© 2013 Loy Ray Clemons

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Low Ray Clemons at Smashwords.

Published by LRC PRESS, loyrayclemons@aol.com

Cover design by Peter Clemons

Cover design © 2012 by Loy Ray Clemons

Typeset by Heather Justesen

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls,

Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing;

Twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands;

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him,

And makes me poor indeed.

—Othello, Act 3, scene 3

I am sort of haunted by the conviction that the divine William is the biggest and most successful fraud ever practiced on a patient world.

Henry James

In a career of over fifty years I have constantly read and re-read Shakespeare, studied and taught his life and works . . . During all this time, though I have never seen the slightest reason to doubt his authorship.

Stanley Welles, CBE

Chairman—Shakespearean Birthplace Trust

So far as anybody actually knows and can prove, Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon never wrote a play in his life.

Mark Twain

I think Oxford wrote Shakespeare. If you don’t, there are some awfully funny coincidences to explain away.

Orson Welles

There have been dozens of other such nominations since the Bard's death, and none have yet presented proof enough to discredit the man from Stratford.

J. M. Pressley

The Shakespeare Resource Center

. . . he was a jovial actor and manager. I cannot marry this fact to his verse.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The sheer number of candidates put forward as having had the unique qualifications of position and education to be the True Author is evidence that these qualifications were not at all unique in Shakespeare’s time.

Irvin Matus

The Case for Shakespeare

I have never thought that the man of Stratford-upon-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.

I know of no admissible evidence that he ever left England or was educated in the normal sense of the term. One must wonder, for example, how he could have written The Merchant of Venice.

Lewis F. Powell, Jr.

Associate Justice of the Supreme Court

It is therefore only in comparatively rare instances that we can find any evidence of authorship more positive than that on which Shakespeare’s rest before the last quarter of the seventeenth century.

H.N. Gibson

The Shakespeare Claimants

I am firm against Shaksper--I mean the Avon man, the actor.

Walt Whitman

Table of Contents

Prologue

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

PART 3

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

PART 4

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

PART 5

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Epilogue

Dedication

For Gloria Clemons Watts, who believed.

Prologue

EAST LONDON

Monday, November 15

10:00 AM

As Freddie Hollister picked his way down the narrow lane, he weighed the possibility of finding priceless documents against getting a knife in his ribs. He tugged nervously at the edge of his watch cap and pulled up the collar of his pea coat. The fog-shrouded Limehouse district had not been his first choice for the meeting. He imagined any of the hard-faced men leaning in the dark doorways would easily put that knife in his ribs for a ten-pound note or his gold wristwatch.

In the dim light, moisture glistened on the cobblestones and ancient stone walls of the weathered buildings. Far out in the mouth of the Thames horns from barge boats echoed the low rumble of a foghorn. He slowed as he passed a small window with the familiar neon-lit red triangle of the Bass Ale sign and stopped at a low weather-beaten door under a peeling signboard displaying a white horse.

Inside the noisy, smoke-filled room, he glanced from side to side at the knots of rough men—sailors off ships docked close by—sitting at tables scattered throughout the dark room. The smooth, pale skin of his young face contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn and sunburned faces of those around him. Amid the grunts and snatches of conversation, Freddie knew he was out of his element. He immediately felt panic and stopped short. He wanted to leave.

The only illumination in the room—other than a few neon beer and ale signs on the walls—was the flickering television set on a high shelf at the end of the bar. Smoke clung to the underside of the low, soot-covered ceiling, but failed to dampen the noise from the crowd when one of the soccer teams scored.

An old crone yelled from behind the bar. “Here! Here! You blokes put a sock in it. I can’t ‘ear a thing from the telly,”

Gathering his courage, Freddie squinted in the low light. In a far corner booth, he saw his contact, an old man sucking on a pipe and nursing a pint of porter. A dirty red kerchief was knotted around his bony neck and his face was half-covered by a floppy-brimmed felt hat. Freddie turned in his direction as the old man signaled by removing the kerchief.

Freddie approached and asked, “Do you know if the Greyhound out of Lisbon docked this morning?”

The words Greyhound and Lisbon obviously had their effect. The old man said softly, “Sit down.”

Freddie eased into the booth and the old man said, “Cor, you look like a right proper seaman in that cap and pea coat. That’s a smart move, lad. You come mucking about down here in a Burberry and a fedora and you’ll get popped for sure.”

Freddie skipped the perfunctory small talk. “Do you have the goods with you?”

The old man patted the front of his coat. “Got the whole lot of ‘em right here.”

“May I see the papers please?”

The old man took a sip of porter and screwed up his pockmarked face in a wry grin. He made no move to produce the papers. “Of course, Guvnor. Could I be seeing your bono fides?”

Freddie reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and exposed ten ₤50 notes.

Without moving his head, the old man shifted his eyes around the room. “I was given to understand Mr. Jones would be meeting me.”

Freddie smiled knowingly. “I understand your concern for precaution—and it was Mr. Harper that sent me.”

With a sly smile the old man said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Harper it was. Names sometime slip my mind.” He removed a large manila envelope from beneath the front of his heavy coat and placed it on the table. “These old letters must be quite valuable. They look like they’re written in Old English or something similar.”

Freddie took a jeweler’s loupe from the inner pocket of his jacket and bent over the aged documents. He squinted in the dim light. The old man was wrong. With a cursory glance, he recognized they were written in Middle English—or possibly Early Modern English—the language of the Elizabethan era and Shakespeare. His eyes widened as he looked closer at the text on the second and third pages of the documents. He leaned back to contain his excitement “These appear to be of possible interest to me. May I ask where you found them?”

“Come now. You must know things are sometimes just . . . found. There’s many a fine manor up around Birmingham where things can be found. I have an associate who finds things. He doesn’t say where, and I don’t ask.” He quickly drained his glass and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “So, if you’re satisfied, I’ll be taking my leave now.” He reached for the envelope with the money. “I have other business.”

Freddie relinquished the envelope with the money and drew the large manila envelope to his side of the table. The old man passed through the outer door to the street as Freddie buttoned his coat and slipped the envelope behind the lapels.

The chill pressed against his face as he emerged from the pub. The old man had been engulfed by the fog, and was nowhere in sight. Freddie stopped short when he heard a commotion up ahead and quickly ducked into a doorway.

He could barely make out the shapes of two men in the fog as they bent over an unconscious figure lying on the edge of stone steps. Coming closer, he recognized the figure. It was the old man from the pub. They were going through his pockets and running their hands under his coat. They found his wallet with the pound notes and looked up quickly as Freddie ran past on his way up the lane to the main road.

He found his waiting taxi and, said with urgency, “Let’s go. Quickly, please!” He reached over and locked both doors as the taxi sped away. He heard the sound of the footsteps of the two men pounding along-side the speeding taxi before they slowly receded into the distance. His adrenaline was pumping as he pressed his hand on the envelope under his coat.

Was this what his partner thought it was?

PART 1

Chapter 1

PHOENIX

Thursday, November 11

2:30 AM

Thorne was awakened by the crunch of gravel outside his bedroom window. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and saw a dim light illuminating his carport. Rolling over, he quickly put on his trousers and house shoes, and reached for a gun he kept in the drawer of the nightstand. He picked up a flashlight from the kitchen counter, went out the kitchen door, and moved stealthily around the back of the carport. Dim parking lights shown on the back of his pickup truck, and a man with a Slim Jim bar was working it through the driver’s side window.

Thorne switched on his flashlight and shown it in the man’s face. He raised the gun and said, “Hold on there, Buster.”

As he moved closer, a big man appeared from behind the back of the truck. “You David Thorne?” His voice was low and menacing.

“I’m Thorne. What do you yahoos think you’re doing?”

The big man produced a sheet of paper and said “We’re returning this vehicle to its rightful owner—the finance company.”

Thorne lowered the gun and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess you guys didn’t get the word. I spoke with Dennis at the finance company yesterday. We agreed I’d be bringing in the payments in the morning.”

The man with the Slim Jim pulled it out of the window and looked to the big man.

The big man shook his head. “”We got this order today. You can work it out with Dennis when you pick up the truck in the morning. You got a key?”

“No, and I’d suggest you get in your truck and get out of here. You talk to Dennis in the morning. Now move!”

“No can do,” said the big man as the man with the Slim Jim slipped it back down the into the window slot.

Thorne moved casually over and cocked his fist. “Looks like we’re through talking.” The man with the Slim Jim started to turn just as Thorne caught him on the side of the jaw with a left hook. The man bounced off the side of the truck and grabbed Thorne by the sleeve. They fell into the gravel driveway and the man’s foot came up and grazed the top of Thorne’s head. Thorne punched him again and he fell against the pickup’s fender before collapsing face down in the gravel..

The big man moved forward and Thorne hit him hard with a right cross. He staggered against the truck door, but didn’t go down. He regained his footing and grabbed Thorne, picking him up and crushing him against the door of the truck. The air went out of him and a fist at the side of his head sent a bright light skittering across in front of his eyes and everything went black.

The following morning the voice on the phone was cheerful. “Hey Dave, sorry about the problem last night. Mix-up with the paperwork. I gave a note to my gal, but . . .”

Sure,” Thorne said sarcastically. “

Dennis said, “Here’s my situation, Dave, old buddy. I need three payments—today. That’ll come to nine-hundred and sixty dollars—cash—okay? If you can come up with it before we close up today, okay. If you can’t, your truck goes to auction tonight.”

“All right, I’ll be there with the cash this afternoon. Keep your eye on the truck. I don’t want my toolbox walking off, understand?”

“No problem.”

Thorne locked the house and walked down the hill to the main road to wait for a bus. When he reached McDowell Street, he got off the bus and walked to the bank. Inside, he went to his safety deposit box and retrieved the last of the traveler checks—twelve hundred dollars—and converted them into cash.

He transferred to another bus and rode to the finance company office. He found his truck, checked his tool box, and found it intact before paying the three month’s payment. As he drove back to his house, he went over in his mind where he could get a job and some cash. The three hundred dollars he had left was not going to last him very long.

Chapter 2

SCOTTSDALE

Monday, November 15

12:15 PM

The Arizona winter sun streamed through tall windows and threw bright streaks across the lush carpeted lobby of the casually elegant Arizona Biltmore Resort Hotel. Thorne found a large leather chair set in an out-of-the-way corner of the lobby, and let the sun warm his back as he contemplated his financial situation. He scribbled a few calculations on a note pad before giving up and putting it a way.

If the prospective job he was meeting for today came through, his money problems would be solved. He leaned back in the chair, took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, and re-read the printed e-mail message.

To: Mr. David Thorne,

From: Chester Raskin

We understand you are a construction investigator and architect, with construction experience. You come highly recommended as one having unique qualifications in stone construction and construction forensics.

Our group’s project requires a man with the above talents who can keep confidential information, and you have been recommended as one who can be trusted with such sensitive information. We would like to hire an American; we can provide an explanation when we discuss the project at length.

I’m from England and I also have a home in the Paradise Valley area. My associates, Mr. Kirk-Halstrom and Mr. Blackstone will attend a special Sons of Britannia Soccer Club luncheon with me on the occasion of the 63rd birthday of His Royal Highness, Prince Charles on November 15. His Highness will not be in attendance, it will only be a symbolic celebration.

The meeting will be held tomorrow at twelve-thirty at the Biltmore Hotel in North Phoenix. You can recognize two of us by our Oxford blue and white soccer club caps and Oxford ties. I also have a short white beard.

We would like to meet you at the club’s check-in desk at the entry to the Aztec Banquet Room. If you have time, we would also like to invite you for lunch.

Thorne looked across the lobby at the line of men forming at the entry to the Aztec Room. Most wore colored soccer caps, but none wore Oxford blue and white.

He was apprehensive about meeting with the Englishmen and wanted to avoid having lunch with them if possible. He didn’t like spending extended periods of time with clients. However, he realized he had to be cautious. If there was a possibility of a job here, he didn’t want to blow it. He closed his eyes and weighed his options. He had not had an investigative job for over four months, and had been relegated to miscellaneous construction inspection jobs, and in some cases as a stone mason. When he received the e-mail from Raskin, he knew he had no choice but to meet and hear the Englishmen out.

There was a hint of pleasant perfume and movement at the side of his chair. He opened his eyes, stood up quickly, and removed his crumpled hat as a young woman with a drink tray appeared.

She said, “I’m sorry if I startled you.” She was surprised at the unusual show of courtesy. “May I get you a drink, Sir?”

He smiled and said, “I hope I didn’t scare you. I was deep in concentration about—something.” She had green eyes—very nice green eyes. “Sure, get me a club soda and lime.”

The weathered face and Crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes presented a friendly, yet hard and worn look of an outdoorsman. His confident smile put her at ease.

She nodded and smiled warmly before disappearing back into the lounge.

Thorne estimated her to be in her late twenties or early thirties, probably ten to fifteen years younger than him. She wore a uniform of a fringed white silk blouse and loose-fitting black slacks that couldn’t hide her attractive, trim muscularity. A confident walk and broader than average shoulders said she could probably take care of herself.

She returned with the drink and set it on an end table. Thorne dropped a ten on her tray and asked, “Is the restaurant here any good?”

She glanced at his scuffed athletic shoes, well-worn windbreaker over a faded golf shirt, and wrinkled Chino trousers. “I’ve only worked here for two weeks, so I wouldn’t know. I do know La Orangerie is quite expensive.”

Thorne took a sip of his drink. “In that case, I suppose I should ask you if you like Mexican food.”

Her freckled face broke into a broad grin. “I do.”

Thorne returned her grin and said half-jokingly, “I know a great little dump down on Indian School Road—Bob’s Hogan. Best Navajo and Mexican food in town. What would you say if I came by and picked you up for dinner?”

It was a pleasant shock when she said without hesitation, “I’ll meet you near the concierge’s desk around five.” As she turned to go, she paused and said, “By the way, my name is Lisa—what’s yours?”

“David.”

“What do your friends call you?”

“David.”

She chuckled, “See you at five.” She went back to the bar. That walk again. Thorne found it interesting—and attractive.

His attention returned to the gathering crowd and he chuckled to himself when he saw the two men approaching the line to the Aztec Room from the far end of the lobby. They were tastefully dressed, but looked ridiculous in their blue and white soccer caps. He suppressed his amusement, arose, and started in their direction.

As the two men inched past the SONS OF BRITANNIA CLUB sign set on an easel, they searched the lobby for their contact.

Thorne approached the man with a beard and asked, “Mr. Chester Raskin?”

A pleasant man in a tailored dark gray sport coat and creased gray trousers, about twenty years older than Thorne, responded by stepping forward. With a broad smile, he held out his hand. In a crisp upper class British accent he said, “Mr. David Thorne, I presume? I’m Chester Raskin. I’m very pleased to meet you.” His neatly trimmed white beard, silver hair, pleasant face, and practiced friendly manner gave the impression of a well-bred social animal.

Thorne shook the offered hand as another man, softer, heavier, and about the same age as Raskin, stepped forward.

He was not smiling as he offered his hand. “I’m Lionel Kirk-Halstrom.”

Thorne didn’t like the feel of the cool slender hand offered him. The man’s syrupy Oxford accent and manner reminded Thorne of a typical highborn, indolent, and effete character one would see in an old black and white British movie.

Thorne could not help but notice the oversized gold family crest on the pocket of the double-breasted cashmere blue blazer. The coat was tailored and definitely not off-the-rack. A crisp white oxford shirt and neatly tied Oxford blue school tie echoed the one worn by Raskin. He too had similar knife-edged gray trousers that broke slightly above his highly polished black wing-tip shoes.

Thorne recalled his previous life as principal of his architectural office when he had to get dressed like this when he made presentations to clients, city councils, and corporate boards.

He suppressed a shudder at the memory.

To Thorne, Kirk-Halstrom was a perfect representative of the typical upper class British aristocracy. He could also be a bank president or maybe a member of the House of Lords. Definitely not the House of Commons.

The jaunty soccer club cap appeared to be the only item in his ensemble that was out of character. The cap was perched precariously high on a head of perfectly combed white hair, and reminded Thorne of a dollop of whipped cream and blueberries on a vanilla sundae. Kirk-Halstrom’s permanently raised eyebrows over his lidded China-blue eyes, gave the haughty look of an inveterate snob. Thorne was slightly annoyed at being assessed as Kirk-Halstrom took inventory of his casual dress.

Raskin smiled and motioned to another man who had joined him in line. “This is Simon Blackstone. You will recall I mentioned him in my e-mail.”

Blackstone extended a calloused hand. He was taller than the other two men, had a trimmer build, and was dressed in a non-descript grey sport coat. He said nothing and produced a forced smile on a ruddy face framed by a thatch of thick gray hair.

Thorne didn’t like Kirk-Halstrom, but was ambivalent about Raskin and Blackstone. He decided he would give them five minutes, find out what the job was, and how much the fee might be. He was in bad shape financially, and in desperate need of a job, but if the fee wasn’t enough to justify working with a man like Kirk-Halstrom, he would thank them for their time and leave.

Chapter 3

The personable Raskin stepped out of the line. “Come with us. Let’s talk where it’s quieter.” Thorne joined them in an alcove away from the activity, folded his arms, and waited.

“We just wanted to meet you,” said Raskin. “As I said in our e-mail message, we received information that you’re an architect with a knowledge of construction—especially stonework—and you have investigative experience—so, we would like to consider you for employment. We had hoped you could join us for today’s program, but now it appears it’s going to be an all-afternoon affair. I want to apologize, but please feel free to have lunch with us if you wish.”

Thorne was relieved for the reprieve and said, “Thank you, but I do have other business.”

Raskin recognized Thorne’s reticence. “If it would be more convenient, you could join our group tomorrow evening. At that time, you can meet the others involved in the project and we could discuss hiring you.”

Thorne said, “Whoever recommended me may have mentioned I don’t work as an employee. My usual role is that of a consultant—an investigator. I realize we don’t have a lot of time now, but could you give me a rough idea of where the job would be located in England, and what it would entail?” He considered talking about the fee, but realized it was much too early to discuss money.

Raskin paused shortly, exchanging glances with Kirk-Halstrom and Blackstone before continuing. “You’re undoubtedly familiar with Shakespeare—William Shakespeare.”

Raskin’s comment wasn’t couched in the form of a question, and Thorne said nothing, waiting for Raskin to continue.

“But, have you heard of Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford?”

Another statement, not a question. Thorne waited.

Raskin said, “I regret being so cryptic, but tomorrow night, we can give you more information on how Shakespeare and de Vere relate—and our interest in both men.

He fished a business card from his wallet and handed it to Thorne. “If you could be at this address at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, we could go into more depth, and you could meet Mr. Gilbert Bada and Mr. Frederick Hollister, the other two members of our group. Again, I want to apologize for today’s mix-up. We had no idea the luncheon and program would last all afternoon. There’s going to be a lot of dignitaries attending Prince Charles’ sixty-second birthday celebration, and they will go on—and on.”

Kirk-Halstrom broke away and moved back into line. “Yes, all afternoon,” he said sarcastically. “More disgusting American rubber chicken, those mundane mashed potatoes, and garden peas—and I suppose we’ll see a continuation of that pedestrian California wine they insist on serving here in the States. On top of all this, they can’t even get the Prince of Wales’ birthday correct and are celebrating it on the fifteenth—a day late. Such nonsense.”

Raskin followed Kirk-Halstrom a few steps and whispered, “Have you remembered your medication, Lionel?” Kirk-Halstrom nodded reluctantly as he folded and unfolded his hands.

Raskin returned to his conversation with Thorne. “As to the where and what of our project, we would wish for you to go to England—Stratford-upon-Avon, to be precise. All expenses would be paid, and we will offer a generous fee. We want you to find something—something of historic importance that will shake the foundations of the literary world.”

Thorne slipped the business card into his shirt pocket. “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Thanks for the invitation to lunch, but I do have other business this afternoon.” With a smile and a nod, he headed for the door that led to the parking lot.

At the far end of the hotel lobby, the eyes of a slight, hatchet-faced Victor Roberts peered over the top of a newspaper, and followed Thorne as he went out. He lowered the newspaper and motioned to a bulky, younger man sitting close by.

“That’s our man, Kelly.”

Chapter 4

The long thin face and dark alert eyes of Victor Roberts contrasted sharply with the low, broad forehead and thick features of Mike Kelly, his younger, broad-shouldered companion. Kelly’s long, black hair jutted out from under a turned-around baseball cap, and a heavy black moustache with errant crumbs of something—possibly cookies—covered his thick upper lip. His soul patch goatee was in need of a trim.

Roberts, still trim at middle age, beckoned the bulky younger man to his side, and took an envelope from the pocket of his sports jacket. Kelly’s yellow-teeth showed as he chewed on a toothpick. “That’s the guy, huh?”

Roberts moved toward the exit door. “Give him the envelope. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop in forty-five minutes. Remember, don’t hurt him, just get his attention, and see he gets the message, and make sure he doesn’t follow you.”

Kelly flexed his muscles under his tight-fitting black tee shirt and nodded. He slipped on a pair of dark glasses and followed Thorne out the door.

Walking quickly behind Thorne, Kelly moved close enough to where Thorne caught a whiff of the man’s foul breath. He started to turn just as Kelly’s elbow caught him on the side of his head, driving him to the ground behind a hedge.

Thorne rolled over on the gravel, shook his head, and tried to regain his footing. A clinched fist hit him full force on the forehead, and he rolled again.

Kelly barked, “Stay put.”

Thorne shook his head, blinked, and tried again to get up.

Kelly moved forward, leaned down, and cocked his right, ready to throw another blow. Thorne rolled his body to the right, and started to rise. “If you’re coming for my wallet you should think twice. You’re not going to get another sucker punch.” He kicked the big man’s ankle, knocking him off balance. Seeing his opportunity, Thorne, stood up quickly and caught Kelly with a right cross behind his ear.

Thorne moved to give him another and slipped on the gravel. Kelly was back in control and took advantage by grabbing the lapels of Thorne’s jacket. He pulled him forward and head-butted him in the middle of the forehead. The last thing Thorne saw was a sudden flash of red. Then everything turned black and he felt himself falling slowing, and collapsed on the gravel, out cold.

Kelley dragged Thorne behind the hedge and sat on a low wall, waiting for him to revive. Ten minutes later Thorne blinked and shook his head. His ears were ringing and his mouth tasted like he had been sucking on a wool muffler. He tried to rise.

Kelly stood, walked over , and snapped “I said, stay put,”. He reached into his pocket, took out the envelope, and tossed it on Thorne’s chest. “Do yourself a favor. Read this and don’t follow me. ”He walked around the hedge and quickly disappeared down a driveway to the back of the building.

Thorne opened the envelope as he walked to his pickup truck in the parking lot. The scrawled note read, For your own good, and if you want to stay alive, don’t take the job offered you. Ten one-hundred dollar bills were paper-clipped to the note.

As he sat in the pickup truck, he glanced in the rearview mirror, and stanched the trickle of blood on his forehead by gingerly patting the cut with his handkerchief. The assailant had been wearing a ring, and the blow had created a small V-shape cut over his right eye. As he drove out of the parking lot, he tried to piece together the meaning of the assault.

Why would anyone want him out of the picture? He had just met a potential client, didn’t know the extent of the job, and hadn’t even decided to take the job.

His thoughts returned to the meeting with the Englishmen in the lobby. He could work with Raskin and Blackstone, but he was definite in his dislike for Kirk-Halstrom. The man was a first class snob, and a frustrated one at that.  But even more, it seemed there could be an underlying malevolence about the man. But Raskin seemed to be the one in charge, and Thorne felt he could tolerate him, even though, there was a slyness behind the friendly façade that put him on guard.

He wasn’t especially excited about going to England, but the prospect of getting a good fee intrigued him. Still, he was torn by self-doubt as to whether he should take the job. He didn’t think long about it. Of course he would take the job—what choice did he have.

He put the pickup in gear, and as he drove back to his house in Sunnyslope, he thought about other obstacles that might pop up.

Just how dangerous would this job be?

He put his hand up and felt the bruise on the side of his head where the big repo man had hit him the night before.

Two unrelated beatings in two days. Was this an omen things might get worse.

Sunnyslope is an older residential area at the foot of North Mountain in Phoenix. The area had originally attracted people who suffered from tuberculosis, and came for the dry climate of the desert, but couldn’t afford the pricier sanatoriums in Scottsdale and Paradise Valley. Over time, parts of the area had developed a reputation as a rundown neighborhood where only the bad element lived.

He arrived home in midafternoon with a terrific headache from the encounter at the hotel. After taking a couple of aspirin tablets, he dialed the front desk of the hotel. “Can you connect me with the bar, please?”

The Barman answered the phone. “Good afternoon, may I help you.”

“May I please speak with Lisa.”

When she picked up the phone he said, “Hello, this is David. I’m afraid I’ve had a small accident and—“

“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you O.K.?”

“It’s nothing bad, just a bad headache and . . . I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

“Of course, maybe another time. Get some rest.”

“Thanks for your concern . . . rain check?”

He flipped the phone closed and stripped off his torn and dirty clothes. As he examined the small scab that had formed on his forehead, he continued to be puzzled by the encounter outside the hotel lobby. He took a hot shower, put on clean clothes, and made a few calls researching his clients. They seemed to check out, so he folded the file and relaxed on the back patio with a glass of sun tea and T.C. Boyle’s Tortilla Curtain.

