He put down his phone and stared out the window. “I don’t know, Coly. I just don’t know.”
International Terminal
Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport
Atlanta, Georgia
11:45 a.m.
Monday, June 11
The man’s phone had started vibrating in his coat pocket almost the moment he arrived at the airport terminal. He pulled his phone out of his coat. He had fifteen new text messages.
He opened the first one. It was a picture of a silver box. He looked at the next message—another picture of the same box. And the next two photographs were the same. The fifth picture, however, was different—some sort of long, thin silver object. It was covered with unusual markings and seemed to be engraved with text.
A pen perhaps?
The photos that followed all seemed to be different views of the same silver object.
He had been somewhat unsure about the decision to monitor the girl’s cell phone. It wasn’t that it was particularly difficult to have the girl’s phone tapped. Technology had certainly made his job easier at times. Rather, he thought, it was a waste of time and effort. She was, after all, just a thirteen-year-old girl who had gotten lucky when she uncovered the secret crypt under the church in Stratford-upon-Avon and unlocked the key to finding the Shakespeare manuscripts.
But his employer disagreed.
We’re not taking any chances, he was told.
So for the last week he had monitored every call, e-mail, and text she had sent or received. After days of reading useless e-mails and messages, he realized that she finally seemed to be on the trail of something.
Trigue James forwarded the photographs to Treemont.
Chapter Eighteen
Gloomy
Gloomy—Marked by hopelessness;
very pessimistic.
Manchester, Georgia
Monday, June 11
8:37 p.m.
Case Letterford sat in the dugout. The teams, families, and fans had long departed. Rick Parker, Case’s coach and the father of his best friend, had just finished dragging the infield. The dust still lingered in the air.
Case, who was staying with the Parker family until baseball season was over, had asked Mr. Parker if he could hang out at the field before heading over to the Parkers’ home on Third Avenue.
“Sure,” Mr. Parker had said. “Just don’t let it get too dark.”
Case had assured him that he would be there soon.
They had all seen what had happened on CNN that morning. But no one said anything to Case about it. Even the players on the opposing team kept quiet. No trash talk. Nothing. Case’s father was well respected and well liked in Manchester. So everyone simply pretended that nothing had happened.
But Case could see it in their eyes. He could see it in the way they quickly turned when he caught them staring at him.
As if that were not bad enough, Case would be turning sixteen soon, yet it was his younger sister who had headed off to England to try, once again, to save the family business. His father, despite what had happened on national television, was also trying to do something. His mother was diligently assisting in the research on the manuscripts. Everyone seemed to be doing something to save the Letterford family—everyone except him.
The dust had now settled across the field. The sun had dropped below the thick stand of pine trees behind the outfield fence. The crickets had started their nightly chorus.
“I heard you got two hits tonight.”
Case turned around. It was his father.
“One hit and a fielder’s choice,” Case replied.
“You got on base,” said Mull Letterford. “That’s what counts.”
“I suppose,” said his son.
Mull sighed. “I should’ve been here to see you play.”
“You were busy.”
“Did you see it?” Mull asked.
“Everyone saw it,” Case replied.
“I’m sorry.”
Case stood up and faced his father. “You shouldn’t be sorry,” he said. “You were at least trying to do something. All I did was play baseball.”
“Maybe it would have been better if I had played baseball and let you go on television.”
“No,” said Case. “I’ve seen you play baseball. You’re terrible.”
Mull laughed. “I needed that. It’s been a long day.”
Case gathered up his glove and bat, and Mull and Case started toward the parking lot.
“There’s something we need to talk about,” Mull said.
Chapter Nineteen
Dishearten
Dishearten—To cause to lose hope
or enthusiasm; dispirit.
Letterford residence
Clerkenwell, London, England
Tuesday, June 12
Colophon woke up just as the morning was starting to make its way through the shades in her room. She lay in her bed and watched the dust dance and float through the beams of sunlight streaming through her window. She didn’t want to get out of bed—at least not yet. But she knew that she would eventually have to face all the new questions brought about by her trip to Cambridge the previous day.
Was Marlowe really Shakespeare?
Who was the real author of the manuscripts that she and Julian had found?
What did all the markings on the quill box and quill mean?
Colophon pulled the cover up over her head—the day could wait for just a little while longer. She had started with one clue—a simple inkwell. That simple clue had led her to Corpus Christi College, Christopher Marlowe, and the Matriculation Quill. The mysterious Latin phrase on the inkwell had given way to an equally enigmatic Latin phrase on the quill—BEATI PACIFICI—“Blessed are the peacemakers.”
Was she getting close to proving that the Shakespeare manuscripts were real—or further away?
