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He tossed her a curious look. “I locked the doors myself.”
“And were the doors reopened?”
“Are you referring to the special event?” he asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m referring to. Did everything perform brilliantly?”
He nodded. “The doors were reopened at six, locked back at ten. No personnel were on site, as requested.”
Improvise. Think. Don’t waste this opportunity.
“We are having some … internal issues. There were problems. Not on your end. On ours. We’re trying to backtrack and trace the source.”
“Oh, my. I was told that everything must be precise.”
“By your supervisor?”
“By the treasurer himself.”
The Inns were run by benchers, senior members of the bar, usually judges. The senior bencher was the treasurer.
“Of the Middle or Inner Temple?” she asked.
The church sat on the dividing line between the two Inns’ respective land, each contributing to its upkeep. Southern pews were for the Inner Temple, northern pews accommodated the Middle.
“Inner Temple. The treasurer was quite emphatic, as was the other man.”
“That’s what I came to find out. Who was the other man?”
“Quite distinguished. Older gentleman, with a cane. Sir Thomas Mathews.”
MALONE LAID THE BOOK ON THE COUNTER. MORE CUSTOMERS wandered in through the front door and browsed the shelves.
“They do come after the final curtain in the theaters, don’t they?” he said.
“The only reason I stay open this late on weekends. I’ve found it to be quite worthwhile. Luckily, I am a bit of a night person.”
He wasn’t sure what he was. Night. Morning. All day. It seemed he simply forced his mind to work whenever it had to. Right now, his body was still operating on Georgia time, five hours earlier, so he was okay.
Miss Mary pointed to the book he held. “That was published in 1910. Bram Stoker worked for Sir Henry Irving, one of the great Victorian actors. Stoker managed the Lyceum Theatre, near the Strand, for Irving. He was also Irving’s personal assistant. Stoker penned most of his great works while in Irving’s employ, Dracula included. Stoker idolized Henry Irving. Many say the inspiration for the title character in Dracula came from Irving.”
“I hadn’t heard that one.”
She nodded. “It’s true. But in 1903, while searching for some land Irving might be interested in purchasing, Stoker came across an interesting legend. In the Cotswolds. Near Gloucestershire and the village of Bisley.”
She opened the red volume to the table of contents.
“Stoker became fascinated with hoaxes and pretenders. He said that ‘imposters, in one shape or another, are likely to flourish as long as human nature remains what it is and society shows itself ready to be gulled.’ So he wrote this account and detailed some of the more famous, and not so famous.”
He studied the table of contents, which listed thirty-plus subjects scattered over nearly 300 pages. The Wandering Jew. Witches. Women as Men. The False Dauphin. Doctor Dee.
“Stoker wrote four nonfiction books to go with his novels and short stories,” Miss Mary said. “He never quit his day job and worked for Irving right up to the great actor’s death in 1905. Stoker died in 1912. This book was published two years before that. When I read what was on that flash drive, I instantly thought of it.”
She pointed to the last section noted in the table of contents, starting on page 283.
The Bisley Boy.
He carefully turned to the page and started reading. After only a few lines he glanced up and said, “This can’t be real.”
“And why not, Mr. Malone?”
KATHLEEN BID THE MASTER GOOD NIGHT AND LEFT THE INNS of Court. Both she and possibly Antrim had been led here. Then she’d been directed to Oxford.
I am of the Inner Temple. A member fifty years.
That was what Mathews had told her earlier.
Then, at Oxford, about the Daedalus Society.
The man who accosted you inside the chapel, we have dealt with his group before. They also confronted Blake Antrim earlier in the Temple Church.
Yet it had been Mathews, through the treasurer of the Inner Temple, who’d arranged for the church’s use.
Not some Daedalus Society.
What was happening here?
Her suspicions had turned to outright distrust.
Her phone vibrated.
She found the unit and noted the number.
Mathews.
“Are you back in London?” he asked.
“As you ordered.”
“Then proceed to a shop, on Regent Street and Piccadilly Square. Any Old Books. The American agent, Cotton Malone, is there, as may be the young man we are seeking, Ian Dunne. The flash drive could also be there.”
“What about Antrim?”
“Things have changed. Seems Mr. Antrim dispatched Malone to find Ian Dunne and the flash drive. Since Antrim clearly does not have the drive, I want you to make contact with Malone and acquire it. Do whatever you have to do in accomplishing that task. Make haste, though.”
She wondered why.
“Mr. Malone is about to find a spot of bother.”
GARY WALKED WITH ANTRIM TO ANOTHER TABLE, WHERE A book rested beneath a glass lid, similar to one his mother used for cakes and pies.
Antrim lifted off the cover. “We keep this one protected. It’s the whole ball of wax.”
“Mr. Antrim, why—”
“Call me Blake.”
“My parents always tell me to address adults properly.”
“Good advice, until the adult says otherwise.”
He smiled. “I guess that’s okay.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t real comfortable with the switch to first names, but kept that to himself as he stared down at the old book.
“This is a journal created by Robert Cecil, the most important man in England from 1598 to 1612. He served Queen Elizabeth I and James I as their chief minister. Go ahead. You can open it.”
The gold-and-green pages, their edges dried and frayed, each one as brittle as a potato chip, contained line after line of handwritten symbols and letters.
“There are 75,000 characters on 105 pages,” Antrim told him. “All in code. Indecipherable since 1612. But we were able to break it.”
“What does it say?”
“Things that may change history.”