After a light dinner, he spent an hour or so on the internet researching Shakespeare, Edward de Vere, and Stratford-upon Avon, and went to bed early

Chapter 5

At first light, Thorne awoke and stumbled into the bathroom. After showering and shaving, he put a small Band-Aid-type bandage on his forehead, and gingerly pressed the bump with the cut on the back of his head. A purple bruise was forming on his forehead next to the cut where he had been head-butted by the man at the hotel.

He finished a simple breakfast of one egg, oatmeal, and dry toast, and took his coffee cup, laptop, and a sheaf of papers to the patio.

The morning sun broke over the McDowell Mountains to the east, and showed through the Palo Verde trees to the rear of the small house, casting delicate lace-like shadows on the whitewashed stucco wall. Two small lizards clung motionless high up on the wall, catching the sun’s warming rays.

Usually he would have enjoyed this time of day where he could relax and plan out the day’s events free from the crowds of people he would have to endure down in Phoenix or Scottsdale. But not today, even though the desert in the morning was restful, the cuts, bumps, bruises, he had endured the past few day made it difficult to concentrate. He was distracted from his aches and pains momentarily as he watched a family of desert quail foraging in the rear yard, and smiled at the frantic efforts of the mother quail to keep her brood close to her.

He opened the file of information he had printed the night before and spread the contents on the table

During required English Literature classes at the University of Illinois, he had not generated much of an interest in Shakespeare. As an architectural student, he carried a heavy load of architectural classes that occupied most of his time. Little time for English Lit, or Shakespeare.

He looked again at the downloaded information about Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, and found other authors—as well as de Vere—touted by famous people as the actual author of Shakespeare’s work. The controversy had been worked to death and he determined he would leave that aspect of the job to his clients—or potential clients. His interest would be to find what they wanted, collect his fee, and move on to another job.

Thorne had made inquiries the previous day about his potential clients at Phoenix and Scottsdale banks, real estate companies, and local police records. Raskin and Kirk Halstrom appeared to be successful real estate investors without records.

Information on the internet showed Raskin, Kirk-Halstrom, and Gilbert Bada to be graduates of Oxford. Bada and Raskin’s theses had been developed on de Vere as the true author of Shakespeare’s works. The theses were subsequently published by a London publishing house and brought both men modest fame in England’s literary circles.

Unlike Bada and Raskin, Kirk-Halstrom had not distinguished himself as an outstanding student or among the English literati, but was considered an authority on the genealogy of British nobility. He had been active in the Heraldry Society and the Genealogy Club while at Oxford. In describing him, classmates noted his claim—almost an obsession—to be highborn, a peer, and a direct descendent from de Vere on his father’s side.

He appeared considerably wealthier than Raskin, and had inherited the title, the 3rd Earl of Maylinton. In addition to his supposed connection with the linage of de Vere, he had many other prominent figures, both British and Swedish and Danish nobility, in his linage.

Gilbert Bada was now President and CEO of Bada, Ltd., a corporation headquartered in Birmingham, England. The company was originally noted for importing copra, textiles, vegetable oils, dyes and foodstuffs. In recent years, they had become a multi-national conglomerate when they moved into pharmaceuticals, electronics, and construction and building products.

Frederick Hollister was the owner of The Classics Bookstore in Stratford-upon-Avon. His name had appeared along with Bada in recent articles relating to the Shakespeare authorship controversy, but there was no record of his attending a college or university.

The background of Simon Blackstone, the last member of the group, was less transparent. He had been a general contractor in South Africa before moving into gold futures and diamonds. He appeared to have become wealthy furnishing industrial diamonds to Bada Corporation, Ltd. in England.

Thorne turned away from the information on the table before him. He couldn’t shake the encounter with the foul-breathed man. He might be in danger—real danger—that might be more than just being beat up.

He returned the papers to the folder and realized he needed to get work—and cash—and soon. In spite of the potential danger with the job in England, he knew he had no other choice. He would have to take it.

Chapter 6

PARADISE VALLEY

Tuesday, November 16

4:30 PM

It was late afternoon when Thorne drove to Scottsdale and checked his mailbox. The contents were mostly junk mail. One was a letter from the finance company threatening to re-possess his pickup truck. Another was from the Navajo Tribal office notifying him they would not be using his services, but would be using a tribal member for future investigations. He had sent an email to a masonry sub-contractor asking about a start time on an upcoming warehouse project. The letter said the sub-contractor had lost the bid, and would not be doing the job. The utility company sent a thirty-day notice his utilities would be cut off if he didn’t pay by a certain date. The last was a short note from Tom Willis, the acquaintance he had worked with in the past. Willis’s note confirmed the contact from Raskin’s group about the job and his subsequent referral of Thorne.

It was after six-thirty when Thorne finished an early dinner at a small restaurant off Scottsdale Road. He glanced again at the information he had pulled off the internet before turning onto Paradise Valley’s Lincoln Boulevard.

The Town of Paradise Valley is a small, wealthy enclave wedged between Phoenix and Scottsdale. The snowbirds from the north visit the area in the winter months, and mix with other affluent retirees who enjoy the low-key nature of the town. The town ordinance dictates no lots can be less than one acre in size, but there are many exceeding that.

The Raskin property was one of these large twenty-acre desert properties with multiple houses set well back beyond the trees and greasewood. A high Adobe wall with wrought-iron-filled openings surrounded the entire compound and an imposing carved wood gate guarded the entrance. Thorne stopped at the intercom and pressed a button. A polite voice inquired, “May I help you?”

“Yes, David Thorne to see Mr. Raskin.”

The voice paused shortly before answering. “Thank you, Sir. He’s expecting you.” At that, the massive gate slowly swung open.

The most prominent structure in the compound was a large two-story white stucco mansion with a red Spanish tile roof. It sprawled in the center of the property, surrounded by tall Saguaro cactuses and Ironwood and Mesquite trees. Three other mauve and cream-colored, Pueblo-style houses, were set at the extreme corners of the property, well away from the main house, and were surrounded by a jumble of prickly pear, cholla, and stag horn cactus. A jack rabbit hiding behind a creosote bush, loped away into the desert as Thorne drove up the long driveway

Thorne parked his pickup truck in the circular driveway behind a Bentley sedan and an Aston-Martin sports car, and strolled up a long curving walk to the large antique wood front door. He rang the doorbell and listened to the trickle of water from a carved stone fountain as he waited. Half a dozen small lizards sunned themselves on the low courtyard wall, and a hummingbird flitted about a feeder hung from a wooden trellis.

The door opened and a cheerful man in a crisp white Bolero jacket, bright white shirt, black four-in-hand tie, and perfectly creased black trousers greeted Thorne. In a cheerful British accent he said, “Good day, Sir.” He stepped aside and escorted Thorne down a long Mexican-tiled foyer to a living room with whitewashed stucco walls.

Thorne was surprised at the demeanor of the butler. He’d always pictured the typical English butler as being staid, stiff upper lip-types. He seated himself on a velvet maroon sofa stacked with colorful pillows, and mused on the British obsession with creased trousers as the butler disappeared behind a Cheshire Cat smile.

Raskin appeared, tastefully dressed in casual slacks and a pink cashmere sweater over a dark blue golf shirt. He held out his hand and said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Thorne.” He had used the same pleasant, automatic voice in their first meeting at the hotel.

“Please come into the den and meet the rest of the group. They are all anxious to meet you.”

The den of the mansion was much larger than the living room. Two large butter-soft brown leather sofas and four heavy wood chairs, surrounded a circular carved wood coffee table. The chairs were covered in a southwestern desert motif fabric, and were set on a large Navajo rug fronted on an enormous native stone fireplace.

Kirk-Halstrom, casually dressed in a pastel-colored golf shirt and sweater, stood to one side of a large table. He was frowning and nervously straightening a pile of magazines.  Blackstone sat on the raised fireplace hearth. Neither man made a move to greet Thorne.

Raskin introduced two younger men. “This is Mr. Gilbert Bada and Mr. Frederick Hollister. You know Mr. Kirk-Halstrom and Mr. Blackstone.” Kirk-Halstrom produced a nervous smile and returned to the pile of magazines. Blackstone glanced briefly in his direction before returning his attention to a cell phone.

Hollister was a slender fair-haired young man in his early thirties. “My friends call me Freddie,” he said with enthusiasm, and extended his small hand. “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

Bada nodded to Thorne and sat back down without speaking or shaking hands.

Raskin sat on the arm of one of the sofas and inclined his head toward Bada. “Mr. Bada is CEO and Chairman of Bada, Limited, and the primary sponsor of our group. He will describe to you our plans and intentions.”

Bada was not what Thorne would have pictured in a leader of a large multi-national company. Thorne expected the Chief Executive Officer and Chairman of the Board of a giant conglomerate like Bada, Limited to be a man of powerful presence and charisma, a man of physical substance.

Instead, he saw a pleasant young man with large doe-like—almost feminine—eyes and neatly combed dark hair above a soft rounded face. There was nothing out of the ordinary in his appearance, but on closer inspection, he did project a presence not seen in the other men in the room. It was an air of confidence, that of one of the well-born and privileged class whose pronouncements would be accepted without question.

Perhaps there was more substance to Gilbert Bada than a first impression would indicate.

Chapter 7

Bada studied the man seated across from him. From his time spent attending college in America he had become familiar with the American character. Based on the popular conception of private detectives shown in the movies and television in England—and America—Thorne met expectations. Casual dress, relaxed attitude, reserved and not overly enthusiastic—and apparently unimpressed with the wealthy men and their opulent surroundings. He appeared to have that ‘Humphrey Bogart’ attitude Bada had seen in old black and white movies. Thorne was taller than average, trim, dark hair with tinges of gray at the temple, strong, weather-beaten features, and a demeanor Bada assumed most women would find appealing.

Bada exchanged glances with the others before returning to Thorne. “Sir, your reference says you are not only competent, but discrete and can be trusted to keep information confidential. That’s very important to us.”

He hesitated before continuing. “We are at liberty to reveal the person’s name that furnished the reference. Mr. Tom Willis is the person who suggested you. Mr. Willis came highly recommended to us by business associates—people in whom we have a lot of confidence. We had hoped to hire Mr. Willis, but unfortunately, he’s unavailable.

Bada droned on for the next half hour, providing general information about England, the history of the Tudors, and Stratford-upon-Avon. Thorne listened as Bada also repeated how much they were impressed by Thorne’s qualifications.

Thorne was tiring of the constant buttering-up, and being told how great he was. He supposed it was a British thing. His mind drifted to his last conversation with Willis where they had exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses. He glanced at his watch, folded his arms, wondered what Willis was doing now, and waited for Bada to conclude.

Bada continued with his description of the controversy. “There are many prominent people who believe Edward de Vere was the author of the plays and sonnets ascribed to William Shakespeare. From various sources, you will find the man named William Shakespeare—or William Shaksper, the man from Stratford upon Avon—was an actor, a manager, a wool merchant, a businessman, and a host of other professions.”

Raskin broke in. “The investigative work and studies by us and many prominent scholars—and famous persons—bear out that this—this semi-illiterate who could barely sign his name—could hardly be the same world-renowned author who—”

Thorne was becoming impatient. “To change the subject, Sir, it appears you gentlemen wish to hire me. If that is the case—to do what?”

Blackstone broke in and asked bluntly, “What are your rates, Mr. Thorne? We’re providing you with a lot of information. We probably should get first things first, like how much you charge. After all, hiring you could be a considerable outlay on our part. We’re taking a chance on an unknown quantity.”

Kirk-Halstrom had stopped straightening magazines and was now seated on one of the sofas examining his fingernails. He had lost some of his nervousness. He raised his eyebrows and said calmly. “I want it to be known, I am quite impressed with your qualifications, Mr. Thorne, and I was one of the first to recommend you. However, I agree with Simon. Before we retain you, I think we should be circumspect in our process.”

Thorne said, “I think it best to get all the information about the job first. In a case like yours, I would like to know what the job is, and it’s duration.

Blackstone leaned back against the stone fireplace and folded his arms. Kirk-Halstrom smiled briefly, his eyebrows returned to their original position, and he went back to examining his fingernails.

Bada retook control of the conversation, and Blackstone and Kirk-Halstrom lapsed into silence. “I’m sure we can offer a fee agreeable to you, Mr. Thorne. I think we want to hire you. We’ll pay all your expenses while you’re working for us, and we’ll offer you a lump sum fee of ten-thousand dollars a month, for three months—with a one-month retainer upon execution of the contract—with stipulations.

Thorne was stunned. He looked down at his hands. He clasped them to keep them from shaking. Ten-thousand a month—and ten thousand up front. A thirty-thousand dollar, three-month contract. This would solve all his immediate problems—and he wouldn’t have to sell his pickup. This was more money than he had made the previous year.

Regaining his composure, he said, “I think I would be interested.”

Raskin smiled his most social smile, Kirk-Halstrom remained calm on the sofa, and Blackstone went to the window and lit a cigarette.

Bada said, “We’ll also provide you all the information you’ll need to perform the services we require. By the way, where are you staying?”

Thorne said, “You have my e-mail address. I think that’s the best way to keep in contact.”

Bada said, “Before I continue, I have two important questions of you, Mr. Thorne. First, are you absolutely sure you will be available for the next three months, and second, are you free to travel to England?”

Thorne fought his annoyance. He had tentatively expressed his interest and now wanted to discuss his role in the venture in greater depth. In a measured tone, he said, “Yes.”

Bada said, “Good, I’ll try to be as succinct as possible.

Chapter 8

Bada smoothed his dark hair back with the palm of his hand, and cleared his throat. “First, I will try to familiarize you with our group and our respective backgrounds.”

“Mr. Raskin and I have both done extensive research on the controversy surrounding the true authorship of the works of William Shakespeare.

“Mr. Kirk-Halstrom is a descendent of the Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, and a contemporary of Shakespeare. Mr. Kirk-Halstrom has done genealogy work on the de Vere family. We will provide this information to you once we finalize a contract with you.

“Mr. Blackstone is a former general contractor from South Africa, and has extensive experience in demolition and retrofitting stone structures. He is also interested in the controversy as well as the renovation of Kilshire Castle.

Mr. Hollister owns a prominent bookstore in Stratford-upon-Avon. He has a trove of publications relating to the controversy.”

Thorne was patient and gave no indication he was already familiar with their backgrounds.

Bada continued, “The Stratford man—William Shaksper—the man popularly described as Shakespeare—died in 1616 and curiously enough, his death went unnoticed by the literary community. By contrast, the poet Spenser was broadly eulogized by numerous poets. The poetry on the Stratford man’s tombstone is mediocre at best.”

Raskin said, “Twelve years earlier, in 1604, King James commissioned six committees comprised of eminent ecclesiastical and literary scholars to translate the Bible into English. Interestingly enough, no one with the name William Shakespeare was ever asked to serve on any of those committees. This, in spite of William Shakespeare’s reputation as the preeminent playwright and poet at the time.”

Bada continued, “In his will, the Stratford man left property—mundane items such as his ‘”second best bed” to his wife. This is not unusual as it applied to their personal bed. The best bed was customarily reserved for guests. There’s no mention of books, letters, or manuscripts—at least we haven’t found any. It also appears there have been no letters from him to anyone.

“Most of the people around him were illiterate, and many couldn’t even sign their names. Examples of his own signature are rare and, as you will see, those that are available aren’t much more than a childish scrawl executed in different styles.”

Thorne glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle before turning his attention back to Bada. He was interested in getting on with the details of his involvement in the project, not going over the controversy of who wrote what. He was still being given a repetitious sales presentation of things he had already investigated, but he folded his hands and said nothing.

Bada didn’t appear to recognize Thorne’s impatience. “Shakespeare’s work shows a broad knowledge of the Elizabethan Court, business, law, politics, the classics, languages, and travel on the continent. As a commoner, the Stratford man could not travel in the same circles, as did the nobility. He would have been totally out of touch with convention and the royalty and noble personages as figure in the plays of Shakespeare.”

Raskin said, “The First Folio, a collection of 36 plays by Shakespeare, was published in November, 1623, seven years after the death of William Shaksper of Stratford-upon-Avon. Responsibility for the compilation of the plays seemed to rest solely on Shaksper’s fellow actors, David Hemmings and Henry Condell. The two men were listed as ‘editors’ of the plays, and the doubters of Shaksper as the true author have suspected a conspiracy motivated by financial gain

“Just a few of the many well-known names who also believe the Stratford man was not the true author include: Mark Twain, Henry James, Walt Whitman, John Gielgud, Orson Wells, Sigmund Freud, Charles Dickens, Supreme Court Justices Blackmun and Powell, and a host of others. By contrast, those supporting him are meager in their prominence. Many are amateurs, high school drama teachers, professors of English Literature—and other incidental academics.”

Bada sipped his tea and continued, “Many of these academics have a vested interest in maintaining—for want of a better word—the status quo that exists in the academy. Their institutional mindset—and a lot of their work—would be knocked into a cocked hat if de Vere—or any other author—were to be proven—by hard facts—to be the actual author of Shakespeare’s work. Because of our studies at Oxford—and work we have had published—many think of us as academics, but we don’t share their traditional views. My purpose is—”

Thorne’s patience was at an end and he interrupted the monolog. “Mr. Bada, I think you should know I prefer to limit the number of surrounding issues relating to the job—things that might be distractions in performing my portion of the job. Personally, I have no interest in who the true author might be. It appears I was invited here on the pretext of discussing how I might help in discovering things in a castle in Stratford.”

Bada ignored the sharp tone in Thorne’s voice and smiled. “I understand. I just thought the additional information might be helpful. Let’s just leave it at that and proceed.”

Thorne shifted nervously in his chair. From his cursory research earlier in the day, he found many scholars s at the prestigious Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. supported the Stratford man

The Folger, an institution on Capitol Hill, was considered a world-class research center on Shakespeare. The well-respected Stanley Wells, Chairman of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, was a strong supporter of the Stratford man. Other well-known scholars supporting the traditional view included journalist Michael Shermer and authors Scott McCrea and Irvin Matus. Unfortunately, information on the internet was heavily weighted in favor of the famous doubters with few supporters known outside the academic community.

In addition to the dramatist Ben Jonson, other contemporaries and supporters of the Stratford man, included the respected poet Richard Barnfield, academic Gabriel Harvey, and writer Francis Meres. They expressed little doubt as to the authenticity of William Shakespeare of Stratford. They held it was a baseless argument, and the Stratford man was being dismissed because he was a commoner. It was well known Christopher Marlow and Ben Jonson were sons of commoners, yet often wrote about the court and the upper classes with an ease conversant with royal attitudes.

Thorne became uncomfortable and shifted in his chair. He had always wanted to know the truth—wherever it led—but he knew the sorting out of the true authorship was a quagmire. Scholars would enthusiastically spend their lives researching, debating, and putting forth theories about the subject. He preferred to leave it alone. His interest was in his present financial problem and the prospect of solving it.

Bada said, “One final note and then we’ll leave the subject. As with many noblemen who wrote plays during that era, de Vere kept his identity secret for political, social, and business reasons. It wasn’t considered proper for gentlemen to be associated with the stage and the writing of plays. During Elizabethan times, any association with the stage would place one low on the social scale.”

Thorne’s cursory glance that morning at information on de Vere showed he had been involved with the stage. He had formed his own production company, Oxford’s Boys, leased the Blackfriars Theater, and produced entertainment at Court, even going so far as to having his household servants perform in the plays. It appeared Bada and his group were being selective about all the facts. Still he kept quiet and allowed Bada to continue

Bada said,” But enough about the controversy for now. Since we’re all in agreement of your abilities, and have a strong inclination to hire you, I think we should tell you our intentions.”

Chapter 9

Bada’s gaze swept the room for a consensus to continue the discussion. There was silence, so he turned back to Thorne. “Our property is Kilshire Castle, in Stratford, across the River Avon from the Royal Shakespeare Theater. Both the castle and land are owned by the Bada family and Bada, Limited.” He turned to Freddie Hollister. “Freddie has proposed we renovate the castle—and he has placed in our hands certain information we feel could strengthen our position of support for Edward de Vere.

“Richard Moldar, the 2nd Earl of Hofley and builder of the castle on the River Avon, had also previously built a spacious Tudor-styled manor house east of the castle. It was built on a large parcel of land granted his family by King Henry VII. Freddie can fill you in on the relationship of King Henry and the Moldar and Bada families in good time”

Raskin said. “My research shows Robert Dudley, the 1st Earl of Leicester, was Queen Elizabeth’s favorite at the time. She and Dudley spent many pleasant times while they were at Kenilworth Castle, north of Stratford, in 1575. Dudley’s success in attracting the Queen to his castle at Kenilworth motivated Moldar to construct his castle on the Avon.”

Thorne noticed Kirk-Halstrom, Blackstone, and Freddie had offered little input during the presentation. The domination of the conversation by Bada and Raskin confirmed Thorne’s impression the two men would be in control of the project.

Bada said, “The Keep, the safest area of the castle, was built by Moldar solely for Queen Elizabeth’s use. Unfortunately, for Moldar, she never showed an interest in visiting the Keep—or Kilshire Castle for that matter—and he supposedly died of a broken heart. A local story persists that Moldar’s ghost still haunts the queen’s Keep, preparing for her imminent visit. It’s an interesting story about Moldar. Another interesting item Freddie can relate to you later.”

Freddie, silent during Bada’s presentation, finally spoke. “I’ve suggested we transform Kilshire Castle into a first class museum and tourist attraction. I also plan to relocate my present bookstore and have a Shakespeare and de Vere research center there.” He turned to Bada. “The new bookstore would be more than twice the size of my current store in Stratford proper. Gil’s interest in the museum and research center will also provide Bada, Limited positive public exposure.”

Freddie looked at the other men in the room before continuing. “Obviously, the construction process will also provide us a venue to proceed with the search for—”

Thorne noticed the other men were staring at Freddie.

Bada interrupted and cleared his throat. “This brings us to our interest in retaining you.”

Bada said, “We’ve already discussed our plans for the castle, and a preliminary design scheme, with certain prominent individuals on the town council. Mr. Blackstone and our architect have been in touch with the town officials and our overall design scheme has met with favorable response.

“However, I need to say, we’ve encountered resistance to our plans, and although there is minimal opposition to our drawings and overall design scheme, there are those still opposed to us. Their main opposition is the project will detract from the overall historical spirit of Stratford across the river.

“What they’re saying is we will be questioning Shaksper, the Stratford man, as the true author. They feel the relocation and enlargement of Freddie’s bookstore to the castle, and away from Henley Street—the heart of Stratford’s shopping district—will be detrimental to Stratford’s main industry, which is William Shakespeare and the Festival. Many also disapprove of Freddie’s numerous books supporting the de Vere position, and say it’s unseemly to denigrate William Shakespeare, their most illustrious citizen. It’s obvious business is a main ingredient in their argument. At a recent meeting at Civic Hall in Rother Street, almost three-hundred thousand pounds was approved to promote tourism.”

Raskin said, “It’s quite true the renovation of the castle and the relocation of Freddie’s bookstore will stimulate discussion. Freddie’s bookstore is well known for carrying a large number of books and journals about de Vere, as well as Shakespeare—and the controversy. However, we believe it will encourage additional research into the subject, and eventually add to Stratford’s prominence.” He produced a wan smile. “It may also prove de Vere to be the true author, and—”

Bada nodded his agreement and said, “We’ll just have to face that problem when it arises.” He paused and drank from his cup. “The Oxford Society, a research group, meets at Freddie’s bookstore on occasion. The Society is a prominent advocate of de Vere as the true author, and many prominent people are members of the Society. I’m not a member, but have made no secret of my interest in their research.

“But let’s get back to what you’re interested in. Our plans are to proceed with the partial demolition and renovation before opposing forces can muster a substantial challenge or injunction. Your official role would be that you are doing research and are there to observe the demolition of portions of the castle, and do likewise during the initial additions to the castle.”

Thorne asked, “Are you saying you would want me to be involved in the demolition and construction . . . I thought . . . “

Bada held his hands up, palms forward, and said, “No—no. That will only be for the public—for news releases—that sort of thing.”

The other men in the room moved closer to the conversation.

Bada said, “As Freddie started to say before, the most important portion of your task will be to conduct a search—a search for items we will discuss later—as you observe the demolition.”

Thorne said, “I’m afraid I would like to know just what is it I will be looking for in this castle while I observe the demolition.”

Raskin ignored Thorne’s comment. “The observation of the demolition will afford you an opportunity to conduct this general search for—for certain items. As you can readily see, it won’t be a simple task of just observing the demolition. It will also require diplomacy, tact and for want of a better word, a certain amount of guile on your part.”

Throughout the presentation by Raskin and Bada, Thorne had tried to be patient. At Raskin’s use of the word guile, he straightened perceptibly. He was blunt. “You’re hesitant to tell me what I’m to be looking for in the castle. Now, you indicate you may want me to lie. You’re going to have to give me more answers before we continue.”

Raskin laughed nervously. “I suppose guile isn’t the best word. Perhaps diplomacy—perhaps reserve—would have been better choices.”

Bada said, “No, Sir. We don’t expect you to lie—and—“ He paused and looked around the room at the others. “I suppose we should reveal to you what we’re looking for in the castle. Your search will be to find documents—Edward de Vere’s documents. We believe they may well prove him to be the true author of Shakespeare’s works.”

