The Ancient Nine

by Ian K. Smith, M. D.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  Campbell rested his papers on a nearby table. “Might I take a look?” he said.

  I took the folded piece of paper from my backpack and handed it to him. He read it carefully, then looked at me with a curious expression, deep wrinkles coursing across his forehead. He shook his head softly. “This obviously isn’t an original,” he said.

  “No, I copied it.”

  “May I see the original source?” he asked.

  “I no longer have the original.”

  The intensity of his stare made me feel naked. “The truth, sir, is that I’m not at liberty to say where I copied that passage,” I said.

  After a pause he said, “That’s fine. I respect your desire for discretion.” He cleared his throat. “Well, this most certainly is not Scripture, but it appears to be Scripture-inspired. It could be seventeenth century, but I can’t be sure about specific dates without further analysis. The tone is very strong, even defiant, possibly the words of a Crusader. But without more to go on, that last opinion is nothing more than speculation.” He glanced over the passage again. “It’s an intriguing collection of words. How vital is it that you identify its intended meaning?”

  “It’s not for a paper or anything, so it’s not that important,” I said. “More a matter of personal curiosity.”

  “Don’t dismiss the importance of this discovery simply because it’s not part of a course,” he said. “Obtaining knowledge for one’s own personal intellectual enrichment is also one of the highest academic merits. That’s how scholars are made.” He held up the passage and said, “May I keep this for a short time and further investigate?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Should I leave you my contact information?”

  “That won’t be necessary at all,” he said with an easy smile. “I’ll be able to find you with little effort.”

  * * *

  BASKETBALL PRACTICE came and went in a haze. Mitch and Coach were back on the court together for the first time and it was as if nothing had ever happened. I tried my best to focus, but I was too numb to feel fatigue or excitement or anger or anything else, for that matter. I just went through the motions, and everything reminded me of that little blue book. Standing there at the foul line, I’d look up at the rim and the small square painted on the backboard and suddenly, as if hallucinating, I’d see my name scrawled across it the same way it had been on the tablet. Five players on the defensive squad, five steps of the succession plan. Nine points on the scoreboard, nine basketballs in the carriage, and nine players from the women’s team stretching on the sidelines as our practice began winding down—I saw nines everywhere.

  After practice, we went over to Kirkland House for dinner, and I don’t remember much about that either. Then Roz Minter showed up with some of her volleyball teammates and every guy in the dining hall practically snapped his cervical spine to get a look at her. That I remember. And on the back of her jersey, a big fat old nine.

  I was cutting across the MAC parking lot when an idea suddenly jumped in my head. If the Order of the Ancient Nine really had been modeled after the British Order of the Garter, wouldn’t they share similar missions and traditions? Maybe learning the history of the Garter would help me understand the history of the Ancient Nine and explain the mysterious passage they had adopted as their creed.

  I dropped my gym bag off in my room and headed straight to Widener. There was a long line assembled at the reference desk, so I decided to start the search on my own. I got on the computer and immediately found three books that explored the history of the Order of the Garter from its inception to the present. I copied down their titles and call numbers and ventured off to the stacks.

  I set up shop in a carrel on the third floor next to the only radiator that seemed to be working. I began my hunt for the three books and managed to find all three within half an hour, all on different floors and brought my treasures back to the desk and began the slow task of combing through them and taking notes on anything that might be relevant to the Ancient Nine. The largest of the three seemed most relevant. It was titled The Institution, Laws, & Ceremonies of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. It had been originally published in 1672, but this copy was a reprint published in 1971. The spelling and letters were Medieval, but I was able to make out most of what had been written. Chapter V contained the most important information.

  THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER WAS FOUNDED BETWEEN 1344 AND 1348 BY KING EDWARD III. IT’S CONSIDERED TO BE ONE OF THE OLDEST AND MOST IMPORTANT ORDERS, DEDICATED TO THE PRINCIPLES OF SERVICE AND CHIVALRY. THE VICIOUS AND BLOODY RELIGIOUS CRUSADES OF THE MIDDLE EAST FREED THE WARRIOR CLASSES FROM THE CONSTRAINTS OF A FEUDALISTIC SOCIETY AND BONDED THEM IN A UNIFIED MISSION TO FIGHT FOR THE SUPERIORITY AND GROWTH OF CHRISTIANITY. THE ORDER OF THE GARTER BROUGHT TOGETHER TWENTY-FIVE OF THE COUNTRY’S MOST INDOMITABLE MILITARY LEADERS UNDER THE COMPANIONSHIP OF THE SOVEREIGN KING. THIS SECURED A NEW FELLOWSHIP IN THE SERVICE OF AN ALMIGHTY GOD, THE VIRGIN ST. MARY, AND ST. GEORGE THE MARTYR.

