Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave Page 4

  Colophon therefore persisted with the conversation. “My father is Mull Letterford. Does he know why you want to speak with him?”

  “Yes,” Julian replied, “I suspect he does.”

  “Then maybe I will simply ask him why you are here. It certainly sounded very exciting when you burst into the room.”

  Colophon started to raise her hand to wave at her father.

  “No—wait.”

  She dropped her hand.

  Julian leaned back in his chair. “If you must know . . .”

  “I must,” insisted Colophon.

  “I need to examine the portrait of Miles Letterford that hangs in the foyer.” He turned back to his plate.

  “Why do you need to see it?”

  “Do you suffer from some sort of obsessive- compulsive disorder?”

  Colophon ignored the insult. “Why do you need to see the painting? It’s rather dreary.”

  Julian turned impatiently to Colophon, bent over, and whispered, “It is not a concern for children. Now, please eat your vegetables and be a good little girl.”

  Colophon stared at the newcomer. “I always eat my vegetables.”

  Keeping her eyes directly on this so-called Cousin Julian, she started to raise her hand again to get her father’s attention.

  “No, please don’t,” whispered Julian.

  Colophon lowered her hand again. Julian closed his eyes and ran his hands through his stringy hair.

  “You have to understand,” he whispered to her, “this is not a topic for conversation around this table. You may have noticed that I don’t exactly fit in with the crowd around here. Please, I’ve been subject to enough ridicule by the family already.”

  As have I, thought Colophon. But she recognized that the urgency and concern in his voice was real. Her frustration over being treated like a small child quickly passed.

  “Why would anyone make fun of you?” she asked.

  “Honestly, look at me. I’m unkempt and unshaven. My hair is long. I don’t wear suits, ties, or cardigans. And perhaps most important, I don’t work in the family business. That makes me a bit of a crackpot, I suppose,” he replied.

  “My brother makes fun of me, and I don’t care for it one bit. I think it is quite rude.”

  Julian leaned back in his chair and put his fork down. He pulled his glasses off and cleaned them with his napkin. He replaced his glasses and turned back to Colophon.

  “You will have to accept my apologies for my initial rudeness. My skin is not as thick as it once was. The years have left me a bit testy. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

  Julian sat up straight, and extended his right hand to Colophon. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Julian Letterford, your father’s first cousin. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Colophon took Julian’s right hand and shook it. “And my name is Colophon Letterford. It is likewise a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Chapter Seven

  To Me Thy Secrets Tell

  Julian excused himself from the dinner table shortly after the plates were removed. Colophon had seen him engaged in a brief conversation with her father and then lost track of him. Shortly after dessert was served—a wonderful bread pudding—Colophon made her way to the front of the house to the portrait of Miles Letterford. There she found Julian standing in front of the painting. His face was pressed close to it behind a large magnifying glass. Colophon stood directly behind him straining to see what he was examining.

  “And what do you make of it?” Julian’s voice startled her.

  Julian repeated, “Well, what do you make of it?” He remained bent over with his face pressed against the magnifying glass.

  “To be honest, I’ve never really looked at it all that close. It’s creepy. I wish my father would remove it.”

  “He can’t remove it.”

  “What do you mean?” Colophon asked. Of course he could remove it. This was his house.

  Julian stood back from the painting and looked down at her. “Are you telling me that you don’t know about the portrait?”

  She shook her head. “No. Am I supposed to know about it?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. It is a critical part of your family’s history.”

  Julian paused briefly, looked down the hallway, and then leaned over to Colophon.

  “Very well,” he whispered, “I guess it’s up to me. The portrait was painted by Dimplert Steumacher, an obscure portrait painter in the early seventeenth century in England. Have you heard of him?”

  Colophon shook her head.

  “The fact that you haven’t heard of him is certainly not a knock against you. Poor Dimplert’s fame has not extended into the twenty-first century.”

  He stood back and gestured toward the painting.

  “Dimplert painted portraits. He painted this particular portrait on commission by Miles Letterford. It’s a very nice example of his work as a portraitist. However, it is much more than that. In his last will and testament, Miles Letterford decreed that the portrait must always hang in the home of the company’s current owner.”

  “Always?”

  “And forever. It is, if you will, one of the marks of ownership.”

  “Like the key,” Colophon said.

  “Yes, exactly,” replied Julian. “This portrait has been passed down from Letterford to Letterford for generations.”

  Colophon stared up at it. “Miles Letterford must have had quite the ego if he wanted his portrait to be hung forever.”

  “Perhaps,” Julian replied. “Most members of the family certainly seem to think so. That’s why they think he required it to be hung in this manner—so everyone would be reminded of who started the company.”

  He turned and looked at her. “I can assure you, however, that they are wrong. There is another explanation.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Look at the frame.”

