The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

“No. Field agents don’t know my position, although Thomas might have suspected, based upon my close relationship with the Holy Father. Though we spoke often, Thomas actually reported to someone else, who reported to someone else.”

  “Sounds like the CIA,” she said. “So when you got promoted—I suppose that’s the right word—to archbishop, you became the head of the Venatori?”

  “Yes, that’s the simplest explanation. The Venatori has a global, well-known identification among security agencies, but no one outside the organization really understands how deep it runs. That is strictly my domain, along with the pontiff’s.” John motioned to chairs at one of the numerous oak tables placed around the elegant hotel suite. When they were both seated, he said, “We will find a way to stop these suicides, Cotten, and to solve the mystery of the tablet. The sole goal of the Venatori is to defeat our enemy—your enemy.”

  “Everything is coming too fast. There are a million questions. Is what’s going on around us the beginning of Armageddon? What am I supposed to stop? I’m not sure what I am expected to do.”

  “The best place to start is at the beginning. In this case, it is Thomas’s grandfather, Chauncey Wyatt.” John removed a paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. “We’ve already begun our quest by coming to London. I made a list of things on the plane while you slept. First of all, the Venatori has discovered that Thomas did have a distant relative. Her name is Violet Crutchfield. She lives in the countryside outside of London. She will be our first stop.

  “Second, we’ve come up with a couple of things concerning the note Chauncey Wyatt left behind after the theft of the tablet—particularly his reference to threading a needle. There is a biblical reference in Matthew’s gospel about it being easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. And there is the old story about there being a gate in Jerusalem called the Eye of the Needle because a camel couldn’t pass through it without stooping and having all its baggage removed first. It is believed that the parallel is that you can only come to God on your knees and without your baggage. Unfortunately, there’s no archaeological or documented record of such a gate. But if we don’t find something here, we might have to consider taking our search in that direction.”

  Cotten nodded as she pictured flying to the Holy Land and trying to find a mythical gate into the city.

  “Here’s another one for you to think about,” John said. “There is something called threading the needle that has to do with our vision and depth perception—the reason God gave us two eyes instead of one.”

  Cotten grinned at him. “Is this going to be a science experiment, Mr. Wizard?”

  “Actually, yes.” John stood. “First, we need to find a piece of string.”

  “I packed a sewing kit. Will that help?”

  “Perfect. See if you have a spool of thread.”

  Cotten searched in her suitcase, coming up with a small plastic box. “How’s this?” she asked, removing a miniature spool of black thread.

  “Excellent.” John took it and held the end of the thread under his chin. He then unwound enough to hold the spool at arm’s length and broke it off. Handing the spool to Cotten, he said, “Now you do the same.”

  Cotten looked at him curiously. “All right.” She repeated what John had done.

  “Look straight ahead,” he said. “How many strings do you see?”

  “Two.”

  “But you know there is only one, right? Now close your left eye. How many strings?”

  “One.”

  “Switch eyes.”

  “Still one.”

  “That’s because we all have two eyes, and that gives us depth perception. Look again with both eyes and focus on a single spot on the string.”

  Cotten obeyed. “The strings come together and make a single thread,” she said.

  “That’s your point of focus and what is referred to as threading the needle.”

  Cotten had a flash of déjà vu as she remembered viewing the line drawing of the cube shown to her by Ripple at the Chicago Starbucks. “John,” she whispered, returning to the chair and sitting, “I think I’m starting to understand a bit of what’s going on here. Do you believe we can be in two places at once, like the thread, just depending on where you focus, where you choose to be?” The thought filled her mind. “When I was in Peru, I was taught a kind of meditation technique, which I’m still trying to master.”

  John took his seat across the table. “This was something the shaman taught you? The man you told me about?”