Chapter 10

“All right,” said Thorne. “That’s clear enough.”

Bada said, “Good. Now, to discuss how we want to proceed. In addition to the businessmen and citizens, you will also encounter town officials and bureaucrats on a daily basis. We simply cannot adopt a confrontational style. Our approach should be to assuage their concerns. We need to appear conciliatory and convivial in all our dealings with everyone—the businessmen, the citizens, and the town officials. However, the less contact with them, the better.”

Blackstone said, “You need to be particularly cautious in your contacts with Neville Forestal, the town’s architectural representative. He’s rigid and uncompromising in his beliefs about William Shaksper of Stratford being the true author.

Freddie took the opportunity to speak. “I’ve known Neville since we were students in grammar school and he and I have not gotten on well at times, but I keep trying—for the benefit of the project.”

Kirk-Halstrom stood and crossed to the large table. “Mr. Thorne, if we could change the subject. I should think you would be better served wearing English clothes if you decide to take the assignment. You know, fit in more. I would be glad to offer you the services of my tailor at Anderson and Shepherd in Savile Row.”

Thorne smiled and couldn’t restrain himself from replying to the patronizing arrogance of the man. He said, “Savile Row—that’s pricey, isn’t it? Just how much sartorial splendor would be required of me?”

Kirk-Halstrom stuttered, “Well—I—I just wanted to help . . .” Thorne’s firm response forced him into silence. He dropped his eyes and returned to his fingernails.

Raskin laughed in an attempt to relieve the tension. “I think Lionel brings up a good point. I would think one could get perfectly serviceable clothing at Harrods, and we would provide you with an allowance for such. You’ll be staying close by Harrods at the May Fair in London for a few days before you travel up to Stratford. Use your own judgment.”

Thorne considered the discussion of clothing ridiculous and let it go. “Provided we get together and agree on me coming on board, how soon would you want me in London?”

Bada glanced around the room. “I think we would leave within a fortnight, maybe as early as ten to twelve days from now.” He leaned back and dropped his folded hands into his lap. “I think we’re at the point where we want to finalize our agreement. I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d like you to work with us. Why don’t you think for a moment or so and see what your thoughts are, and what comments and other questions you might have.”

Thorne was silent as the others talked among themselves. He mulled over what had been presented to him. It wasn’t going to be a simple job.

First, he didn’t like having five clients to answer to, and continued to evaluate his impressions of each man. He liked the enthusiastic young Freddie, but was still unsure of the brusque Blackstone. However, it appeared Bada and Raskin would be running the show, and while he still had reservations—particularly about Raskin—he thought he could work with both men.

At the first meeting at the hotel, he developed an immediate dislike for the arrogant and snobbish Kirk-Halstrom. The man seemed erratic and went back and forth from being unbearable to offering a glimmer of a friendlier side to his personality. There was something about him that Thorne couldn’t put his finger on.

Secondly, they still had not discussed why they needed an American for the job. They could have easily found an investigator in England with the same qualifications.  He admitted to himself that the thought of the lucrative fee trumped all other considerations.

He said, “Mr. Raskin, said in his e-mail an American was needed for the job. Can you please clarify why that is necessary?”

Bada said, “Of course. Our cover story will be you and I are good friends and you’re on a social visit. The apparent reason for you being there—as we will present it— is because you were a college chum when I attended university in the States. Because of your architectural background, you are curious about the construction on the castle, and merely assisting me in observing the demolition. Obviously, it would be a good idea for you to refer to me as Gil, and I to you as David.

“You will be my houseguest at the manor, and on-site a great deal of the time during demolition and construction. While you’re making sketches and taking notes for a book you’ll be writing about English castles, you’ll also be looking for places the documents may be hidden. We’ll see to it that a small article appears in the local paper describing your visit. It‘s important you be comfortable in discussing castles and stone construction, as I’m sure you are.”

Raskin pressed a button on the intercom. “Stewart, please ask the ladies in, and we’ll retire to the dining room.” He turned to Thorne. “I do hope you can join us for dinner.”

“Thank you, but I had an early dinner and I have other plans.”

The room was momentarily silent. Thorne reflected on what had been discussed, and also what had happened so far. The pay was unbelievable—a three-month assignment with all expenses paid—interesting work—but most definitely a complex and stressful situation. Although the attack by the foul-breathed young man at the Biltmore was a cause for concern, Thorne made up his mind that he would tell them he was interested. He would just have to be on alert, and more cautious of any other encounters.

The wives of Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom came in and introduced themselves.

Raskin and Blackstone went to their wives, gave them perfunctory pecks on their cheeks, and walked with them to the dining room.

Thorne was surprised to see Kirk-Halstrom approach his short, overweight wife with a broad smile, and pulling her close to him, kissing her on the lips. The small, plain, middle-aged woman carried a white Pomeranian in her arms, and when she handed it to Kirk Halstrom, the dog eagerly began to lick him on his mouth. He only laughed and pretended to gently scold the little animal. This was not the same man Thorne had met the day before.

It was then that Thorne noticed a bulge in Kirk-Halstrom’s shirt pocket that appeared to be made by a bottle of medication, and it hit him Thorne remembered the quiet urging by Raskin the day before at the hotel about Kirk-Halstrom taking his medication, and the pieces came together.

He had seen this before—this extreme change in moods. The medication was not for heart problems or diabetes. There was a strong possibility Kirk-Halstrom was bi-polar.

In years past, being bi-polar was considered a social stigma, but with medication the physical nature of the condition of violent mood swings could now be managed. It was discovered many prominent people had suffered from being bi-polar. Before medication was discovered, Winston Churchill, Charles Dickens, Sir Isaac Newton, Mark Twain, Florence Nightingale, Alexander Hamilton, and many more had lived with the condition without ever understanding what was wrong.

Thorne’s thoughts about Kirk-Halstrom’s medical condition were interrupted when a door opened on the far end of the room, and the most beautiful woman Thorne had ever seen was brought into the room in a wheelchair.

“Hello,” was all she said as she offered her hand and looked past Thorne, waiting for him to speak. Her hand was small, soft and warm, but her handshake was firm.

Thorne immediately realized she not only suffered from a crippling condition, she was also blind. He stepped forward and said, “How do you do, I’m David Thorne. I’m a friend of Gil’s.”

The young woman’s smile exuded warmth and sincerity. With her violet eyes and dark, almost black hair, she reminded him of a young Elizabeth Taylor at the age of twenty-one, and the embodiment of female beauty. Her response was warm and simple. In a lilting voice she said, “I’m Gweneth Bada—I’m Gilbert’s sister. It’s so nice to meet you.” She brightened and was direct. “Your hands are rough. You work with your hands don’t you? I don’t meet too many men who work with their hands, anymore.” As she was wheeled  into the dining room, she turned back in his direction,  smiled, and said goodbye before joining the others.

There were other times when Thorne had met a woman and felt an unfathomable attraction to her. This was one of those times. He was immediately drawn to her. Her infirmities meant nothing to him, he felt a softness toward her, and was thoroughly taken with her—though he realized she was much too young for him.

Bada held back before joining the others. “The group has agreed to the fee, and I will serve as solicitor—what you call an attorney here in the states—for the group’s contractual matters. Can you join Freddie and me for breakfast at the Camelback Inn tomorrow morning around nine? We’ll bring the plans and other documents you’ll need to examine.”

“Yes, and I’ll bring my contract,” said Thorne. He immediately realized he was giving his tacit agreement to take the job. For better or worse, he was in.

Victor Roberts looked at the caller ID on his cell phone before answering. He recognized the number and said, “I saw the target’s pickup leaving Raskin’s house. It looks like he spent at least an hour in there. That would indicate we didn’t scare him off. It looks like he might take the job, Right.”

“That would appear to be the case. We don’t want him going to Stratford.

Were you able to find and old car that can’t be traced?”

“Yeah, I nicked an old junk car in South Phoenix. They won’t miss it for a couple of days.”

“Do what you have to do. Make it look like an accident.”

Chapter 11

As Thorne drove back to his small house in Sunnyslope he was pre-occupied with thoughts of the upcoming job and the lucrative fee he was to receive—and the beautiful Gweneth Bada. He paid little attention to the old tan Chevrolet that followed in a line of cars half a block back.

Victor Roberts, the driver of the Chevrolet, was cautious as he turned off North Central and followed Thorne toward the mountains. They were out in the desert now and Thorne turned off the main road onto a narrow dirt road that circled up the side of a mountain. Roberts followed him and pulled up close to him. Roberts sped up and clipped the right edge of the truck’s tailgate.

Thorne glanced out the side window at the one hundred foot drop off. He regained control and sped up kicking up dirt and gravel in the path of the Chevrolet.

By the time Roberts regained his vision of the truck, it was two hundred yards up the road with dust boiling behind it.

Roberts chuckled to himself. He took a notepad from his pocket with an address and a hand-drawn map showing the location of Thorne’s house. “Don’t be so jolly, Mate. I know where you live.”

Thorne drove around the mountain, found a secluded canyon, and parked. He had a view of the road below and could see his pursuer headed back to the main road. He drove back down and took a circuitous route to his house. He was becoming alarmed at the attacks—this one was not just a warning, they were serious. Maybe he should reconsider taking the job.

Thorne wasn’t rested when he arose at six the next morning.

Standing for a long time in the shower, he felt the relaxing hot needles of the shower on his back as he tried to clarify how he should proceed. This was normal for him now—this analyzing procedure. He blocked everything else from his mind when he was working—or he would be soon.

The image of the beautiful young Gweneth Bada crossed his mind. She was about the age of his wife when they met and married fifteen years ago in Chicago.

Since their divorce, Thorne had no women in his life—and hadn’t had a long-lasting relationship since his divorce twelve years ago. He remembered the wife he had loved, and believed she had loved him in return. The construction accident, lawsuit, and resulting publicity had been too much for her. She had been born into a world where nothing ever went wrong. Things had gone wrong—terribly wrong—wrong enough to where it was a shock to her delicate system and she couldn’t recover—at least with him. He had lost his architectural practice, all of his assets, and his good name. When these things began piling in on him, he also lost her. She fled from him—ignoring the facts that proved he was not responsible for the construction accident where a man had lost his life. All that mattered to her was what her socialite friends would think of her if she stayed with him. He resolved he would never open himself up to a woman again. That was it—no more.

He still didn’t feel comfortable about the job and knew he had to be on guard—but he had to get the assault off his mind. The explanation by his client—or in this case, clients— had taken an inordinate amount of time. He usually insisted a client give him all the information immediately. At that point, he normally prepared a simple one-page agreement letter, the client signed it, gave him a retainer, and he began work on the investigation. It was that simple.

He still didn’t know what else he was to do other than go to England, dress up in English clothes, pose as an architect interested in old castles, and look for old documents.

Here he was with doubts about taking the highest-paying job in his ten years as a private investigator. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Get control of yourself, Thorne. You’re in no position to be turning down a job—especially a job like this.”

Chapter 12

The dining room of the Camelback Inn was bright and cheerful, and the ambience of the room was made even more pleasant by live piano music emanating from the lobby. Bada and Freddie exchanged light talk with Thorne as they ate their breakfast of ham, eggs and hash brown potatoes. Freddie bubbled, “I say, you Yanks do know how to put on a proper breakfast. On the whole, quite good.”

Thorne smiled at the young man. Freddie Hollister was upbeat, always positive, and exuded good will, quite different from the older members of the group. Thorne decided Freddie was a man with whom he might be friends.

He hadn’t made a decision about Gilbert Bada. He was about the same age as Freddie, yet more reserved and mature, and appeared to be a pleasant and cultured young man.

After breakfast, Bada examined Thorne’s one-page letter of agreement before him. He looked up. “This is excellent. I must say you’ve been thorough and succinct, Mr. Thorne.” He caught himself and said, “I’m sorry, I’ll have to get used to calling you David.

“We have no problem with your contract. Three months at ten thousand a month.” He signed both copies and placed one in a large brief case, and returned the other to Thorne. He thumbed through a sheaf of documents before handing the files to Freddie. “As Chester—Mr. Raskin—said last evening, you’ll be our eyes and ears in helping us find the documents in the castle. Our files will give you additional information we believe will substantiate our theory about de Vere.”

Thorne asked, “Will I have problems with the town officials?”

Bada said, “Probably not, but you might with Neville Forestal, the town’s Architect. He’s a good friend of Gweneth and the Bada family, and Freddie and I have known him since we were children. As we have said previously, he’s not opposed to renovating the castle, but he’s opposed to Freddie relocating a new bookstore in the castle. He has always been opposed to Freddie carrying such a large amount of pro-de Vere publications in his bookstore in Henley Street.”

Freddie said, “I think your presence will be helpful. As I’ve said, Neville and I have had our differences on other matters in the past.”

Bada said, “We’ll be leaving for London next week and I suggest you cram on the things you’ll find in the file. This will include Stratford, Shakespeare, de Vere, castles—especially English—Queen Elizabeth I, the Tudors, and that era in general. I realize you do not want to be involved in the controversy, but the overall information may be helpful when you make it known you’re conducting research for a book on castles.”

Bada took a check from the folder and pushed it across the table to Thorne. “This is the first month’s payment on your services. It’s a bit unusual—a retainer of this size—but I think your reputation allows it.”

Thorne looked at the check. Ten thousand dollars. He couldn’t believe it. He slipped the check in his shirt pocket and said, “Thanks.”

Freddie had been preoccupied with the files before handing them to Thorne. “I’m so pleased you’re with us, and please call me Freddie.” He blushed and upon recovery said, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at these clandestine activities.”

Thorne smiled in an attempt to relieve Freddie’s embarrassment. “It appears it’s going to be interesting. You can call me David, Freddie.” He liked Freddie. He realized he would probably get more inside information about the job—and England in general—from Freddie than from the others.

Bada said, “Inside the file folder, you’ll also find a photocopy of the single page letter we’ve been referring to in our conversations.

Freddie returned to the subject of the file. “I acquired the original letter in that file from a source in London a year or so ago. I’ve had portions of the paper and ink authenticated by experts. These experts confirm it is late sixteenth century. I’ve cross-checked the information in the letter against other documents of the same time period and I strongly believe—”

He paused before continuing and shook his head. “No. I’m sure it’s an authentic letter from Richard Moldar, the builder of the castle, to his son, Bascomb. It describes events that took place around 1582 when Edward de Vere was present at the Moldar manor.” He removed a manila folder from a briefcase at his feet and flipped through it. “Here we also have a clarified transcript of the original letter Moldar wrote to his son in 1594. Your copy is in your file folder. The letter, among other things, describes various activities Moldar was involved in—bribes to Lord Burghley, the queen’s advisor—that sort of thing.

Thorne glanced briefly at the transcript. “Do you think this letter describes all the documents that may be hidden in the castle?

Freddie fidgeted before answering. “Possibly. We can’t be absolutely certain. Edward de Vere was an exceptionally accomplished man. We do know he was a man of letters, well-traveled, sophisticated in matters of royal protocol—things the Stratford man was lacking in—and we do know de Vere had valuable connections in the queen’s court. Lord Cecil Burghley, Secretary of State, High Treasurer, and chief advisor to Queen Elizabeth, was de Vere’s father-in-law and it appears Moldar had concerns about de Vere retaining the connection with Burghley, as well as his own.”

With finality he said, “Other available de Vere letters and writings are so in concert with Shakespeare’s style. I would stake everything that de Vere is the true author.”

Bada touched a napkin to his lips and stood. He shook Thorne’s hand and said, “I suppose we need to let you go now. I look forward to seeing you in Stratford.”

Freddie smiled warmly and shook Thorne’s hand. “I have your e-mail address. I’ll be in touch. Maybe we can have lunch before we leave.”

After Thorne deposited the check in the bank, the stress of going month-to-month on his meager income disappeared. Now he could relax. He used the ten-thousand dollar retainer to catch up on the loan on his pickup truck, pay off his delinquent credit card accounts, and deposit the remaining four thousand. He assumed he would need only a nominal amount for personal expenses once in England. However, the ridiculous matter of his clients buying him clothes still annoyed him.

Chapter 13

The business license mounted on the wall behind the cash register identified the establishment as the Davis Bar and Grille, but it was commonly known by the regulars as Georgie’s Bar.

Georgette Flynn—or Georgie—as she had been affectionately known, had been a larger than life character and was primarily responsible for the bars success. Her husband Eddie Davis had started the bar and café twenty years earlier and she had been his first waitress. Eddie was in his sixties when he married Georgie and she died at a young age ten years later. After she died, he didn’t know what else to do, so he kept the bar and it became his life.

Thorne entered and sat at the counter. A perky uniformed young waitress with a flamboyant starched pink handkerchief flowing out of the pocket of her blouse appeared.

“What’ll it be,  Hon.”

“Two eggs, over easy, dry toast, oatmeal, orange juice.

“You got it, Darlin’” she chirped as she spun around, and wheeled off in the direction of the kitchen.

Eddie approached and said, “Hey, Dave, how’s tricks? We haven’t seen you around for a while. I’m glad you came in. I’ve been wanting to tell you, a fellow came in last week and asked if I knew an architect named David Thorne. “Since your name’s Dave I thought it might be you.”

Thorne kept the smile frozen on his face. “Friends call me Dave, but my last name is Carson. I’m a finish carpenter and bricklayer.” He shrugged and said, “Never heard of any architect named David Thorne.” Thinking it might be the large man who had assaulted him at the hotel or the man who had tried to kill him on the mountain road, he asked, “What did he look like?”

Eddie sucked on a tooth. “Scrawny little fellow with a long face and a sharp nose. Didn’t get his name. Had an accent, but I couldn’t place it.”

The young waitress brought Thorne his breakfast, and Thorne took a bite out of a corner of the toast. “What kind of accent? Was it Southern—Brooklyn—maybe English—you know, from Great Britain?”

Eddie squinted and looked off in the distance. “No . . . more like a foreign accent, but not exactly. Could have been English—yeah, it could have been.”

“Well, the next time I’m in, maybe you could quietly point him out to me—if he’s here. Might be a process server. I don’t want him serving me a subpoena by mistake.” He chuckled and took a sip of orange juice.

As he drove back to his house in Sunnyslope, Thorne realized he’d have to stop having breakfast or lunch at Georgie’s Bar. He suspected the assault outside the Biltmore and the attempt on his life on the mountain road, could be connected with this new man with the British accent—or maybe his clients were keeping tabs on him? His concern prompted him to go to the Home Depot and buy electrical wire and lighting supplies.

Back at the Sunnyslope house, he placed pillows under a blanket on his bed, made a makeshift bed on the floor in his large walk-in closet, and slept with his .38 service revolver under his pillow. Interior floodlights were controlled by a switch in the closet, and pointed in the direction of the door coming into the bedroom, blinding anyone in their beam. An outside motion sensor was wired to an alarm buzzer in the closet.

The first few nights were uneventful, and Thorne began to think he may have over-reacted to the possible danger. The third night, around two o’clock, he was awakened by the buzzer he kept in his hand. He reached under his pillow for his .38 service revolver, turned over on his stomach, and cocked the hammer on the gun. He peered through the louvers of the closet door and listened.

Soft footsteps made a barely audible sound in the kitchen area where he had sprinkled cornflakes on the floor. The door to the bedroom opened slowly. He pressed a switch and a bright spotlight threw a concentrated beam of light directly on the doorway.

The intruder’s gun had a suppressor on it, and it made three, quick, soft whooshing sounds as it punched into the pillows under the blanket on the bed.

Thorne pushed open the closet doors, and pointing the revolver up in the direction of the door, squeezed off two quick shots. He missed his target as the intruder wheeled and disappeared through the bedroom door, slamming it behind him.

As Thorne jumped up and opened the door, another shot went into the doorframe above his head. He ducked behind a kitchen counter and waited. The door to the carport opened, a small slender figure ran swiftly through it, and out toward the front of the property.

Thorne had made the mistake of being barefoot and couldn’t follow through the rocks and cactus. He half-knelt and steadied his elbow on his knee. He was able to get off two quick shots before the figure rushed through the front gate and jumped in the driver’s side of the small car. The car sped off in a boiling cloud of dust and was out of sight in a matter of seconds.

Back inside, Thorne’s adrenaline was pumping and his nerves twitched like electric wires as he walked back and forth through the darkened house. He didn’t go back to sleep and spent the rest of the night huddled in a dark corner, clutching the pistol and rolling over in his mind the meaning of the attack. He scolded himself for not making preparations and having shoes on when he ran outside.

Was this a return visit from the foul-breathed young man who assaulted him at the Biltmore. No, the figure was too small. It was probable the man Eddie had told him about at Georgie’s Bar?

Whoever the intruder was, he definitely did not want Thorne to go to Stratford. It appeared the attacks and attempts on his life were by two people charged with seeing he didn’t. He was becoming annoyed by the attention they were paying him. Annoyed enough to where he resolved he was not going to be deterred from a very lucrative fee.

Chapter 14

The assault and attempts on his life had shaken Thorne. He canceled his lease and moved out of the house the following day. After paying the balance on his lease, he rented a motel room in West Phoenix. He called the Salvation Army and asked them to pick up the furniture and other household goods at the Sunnyslope house, and paid a year’s advance on his Scottsdale postal box. For the remaining five days, he kept a low profile and avoided his previous haunts. He moved his flight to London up two days and notified the May Fair Hotel in London of his early arrival.

Victor Roberts picked up the phone from the night table and dialed. “I didn’t get him at his house, he was waiting for me. We have a real smart cookie on our hands here. He’s moved out and I have no idea where he’s gone.”

The voice on the other end cursed. “We don’t want to get him anywhere in public. It looks like we’ll have to wait until he gets to England. What about Kelly, how is he working out?”

“Kelly’s doing his job. He couldn’t discourage Thorne enough to miss the meeting in Paradise Valley. I’ve missed him twice, but don’t worry, we’ll get him in Stratford. “

“I’m disappointed with you. I’ll expect you to do the job right when you return to Stratford, understand? Why don’t you and Kelly catch a flight back to London and we’ll see what we can do.”

Thorne and Freddie met for lunch at the Bob’s Hogan Restaurant the day before Thorne left for London. He continued to find Freddie an interesting, intelligent young man, and the smile on Freddie’s pleasant young face appeared to be genuine. He peppered Thorne with questions about America and Thorne’s experiences as they drove around Scottsdale, and out into the desert. Although they were developing a good relationship, Thorne had been circumspect about his former life. As much as he liked Freddie, he did not want to get into details about his personal life.

Freddie was often spontaneous. “I  want the new bookstore in the castle to be a success. I’ve always dreamed of having a first-class Shakespeare and de Vere research center in the castle. But, I don’t have the financial background Gil, Chester and Lionel have, so—it’s just a day-dream—I guess this all sounds silly.”

“Not at all,” said Thorne, softened by Freddie’s almost child-like exuberance. “Everyone should have a dream.”

He suddenly realized this did not apply to him. He no longer had a dream. He had left it behind in Chicago, twelve years ago. Left behind a failed marriage, a good architectural practice, and most of his assets.

Even though he felt he could trust the exuberant Freddie, he was hesitant to give him the full story of the events in Chicago. From what a friend in Chicago had told him earlier, the one remaining spurious lawsuit that forced him out of architecture, had been dismissed. The courts had decided the suit against him was totally without merit, but had taken three years to decide. By the time the case was dismissed, Thorne was broke and out of architecture.

Freddie told of how he had attended grammar school and had not gone on to a university level institution as Bada, Raskin, and Kirk-Halstrom had. Instead, he joined the British Navy at the age of nineteen and spent his four-year hitch as an administrative clerk at a post in Gibraltar.

“My duties in Gibraltar were quite boring, but, I suppose that is where I developed a love for books. Not much else for me to do but read. That’s where I first discovered the Shakespeare and de Vere controversy.

“When I left, I gave away close to five-hundred books. I wish I had them now, many would be quite valuable—possibly rare. They would be great for my bookstore in Stratford. After my discharge, I traveled extensively throughout Europe, writing in my journal, staying in youth hostels, and having a grand time. When I got back to Stratford, I renewed my friendship with Helena—my girlfriend before I joined the navy— got married, and opened the bookstore. I enjoy it, but I wish there was a way to make a lot more money.”

Freddie always came back to the subject of making big money. Thorne assumed it was because he felt his status was inferior to the overall wealth of the rest of the group.

They parted and shook hands warmly. Freddie said, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our short get-togethers. I’ll meet you at the airport when you arrive in London. Later on, we can travel up to Stratford together.”

PART 2

Chapter 15

LONDON

Thursday, November 25

9:00 AM

Thorne boarded the plane at the Sky Harbor Airport and settled in with his reading material. He took the transcript of the letter furnished him by Bada and began to read.

