by Chanel Smith
“You think they have Latin on the Internet?”
“Yeah. Google Translator has Latin. I don’t know how accurate it is, but surely it will give us enough to go on, right?”
“Maybe.”
“You still remember what he said?”
“More or less, but I’m not sure how to spell it.”
“We’ll just keep trying stuff until we get to something that makes sense.”
“You mean that you want this to make sense? I haven’t noticed any of this paranormal stuff making sense.” My attempt at humor bounced off of her without as much as a crusty look.
Back in our hotel room, Ellen immediately dug the laptop out of her carry-on bag and was connected to the Wi-Fi by the time I had finished relieving myself. When the woman is focused, she’s focused. I turned to look out the window of our hotel and across the Thames and Westminster Palace.
“She’s not there, you know.”
I had assumed that Ellen was completely focused on business. Silly me, women have that multitasking thing down to an art form and Ellen was about as good at it as any woman I’d ever known. Except my mother… but that’s another story altogether. “Who’s not where?”
“Queen Elizabeth.”
“How do you know that? Do you have her traveling schedule or something?”
“I don’t know for sure, but she’s probably at home.”
“You’re not making any sense. You tell me that she’s not home, but then you say that she’s at home. I think you’ve taken too many ghostly punches to the old noggin.”
“That’s Westminster Palace, right?”
“Yes.”
“The queen lives in Buckingham Palace.”
She was right, of course. There was no point arguing with her, but much of the wind was taken out of my sails. It was a fantastic view, but some of my interest had faded. I decided that maybe I needed to quit daydreaming and help my wife. “What can I do to help?”
“You could go through those reports in the ghost file.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do with them?”
“How about you sort them into categories. Ummm… sightings, noises, feelings, words and nonsense. Scratch that last one. We don’t know that anything is nonsense yet. Just the four for now would be helpful.”
I jumped into my task. A large number of the claims were more or less nonsense as far as I was concerned, but it didn’t take me long to sort them.
“Hey,” I said, suddenly remembering about the paused discussion in Black’s office earlier that day. “What caused you to shiver like that this morning in the office?”
“I’m not sure, Monty. I took a look at that little block of track and I was overwhelmed with the feeling of loss and death. The cold iciness of a mass grave or a crypt. A mean chill went scampering down my spine.” She returned her gaze to the laptop and continued typing for a few more minutes. “Aha! Nos omnes convincat is Latin, like you thought. It took me a while to figure out how to spell it, but I think the translation for this one makes the most sense. It basically means ‘We will conquer all.’”
I moved over next to her and looked at the screen. “Who will conquer all?”
“Well, since it is Latin, I would guess the Romans.”
I knew enough about English history to know that the Romans had conquered England in the early first century, beginning mostly in the 40s AD. “So, we have a 2,000-year-old ghost legionnaire?”
“That would be my guess,” Ellen replied.
“Why would a 2,000-year-old legionnaire be hanging around here now?”
“That’s the fun part.” She smiled at me. It was the sort of smile that got my blood flowing and my heart hammering in my chest.
I leaned over her and wrapped my arms around her. “I’ll show you the fun part,” I whispered in her ear.
“Yeah? Really?” she purred.
Things were beginning to spark when the phone rang and the two of us nearly jumped out of our skin. Sighing heavily, Ellen reached for the phone. She listened and gave a few “uh huh” and “I understand” replies and then hung up.
I looked at her, waiting for an explanation.
“It seems that our luggage went home without us.”
“Crap! Our equipment! And our clothes!”
“Mr. Black pulled some strings to get it back to us. It should be back here sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, Rochester has brought a tailor and seamstress to provide us with something to wear tomorrow. They are on their way up.”
“I’m impressed, but what about our equipment?”
“We’ll just have to wing it until the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m not exactly convinced that our luggage will ever arrive. It might go to Cairo next.”
“You do exaggerate, dear.” Ellen rose to answer the knock at the door, touching the tip of my nose with a finger as she did so.
“Pardon the intrusion madam, sir.” The portly gentleman bowed slightly to each of us as he spoke. He was followed by an equally portly matron with the sort of glasses that my brothers and sisters always referred to as “cat” glasses.
“Don’t be silly; please come in.” Ellen waved them into the room.
“We just need to get a few measurements and we’ll be out of your way,” the gentleman beamed.
“And perhaps a few delicates for you, madam?” the seamstress whispered to Ellen as the tailor pulled me to one side and began taking measurements. “Something in lace, but not too revealing, perhaps?”
I saw a look of mischief cross Ellen’s face and I knew she was thinking about asking for a thong, but she relented. “That would be fine. Thank you.”
“Will you be needing undergarments and hosiery, sir?” the tailor asked.
“No, actually, I have those, although I lack black socks.”
“Very well, then.” With the measurements complete, the tailor scribbled several notes on the small pad and put his tape away. “Are you finished then, Winnie?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied.
“I’ve been given to understand that the car will be picking you up at twenty of ten in the morning, so we will be back at around nine. We’ll have you both looking smart by then.”
“Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.” Ellen laughed softly.
