Tower of the Five Orders Read online

  Carbondale, Pennsylvania

  Tuesday, April 17

  2:35 p.m.

  Trigue James ended the phone call.

  Whitmore would cooperate.

  James had known that he would.

  James was parked a half mile away from the entrance to the storage facility, at a small strip mall. It provided a perfect vantage point. He could observe anyone who entered or exited.

  James took a sip from a bottle of Diet Coke. Treemont contacting him a month ago had come as somewhat of a surprise. Things had not gone well in London the previous December, and James had been reluctant to have any further involvement with Treemont’s schemes.

  But Treemont had been persistent—he had insisted that he needed James’s unique skills. Persistence, James knew all too well, could be a sign of impatience—and an impatient client was a risky client.

  He took another sip of Diet Coke.

  Treemont, however, had not struck James as impatient or risky. So James had offered his services yet again—for a substantially increased price. After all, a job was a job.

  James glanced at the storage facility. Whitmore’s car still sat in the parking lot.

  He opened the back of his cell phone and carefully removed the SIM card. He snapped it in two, then dropped both pieces into the half-empty bottle of Diet Coke.

  James started his car, pulled out of the strip mall, and headed east.

  Manchester, Georgia

  Friday, May 25

  6:15 a.m.

  Colophon Letterford sat upright in bed as soon as her alarm sounded.

  It was the last day of school.

  Normally Colophon dreaded those words. She enjoyed school. She enjoyed her teachers and her classes (particularly social studies) and seeing her friends every day. Not that summer was entirely bad—it had its brief moments of fun. But it usually brought something that Colophon dreaded.

  Summer camp.

  She hated summer camp.

  Each June for the last three years she had been shipped off for four agonizingly long weeks at Camp Oglethorpe in North Carolina. Her father had attended Camp Oglethorpe in his youth and frequently regaled her with stories of summers spent swimming in the lake, learning to fish, canoeing, making crafts, and engaging in a host of other fun camp activities.

  He had obviously been brainwashed.

  In Colophon’s opinion, Camp Oglethorpe was a mosquito-infested chamber of horrors where the temperature never dropped below one hundred degrees. And that wasn’t even the worst part. Colophon had never been among the most popular girls at camp. She always had one or two good friends and had always gotten along reasonably well with most of the other kids there. But the camp was run by a small cadre of popular kids. Every year Colophon expected it to change, but it didn’t. The popular kids got the best camp assignments, the best cabins, the best table in the cafeteria, and the coolest counselors. The divide between the popular kids and the rest of the campers (which included Colophon) was huge. And it was dreadful.

  But maybe this summer would be different. This year it wouldn’t matter who the popular kids were, how hot it got, or if the mosquitoes were the size of small cars. Colophon had solved an ancient family riddle, barely escaped with her life from an underground crypt, chased a criminal through the streets of London, and helped save the family business. Compared to all that, Camp Oglethorpe would be a minor challenge.

  She dressed quickly, brushed her teeth, and hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Coly,” Audrey Letterford said as Colophon entered the kitchen.

  “Aunt Audrey! What are you doing here?”

  “Your father called me late last night and asked me to come down and take you and Case to school this morning. He had . . . something come up.”

  Mull Letterford’s older sister was a fixture in the Letterford home, so Colophon was not particularly surprised to find her in the kitchen. Meg Letterford was in San Francisco at an academic conference, so Colophon’s father had planned to take her and Case to school that morning. Still, something seemed off with her aunt. She was not displaying her usual room-consuming personality.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Colophon. “You seem . . . upset.”

  “I’m just tired, dear,” her aunt replied. “I didn’t get in from Atlanta until early this morning.”

  Colophon decided not to pursue the subject. It was not the first time her father had had to rush away on business. And her aunt did look tired—exhausted even.

  Case managed to make his way downstairs at 6:43 a.m., which was precisely two minutes before they had to leave for school. He took one look at his aunt, grunted hello, grabbed a can of iced coffee from the refrigerator, and went out to the car.

  The drive to school was quiet. Case slept the entire way. Despite Colophon’s best efforts to engage her aunt in conversation, Audrey barely spoke.

  When Audrey dropped Colophon off at the middle school, Colophon reminded her that it was the last day of school and that she would be getting out at noon. “Don’t forget me,” she joked.

  Audrey simply nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

  Colophon stood on the sidewalk and watched the car pull off toward the high school. Aunt Audrey had seemed on the verge of tears. Colophon would have to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering her aunt later, when she picked her up.

  Colophon turned and headed down the covered walkway to the middle school building. She didn’t need any books for the last day of class, and she had already cleaned out her locker for the year, so she headed straight for homeroom. Every classroom in the building buzzed with the excitement of the last day of school. As Colophon turned the corner into her homeroom, she could hear the loud chatter of her classmates.

  But the chatter ceased as soon as Colophon entered. Every eye turned toward her.

  What was going on?