To my deare son Bascomb

In the yeare of our Lorde 1594 I wish you goodspeede on travel to the Newe World.  Our woorke and stryving in tyme should yield goode benefitte to us for our Patent of Monopoly for the newe tobacco and corne to England. You are commended for your labours and are a wyse young man naming sons Cecil for Lord Burghley and Raleigh for the Queene’s friende. Burghley is a wyse man and doth gyve us the Patent. He hathe received great support from me. I now gyve you other counsel to remember. In previous yeares your tutor Warren Cagney hathe sat at meate at Moldar Manor with the man Edward de Vere. A man of talent clever and accomplished and fitte and well traveled. Cagney saith he was a goode and trusted freend of de Vere and tutor in his tender yeeres. Cagney when visited upon by the man who spoke in private of his family tree and records. He did shew these to Cagney and he marveled. He did also shew his writing of playes and poetry and giveth them to Cagney. They bespoke of strange things of highe importance of Court and suche. They bespoke also of a Venetian merchant, a high-borne and sad Denmarke prince, a violent Moor and others. The man de Vere asketh Cagney for the safekeeping of suche and saith a gentleman cannot offer suche and would suffer damage at Court. He taketh another name. Upon arrest and debtors prison for Cagney he doth leaveth all his goodes and de Vere papers behind in the manor and de Vere papers may be used for oure benefitte when needes be to  seeketh the Queene’s favour. I have builded her a castle and a Keepe and these treasures are kept safe where the poesies doth welcome and should I pass you will fynd such upon your safe return from the Newe World.

Thorne re-read the transcript of the letter. Moldar was writing to his son, Bascomb, about their business venture in America. Apparently, they had bribed William Cecil, the First, Baron Burghley, father-in-law to Edward de Vere’s, for a Patent of Monopoly. This gave them the exclusive right to import tobacco and corn from the New World.

The letter also told of de Vere’s visits to Moldar Manor where he met with Warren Cagney, tutor for Moldar’s son, Bascomb. Cagney had also been a tutor of de Vere and was a confidant. De Vere evidently left his family records and work on plays and poetry for safekeeping with Cagney. Cagney and Moldar seemed to think it wasn’t proper for a gentleman to write plays and poetry, so they assumed de Vere had written under a pseudonym.

The Venetian merchant could be construed to be The Merchant of Venice; the sad prince of Denmarke as Hamlet; and the violent Moor as Othello. Cagney had been arrested and sent to debtor’s prison. He left the de Vere papers at the manor house where Moldar found them. Moldar kept them to threaten de Vere with exposure when it might be helpful to Molder and Bascomb. As Moldar continued to think it wasn’t proper for a highborn to be writing plays, he wasn’t above blackmailing de Vere to intercede with the Queen on Moldar’s behalf,

“Where the poesies welcome” reference, obviously marked hiding places of the “treasure” in Kilshire Castle. To Thorne, poesies described a bouquet of flowers or a nosegay and appeared to be representative of flowers—possibly a painting or plaque.

His curiosity was aroused that the one-page letter hadn’t been signed. Perhaps it was of such a personal nature; Richard Moldar didn’t consider it important.

Still, it seemed unusual that Moldar didn’t end the letter with affectionate closure.

Freddie was waiting for Thorne when his plane landed at Heathrow. “Good trip I hope,” he said as he loaded Thorne’s luggage into the car.

“Long, but I slept and had a chance to read the files at length. I took medication for jet lag before I left. We’ll see if it works.”

Freddie flagged a bellman when they arrived at the May Fair Hotel. “Take your time and relax. We can discuss what you read when you feel like it. Check in. I’ll see your luggage gets to your room.” Thorne checked in at the front desk and glanced around the newly designed lobby as he waited for the elevator.

The May Fair was opened in 1927 by King Edward V, and had recently undergone a seventy million pound remodeling, turning it into an elegant, contemporary-styled five star jewel. Sparkling Baccarat chandeliers, Fendi sofas and chairs, paintings from St. Petersburg, and a white marble floor said it all—the May Fair was indeed the new contemporary grand hotel in London.

When he opened the door to his suite, he found a bellman placing his suitcases on the luggage rack in the corner of the spacious white marble and black granite-tiled room. The cheerful Freddie was sprawled in a comfortable chair. “You don’t mind if I wait around while you unpack, do you David?”

“No, of course not. By the way, I think I’ll go over to Harrods first thing and see if I get clothes Kirk-Halstrom might approve of.”

They both laughed.

A light snow began to fall as Thorne left the May Fair and walked down Stratton. He turned onto Piccadilly, and soon found himself on the walkway bordering Hyde Park. A light dusting of November snow covered the ground and the bare limbs of the leafless trees. As he traveled to the west, he tried to imagine what the park would be like in the spring and summer. He imagined there would still be nannies lined up on the benches watching their charges in their trams, and Bobbies strolling about, pleasantly tipping their hats to the ladies. It would be nice if England still retained vestiges of the Victorian era’s elegant ambience.

Harrods is the most famous department store in London—and possibly the world. The store is located in the Knightsbridge area in Brampton Road, a few streets south of Hyde park.

The saying goes, “If you can’t find it at Harrods it doesn’t exist.”

Thorne had reluctantly accepted a five-thousand pound expense account at Harrods to buy suitable English-style clothes and shoes as well as other incidentals. Raskin had suggested he buy as much high quality clothing and incidentals as he needed at Harrods. Initially, he thought the amount was exorbitant. At the time, five-thousand British pounds was equal to around ten-thousand US dollars.

He was surprised to find five-thousand pounds didn’t go far at Harrods. Austin Reed suits cost seven-hundred pounds; Burberry all-weather coats topped out at over a thousand pounds; Church’s and Alan MacAfee shoes cost four-hundred pounds; and quality luggage was five-hundred pounds, plus. Shirts, shoes, ties, and sweaters ranged from one-hundred to two-hundred pounds each. Other incidentals quickly used up the five-thousand pounds.

He could now pass for a properly attired Englishman—that’s, until anyone heard him speak. He was told the alterations for his suits and coats would take two to three days, but decided to wear the double-breasted Burberry outer coat, a wool muffler and a tweed cloth hat.  He was glad to have the added warmth as the weather was turning foul.

Victor Roberts was fingering ties at a display counter as Thorne descended the escalator. He broke off, and followed Thorne through the revolving doors, stopping at a newsstand to buy a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Mike Kelly observed Thorne’s reflection in a store window, and fell in step with Roberts as he followed Thorne from a hundred feet back. Both men dodged the oncoming pedestrian traffic in an attempt to gain on Thorne, but were stymied by a large group of Japanese tourists.

Recognizing and avoiding tails had become second nature to Thorne. When he was out in public he used a simple system that was standard for private investigators. He would stop immediately in front of a shop window, and using the reflection, quickly survey the crowd behind him. If he saw a reaction from anyone, he would repeat the procedure later. If he saw the same person and same reaction, he was alerted and quickly ditched the tail. Fortunately, he recognized Mike Kelly and assumed the small hatchet-faced man with Kelly as the man Eddie Davis in Georgie’s had mentioned. He turned into a fish and chips shop quickly and threaded his way through the diners to a rear door. Once in the alley he found an unlocked rear door to another shop and quickly stepped inside to a darkened storage room. Knowing they would look for him in the alley or on adjacent streets, he felt around for a box, sat down, and waited.

Roberts, upset at being given the slip, cursed and said, “There’s still a chance we can get him near the May Fair before he goes up to Stratford. If we miss him there we’ll get him in Stratford before he can do too much damage. In any case, our orders are to see he or Hollister doesn’t get a chance to find anything in the castle.”

Kelly gave Roberts a puzzled look. “Hollister? Why is he—?”

Roberts said, “Never mind. I’ll fill you in later."

Thorne returned to the May Fair by a circuitous route and waited in a far corner of the lobby for the two men to appear. Fifteen minutes later he assumed he had shaken them, and  met Freddie for an early lunch in the dining room. Thorne had heard horror stories about English food, but had been pleasantly surprised at the quality of food at the May Fair. In his opinion it was as good as he found in the finest restaurants in the States.

Freddie said, “Gil called and will meet you at the manor house in Stratford in a few days.  When would you be ready to travel up to Stratford?”

“The alterations should be ready to pick up at Harrods on Monday.”

“All right, I’ll be doing business here in London until then. In the meantime I’ll show you the sights of the city, if you like.”

Thorne said, “I’m tired, but I suppose I should stay up until later tonight and get my internal clock started on England time.”

“Good. Gil will send us a car and driver down from Stratford in a few days. In the meantime, you can visit the sights—or come with me on my visits to my publishers and distributers. We can have an early dinner this evening and I’ll have you back to the hotel and in your warm bed before nightfall.”

Thorne nodded his agreement. He felt it best not to mention he had been followed when he left Harrods. He would have to be on guard. The two men who were shadowing him could know he was staying at the May Fair

Roberts flipped open his cell phone as he and Kelly stood at a counter eating fish and chips. “Thorne gave us the slip when he came out of Harrods, but we’re in the process of following him now. He’s with Hollister and they’re just now leaving the hotel in a taxi. What do you want us to . . .?”

He was silent as he listened before closing his cell phone. “Okay, if you say so.”

Kelly asked, “What was all that about?”

Roberts didn’t respond to Kelly’s question. Instead he dialed another number on his cell phone. “Danny? Vic Roberts here. I have a job for you and one of your men. Are you available?”

Roberts gave instruction where he wanted to meet and closed his cell phone.

Kelly asked again, “And . . . ?”

“He wants us back in Stratford. We need to hire men here in London to take care of Thorne and Hollister on the road on their way back to Stratford.”

The following Monday Roberts and Kelly sat in the back seat of a non-descript gray Vauxhall parked across from Harrods The driver finished smoking a cigarette and tossed it through the open window. In the passenger’s seat, Danny Graham, a young man barely out of his teens, was counting a stack of pound notes.

He replaced the rubber band around the stack and put it in his pocket. “All right, Vic, what do you want me and Horst to do to these blokes?”

Chapter 16

When Thorne picked up his clothing at Harrods, the gray Vauxhall was parked and waiting. As Horst Weigard started the engine and waited to follow the Bentley, Danny Graham said, “Hold back about three cars on the way up to Stratford, Horst. We’ll get them after they get out of the heavy traffic.’

Thorne loaded the packages into the Bentley limo Bada had sent down to take them to Stratford, and joined Freddie in the backseat. Freddie turned his attention to the driver. “Charles, we’re in no hurry. Take your time up to Stratford.”

Turning to Thorne, he said, “I know we’ve inundated you with information for the past two weeks, but I have more information on additional subjects that may, or may not, be helpful to you. I suppose I could start by telling you the history of the Bada and Moldar families and Kilshire castle.

“In 1895, William Moldar, a descendent of Richard Moldar, the builder of Kilshire castle, established a trading company with Gupta Bada, an Indian exporter in Calcutta. The company exported copra, the meat of the coconut, from the Far East to England.

“William Moldar’s daughter, Regina, met Gupta’s son Sanjit on a Moldar family trip to India. They were immediately attracted to each other, were married, and moved to England where Sanjit managed the partnership’s business there. The following year, their son, Adrian Bada, was born.

“Adrian was educated at Oxford and would eventually merge the Bada and Moldar families into one. He became a Member of Parliament and later distinguished himself by serving in the government’s cabinet. Adrian eventually took control of the Moldar fortune, rose to the head of Bada, Limited, and expanded the company into a multi-national entity after WWII. Upon Adrian’s death in 1969, his son Stephen became president of the company.

“Stephen was very successful in the management of Bada, Limited, and stabilized Adrian’s expansion. He serving mostly as a caretaker for the variety of businesses acquired. When he retired, Gil Bada took over as CEO.”

Freddie paused and pressed the intercom button on the back seat console. “Charles, we should be coming up to a lay-by with a convenience facility just past the Oxford turnoff at Bicester. Could you please stop there?”

The three men left the limo and walked up a footpath to the men’s restroom. Thorne dropped back and let the others lead the way. As he did, he dropped a piece of paper and casually bent over to pick it up, and glanced back up the road. The gray Vauxhall sedan had stopped and was parked at the entrance to the lay-by. The driver had his face covered as he looked at a map, and the passenger in the car had his hand up partially blocking his face.

When Thorne returned to the limo from the rest room, he raised both arms above his head and stretched. In the process, he glanced around casually, and noticed the driver of the Vauxhall, and his passenger, had remained in the car while Thorne and the others were in the restroom.

The Vauxhall followed when the Bentley pulled out onto the roadway.

Five minutes later the Vauxhall, with Weigard driving, pulled alongside the limo. Graham turned around from the passenger’s seat and pointed a handgun out the open window of the Vauxhall. He squeezed of four quick shots, two missing the limo to the rear, one went over the top on the limo, and the last ricocheted off the roof just above the rear window. Weigard jerked the front end of the Vauxhall sharply to the left, crashing into the front fender of the limo.

Charles fought to maintain control of the Bentley and slid onto the gravel shoulder, stopping just short of plunging down a deep ravine. He turned around and asked, “Are you all right?”

Freddie looked in Thorne’s direction and back to Charles. “Yes, we’re all right. Why do you think he did that? Who are those guys?”

Charles shrugged and said, “I have no idea. Maybe some kind of nut or he could have been a—”

Freddie looked again at Thorne. “What do you think, David?”

Thorne watched the Vauxhall weaving from lane to lane as it sped off erratically into the distance. “I have no idea, maybe he was upset about something. He must have been really upset to pull a gun on us. Looks like he’s having problems up there.”

Suddenly, the tire that had collided with the Bentley shot off from the Vauxhall, and the car swerved and began to roll. It rolled to the shoulder two times and crashed into a concrete culvert, slid sideways and ended up on its roof in the roadway.

Charles pulled the limo back slowly onto the roadway as red taillights up ahead stopped traffic. After a short interval, an ambulance and police vehicle sped by on the shoulder of the crowded roadway and stopped at the overturned vehicle. The bumper-to-bumper traffic crawled along and ten minutes later the limo passed the overturned Vauxhall blocking one lane of traffic. Two blanket-covered bodies lay off to one side of the wreck.

Charles rolled down a window and asked a policeman directing traffic, “What happened?”

The policeman said, “Evidently the car lost a front wheel and rolled. Move along, please.”

Charles turned around and asked Freddie, “Do you think we should stop?”

Freddie turned to Thorne and back to Charles. He shrugged, “I don’t know what we could do. I think we should move on.”

The limo continued down the parkway and after a lapse of silence, Freddie said, “That was horrible. What were they trying to do?”

Charles said, “As I said, maybe they were just nuts, or as Mr. Thorne said, they were upset about something—who knows what. Some people resent limousines.”

Freddie was silent before continuing his story. “To get back to what I was saying, I’ve also studied the origin of the Moldar family. Thomas Moldar’s’ father, Geoffrey, was an obscure figure and seaman. Little else was known about him.

“Thomas, known as Black Tom because of his long black hair and beard, endeared himself to King Henry VII and later his son, Henry VIII, by his fealty to the Crown with gifts of gold taken from the Spanish by acts of piracy upon the high seas.”

Freddie was becoming immersed in his story and appeared to have forgotten about the incident with the Vauxhall. “King Henry VIII was grateful and gave Black Tom immunity—as a pirate—or privateer. A privateer was just another term for  pirate—a sea thief—but in many cases, was hired by a king to attack and loot other countries’ ships. King Henry was pleased with the bounty Black Tom returned to England, and ignored the protests of the Spanish Crown.

“King Henry’s gift to Black Tom was a large tract of land bordering on the east bank of the River Avon. The king hoped this would encourage Tom to continue providing the Crown with gold—and it did. Eventually Black Tom left the sea and became a merchant, businessman and gentleman farmer. He was given the title the first Earl of Hofley by King Henry and continued to prosper—and contribute to the Crown.

“King Henry VIII died and Elizabeth eventually ascended to the throne after that confusing business with Edward VI, Lady Jane Grey, and Mary. Black Tom died a short time thereafter, and his son Richard took control of the Moldar fortune. Richard Moldar eventually became the richest man in Western England.”

Thorne’s mind flashed back to the incident on the road with the Vauxhall. He knew it wasn’t just chance encounter with a disgruntled driver. He recognized it as another attempt on his life—but, were they after Freddie, too?

Chapter 17

As the Bentley proceeded to Stratford, Freddie continued with the story of how Kilshire castle came into being. “Richard Moldar, the 2nd Earl of Hofley, continued in the tradition of his father by currying favor with the Crown. His contributions to the Queen Elizabeth had been formally accepted, but unfortunately, he lacked the grace, wit, and courtliness that was required to be a favorite—or even a semi-favorite—of Queen Elizabeth when she ascended to the throne. His final attempt for acceptance by his queen was his construction of Kilshire Castle for her on the East Bank of the River Avon.

“In 1575, Queen Elizabeth visited Kenilworth Castle, six miles south of Coventry and fifteen miles north of the then small village of Stratford-upon-Avon with Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. Dudley, the favorite of the Queen at the time, had transformed Kenilworth for her visit and she spent an unprecedented thirty days of relaxation there with him.

“In private, Richard Moldar was depressed and confused at the slight given him by his queen. He did not offer gold to the queen directly, but he assumed the queen was told of his generous gifts by her ministers. As the wealthiest man in the West, Moldar could well afford to build a castle the equal—or superior to Kenilworth. His decision was to do so—and it would be built for his queen.

“In the same year, he traveled to London to seek out the most famous architect of the day, Robert Smythson. Smythson said he was too busy, and referred Moldar to Richard Llewellyn, an architect, engineer, metallurgist and castle expert from Wales.

“Llewellyn was considered by many to be one of the preeminent Master Builders in Europe at the time, and an authority on medieval castles. Llewellyn was also from Wales and Queen Elizabeth was sympathetic to Wales. This was another strong reason for Moldar using him as the castle’s master builder.

“Llewellyn was an innovative engineer as well as a builder, and had developed defense systems utilizing iron as a major component. When building a fortress, Llewellyn insisted a forge and foundry be built on the property where he could manufacture his metals on-site. Moldar was sure Llewellyn, with his knowledge of the newer types of defense-oriented construction could produce a superior castle, a bastion where the queen could feel secure and comfortable.

“The elaborate design was that of a fortress. Moldar wanted the castle built in less than five years, a task unheard of at the time. He insisted on the time-line and said money was no object.

“By using hundreds—at times thousands—of workmen laboring night and day around the clock, Kilshire Castle was finished in less than five years and was reputed to be the most expensive building ever built in England. To achieve his time-line, he had hired hundreds of stonemasons, iron wrights and smiths, carpenters, cabinetmakers; earth works engineers, weavers, craftsmen, and artisans of all kinds from all over England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland. With the permission of the Crown, he moved other tradesmen and workers, along with their families, from as far away as Amsterdam, Paris, and Rome.

“Much of his funds to build the castle—and to bribe officials—came from the gold privateers and pirates taken from Spanish Galleons returning from the New World. He had his own private smelter in Liverpool where he melted down the Spanish gold and contributed it to the Crown.

“Moldar insisted Llewellyn’s design include a Keep as the main element of the castle. The Keep was to serve as a fortified bastion as well as quarters for the queen, her guards, and staff. It was designed to be the last line of defense when attacked or laid siege to.

“Moldar was sure when the fame of the virtually impregnable grand castle, built especially for her and her alone, spread throughout England, the queen was sure to visit. He appealed to Lord Cecil Burghley, chief spokesman and administrative head of Queen Elizabeth’s government, to suggest she come to Kilshire, but to no avail. Moldar was confused. Surely, Lord Burghley was aware of the value of the generous contributions by the House of Moldar to the Crown.

“Unfortunately, for Moldar, and despite Lord Burghley’s urgings, Queen Elizabeth continued to ignore him, his wife Diana, their grand manor—and the castle. She told intimates she simply didn’t like the commoner Moldar and his dull, graceless and unpleasant personality.

“Because of her disinterest, the queen’s Keep remained unoccupied for the remaining fifteen years of Moldar’s life. Even though the queen’s chambers were never used, Moldar insisted they were to be kept spotless. Linens were changed daily, the floor was swept and firewood was kept at the ready next to the fireplace. Moldar spent many hours alone in the Keep looking out the window in the direction of the main gate. To the consternation of his wife, he eventually moved his bed into the apartment and spent the nights there alone.

“When Moldar referred to it as Queen Elizabeth’s Keep or the queen’s Keep, the servants laughed behind their hands and referred to it as Moldar’s Keep. Ever hopeful to the end, he was said to have asked on his deathbed—there in the queen’s Keep—‘Is there any word from my queen’?”

“The rumor that Richard Moldar’s ghost still haunts the upper floors of the queen’s Keep is well-known among the people of the surrounding countryside. It is said to this day he still roams the Keep with a candle on dark nights, preparing for Queen Elizabeth’s eminent visit.

Chapter 18

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

Monday, November 29

3:15 PM

The imposing Bada manor house was set back from the main road at least a thousand feet and was built in the Tudor style, prevalent during the Elizabethan era. The four-story high structure was clad in white stucco with exposed dark half-timbers, strap works, and twisted masonry chimneys in keeping with the Tudor style. It was set on a low hill, and was the most imposing structure in the area, and was prominently visible against the blue sky to the east of the castle .

The brooding hulk of Kilshire Castle was set down the hill next to the River Avon, a quarter mile away from the manor house.  There were wharves up and down the river from the castle, and were once used for commerce. Now they only accommodated tour boats. The large quay was made of the same stone as the castle.

A curved driveway lined with now leafless two hundred year old majestic Black Poplars, wound its way up the hill to the manor house. It ended at a spacious cobblestone motor court at the entrance to the covered Grand Portico. In the center of the motor court, marble Italian figures frolicked in the center of a large quatrefoil-shaped stone fountain. The portico and the Italian-style fountain were not in the character of sixteenth century Tudor architecture, and were obviously added later.

The Bentley pulled to a stop at the foot of the wide marble stairway leading up to the covered portico. The driver unloaded the luggage as Thorne and Freddie stepped from the car.

A tall, straight-backed man in a butler’s uniform was standing under the covered portico. He directed two men to help the driver with the luggage.” Pleased to have you with us, Mr. Thorne. I do hope you’ll be comfortable,” he said with a broad smile.

This was the second cheerful and pleasant English butler he had met recently. He even knew Thorne’s name. Maybe the movies had it all wrong about English butlers being unsmiling, stiff-necked snobs. The butler said, “Mr. Bada wanted you to have ground floor accommodations since you’ll be visiting the castle at odd times and may not want to be disturbed in your comings and goings.”

Freddie walked down a long hallway with Thorne to a large room at the rear of the house. “Gil wants to welcome you to dinner tonight. I have business in the bookstore and I can’t be here tonight. Gil will have returned from Birmingham in time for dinner, and after dinner, you’ll get lined out on the upcoming meeting at the castle. I’ll see you tomorrow at the castle.”

Thorne said, “Thanks, Freddie, I appreciate all your efforts.”

Thorne surveyed the large bedroom. An entire wall was covered with oak bookcases full of leather-bound books. An imposing king-size bed faced a view of the wood out the rear of the house.

He unpacked and found a large comfortable chair in front of the fireplace. He read only part of the front page of the London Times before dropping it in his lap and dozing off to sleep.

A light knock on the door aroused him and a soft feminine voice said, “Dinner will be served in an hour, Mr. Thorne.”

He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch and answered,. “Thank you.” He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and combed his hair. He straightened his tie and went out into the broad hallway.

As he proceeded to the dining room he passed through the spacious entry foyer with an enormous chandelier that dominated the space. Opposite the large entry doors was a wide central stairway that split at the top and shorter rungs of stairs went up on either side. A large tapestry of a hunting scene framed the top of the stairway landing. A Lalique table holding a large fresh flower arrangement was centered under the chandelier on the black and white tiled floor. The furnishings throughout the house could best be described as tastefully contemporary traditional, not what would have been found in the manor two hundred years ago. The only things that seemed out of place were the dark and aged portraits of past Moldar and Bada family members.

The dining room was a large wood paneled room with a long table in the center flanked on either side by ornate sideboards. The table was covered with a lace-edged, white linen tablecloth, and mounds of fresh flower arrangements were interspersed between three large brass candlestick holders spread in a line down the center of the table. Three large chandeliers hung from the carved wood-beamed ceiling over the festive dining table.

Small groups of people stood about, chatting amiably around the large dining room. Conversations ceased as a tall, attractive blonde woman wearing a stylish pink St. John’s Knit suit and lots of jewelry swept into the room.

She flashed a bright smile of even white teeth behind a red mouth. “Well, isn’t this just too marvelous. All our dear friends in one room at the same time. Who could have wished for more?” She sought out Thorne and extended her hand. “Mr. Thorne, I’m Gil’s wife, Andrea. We’ve heard so much about Gil’s good friend from America. I do hope you’ve found your accommodations to be comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bada, The accommodations are wonderful.”

“Oh, please, do call me Andrea—all my friends do,” she bubbled.

Andrea immediately turned her attention to the direction of heightened activity of the dinner guests gathered at the large double doors. She bent to Thorne and whispered enthusiastically, “Our star arrives.”

The group parted and a young, dark-haired woman in a wheelchair emerged. It was Gweneth Bada. She was pushed in the direction of Andrea and Thorne by Charles, the driver who had driven him and Freddie up from London. Thorne moved aside as she approached.

Andrea looked at a diamond-encrusted watch on her thin wrist. “You’re a bit late. I thought you might not be coming, Gwennie. How did the therapy go today?”

Gweneth Bada’s dark eyes were fixed on a spot over Andrea’s shoulder.

“Oh, about the same. My leg still hurts—same as before.” She laughed softly. “The great thing about it is it feels so good when they stop jerking it around.”

Andrea said with mock seriousness, “Oh, Gwennie, I’m so sorry I couldn’t join you in those marvelous festivities.” Both bent over and sputtered with laughter like a couple of schoolgirls.

Thorne was perplexed at the casual attitude about the young woman’s injuries.