And then there was her father’s appearance on CNN. Her mother had told her about it when she returned from Cambridge yesterday. Meg had described it as “unfortunate.” Colophon didn’t think that sounded so bad. Then she saw the video on YouTube. It wasn’t unfortunate—it was an unmitigated disaster. Her father was pale and shaking. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Colophon could barely watch.
The press coverage was even worse. Her father was described variously as nervous, evasive, untrustworthy, deceitful, a liar, and a dissembler. No one bothered to mention the obvious—that he was clearly very ill. Of course, some of the news coverage also felt obligated to include the video of her father being chased by dogs in New York City the previous December. All things considered, she decided, another fifteen minutes or so in the warmth and comfort of her bed wouldn’t hurt.
Finally she managed to pull herself out of bed, shower, and eat a bit of breakfast. She then spent the rest of the morning searching the Internet to find out anything she could about the markings and inscription on the quill.
Julian, who had returned to Wales for a couple of days, would have laughed at her approach to solving this clue.
“The Internet is no substitute for real research,” he would have said yet again.
And he was right. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth trying.
After lunch, to cheer herself up, Colophon spent an hour or so e-mailing her friends at home and at camp. According to Lyla McRae, a friend unfortunate enough to be stuck at Camp Arrowhead, it had rained there for five straight days. Colophon felt a bit guilty for leaving Lyla alone. Like Colophon, Lyla was not one of the popular kids at camp. It was always good to have a friend under those circumstances. Still, Lyla seemed to be holding up reasonably well. Colophon was reading through her hilarious account of archery lessons in a torrential downpour when her mother called for her to come downstairs.
“Be right there!” Colophon yelled. She closed her laptop and headed down to the kitchen. To her surprise, she found her father sitting at the kitchen table with her mother.
“Dad!” Colophon exclaimed as she ran over and hug
ged him. “What are you doing here?”
Mull Letterford hugged Colophon tight. “I just needed to see my favorite daughter.”
She sat down in a chair next to her father. “Rough week, huh?”
“You could say that.”
In all of the excitement over seeing her father, Colophon hadn’t paid any attention to her mother, who was now standing by the kitchen sink. But one glance was enough—Colophon could tell that her mom had been crying.
Colophon looked at her dad. “What’s wrong?”
Mull placed his hand on his daughter’s knee. “You’ve seen the CNN interview?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t go well.”
Colophon nodded. She clasped her hands together.
“After the interview,” Mull said, “the family had a meeting to discuss . . . the situation. A vote was taken. Circumstances have now changed.”
Colophon couldn’t speak. Her mouth felt as if it was filled with sand.
“The family,” Mull continued, “voted to remove me as the owner of the company.”
No one said a word. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the faint click click click of the second hand on the kitchen clock.
“How could they?” Colophon finally exclaimed. Didn’t they know how much her father had done for the company?
Mull gripped Colophon’s hands. She could see the strain in his eyes. He seemed exhausted. “They did what they thought was for the best of the company.” He did not sound convincing.
“But who will be the owner?” She already knew the answer.
“Treemont,” her father replied. “I turned the family key over to him before I left.”
Tears started to flow down Colophon’s face. The key had been a part of her family for her entire life. It had sat on her father’s desk and her grandfather’s desk. She couldn’t bear the thought of Treemont owning it.
“What about our home in Manchester?” Colophon asked.
“It now belongs to Treemont,” said her father. “Our belongings are being placed in storage for us.”
“But where will we live?”
“Right here, in London,” her father replied. “Uncle Portis convinced the family that we should be permitted to keep this house.”
Colophon contemplated this news. Her friends, her school, her entire life was back in the United States.
“Does Case know?” she asked.
“I told him yesterday,” he replied. “Baseball season’s almost over. He’s going to fly over with your aunt Audrey in just a few days.”
“And Maggie? Treemont doesn’t get our dog too, does he?” She knew she sounded like a little girl asking this, but she didn’t care.
“No,” Mull said. “Maggie’s our dog. She’s staying with the Parkers. We’re making arrangements to have her sent over.”
Meg Letterford sat down next to Colophon and hugged her. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “We’ll be together as a family. I know you don’t want to leave your friends and your school and your home. I know that. But I promise it’ll be okay.”
Colophon buried her head in her mother’s arms and cried.
Manchester, Georgia
Wednesday, June 13
The furniture in the library of the former Letterford residence had been pushed to the side of the room. A large Smart Board on an aluminum stand now dominated the space. A series of cables and wires ran from the back of the board into the adjoining hallway. A slight humming emanated from the board.
To the side of the Smart Board and sitting on a metal tripod was the portrait of Miles Letterford. Two sets of studio lights had been set up in front of the painting.