  Colophon moved close to the painting and looked up at the frame. It was quite thick. The wood had darkened over the centuries into a deep brown—almost black—color. It smelled like dust. In the top corners of the frame were round wooden medallions. A third medallion was located at the bottom of and at the center of the frame. Carved into the medallions were the profiles of three men. The rest of the frame appeared to be some sort of intricately carved scrollwork.

  “Looks the same as it always has. Creepy.”

  Julian lightly ran his finger along the carved scrollwork. “You’re not seeing what’s directly in front of you.”

  Colophon moved closer to the frame. As had Julian, she ran her index finger along the scrollwork. “Just a bunch of squiggles and lines.” She looked at her finger and corrected herself: “Dusty squiggles and lines.”

  “Ah, but wait.” Julian walked a short way down the hall and flicked off the switch for the hallway light. The hallway turned dark.

  “Well, that helps,” said Colophon. “Now I can’t see it at all.”

  Julian cut on a small flashlight. “Here, let’s see if this helps.” He pointed the light at the top of the frame.

  Colophon noticed that the woodwork on the frame was not uniform in depth. Parts of it were deeper recessed than others. As Julian moved the flashlight across the frame, a pattern appeared—a pattern that Colophon instantly recognized. Recessed within the elaborate scrollwork—and almost hidden within the pattern—were letters. Although she had been around the painting her entire life, she had never noticed the letters, carved delicately into the detail of the frame.

  “Letters,” Colophon said.

  Julian pulled over a chair. “Stand on the chair. Hold the flashlight and start reading from the top.”

  Starting from the top of the frame and moving the flashlight clockwise, Colophon read:

  “Good friend among the stars be found,

  A treasure—heare the key thus bound.

  Blesed be the man who lays the claime,

  To that encloased within this frame.”

 
; Colophon stepped off the chair, as Julian turned the lights back on.

  “It seems to have an awful lot of misspellings.”

  “Perhaps for our day and age, but four hundred years ago it would have been perfectly acceptable. Now, aside from the spelling, what catches your attention?”

  Colophon turned back to the frame. The words had disappeared back into the scrollwork as if by magic.

  “It mentioned a treasure . . . ?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What treasure?”

  “The family treasure, of course.”

  Colophon looked up at him. “Whoa, hold on. I didn’t know we had a family treasure. That’s awesome.”

  “Yes, yes, I quite agree. Awesome indeed.”

  “So how come I haven’t heard about this treasure?”

  Julian sighed. He seemed to sigh a lot. “Most of the family believes that Miles Letterford was actually referring to himself as the ‘treasure’ of the family—an ego boast of sorts.”

  Colophon looked back at the picture. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so creepy.

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think otherwise,” replied Julian. “The problem—as I see it—is that Miles did not have a reputation of having a grand ego. Quite the opposite in fact. He was a humble, hard-working, and highly intelligent man. It doesn’t make sense. Why hang it in the house? How many people will actually see it in a house? Why not a college or library? He was a distinguished graduate of Trinity College. Why not there? Donate some money in your will, and BAM, the portrait is hung in some hallway in perpetuity. No. He didn’t do that. He wanted it hung in his home.”

  “Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on his family,” Colophon said with a sly smile.

  Julian ignored her comment. “Based on reading his papers, Miles appears to have been quite jovial, good-natured, and generous. His papers document numerous loans that he made to keep businesses afloat, to pay off debts, and for other reasons. It’s hard to tell if any of those loans were ever repaid. Considering the favorable terms of the loans, I suspect most, if not all, were forgiven. He gave to numerous charities. He was a supporter of the arts.”

  Julian paused and stared at the painting.

  “No, Miles Letterford was not some raving egomaniac. The inscription doesn’t make sense based on what we actually know about him. I believe the inscription—placed there by Miles—refers to something else. A real treasure.”

  “What type of treasure?”

  Julian paused again. “That’s just it,” he finally replied, his tone apologetic. “I’m not sure. I have my theories, but that’s all they are—theories. Many members of this family have ruined themselves by obsessing over the poem in a quest for treasure. I suspect your father thinks I am heading down that same path. That’s probably why you have heard nothing of the treasure—or of me.”

  Colophon nodded in agreement. “I don’t think my father would approve.”

  Julian turned back to face the painting. “Pity. It would have been interesting to see his bright mind attack this mystery.”

  Colophon likewise turned back to the painting and stared at it. “So, you really believe it’s a treasure map?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where has that treasure map led you?” asked Colophon.

  “Everywhere and nowhere.” Julian turned and faced her. “You’ll have to excuse my self-pity. I tend to indulge myself at times, often at the expense of those around me. So tell me, what do you see in the painting? Anything jump out at you?”

  Colophon looked up at her great-great-great-great grandfather’s visage. The painting had darkened significantly with age and now had a soft amber glaze. A vast web of thin cracks covered the surface.

