“You said something about a mystery,” Julian interrupted. “What did you mean?”
“Well,” she replied, “no one can say with absolute certainty that this is a portrait of Marlowe. The painting was found in 1952 under a fireplace in one of the resident rooms in Old Court.”
“Under a fireplace?” said Colophon. “That seems odd.”
“Odd indeed,” the woman replied. “And it just so happens that the room in which it was found was directly above the room in which it is believed that Marlowe lodged at Corpus.”
“But that could be a coincidence,” said Julian. “Why do they think it’s Marlowe?”
Ms. Cadewaller pointed at the top-left corner of the painting. “The inscription says the sitter was twenty-one years old in 1585. According to the college’s records, Marlowe was the only student in 1585 who was twenty-one years old.”
“Is that it?” asked Colophon. “Is there any other reason?”
“Absolutely,” said Ms. Cadewaller. “Look at the other portraits in this room. And did you notice the portraits in the dining hall? Very distinguished-looking gentlemen, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” replied Colophon. And a bit stodgy as well.
“They all seem very proper, yes?”
Colophon nodded.
Ms. Cadewaller motioned toward the portrait above the fireplace. “And what about our young gentleman over the mantel?”
Colophon stared at the painting. “He looks like he’s up to something.”
Ms. Cadewaller laughed. “A wonderful description. And that, my dear, is another clue. Marlowe was cocky, brash, and bold—just like the man in the portrait. It seems to fit everything we know about Marlowe—that he attended Corpus, his age when he graduated, and quite frankly his attitude.”
“What happened to Marlowe?” Colophon asked.
Doris Cadewaller paused, then said, “He died far too young. A pity. If he had lived, the world might have known as much about him as Shakespeare.”
Colophon started to ask how he had died, but Julian interrupted her thought. “Any chance you could show us where Marlowe lodged while at the college?”
“Absolutely,” Ms. Cadewaller replied cheerily. “And there are so many other wonderful things to show you as well.” She motioned toward the inkwell on the tea table. “And is this the inkwell?” Excitement was evident in her voice.
“Yes,” Colophon replied. “Please take good care of it. It means a lot to me.”
“Rest assured,” Ms. Cadewaller said, “it will be safe. We take great pride at Corpus in our preservation of history.” She carefully wrapped the inkwell in newspaper and placed it in a small box. “Now a quick trip to my office to drop this off to be photographed, and then on with our tour.”
Colophon remained standing in front of the fireplace. “Ms. Cadewaller?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Who painted the portrait of Marlowe?”
“Good question,” the woman replied. “Unfortunately, no one knows. It’s not signed.” She turned and opened the door. “However,” she said offhandedly, “the style is reminiscent of a relatively obscure portraitist.”
“Oh?” asked Julian. “Who?”
“Dimplert Steumacher,” she replied as she headed out the door to the courtyard.
Colophon and Julian stopped in their tracks.
“Steumacher!” Colophon whispered. The same man who had painted Miles Letterford’s portrait!
Julian glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of the young man, then turned and followed Ms. Cadewaller into the courtyard.
His reaction surprised Colophon. She had expected him to be much more excited.
Chapter Thirteen
Puke
Puke—The act of vomiting.
Studio 6, CNN Center
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday, June 11
9:27 a.m.
It started with a twinge in his stomach.
Nerves, Mull told himself. Nothing more.
“Two minutes to air,” someone yelled from behind the camera.
Mull took a sip of water as a technician adjusted the microphone on his tie.
The twinge grew worse. And he was growing hotter by the minute.
Must be the studio lights, Mull assured himself.
“One minute to air!” the voice yelled.
Richard Brayson, the host of CNN’s Newsmakers program, asked Mull if he was ready. Mull nodded and gave a thumbs-up.
Mull took another sip of water, but his mouth was now dry as sand. His stomach was churning. The heat from the studio lights seemed to increase by the second.
“Thirty seconds!” the voice yelled.
Mull tried to focus on Brayson, but he was now seeing three of everything.
Was it food poisoning? What had he eaten for breakfast? He couldn’t remember. Everything suddenly seemed foggy and distant.
“Ten!” the voice yelled.
He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.
“Nine!”
His tongue felt as if it had swelled to twice its normal size.
“Eight! Seven! Six! Five!”
His left hand started to shake.
“Four!”
He could feel his heart rate increasing.
“Three! Two! One!” The director pointed at the host of the program.
“Good morning and welcome to CNN’s Newsmakers,” said Richard Brayson to the camera. “Earlier this year the discovery of the Shakespeare manuscripts was hailed as one of the greatest finds of the century. However, questions have now been raised about the authenticity of those documents. Are they real or an elaborate forgery? I am joined this morning by Mull Letterford, the president and owner of Letterford and Sons. Mr. Letterford has agreed to speak with me today about the Shakespeare manuscripts and the growing controversy over their authenticity.”