Treemont approached the board and tapped the bottom left-hand corner. A series of photographs immediately appeared on the board. Treemont touched one of the photographs and moved it to the middle of the board. He tapped the photograph twice, and it expanded to fill the screen. He then turned to face the man and the woman who stood behind him.
He pointed at the photograph. “I need to know everything there is to know about this object.” He gestured at a stack of boxes in the corner of the room. “Everything you need to know about Miles Letterford is in those boxes.” He pointed to the books on the shelves. “Every book that Miles Letterford ever published is in this room. Some are well over four hundred years old. Many cannot be replaced. Tear them apart if you must.”
Finally he pointed to the portrait of Miles Letterford. “I know he has more secrets to tell. I want to know what they are.”
The man and the woman nodded. They knew they had a lot of work to do.
PART II
“When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room.”
William Shakespeare, As You Like It, act 3, scene 3
Prologue
The Mermaid Tavern
Bread Street, London, England
Late afternoon
June 1, 1593
“Marlowe is dead!”
The news echoed through the dark interior of the tavern. The men gathered in the room turned toward the door. The room went silent save for the crackling of the fireplace and the dull clank of pewter cups.
Thomas Runford stepped inside and repeated his news. “Marlowe is dead!”
“A foul rumor!” proclaimed a voice.
“Nay, ’tis true,” insisted Runford. “The craven deed occurred at Bull’s House in Deptford. A drunken fight. Stabbed through the eye, I heard.”
An unnamed voice from the far reaches of the tavern declared that such slanderous comments about Marlowe demanded the Drunkard’s Cloak—and others suggested more grievous punishments.
But Runford persisted. He had heard the news from his cousin, a cordwainer in Deptford, who had heard the news from his brother, who had seen the body of Marlowe.
This statement elicited yet another round of animated comments about Runford, many of which were pointed enough to convince the messenger that it would be best to leave the tavern. The discussion, however, continued long after Runford’s departure. Most of the room’s occupants continued to express doubt over the veracity of the news and outrage at the messenger who had dared to besmirch Marlowe’s name. This would not be the first time, many noted, that news of a death had carried itself across London only to later be proven false. Many a man had been declared dead at sundown, only to reappear the next morning in perfect health. And several others noted that it was not the first time Marlowe’s name had been cast about in such an ill manner.
One man, however, was certain that the news about Marlowe was true. William Shakespeare sat alone at a table in a dark recess of the tavern and listened to the low murmur of the tavern’s patrons. Marlowe was dead—of that Shakespeare had little doubt. But he knew Marlowe had not died in a drunken brawl. Although Marlowe’s general character and reputation lent great weight to the truth of the rumor, Shakespeare knew otherwise.
And he had known this day might come.
Now it was here. Now it was time.
His thought was interrupted by the loud clank of cups on the table. “Shall I leave you to ponder, old friend? Or will you join me in wine?” Miles Letterford sat down at the table across from Shakespeare without waiting for an answer.
“It seems wine has brought us far more than we expected this day.”
“I take no heed of such rumors,” replied Miles. “They spread like the plague—and, it seems, bring death in equal measure.”
“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare, “but I fear this rumor casts long the darkness and the gloomy shade of death.”
“Then we raise our cup to Marlowe,” said Miles Letterford.
Shakespeare picked up the cup of wine. His thoughts were of preparations to be made, lest he or others suffer Marlowe’s fate. He raised his cup. “Aye,” he replied. “To Marlowe.”
Chapter Twenty
Vulnerable
Vulnerable—Susceptible to physical harm
or damage; susceptible to emotional injury.
Manchester, Georgia
Thursday, June 14
7:30 a.m.
Past the stacked stone wall, across the field, and hidden deep in the branches of a large and ancient oak was a small treehouse. Case and his father had built it when Case was nine years old. It had served as his refuge ever since. A window looked out over the pasture toward the house.
Case had built shelves out of scrap pieces of wood and filled them with a variety of objects that he had found in the woods over the years—turtle shells, antlers, old Coke bottles, acorns, interesting rocks, and railroad spikes. The opposite wall was filled from top to bottom with posters and pictures of every size and variety. In the top-right corner—almost hidden by a Star Wars poster—was a small photograph of Case, his father, his mother, and Colophon.
Case knew that his family no longer owned the house or the property.
But he didn’t care.
It would always be his home. He had learned to ride a bike in the driveway that ran through the pasture. He had broken his arm in a fall from the hickory tree that stood just outside the window to his room. And he had sat in this very treehouse for countless hours and read comic books, listened to music, napped, and escaped from the world.
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