  STAYING TRUE TO THE RELIGIOUS ASPECTS OF THE MISSION, THE ORDER ADOPTED ST. GEORGE AS ITS PATRON SAINT AND CONSTRUCTED ST. GEORGE’S CHAPEL, WHICH IS STILL LOCATED IN THE LOWER WARD OF WINDSOR CASTLE. THE KING HAD A TWO-HUNDRED-FOOT DIAMETER TABLE ERECTED FOR THE KNIGHTS TO CONVENE AND FEAST. THE CHAPEL HAD BEEN USED FREQUENTLY AS A PLACE OF WORSHIP, BUT ACTIVITIES SLOWED DOWN IN THE 1700S, PICKING BACK UP IN THE MID-1900S WHEN KING GEORGE VI REVIVED THE DORMANT ORDER AND HOSTED ANNUAL CEREMONIES IN THE CHAPEL. TO THIS DAY, ON A SPECIFIC DATE EACH JUNE, THE MEMBERS OF THE ORDER MEET IN THE STATE APARTMENTS OF THE UPPER WARD OF WINDSOR CASTLE, THEN PROCESS ON FOOT THROUGH THE CASTLE TO ST. GEORGE’S CHAPEL, WHERE THEY PARTICIPATE IN A TRADITIONAL RELIGIOUS SERVICE. AFTERWARD, THEY TRAVEL BACK TO THE UPPER WARD OF THE CASTLE VIA CARRIAGE AND ENJOY A LARGE CELEBRATORY LUNCH.

  GREAT ATTENTION TO DETAIL AND EXPENSE WENT INTO DESIGNING THE GARTER AS WELL AS OTHER PARTS OF THE CEREMONIAL DRESS SUCH AS THE SURCOAT, HOOD, COLLAR, AND MANTLE. THE GARTER WAS CONSTRUCTED OF BLUE VELVET ADORNED WITH GOLD AND PRECIOUS STONES. A GOLD BUCKLE HAD BEEN AFFIXED AT THE END SO THAT THE KNIGHTS COULD FASTEN IT ABOUT THEIR LEGS.

  Then I found a section in one of the books that focused on nomenclature. This was the first material connection I could make between the Order of the Garter and the Order of the Ancient Nine. I continued taking notes.

  It’s tradition that the Knights Companions of the Garter are allowed to place “Sir” before their forenames and in the case of the Lady Companions, they can use “Lady.” Knights and Ladies are also allowed to use the letters “KG” and “LG” after their written names.

  This could explain why in the succession book Uncle Randolph had Sir in front of his name and the KG after it. I left the stacks and went down to the basement of the main library and called Dalton.

  “I think I have something,” I said.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “At Widener, reading about the Order of the Garter.”

  “I already looked at that stuff.”

  “I know, but we weren’t paying attention to the history and traditions,” I said. “It turns out that King Edward III and his knights formed this order not only for military purposes in the spirit of King Arthur and the Round Table, but for religious reasons. They believed they were defending the will of God as his faithful servants.”

  “Okay, so what does that have to do with the Ancient Nine?” Dalton said.

  “The whole business of chivalry and knighthood came from the tradition of the medieval Crusade, when the Christians practicing Catholicism set out on military expeditions to defeat and convert non-Catholic forces and other religious movements they considered to be heretical. The wording in that religious passage we found in the book has the character and conviction of the Crusader ideology. The Crusades spanned two hundred years of some of the bloodiest fighting.”

  “So, you think the Ancient Nine have a religious mission?” he said.

  “Why not? I
t seems like they adopted a lot of other things from King Edward’s Order, including nomenclature like the ‘Sir’ in front of your uncle’s name and the ‘KG’ after it. The Knights Companions used these attachments as a means of distinction. I think the creed might have something to do with their religious beliefs.

  “Dunhill said something about a rift between Abbott and his father over religion. Maybe this had something to do with the son’s obsession with the chamber.”