  Cotten was still putting random pieces of thought together. “The last time I practiced what Yachaq called liquid light, I felt as if I were in two places—I saw myself standing on two beaches. And I believed I could move from one to the other.” Cotten shoved her fingers through her hair. “And then in Chicago, I met a strange little man who saw the pictures of the tablet that I took to the University of Illinois. He’s a physicist, and he told me the writing on the tablet had to do with quantum mechanics. He said what was inscribed in binary code on the tablet was identical to a theory he had developed. He referred to it as a thread theory, and he tried to get me to understand how particles can exist in more than one place at a time in the quantum world. He said he had proven how the same was true in the world around us. Lester Ripple said all possibilities and outcomes already exist—much the same as what Yachaq professed to me in Peru. The concept is that there are many paths or threads. Where you focus is where you choose to live your life. Am I making sense?”

  “Very much. It’s what we call free will.”

  * * *

  The next morning, after breakfast, Cotten and John boarded the train for the one-hour ride to Hanborough Station, near Oxford.

  After arriving, they took the fifteen-minute walk from the station to the farmhouse belonging to Violet Crutchfield, Thomas Wyatt’s great-aunt.

  “Winston Churchill rests in peace near here,” John said as they walked past a sign to Bladon Church. “Here’s a piece of trivia. They used to bury suicides in the public highway with a stake driven through them.”

  “That’s awful,” Cotten said, looking back over her shoulder at the sign.

  “Then, in the early 1800s, some came to think it was barbaric, and a law was passed that allowed suicides to be buried in the usual churchyard, but—”

  “There’s always a but.”

  “But . . . they could only be buried between the hours of nine p.m. and midnight, and of course without the rites of the Church.”

  Cotten said, “But that was the Church of England, not the Catholic Church. Suicides can’t be buried in Catholic cemeteries, right?”

  “That’s true,” John said.

  “Look.” Cotten pointed to a two-story stone building across a field. A sign by a gate read Crutchfield. “That must be it.”

  “Must be,” John said.

  Two chimneys poked out from the roof of the rambling structure, which was surrounded by overgrown gardens mixed with as many wildflowers as weeds and shrubs. Smoke spiraled out of one chimney. “Somebody is home,” Cotten said.

  They walked up the flagstone walk and stood in front of the weathered wooden door. John rapped with the tarnished brass knocker. “Hello,” he called out.

  They waited a few minutes before knocking again. A moment later, the door opened with a groan.

  “Good day,” John said.

  Standing in the doorway was a frail, elderly woman, slightly bent with age. Her hair was so thin her pink scalp showed through.

  “Mrs. Crutchfield?” Cotten asked. “Violet?”

  The woman’s eyes stared at John through her smudged bifocals. “Is this your woman?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” John said.

  She moved to the side and waved her cane, gesturing for them to enter. “Go into the pa
rlor where it is warm,” she said. “Do you want me to get pneumonia?”

  Cotten glanced at John as they stepped into the old house.

  “Now, sit there and warm yourselves.” The woman tapped the back of a settee facing the fireplace.

  Cotten and John waited for her to settle into a rocker before they took a seat.

  The parlor was an antique dealer’s dream come true. The room was filled with dark furniture, many pieces draped with throw blankets. Atop every table were vases, teapots, statuettes, framed photographs, and lamps. A tapestry hung off the side of an antique upright piano.

  “Are you Violet Crutchfield?” John asked.

  The woman appeared startled. “Of course I am. What is the matter with you, Alistair? Have you gone balmy?” She nodded toward Cotten. “The boiling pot is in the scullery.”

  “Scullery?” Cotten said.

  “Get the boiling pot and set it on the stove. I only need the linens laundered today. Get on with it.”

  Cotten glanced at John.

  “Mrs. Crutchfield, I’m not Alistair. My name is John Tyler, and this is Cotten Stone.”

  For a few moments Violet rocked with her eyes closed. Then she looked at Cotten and said, “Cotten. Hmmph. What kind of name is that for a pretty girl?”

  “We’ve come to ask a couple of questions,” John said.

