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Antrim seemed proud of the accomplishment.
“Was it tough to break?”
“Modern computers helped, along with that stone on the floor over there you just saw. The symbols on it match the ones here and act as a translator. Thankfully, Cecil left it behind as a way to decipher the code.”
“Seems like a waste of time then even writing it in code.”
Antrim smiled. “That’s what we thought, too. Until we studied the personality of Robert Cecil. Your father mentioned some of that earlier. What he read on the flash drive. Knowing Cecil, though, it all makes sense.” Antrim pointed to the computers. “Lucky for us those are capable of breaking down ciphers far tougher than Cecil’s.”
He studied the pages. “This book is four hundred years old?”
“Every bit.”
He wanted to know something else and mustered the courage to ask, “I remember that day in the mall back in the summertime. How do you know my mom?”
“We were friends a long time ago. I knew her when she lived in Germany. When your dad was stationed there in the navy.”
He knew little about his father’s navy days. Just the big picture—a fighter pilot, stationed around the world, who became a JAG lawyer. There was a plastic bin in the basement at home with uniforms, caps, and photographs. He’d rummaged through it once. Maybe he should do that again?
“When we saw you at the mall, that was the first time you’d seen her since then?”
Antrim nodded. “In sixteen years. I moved on to other d
uty stations and they moved on, too. Never saw her again, until that day with you.”
He glanced down at the journal and its coded pages.
“Your mother ever talk about her time in Germany?” Antrim asked.
He’d already done the math. Sixteen years was before he was born. He wanted to ask more questions. Maybe Blake Antrim knew the man his mother had been involved with?
“All she said was that she and my dad had a rough time then. Both of them were seeing other people. You don’t know who my mom might have been seeing?”
Antrim studied him with an intense gaze.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Twenty-seven
QUEEN ELIZABETH, THE LAST OF THE HOUSE OF TUDOR, DIED unmarried. Since her death in 1603, there have been revolutions in England due to varying causes, but all more or less disruptive of family memories. The son of James I had his head cut off, and after the Commonwealth which followed, Charles II’s son James II, had to quit on the coming of William III, by invitation. After William’s death without issue, Anne, daughter of James II, reigned for a dozen years, and was succeeded by George I, descended through the female line from James I. His descendants still sit on the throne of England.
There are quite sufficient indications throughout the early life of Queen Elizabeth that there was some secret which she kept religiously guarded. Various historians of the time have referred to it, and now and again in a way which is enlightening. In a letter to the Protector Somerset in 1549, when the Princess Elizabeth was 15, Sir Robert Tyrwhitt says:
I do verily believe that there hath been some secret promise between my Lady, Mistress Ashley, and the Cofferer [Sir Thomas Parry] never to confess to death, and if it be so, it will never be gotten of her, unless by the King’s Majesty or else by your Grace.
The place known to the great public as Bisley is quite other than that under present consideration. Bisley, the ground for rifle competitions, is in Surrey, thoughtfully placed in juxtaposition to an eminent cemetery. It bears every indication of newness, so far as any locality of old earth can be new. The most interesting spot in the whole district is the house Overcourt, which was once the manor-house of Bisley. It stands close to Bisley church from the grave-yard of which it is only separated by a wicket-gate. The title-deeds of this house, which is now in possession of the Gordon family show that it was a part of the dower of Queen Elizabeth. But the world went by it, and little by little the estate of which it was a portion changed hands; so that now the house remains almost as an entity. Naturally enough, the young Princess Elizabeth lived there for a time; and one can still see the room she occupied.
One other thing must be distinctly borne in mind regarding Bisley in the first half of the sixteenth century; it was comparatively easy of access from London for those who wished to go there. A line drawn on the map will show that on the way as points d’appui, were Oxford and Cirencester, both of which were surrounded with good roads as became their importance as centres. The tradition is that the little Princess Elizabeth, during her childhood, was sent away with her governess for change of air to Bisley where the strong sweet air of the Cotswold Hills would brace her up. The healthy qualities of the place were known to her father and many others of those around her. Whilst she was at Overcourt, word was sent to her governess, Kate Ashley, that the king was coming to see his little daughter; but shortly before the time fixed, and whilst his arrival was expected at any hour, a frightful catastrophe happened. The child, who had been ailing in a new way, developed acute fever, and before steps could be taken even to arrange for her proper attendance and nursing, she died. Lady Ashley, the governess, feared to tell her father. Henry VIII had the sort of temper which did not make for the happiness of those around him. In her despair she, having hidden the body, rushed off to the village to try to find some other child whose person could be substituted for that of the dead princess so that the evil moment of disclosure of the sad fact might be delayed till after his Majesty’s departure. But the population was small and no girl child of any kind was available. The distracted woman then tried to find a living girl child who could be passed off for the princess, whose body could be hidden away for the time.