After the two had stopped laughing, Andrea turned to Thorne. “Gwennie, I want to introduce you to Mr. David Thorne. He’s Gil’s friend from America.”

“Hello again, Mr. Thorne. It’s good to have you with us.” Her small round face broke into a warm smile.” Please call me Gwen, everyone does.”

Thorne was amused by the ever-present “. . . all my friends do . . .” attitude of the usually staid Brits. He assumed the reason was people living a geographically insular life would tend toward similar habits.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Gwen. Please call me David.”

Andrea moved to the head of the table. “Well, now that we’re all on a first name basis, I think we should separate ourselves from all these formal types. Come over here and sit across from us.”

Gweneth’s wheelchair was pushed into a vacant spot next to Andrea. “Thank you, Charles. Would you please get me a wrap from the closet?” The big man nodded and left.

Andrea leaned over and said, “Mr. Thorne—David—we want to capture you for Gwennie’s and my benefit tonight. Down at the other end of the table, they’ll be talking about sport most of the evening. We want to hear all about America.”

Gilbert Bada entered with two men, and as they sat, he came down the table to where Thorne, Andrea, and Gweneth were sitting. Thorne stood as he approached, and shook Bada’s hand.

“Well, David,” said Bada, “it appears you’ve been captured by two of the more attractive members of our dinner party. My loss. Freddie tells me you and I are set to meet in the Library after dinner.” He bent and kissed Andrea and Gweneth respectively on their foreheads, and he returned to the other end of the table where he engaged in conversation with the two men he had come with.

During the dinner of French onion soup, roast Grouse and Chateaubriand, Bada introduced Thorne and the two men who had arrived with him, who turned out to be wine collectors.

Andrea whispered to Thorne, “Now, this is exciting. Gilbert tells me he’s bought two bottles of the 1868 Chateau Latour.“ She laughed and said, “I don’t know if it’s any good or not. All I know is it costs about five-thousand pounds a bottle. She nudged Gweneth and said, “I’m going to have to watch your brother. He’s going to send us to the poorhouse with his wine collecting. Me? I’d just as soon stay with my Dom Pérignon Rosé. It’s only a dinky little nine hundred pounds a bottle. Cheap.” Both tried but couldn’t suppress a laugh.

Throughout dinner, when Andrea and Gweneth weren’t peppering Thorne with questions about architecture, American cinema and customs, they were gossiping and laughing about people they had known during their days as students at boarding school. They even made jokes about Moldar and the supposedly haunted castle.

Gweneth said, “Andrea was always around, so naturally she and Gilbert got married. What else was he going to do, call a constable and have her removed?” She snickered and Andrea joined her. Thorne had the impression he was listening to two young schoolgirls being silly.

He noticed Gwen laughed a lot, a natural, tinkling laugh that seemed to be an integral part of her personality. One would not have expected such an attitude from one cut down in the prime of her young life, and possibly handicapped for the remainder of it.

When a glass of Bada’s vintage champagne was poured for him, Thorne took a perfunctory sip and set the glass down. He didn’t like champagne or wine no matter how special it was. It reminded him too much of the times back in Chicago when his former wife had tried to get him to conform to her weekend lifestyle of cheese and wine tasting.

But as the evening passed, his attention was riveted on Andrea and Gweneth. He hadn’t spent much time with women for a long while and their laughter, friendly repartee and reminisces—as silly as they were— made for a pleasant evening. He couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed himself, and the company, so much.

Chapter 19

After dinner, Bada took Thorne down a broad hallway lined with antique chairs and dark paintings of still lifes and landscapes set in ornate gilded frames. At the end of the hallway they entered through a large pair of wood paneled doors into a large two-story room half the size of a basketball court. A spiral staircase led up to a narrow balcony and bookshelves filled with old, leather-bound books, and secured behind glass-fronted doors. The shelves on the main floor were open, and included a trove of leather-bound books devoted to Shakespeare and de Vere, Bacon, Marlowe, Spenser, Milton, Descartes, Spinoza, Locke and other major and minor philosophers. A small section was reserved for contemporary books in colorful dust jackets.

Thorne had seen libraries of this size and opulence, but most had been in museums in major cities. His mind drifted, thinking how many people it would require to keep it clean and in order.

In an opposite corner of the room Bada’s high-backed, tufted black leather executive chair was ensconced behind an antique carved walnut desk. Behind the desk was a credenza of contemporary design with three monitors, a computer keyboard, papers, journals, and books in orderly stacks.

Bada went to a sideboard and poured a snifter of brandy. Thorne declined the brandy, and Bada motioned for Thorne to take one of the leather chairs fronting the desk. “You would have seen the castle and adjacent buildings when you drove in today. I’m sure you noticed the new fifteen hundred square meter building south of the castle. During the demolition and construction stages the building will be used for storage.”

Bada took a sip of brandy and studied Thorne. “I think I need to let you know the real purpose of this particular building. I am so confident we will find the documents I have built it as a temporary, but secure research facility to store and study in minute detail every one of the documents. I have accumulated and vetted a list of almost one hundred Shakespearean scholars and British and European historians who I will invite to attend events and study the documents over the next three years. After we have accomplished the initial studies and cataloging we will move them into Freddie’s permanent research facility in the castle. If we find the documents soon, I will temporarily display them in the Great Hall of the castle before moving them into this storage building, and eventually into the castle. I have not revealed this information to anyone else—not even Freddie—and I know I can depend on you to keep it confidential until I tell you different.”

Thorne nodded his agreement and said, “Absolutely, and I appreciate your confidence.”

Bada said, “We’ll have a morning meeting tomorrow with Jacques Rainier, our architect on the renovations of the castle, and our engineers, consultants, vendors and contractors will also be there. You should also know, we have not revealed to Rainier or anyone else outside our immediate group, about our search during the demolition. The fewer people that know, the better.” He produced a folder. “I also have general information about the upcoming final meeting in the town hall on the second of December you might find of interest.

Thorne shifted his weight in his chair. “Again, I thought my role was limited to—”

Bada said, “Of course—of course. But I think it’s helpful for you to be familiar with

our supporters—and possible opponents— on the council. We have been told privately of the Council’s approval.”

He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “This brings us to our most virulent opponent, Roger Linsdame.”

Chapter 20

Bada swirled the brandy in the snifter. “Roger Linsdame is an important man in Stratford, and considers himself to be the most important. He owns a number of tourist related businesses in town, including the largest department store, near the Shakespeare Centre in Henley Street. He also owns a local motorcar dealership, restaurants and other miscellaneous businesses in and around Stratford, and wants to keep the focus there—that is, on his side of the river. I don’t remember if I mentioned previously, Linsdame is responsible for the rumor the castle is haunted by the ghost of Richard Moldar. I realize it’s strange he would do that, as it only enhances tourist interest in the castle. He’s known to be rash and impulsive.

“We have tried to make a strong argument that the renewed activity at the castle on our side of the river will not impede his business in the center of town. Unfortunately, Linsdame is stubborn and won’t hear of it.

“As has been mentioned previously, Neville Forestal is another strong opponent He’s not on the Council, but as town architect, he wields a lot of influence. As I’ve said, we still consider him our friend even though we disagree on development of the castle and the property.

Bada retrieved a file folder and handed it to Thorne. “You may have also seen the name Jacques Rainier shown on plans and other information provided you. Rainier is our architect from Brussels. His father is Belgium and mother is English, and he speaks English fluently. Because he is not English, he is assumed to be lacking in English interests— and more specifically, Stratford interests—so his relationship with Neville is tenuous at best. You’ll have the opportunity to meet Rainier when he conducts the meeting tomorrow. He can answer questions—”

Thorne said, “Again, I want to emphasize—”

Bada held up his hand. “You’re not to be involved in anything dealing with the technical or political aspects of the project. I just want you to be aware of the relationships of the characters involved.”

Thorne asked, “What is Forestal’s background? Is he also a registered architect?”

“Yes, he studied architecture at the University of Cambridge—quite possibly the best school for architecture in all of England. He’s from a family of modest means, and he’s exceptionally bright and talented. After graduation, he traveled abroad in Europe, and claims to be knowledgeable about castles and medieval fortresses. One of his duties is to also inspect various historic buildings and make recommendations to the Town Council that will preserve the character of Stratford. As I have said, his recommendations carry a lot of weight. But I want to add, we also bring influence to the Council for our position. We donate money to the election campaigns of various council members and funds for capital improvements to town projects, including road and infrastructure repairs. Obviously, the Bada family—as well as Bada, Limited—is considered an important member of the community—financially as well as socially.”

Thorne asked, “Will he be inspecting the demolition on a regular schedule?”

Bada shrugged, “It’s assumed he will.”

He sat motionless, staring at a file before him for a long period as if he were gathering his thoughts. “David, aside from all the machinations involved in the political aspects of this project, I want you to know something that is very important to me—and to Freddie. We are interested in finding the documents—if they exist—for scholarly purposes, but I’m also interested in the legacy of the Bada family. The castle addition, renovation and refurbishing is a large part of that legacy. I know the other members of our group; Chet Raskin, Simon Blackstone, and Lionel Kirk-Halstrom are primarily interested in finding the document for their own purposes. My interests, as well as Freddie’s, go much further.

“Freddie sees this as an opportunity to have more than a bookstore in Stratford. I’ve indicated he will have a bookstore in the castle. But, we will eventually look to him to be the director of the research center and activities in the castle. Our family has always been good friends of Freddie—and his wife, Helena—and we want to help him as much as we can in his research—and financially.”

The room was quiet before he continued, “I suppose I should also acquaint you with basic details about the Bada Family—and Gwen.”

Chapter 21

During conversations, Bada paused frequently, peering thoughtfully over his folded hands. After one of these pauses he said, “I’m sure Freddie has given you background about us, as well as much of the history of the Moldar family who built this house, and also how the Bada family came to prominence. As you know, Bada, Limited has its headquarters in Birmingham, and I’m up there one or two days a week. My wife, Andrea, our children, and my sister Gwen live here, and we have a few of our elderly relations, who also occupy parts of the manor house. Our total staff varies from time. Fifteen to twenty, depending on the season.”

Another long pause. “I suppose you’re curious about Gwen’s condition. She’s confined to the wheelchair most of the time—except for periodic therapy—and there’s always hope.”

Thorne said, “She’s a very pleasant, friendly and attractive young woman. I enjoyed talking to her and Andrea at dinner.”

Bada said, “She and a young friend had been romantically involved for over a year after boarding school, and were driving down to the Cotswolds. The young man was driving and they had a horrible accident. He was killed instantly. Gweneth received injuries causing paralysis in her right leg, blindness in her right eye and eventually total blindness. She was only eighteen at the time. She is now twenty-two, and requires a constant companion and nurse. I believe you’ve already met Charles, our chauffeur. There have been threats to Gwen for unknown reasons, so Charles also serves as her bodyguard. His wife Mairead serves as Gwen’s full time nurse and companion.

“Since the accident, Gwen hasn’t had any other romantic involvements except Neville Forestal. They’ve known each other since childhood—and even with Neville’s strong opposition to our plans, they are seriously talking about getting married. I know—it seems to be a very strange situation, but I think—I hope—he’ll make her happy.”

The meeting with Gilbert broke up around midnight, and Thorne went outside and sat on the edge of the fountain. The castle, a large black mass, loomed in the distance. He wondered what he would find hidden there. As he started to turn away and return to his room, he thought he saw a light flicker in the upper reaches of the castle. He looked back quickly, but if there had been a light there, it was gone.

The job had taken on many added dimensions and he wondered if he’d made the right decision to take it. Then he remembered why he’d taken it. It was primarily for the money.

Back in his room, he pulled up Jacques Rainier on his laptop to gain more knowledge on the man. He read numerous profiles of the man and found him to be quite interesting. Bada had said Rainier had not been informed they were looking for de Vere’s documents during demolition. But did the architect know? The documents would be extremely valuable when revealed to the literary world. How valuable? It was impossible to tell.

As he continued the search on Rainier, he found even more interesting information. He wondered if Bada had found the same information. Rainier was being sued by a large European conglomerate for ten million Euros and the threat of bankruptcy was imminent.

Chapter 22

Early the next morning, Thorne arrived at the castle grounds with Bada and Freddie for the meeting with Jacques Rainier. Blackstone was present, but Raskin and Kirk-Halstrom were missing. When Thorne saw Rainier, he would have never suspected the man was in dire financial trouble. He was a short cheerful man in his early sixties, barely over five feet tall, but with an ego closer to six feet.

Thorne’s previous review of the life and practice of Rainier revealed that as an architect, Jacques Rene’ Rainier was an anomaly to the profession. What made him different wasn’t only ego and eccentricity—not an unusual characteristic in architects—but his flexibility. Almost all architects seek to develop a style. He often bragged he had none. “Style is for small architects. I’m a big architect.”

Given a new museum or concert hall, he could provide as inventive or outrageous contemporary design as any of the other famous architects in the world. But, when working on an existing historic building, he changed his approach completely and adhered to the original design and construction so faithfully it was indistinguishable from the original architect’s design.

He completely subjugated his own role in the project. He became an extension of the original architect’s personality.

So it was with Kilshire Castle.

Upon taking the commission for the castle—a thirty thousand square foot addition to a two hundred thousand square foot historic structure—he undertook a two-week immersion into the career of Richard Llewellyn the original Welsh Master Builder of the castle. He studied other castles and manor houses built at the time in Western England and Wales, and spent hours researching the history of the Tudors from Henry VII to Henry VIII to Queen Elizabeth I.

He often said his fee—usually twice that of other architects—was justified because of his efficiency and approach to additions or renovations to historic buildings. It was no secret he was often sued for deviating from the wishes of his clients in the final development—he never used the term design when renovating or remodeling a building. Design to him was what the original architect had done to achieve the desired result for the specific structure, and though they may have been separated by centuries, Rainier considered his role to be that of a colleague—an associate—a workman—not a competitor. A mystic would say he was attempting to channel the original architect. A few of the workman whispered they had heard him talking to someone in the Keep when he was supposedly alone there.

He was a puzzlement to other architects. They all knew he was as adept as anyone in the manipulation of space, structure, materials and methods of contemporary construction as anyone in the world. He’d proven it over and over in winning competitions for major world-class projects.

Why then, they complained, why this groveling about, serving as a “workman”—a “lackey”—yes, a lackey for long dead architects on buildings mediocre to start with?

Rainier responded with his well-known cryptic dictum. ”You forget, I’m a big architect—I’m timeless.”

Rainier had studios in South Africa, the United States, South America and the Far East. He traveled extensively with a retinue of staff and sycophants, and his office had as many as fifty large-scale projects at any one time. He had taken a personal interest in the Kilshire Castle renovations and additions project, and had brought in three assistant architects, assorted consultants, on-site draftsmen, and construction administrators. An unusual practice for Rainier. It was as if he expected Kilshire would be something special.

The meeting was held in the Great Hall of the castle. The main conference table was set in the middle of the eighty-foot long room, with Rainier’s team clustered at an adjacent table, furiously pecking away at the keyboards of their laptops. Other smaller tables with teams of various engineers and consultants were also set perpendicular to the main conference. The walls were covered with drawings and blueprints, and Rainier presided before a large whiteboard at the head of the table.

The first thing one noticed about Rainier was his head. It was massive and was accentuated by a bloom of white hair that flowed over his ears. It gave the appearance of a blinding, giant white chrysanthemum mounted on his head. His wide-set eyes were quick, dark and bright, and while the face wasn’t that of a handsome man, it was of a man of will and determination.

Not waiting for the conversations to subside, he began, “Gentlemen—and ladies,” he said, recognizing two of the women in the room. “This is the first time we have all been together and Mr. Gilbert Bada and I want to welcome you to this historic project.

“Mr. Bada, as you know, is the President of Bada Corporation, Ltd., well-known in Stratford as a supporter and donor to the community, and the principal behind the renovations and additions to Kilshire castle.”

Rainier motioned in the direction of Thorne sitting on Bada’s immediate right. “Mr. Bada has also brought another asset into the project in the person of Mr. David Thorne, from the United States. Mr. Thorne is a good friend of Mr. Bada’s, and is an architect in his own right and plans to document the process of our work.

“Now I’m only the architect on the project, but I feel it important I also assume the traditional role of Master Builder for the entire project. He tilted his head to his left and smiled benignly at Frank “Bunny” Bunston, the pudgy, red-faced general contractor, and said, “In all humility, I’m sure Mr. Richard Llewellyn, the original Master Builder of the castle, would have wanted me to now assume that role and pick up the baton.”

Thorne cringed.

The sleepy-eyed Bunston smiled pleasantly at Rainier’s declaration. He nodded in agreement, showing he was on board with Rainier’s new-found responsibility.

Rainier continued. ”You might find this meeting premature in light of the fact we have not yet received approval from the Town Council for a building permit to proceed.” He motioned to a portly white-haired man sitting next to Bunston. “However, our legal counsel, Mr. Jonathan Devane, assures us the approval at tomorrow night’s Town Council meeting will prove to be merely ceremonial.” The stern-faced Devane was stoic and stared straight ahead.

Almost as an afterthought he motioned to Blackstone sitting to his immediate right. “One of the principals you’ll see around the job site frequently is Mr. Simon Blackstone. As a previous owner of a successful building contracting firm in South Africa, Mr. Blackstone has an extensive background in construction, and we will gratefully seek out his council from time to time. I have worked with Mr. Blackstone in the past and have been impressed with his abilities.”

Unlike Thorne, who had accepted Rainier’s request for input as perfunctory, Blackstone gave no doubt as to his intention to provide his opinion. He arose, and looked around the room. “Thank you, Mr. Rainier. I want to take this opportunity to assure all of you of our desire to make this a successful project.” His face hardened slightly as he turned to Rainier. In measured tones he added, “. . . and furthermore, I want to assure Mr. Rainier—” He motioned in the direction of the general contractor—“and Mr. Bunston, that I will be working closely with both of them.”

Thorne thought he may have hit the word closely a little harder than the others.

Bunston was caught off-guard to the mention of his name and looked up from his examination of a small bug crawling across the floor. He smiled pleasantly, the acquiescent smile of one with position, but without authority. He nodded at Blackstone and Rainier, all the while keeping the happy frozen smile on his pudgy face.

Blackstone sat and Rainier resumed control. “Now, I’d like to introduce our project and construction manager, Mr. Gerald McInnis who will describe the process of demolition and construction. All inquiries to me or the other principals will go through him.”

Bada, Freddie, Blackstone, Devane, and Thorne arose and followed Rainier out of the room as the proceedings continued.

The six men convened to Rainier’s private office at the end of the hall. A large photograph of Rainier with the Queen of England and other prominent heads of State occupied a prominent position on the wall behind Rainier’s desk.

Rainier shook hands with Thorne before seating himself behind the desk and said, ”I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Mr. Thorne. As I said, I’m sure your input will be most helpful.”

Thorne again recognized the classic diplomatic invitation for architectural input to be just that—an invitation—not necessarily carrying with it any necessity to implement any advice or suggestions.

“Thank you, Mr. Rainier.”

Rainier continued. “Mr. Bada, I think this is an appropriate time to discuss the strategy and procedures we plan to employ at the Town Council meeting tomorrow night. It’s my understanding from my private conversations with Mayor Dell that he supports the project.”

The architect leaned slightly forward and cocked his head, a movement peculiar to him when he wanted confirmation. “I’m sure he has also told you the same thing in your meetings with him.”

Bada nodded in agreement. “Yes, he has. Of course, we’ll have to contend with Roger Linsdame and his minions in spite of the support of the majority of the Council. Linsdame’s forces will be there in numbers. They’ll be outside with signs as well as in attendance inside the hall. Linsdame is aware he doesn’t have the votes, but he’ll still mount a vigorous demonstration. I’ve had dealings with him before and have tried to develop a relationship, but to no avail. He’s a stubborn, vindictive man.”

Rainier said. “I understand Mr. Forestal, the town’s architect—who I understand, is also opposed to the project—will make the graphic presentation of the final Architectural Scheme. Mr. Devane will put forth the formal request to the Council for approval. Correct?”

“That’s correct,” Bada said. “After the vote, I’ll make a few remarks to the Council and the audience. I’ll thank them for their support and reiterate the Bada family’s and the Bada Corporation’s continued support for Stratford’s building programs.

Rainier said. “We’ll start demolition the next day on portions of the north wall and other earthwork. Mr. Blackstone and I have agreed we will proceed with the demolition with care—“ He and Blackstone exchanged fleeting glances—“so as not to disturb—certain valuable features of the structure.”

Bada said, “That seems like a reasonable approach. We trust Simon to use his own judgment.”

Rainier arose, signaling the meeting was over. “Good.” He said haltingly, “Mr. Blackstone, could you remain for a few moments. There are a few matters you and I should discuss.”

Blackstone nodded. “Of course.”

Bada thanked Rainier for his efforts, and Freddie, Devane, and Thorne followed him out into the main courtyard. Once outside, Devane went immediately to his car, and Bada and Freddie said their goodbyes and left for business elsewhere, leaving Thorne alone in the courtyard.

Chapter 23

Thorne had reviewed the plans of the castle at length, including the Keep, built for the exclusive use of Queen Elizabeth, and now he surveyed the courtyard before beginning his inspection of the interior of the castle.

When he entered the main gate at the outer wall of the property that morning, he noted the three large round Barbicans—large stone towers well away from the castle. Their purpose was to catch troops in a crossfire as they were attacking the castle. The barbican defense system was bolstered by a wide; ten-foot deep, water-filled moat encircling the castle.

The diary of Richard Llewellyn, the Master Builder, described in depth the materials and methods he used in the design and construction of the structure. Kilshire was a castle of the Elizabethan age, and had many refinements—mostly expensive iron-fabricated mechanisms—not seen in medieval castles. Llewellyn was also partial to hammered brass and used it extensively for decorative elements throughout the castle. The stone used for the fifteen-feet thick walls of the castle, was a hard yellow oolitic limestone, from quarries in the Cotswolds. It was the same stone used in St. Paul’s Cathedral and the buildings at Bath, and was much more expensive than stone used in castles being built at that time.

The queen’s Keep, the safest part of the castle, rose above the rest of the structure. If attackers could have defeated her guards, housed on the ground floor, and gained entry to the ground floor of the Keep, they would have to negotiate at least five, heavy iron-plated doors four-to-five inches thick before reaching the long stairway that led to the Keep. When unlocked the massive counter-balanced doors could be easily pushed or pulled open by the slightest of women.

The trunnions—or cylindrical pivot rods—were supposedly made of iron and set in sleeves of self-lubricating Lignum Vitae, the hardest wood on earth. Steel was virtually unknown in England at the time, but, it was rumored the rods were made of Wootz Damascus steel, an ancient and mysterious type of steel from the Middle East.

The queen’s Keep was the most important place in the castle, so it was necessary to locate a self-contained portion of the Keep to be used as a throne room. Moldar insisted the Keep reflect the ambience of royalty associated with Her Majesty. A throne—a grand throne—and table for her ministers would serve this purpose.

In the center of the large space at ground level, and below the queen’s keep, a large circular granite-topped table, twelve feet across, was set on a framework of heavy oak timbers. The enormous grey diorite granite slab was taken from the Dartmoor quarries near Plymouth in Cornwall, three hundred miles to the southwest, and  required six months of arduous travel to transport it to Stratford.

The edge of the granite-topped table would have been originally trimmed in a pure gold band with an incised running ER monogram Thorne had seen on the stone plaques throughout the castle. Below the ER would have been the deeply carved Royal Seal with the SEMPER EADEM label. At the head of the table, a jewel-encrusted gold throne would have rested on a raised podium. Linings and cushions of purple velvet would have provided maximum comfort for the queen

The queen’s quarters occupied the two floors at the top of the Keep. Her bed chambers were on the top floor, and the floor below was reserved for dining and bedrooms for her ladies in waiting and additional guards.

The floor, as well as the roof of the Queen’s chamber, was constructed of two-inch thick iron plate sandwiched between two layers of six inch thick oak planking to prevent intrusion by fire.

A large opening was centered in the oak floors where an exposed wooden lift on four heavy chains could normally take the Queen up and down from her chambers to the ground floor below. The lift was centered over, and terminated on, the large granite-top table on the ground floor of the Keep. The lift was presently being used to transport stone and timbers during the renovations. There was too much for Thorne to remember and he went back to the courtyard for a break to make more complete notes and sketches.

As he sat on a wooden bench in the central courtyard—the Inner Ward of the castle—his interest went to the enormous main entry doors to the castle. They appeared to be the only doors he had seen that were not made of iron.

On either side of the massive doors were walls that reached to the tops of the twelve-foot high doors. On the left wall was a six feet tall and four feet wide bronze relief panel of a seascape showing a ship with wind-gorged sails rising above majestic waves. On the opposite side was a panel the same size as the one on the opposite wall. This bronze panel was incised with short sentimental poems extolling the virtues and beauty of the sea

The double doors, each at least twelve feet tall and five feet wide, were made of a six-inch thick planking of an exotic West Indies hardwood. The large doors were surprisingly easy to open as the same counter-balancing with pivot pins was the same used in the other doors.

At eye level, on each door, was the prominent ER monogram and Royal Seal. There was no doubt about it, in Moldar’s mind; this was Queen Elizabeth’s castle

The doors opened into a wide foyer. On the opposite wall were two more doors that opened into the Great Hall. Again, the Royal Seal and ER was on each door.

