Tower of the Five Orders

by Deron R. Hicks

  Click.

  Colophon winced. Her breath left her. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small room. If Tanahill didn’t hear it, he would surely hear her heart pounding in her chest. She stood absolutely still.

  But he didn’t wake up. He shifted ever so slightly in his chair, grunted, and resumed snoring.

  Colophon slowly breathed in and tried to calm her thumping heart.

  The top of the display case had opened ever so slightly. She reached over, delicately lifted the top, and removed the silver box. She carefully let the top back down but did not let it latch shut. She took the box, moved to the far side of the desk, and knelt down on the floor. She could hear Tanahill snoring on the other side.

  Colophon turned her attention back to the box. As Ms. Cadewaller had said, engraved on the top was a large ornate rendering of the Greek letter sigma. But that was not all. Engraved on the sides was a series of smaller symbols—four on each side.

  AVIII ZII ΓVIII ZV

  ZIII KIX ZVIII KIV

  ΓII ZVII HI IVIII

  KV ZIX KVII ZIV

  More clues to solve, Colophon thought—and they didn’t seem to be getting any easier.

  But deciphering the symbols would have to come later.

  She took Julian’s phone out of her pocket and snapped several photos of the box. Then she removed the lid and peered inside.

  Sitting inside the box on a bed of purple velvet was a quill, approximately seven inches long and silver. It was not tarnished in the least. Tanahill had obviously taken great care of it. One end of the quill was flat and had a circular opening. Colophon assumed that the quill’s nib—the part that was actually used to write with—would be inserted into the opening. The quill tapered to a point at the far end.

  But it was the middle of the quill that Colophon found particularly interesting. It was inscribed with five decorative bands, each in a distinct style. In addition, between the third and fourth bands were the words BEATI PACIFICI.

  Colophon snapped several photos of the quill, rotated it, and snapped several more.

  Then she carefully replaced the lid on the box. Again she stopped and listened. Tanahill was still snoring.

  She got up on her knees and peeked over the edge of the desk. Tanahill had not moved. She rose to her feet and tiptoed back to the display case. Ever so slowly, she raised the glass lid and put the box back in its place. She then lowered the lid as far as it would go without latching shut. She knew she had been lucky that Tanahill had not woken up when the case was opened. No need to tempt fate again.

  The clock tower struck four o’clock. Julian took one last look around the courtyard, then opened the door to the administrative offices and stepped inside.

  Colophon moved back across the room toward the door. Her heart was racing. She glanced back over at Tanahill. He remained sound asleep.

  She took two more steps.

  Slowly, she told herself. Don’t rush.

  Two more steps.

  She could feel her pulse rate slowing. She was almost out of the room.

  She now stood directly in front of the office door.

  She placed her right hand on the doorknob and started to turn it.

  The voice boomed from behind her.

  “AND WHAT MIGHT YE BE DOING IN MY OFFICE?”

  Colophon turned around and stood face to face with Norris Tanahill.

  Julian stood inside the doorway of the administrative offices. The hallway was empty. There was no sign of Colophon. Suddenly he heard the angry voice of Norris Tanahill thundering down the hallway. Julian broke into a sprint.

  Colophon took a deep breath. Tanahill’s face was bright red. “What are ye doing in my office?” he demanded again.

  She looked directly at him as she tried to stay calm. “I’ve misplaced my backpack. I thought I might have left it in your office.”

  Tanahill’s eyes narrowed into small slits. “That doesn’t explain why ye’d be skulking around me office. Perhaps you were trying to get a peek at the quill?”

  Her gaze never left his face. She knew that he would be looking for some sign that she was not telling the truth. She said as confidently as possible, “I wasn’t skulking. You were sleeping, and I was trying not to disturb you.”

  Tanahill stared at her. He didn’t seem to be buying her story.

  “I’d best be going,” she said. “I’m sure my cousin is looking for me by now.”

  Colophon turned to open the door. But Tanahill reached around her and put his hand over the doorknob. “Ye will not be going anywhere, young missy. Ye have a few more questions to answer.”

  Tanahill now appeared calm, determined, and serious. Colophon preferred him angry and red-faced.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s have a little talk about—”

  Knock knock.

  The sound startled both of them. They turned and looked at the heavy wooden door.

  Knock knock.

  A voice from the other side of the door called out. “Hello? Mr. Tanahill?”

  Julian.

  Tanahill cracked opened the door and peered out.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Julian said. “I can’t find Colophon anywhere. When she didn’t return to the porter’s lodge, I thought she might have come to your office to look for her backpack.”

  Tanahill looked over at Colophon and then back to Julian. “Aye. She’s here.” He opened the door wide, and Julian stepped inside.

  With an anguished look, Colophon exclaimed to Julian, “My backpack is missing! I thought I must have left it in here, but I guess I was wrong. We need to keep looking.”

  Then she turned to Tanahill. “My mother will be so upset with me.”