  Colophon slowly made her way up the row toward her desk. As she walked, she looked over at her best friend at school, Ashley Eager, who sat a couple of rows away. Ashley quickly averted her eyes and looked down at her desk. Colophon glanced around the classroom. Ms. Bowman, her teacher, was nowhere to be found.

  Colophon reached her desk and sat down. The room was absolutely silent. At the next desk over sat Elliott Messer.

  “Elliott,” she said, “what’s going on?”

  He tried to ignore her.

  “Elliott,” she repeated, “what’s going on?”

  He turned to her and whispered: “Ms. Bowman told us not to say anything.”

  “Anything about what?” she whispered back.

  “Go ahead, Elliott,” said Anna Drew, who sat in front of Colophon. “Show it to her.”

  Elliott handed Colophon a folded-up newspaper. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Colophon opened the newspaper—it was the morning edition of the Columbus Ledger. The headline, which covered half the front page, read: SHAKESPEARE MANUSCRIPTS FAKE.

  Colophon stared at the headline. She could feel every eye in the room on her. No one spoke.

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Ms. Bowman.

  “Coly,” the teacher said, “I’m so sorry. I was in the front hallway looking for you. You must’ve slipped by in the crowd.”

  Colophon couldn’t respond. Her eyes burned. She was on the verge of tears.

  “Your father just called,” she continued. “Your aunt is coming back to pick you up.”

  Colophon simply stared at the headline.

  Colophon sat on a couch in the principal’s office and read the article. According to the newspaper, a professor by the name of Reginald Whitmore had announced with great fanfare that the Shakespeare manuscripts were, in all likelihood, forgeries. Dr. Whitmore, who specialized in the analysis of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century manuscripts and books, had actually been hired by Letterford & Sons to assist in the cataloging and analysis of the manuscripts. “I have significant concerns over the authenticity of the paper, the ink, and the handwriting on th
e documents,” Dr. Whitmore had said. “These documents should be subjected to the highest level of scrutiny and require extensive evaluation.” A representative from the British Museum had suggested that a commission be established to authenticate the documents.

  “Coly.”

  It was Case. He stood in the doorway of the principal’s office. His hair was a mess, and he had a bruised lower lip.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “Someone in my homeroom class thought it was a good idea to express his opinion about the manuscripts.”

  “Dad’s going to freak when he sees you.”

  “I think Dad has other things on his mind.” Case sat down beside his sister on the couch.

  “The manuscripts are real,” Colophon said. “You’ll see—Dad will prove they’re real.”

  Case sighed. “I hope you’re right, Coly. I really hope you’re right.”

  Chapter Three

  Pedant

  Pedant—one who pays undue attention

  to minor details or formal rules.

  British Library

  London, England

  Wednesday, May 30

  10:28 a.m.

  Mull Letterford sat in a small and uncomfortable chair in a small and uncomfortable waiting room within the administrative wing of the British Library. The waiting room served several offices, including the office of one P. Mallory Fullingham-Trout, MSW. Mull glanced at his watch. His appointment with Mr. Fullingham-Trout was scheduled for 10:30.

  The last few days had been a blur. The previous Thursday he had received a late-afternoon phone call about a press conference that was to be held in New York City that evening. The press conference had been called by Dr. Reginald Whitmore—the man Mull had hired to help curate the Shakespeare manuscripts. Dr. Whitmore apparently now questioned the authenticity of the documents and had actually suggested that they might be forgeries. The news had stunned Mull. Dr. Whitmore had received unlimited access to the manuscripts and had never expressed a single concern or doubt over their authenticity—until now.

  Upon receiving news of the press conference, Mull had called his sister in Atlanta and asked if she would come down and take care of Colophon and Case. He had arrived in New York early Friday morning—just in time to read the morning’s headlines.

  SHAKESPEARE SHENANIGANS! read the New York Post.

  MANUSCRIPT MISCHIEF! cried the Daily News.

  WAS SHAKESPEARE REALLY ELVIS? questioned the National Enquirer.

  Mull had spent most of the early morning fending off the press. He became so caught up in responding to the media that it did not occur to him until it was too late that Case and Colophon were on their way to school and knew nothing of the news. His anxious calls to the school and to his sister were too late.

  Later on Friday, a representative of the British government had contacted him, asking him to be available for a meeting this morning at the British Library. So he had flown to London and now sat waiting for that meeting to begin.

  The door to Mr. Fullingham-Trout’s office opened precisely at 10:30, and a short, thin man with thick glasses stepped into the waiting room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Letterford, I’m Mallory Fullingham-Trout. Won’t you please come in?”

  Mull gathered his documents and entered the small, cramped office. Fullingham-Trout motioned for him to take a seat in a small chair in front of the desk, then settled into the large leather chair behind the desk.

  “May I offer you some tea?”

  “No, thank you,” replied Mull.

  “Very well. I would like to begin by thanking you for being here this morning. As you can imagine, the DCMS was very excited when the Shakespeare manuscripts were discovered last year—”

  “The DCMS?” asked Mull.

  “The Department for Culture, Media and Sport.” Fullingham-Trout seemed perturbed that Mull had not recognized the acronym. “To my point,” he continued, “the department was very excited by the discovery of the manuscripts.”