Branching off in either direction were long, ten foot wide barrel-arched corridors. The corridor to the right led to the queen’s Keep. To the left, the corridor led to a smaller Keep that housed Moldar’s family, the staff’s quarters, the chapel, guest quarters, and administrative offices. Multiple stairways led to the upper floors of the castle that were used for storage, staff and soldiers quarters. Additional kitchens were located on each floor for the use of the staff and guards. Thorne estimated the top three floors, exclusive of the Keeps, could house two thousand troops and staff. In many ways, the castle appeared to be more of a garrison and a fortress than a residence.

Moldar had built the castle for the comfort and protection of his queen. He was obsessed, and had spent a fortune to create a castle and fortress unlike any other in England. Thorne suspected if Queen Elizabeth had felt England was under attack by superior forces, she might well abandon her distaste of Moldar for the protection offered by the impregnable Kilshire Castle.

Chapter 24

The final meeting by the Town Council to vote on the castle project was held at the Town Hall the following night. A light mist was falling as Thorne, Bada, and Freddie pushed their way through the unruly crowd, and up the steps to the double doors at the entrance to the building.

The noisy crowd outside Town Hall filled the Square. They pressed forward, carrying signs that showed their disapproval.

SHAKESPEARE

WAS

SHAKESPEARE

de FEAT

de CEITFUL

de VERE

de FENDERS

SAVE SHAKESPEARE

SAVE STRATFORD

KEEP SHAKESPEARE

IN STRATFORD

A loud voice in the crowd yelled, “There they are! There they are!”

“Why are you doing this? What do you want? Leave Stratford as it is!”

The three men pushed past the policemen guarding the entrance. Bada turned and smiled at the crowd before turning back through the doors.

Every seat inside the large hall was taken and those without seats stood in the aisles against the walls on either side. Thorne and Freddie found seats on the front row next to Bada, Rainier, and Devane. Thorne looked around to catch a glimpse of Raskin, Blackstone, or Kirk-Halstrom, but did not see them.

At the front of the hall, ten people were seated behind a long table. A large man in a dark suit arose, and stepped behind a lectern set in the middle of the table as the crowd applauded, showing they liked Mayor Ralph Dell. He was a big, overweight, and balding man of fifty years with a pleasant, lumpy face, and a non-threatening, almost humble, demeanor.

He held his hands up for quiet. In a high-pitched voice, he said, “Thank you, thank you, for that nice welcome, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Welcome to this meeting of the town council. I’m Mayor Ralph Dell, and I’ll be conducting the meeting tonight.” He paused and scanned the audience. “As all of you know, we’re here for a special meeting of the Council”—he waved his hands in the direction of those seated at the table—“to make a final determination on the Kilshire Castle project.”

A smattering of applause arose amid the uproar of shouts and loud comments.

“We don’t want Shakespeare brought down by pretenders!”

“Get rid of the deceitful de Vere bookstore!”

“Don’t make us the laughing stock of the world!”

The Mayor put up his hands, palms forward, trying to calm the crowd. “Now, now,” he said, leaning forward, closer to the microphone. “We’ll all have our say here. You all know me, I’ll conduct a fair and open presentation of opinions.”

“Hear! Hear!” a voice yelled from the rear of the room.

The mayor turned and motioned to those seated behind him. “I think you all know the Town Council.” He turned back and gestured toward the front row. “I would also like to introduce the applicants, Mr. Gilbert Bada of Bada, Limited and Mr. Jacques Rainier, his architect.”

The Mayor motioned to a table to his right where five people were seated in front of a large map of Stratford. “I would also like to introduce our esteemed Director of Architecture, Mr. Neville Forestal. Mr. Forestal and his staff have worked hard in presenting Bada, Limited’s plans for the approval of the Council.”

To those who hadn’t spent hours and hours before town councils and design review boards, the comment by the mayor went unnoticed. Thorne had seen this all before. He recognized the wording that was a tip off as to the mayor’s position. Dell had said ‘approval’. He had not said ‘approval or disapproval’.

“Mr. Forestal will now explain the applicant’s final scheme,” the mayor said and sat down.

Chapter 25

Neville Forestal motioned to his assistants to bring forward two large boards. He was a tall, well-built man in his early thirties with long, neatly combed dark hair that covered his ears. His hair framed a strong, though not necessarily handsome face. There was a reserve behind his dark eyes and a lack of animation in the man.

The boards showed drawings of Kilshire Castle and the castle grounds. The castle was shown in a bright red, and the Royal Shakespeare Theater, across the river from the castle was shown in a calmer, subdued blue. Thorne smiled at Forestal’s psychological use of colors emphasizing the character of the competing structures.

After a short contained silence, Forestal produced a laser pen. “I’ve been charged by the mayor and council to investigate the application for approval—or non-approval—and present an objective interpretation of the requirements and compliance with the codes and ordinances.”

Thorne noted Forestal had added the wording omitted by the mayor—or ‘non-approval’.

Forestal continued. “That said, I will now present the applicant’s proposal. As you all know, the Bada Corporation is the owner of Kilshire Castle and the surrounding property. The castle was built in 1580, and dilapidation of the stonework on the castle has progressed over the centuries. The Bada Corporation has performed admirably in correcting many of these problems, and I don’t oppose continued renovations and additions to the current structure. However, I do have reservations about the wisdom of a bookstore being located there.”

He paused for effect before proceeding. “As you know, the bookstore has a history of presenting questionable publications. Publications I feel are damaging to the reputation of our most prominent and illustrious citizen, Mr. William Shakespeare, and in turn to the well-being of Stratford”

Once again, scattered yells erupted from the crowd. The mayor and a few members of the council shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as Forestal waited. No effort was made to interrupt their demonstration.

Forestal continued after the noise subsided. “That said, I will now present the plan prepared by the applicant.” He pointed the laser light beam on the boards and proceeded to describe the technical aspects of the project.

Freddie whispered in Thorne’s ear who the supporters and non-supporters on the council were. Thorne studied the faces of the mayor and council members. All had seen the presentation numerous times before and were thankful this would be the last.

Forestal concluded his remarks. “In light of the applicant’s compliance with presentations of required drawings and documents, the Architectural Review Board concludes its deliberations. As Director of the Board, I recommend approval for the work on the castle—and recommend disapproval for the use of the castle as a bookstore.”

Thorne smiled at the arrogance of the man. After all, he was the town’s architect and had no business injecting himself in the politics of the bookstore’s relocation.

Forestal sat down, and the Mayor Dell once again appeared at the lectern. “Thank you, Mr. Forestal, for that excellent presentation. Now we will hear from the applicant.” He looked in the direction of Bada and Bada shook his head, declining the offer. Dell immediately said, “The applicant has declined to make additional comments or presentations.

“Now, prior to the final vote, we will recognize those individuals who wish to ask questions or make comments. You’ll find a microphone in each aisle, so please form a queue behind each microphone, and please limit your comments to two minutes.” He waited for the lines to form behind the microphones.

The first in line at one of the microphones was a large man in a dark blue pin-stripe suit and a bright red club tie that stood out against a crisp white shirt.

Freddie whispered, “There’s our man, Linsdame.”

Roger Linsdame was a heavy, red-haired man with intense light blue eyes set close together over a large bulbous nose. There were two distinct vertical furrows in the middle of his broad forehead, the result of a permanent scowl. He wasn’t more than forty years old,  but projected an image of an older, more experienced man.

The portentous Linsdame stood erect, raising the chin of his square head and pulling his shoulders back. He placed his hands on his hips and didn’t lean into the microphone, but began in a voice loud enough to be heard without the microphone. “Well, so much for Bada Corporation altruism.”

He glanced around the room, packed with his supporters and strategically sprinkled throughout the audience to appear greater in numbers. He returned his attention to the head table. “While I’m not an architect, even I can see this is far from a well-thought out project.” His supporters arose in unison and began yelling at the mayor and the council. He continued, “I hope all of you see how much support this proposal has—none!”

Thorne had to laugh. He’d seen this type of crowd organization numerous times before to support or oppose a proposal before a town council, but he had to admit Linsdame was good at it.

Linsdame ranted on describing his background as a major figure in the Stratford community. He described his expertise in design and construction of his own projects, telling everyone the castle was in disrepair and was unsafe. He then added vitriolic comments about how this would damage the economy of Stratford. He cajoled and offered veiled threats to the council, even though he knew they were going to support the proposal.

Linsdame gave no indication he was beat, and from his victorious swagger back to his seat, one would have never known it. His minions lined up before each microphone, but Thorne read the disinterest on the face of each council member. They knew what the votes were and just wanted it to be over with.

The mayor, the consummate politician, kept up a strong front and a big smile during the onslaught. He wasn’t obligated to vote, and even though he knew the resolution would pass, decided he would be charitable, and listened patiently to both sides before calling for the vote. It passed seven to two.

Gilbert Bada made a few perfunctory remarks thanking the town council and describing how the project would benefit Stratford.

The meeting broke up and the mayor went to Roger Linsdame and they both laughed as the mayor said something behind his hand. The mayor waved as he exited the hall amid the shouts, a fixed smile still on his face.

Linsdame stood amid a coterie of supporters shaking hands and smiling. He glanced once in the direction of Bada, Freddie and Thorne, and his smile disappeared momentarily. Thorne saw something dark and foreboding in Linsdame’s light blue eyes. Linsdame turned back to his supporters, and continued shaking hands and smiling at well-wishers.

Chapter 26

Outside the hall, Bada and Freddie were talking to two well-dressed men in suits. Freddie pulled Thorne aside and handed him the keys to the car. “I’m afraid I have to go to a meeting with Gil. You take the car; I’ll get a ride home with Gil. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The parking spaces on the street had been filled when they arrived, so Freddie had parked the car two blocks away in a small parking lot. A light snow began to fall as Thorne wrapped his wool muffler around his ears, and trudged through the slush the two blocks to the car. As he approached the car, two figures appeared from the front and rear of the car, boxing him in.

The first man was wearing a heavy top coat, and moved around from the hood of the car. “Cold night out, ain’t it?” said Victor Roberts

Thorne recognized both men. The first was as the man who tailed him in London. There was no mistaking the other, the big, foul-breathed man who attacked him in Phoenix. Roberts chuckled and glanced to Kelly who was now leaning against the rear fender on the driver’s side.

Thorne knew it was useless to talk, and tried to play for time. “Look, I don’t know—“

“Well, Mike,” Roberts said with a puckish grin, “it looks like the Yank doesn’t know he’s not wanted here. He had his right hand in his pocket and moved closer to Thorne. I think he’s used up all his luck.“

Kelly moved forward and pulled a pistol and suppressor from his pocket. He screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of the pistol. ”Let’s talk to him in the van, Vic.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thorne saw Kelly was no more than an arms-length away. Thorne slipped both hands into the pockets of his coat and grasped a roll of pence in his right hand. Without looking at Kelly, he jerked his hands from his pockets and his right hand shot up, catching the heavy man in his midsection. The heavy leather jacket Kelly was wearing cushioned the blow, but the force of the blow to his solar plexus momentarily knocked the breath out of him. As he leaned forward against Thorne, he gasped for breath, the pistol dangling loosely in his hand.

Thorne pushed him back with his forearm and readied to hit him again when he felt a hand on his shoulder and the ring of a heavy metallic thud on the back of his head. He reeled along the side of the car and fell in the slush.

He lay there, still conscious, his head ringing from the blow. He glanced up just as Kelly delivered a kick to his ribs. He grabbed his side and winced in pain as he waited for the next blow.

The blow never came. Instead, he heard Roberts’s soft voice. “Come on, Mike, that’s enough. Let’s get him in the van.”

Mike grinned menacingly, his yellow teeth showing. “I’m not sure, Vic. Maybe he needs another.”

Roberts said, “No. I think we need to drive him somewhere quiet and private.” He looked up and saw groups of people arriving at the parking lot. They were looking in his direction and Roberts leaned over Thorne, grasping the lapel of his coat. “Next time.” He dropped Thorne back into the slush, and both men ran to their van parked on the far side of the lot.

Thorne grasped the door handle of the car and pulled himself to his feet. A man came over and asked if he could help, but Thorne shook him off. “Thanks, anyway.”

He twisted the key in the door lock and crawled inside the car. He reached over and flipped the door lock switch, and all four doors clicked. Glancing across the parking lot, he saw the van, speeding out of the lot.

Thorne sat for a moment touching the back of his head and winced as he put the keys into the ignition. He was not sure he wanted to continue with the job unless he had protection

He decided he would correct that situation tomorrow.

Chapter 27

The morning following the attack in the parking lot, Thorne put on a stevedore’s cap and a windbreaker over a heavy sweater, and drove through heavy snow to Birmingham. He found a rough section of town and  drove around until he saw a pub that looked rundown.

Inside, the lights were bright and the jukebox was playing loud heavy-metal rock music. He ordered a beer and began to pump the bartender for information about guns. He began with a bogus story about how he needed a gun for his wife’s protection.

The bartender looked both ways up and down the bar, and pointed to two men sitting in a booth against the opposite wall. “See Jack, over there.”

Thorne went over to the booth. “Which one of you men is Jack?”

“That’s me, Mate, what’s your problem?” asked a small, lean, middle-aged man.

“The bartender said you might help me. I need a piece. Small automatic—maybe a Walther P38.”

“I don’t have one. How’s about a Glock 19? Four hundred pounds—I’ll include a box of ammo.”

Thorne nodded his approval and Jack took him outside to a van. Inside the van, the gun dealer took a metal case from under the seat and put it on his lap. Inside the foam-lined case were five handguns of varying size. He picked out one and closed the case. He handed the gun to Thorne and retrieved a box of ammunition from the glove box.

Thorne hefted the gun and nodded. He reached inside his windbreaker, took out his wallet, and handed Jack four one-hundred pound notes. He handed Jack an extra fifty pounds. “I might have to carry from time to time, so I need a shoulder holster, too.”

He returned to the manor house in late afternoon and remained in his room for the rest of the day. He continued to think about Roberts and Kelly. Who they were working for? Who wanted him to drop the job and leave England.

That evening, after dinner, Bada asked him to join, Andrea and Gweneth in the parlor. After retiring to the parlor Bada discussed the progress on the castle. Gweneth and Andrea sat at the other end of the room and discussed shopping and an upcoming dinner.

Thorne began to see a depth of compassion and character in Bada he hadn’t recognized before, and was developing a cautious friendship with him. After a while, Bada and Andrea excused themselves and went to bed, and Thorne and Gweneth sat next to the fireplace.

His relationship with Gweneth was becoming like that of second older brother and confidant.

Gweneth’s conversation had gradually became more personal as she explained the automobile accident and her injury.” It was a silly accident. My young friend Daniel made a turn onto the highway, and I distracted him. While he was turning to me, a lorry came out of a side street and hit us. Poor Daniel died from his injuries, and I— well, except for not being able to see and a right leg that’s useless below my knee, I suppose I’m as normal as anyone else.”

“I don’t think you’re just normal. I think you’re an exceptional person.”

She blushed and reached out, and found his hand. She said, “You’re so sweet, David,”. “You’re a very sensitive man. I don’t know why, but I feel I can tell you things I can’t others.”

Thorne didn’t know where his response came from, but he said, “Well, I guess that’s what big brothers are for.”

She quickly said, “Tell me more about yourself, David.”

Thorne had not talked to anyone about his personal thoughts since his divorce. The conversations with Tom Wilkins, the only person he would even consider being a friend, besides Freddie, were what men usually talk about. Definitely not about personal things. He tried to tell her as much as he felt appropriate of his more recent life. He realized he couldn’t—and shouldn’t—tell her about the recent threats.

Gweneth told of her long relationship with Neville Forestal prior to them becoming romantically involved.

Thorne was impressed how such a beautiful woman as Gweneth could be so open and kind. His personal past experiences with beautiful women were that they tended to be self-centered and selfish. Gweneth had none of those qualities. She definitely was a woman of compassion, deep integrity and strong character.

He hoped Forestal realized how lucky he was.

Chapter 28

When Thorne returned to the castle the following Monday, it was crowded with extra workmen. He spent a lot of time wandering about and searching for anything that might relate to the phrase “where the poesies welcome” line, referred to in the Moldar letter he had read earlier on the plane. He realized it would be better to come back at night when he could have free reign to pry into areas without the workmen present.

In his room, that evening Thorne sat fully clothed in the dark windbreaker, stevedore’s cap, and dark trousers. He waited until he was sure the house was asleep before turning out the lights and moving silently out of his room and through the dining room.

A distant light at the front entrance shone through the large windows and slightly illuminated the dining room outer doors. He went outside and took a circuitous route, avoiding the regular path used for traffic between the manor and the castle.

No snow was falling, but there was a chill in the night air. Thorne had hoped the Stratford winter fog would be present to cloak his movements, but there was none. He pulled the watch cap down over the top of his ears and put on his gloves. Fortunately, the heavy overcast blocked out starlight and the moon slid through when the clouds broke momentarily before closing again. In his dark clothing Thorne could not have been seen unless someone was within twenty feet of him. The dark mass of the castle was silhouetted against the lights of Stratford across the river. For a brief moment, he again thought he saw a flicker of light in the upper reaches of the queen’s Keep. He concentrated on the area where he had seen it, but there was nothing there.

When he reached the castle, the miniature penlight on his keychain found the keyhole to the large padlock on the door of the south gate. He opened the door and entered the stable area that led to the huge interior courtyard of the castle. The faint light of the stars barely illuminated the courtyard, and he moved to the front door. Once inside, he took a small flashlight from his pocket and found his way to the kitchen. He adjusted the flashlight to broad beam, and lit the far wall. Without anyone else present, he could pry open door panels and scrape mortar from the stone walls without raising suspicions as he would have during the day.

Suddenly, he thought he heard a slight scraping sound come from the direction of the Keep. He found a dark corner and sat completely motionless. After ten minutes there were no more sounds. He passed it off as a tree branch scratching against a wall.

He carried with him a reduced size plan of the castle, and spent the next two hours concentrating on the kitchen area. A door from the kitchen led to a pantry lined  with wood panels and heavy wood shelves where utensils or food would have been stored. The shelves were now filled with empty boxes. Inside the pantry, he tapped lightly on the walls, looking for cavities. Upon closer investigation, he found hidden hinges revealing a movable panel. The panel swung out, and a small alcove appeared in the thick stone wall of the Keep

The space was just large enough for one person. On one wall was a low stone projection that would have served as a seat. When the panel was closed, the alcove was in total darkness except for a faint glow from a hole in the stone wall facing the stairwell to the queen’s Keep. A concave indentation providing a space for one’s head, and a small hole the size of a roll of nickels was in the center of the indentation. From the completely darkened alcove, he could barely make out the area of the first landing of the stairs leading up to the top of the Keep.

He chuckled at the thought of the voyeuristic Moldar secreted away in his personal alcove, observing everything that was going on in the queen’s Keep. While the man may not have been a wit or a convivial companion, he was a sly one who always looked for a way to get the upper hand. The insightful queen may have recognized this sly quality, and it may have been why she never trusted herself to be at his mercy in her Keep.

Back in the kitchen, he continued his search for other hiding places. He was standing on the counter when he heard vehicles approaching at the south gate. His soft, crepe-soled shoes made no sound as he dropped to the floor and quickly retreated to the alcove behind the pantry. Through the small hole in the wall, he saw the interior of the Keep illuminated by flashlights.

Three figures moved up the stairs on the opposite wall to the first landing of the stairs. They were over forty feet away, and he could only make out their outlines. The first voice was low and gave directions. He could only make out a few of the words if he placed his ear to the small opening

The first voice said, “This is it. You—hold the torch for him.” Then to the other figure. “Are you sure you have a large enough chisel and sledge hammer to remove the mortar?” Thorne could hear no response.

The first voice said, “I hope the information is correct.” His voice trailed off and was muffled.

The second voice appeared to be coming from the smaller man who said excitedly, “Oh, I’m sure both documents are authentic. You saw them yourself. It spoke of the poesies, and this is the only plaque with a bouquet on it. I also had portions of the letters looked at by experts and they confirmed the word poesies. Of course I didn’t show them the sensitive information but—”

The first voice snapped, “Keep that torch steady. You’ll have him splitting his thumb open.”

The second voice had stopped speaking but Thorne thought the high-pitched voice sounded familiar.

Was it Freddie Hollister?

Chapter 29

He couldn’t be sure. He still couldn’t make out the identity of the man with the lower voice, or the man with the hammer and chisel. The sledge continued to strike the wall for the next half-hour, and the only thing Thorne could hear was the first voice telling the other to hold the torch steady.

The first voice said, “It’s almost five o’clock. We need to stop for now. The workmen will be showing up in less than an hour.”

Another voice broke in. It was evidently the voice of the one working with the sledge. “I only have five or ten minutes more. It’s ready to drop out . . . are you sure you want to stop?” He spoke so softly Thorne could barely make out all the words.

The first voice responded, “Yes, there’s no need to rush. We want to take our time here and be thorough. Make up mortar and put it in the joints. It’ll still be soft enough to break out tomorrow night. Hide the hammer and chisel in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet in the Great Hall.”

The second high-pitched voice said, “I can’t be here tomorrow night. I have to be out of town on business and can’t be back before the following day.”

The first voice responded, but the words were unclear.

The second high-pitched said, “Well, then I guess we’ll have to talk about what we find when I get back.”

The first voice turned in Thorne’s direction and he was able to make out what was being said. “We’ll meet here again tomorrow morning at four o’clock. I’ve contacted our man in Antwerp who has an interest in the same goods you’re primarily interested in. He will be coming, too. We’ll go directly from here to his hotel and complete the transaction.”

The man with the hammer and chisel said, “I’ll get the mortar made up and a trowel from a file cabinet in the office.” There was movement as the figure descended the stairs to make up the mortar.

Thorne tried to stand in the cramped space, but couldn’t stand up straight. His rubbed his cramped legs, and tried to straighten them.

He heard water running as the mortar was being mixed, then footsteps walking back up the stairs. There were short snatches of conversation as the mortar was being applied and, upon finishing, the three went back down the stairs and out to the side gate.

Thorne cracked open the pantry door and heard muffled conversation, and after a few minutes, the two cars started their engines and drove off. He stepped out of the pantry and stretched his legs. He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past five. In less than forty-five minutes, the workmen would start to arrive. He had to move fast.

He went immediately to the file cabinet where the hammer and chisel had been hidden and picked up the pail of unused mortar and trowel. Rushing up the stairs to the landing, he shone his flashlight on the plaque.  It was the same plaque he’d seen on his earlier inspections, but now it took on an almost magical quality in the intense light of the flashlight’s beam.

He could now plainly see it was a representation of a bouquet of flowers—poesies.

He began to scrape out the fresh mortar with the chisel. In ten minutes, he hit the original mortar and began to hammer out the rest of the joint.

Ten minutes later, he felt the plaque move and none too soon. The flashlight was intermittently blinking off and on. He looked at his watch. In less than twenty minutes, the workmen would be arriving. He grasped the twenty-inch square stone plaque and slowly began to work it from its four hundred year resting place.

Chapter 30

Thorne lifted the heavy stone plaque out gently, set it on the floor and looked inside the ten-inch deep cavity left by the stone’s removal. Through the dimming light of his flashlight, he peered inside.

It was empty!

He placed his hand into the cavity to make sure. Bending over, he turned the plaque around. The backside had been hollowed out, and force-fitted in a cavity in the rear of the plaque, was a bronze metal box about ten inches square and two inches thick. He pried the box loose with the trowel and took it down the stairs. On the ground floor, he set the box on the large table and pried it loose with the trowel. Pausing to look at his watch, he realized he had little time before the workmen would arrive. He untwisted the metal wire on the hasp of the box. When the wire was off, he gently opened the lid.

Inside was an eight inches square, inch and a half thick, bound leather packet, secured with a heavy cord.

He left the leather packet on the table and raced back up the steps. He replaced the box into the plaque, and the plaque into the wall cavity. His watch showed he was running out of time and he still had to-point the joints with the fresh mortar before the workmen came.

The flashlight had now gone out. He smoothed the joints around the plaque by feel. As he replaced the hammer, chisel, and pail with the trowel in the drawer of the file cabinet, he heard a car approaching.

He shoved the leather packet under his belt and ran to the central courtyard. Knowing the workmen would be entering through the side gate, he quickly went to a newly constructed visitor’s vestibule where he knew there would be a small window in the rest room wall. He wriggled through the small opening, crouched, and ran across the moat bridges and angled off away from the castle in the direction of the woods.

More vehicles were arriving now and he angled off and hid in a clump of small hazelnut trees as he waited for them to pass. He waited until they were out of sight and continued through a break in the outer stone wall. His adrenaline was pumping, and with labored breath, he continued to jog until he knew he was out of sight.

He arrived at the manor just as the kitchen lights were coming on. He crept through the French doors and silently made his way to his room. Once inside, he locked the door behind him, took off his jacket, and placed the leather packet on the bed.

As he cut the cords and unfolded the leather packet he was stunned.

What he saw before him made him catch his breath.

