Tower of the Five Orders Page 16

  Treemont stepped into the room.

  Colophon could see his flashlight flicking back and forth.

  “It’s magnificent!” he proclaimed. “The Letterford treasure at last!”

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  2:05 p.m.

  Colophon stepped through the doorway. To her surprise, the room was cool, and the air fresh.

  The light from her flashlight offered only small, tantalizing glimpses of the interior. But Treemont was right—the room was magnificent. It appeared to be long and relatively narrow. She could see the walls to her left and right; the far end of the room eluded her flashlight’s beam. The high walls were lined with bookcases—all filled to the brim with books as far as she could see into the darkness. She pointed her flashlight up. The ceiling was made of brick—like the tunnels—and arched high. From it hung a wooden chandelier filled with candles. She could make out the faint silhouettes of more chandeliers hanging from the middle of the ceiling. She pointed her flashlight toward the center of the room and saw a huge table filled with objects of various sizes and shapes. The items glinted and gleamed as the beam passed over them.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Colophon said. “The family will find out what you’ve done.”

  The voice was now within a few feet of where she stood. “But I’ve already gotten away with it—with the exception of one loose end.”

  She turned her flashlight in his direction. Treemont stood between her and the doorway. She had nowhere to go. She threw her flashlight at him, but it missed and clanked across the brick floor.

  He pointed his flashlight at her, and the bright light blinded her. She could hear his footsteps coming closer, but she couldn’t see him. She balled up her fists. Treemont was at least a foot taller and outweighed her by a hundred pounds. But she was prepared to fight, scratch, and claw with every ounce of strength she had.

  The footsteps came closer.

  And then they stopped.

  Treemont towered above her. She stared up at his cold dark eyes.

  “And now,” he said, “we’ve come to the end of our little quest.”

  Her heart pounded. She told herself to fight back but felt paralyzed with fear. Her arms and legs wouldn’t move. She closed her eyes.

  This is it, she thought.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sanctimonious

  Sanctimonious—Smugly or

  hypocritically righteous.

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  2:25 p.m.

  And then . . . nothing.

  Colophon opened her eyes in time to see Treemont’s flashlight spinning off into the darkness. The light flickered from one wall to the next. She could hear scuffling and made out the silhouettes of two people, but she couldn’t tell what was happening.

  Someone else was in the room, but who? Was it Julian?

  WHACK.

  Something heavy hit the floor in front of her.

  And then came the voice.

  “DON’T TOUCH MY SISTER!”

  A flashlight clicked on. Colophon could see Treemont lying on the floor, his glasses hanging from the side of his face. Standing above him was Case. She had forgotten how much her brother had grown over the last year—he looked more like a man than a teenage boy.

  Treemont started to get up, his eyes filled with rage.

  Suddenly a large, furry missile exploded from the darkness and landed on Treemont’s chest. He fell backwards to the ground.

  “Maggie!” Colophon cried. The golden retriever glanced at Colophon and offered a quick wag of her tail, then, growling with teeth bared, turned her attention back to Treemont.

  Colophon rushed over to Case and hugged him. For once, she had no words for her brother.

  “For the record,” said Case, “searching for clues in a sewer qualifies as doing something stupid.”

  Colophon nodded. She tried to keep her composure, but the tears were flowing. “What about Mom and Dad?” she asked.

  “I had to leave before they got home,” Case replied. “We’re on our own.”

  “Did you see Julian?” Colophon asked. “He was hurt.”

  “I’ll survive,” Julian said as he stepped into the room. His clothes and bag were soaked, he had a large knot on the side of his head, and he smelled like a sewer. “A raging headache—but it could’ve been worse.”

  Case turned to Treemont. “You’ll pay for this,” he said.

  Treemont looked up at Case. “Pay for what? Your sister came down here of her own accord. I found Julian unconscious back in the sewer and came looking for her. She’s lucky I found her. I was simply trying to help her get back home.”

  “That’s a lie,” Julian said. “You knocked me out and forced her down here.”

  “The clumsy fool must have slipped and fallen,” Treemont continued, ignoring Julian.

  “You were going to hurt me,” Colophon said, “until Case showed up.”

  “A misunderstanding,” Treemont replied. “Nothing more. Now, I suggest you get your dog off me before I have you arrested for trespassing and assault.”

  Case whistled for Maggie, who reluctantly backed away from Treemont and stood at her owner’s side.

  Treemont stood, dusted himself off, and straightened his glasses. “Shameful is what it is. A young girl running around in a sewer with her miscreant cousin. And then her brother and his dog assault me as I’m trying to help the poor girl.”

  “You were following us,” insisted Julian.

  “I was searching for what is rightfully mine,” Treemont replied. He bent over, picked up his flashlight, and pointed it at the table in the middle of the room. “And I found it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Design

  Design—A reasoned purpose; an intent.

  London, England

  Saturday, June 16

  2:35 p.m.