Brayson swiveled in his seat and faced Mull. What he saw alarmed him. Mull was red-faced and sweating, and his left hand was visibly twitching. But Brayson was a professional. He had seen guests with severe stage fright. They usually got over it after a question or two. He decided to press forward. “Welcome, Mr. Letterford, and thank you for joining us this morning.”
“Thank you for having me,” Mull squeaked. Sweat beads covered his forehead. He took another sip of water.
“As you well know,” Brayson continued, “questions have now been raised about the authenticity of the . . . Whitmore . . . the . . . portion . . . ink . . . paper . . .”
Mull stared at Brayson as he spoke, but the words didn’t register. His head spun. He tried to focus on what the man was saying.
“ . . . after . . . seven . . . mixed . . . opinion . . . and . . . possible forgery . . .”
The words tumbled in and around Mull without meaning.
“ . . . conclude . . . appointed . . . top . . . commission . . .”
Mull leaned forward in his chair.
“ . . . respond to Dr. Whitmore’s claims?”
Mull could tell that Brayson had stopped speaking and now expected him to answer the question. The problem was that Mull had no idea what the question was.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and took another sip of water. “Would you mind repeating the question?” His voice was barely a whisper.
Richard Brayson looked at his director and mouthed the word commercial. The director nodded. The camera panned to Brayson and, mercifully, away from Mull. “We’ll be back after a brief commercial break,” he said.
“We’re out!” someone yelled.
Brayson removed his microphone and leaned over to Mull. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Mull managed to say just before throwing up on Brayson’s shoes.
Chapter Fourteen
Questioning
Questioning—To ask a question
or questions of someone.
Corpus Christi College
Cambridge, England
Monday, June 11
2:30 p.m.
Christopher Marlowe
1581–1587
John Fletcher
1591–1594
ANTIQVAE DOMVS
GEMINV MDECVS
Colophon pointed to the windows on either side of the plaque. “Was that Marlowe’s room?”
“As best as we can determine,” replied Ms. Cadewaller. “The portrait was found in the room just above it.”
Colophon peered through the window located on the right side of the plaque. A young woman sitting at a desk stared back at her. Colophon jumped.
“There’s someone in there!” she said.
“Why, yes,” replied Ms. Cadewaller. “Our students still reside in these rooms. This is a college, you know.”
Colophon did know that it was a college, but she remained amazed that students still lived in rooms that were hundreds of years old—and formerly occupied by famous playwrights.
She pointed to the plaque. “It took Marlowe seven years to graduate?”
“Yes,” Ms. Cadewaller replied. She paused momentarily. “He had certain . . . interruptions in his studies.”
“And who was John Fletcher?” Colophon asked. “Why is he on the plaque?”
“Another famous alumnus of Corpus,” she replied, “and like Marlowe, an outstanding playwright.”
Colophon was puzzled. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”
“It’s not surprising,” replied her guide. “Shakespeare’s shadow has eclipsed many of the famous playwrights of that era. It’s a pity. Fletcher was a talented dramatist and collaborated with Shakespeare on several plays. Some historians have suggested that he may have been an apprentice of sorts to Shakespeare.”
Marlowe, Fletcher, Shakespeare.
Everything, Colophon thought, always seemed to work its way back to Shakespeare.
Corpus Christi College
Cambridge, England
Monday, June 11
3:00 p.m.
The remainder of the tour of the college was a blur for Colophon. She nodded at the appropriate points as Ms. Cadewaller discussed the unique architectural features of a particular building; she feigned amazement at stories of the college; and she asked a random question or two so as not to insult their host. But truth be told, she could have recited back little, if any, of what the tour guide had said over the last half hour or so. Colophon simply could not focus on anything but Christopher Marlowe and his connection to the inkwell.
She now found herself walking far behind Julian and Ms. Cadewaller as they headed through New Court and back to the entrance to the college to pick up the inkwell and depart. The tour was nearing its end, yet Colophon felt no closer to uncovering the next clue—if there was, in fact, a next clue to be found.
Exactly what was the connection that had brought them to this wonderful old college? she wondered.
Was the inkwell merely a memento of a friend—a colleague—treasured by Shakespeare? Or, as she desperately hoped, was it yet another clue left by Miles Letterford that could help prove Shakespeare authored the manuscripts?
It all seemed so confusing and so much out of her control.
She stopped suddenly.
But it’s not out of my control, she realized.
It occurred to Colophon that she had simply left too much to chance. The inkwell had led them to Corpus Christi College, but they had simply stumbled on the Marlowe portrait.
It had been pure luck—nothing more.
There was no more time for luck. A question needed to be asked, and she needed to ask it.
“Ms. Cadewaller?”