  “You need to bring in more wood,” Violet said. “I need it stacked there.” She pointed her cane like a weapon toward the hearth. “And you’ve been neglecting the garden.” She grew quiet for a minute. As if she had just seen them for the first time, she said, “Who did you say you were?”

  “John Tyler,” he said.

  Violet rocked. “Would you be so kind to put another log on for me, John Tyler? These old bones chill easily.”

  “I’d be happy to.” He went to the stone fireplace. It appeared to serve as the only heat in the farmhouse. With the fire tongs he lifted a split oak log.

  Suddenly, John stopped cold. He slowly added the log to the fire while he gazed at the cast-iron fireback that protected the firebrick and radiated the heat into the room.

  Dead center of the fireback was the seal of the Venatori.

  The List

  There was a brief knock on the farmhouse door before Cotten and John heard the tumble of a lock followed by the painful moan of the door opening.

  “Hello, Mrs. Crutchfield. It’s Dorothy. I’ve just let myself in.”

  A middle-aged woman came into the parlor and set her tote bag on the floor before unwrapping the scarf around her neck.

  “We have company?” Dorothy said, looking at Cotten and John.

  Violet Crutchfield stared at her two guests. The confused expression made Cotten believe the old woman didn’t remember talking to them.

  “Hello,” Cotten said, standing to introduce herself. John also rose and followed with his introduction.

  “Nice to meet you,” Dorothy said. “I’m Mrs. Crutchfield’s housekeeper. It was my mother’s job before me.” She turned her attention to the old woman and spoke loudly. “And how are we today, Mrs. Crutchfield?”

  “Chilly. The air is so damp,” Violet said. “Would you put another log on, dear?”

  Dorothy looked at the fire. “In a bit. The fire needs to burn down to some hot coals. This will keep you toasty.” She grabbed a throw blanket off the nearest chair and put it over Violet’s legs. Then she said, “Are you friends of Mrs. Crutchfield?”

  “Sorry,” Cotten said, “we should have explained. I’m a news reporter. We’re doing a historical piece on British physicians and medicine of the 1800s. One of Mrs. Crutchfield’s relatives was a London doctor—Chauncey Wyatt. We are hoping to find some background on Dr. Wyatt—you know, old notes, diaries, photos, the kinds of things that would give us a look into the way the medical doctors lived and practiced during that time period, and the obstacles they faced.”

  “Really?” Dorothy said. “Well, our Mrs. Crutchfield’s maiden name is Wyatt. She married Neville Crutchfield.”

  “She lives alone?” Cotten asked.

  Dorothy kept her back to Violet so she wouldn’t hear. “Oh yes, ever since Mr. Crutchfield perished thirty-three years ago. Barren, she was. No children to look after her. She has outlived her siblings as well. But most of the time she doesn’t remember much. She does well, though, to be ninety-four.”

  Violet rocked forward. “Who are your friends, Dorothy? Don’t be rude. You need to introduce them.”

  “You see what I mean.” Dorothy arched her brows, then faced Violet. “They have come to see you about your family. A Dr. Chauncey Wyatt. Do you recognize the name?”

  A broad smile graced Violet’s face as if memories burst through a dam. “I have a tintype of him somewhere. In the attic, probably. This was his house when he retired.” Violet laughed. “That was before I was born, of course. He died here.”

  “She is probably square with that,” Dorothy said quietly. “She sometimes has remarkable recall of things in the past. And I know for a fact the house has been in the family for generations.”

  “Do you think she has that tintype or anything else that was Dr. Wyatt’s?” John asked.

  “There is an attic full of old stuff. She won’t let anyone clean it out. Says it would be like erasing her family, like dusting a shelf.”

  “Poof,” Violet said, seeming to overhear. “They would just disappear, as if they never lived.”

  * * *

  The attic was drafty and dusty. Cotten sneezed and turned up her collar. The heat from the fireplace below didn’t penetrate here. “If I were a ghost hunter, this is the first place I’d investigate,” she said.

