“Hear, hear,” said Sir Penrose. “So then, if I may ask—what exactly is the purpose of your visit?”
“As you may be aware, I have been asked to monitor the operations of Letterford and Sons—on a temporary basis, of course.”
Sir Penrose nodded. He was well aware of the situation at the publishing house.
Treemont continued. “As you may imagine, there are certain people within the organization who want nothing more than a quick resolution to this issue.”
Sir Penrose was immediately suspicious. “And you do not?”
“No,” replied Treemont. “I want a proper resolution, no matter how long it takes.”
Sir Penrose sat back in his chair. “And may I ask why?”
Treemont paused briefly for effect and stared at the fire. Trigue James had told him to take it slow—to be patient. Don’t let it appear rehearsed. After a moment, he turned back to Sir Penrose. “Sir, the reputation of Letterford and Sons is on the line—a reputation built over four centuries.”
“A sterling reputation,” Sir Penrose agreed. “But I cannot be asked to protect it.”
“Nor should you,” replied Treemont. “A reputation built on centuries of hard work and a commitment to excellence should not rise or fall on the authenticity of these . . . so-called Shakespeare manuscripts.”
Treemont let his statement float around the room for a brief moment.
“The manuscripts,” he continued, “are either real or they are not. If they are real, history will not care if it took three, five, or even ten years to make that determination. If they are not real, however, history will thank those responsible for taking the time to do it right. Letterford and Sons should stand unquestionably in support of a thorough and complete examination—nothing less. History will judge our company by our commitment to the truth.”
“Quite right!” exclaimed Sir Penrose. “As a matter of fact, I said almost the exact same thing in—”
“—your report on the West Upton Sewer situation.”
“You’re familiar with my report?” asked Sir Penrose. There was excitement in his voice.
“Chapter and verse,” Treemont replied.
Sir Penrose stirred the fire. Sparks once again shot into the room. Treemont sat back and waited. Sir Penrose set the poker down and leaned forward in his chair. “I can assure you that this report will be handled with every bit of the care and dedication that were put into the West Upton report. I shall take every minute, every day, every year necessary to get it right! No one shall influence me to rush to a quick decision.”
Treemont nodded solemnly. “For history.”
“Aye,” replied Sir Penrose. “For history.”
Chapter Seven
Fitful
Fitful—Occurring in or characterized by
intermittent bursts, as of activity; irregular.
Letterford Residence
Clerkenwell, London, England
Tuesday, June 5
12:15 p.m.
Colophon paced up and down the entrance hall, stopping occasionally to peer out the front door at the street below. She saw lots of cars, taxis, and pedestrians—but no Julian.
She looked down at her watch.
Where is he?
She took a deep breath. Getting worked up would not get him here any faster. She needed to stay calm.
After five more minutes, she stopped pacing, pulled out her cell phone, and punched in Julian’s number.
He answered immediately. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“Standing right outside your front door.”
She turned around and there he was—tall, skinny, and scraggly as ever—waving at her from the window next to the front door. It had been several months since she had last seen him. She knew people changed over time, and that worried her. Would he be different? Would he still be willing to listen to her—to take her seriously? But one look at the eyes peering down at her over his slightly askew glasses told her everything she needed to know—Julian was still Julian. She rushed to the door and opened it.
“C’mon,” she said as she turned and headed toward the library.
Julian dropped his bag in the foyer. “Wait a second. No hug for your favorite cousin?”
She stopped. “Sorry.” She gave him a quick hug. “I’m just a little anxious.”
He stooped over, pulled a small package from his bag, and slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket. “I know. We have a lot to talk about.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” replied Colophon.
Letterford Library
Clerkenwell, London, England
Tuesday, June 5
12:35 p.m.
Colophon placed the inkwell under the lamp on the reading table.
“There,” she said.
Julian stared at it. “There what?”
“There on the cap—can’t you see it?”
He bent over until his face was just inches from the inkwell’s cap. “There seem to be some scratches on it. And it’s shiny.”
“Scratches? Honestly, your eyes are terrible.” She flipped open her laptop. A moment later she turned the screen around to show him. “I took a picture of it. Here’s an enlargement.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Julian. “It’s some sort of crest and a Latin inscription—‘Qvod me nvtrit me destrvit.’”
“It means ‘That which nourishes me destroys me.’” Colophon felt pleased to be able to give the translation to Julian.
“Nice translation—and very cryptic,” he said. “But why did I have to come all the way to London to see this? Couldn’t you have e-mailed it?”