  “All kinds of possibilities,” Dalton said. “The closer we get, the more questions we find. I need a break. I’m heading to the Hong Kong to meet some guys for drinks if you wanna come.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for big scorpion bowls of cheap alcohol and punch, so I left Widener and headed to the Tasty for a bite.

  The Tasty was the true late-night nucleus of the Square. A twenty-four-hour grill in the tradition of the great American diner and no bigger than a walk-in closet, this narrow greasy spoon had served the best and cheapest hamburgers and milk shakes in Harvard Square for close to seventy-five years. Its customer demographics changed as the day wore on. Locals and highbrow professors occupied seats at the runway chrome countertop until well into the afternoon. Then, as night fell, sleepy local drunks sat shoulder-to-shoulder with raucous students looking for their fill of grease and cheap calories before calling it a night.

  It was standing room only when I walked in. Charlie manned his position behind the countertop, quietly taking orders, flipping burgers, and mixing milk shakes. He almost always worked by himself, a quiet man with thick wire-rim glasses and receding hairline. Whether you were a Nobel Laureate from the economics department or sanitation worker, he addressed everyone the same way—“What’ll it be, chief?”

  I ordered a bacon double cheeseburger with the works and a bag of fries. I had just found a space against the back window small enough to squeeze into when I heard my name. I peered through the crowd and saw Stromberger standing in line.

  “How’s the research going?” she asked after fighting her way to my seat.

  “I’m making a little progress,” I said.

  “I thought of something the other day,” she said. “It’s kind of crazy, but don’t laugh at me. What if nothing really happened to Abbott that night at the Delphic, but instead he ran away, and his father actually knew this?”

  Dalton and I hadn’t considered this angle. That would explain why the family mysteriously didn’t seem to press for answers or even come to campus.

  “Maybe they quietly shipped him off to some place like Europe, where he lived the rest of his life.”

  “But why?” I said.

  Stromberger shrugged her shoulders. “Lots of reasons. He could’ve been running from something bad in his past,” she said. “Or maybe there was some dark family secret they wanted to hide.”

  In my mind, I ran through the pieces we had assembled. Dunhill had confirmed that Abbott actually made it in. He also said that Sampson was watching from an upstairs window. The case file in the Boston Police Department archives said that not long after the police questioned the girlfriend of Sampson’s cousin about Sampson’s alibi on that Halloween night, the girlfriend and the cousin were found shot in the head on the wharf. The cousin had twenty-five thousand dollars in his pockets. What if that was Sampson’s money? And what if Sampson had gotten the money from the Delphic or Abbott? Hush money.

  There was another possibility. Abbott starts searching the club and actually finds something. Sampson catches him and learns that Erasmus is the son of Ancient Nine Knight Collander Abbott. Sampson then offers his silence and the kid to the father, for which he’s compensated a large sum of money—at least twenty-five thousand dollars. Even with Sampson paid off, Abbott is still worried his son could be killed for breaking into the chamber, so he quickly and quietly relocates him.

  “You need to find out more of the history of Abbott’s disappearance and if there was anything going on in the local community to find him,” Stromberger said. “Check with the Cambridge Historical Commission. The university has been here so long that the history of the school and town are pretty much one and the same. I have a good contact over there if you need it. They’re a little slow, but reliable.”

  * * *

  AS I SLID INTO BED, I had flashbacks of Uncle Randolph lying in his bed in his silk pajamas, frail and tired. I rolled over, picked up the phone, and dialed Dalton’s number.

  “Did I wake you?” I asked.

  “No, I just got in,” he said. “I was playing beer pong in the basement of the Owl Club.”

  “I think Brathwaite knew your uncle was going to die.”

  “Everyone did,” Dalton said. “Uncle Randolph had been sick for a while.”

  “No, I mean, Brathwaite knew exactly when your uncle was going to die.”

  There was a moment of silence before Dalton said, “Wait a minute, Spense. You think Brathwaite killed Uncle Randolph?”

  “Or knew that someone else was going to kill him,” I said. “Do you know where Brathwaite lives and where he works?”

  “Not off the top of my head, but I can find out pretty quickly,” Dalton said. “Give me a sec.”

  I heard drawers being opened and closed, the shuffling of papers.

  “His office is in New York City,” Dalton said. “I’m looking at a copy of Uncle Randolph’s will and the attorney’s letter.”

  “What about his home?”

  “It doesn’t say, but there’s an after-hours contact number for him. It’s a 203 area code, which is Connecticut. That could be his home number.”