  “As we all were,” said Mull.

  Fullingham-Trout cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose you were. But now we have this . . . um . . . shall we say, complication.”

  “The manuscripts are real,” Mull said bluntly. He had held the fragile manuscripts in his hands. He had read the handwritten notes and stage directions that could have come from only one man. He had no doubts.

  Fullingham-Trout cleared his throat again. “Yes, yes, that would be quite wonderful, wouldn’t it? The Crown, as you are well aware, took great pride in this discovery. Not everyone gets to meet the queen, do they? But we can’t simply ignore Dr. Whitmore’s allegations. After all, he worked for you, did he not?”

  Mull nodded.

  “Very well,” said Fullingham-Trout. “The minister for DCMS, through his under secretary, has asked me to seek your cooperation in addressing this matter.”

  “I’ll certainly cooperate in any way necessary.”

  The short, thin man beamed. “Excellent, excellent. We have already started the process of putting together a commission to review the manuscripts. The chairman of the commission will be Sir Hedley Penrose.”

  “I’m not familiar with Sir Penrose,” said Mull.

  “A good man, I assure you,” replied Fullingham-Trout. “Sir Penrose honorably served the Crown for forty years as a valued civil servant. As good a bureaucrat as there ever has been. He was well known for his thorough reports—an absolute model of government efficiency. You may have heard of his West Upton Sewer Report?”

  Mull shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  Fullingham-Trout seemed disappointed. “Pity. Rest assured, it was the best seven hundred pages on sewer financing that I’ve ever read.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I have been personally assured by Sir Penrose that the commission will be very comprehensive in its efforts.”

  “And how long do you anticipate it will take?” asked Mull.

  “Oh, it should move along quite swiftly, I imagine,” replied Fullingham-Trout. “A committee has been set up to review the qualifications of proposed commission members. Once the committee has issued its report, the minister will act quickly to appoint the commission—after, of course, the committee’s report is reviewed by the DCMS Standing Panel on Committee Reports. Once that report has been approved and reviewed, I believe we will have the full commission appointed in no more than four or five months.”

  Mull sat upright in his chair. “Four or five months just to appoint the commission?”

  Fullingham-Trout beamed with pride. “Yes, I was surprised as well at how quickly the process will move. Normally it would take at least a year. But the minister has insisted that we move this process along as quickly as possible.”

  Mull could barely bring himself to ask the next question. “And how long do you anticipate that it will take for the commission to reach its conclusion?”

  Fullingham-Trout puffed out his chest. His eyes filled his thick glasses. “Oh, rest assured, Mr. Letterford, Sir Penrose has personally assured me that he will push to complete the commission’s report in no more than two years.”

  Mull sank back into his seat.

  Letterford & Sons would not survive for two years.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Thursday, May 31

  4:35 p.m.

  Mull turned on his cell phone as soon as his plane landed. The text messages immediately started pinging. They were all from Uncle Portis.

  The first message read: Family has requested meeting.

  The second read: Meeting scheduled for 5:00 p.m. at the Atlanta office.

  Mull walked into the main conference room of Letterford & Sons a few minutes after five. He looked and felt exhausted. Treemont sat at the far end of the conference room table. Uncle Portis escorted Mull to a chair opposite him.

  This time, as had not been the case at the meeting the previous Thanksgiving, Treemont was silent. Today Brantley Letterford—a distant cousin of Mull’s—stood and addr
essed the family. Brantley expressed concern over Mull’s ability to lead Letterford & Sons under the current circumstances. The media, he noted, were openly suggesting that the Shakespeare manuscripts might be forgeries.

  “Is that what you believe?” asked Mull. “That the manuscripts are forgeries? That I would place the reputation of this company in jeopardy?”

  Brantley avoided Mull’s gaze. “My opinion is of little consequence,” he muttered. “But your ownership of the company rested upon the authenticity of those manuscripts—and that authenticity is now in question.”

  Mull glared across the table at Brantley. It was true that the timely discovery of the Shakespeare manuscripts had allowed Mull to remain the owner of Letterford & Sons. If Colophon had not uncovered and followed the clue hidden in the portrait of Miles Letterford, Treemont would now be the firm’s owner. But Mull also knew that Treemont’s treachery and scheming were the reasons his ownership of the company had ever been questioned in the first place. And despite all appearances, Mull knew that Treemont was also behind today’s meeting. Brantley had always been a bit of a weasel, but he was a follower and nothing more. He would never have called this meeting on his own accord or spoken with such confidence. Treemont was clearly in charge. But who else was involved? And why?

  Brantley argued that the condition of the company had to be carefully monitored and assessed—and that immediate damage control was required. He suggested that another family member should be selected to take on this task—someone who was not tied to the discovery of the now-disputed manuscripts. Treemont, Brantley explained, was uniquely qualified. Treemont’s father, now deceased, had been a loyal and respected employee of the company for many, many years. Treemont had practically grown up in the business.