  Julian removed a box of matches from his bag, stood on a chair, and carefully lit the ancient candles in the chandelier hanging in the middle of the chamber. A large mirror at the far end reflected the light back throughout the room, bathing it in a warm amber glow.

  Case, Julian, Colophon, and Treemont stood around the table.

  It was remarkable.

  The table was filled with artifacts, manuscripts, and objects that defied imagination and, in many instances, description. Julian pointed to a large book bound in a brilliant red lambskin. “A pristine edition of Shakespeare’s First Folio,” he marveled. He turned to Colophon. “It’s the first printed collection of Shakespeare’s plays. Almost four hundred years old and in perfect condition!”

  Colophon peered at a small, oddly shaped object on the table. Is that a silver nose? she wondered.

  But of all the objects on the table, one item almost immediately seized everyone’s interest.

  “Look,” said Julian. He pointed to a small, nondescript journal on the table’s edge. On the cover was an image of a falcon holding a spear. And beneath this image was a single initial and a single word: W. SHAKESPEARE. Everyone stood transfixed by the sight.

  Julian picked it up and wiped the thick layer of dust from its cover. He then gently skimmed through the pages.

  All discussion ceased. The room fell silent save for the gentle whisper of the pages as they turned. Finally, Julian closed the journal.

  “Well?” said Treemont.

  “It is,” said Julian, “exactly what it appears to be—the journal of William Shakespeare.”

  “Yes!” said Colophon.

  “And,” he continued, “it unquestionably authenticates the Shakespeare manuscripts that we discovered—the handwriting is identical.”

  Colophon looked at her brother. “The manuscripts are real.”

  Case nodded. He was trying to stay composed, but she could see the relief in his eyes. The last few weeks had been difficult for both of them.

  “So now I own both Shakespeare’s journal and his manuscripts,”
said Treemont. “This has proven to be quite a momentous day.”

  “There’s more,” said Julian, ignoring him.

  Again the room fell silent.

  “The journal,” he said, “appears to have been written during Shakespeare’s lost years.”

  Colophon turned to him. “What are you talking about? What lost years? You never mentioned any lost years.”

  “It’s one of the enduring mysteries of Shakespeare,” said Julian. “He just sort of disappeared from Stratford in 1582 and then reappeared a decade later as an actor and playwright in London. There’s very little evidence as to what he did during those years—until now.” Julian paused. “It appears that Shakespeare traveled quite extensively through Europe—often in the company of a reputed spy.”

  “Christopher Marlowe!” Colophon exclaimed.

  Julian smiled. “Marlowe indeed.”

  “Wait a second,” said Colophon. “Does that mean Shakespeare was also a spy?”

  “That remains to be seen,” replied Julian. “But the objects on this table and throughout this room were apparently collected by Marlowe and Shakespeare on their trips throughout Europe. I suspect the stories preserved in this journal were never meant to be revealed in their lifetimes. It appears Shakespeare trusted only one man to preserve those stories—Miles Letterford. Can you imagine what can be learned from this journal?”

  “What can be learned?” Treemont said. “That book is worth tens of millions of dollars—and it’s mine. The highest bidder can do with it as they like.”

  Colophon stepped back from the table. She wondered if the room held more clues.

  She turned and looked at the large mirror at the far end of the room. It was as if she were looking through a window into another world. She walked slowly toward the mirror until she stood directly in front of it.

  It was huge and ornate. It towered over her. Carved into the top of the mirror’s frame was a large medallion with the heads of two bearded men facing in opposite directions. The sides of the frame had been carved to resemble swords. And at the bottom of the frame—carved into an open scroll—were the words AB OVO USQU∑ AD MALA.

  A slight smile crossed Colophon’s face.

  “Something funny?”

  She turned to find Julian standing beside her. At the far end of the room she could see her brother arguing with Treemont. Case seemed to be holding his own.

  Colophon pointed to the words at the bottom of the frame. “He never lets up, does he?” she said.

  “Who?” asked Julian.

  “Miles Letterford,” she replied. “More Latin—another clue.”

  Julian sighed. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I believe that inscription is there for a very specific purpose. It’s an old Roman saying—it means ‘from eggs to apples.’”

  “From eggs to apples? You don’t think that’s mysterious?”

  “No. The ancient Romans ate their meals in a specific pattern—literally from eggs to apples. It’s the same as saying from beginning to end.”

  Colophon stared at the inscription. “So it means this is truly the end.”

  “And, I suppose, the beginning as well,” Julian said. “Miles Letterford probably used this room to plan his clues. This is where it all started.”

  “And so this is where it all ends,” she replied.

  Colophon stared into the mirror.

  “So no more clues,” she said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Julian replied. “We’ve come full circle.”

  She pointed at the top of the mirror. “So is that what the two-headed guy is supposed to represent?”

  “Yes, that’s the Roman god Janus. He was the god of beginnings and endings. He was represented by . . .” Julian paused in midsentence. He stared up at the two-headed man.

  “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “It’s just that Janus was also the god of . . . doorways.”

  “The god of doorways?”