  In the painting, Miles Letterford, who appeared to be around seventy years old, sat in front of a large window that framed a night sky full of stars. He was posed behind a table. In his hands, he held a large book. Colophon could not make out the cover due to the darkening of the painting. On the table were scattered several type sets—small engraved blocks of wood used for printing at the time Miles was alive. On the wall to his right and at the very edge of the painting was what appeared to be a round silver object. Numerous other items were sprinkled throughout the painting.

  “Well?” asked Julian.

  “If it’s a treasure map, there seem to be a lot of potential clues.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, there are the wooden blocks.”

  “The type set.”

  “Yes,” replied Colophon. “The type set. They seem like a fairly obvious clue. I doubt that they were included simply for interest. I suspect they mean something.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, there is the book. I can’t quite make out its title.” She paused. “To be honest with you,” she finally said, “the painting seems filled with objects that could all be clues.”

  “Yes, all of those items could be clues—or not. The problem with this painting is not identifying the clues. The problem is trying to figure out what they mean—if anything.”

  “Well, does the type set spell anything?”

  Julian threw his hands into the air. “Oh, they spell out all sorts of stuff. Trust me, I have spent any number of evenings rearranging those letters. But I am afraid that my efforts have led nowhere.”

  “Then is it a code of some sort?”

  “Perhaps, but what type of code? Some form of cipher? Is it the key to the code or the code itself? I have tried to match the letters against numerous codes. Nothing fits. I’m sure there is a code hidden somewhere in this picture. I just can’t figure it out.”

  This particular confession seemed to deflate him. “To be honest with you, most—well, perhaps all—of the family believes that I am a bit odd for pursuing the treasure.”

  “My brother thinks I am odd.”

  “Well,” replied Julian, “I’m hardly one to judge, am I?”

  “My brother wants to sit around all day and listen to his iPod, play video games, and slowly turn into a vegetable. I like to read. I like to write. I like to draw. And I enjoy school. If that makes me odd, so be it.”

  “Well put,” replied Julian.

  Colophon and Julian stared at the painting in silence for several moments.

  Colophon interrupted the silence. “So, you never explained why you came here this evening to look at the painting.”

  “Well, as you can see, there are a lot of details that are difficult to discern. After the painting was completed, a glaze was brushed all across the surface to give it a uniform finish. Unfortunately, over time, that glaze has yellowed, darkened, and cracked. This painting has hung over fireplaces and has been exposed to smoke and soot for a couple of centuries and more. That’s why it’s so dark. Most people don’t realize how brilliant the colors originally were in these old paintings. Did you know, for example, that many people, including art historians, opposed the cleaning of the Sistine Chapel because they were so used to the haze, smoke, and soot that covered it? When it was cleaned, it was brilliant, as Michelangelo intended. Details that had been lost for centuries were revealed. The same is true here. I hoped that the painting hid secrets. I thought that there may be clues in the shadows that would help me in deciphering the painting and that by examining the painting a little closer I could see if any hidden details emerged. The shadows, however, appear to hide nothing.”

  “So what will you do next?”

  “I will do as I have always done. I will ponder and obsess over the clues and what they mean. I will rearrange the type set for the one millionth time. I will continue to read about Miles Letterford. I will look at the problem from all sides. That’s all I can do.”

  He looked down at Colophon.

  “Now, my dear, I must make my way out of your house. I am afraid that I have imposed on your family far too much this evening. Please express my thanks to your father and mother for dinner and for allowing me to examine the painting. And thank you f
or your company. It has truly been a pleasure.”

  And with that, Julian placed his cap on his head, gathered his collection of documents under his arm, and headed down the hallway to the entrance.

  Colophon turned back to the painting and stared at it again.

  Chapter Eight

  To Desperate Ventures

  Colophon sat in a small chair at the top of the stairs on the library’s second floor. She was paging through a large book of portrait painters from the sixteenth century when she heard the large oak doors to the library open. Peering over the rail, she saw her father enter the room. She could tell that he was angry and started to ask him what was wrong when the tall man from the lake suddenly followed him into the room. The tall man was, in turn, followed by several other members of her family and finally by her great-uncle Portis Letterford. Colophon silently slipped from her chair and crouched behind the large vase that stood in the corner. She could hear the doors shut, although she could not see what was happening.

  “I cannot believe you are even suggesting this!” Mull Letterford said in a loud and angry voice.

  “You give us no choice,” the deep voice from the lake responded calmly. “Your sales are down. The business is suffering.”

  “The business is not suffering,” her father responded. “No one could have foreseen what has happened over the last year. Certainly, it has had an effect on the company. But the company will recover. It’s money that you’re concerned about. The business of Letterford is sound. Why, even with the tragedies of this year, we published two award-winning books, one that was a finalist for the Pulitzer.”

  “And how many copies of these award-winning books were sold?” asked the deep voice.

  “Not many,” replied one of the cousins, “not many at all.”

  Colophon could hear a general murmur of agreement.

  “And but for a series of disasters—all outside my control—we would not be in this room having this discussion,” said Mull.