  “Good news!” Julian held up the backpack. “And you have Mr. Tanahill to thank. He was kind enough to bring it to the porter’s lodge when he realized you’d left it in his office.”

  Colophon looked at Tanahill. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d found my backpack?”

  The question caught the curator off guard. “Well, I . . . was . . .”

  “You didn’t tell her?” Julian said.

  “Now, see here, I was . . . about . . . that infernal noise!” Tanahill stammered.

  “Well, I must say that I’m terribly disappointed,” said Julian. “Colophon must’ve been so worried.”

  “I was worried,” said Colophon.

  “I . . . in . . . my office . . . questions.” Tanahill’s face turned red from embarrassment.

  Julian looked down at his watch and then back up at the curator. His voice was stern. “If we didn’t have to catch a train, we would certainly discuss this matter further.”

  He handed Colophon her backpack. “Come, Colophon, we’ve a train to catch.”

  And before Tanahill could say another word, they had stepped out of his office and were headed down the hallway toward the courtyard.

  The curator stood inside his office and contemplated what had just occurred.

  I need a cup of coffee, he finally decided.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rumination

  Rumination—The act of thinking about

  something in a sustained fashion.

  Platform 2, Cambridge Rail Station

  Cambridge, England

  Monday, June 11

  4:40 p.m.

  Colophon and Julian sat on a bench awaiting the return train to London. During the taxi ride from the college to the train station, she had described for Julian how she had hidden in Tanahill’s office and photographed the quill. Julian had admonished her for taking such a risk, but he could not hide how impressed he was by her courage and determination.

  As they sat on the bench, Julian scrolled through the photographs of the quill on his camera. He easily translated the Latin phrase BEATI PACIFICI as “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

  “It’s one of the most famous phrases from the Bible,” he said. “And I know someone else who used it as well.”

  “Let me guess,” said Col
ophon. “Shakespeare?”

  “In Henry the Sixth, Part Two, to be exact,” he replied.

  “So another clue,” she said. “And the other markings?”

  Julian shrugged. “More clues, I suppose. But I have no idea what they mean.”

  She sensed a weariness about Julian. Something was clearly bothering him. “What’s going on?”

  He sighed. “I need to show you something.”

  He pulled a brown package from his bag and handed it to her.

  “I found it in Wales.”

  Colophon carefully opened the package. Inside was a small leather book, obviously quite old. The title was The troublefome raigne and lamentable death of Edward the fecond, King of England. Beneath the title of the book was the symbol for sigma—∑.

  Julian took the book from Colophon, opened it to the final page, and handed it back to her. Colophon stared at the small engraving at the bottom of the page—it was the Letterford family crest—a crescent moon over crossed quills.

  “What is this?” asked Colophon.

  “It’s a play,” replied Julian. “The book you’re holding was printed by Miles Letterford in 1622.”

  “I don’t recognize it. Is it one of Shakespeare’s plays?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s by Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Marlowe?” she exclaimed. She looked at him. Why hadn’t he told her about the book?

  Julian said, “There’s more.”

  “What?” Colophon asked.

  Julian turned to the frontispiece—­to the image of the hawk holding a spear. “I believe,” Julian said, “that this is Shakespeare’s coat of arms.”

  Julian sighed deeply. He could tell that Colophon was concerned and confused by this news. “I checked to see if the book was listed in the Stationers’ Register,” he said, “but it’s not.”

  “The Stationers’ Register?”

  “The Stationers’ Company was a trade guild in London,” he replied. “It regulated the publishing trade and maintained a record—the register—of books that were published during the time Miles Letterford was alive. Every book that Miles Letterford published is listed in the register—apparently with one exception. It’s clear that this book was never intended to be seen by the public.”

  “What does this mean?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I have a theory. Not even a theory really—a thought.”

  She gripped the book tightly. “Well, what is it?”

  “You know that a lot of people believe William Shakespeare didn’t write his own plays.”

  “I know,” she said. “But the manuscripts we discovered proved that he really did write them.”

  “So it would seem,” he said. “But how much do you really know about Shakespeare? I’m not talking about Shakespeare the writer. How much do you know about Shakespeare the person?”

  She paused. “Not a lot, I suppose.”

  “Most people don’t, and that’s not particularly surprising. It’s not as if he wrote an autobiography. For the most part, we know about Shakespeare from his plays, poems, and sonnets, which were magnificent. And that’s part of the mystery of Shakespeare.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “What mystery?”

  “Think about it,” said Julian. “If you judged Shakespeare solely by his works, you would think he was a sophisticated, well-educated man of the world who had traveled extensively and could read and write in multiple languages.”

  “He wasn’t?” asked Colophon.

  “Hardly,” he said. “Shakespeare was the son of a glove maker from a small rural town. His formal education was very limited, and he didn’t attend university. He was married by the time he was eighteen years old, so he had to find some way to take care of his family. Exactly what he did before he showed up in London is anyone’s guess. Some people think he might have been a country schoolmaster. But even if he was a schoolmaster—and that’s a big if—it still doesn’t explain how this simple man turned into the greatest playwright of all time.”

