Tower of the Five Orders

by Deron R. Hicks

Colophon paused. There was a question she needed to ask, but she was afraid of the answer. “How do we know the mark is even still down here? It seems like there have been a lot of changes to the river since Miles Letterford was around.”

  “True,” Julian said. “But some parts of the river haven’t changed. Segments were bricked and covered for centuries before the river became part of a centralized sewer system. One of those areas is not far from your home in London.”

  “Near my home?”

  “Yes. What’s the name of your neighborhood?”

  “Clerkenwell,” she said. “What does that have to do with the river?”

  “Clerkenwell is a very old area of London,” he said. “And did you know that it was named after a well that was used to provide water to the surrounding homes? The well was known as the Clerk’s Well—that’s how the neighborhood became known as Clerkenwell. The well was hidden for many, many years but was recently rediscovered. Apparently it had been covered up when it became too polluted—just like the river next to it.”

  Colophon smiled. “The Fleet River.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So there’s a chance that whatever Miles left is still down here?”

  He nodded. “The well is still there, so maybe whatever Miles left behind still exists.”

  “And what do you think he left behind?” she asked. “Something that proves the manuscripts are real? Something that’ll prove my father’s not a liar?”

  The sounds of the Thames River faded into the distance as they walked. “I don’t know,” Julian finally replied. “As I said, there’s always a chance.”

  Blackfriars Bridge

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  1:00 p.m.

  James stood next to the railing of Blackfriars Bridge and stared down at the Thames River flowing beneath him. A tall man in a dark suit walked over and stood beside him.

  “You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion, are you?” James said.

  “You didn’t tell me what the occasion was,” Treemont replied. James noted a testiness in Treemont’s voice and demeanor.

  “No,” said James, “I suppose I didn’t. Then again, the girl and her cousin didn’t exactly share their itinerary with me.”

  He proceeded toward the stairs at the north end of the bridge. “Follow me.”

  Treemont growled under his breath and followed.

  James descended the stairs and stepped over to the exact point under the bridge where he had seen Colophon and Julian standing. He gestured to the access gate and the iron stairs leading down to the embankment. “They disappeared into the embankment. Some sort of sewer line, I suppose. You’ll need to go down the stairs to follow them.”

  “You’re not joining me?” Treemont asked.

  James handed him his flashlight. “Sewers are not my cup of tea. I’ve done my job. It’s now up to you.”

  Treemont tested the weight and balance of the heavy metal flashlight in his right hand. “Fine,” he replied. “Then it’s up to me to finish this.”

  James smiled. “Be careful. The little girl’s quite clever.”

  Treemont scowled, then turned and headed down the iron stairs.

  James watched him disappear into the embankment. He then removed his cell phone from his coat pocket, checked to make sure no one was watching, and dropped it into the flowing current of the Thames.

  He would leave the van parked where it was. It didn’t matter—it had been rented under a false name and had been wiped down to remove any fingerprints. He had a car parked in a garage near Victoria Station. With any luck he would reach the Manchester Airport by early evening. From there, who knew?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Premeditated

  Premeditate—Characterized by deliberate

  purpose, previous consideration,

  and some degree of planning.

  Fleet River

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  1:15 p.m.

  Occasionally Colophon would catch a brief glimpse of sunlight filtering down through a drain. But for the most part, their journey was dark and cold. An entire city lay just above her head, she knew, yet she had never felt more isolated from the rest of the world. Everything was strange and unfamiliar. The air felt stale and undisturbed. Every step she took and every sound she made echoed down the long brick passageway. Wide round tunnels and small narrow ones ran off in all directions. Some of them seemed to plunge almost straight down. She wondered how deep they went, and if anyone had ever dared venture down there—or perhaps more important, whether anything from down there ever ventured up. On a couple of occasions they passed through large chambers, the ceilings of which rose to twenty feet or more. At one bend in the passageway they encountered a series of mysterious iron rings attached to the wall. Try as he might, Julian could not come up with a reasonable explanation for them.

  And she could hear things. Things that scraped, skittered, and scratched just outside the beam of her flashlight.

  It was all very disquieting.

  For the first twenty minutes or so, she pestered Julian constantly about how far they had traveled. He patiently responded on each occasion—and she was always surprised by how far they still had to go. She finally quit asking and walked in silence.

  It seemed as if they had been walking forever when he suddenly stopped. She looked up ahead. They were about to enter another big chamber.

  “This is it,” he said. “One mile.”

  They stepped into the large brick chamber. Their steps echoed high into the darkness above. Colophon swept her flashlight across the room. Just like the other chambers they had passed through, this one gave off to several smaller tunnels. However, something about this round central chamber struck her as different. The room had a symmetry that the previous chambers lacked. The ledge on which she and Julian stood continued around the entire chamber and formed a complete circle. She counted three tunnels on each side of the room. They were all identical—tall with arched entrances. They looked barely wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. And there was something else. Above each tunnel was a brass medallion. Even in the faint illumination provided by her flashlight, she could tell that something was engraved on each medallion.