Chapter 31

In his research on Queen Elizabeth I, Thorne had found a picture of what now lay on the bed before him—the Royal Arms of England Great Seal of Elizabeth I. A large ER, the monogram of Elizabeth Regina, was engraved on a heavy gold plate, and the plate was affixed to the cover flap of a maroon velvet burse. The burse was wrapped with a satin ribbon, stiff and brittle with age. Thorne paused before opening the packet. He waited a long minute just looking at it, admiring the elegance and mystery of the gold plate on to the packet.

The velvet packet was reinforced and made stiff, probably by layers of a heavy canvas inner structure sewn in between the layers of the velvet. The satin bow held the cover flap with the repeated ER monogram in gold thread.

He moved his fingers lightly over the engraved design before cautiously untying the brittle ribbon. When he undid the bow and opened the four overlapping flaps of the cover, he saw before him, the most fantastic necklace he had ever seen.

It was solid gold with an enormous emerald-cut pink diamond in the center. It was surrounded by nine brilliant cut and one oval white diamond, each at least twenty carats.

The gold chains supporting the stones were laden with more than two hundred diamonds and rubies varying in size from two to five carats.

He had no idea how many carats the large pink diamond would have weighed. He took a small architectural scale from his briefcase that showed both feet and inches as well as metric denotations, and measured the large pink stone. It was over an inch across and half again in the other dimension. It could have been seventy-five or a hundred carats—or even more, he had no way of knowing. The famed Hope Diamond was around 45 carats, and at 21 millimeters by 25 millimeters, was less than an inch in both dimensions.

The large pink diamond had a hypnotic effect on him as he continued to stare at it. It was the most exquisite jewel he’d ever seen. He sat for a long time staring intently at the necklace. The stone had a magical power, and the fire emanating from it prevented him from taking his eyes off it.

A light knock at the door aroused him from his sleep. He had not gone to sleep until six o’clock and must have dozed off as he contemplated the treasure before him. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was after eight.

“Mr. Thorne,” a soft voice said through the door. “Mr. Hollister was making inquiries about you. He understood you were to leave for the castle early this morning.”

“Thank you, I overslept. Please tell Mr. Hollister I’ll meet him at the job site in an hour or so.”

“Yes, Sir,” the voice answered. The sound of light footsteps went down the corridor and a door closed.

Looking once more at the necklace on the night table, he carefully folded over the covers and retied the ribbon as he’d found it, and replaced the velvet burse in the leather packet. He put the leather packet in a paper bag and placed it on a high shelf behind a large set of undisturbed works by Milton. He removed his clothes from the night before, went to the bathroom, and took a shower to get his day started.

He realized the game had changed. This was something he had to think about before he made a rash decision.

Chapter 32

Thorne tried to maintain a normal demeanor when he met Freddie at the castle just before noon. He wasn’t completely sure the voice he had heard the night before in the castle was Freddie’s, but the suspicion nagged at him. Freddie said he had to meet a book distributor back at his bookstore, and left after lunch. Thorne spent the rest of the day with routine matters and returned to the manor house for dinner.

After dinner, Thorne returned to his room and looked through the books in the bookcases for an illustrated book about the crown jewels. Finding nothing about the necklace, he set his alarm clock to two-thirty and drifted off to sleep.

He left the manor house around three o’clock and walked to the castle. Except for the lorries and trailers where tools and equipment were stored, there were no vehicles parked at the side entrance. He made his way across the interior courtyard and into the kitchen wing of the building. He didn’t conduct a search, but waited in the kitchen just outside the pantry for the men he had seen the previous night. Footsteps in the courtyard alerted him, and he moved quickly into the pantry. He crawled into the alcove and silently closed the panel behind him. Through the hole in the wall, he saw the outline of three figures moving up the stairs, before stopping at the stone plaque.

In the light of the flashlights, he could make out a figure’s arms moving, chipping away at the soft mortar placed there the night before. After a while, the figure began prying the plaque loose with a small crowbar. The figure bent over and set the crowbar gently on the floor before gently lifting the stone plaque out of the wall. An arm moved gingerly into the cavity behind the area where the plaque had been.

The first voice he had heard from the night before was stressed as it exclaimed, “It’s empty! But it’s got to be here. It’s described in the letter clearly. Turn the plaque over.”

There was a soft clunk as the plaque was being turned over. Then there was movement with the box being removed from the plaque and being placed on the table. The metal scraped as the box was opened.

”What’s this? It’s empty, too!” a low voice said. “The box is empty. It’s supposed to be here. It should be here. It says so in the letter.”

“Are you sure you’ve found the right plaque?” a new voice said. “Maybe it’s behind one of the other stone carvings.”

With annoyance the first voice said, “No! The information is specific. It’s supposed to be where the poesies are.” He said sarcastically, “Anyone can see these are flowers, or bouquets—or poesies?”

The second voice responded with equal annoyance. “Don’t get short with me, Sir. It appears you have the wrong information. It also appears I’ve come a long way for nothing.”

Thorne saw movement on the landing as a figure in a fur-collared dark coat and a plaid cloth hat, crossed in full view, and began to descend the stairs. The new voice said, “This has been a total waste of time for me. When you have something concrete, you come to me next time. I’ll be at the White Rose Inn in Bridgetown tonight, and I’ll be flying back to Antwerp tomorrow morning. If you have anything for me, show me. Otherwise don’t waste anymore of my time.”

When they were alone again the first voice said, “This is serious. Our little partner is the only one who knows where it was. If he has it, we don’t want him passing any information along to others. I think you’ll have to follow him and convince—”

A muffled voice said, “No, I’m not going to be involved in anything like that. Have Roberts or Kelly do it.”

The first voice responded, “All right, it’ll be taken care of. I’ll also tell Roberts to keep track of Thorne. He could be our biggest problem.

“We’ll have to find out what our little partner has been doing on his own. I can’t believe he’d be stupid enough to cross us, but one never knows. In any case, we’ll have to find out who took it if it wasn’t him. It might have been Thorne. We’ll just have to make sure Roberts watches him closely.”

Thorne was confused. How many people were involved in this? Was one of them—the “little partner”—Freddie? Were they still looking for the documents, or were they aware the treasure spoken of in the letter was the priceless necklace? He knew he might find out more if he followed the man in the coat with the fur collar staying at the White Rose.

Thorne waited until the two men on the landing had descended the stairs and passed through the courtyard before leaving the alcove. He rushed to the small window in the visitors’ rest room, hoping to make out the identity of the three men inside the SUV. All he could see were the tail lights of the SUV as it disappeared into the darkness.

After returning from the castle to the manor house Thorne showered and had an early breakfast.  He told Bada demolition had reached a point where he wouldn’t be needed for a couple of days, and he was going to take two or three days off and go down to London.

The third man—the man in the fur-collared coat at the White Rose—might reveal who the other two men in the castle the previous night might be. He decided he would go to the White Rose Inn in the morning, follow him to Antwerp, and see who this man might be, and if he could shed light on the men he had met in the castle.

He drove an Austin from the manor garage to Bridgetown and parked in a far corner of the hotel’s parking lot. Under normal conditions, he would have used the Austin to follow the man at the White rose, but he thought it best to rent a non-descript car that couldn’t be connected to the manor house.

He walked two blocks back to the Excel Auto Rental office, and asked the young woman behind the counter, “What’s the most popular car in England?”

“Oh, you’re a Yank. Welcome to England. About the car, there’s no doubt about it,” she gushed with just a hint of a Cockney accent. “That’d be the Ford Focus. Popular family car, don’t you know. Of course, the VW’s are popular, then there’s the Vauxhall and . . .”

He looked at her nametag, which read BETH WRIGHT in large red letters. Interrupting her, he said, “You know, Miss Wright, I think I’d like to try one of those Ford Focus cars. I’ve never driven one before.”

“Cor,” she said “I could tell right off you was a family man. Oh, you’ll like it. Me Mum’s got one. Loves it.”

Trying to stay with as non-descript car as possible, Thorne asked, “I like gray. Would you have a gray sedan?”

“Of course, Luv, we have a whole line of them,” she said, pointing to five Ford Focus sedans lined up in the lot.

After he gave the name David Riley and placed a bogus driver’s license on the counter for identification, she placed forms in front of him. She said brightly, “All we need now is your signature here Mr. Riley, and initial here, and here, and here, and then here, and Bob’s Your Uncle.”

Thorne knitted his brow as he signed the contract form with the name David Riley and asked, “Pardon?”

“Oh my,” she said with a tinkling laugh. “You ain’t only a family man; I forgot you was a Yank, too. Bob’s Your Uncle is a term we use that means, well—everything’s finished. You’re ready to go, Luv.”

Thorne allowed himself a chuckle at her repeated indirect inquiries about him being married. “A family man has to have a wife, which I don’t. It also appears I still have a lot to learn about the English language. I’ve already learned to drive on the right—I mean the correct side of the road, since I’ve been in England.” He broke into an imperfect British accent. “I’m also practicing my British accent in case I have to order something unreasonable at the café instead of kidney pie or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

Her lips stretched into a wider smile at him being unmarried, and laughed at his clumsy attempt at the accent. “Cor, you’re a proper sport, you are, Mr. Riley, I would have taken you for a right proper English gentleman. As you say in America, have a nice day.” She paused and handed him a business card. “Oh, and if you need help with the car or the paperwork, Luv, just tell them to call Beth Wright. My phone number’s on the contract—with a twinkle in her eye that was not lost on Thorne—and my phone number’s also on my card.” She handed him the key and they exchanged knowing smiles.

As he drove to the White Rose in the central section of Bridgetown, Thorne speculated the  potential buyer was probably a “fence”—a person who buys  and re-sells stolen goods. He planned to park in an out-of-the-way slot in the parking lot across the street from the hotel and wait for the man.

As he waited, his thoughts returned to the bright cheerful young woman at the auto rental. He smiled as he guessed her to be in her late thirties, and resolved to see her again.

Around nine o’clock, the man in the dark coat with the fur collar and Glen plaid cloth hat emerged from the front door of the hotel. He stepped lightly around the slush on his way to the hotel parking lot, and got into a light blue Vauxhall Astra rental car.

Thorne waited and fell in behind the Vauxhall as it exited the parking lot. He suspected there may be a number of light blue Vauxhalls on the road, so he wrote down the license plate number. He dropped back and followed at a safe distance as the Vauxhall proceeded southeast on the Banbury Road to London.

Concentrating on the blue Vauxhall, Thorne failed to notice the black Toyota that fell into the line of traffic behind him.

Chapter 33

LONDON

Thursday, December 16

2:10 PM

Thorne followed as the Vauxhall turned off at the Gatwick Airport exit, and pulled into the Midlands Auto Rental lane. He parked and placed the Glock and shoulder holster in the glove compartment, locked the car, and hurried over to the rental lot where the man was parking the blue Vauxhall.

The man in the Glen plaid hat slipped on his coat as he waited for the attendant to check him out. As he glanced in Thorne’s direction, Thorne turned his head and studied a map. Although he was back on the alert after the mugging in the parking lot, he suffered a temporary lapse. Being so intent on not losing sight of Glen plaid, he failed to notice Roberts and Kelly in the black Toyota following him at a distance.

They parked in an adjoining lot and Roberts followed Thorne through binoculars as Thorne moved toward the terminal. Kelly stayed in the car as Roberts hurried into the airport ahead of Glen plaid and Thorne.

Thorne followed Glen plaid into the terminal. He was tall, and the crown of his plaid hat rode above the sea of heads between them, making him easy to follow. Glen plaid went immediately to the long line waiting in front of the Brussels Airlines ticket counter.

Thorne stepped in front of an elderly man waiting in line. “Excuse me, I just want to look at the departure schedule.” He moved in close with his back to Glen plaid, and looked up at the departure board, listening to the ticket agent behind the counter. She said, “The gate for Antwerp will be D14 on the South Concourse. Thank you for flying Brussels Airlines.”

He looked again at the Departure board. It read ANTWERP, FLIGHT 11, GATE D14, 5:30 P.M.. He looked at his watch. It read 2:30 P.M. Thorne decided it was not necessary to use the alias Riley, bought a round-trip ticket to Antwerp in his real name, and hurried down the South Concourse to gate D14.

At the other end of the concourse, Roberts observed Thorne through small binoculars as he ordered his ticket. Roberts flipped open his cell phone. “It looks like Thorne’s tailing the fence to Antwerp on the five-thirty flight. Do you want me and Kelly to go to Antwerp, too?”

“No, ” the voice answered. “I don’t want you on the same plane with them. Call one of your contacts in Antwerp. Send him a FAX with Thorne’s picture. Offer him a good fee—twenty thousand pounds—for two good men to see Thorne is taken care of—permanently. Have them to find out what he’s carrying and have your contact overnight it to me before he’s paid. When you get back to Stratford tonight, meet me at the restaurant in Bridgetown at nine o’clock. I want to talk to you about Hollister.”

When Thorne approached the gate, he saw Glen plaid’s hat above the crowd at the bar across the concourse. He bought the London Times, positioned himself in a seat in the Gate D13 seating area where he had a clear view of Gate D14. He removed a small notebook from a hidden Velcro-closing pocket he’d sewn in his Burberry topcoat, and made notes before returning it to its hiding place. Keeping Glen plaid in view, he went across the concourse and bought a cell phone under the name David Riley and a bogus London address.

He pulled up an Antwerp Airport Transportation Service on his laptop, and found a private cab service. After being assured a car and driver would be waiting for him, he called the Hotel Julien in Antwerp and made reservations for the night.

Two hours passed and an announcement came over the loudspeaker, “NOW BOARDING FOR ANTWERP, FLIGHT 11, GATE D14, NOW BOARDING.” Thorne was one of the first in line. He boarded quickly, found his seat, and unfolded his newspaper. Glen plaid boarded and took a seat in First Class. Thorne raised the newspaper and obscured his face in case the man looked back in his direction.

He realized he was being overly cautious. Glen plaid’s interest was almost certain to be the diamond necklace, but there was an outside chance it could be for the de Vere documents. None of the men in the castle on either night had said what they were looking for. Was the group he was working for aware of the necklace? If so, why the ruse about searching only for the de Vere documents?

It could be some members of the group were only searching for the documents, and not everyone knew about the diamond necklace?

PART 3

Chapter 34

ANTWERP

Thursday, December 16

6:15 PM

Twenty-five minutes after takeoff from London the plane landed in Antwerp. Thorne, carrying only a small carry-on bag, went directly to the kiosk on the curb and asked for his reserved car and driver.

He waited in the back seat while his car remained at the curb, waiting for Glen plaid to come out and load his luggage into a taxi. Thorne instructed his driver to follow the taxi, and glanced through the rear window. The glare from the lights of the cars behind him blurred his vision and he didn’t see the white Renault pulling out into traffic with a group of other cars.

Thorne followed Glen plaid’s taxi to a residential area, and asked his driver to fall back and wait until the taxi stopped. Thorne’s car waited as Glen plaid got out and entered the house.

He told the driver to proceed slowly up the street. His car passed the townhouse, and Thorne took a photo and wrote down the address on the wall next to the door. The Renault waited and made no move to catch up. Thorne told his driver to take him to the Hotel Julien on Lange Neiuwstraat. At the hotel, he dismissed his driver, asking him to return in the morning at eleven o’clock.

He waited in the long line to register, and looked around to see if he recognized any faces. As was his practice, when he was alone, he asked the desk clerk to hold his laptop until he called for it. He never knew who might be waiting for him in his room.

He carried his own bag onto the elevator and pressed the button to the fifth floor. Before the door could close, two men broke off from a group of conventioneers and followed him into the elevator. The door closed and both men turned away from Thorne, who was reading a map.

“Oh, I say,” the shorter of the two said from under the brim of a felt hat. “You’ve already got the lift going where we’re going.” Thorne looked up from the map. The second man, was a tall raw-boned man in a tight-fitting suit. His misshapen features could well have been the results from the wrestling ring. He turned in Thorne’s direction. and gave him a wide smile. He turned to the smaller man. “This looks like it’s going to be easy, huh, Franco?”

Franco glanced again at the FAX showing Thorne’s picture. “You’re right, Tomas, he’s not going to be a problem. Now are you Mr. Thorne?”

Franco put his hand in his coat pocket and showed the butt of a pistol. “Right?.”

The elevator stopped, and Franco grabbed Thorne’s carry-on bag as they proceeded down the wide hallway. Thorne and Franco led the way, with Tomas giving Thorne an occasional nudge.

Thorne knew he’d eventually have to give them the room number, so he went to room 312 and placed the keycard in the slot in the door. As he did so, Tomas reached around and grabbed both lapels of Thorne’s topcoat, pulled them back over his shoulders and held on. Franco removed the pistol from his coat pocket as he closed the door behind them. Inside the room, Franco threw his bag on the bed and shoved Thorne down beside it.

Still holding his pistol, Franco opened Thorne’s bag and turned it upside-down on the bed. He spread out the contents and rifled through them with the point of a ballpoint pen, flipping socks and underwear off the bed and onto the floor.

He opened a shaving kit, turned it upside down on the bed and sifted through it. There appeared to be nothing of interest. “Take off your coat and jacket and empty your pockets,” he snapped.

Thorne removed his Burberry and tweed sport jacket. He turned his pockets inside out as directed, laying the contents on the bed beside the other items on the bed.

Franco moved over to the bed and picked up the topcoat and jacket. He repeated the search through the pockets, and Thorne breathed a sigh of relief the notebook and cash hidden pocket in the topcoat weren’t discovered. Franco double-checked the contents of Thorne’s trouser pockets.

“Okay friend, we don’t know what your interest and purpose is in following people here to Antwerp. We saw you take photos, and we would like to know what your interest is, that’s all.”

Thorne gave him a blank look, and Tomas walked over and clipped him with a sharp blow on the side of his face. Thorne reeled and landed on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sat up again.

Franco smiled and interlaced his long delicate fingers across the lapels of his coat as he crossed his legs and leaned against the edge of the dresser.

Thorne said sarcastically. “I’m just taking a holiday.”

Franco smiled broadly and said, “My, now ain’t he the happy-go-lucky one, huh, Tomas?”

“I’m just taking pictures of different styles of houses and castles in Europe. I’m an architect and I’m writing a book.” He reached across for his wallet, but Franco brushed it aside and laughed.

“Save it, Chum. What we want to know is where it is?”

Thorne gave Franco a puzzled look, “Where is what?”

“You know what. You have items or know something our boss wants. That’s all we’re supposed to get.”

Thorne was thankful he had left his laptop with the desk clerk. He spread his hands out and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re after.”

Franco said. “Like I said, maybe after Tomas has spent a little time alone with you, maybe you’ll remember.” He jerked his head in Thorne’s direction. “Let’s go, Tomas, let’s take him where we can have a serious conversation without attracting attention.” Franco walked to the door. “You won’t be going back to England, Chum. On our way you can decide how you want it. We can make it short or we can make it last all day.”

Tomas grabbed Thorne by both arms, hoisting him to his feet.

Thorne reached for his wallet and other things on the bed and asked, “Is it all right if I take—” He wheeled around and caught Tomas full in the face with a sharp left. the big man was thrown against the nightstand and toppled a lamp. Thorne moved quickly to plant a kick on the shin of the big man when he saw Franco out of the corner of his eye, and felt a sharp pain in his right kidney. He grabbed his side just as Tomas regained his footing and hit him hard in the stomach.

Thorne fell back onto the bed. The sharp pain in his kidney and pain in his stomach made him nauseous.

“Get him up,” barked Franco. “He’s cute, ain’t he. We’ll see how cute he is when we get him where it’s nice and quiet.” Tomas threw his coats at him and shoved him toward the door.

Thorne’s side was throbbing with pain as he slowly put his coats on,. Franco put the gun in his coat pocket, and held him by one arm. Tomas gripped the other arm as they went back to the elevator. The elevator doors opened at the lobby, and Tomas nudged Thorne out as Franco held his arm.

Thorne knew he had to make his move now or it would be too late to do anything after he’d left the safety of the crowded lobby. He brought his free hand down quickly in a chopping motion on Roberts’s wrist and broke for the main desk. Franco looked around at the crowded lobby, and realizing they had lost control of him, motioned for Tomas to follow him out the front door to the street.

Thorne held his hand to his side and asked the desk clerk for the manager. “I wish to check out; I believe you still have my laptop.” Thorne said when the manager came forward.

The desk clerk and the manager exchanged looks of surprise. “But, Sir, you just checked in a moment ago,” the desk clerk said.

“I know, but something came up. Thank you. I believe you have my credit card number. Just put the charges on it. Can you have a bellman accompany me to my room?”

The manager motioned for a bellman, and he followed Thorne to the elevator.

Chapter 35

Back in the Renault, Franco flipped open his phone and dialed. “Our target is at the Hotel Julien. We lost him temporarily. He’s got a bellman, and they’re headed back up to his room. Looks like he might be getting ready to check out. I’ll stay on him when he comes out the front door. Tomas will cover the side door. It doesn’t appear the items we got from him amount to much, but, don’t worry, we’ll get anything he knows out of him before we finish him off.”

The voice on the other end was short and stern. “What’s the problem, Franco? Can’t you and Tomas do your job? You’re making me look bad. I can’t believe I’ve hired two incompetents that have allowed him to escape. If you don’t get him before he goes back to England, this will be your last job for me.”

The bellman gave Thorne a surprised look when he saw the clothing spread haphazardly on the bed. Thorne handed him a ten-pound note. “Just a little lover’s spat. Nothing serious. Can you show me a good way out? She may be waiting in the lobby or out the side door.”

The bellman smiled knowingly. He grabbed the luggage. “Follow me.”

Thorne followed the bellman down the back stairs to the ground floor, and went through a gift shop to a service corridor that led to a narrow alley. The bellman pointed to a large rear door. Thorne thanked him and went out, passing a young man unloading boxes from a truck. He asked the young man how to get to the street behind the hotel, but the young man just smiled, and with a shrug, said something in Dutch.

Thorne looked up the alley in both directions. It was dark and here was no one in sight, and he walked quickly to the end of the alley and out onto the street. He remembered he had left his gun in the glove compartment of the rented car at the airport parking lot in London. He wished he had it with him now. He found another hotel, The Edgarton Arms, three blocks from Hotel Julien and settled in for the night.

The following morning Thorne had a late breakfast. He opened his laptop and searched for a cross reference for the address of the house he had written down the previous day. The name Leopold Darver came up. He Googled the name and found the phone number of Darver Investments and Consultants. A woman’s voice answered in cultured English when he called the office. “Good morning, Darver Investments.”

“Mr. Darver, please.”

“Mr. Darver is busy at the moment. May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Please tell him it’s the Stratford associate.”

Darver came on the line. “This is Darver. Who is this calling?”

Thorne tried to affect a British accent. “You haven’t met me and I don’t think it’s necessary to exchange names. I know you were concerned about our inability to find the item when you were in Stratford last night. I want to assure you we’re still searching. In the meantime, the contact who accompanied you to the castle has advised me you might wish to handle other items suitable for the Antwerp market.”

“Is this Mr. Hollister?”

Thorne grimaced. Darver had just confirmed Freddie was involved. Thorne tried to maintain his composure. “No, he had to go out of town, but I am one of the partners.”

Darver was blunt. “Your partners didn’t deliver the goods when I was there, and I feel we’ve done all the business we’re going to do there. I don’t have the time, nor inclination, as I’ve already spent two days on travel and mere conversation. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all it was—conversation. Any future business with your partners—or you—if there’s any business to be done—will be here in Antwerp. Is that clear?”

“I fully understand, and my partners want to apologize for your inconvenience. That said, we do have other items we can present to you.”

Thorne didn’t know if Franco and Thomas were connected to Darver, or if Darver may have also been alerted to Thorne’s trip to Antwerp by the other two men from the castle. Thorne added, “I’m still in London, but could catch a shuttle and fly over and see you this afternoon, if you have the time.”

Darver paused before answering. “I don’t do this type of business in the office. Meet me at the International Restaurant on Hoveniersstraat, across from the Thierstandt Showroom in the diamond district at three o’clock and bring the items. Ask for Mr. Roosten. I have a private area in the restaurant where I can look at the goods.”

Hoping Darver might reveal the names of the men with him in the castle two nights ago, Thorne asked, “Shall I bring my partners, those you met at the castle?”

“I’m only interested in seeing the items,” Darver said. “I’ll do business with the person who brings the items. You can tell your partners whatever you want.”

He paused again before asking, ”Are you familiar with an American in Stratford who may be in Antwerp? We received word he might be coming this way.”

His guess was right about Darver being alerted about his presence in Antwerp. “No,” Thorne said casually. “There was an architect around. I do think he might be a Yank. I think he’s working on the castle with Mr. Bada. I saw him in the castle a few minutes ago. Why?”

“No reason,” Darver said. “Just curious. I’ll see you there at three o’clock.”

Thorne sat in the hotel room looking out the window, thinking of his next move. The ruse to get the names of the other men with Darver and Hollister in the castle hadn’t worked.

This was the reason he had followed Darver to Antwerp in the first place. He had nothing to give Darver, and realized he’d have to try one last ploy to get the names before returning to London. He called back and got Darver on the phone.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Darver, but a family problem has come up and I won’t be able to come to Antwerp this afternoon. Perhaps if you could tell me the name of one of the other partner you’d like to see, I could send him—”

Darver said sarcastically. “They probably won’t show either. Look, I don’t know who you people are and I’m no longer interested. All of you seem a little flaky to me.” The line went silent.

Thorne assumed this was confirmation Darver didn’t know the name of any of the participants except Freddie. He dialed the transportation service and asked the driver to bring the car around for the trip to the airport.