  “Let’s call it,” I said.

  “It’s one thirty in the morning.”

  “No one will know it’s us. We’ll make believe we dialed the wrong number. Do you have three-way calling?”

  “Hold on.”

  The phone clicked over into silence; then moments later, I could hear the ringing tone of a third line.

  “You there?” Dalton asked.

  “Yup.”

  The phone rang at least seven times before someone picked up.

  “Brathwaite residence,” a groggy woman’s voice answered.

  “Sorry, wrong number,” Dalton said before disconnecting the line. When we were certain she was off the line, Dalton said, “Okay, so what does that prove?”

  “Nothing yet, but we need to make one more call,” I said. “Conference us in with a Connecticut operator.”

  “Hold on,” he said.

  Moments later, the line was ringing again.

  “I’ll speak this time,” I said.

  The operator answered shortly.

  “I have a phone number, but I need to know what part of the state it’s located in,” I said. “Could you give me that information?”

  “What’s the exchange?”

  “Seven six one.”

  “One moment, please.”

  There was a long pause punctuated by the sound of typing.

  “That would be the town of Wilton,” she said.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said.

  Dalton disconnected the line.

  “Do you know where Wilton is?” I asked.

  “Never heard of it,” Dalton said.

  “Hold on, Percy keeps a road atlas in the front closet.” I said. “Let me check.”

  I found the atlas tucked away on the top shelf underneath his squash rackets and a tall stack of The Economist magazine.

  “How far is New York City from your uncle’s estate?” I asked.

  “All depends where in the city you’re talking about and when you’re traveling,” Dalton said.

  “Let’s say Brathwaite was in his office when he got the call your uncle had died,” I said. “How long do you think it would take him to drive there?”

  “At least forty-five minutes, probably more,” Dalton said. “Traffic is heavy that time of day, especially getting out of town.”

  I flipped open the atlas and found Wilton, Connecticut. It took me several pages and a
few adjustments to get the estimated distance.

  “It would take about fifty minutes to get from Brathwaite’s home in Wilton to Wild Winds,” I said. “And that’s being conservative.”

  “Okay, so what does that prove?” Dalton said.

  “When Muriel ran to the gate, she said that once your uncle died, they called the special number like they were supposed to, and Brathwaite arrived in twenty minutes in a sedan. It would’ve been impossible for Brathwaite to drive from either his home or his office and reach the estate in twenty minutes.”

  “Brathwaite must’ve already been on his way.”

  “That’s right, unless you want to believe he just happened to be on a scenic drive through the neighborhood.”

  “Brathwaite killed Uncle Randolph.”

  “Or he sure in hell knows who did.”

  Dunhill’s ominous baritone voice came back to me. I think you boys should leave well enough alone. You open too many doors and you might find skeletons. You open the wrong door and those skeletons might end up being yours.

  20

  THE NEXT COUPLE of days I felt like I was stuck in a holding pattern. I hadn’t heard anything from the club about whether I had made it to the next round, and there hadn’t been any word from Reverend Campbell about the religious passage. I had placed a call to Stromberger’s contact at the Cambridge Historical Commission, but she hadn’t gotten back to me either. I was still trying to piece together why the firm that had been listed in Collander Abbott’s bio in the alumni directory was the same firm listed in the succession book, the first notification contact in the event of a member’s death.

  Tired of making no progress on the Delphic or Ancient Nine, I threw my energies elsewhere. I plowed into a paper for Mettendorf’s class, even taking the time to create an entire outline, something which I rarely did. I called Ashley twice, each time leaving a message with her mother, but neither time getting a return phone call. I found myself eating all over campus, hoping I’d see her in one of the dining halls, but my search produced no sightings of the girl who was slowly and painfully stealing my heart.

  A letter from my mother arrived with a hundred-dollar check that couldn’t have been timelier. I called her, and we talked for about an hour, mostly about classes, my eating habits, and the basketball team. I gave her a brief explanation of the Delphic, leaving out information that would have led to questions I couldn’t answer. We discussed the costs of membership, and she wasn’t sure it was something my father would have supported. He had left money in an account for me from one of his relatives, who had given it to him with specific instructions that it be used only for my college education. My father put it in the bank and never touched it; nor did my mother after his death. My mother would never tell me the actual amount, but I knew it was enough to cover the remaining portion of tuition that financial aid didn’t cover and a monthly allowance that she rationed very carefully.