  Julian didn’t respond. He simply stared at the mirror.

  “What are you thinking?” Colophon asked.

  Instead of replying, Julian walked over to the mirror and ran his hands down each side and across its surface. He put his ear against the glass and listened. He then bent down and examined the inscription at the bottom of the frame.

  Colophon knelt beside him and watched Julian run his finger across the inscription.

  AB OVO USQU∑ AD MALA

  From eggs to apples.

  Julian’s finger lingered over the third word. Then Colophon realized what he was looking at—the last letter in the word was not an E, it was ∑.

  Sigma.

  Julian looked at Colophon, grinned, and pushed down on the letter.

  At the opposite end of the room, Treemont continued to argue with Case. “This chamber belongs to me,” he said. “You and your sister and Julian need to get out.”

  Case was furious. Treemont was right—they couldn’t prove that he had attacked Julian or that he intended to harm Colophon. And technically, the room and its contents belonged to Treemont—that is, until the family found out the manuscripts were real. Maybe. For now, Case knew he needed to get Colophon back home—and get Julian checked out by a doctor.

  “We’re leaving,” Case said.

  He turned to call his sister, when—

  CLANK

  The sound reverberated through the room.

  CLANK CLANK CLANK

  “It’s Colophon and Julian,” said Case. He pointed at the opposite end of the room. “The mirror—it’s moving!”

  Treemont looked toward the far end. To his amazement, the mirror was opening—like a large door.

  Colophon and Julian stood back as the mirror slowly opened. They could hear large gears turning somewhere deep within the wall—metal against metal.

  CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK CLANK

  Colophon looked into the opening behind the mirror. At first, all she saw was darkness. But to her amazement, light slowly filled the space, revealing a set of stone stairs behind the mirror. The light, she realized, was coming not from within the chamber but from some unseen source at the top of the stairway.

  Suddenly Maggie ran past her and bounded up the stairs.

  “Maggie!” Colophon yelled. But it was too late—Maggie was gone.

  Colophon started after Maggie, but Julian grabbed her. “Wait. You don’t know what’s up there.”

  “Maggie’s up there!” she insisted. “I’ve got to go after her!”

  She broke from Julian’s grasp and headed for the stairs.

  “Stop!” The deep voice brought her to an immediate halt.

  It was Treemont. He was walking directly toward her. “I’ve had enough of you and your cousin,” he said. “Turn around and leave—now!”

  Treemont reached Colophon and stepped between her and the stairway. “Have you gone deaf? I said leave!”

  But Colophon was no longer paying any attention to Treemont. Nor was Julian or Case.

  A large shadow on the stairway behind Treemont had grabbed everyone’s attention—a shadow with two arms, two legs, and a head.

  Treemont, oblivious, continued to berate Colophon until, finally, the shadow spoke.

  “Hello?”

  The voice came from the top of the stairway and caught Treemont by surprise. He jumped out of the doorway and behind Julian.

  “Hello?” the shadow repeated.

  Colophon stepped toward the shadow. “Mom?”

  “Coly? Is that you?” the voice answered.

  A moment later Meg Letterford appeared in the doorway, immediately joined by Mull.

  “Mom! Dad!” Case exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are we doing here?” Meg said. “The better question is, what are you doing here? I was in the kitchen trying to reach you on your cell phone when suddenly Maggie came running in to greet us. All I know is that we have a set of stairs where the fireplace in our library used to be.”

  “Our library?
” said Colophon. She turned to Julian. “You mean the Letterford treasure has been under our house the whole time?”

  “Wait a second,” said Mull Letterford. “What treasure? What’s going on?”

  Colophon pointed toward the table in the middle of the room. “Dad, it’s the real Letterford treasure. We found it!”

  “Mull,” said Julian, “the Shakespeare manuscripts were just the beginning. This room will change history!”

  Treemont’s voice cut through the room and stopped any further discussion. “Enough!” he said. “Get out—all of you.”

  “Now see here,” said Mull Letterford. “I think an explanation is in order.”

  Treemont looked at Mull. “The only explanation is that you’re trespassing.”

  Colophon turned to Treemont. “We’re not trespassing. And we’re not leaving.”

  Treemont’s eyes turned cold. “I’ve warned you.”

  “There’s a trespasser here,” said Colophon, “but it’s not us.”

  She pointed up at the library. “Remind us—who owns the house at the top of the stairs?”

  The blood drained from Treemont’s face.

  “I can answer that,” said Julian. “I believe Mull Letterford is the rightful owner of the home. Isn’t he, Treemont?”

  Treemont opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  Julian stood directly in front of Treemont. “I trust you understand what this means.”

  “This can’t be,” Treemont exclaimed. He held up the Letterford family key. “The key is mine!”

  “I’m not exactly sure what’s going on,” said Meg Letterford, “but I know one thing. That key might belong to you, but this room is part of our house.” She poked her finger into the middle of Treemont’s chest. “And unless you want to be arrested for trespassing, I suggest you leave immediately.”