Throughout the little village and its surroundings was to be found no girl child of an age reasonably suitable for the purpose required. More than ever distracted, for time was flying by, Lady Ashley determined to take the greater risk of a boy substitute, if a boy could be found. Happily for the poor woman’s safety, for her very life now hung in the balance, this venture was easy enough to begin. There was a boy available, and just such a boy as would suit the special purpose for which he was required, a boy well known to the governess. Moreover, he was a pretty boy as might have been expected from the circumstance. He was close at hand and available. So he was clothed in the dress of the dead child, they being of about equal stature; and when the King’s fore-rider appeared the poor overwrought governess was able to breathe freely.
The visit passed off successfully. Henry suspected nothing; as the whole thing had happened so swiftly, there had been no antecedent anxiety. Elizabeth had been brought up in such dread of her father that he had not, at the rare intervals of his seeing her, been accustomed to any affectionate effusiveness on her part; and in his hurried visit he had no time for baseless conjecture.
Then came the natural nemesis of such a deception. As the dead could not be brought back to life, and as the imperious monarch, who bore no thwarting of his wishes, was under the impression that he could count on his younger daughter as a pawn in the great game of political chess which he had entered on so deeply, those who by now must have been in the secret did not and could not dare to make disclosure. Fortunately those who must have been in such a secret, if there was one, were but few. If such a thing occurred in reality, three persons were necessarily involved in addition to the imposter himself: (1) Kate Ashley, (2) Thomas Parry, (3) the parent of the living child who replaced the dead one. For several valid reasons I have come to the conclusion that the crucial period by which the Bisley story must be tested is the year ending with July 1546. No other time either earlier or later would, so far as we know, have fulfilled the necessary conditions.
Malone looked up at Miss Mary. “I’ve never heard this story before.”
“It’s a tale that stayed close to the village of Bisley, until Bram Stoker discovered it. Maybe it is just a tale. But for centuries after Elizabeth I died, the annual May Day celebration in Bisley always included a young boy dressed in Elizabethan costume. Odd, wouldn’t you say, unless there was some truth there?”
He really did not know what to say.
“Don’t seem so shocked,” she said to him. “Imagine if it were true.”
He was doing just that, trying to see how that fact would be meaningful enough—four hundred years later—that the CIA had mounted an operation directed specifically toward it.
“When you think about it,” she said, “in the context of what is known about the first Elizabeth, it begins to make sense.”
He was already recalling everything he knew about the last Tudor monarch.
“She lived to be an old woman,” Miss Mary said, “yet never gave herself to a man. She knew her duty. To produce a male heir. She knew what her father went through to have a son. In her case, even a daughter would have sufficed. Yet she consciously chose not to have a child, and expressed that intent many times in public.”
One particularly noteworthy statement came to mind, where the queen said she would not marry, even were they to give her the King of Spain’s son or find any other great prince.
“We should talk about this more.”
She reached into one of her pockets and handed him a folded scrap of paper. “My sister is the expert on all things Elizabethan. She could be far more help to you. I spoke with her earlier and she was fascinated by what I told her. She said she would welcome your call in the morning.”
He accepted the offering.
“She lives
in East Molesey.”
He’d pass the information on to Antrim. “Right now, I need Ian and that flash drive.”
“He’s upstairs. He told me you would most likely be along before the day was through.” She motioned. “Around the shelves, to the right.”
Some patrons left through the front door and a few more entered.
He grabbed Stoker’s book. “May I?” He noted the price on a slip of paper inserted within the pages. “Two hundred pounds. Pricey.”
“A bargain, actually. I’ve seen it for more.”
“You take American Express?”
She shook her head. “My gift from one bookseller to another. I’ll hold it for you behind the counter.”
He thanked her and headed upstairs.
His building in Copenhagen was also multistory. The ground floor housed the shop, the first and second were for storage of his overflow books, the top floor an apartment that, for the past year he’d called home. This place was similar except there were only three floors. He climbed to the top and found Ian inside a roomy flat.
“Why’d you run?” he asked.
The boy stood at a window, glancing out. “You have to see this.”
He stepped over and glanced down.
Two men stood across the street.
“They came a minute ago, dropped off by car.”
People hustled back and forth on the sidewalk, yet the duo never moved.
“They don’t look right,” Ian said.
He agreed.
The two men crossed the street, heading straight below.
Twenty-eight
ANTRIM HAD BEEN WAITING FOR AN OPENING. SURE, THIS should be handled slowly and carefully, but he had to maximize the short amount of time he’d managed to snare. His only hope was that Gary Malone would demand more time. Thanks to the Georgia surveillance and wiretaps he had some idea what had happened between mother and son. But apparently, more significant face-to-face conversations had occurred for Gary to specifically ask about his mother’s sordid past.
“Who was my mother seeing?” Gary asked him. “She won’t tell me much.”