“We’ll be on our way then, Winnie.” He guided his wife toward the door. “Cheerio, then. We’ll see you, nine o’clock sharp.”
“Thank you,” Ellen replied, closing the door behind them and then turning back toward me with a devilish look in her eyes. “Well then,” she said, moving toward me seductively and making very good use of her best British accent. “I’m feeling a bit randy and I intend to have you feeling quite smart in a moment.”
“Indeed,” I replied, matching her tone and mood. “Posthaste.”
Chapter Four
We were smartly dressed when we took our seats in the leather chairs with extra tall backs in the office of project manager Jackson Hayford’s office and began our discussion.
“I’m given to understand that you believe that the issues that are taking place in the Vauxhall to Stockwell line are related to our Battersea line project?”
“Yes,” Ellen replied. “We believe that the tunnel excavation disturbed someone or something that is likely 2,000 years old.”
Jackson Hayford was as hesitant about admitting to the presence of ghosts or other paranormal activity as was Harold Black; however, he was just as eager to provide some answers to a potential problem for TFL, which was paying a substantial sum to his firm for the project, as well as a potential issue for completing his work.
“You believe that these claims of ghosts in the Tube are true?” He wrinkled his nose as if he had just eaten something bitter.
“After what we experienced last evening, I have no doubt,” Ellen replied, matching his skepticism with an equal amount of confidence.
“What did you experience last evening?” His question was smug, as though he was listening to a child tel
ling a tall tale.
Ellen related the events that had taken place on the Tube the night before. I watched his face for any sign of response, but the man was a complete stoic. I couldn’t blame him; when Ellen and I had first started out on our ghost hunting adventure, it would have taken a great deal to convince me that what was taking place was connected to the spiritual realm.
“I see,” he replied, leaning forward to place his elbows on his desk and create a tent with his fingers. “I’ve heard rumors of such stories being told among the workers in our tunnel. They’re all rubbish, of course. Ghosts simply do not exist; however, due to expediency, I would like to have this matter contained. To do that, we need to discover whatever alternate explanation there is for whatever is going on and dispel the rumors.”
“Would we be able to interview some of your workers?” Ellen asked. She was already developing an enormous distaste for the man, something that she didn’t often do. He had more or less called us liars and that sort of thing didn’t sit well with anyone. I was inclined to be a little bit more patient, understanding that making the jump between non-believer to believer wasn’t an easy one, but there was no mistaking the flashing daggers in Ellen’s eyes.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” His gaze was sharply focused on her in a showdown. “I don’t want any credibility given to their stories.”
My gaze moved from one to the other during the tense pause that ensued. I expected an explosion from Ellen at any minute and was quite impressed that she was keeping herself under wraps. I knew it was time to make our exit.
“Perhaps you could direct us to a library or to someone who could assist us in some historical research?” I asked. I hoped that the change of focus would cool things down a bit.
“I can do better than that,” he replied. “I have a chum who is well versed in English history. He works not far from here in the British Museum. Let me see if I can arrange a meeting for you.”
Ellen looked at me and mouthed a ‘thank you,’ as Mr. Hayford made the necessary phone call to set up the meeting. I knew by her look that she had been close to losing it, but was beginning to regain her composure. It was a good thing that we were a team, each of us often needed the other to step in and defuse potentially destructive situations.
“He can meet with you the moment you leave here.” His look and tone let me know that the moment couldn’t be soon enough for him.
“Mr. Hayford, I understand from Mr. Black,” Ellen began, using Mr. Black’s name to lend power to her statement, “that we are to be given full access to the tunnel that is under construction.” I had to admire her. She stepped right back in and went straight to the heart of the matter. I could tell by his reaction that, though the entire situation was a struggle, he respected her tenacity.
“It’s against my better judgment, but yes,” he replied. “If it will get this entire debacle over with quicker, I’ll take you in there myself. Would three o’clock this afternoon suit you?”
“That will suit us fine, thank you.” Ellen’s generous smile erased all of the tension that had filled the room earlier.
“Very well then. Have your driver deliver you to the construction site for the new Nine Elms Station.” He rose in his chair, signaling that the meeting was over.
We shook hands and made our way toward the door. I took note that the corner of his mouth cracked a very slight smile as he shook Ellen’s hand.
“Oh, yes, my chum’s name is Henry, Henry Wandsworth. He is expecting you.”
“Thank you,” I replied as he closed the door behind us.
Rochester was waiting patiently for us when we exited the building. He opened the door and ushered us into the back seat and then went around, taking his position in the driver’s seat. He looked up in his mirror, waiting for instructions.
“The British Museum.” I kind of enjoyed getting to boss the crusty old chap about.
It was only moments before we arrived at the museum. I must admit that I was quite taken by how much it resembled the Parthenon and a mood of deep reverence overtook me as we made our way toward the entrance. We stopped at the reception area and asked to see Henry Wandsworth.
“Oh, yes, you are the Yanks that Mr. Hayford sent over, right?” She smiled broadly as she made the statement, evidently intrigued by the opportunity to see some real, live Yanks, though I doubted we were the first to visit the museum.
“The very same Yanks.” I chuckled.