  And then she pointed her flashlight at the chamber’s ceiling.

  “Look!” she exclaimed.

  Stars made of bronze and set into the brick swirled around the ceiling. On one side was a large brass sun. On the other was a crescent moon.

  “Magnificent,” Julian said. “Do you have any doubt we’re in the right place?”

  “None,” Colophon said.

  She looked out over the chamber. “Miles’s symbol—the sigma—must be on the medallion over one of the tunnels.”

  “You take the right side,” said Julian as he headed to the left.

  Colophon crossed over a small brick bridge to the right and came to the first tunnel. She stood on her toes and looked at the medallion. The engraving wasn’t a sigma, but it was an image she knew—a hawk holding a spear. It was identical to the image in the book that Julian had found in Wales.

  “It’s not this one!” she yelled. “But we’re getting close!”

  From across the room, Julian called, “It’s not this medallion. It’s an engraving of an inkwell.”

  Colophon moved to the next tunnel. The medallion over its entrance contained an image of a pair of crossed quills. Engraved on the medallion over the final tunnel was a lily—identical to the image on the crest for Corpus Christi College. All the symbols were familiar—but they weren’t the right one.

  She met Julian on the far side of the chamber. “Any luck on your side?”

  “No,” he replied. “An inkwell, a pelican, and a key—but not the symbol we’re looking for.”

  She sat down on the ledge that ringed the chamber. “I’m confused. It’s clear that this is where Miles Letterford intended for us to be—but where’s the symb
ol? We can’t just head down each tunnel.”

  Julian paced up and down the ledge. “I’m missing something. And it’s right here in front of us—I just know it is.”

  “You haven’t missed anything,” she said. “The hidden message said the sigma symbol would be here—one mile north of the Thames. But it’s not.”

  Julian stopped in his tracks and turned back to her. “No, that’s not what the message said. It didn’t say anything about a symbol—it’s what we interpreted it to say. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “What do you mean? The symbol isn’t here?”

  He grinned broadly. “No, but the mark is.”

  “The mark—the symbol—what’s the difference?”

  Julian pulled off his bag and set it on the ground. He reached inside and pulled out a book. It was the Christopher Marlowe book that he had found in Wales.

  “We’re supposed to be looking for the mark,” Julian said. “A printer’s mark.”

  “What’s a printer’s mark?”

  “It was a stamp in a book—a mark used to identify who printed it. Different printers used different marks. The mark was usually placed at the end of the book.”

  He opened the book to the last page and showed it to Colophon. It was a design that she had seen hundreds of times before—a crescent moon over crossed quills.

  “It’s the Letterford family crest,” she said. “My grandfather used to have it on his stationery.”

  Julian nodded. “And it was the printer’s mark used by Miles Letterford.”

  Colophon pointed her flashlight up at the tunnel medallion engraved with crossed quills. She slowly moved the light directly up the wall until it illuminated a large brass object directly above that particular tunnel—the crescent moon.

  Julian laughed. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  “What’s ironic?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know what a printer’s mark is also called?”

  Colophon was confused. What was he talking about? And then it hit her. She did know. She had known since she was a small child. How could she have missed it?

  “A printer’s mark,” she finally replied, “is also called a colophon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Remorseless

  Remorseless—Having no pity or

  compassion; merciless.

  Fleet River

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  1:30 p.m.

  “A colophon!” she repeated.

  “Yes,” Julian said. “All along we’ve been looking for the colophon. Do you think Miles Letterford could ever have envisioned that the person who made it this far would be you?”

  Colophon paused. The thought gave her chills. But what happened next made her blood run cold.

  “Congratulations,” said a deep voice from across the chamber. The word lingered heavily in the darkness.

  Julian swung his flashlight around and pointed it in the direction of the voice. “Treemont!”

  Treemont stood at the far end of the chamber. “Congratulations are in order,” he said. “This is quite an accomplishment.”

  “What are you doing here?” Julian demanded. Colophon could hear the nervousness in his voice.

  “Securing what is rightfully mine,” Treemont replied.

  “You have no right to be here!” Colophon yelled. “You stole the company from my father!”

  Treemont smiled. “Your father has no idea of the true legacy of Miles Letterford.” He pointed his own flashlight at Julian. “And as much as it pains me to say it, this buffoon was the only member of the family who even had a clue.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the treasure,” Julian said.

  “Believe?” said Treemont. “Believing is for philosophers and priests. I knew the treasure existed.”

  “But how?” Julian asked.

  “My father, of course,” said Treemont.

  “Your father worked for Letterford and Sons his whole life,” Julian said. “He was a good man. If he knew about the treasure, he would have told the family about it. He never would’ve helped you steal the family business.”

