper called the North Adams Transcript. His family had immigrated to this rural northwestern Massachusetts town at the turn of the century. He had two sisters who were still alive, and a brother who had died in a boating accident. Donahue served as an army cook in World War I, then worked in several hotels in Boston before joining the Delphic Club as a steward. He had never been married and was survived by his parents and two sisters. That was it. There was no mention of the Abbott family. It had been presented and accepted that Mike Donahue was just a small-town kid of Irish immigrants who met an untimely death.
* * *
THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS, I lumbered through a mental fog. Donahue was a dead end, but there still was the mysterious succession book with my name on the back plate. I carried a copy of the religious passage with me, and several times an hour, I’d slide it out from my notebook and stare at it, trying to imagine where it might’ve come from and why the Ancient Nine made it their creed. If there had been even the slightest reference to the date or a relevant historical event, I might’ve been able to figure it out, but there was nothing but those eighty-five words. I was going to need help, but I had to be careful. The best and safest place to start would be one of the reference librarians at Widener.
After a quick lunch at the Union, I climbed the wide concrete steps of Widener. Most students were either in class or heading to lunch, which meant the reference desk would be empty. A thin woman with short curly blond hair and a tiny nose looked up at me as I approached the desk. Her reading glasses hung on a necklace made of oddly shaped turquoise stones.
“My very first customer of the day.” She smiled. “How can I help you?”
“I’m trying to figure out the source of a passage,” I said. “And I’ve no idea where to start.”
“What kind of passage is it?” she asked.
“Religious.”
“Is it Scripture?”
“I don’t think so. More like an oath.”
“Do you have it with you?”
I handed her the creed. She lifted the oval glasses to her nose and read the passage. The expression on her face turned from intrigue to concern.
“This seems very old,” she said. “The spelling and grammar are extremely arcane. But I’m afraid without any kind of reference or notation, this might be almost impossible to trace. Is there anything else about the passage that you know that might help identify it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “This is it,” I said.
“Where did you find it?” she asked.
I was prepared for that question. “Written on a piece of paper, but the rest of it was torn away.”
She pulled out her keyboard and said, “This is gonna be tough, but let me do a quick search.” For the next fifteen minutes, she entered different combinations of the words into the search engine. When nothing worked, she shook her head and said, “Religion is way out of my area of expertise. You need a religious scholar. Have you tried someone from the Divinity School?”
I shook my head. “Who do you suggest?”
“Start with one of the reference librarians over at the theological library. They see a lot more of this type of material than we do. If they can’t help you, then I’m sure they can send you to someone who can.”
I thanked her, left the library, and began heading back to Lowell through the Yard, but the clanging bells of Memorial Church changed the course of everything. I turned toward the church.
Reverend Leonard S. Campbell was the distinguished minister of Memorial Church and the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at the Divinity School. He also happened to be the most visible African American at Harvard, a frequently quoted biblical scholar, and a highly sought-after lecturer even for matters beyond the scope of his religious expertise. Campbell was small in physical stature but towering in academic pomposity and intellect. Born and raised in Boston, he spoke with a New England accent whose hard corners had been elaborately rounded by his grandiosity and a vocabulary that left even the most skilled lexicographers baffled. He was the longest-serving minister of Memorial Church, a feat made more dramatic only by the fact that he had been the only African American ever to hold this critical post in what was considered to be Harvard’s spiritual center. He was a Baptist preacher by training, and his scholarship had produced an entire shelf of acclaimed books and essays.
Once I reached his office, his secretary informed me that he was having a late lunch at home. I’d have to hurry if I wanted to catch him before he left for a trustee meeting at MIT.
After a short bike ride, I stood in front of Sparks House, a daffodil yellow brick Georgian revival mansion auspiciously located between the Science Center and William James Hall.
A dour-looking middle-aged woman in a white-and-crimson uniform answered the door. She was holding a small potted plant that looked like it hadn’t been watered in months. I gave her my name, and she allowed me to enter with the admonition that appointments were the norm to see Reverend Campbell.
I stepped in and watched her disappear up a red-carpeted curved staircase. It felt like I was standing in a museum gallery. Oddly shaped mirrors, drab landscapes, portraits of genteel white women, and gold accent
s covered the wallpapered foyer. It was exactly the kind of place I imagined Campbell would live, tastefully ornate without being flamboyant, the décor conveying a deep sense of tradition and history. He definitely knew his Rembrandts from his Renoirs and felt as comfortable quoting from Plato as he did Genesis.
The woman returned minutes later, having exchanged the potted plant for a large crystal vase of sunflowers. Their bright colors did nothing to improve the sullenness in her eyes.
“You’re in luck,” she said. “The minister has finished lunch and is up in his study. He will see you briefly.”
I followed her to the second floor and down a short hallway full of polished wooden furniture and colorful lamps. The house was rather large, but so much of its space had been taken up with furnishings and knickknacks that it felt curiously small and intimate. She had led me into the study and quickly disappeared. The enormous volume of books that filled the warm room overwhelmed me. They were stuffed into ceiling-high bookcases, haphazardly stacked on tables, and even piled against the wall in one corner of the room. And where there weren’t books, there were picture frames. An entire gallery of them had been spread about the tables, the bookcase shelves, and even the mantelpiece. There must’ve been hundreds of them, everything from elaborate silver frames to intricately carved wooden designs. A large male bust stood in front of one window, a graduation cap on its head and two medals hanging around his neck.
Reverend Campbell sat in a rust-colored Asian print tapestry chair with nail-head trim. The glow from the burning logs in the emerald fireplace danced in the round lenses of his glasses. He was wearing a gray pin-striped suit and white shirt and holding a small stack of papers. I had never seen him without his clergy collar. A faded wool Harvard–Yale game banner hung on the wall behind him.
“How may I help you, young man?” Campbell said with his aristocratic inflection.
“I’m Spenser Collins, class of ’91,” I said. “I had a question about the source of a religious passage, and I hoped you might be able to help me.”
“A piece of Scripture?” he said.
The Ancient Nine Page 20