  “Maybe he learned about everything from books,” suggested Colophon. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s possible,” replied Julian. “But some people believe it’s more likely that someone who was highly educated and well traveled wrote the plays.”

  She looked down at the book. “Someone like Marlowe.”

  “Well, that’s what some people say.”

  “But why would Marlowe need to use Shakespeare’s name? Didn’t he already write plays?”

  “Good point,” he said. “Many of the other people who were allegedly the author of Shakespeare’s plays had a reason not to be discovered. For example, Sir Francis Bacon was a prominent scientist and Lord Chancellor. Being a playwright was not the most reputable of professions back then. So a lot of people think Bacon may have used Shakespeare as a cover.”

  “But didn’t Marlowe die in 1593? Isn’t that what Ms. Cadewaller told us?”

  Julian nodded. “You’re correct.”

  “And when were Shakespeare’s plays written?”

  “Most of them were written after 1593,” he replied.

  Colophon crossed her arms. “Then that proves it. Marlowe couldn’t have written the plays. He was dead.”

  Julian adjusted his glasses. “If, in fact, Marlowe was dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ms. Cadewaller left out a few facts about Marlowe—facts that are particularly relevant to our search.”

  She moved to the edge of her seat. “What facts?”

  “Do you recall from the brass plate on Marlowe’s room how long he attended Corpus Christi College?”

  She retrieved her notebook from her backpack and looked for her notes on the brass plate. “Seven years.”

  “Long time to complete college, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he had a lot to do. Or he was a bad student.”

  “He did have a lot to do,” said Julian. “He was a spy.”

  Colophon shot up off the bench. “A spy!” A young couple on the platform looked over at her.

  Julian motioned for her to sit down.

  “A spy?” she said. “Are you sure?”

  “Actually,” replied Julian, “it’s quite well documented that he was a spy. He missed a lot of classes because of his . . . extracurricular activities for the Crown.”

  “Okay, so he was a spy—which is very cool, by the way. But what does that have to do with the Shakespeare theory? Marlowe was still dead when most of the plays were written.”

  “Or was he?” asked Julian. “Marlowe was a spy. People become spies for a lot of different reasons. Marlowe may have loved his country, but he also had a certain lifestyle to maintain. He enjoyed the good life—good food, good drink, and good times. The money he made from spying paid for that lifestyle.”

  “So he spent a lot of money. What does that have to do with his death?”

  “Coly, think about it. What if the French or Spanish had offered Marlowe even more money? Or in England itself—there were constant plots against the Crown. A spy would have been very useful in those circumstances—for the right price, of course.”

  “Marlowe was a double agent?”

  “Not that we know of,” said Julian. “But that’s always the risk with a spy, isn’t it? Marlowe lived in dangerous times. A lot of men and women lost their head to the sword based on nothing more than a rumor. Marlowe may have known his time was short.”

  “Wait a second. Are you saying he faked his death?”

  “Do you know how Marlowe allegedly died?”

  Colophon shook her head. Ms. Cadewaller had only said he died much too young.

  “He died in a fight in a tavern,” said Julian. “But the specific cause of death was a dagger in the face.”

  “Gross.”

  “I agree,” said Julian. “Gross and convenient. It’s hard to identify a face under those circumstances.”

  Colophon sat silent for a moment. “But
what about the body? How could he fake that?”

  Julian scooted close to her. His voice was little more than a whisper. “The evening before Marlowe was allegedly stabbed, a man by the name of John Penry died. Penry was approximately the same age, height, and weight as Marlowe. The night Penry died, his body vanished.”

  “Vanished?”

  “Gone,” said Julian. “Never to be seen again. So we had two deaths in two days, but only one body was buried.”

  “So couldn’t someone just dig up Marlowe’s grave and conduct some sort of DNA test? That would prove whether he’s buried there or not. They do it all the time on TV.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “But the authorities buried him in an unmarked grave. No one knows exactly where he’s buried.”

  “An unmarked grave?” asked Colophon. “That’s a strange way to treat someone so famous.”

  “Yes,” said Julian. “And again, very convenient, don’t you think?”

  The train for London was pulling into the station. They gathered their bags and headed down the platform.

  “So,” she said, “if Marlowe faked his death, he could’ve written Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “That’s the theory,” replied Julian.

  “But why would Shakespeare go along with that?” she asked.

  “For fame and fortune,” he said. “If Shakespeare was just a simple, poorly educated man from a small town, wouldn’t this seem like a great idea? Shakespeare becomes famous and rich—and all he has to do is pass off Marlowe’s plays as his own.”

  Colophon remained silent as they entered the train and found their seats. She looked out the window at the passengers scurrying about on the platform. After several minutes, the train started moving.

  “Julian?”

  Julian, who had been texting copies of the photographs to Colophon’s phone, looked up. “Yes?”

  “If we keep searching, are we going to prove that Shakespeare wrote the manuscripts . . . or that Marlowe wrote them?”