“Because we have to prove the manuscripts are real,” said Colophon. “And this is our first clue. My dad said this inkwell might’ve belonged to Shakespeare. Maybe it’ll help us prove that he really wrote the manuscripts.”
“Hold on,” replied Julian. “Didn’t I read in the paper that some sort of group is being set up to study the manuscripts?”
“Yes, a special commission, but it’s going to take them years. My dad can’t wait that long.”
“Why not?”
“The family has asked Treemont to oversee the company!” she replied.
Julian sank back in his chair. “I didn’t know that.”
“Treemont will do anything he can to get the family business,” she said. “And the longer it takes to study the manuscripts . . .”
“The better for Treemont,” said Julian.
“Exactly.”
“Have you told your father about the inscription on the inkwell?” asked Julian.
She shook her head. “No. He’d want me to turn it over to the commission to study. He would never allow me—us—to do anything that might interfere with the commission. But I can’t sit back and hope they figure this out.”
“But they’re experts,” he said.
“We discovered the manuscripts,” replied Colophon. “We have to do this.”
Julian stood up, walked over to the window, and peered down at the street below. He could feel the weight of the small package in his jacket pocket. He decided it was best to let it sit there a while longer.
Chapter Eight
Instinctively
Instinctively—Arising from impulse or
natural inclination; done without thought
or conscious effort; spontaneous.
Letterford Library
Clerkenwell, London, England
Tuesday, June 5
12:55 p.m.
Julian slid the drawing across the table to Colophon.
“Not bad,” she said.
“Are you kidding?” he retorted. “It’s a perfect copy of the crest on the inkwell—and a lot clearer than the photos you tried to take.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine—it’s perfect—but we still haven’t figured out what it means.”
She placed the drawing in the middle of the table.
The image appeared to be a
crest or a coat of arms—that much seemed clear. It was in the shape of a shield divided into four quadrants. There were two basic symbols on the shield: a bird and flowers. The problem was that they didn’t know what kind of bird or what kind of flowers.
“This could take a few weeks,” Julian warned. “We need to get a copy of Pimbley’s Dictionary of Heraldry, and there are several registries for ancient coats of arms. We may have to look at hundreds—maybe thousands—of them to narrow this down. If that doesn’t work, we can begin to break down the individual symbols. What traits do these symbols represent? Is there a particular combination of bird and flower that has special significance?”
“Or,” said Colophon, “we can Google it.”
“Okay,” said Julian. “Let’s see how that works out.”
She Googled the terms bird flowers coat of arms.
The search came back with about 3,940,000 results.
“Well, that should narrow it down a bit,” he said.
She ignored him.
She tried the terms bird flowers coat of arms Shakespeare.
That search came back with about 25,800,000 results.
“I know real research is boring and lacks instant gratification,” said Julian, “but it might be called for in this particular instance. This isn’t going to just fall in our laps.”
Colophon sighed. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must be getting hard of hearing—could you repeat that?”
“I said maybe you’re right—this time.”
He grinned. “Thank you.”
A knock on the library door interrupted their discussion. Meg Letterford walked in carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks. “Can I offer anyone some lunch?”
“That would be great,” said Julian.
“Thanks, Mom,” added Colophon.
Meg placed the tray on the table. “Dare I ask what you’re doing?”
Julian and Colophon looked at each other.
“Well,” Colophon said, “it’s complicated.”
Meg looked at her daughter. “As long as ‘complicated’ doesn’t lead to another dangerous underground crypt, then I’m okay with it.” She shot a look at Julian. “Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he and Colophon replied in unison.
“Fine,” said Meg. “Then I’ll leave you to your work.”
She stepped outside the library and started to pull the door shut. “Oh, one last thing,” she said.
Colophon and Julian looked up from their food.
Meg pointed at Julian’s drawing in the middle of the table. “I’ve spent my fair share of time at Cambridge University, and I’m certain that’s the crest of Corpus Christi College.”
Letterford Library
Clerkenwell, London, England
Tuesday, June 5
1:25 p.m.
Julian and Colophon stared at the computer screen. A couple of half-eaten sandwiches sat forgotten on the table.
There it was.
A little clearer and crisper, and in bright colors. Meg Letterford was right. It was exactly the same as the engraving on the top of the inkwell—the crest for Corpus Christi College at Cambridge University. The birds on the crest, they learned, were pelicans, and the flowers were lilies. Julian explained that the pelican was a medieval symbol of self-sacrifice, while the lilies signified purity.
“I’ve heard of Cambridge University,” said Colophon. “But what’s Corpus Christi College?”