  “My father wasted his life working for Letterford and Sons. He treasured his role as the records keeper. He was a fool. But just before he died, he found a rather unique book in the archives of the company. The book was accompanied by a note from Miles Letterford—a note detailing instructions for the printing of two such books. My father believed in the treasure and was convinced that the books held the key.” Treemont paused. “Of course, he entrusted his only son with the book and the note. I assured him they would be delivered to your grandfather.”

  “But you didn’t,” Colophon said.

  “Of course not,” Treemont replied. “But my father was right—the books held the key.”

  Julian looked down at the book he held in his hands. “Two books?”

  “Yes,” said Treemont. “Two books—virtually identical—the same binding, the same decoration on the cover, and the same unique engravings on the inside.”

  “Virtually identical?” Colophon said. “What was the difference?”

  Treemont reached under his jacket and pulled out a leather-bound book. He handed it to Julian.

  Julian examined the book. It was identical to the book he had discovered in Wales—with one exception.

  “It’s another play,” said Julian.

  “By Marlowe?”

  “No,” Julian said. “Richard the Second . . . by William Shakespeare.”

  Colophon was confused. What did this mean? One play by Marlowe and the other by Shakespeare?

  “It appears,” said Julian, “that the books were intended to serve . . . as guides of some sort.”

  Colophon could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

  “I’m not exactly sure why there are two books,” he continued, “but I suspect the answer lies at the end of that tunnel.”

  Treemont pointed his flashlight at the medallion with the crossed quills and then at the crescent moon on the ceiling. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said.

  “There’s no way we’re going to help you,” Julian said. He gestured to Colophon. “We need to leave.”

  “But what if the treasure is in there?” she pleaded. “We can’t leave. Even if Treemont inherits everything, at least it’ll prove my dad’s not a liar.”

  Julian paused. He looked down at the book in his hand—the very book that his ancient ancestor had left to serve as a guide to whatever was located in this tunnel bearing the family crest. He knew he had to continue. “Okay,” he finally said, bending down to retrieve his bag. “Let’s go.”

  Treemont stepped into the tunnel and out of view. “Are you coming?” he called back to them.

  Julian whispered to Colophon, “Be careful. Don’t get too close to Treemont.”

  Julian followed Treemont into the tunnel. Just as he did, Colophon heard a sickening thud. Julian crumpled to the ground. Blood trickled down the side of his face. Treemont stood over him, holding his heavy metal flashlight like a club.

  “You killed him!” she screamed.

  “He’s not dead . . . yet,” Treemont replied. He grab- bed Colophon by the arm. She was surprised by the strength of his grip. “Into the tunnel. You might still prove useful.”

  Colophon started walking. Treemont’s footsteps followed close behind. She scanned the walls and the floor as she walked, looking for a side passageway that might provide a means of escape from Treemont—but the tunnel offered no such avenue. The flashlight in her hand was plastic and lightweight, hardly a weapon of significance, and she had nothing in her backpack that would help. Her only option was to keep moving forward.

  Water dripped and drained into the tunnel from pipes on the walls. Steam whistled from vents in the ceiling. The temperature increased dramatically. The air was heavy and stale. Cobwebs draped thickly across the tunnel, and she could not see more than a few feet ahead.

  The tunnel s
eemed to go on forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Misgiving

  Misgiving—Doubt, distrust, or apprehension.

  Colophon was exhausted.

  Sweat poured down her face. Cobwebs clung to every part of her body. Her feet were soaked and sore. She wanted to turn around and tell Treemont that they must have taken the wrong tunnel.

  She desperately wanted to go back and check on Julian.

  And she wanted to go home.

  Why had she not listened to Julian? He had warned her that this could be dangerous.

  And then the tunnel just stopped.

  In front of her was a large wooden door. Bolted in the middle of the door was a large round brass plate, and etched on the plate was a single image—∑. The door had no other ornamentation, just a lock with a single keyhole. She realized immediately that there was only one key in the world that would open the lock. The key that Treemont now possessed as owner of Letterford & Sons.

  “This is it.” He pushed past her.

  He pulled the key from his pocket, held it up, and examined it with his flashlight. She could see the familiar symbol of the sigma engraved on it. The same symbol that she and Julian had discovered in the mausoleum in Stratford. The same symbol that had been on the box containing the Shakespeare manuscripts. The same symbol in the portrait of Christopher Marlow. It was a symbol, Colophon recognized, that represented much more than she had ever expected.

  Treemont placed the key in the lock and turned it. There was a soft click, followed by the sound of metal bolts sliding back into the wall. The door opened ever so slightly, and a small hiss of air escaped. He pulled on the handle and the large door slowly creaked open. A blast of air blew into the tunnel. Cobwebs fluttered behind them.