She picked up the receiver, punched a button and announced us to whoever was on the other end of the line. She then placed the receiver in the cradle, still beaming. “He’ll be right down.”
We were in the British Museum and I was giddy with excitement. Maybe chum Henry would take us on an exclusive, private tour. I mentioned it to Ellen and received a half-hearted grin. She was focused on the case; something that I needed to do.
“We’re here for information, Monty,” she said. “Not for a private tour.”
It was a gentle, but firm rebuke. “You handled Jackson quite well. For a moment, I thought you were going to dive across the desk and strangle him. Can you believe the nerve of the guy? He more or less called us liars.”
“Some people need more time to believe than do others.” She flashed her knowing smile at me. “But you made a good save yourself and it was a brilliant idea to arrange this meeting for us.”
“Some of that was Mr. Hayford’s doing. I merely asked for a library.” As badly as I wanted the credit, I didn’t deserve all of it.
Our discussion ended abruptly as the short and balding Mr. Henry Wandsworth stepped through the door behind the reception desk and came around to greet us. He was mostly unremarkable in appearance, but was dressed immaculately, sporting a gold watch on a chain that he was fond of fiddling with as he spoke.
“This is my wife Ellen, and I’m Monty. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wandsworth,” I responded while he nearly shook my hand off. He was a great deal more pleasant than his chum.
“Please, call me Henry,” he beamed. “Are you enjoying your visit to London so far?”
“We are,” Ellen replied.
“Very good,” he replied. He was genial, but like many Brits, tended to get straight to the point. “Mr. Hayford didn’t tell me a great deal about your purpose here. Would you mind filling me in?”
“We are here conducting an investigation of sorts,” I began. “We needed some historical perspective to our situation. Your chum, Mr. Hayford, referred us to you.”
“Very well; what sort of investigation are you conducting?”
“We are investigating the paranormal activity that is taking place in the Tube between Vauxhall and Stockwell stations.” Ellen didn’t usually pull any punches, but she threw a haymaker with that one.
Without batting an eye, Henry responded. “I see. What historical perspective do you require for your investigation?”
“Well, last night, we rode the train from Vauxhall to Stockwell and back. On our return trip, we witnessed a paranormal event,” Ellen began. “The spirit entered a man who was standing near us and he screamed something in Latin and then left.”
“Hmmm…” The man was as much of a stoic as his chum, only he seemed to be mulling over the story rather than dismissing it out of hand. “What words did he scream and how did you know they were in Latin?”
It was my turn. “He screamed nos omne convincat. We’ve dealt with Latin speaking spirits before.”
“‘We will conquer all,’” Ellen added.
“Yes, ‘we will conquer all’ is exactly right. Definitely Latin. How do you believe this is related?” The guy was a true Socratic. He didn’t jump to conclusions and begin to make explanations until he had the facts in place. He also didn’t seem to be fazed by a discussion of ghosts, paranormal activity and a discussion of spiritual activity beyond the physical realm.
“We think it is possible that our ghost is a legionnaire, perhaps 2000 years old,” Ellen answered.
“If he is, in fact,
a legionnaire, then he would certainly be that old, perhaps a bit older. Why do you think he was a legionnaire?”
“I felt his presence. He was strong and confident, you know, like a soldier,” Ellen replied.
Henry clicked his tongue for a moment, nonplussed by Ellen’s response. “That would certainly describe a legionnaire. Let’s go visit that particular section of our museum and I’ll mull this over a bit. Shall we?”
We were led behind the door marked ‘private’ and walked briskly through the halls that no typical visitor was allowed to see in the British Museum. With my badge and special access, I was feeling pretty privileged and soaking up every minute of it. We emerged through another door that placed us in a section of the museum that displayed ancient Roman artifacts.
Henry was extremely enthusiastic about his subject and rambled on for nearly an hour as he discussed the Roman presence in England. Though most of the invasion of the conquering of the island took place between AD 43 and AD 80, Julius Caesar had led some expeditions to the island in BC 55 and 54. In fact, London, called Troia Nova (New Troy) at the time, barely existed as more than a small, trading village. Caesar was, of course, opposed by the Celtic people living in the area at the time, though after crossing the Thames – upriver from here, actually near where Heathrow stands now – he finally defeated the combined tribal forces under Cassivellaunus. The conquered ground was not held by Rome, but instead turned over to the Trinovantes who were allied with Caesar.
“There’s even a pretty good chance,” he looked directly at Ellen, “that there were elephants in England long before our modern day zoos brought them here. You see, Caesar was very fond of using war elephants and very effectively, I might add. But that’s enough about the history of Romans in England. I’m more concerned about what sort of connection the area where the Battersea line tunnel is being excavated.
“You see,” he turned his attention back to me, “most of that area, according to the information that we have recorded, was marshland and hardly a place to be doing battle or burying the dead. I must say that this has me perplexed. There was, of course, a shield, we call it the Battersea Shield, found in the Thames a century and a half ago when the river was being dredged. It likely dated back to that time period when Caesar was attempting to cross the Thames, but even it was a good distance away from where the excavating is taking place. I’m afraid I haven’t helped you shed much light on your mystery.”