“Cambridge University is made up of a bunch of different colleges,” replied Julian. “But the colleges are not the same as they are in the United States. The students from all the different colleges at Cambridge attend classes together, but their college is where they live, eat, and socialize. They may graduate from Cambridge University, but they will forever identify themselves with the college where they lived.”
“Sort of like Hogwarts?” asked Colophon. “Once a Gryffindor, always a Gryffindor?”
Julian paused. “Sort of. But each college has its own building and grounds. Corpus Christi is one of the smallest, but it’s very beautiful.”
“Was Corpus Christi College around when Miles Letterford was alive?”
He chuckled. “Cambridge University is almost eight hundred years old. And Corpus Christi is getting close to seven hundred years old.”
“Then we need to go to Cambridge,” said Colophon. “It’s not very far from London, right? The next clue could be there.”
Julian stood up and walked over to the fireplace. “But what if there’s not another clue? The inkwell could be just that—a bottle with an inscription—nothing more. Simply a memento from Cambridge. A souvenir, perhaps. A golden key doesn’t pop out of everything.” He looked up at the tellurian.
The question caught Colophon off guard. It was the type of thing her father would say, not Julian. She sat back in her seat and cradled the inkwell in her hands.
“Can I ask you a question?” she finally said. “Did you ever doubt that Miles Letterford had put a clue to the family treasure in his portrait?”
Julian paused for a moment. “No.”
“Even though half the family thought you were crazy, you believed.”
“Yes, I believed.”
“And I believed in you,” she said.
He paused again, staring at the silver orb attached to the brass rod on the tellurian. In that same silver orb a golden key had improbably been found, just a few months ago.
“And I believe in you,” he said. “So I guess we need to go to Cambridge.”
She smiled.
“Well,” he continued, “now we just have to find a way to get into Corpus Christi College and search the grounds for some sort of clue—even though we have no idea what that clue might be or where it might be hidden. That certainly sounds easy enough.”
She slumped back in her chair. “Good point. How do we get into the college?”
“Study hard.”
“Very funny,” she replied. “I’m serious.”
“I know you’re serious,” he said. “But we can’t just waltz in there and start snooping about the place.”
He was right—they couldn’t simply walk into the college and roam the grounds. But there must be a way. Colophon looked down at the drawing of the crest for Corpus Christi College. Julian had said the pelican was a symbol of self-sacrifice.
“I know how we can search the college,” she finally said.
Chapter Nine
Accused
Accused—Charged with a shortcoming or error.
Marietta Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:35 a.m.
The weather had been unseasonably cool—and for Georgia in June, that was a good thing. With the temperature hovering around seventy-five degrees and the skies cloudy, Mull had decided to walk the five blocks from his downtown office to CNN Center.
He needed the break.
All the news outlets that had once celebrated the discovery of the Shakespeare manuscripts were now questioning whether they were forgeries—solely based on the word of one man. A man, it might be added, who had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth since his pronouncement.
The press was having a field day with the story. That a commission had been set up in England to study the manuscripts seemed only to confirm their suspicions. Mull, however, was not concerned about the results of the commission’s inquiry—the documents were real, he knew. What troubled him was both the excessive length of the investigation and the public mistrust about the manuscripts and the family business.
The rumbling among family members also weighed upon him. Once again, they had called into question his leadership of the company. But this time the issue was more than his leadership. Certain members of the family—members who knew the manuscripts were real—had aligned themselves with Treemont. What puzzled and anguished him was: why?
Clearly Mull needed to take some sort of action to calm
the situation. Several prominent document examiners and academics had already attested to the manuscripts’ authenticity, both before and after Reginald Whitmore’s press conference. Their conclusions needed to be brought out publicly. The reputation of Letterford & Sons had to be defended. And so Mull had agreed to an interview on CNN. The producer had promised him a fair opportunity to pre- sent his side of the controversy, but had also warned that tough questions would be asked. Mull was ready to answer those questions.
Marietta Street
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:35 a.m.
Following someone through the streets of a busy city without being noticed is easy. The true test of skill, however, is to remain ahead of your target, not behind him. But Trigue James was skilled. He would allow Mull Letterford to close the distance between them at just the right time.
Corner of Spring and Marietta Streets
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:45 a.m.
Mull stood in a small crowd waiting for the light to change. He could see the entrance to CNN Center a block ahead to his left. He took a deep breath. The interview was set to take place at 9:30 a.m. He reminded himself to stay calm and focus on the facts.
Corner of Spring and Marietta Streets
Atlanta, Georgia
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