Julian and Doris Cadewaller stopped just short of the entrance and turned around to face her.
“Yes?” the tour guide responded.
“Other than the portrait of Marlowe and his room, is there anything else that Marlowe might have left here at the college? Maybe a book or something?”
Ms. Cadewaller thought for a moment, then replied, “Not that I am aware of. And I’m fairly certain that I would know.”
Colophon was disappointed. Once again they were in the right place but had no idea what the clue meant or even if it was the right clue.
“Of course,” Ms. Cadewaller said, “there is the Matriculation Quill.”
“The what?”
“The Matriculation Quill. Each year the new students—freshers, we call them—attend a ceremony where they sign a form that officially commences their studies at Cambridge. For centuries the new students signed their forms using a silver quill—the Matriculation Quill. A ballpoint pen is used today, but the quill remains one of the college’s most treasured possessions.”
“But what does it have to do with Marlowe?” Julian asked. “Was it his quill?”
“No,” replied Ms. Cadewaller. “The quill was given to the college by an anonymous donor in 1621 in honor of Christopher Marlowe.”
“And no one knows who donated it?” asked Colophon.
“Not a soul. It was delivered in an engraved silver box—the same box in which it is kept to this day. No name was attached, and no one has ever claimed credit.”
“Was there anything on the box?” asked Colophon.
“A symbol perhaps?” asked Julian.
Colophon and Julian stared at Doris Cadewaller, who seemed taken back at the rush of questions and the sudden interest in the quill. “Why, yes,” she stammered. “There are several odd symbols on the box, but the biggest is a large inscription on the top—”
Colophon knew what she was going to say before she said it.
“—a Greek letter. Sigma, I believe.”
Bingo!
“Can we see the quill?” Colophon asked excitedly.
“I’m afraid that might be somewhat difficult to arrange,” the tour guide replied. “The gentleman who is in charge of the college’s silver collection, Norris Tanahill, is . . . shall we say, a bit of a curmudgeon.”
“Can we at least ask?” said Colophon.
Doris Cadewaller paused and took a deep breath. “We can ask,” she finally replied. “But I can’t make any promises.”
Chapter Fifteen
Gnarled
Gnarled—Rugged and roughened,
as from old age or work.
Office of the Curator, Corpus Christi College
Cambridge, England
Monday, June 11
3:15 p.m.
The room was small, hot, and poorly lit. Dark wooden panels on the walls and ceiling gave it a gloomy, claustrophobic feel. A large wooden desk occupied most of the room. In front of the desk stood a short thin man with his arms crossed. He glared at Colophon and Julian from behind huge white, untamed, bushy eyebrows—the largest Colophon had ever seen. The tips of his ears were bright red.
“Nay,” he said in a thick Scottish brogue.
“But—” Julian protested.
“Nay.”
“Just a peek?”
“Nay.”
“Perhaps—”
“Er’ ye deaf? I said nay. Until ye have written permission from the master of the college, ye’ll not see the quill. And that’s final. No exceptions.”
“And the master is—”
“In France,” the man said. “And he won’t be back for another week.”
To be fair, they had been warned. Doris Cadewaller had told them that Norris Tanahill, the curator of the college’s silver collection, was a curmudgeon of the worst sort. She had told them he could be rude, brusque, and, at times, downright belligerent. And she had been right—which probably explained why she had so unceremoniously left them as soon as she made the introductions.
Tanahill, as he made exceptionally clear, had no intention of allowing them to examine the Matriculation Quill, even though it lay in its box in a display case directly behind his desk. They could see it from across the room—but that was as close as Tanahill intended to allow them to get
to it. And he seemed to be enjoying himself. He pointed at Julian. “For thirty years I have taken care of the college’s silver. Thirty years! My job is to take care of the silver, not serve as a tour guide for a little girl and her babysitter.”
Little girl! Babysitter!
Colophon seethed.
Norris Tanahill or not, she decided that she was going to get a close-up view of that silver quill.
But how?
She looked around. The room was windowless. A small coal-burning fireplace adorned the wall at one end of the room, and Tanahill’s large oak desk sat at the other end, in front of the display case. The case did not appear to be locked. All she needed was a couple of minutes in the room by herself.
But again, how?
Then it hit her. Without drawing attention to herself, she reached inside her backpack and quietly took out her cell phone. A few moments later she was finished. She returned the phone to her backpack and set it against the wall near her feet.
“Again, nay, nay, nay,” Tanahill said. “Ye’ll not see the quill.” The redness in his ears had spread to the rest of his face.
Julian started to press the issue once more when Colophon spoke up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Tanahill. We’ll be on our way now.”
The pronouncement caught both Julian and Tanahill off guard.
“Pardon?” the curator asked.
Colophon looked at Julian, who was clearly puzzled. It was completely unlike her to give up so easily.
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