  “It does have a spooky quality about it,” Dorothy said. “I don’t think I would want to clean it out even if Mrs. Crutchfield asked.” Dorothy put her hands on her hips. “Sorry the lighting is so poor. You have a look about. I’ll be down in the kitchen, preparing Mrs. Crutchfield’s lunch. Can I expect you to join us?”

  “Thank you,” Cotten said, “but we have very little time.”

  “Did you see the fireback?” John asked when the housekeeper left. “It has the seal of the Venatori. I’ll put money on that it belonged to Chauncey Wyatt.”

  Cotten said, “I’ll have to take a closer look before we leave.”

  “Look at this place,” John said, scanning the contents of the attic. “How many generations’ stuff is up here?”

  “More than we have time to examine.”

  They spent the next hour scouring through boxes and file cabinets, desks and shelves. There were a number of chests and boxes with contents referring to the Wyatt name, but nothing for Chauncey. Finally, Cotten opened a dusty leather and wood chest. Right on top was a logbook with Chauncey Wyatt’s name on the cover. “Pay dirt,” Cotten said. She flipped through her find. “It’s Chauncey’s records of patients and appointments.” She stopped on a page. “Here’s a patient being treated with catarrh. Any idea what that is?”

  “No,” John said as he abandoned his search and joined her. “Let’s see what else is in the chest.” He lifted a wooden music box with a brass crank and porcelain knob. He tried it, but the crank was frozen.

  Cotten found a pair of candlesticks and a silver tray about five inches square with ball feet and a twisted silver handle. “What is this?” she asked, holding it up. In the center of the tray were the initials CHW in high relief.

  “I think it’s a calling-card receiver,” John said. “Whenever anyone came to visit, they left their calling card in one of these in the parlor. I wonder what Chauncey’s middle name was.” He cleared a place on the floor, took everything out of the chest, and arranged the items so they could see each one.

  “What was important about this newspaper article?” Cotten said, picking up a yellowed article. Trying to see in the poor light of the bare overhead bulb, she re
ad as she sat on a rickety, spindle-backed chair. “John, listen to this. This says that rumor has it that two of London’s finest physicians have been working feverishly on a project to cure asthma. But it is believed that these two gentlemen are also undertaking an even more spectacular project.”

  “What was the project?” John asked.

  “It refers to an interview with Dr. Erasmus Wilson, a fellow Freemason, that yielded they were working together on something that would make all Londoners proud, and they would be announcing it soon.”

  John took a small spiral notebook from his jacket. “Erasmus Wilson,” he said as he wrote down the name. “All right, what else have we got?”

  Cotten said, “Looks like only old junk except for the scrapbook, a box of pictures, and maybe this.” She picked up the brittle sheet of paper. Across the top in a sweeping handwritten script was the title FINAL CONTENTS. Below the title was written a list starting with four copies of the Bible. The words English, French, Latin, and Italian appeared beside the notation. Also on the list was a copy of Joseph Whitaker’s Almanac for the year 1878; a picture of Queen Victoria and a cutout of a cartoon from Punch magazine showing the queen exchanging humorous gifts with Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli; a sliding scale of weights and measures; a railway guide; four hand-carved tobacco pipes—two briarwood and two scrimshaw; the London city directory; a street map; and a copy of the Daily Telegraph.

  “What on earth kind of list is that?” John said. “Anything come to mind?”

  “No, but there’s a note written at the bottom.”

  John motioned for her to read it aloud.

  “ ‘The secret is protected by the word of God.’ ”

  Suicide

  “Ted, come quick!”

  Ted Casselman looked up from his desk at the woman standing in the doorway to his office. The expression of fear on her face was unmistakable.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “In the men’s room,” she said. “One of our techs just shot himself.”

  “Are you serious?” he said, moving quickly around his desk to follow her. He was on her heels as they sprinted down the hallway of the Satellite News Network’s video-editing department.