Chapter 36

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

Friday, December 17

3:30 PM

Thorne returned to Stratford after the afternoon flight from Antwerp, and stopped by a Chemist’s shop to pick up strong pain pills for the pain in his side. When he arrived at the manor house, he walked straight down the hall to his room without speaking to anyone. As he passed the parlor, he saw Gweneth and Neville Forestal sitting alone by the fire in deep conservation. Their heads were close together, and they were holding hands. Forestal looked up as Thorne passed and smiled.

Thorne continued down the hall to his room and wondered if the forceful Forestal would be the right person for Gweneth. He was not sure about the man—and about his disapproval of a bookstore and research center in the castle. There would obviously be conflict within the Bada family once he and Gweneth were married. Forestal had played with Freddie, Gilbert and Gweneth when they were children. Other than that, there was little information about his relationship with the Bada family.

In spite of his concern for Gweneth, he was preoccupied with bigger problems. He had to make a decision about what to do with the necklace. The harassment by Roberts and Kelly concerned him. He knew he had to be prepared for another meeting with the two.

Once inside his room, he dropped his carry-on bag on the floor next to the bed and turned on the lights. He chuckled as he assessed the bumps and cuts on his head from the blows he had received in recent weeks. He was still sore from the blows to his kidney and ribs he had received from Franco and Tomas. He resolved there would be no more and from here on out, the shoulder holster would be a permanent fixture. He undressed and took a hot shower before laying on the bed and drifting off to sleep.

A light knock on the door woke him. A woman’s soft voice said, “Dinner will be served in an hour, Mr. Thorne.” Thorne thanked her and said he wouldn’t be there for dinner that evening.

He switched on the bedside lamp and his eyes went to the Milton volumes on the top shelf. He could not decide what should be done about the necklace. Bada and the others had mentioned nothing about it in all their conversations about the search for the documents. He was also concerned about Freddie’s duplicity? He lay back down on the bed. turned off the lamp. and contemplated what he should do before going back to sleep.

Thorne had taken the pain pills, but still slept fitfully and was not rested the following morning because of the pain. He was the first to arrive in the castle’s construction office, and sat trying to concentrate as he pored over the plans for the addition to the castle.

As he sat at his desk in the Great Hall, staring at the fire flickering in the large fireplace, he was preoccupied with conflicting thoughts about Freddie.

Neville Forestal came bounding in, all energy and goodwill. “Hello, Mr. Thorne. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Thorne gave him a wan smile. “Good morning, Mr. Forestal.”

Raskin came next, followed by Blackstone, Kirk-Halstrom, and the Clerk of Works.

Raskin took Thorne aside and said gravely, “Freddie’s at hospital. He had an accident yesterday in the queen’s Keep. Evidently, a pallet fell from the upper floor while he was working at the large table on the ground floor of the Keep. He has internal injuries, and the doctors don’t expect him to live.”

Thorne and Raskin left the others and went down the hall to Thorne’s small office. Raskin looked back up the hall to see if they were alone. He closed the door behind him. “An inspector from the police has been questioning anyone who may know anything about the incident. He’ll be out here today and will want to talk to you.” He paused before continuing. “Where were you the past two days?”

“I went down to London the day before yesterday and shopped for jewelry for a friend back in the states. Didn’t Gil tell you?” Not knowing whom to trust, he omitted revealing his trip to Antwerp. “I came back yesterday afternoon.”

Raskin frowned as he left the office. “I don’t know what’s going on with this inspector. Just be prepared for questions from him.”

Thorne closed the door and went to his desk. He was glad he had used his real name on the flight and at the hotels in Antwerp. He began to search the Internet for the names of jewelry stores in London and Antwerp, just in case he was asked where he had shopped.

Just before noon, there was a light knock on the door. He opened it to find a compact man in a well-worn, all-weather Burberry and a felt hat. The man showed him a badge and said, “Mr. Thorne is it? I’m Inspector Colin Hammersmith. May I come in and speak with you?”

His well-worn trench coat and gray felt hat, identified Inspector Hammersmith as a typical public servant. His blank face had a protruding chin with yesterday’s stubble, and quiet eyes that surveyed the office from under the brim of his hat. He was of average height, but powerfully built, and his demeanor was one of quiet confidence without emotion.

Thorne looked into the deceptively quiet eyes and knew this reserved, unobtrusive man was anything but a blank face. He was dead serious and would leave few stones unturned. Thorne waved him to a chair in front of the small desk.

Hammersmith removed his hat and coat and looked around the office. “Small rooms these,” he said. “Not a great deal of room to work in.”

Thorne smiled, trying to appear relaxed. “I find it sufficient. What can I do for you Inspector?”

“Just a few questions if I may, Sir. You weren’t around when I came by yesterday.”

Thorne shrugged before repeating as much as possible the same thing he’d told Raskin. “I went on holiday down to London for a couple of days. I was shopping for jewelry for a friend.”

Knowing his whereabouts the past two days could be checked, and he casually added the information about the trip to Antwerp.

He mentioned Harrods and said, “One of the clerks I spoke to suggested I could find great bargains in diamonds across the channel in Antwerp. I had never been there, so I took a quick flight over.“

“How long were you in Antwerp?”

“Just overnight. I came back yesterday afternoon.”

“I suppose you’ve been told Mr. Frederick Hollister was critically injured yesterday?”

“Yes, Mr. Raskin told me when he came in this morning.”

Hammersmith quickly switched back to his questions. “Where did you stay when you were in Antwerp?”

Knowing the Inspector could track his every move, Thorne told him about checking into the Hotel Julien and how he thought he might have been followed by muggers. He told Hammersmith about feeling uncomfortable in the Hotel Julien and changing to lodgings at The Edgarton Arms, where he spent the night. He told of catching an afternoon flight back to London and returning to Stratford after having an early dinner in London. Hammersmith took notes as Thorne spoke, nodding all the while in agreement with his story.

“What airline—that is, what flight did you return on.”

“I returned on British Airways. I’m not sure of the flight number, but we arrived in London shortly after one o’clock.”

Hammersmith looked at his watch. “I have business to attend to. Could I see you again this afternoon, after lunch perhaps?”

“Of course. I’ll have lunch here and make myself available. Do you have a specific time you’d like to talk to me?”

“I’ll try to call the office here and let you know.”

Chapter 37

After Inspector Hammersmith left, Thorne went in search of Raskin. He found him in the Great Hall deep in conversation with Kirk-Halstrom and Blackstone while the others discussed inspection reports on the demolition of portions of the stone wall. Forestal was explaining the town’s requirements for record keeping procedures to the Clerk of Works as Thorne entered. Forestal nodded recognition as he and the Clerk went outside to get reports from the demolition contractor.

Kirk-Halstrom turned to Thorne and said, “I understand you went down to London the day before yesterday and returned yesterday afternoon.” His tone was more of a statement than an inquiry.

“Yes, I saw a break in the demolition work and I took a couple of days off to buy presents for a friend.”

Bada stood amid the others and said, “Mr. Thorne, this thing with Freddie is disturbing. I think we all need to talk about the situation. Is there a room close by where we can discuss things?”

Thorne noticed it was no longer David, but Mr. Thorne. Thorne motioned for the four men to follow, and they went down the corridor to Rainier’s office.

Once inside the office Thorne said, “We can use this office. Rainier’s out of the country. He left unexpectedly after the meeting and said he won’t be back until next week.”

Bada sat behind Rainier’s desk, Thorne, Raskin, and Blackstone took chairs, and Kirk-Halstrom went to a far wall, shaking his head. He folded and unfolded his hands. “I don’t understand what’s going on here. What about the rest of you?”

Blackstone lit a cigarette and repeated Kirk-Halstrom’s previous question. “Where have you been the past two days, Thorne?”

Thorne said, “I was down to London. I heard about Freddie’s accident this morning. Does anyone know what happened?”

Raskin shrugged. “It’s too early to tell, and Freddie goes in and out of consciousness. It’s difficult to get information from him as to what happened. I think we have to make a determination as to how we’re going to proceed with the search.” He turned to Thorne. “Have you had any other success in your search?”

“No,” said Thorne. He noted Raskin’s use of the word ‘other’. Did he know there might be something else hidden besides the documents?

Bada had been silent, but now spoke. “Gentlemen, I’m not completely assured there is a document as described in the Moldar letter. The wording—at least to me—was ambiguous. The terms our treasure and poesies could have meant any number of things. We’ve also been unable to find any records of Richard Moldar’s business dealings.”

Thorne noted he had said, treasure, not treasures as shown in Moldar’s letter.

Blackstone began to pace. “I disagree. The letter specifically speaks to the poesies. There are a number of plaques on the landings going up to the Keep. All represent animals, plants, or personages of one kind or the other. There are probably more located in the castle.”

He turned to Raskin, then to Bada. “You will recall that when we looked at the plaques, the only one that might even come close to resembling poesies—the bouquet—is the one at the first landing”

Thorne reflected on what Blackstone had just said. The man had been aware of the poesies plaque. He had not looked at it with Thorne, and this was the first time he had mentioned it to Thorne. It appeared Raskin, Bada, and Kirk-Halstrom, may have been aware of it, too.

“In any case, we’re not making any headway,” Bada said.

He turned to Thorne. “David, do you—can you—think of any place we haven’t looked, short of tearing down the entire castle?”

“No,” Thorne said, pleased Bada had returned to calling him David. “My opinion is Moldar would have hidden the documents where they were easily accessible. He might need to get to them in a hurry. A place that might not require a lot of effort and demolition.”

Kirk-Halstrom was sarcastic. “I wonder how hard you’re looking, Thorne. We’re faced here with a major problem, and you’re running down to London when you’re needed here most.”

Raskin broke in and said softly, “Now, now, Lionel, I think we have to realize Mr. Thorne hasn’t had a break since he’s been here, and he had no idea such a tragedy would occur. Freddie’s accident was just an unfortunate anomaly.”

Blackstone dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his shoe. “I propose we terminate Thorne’s contract. It appears he’s of no use to us here now.”

Chapter 38

The room fell silent, and a chair scraped the stone floor.

“What about it, David?” Bada asked, trying to diffuse the tension in the room by momentarily ignoring Blackstone’s stunning proposal. “Do you think you can still find the documents?”

Thorne struggled to keep his composure. “I think we have to examine every area in a thorough manner before we sign off on it. That’s what I’m doing now.” He stared at Blackstone before adding in a sarcastic manner, “Maybe you have suggestions, Sir.”

Blackstone cleared his throat and said, “We retained you over a month ago and—well, I don’t see any results that would justify your continuing on this—”

Raskin said, “I don’t think we have to make any hasty judgments here . . . What are your thoughts, Mr. Thorne?” Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom were all looking at him, waiting for him to respond. Bada was looking down and rubbing his palms together.

“I don’t know what you expect of me,” Thorne said to no one in particular. “I don’t feel I have to make excuses. After all, we have a large facility to examine. I’m not even a quarter of the way through the entire building. As I’ve said, I’m following a strict procedure and keeping track of where I’ve searched. There could well be another poesies representation in the castle. We just haven’t reached that area yet.”

Bada asked, “How much longer before you complete the search, David?”

Thorne shrugged. “I’m still working on the second floor of the castle proper. I’ve yet to investigate the Keep in detail except to examine the rubbings of the plaques. As I’ve said, most of the rubbings of the plaques were faint.”

Raskin turned to Bada. “What do you think, Gil? “Do you think Freddie may have found the documents?”

Bada shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him about anything in the ambulance on the way to hospital. He was incoherent and in and out of consciousness at the time due to the sedatives. The hospital has confirmed he still is.”

Thorne’s cell phone rang, and he ignored it. Bada said, “That’s all right, David. Why don’t you take your call.”

The voice on the other end was the Clerk of Works. He said, “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Thorne, but Inspector Hammersmith is back and would like to speak with you in your office.”

Thorne stood and said, “That’s the Inspector investigating Freddie’s accident. Could you excuse me for a few minutes?” He turned at the door and said, “I think all of you need to decide what you want to do.”

The inspector was waiting outside the door to Thorne’s office. He said, “I’m sorry to bother you again so soon. I know I said I would come back this afternoon, but I realize I have to do other things first. Do you mind? I have some things I need to ask you.”

Chapter 39

Once inside the office, Thorne invited Hammersmith to sit as he busied himself straightening paper on his desk while trying to think of why the Inspector had returned so quickly. He knew the man had done what most detectives would do when given information by a suspect. They would check out the information as soon as possible. Obviously, Hammersmith had unearthed the information he needed.

Hammersmith took out his notebook and looked at it. “Mr. Thorne, you recall you said you flew over to Antwerp in the afternoon. The flight on Brussels Airlines left at 5:30 P.M. That would be from Gatwick. You returned from Antwerp the following day around midday on British Airways. However—” He looked up from his notebook and wrinkled his brow. ”There were no British Airway flights from Antwerp to Gatwick after ten o’clock in the morning that particular day. How do you explain that?”

Thorne shrugged and said, “All I know is I left London from Gatwick in the afternoon, and I returned around midday the following day to Heathrow. Then I caught a shuttle from Heathrow over to Gatwick and picked up the car I had parked there the previous day.

“Oh,” said Hammersmith, “I had thought you would have returned to Gatwick. Your return flight brought you to Heathrow then?”

“That’s correct.”

Thorne suppressed a smile. He knew Hammersmith knew the flight had returned to Heathrow Airport. He had probably checked all the flights to and from Antwerp both days at both airports. It was just a ploy to try and trip up a possible suspect. Sharp—a sharp investigator.

Hammersmith sat back in his chair and smiled pleasantly. “Mr. Thorne, I have to be honest with you. I’ve checked your story thoroughly, and I feel you didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Hollister’s accident. I’ve asked around and it appears you and Mr. Hollister had a cordial relationship.”

He arose from the chair and stood in front of the desk, looking down at Thorne. “That said, I wonder if you might help me. Could you come with me to the Keep?”

“Of course, if you think I could help, I’d be glad to.

They went to the Keep and stood before the large wooden table. Hammersmith placed his hand on the top of the table and carefully traced his fingers along a fresh hairline crack in the granite tabletop.

“This is where the pallet landed. The force caused it to catapult over here—” He walked a few feet from the table. “Mr. Hollister had undoubtedly tried to retreat when he saw it falling. Had he remained at the table, he would have been killed instantly. The heavy wooden pallet with the bags of cement catapulted off the table and both hit him full force, breaking a number of ribs on the left side of his body and causing extensive internal injuries.”

Hammersmith moved adroitly, acting out the impact on Freddie’s body. “Part of the pallet also collided with his left shoulder and neck, breaking his collarbone and dislocating vertebrae in his spinal column. Other internal injuries were extensive.”

He said dramatically, “ We now know what happened. What we need next is to find out how it happened and possibly who caused the pallet to fall in the first place.” He motioned for Thorne to follow as he started up the steps to the top of the Keep.

They climbed the long stairs to the top level, eighty feet above the large open interior space of the Keep. Hammersmith went through the door into the guard’s quarters and over to the large open hole where the platform would have normally been.

“The platform would have been on rails and would have normally been retracted. It was obviously situated over the opening before it fell.”

The end of a frayed rope was hanging down from another opening in the ceiling. Hammersmith picked up a length of wood and fished for the rope’s end to where he could reach it.

“Normally, the chain lift would have brought the main platform with the pallets from below and off-loaded the bags of cement here on this level. Obviously they remained on the pallet and were now to be hoisted up with a rope later since they didn’t want to use the chain hoist.

“Look closely at the end of the rope,” he said giving it to Thorne.

Thorne examined the frayed end of the rope closely. “It does appear to have an unusually even fray.”

“More than even,” said the Inspector. “It’s been cut—at least partially. See how even it is on one side? A rope has a natural random fray pattern when it fails. The rope was almost completely cut through and left dangling, but only momentarily. The pallet would still be hanging there, loaded with the bags of cement, were it not due to additional forces “

“Why momentarily? What other forces?”

“Aha! Now there’s the interesting part. Look up.”

Thorne leaned over the large gaping hole in the floor and looked upward. He could see all the way through the floors above to the ceiling of the Queen’s apartment at the top of the Keep.

Hammersmith said, “You see, on the day of the accident, the stone masons were the only ones working on the top floor.” “The cement bags were being hauled up to prepare mortar to fix or repair, or—”

“Point,” Thorne said. “The term is point the joints. That’s what they do when they replace new mortar after cleaning out the old, crumbling mortar from the joints.”

“Whatever,” Hammersmith said. “Everyone confirms that all the workman were up on the top floor, even the hod carrier, who was carrying stone and mixing the mortar for the masons working up there. There must have been at least thirty or so men working up there. I have to admit, I was perplexed at first as to how a rope could be cut partially through and have it fall at such an opportune time. Then I saw that.” He pointed down to the ground floor.

Thorne leaned and looked down. “And—?” he asked.

“Look over against the wall. Do you see that large stone?”

Thorne looked closer and saw a square stone the size of a basketball laying on the floor against the wall.

Hammersmith said, “On the top floor where the men were working, there are stacks of such stones. What I think happened was that someone knew Mr. Hollister would be working there at the table—as he usually did. They had previously cut the rope most of the way through, just enough to hold the pallet suspended there over the table. Then, when Mr. Hollister moved into position, they pushed or knocked the stone over the edge. The stone, being pushed off the stack, fell onto the pallet holding the cement bags. The impact and additional weight of the stone on the pallet broke the already weakened rope, dropping the pallet and its contents onto the unsuspecting victim below.”

Thorne was curious. “Have you questioned the men who were working above?”

“I questioned all who were there at the time, as a group, but their responses were sketchy. I’m still putting together my notes. Hammersmith gave Thorne a stern look. “I’d like to keep this information to ourselves—that is, until I complete my final investigation. I’ll be in contact with you.”

Thorne returned to the three men waiting in Rainier’s office. Could one or more of them be involved in what Hammersmith had just been described to him.

But who wanted Freddie dead—and why? He was one of their most valuable assets in the search for the documents—and with him dead, how would anyone ever recover the necklace.

Chapter 40

As Thorne returned to the room, a conversation between Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom ended abruptly. Raskin broke the silence. “Was there anything of significance the Inspector wanted to know?”

Thorne said calmly, “No, he just wanted to confirm my whereabouts for the past two days. Nothing important.”

Blackstone sat up straight in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Thorne, I have put forth my opinion to Gil, Lionel, and Chet, that your usefulness has run out and—”

Raskin wrinkled his face as if he were in pain. “I think what Simon is saying is that while we’ve appreciated your efforts, it appears the documents have been not been found—and perhaps we should approach the search—” He folded his hands and surveyed the others. “It’s quite possible Freddie may have found the documents. We know he’s spent a lot of time working in the Keep, and had ample opportunity to find them.”

Thorne narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Raskin, perhaps you should get to the point.”

Raskin started to respond, but was interrupted by Kirk-Halstrom. “Mr. Thorne, you have been retained by us now for close to six weeks. We’re now no better off—no, we’re worse off than we were when we hired you. I simply can’t abide—”

Raskin cleared his throat. “Mr. Thorne—”

Thorne looked in the direction of Bada and said, “What’s your opinion of the situation, Gil?”

Bada had been staring at a chart on the wall and after a slight pause said, “It does appear there’s been a lot of things that have happened that have changed our mission. Obviously we had no idea this would happen to Freddie.”

Thorne realized he’d get no commitment from Bada and returned his attention to Raskin. “Gentlemen, I’ve been at this long enough to know when I have an unhappy client. So, you have to make a decision. As for myself, I want it known by all of you I’m prepared to fulfill my commitment and perform my contract.” He waited for an answer as chairs scraped and someone cleared his throat.

Kirk-Halstrom repeated his previous statement. “Mr. Thorne, you have been in our employ for six weeks or so. We’re no better off. I put it to you—”

Angered by Kirk-Halstrom’s patronizing attitude, Thorne snapped, “I have not been in your employ. That was made perfectly clear when we first discussed me coming on board. I’m a consultant—with a contract.  If you had read the contract completely, you would know full satisfaction required by the contract takes effect when I leave the project unless I myself cancel it, or fail to perform—which is not the case. I have no intention of canceling it. I plan to be here and complete the search. For your information, I also turned down other assignments to take this one.”

Kirk-Halstrom’s eyebrows went up. “Do I get the impression you want us to pay you the full contract for—” He looked in Bada’s direction. “How much is it, Gil?”

“Three months at $10,000 each month,” said Bada without looking up.

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Kirk-Halstrom. “You feel an imposition has been visited upon you, and now you want $30,000 for six weeks work, during which time you’ve found nothing. In addition, we’ve provided expenses, clothing—”

“Sir, you may have the clothes back. Most of them have not been worn. You will recall, this ridiculous suggestion was your idea in the first place.” He enjoyed watching the snob’s eyebrows quiver. “Perhaps you could return them to Harrods for a refund, since I doubt they’ll ever be of use to me in Arizona.”

He could hear Kirk-Halstrom’s quick breathing as the man turned red in the face and looked imploringly in Raskin’s direction. Raising his eyebrows, Kirk-Halstrom said, “Well, I shan’t say another thing on the subject.”

“There, there Lionel,” Raskin said, as if trying to soothe a child having a tantrum. “Don’t get yourself upset. I’m sure we can work out something with Mr. Thorne.”

Thorne was aware of the frequent use of his surname during the discussion, a sure sign the relationship had-or was about to be permanently severed.

Raskin smiled the calm, assured smile Thorne had come to expect from him. “Mr. Thorne, I realize we’re involved in an unpleasant situation here. That said, we’re prepared to pay you a larger portion than one might expect under these circumstances. There’s a moral imperative here, and I think we can pay you for a total of two month’s work even though you’ve been associated with us for only six weeks.” He looked at the other members of the group. “I think that’s a fair arrangement, don’t the rest of you?”

Kirk-Halstrom and Blackstone looked up.  Blackstone was sullen. “I don’t like it, but if you say so, Chet, I’ll agree to it.”

Kirk-Halstrom refused to look at Thorne, but turned to Bada. He then made a statement that elicited soft chuckles even from Bada and Raskin. “I want him to know I refuse to take his clothes back.”

“That’s generous of you, Sir,” Thorne said. “Now, before you get yourself in a swivet, I’m sure the Salvation Army will be pleased with your donation.”

“Now we’re getting childish, gentlemen,” Raskin said. ”I’d like to stay on the subject of termination of the contract.”

Bada said, “I suppose I would be over-ruled if I were to give my opinion, so I’ll prepare a final payment and the necessary documentation all of you appear be agreeable to.”

Thorne knew taking the group to court for non-payment was out of the question.  It would cause him too much trouble, and not be worth it. He also realized the twenty thousand dollars would more than cover the time and effort he had put into the project. He said nothing, but stared at Bada, waiting for the final offer.

Bada smiled as he glanced at his partners. “Agreed. I’ll prepare a check in the amount of $20,000, and you’ll sign the release. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Thorne?”

“Of course it’s not satisfactory,” Thorne said with sarcasm. ”However, when can you have the cash or a cashier’s check and the other documents ready for me to sign?”

Bada turned to the others and said, “I’ll prepare the release documents and the cashier’s check and get it to him.” He turned to Thorne. “How would you like the check addressed?”

“Make it out to Cash.”

“Fine. I’ll see it’s delivered to you tomorrow morning at the manor house.” He added reflectively, “I regret this, David. Is there anything else you want to say?”

“No, thank you,” Thorne said curtly as he arose. He was unaffected by Bada’s return to the more familiar address of David, and left the room without speaking to the others.

Chapter 41

Thorne sat in his office with the lights off, reflecting on what had just happened. He had previously decided to return the necklace to Gilbert Bada and let him decide who the rightful owner was. Now, he wasn’t too sure he would do that. His clients—now former clients—had changed his mind. The loss of the job, coupled with Freddie’s eminent death, was all it took to move him over the edge.

Did anyone care about what was to happen to him?

An idea began to play in his mind—an idea foreign to everything he had believed in.

What if he were to keep the necklace for himself?

He could return to Antwerp with the necklace, seek out Darver and—. No, that wouldn’t work. Darver might contact the others, then his identity might be revealed.

Thorne was in conflict with his emotions. Deep down, he knew he should give the necklace back. But to who? Once he sold the necklace, he could go back to Scottsdale and enjoy financial security for the rest of his life. No one would ever know—except him.

If he kept the necklace, he needed to seek another fence other than Darver in Antwerp. Maybe the Middle East. Maybe Paris. There were a lot of rich Arabs in Paris. The sheiks and princesses were always buying jewelry and other expensive things. That might be the way to go.

Maybe he should try Paris.

His mind jumped back to the people he knew in Stratford. What friends did he have left? Freddie and Gweneth were the only ones he considered to be his friends. He had been getting closer to Bada, but that was over now. He felt a warmth for Gweneth, but now she was going to be Mrs. Neville Forestal—another thing that bothered him. Freddie was the greatest disappointment. He would have never suspected Freddie to be involved in anything underhanded.

Was there anyone who cared what he thought? Were they the least bit concerned what was going to happen to him when this was all over? He suddenly realized he was drifting into self-pity, but—.

No—now he was on his own.

But what about Freddie? He not only felt bad about his condition. Shouldn’t he find out what caused this young man to do what he did. As a friend, he felt Freddie owed him an explanation. What was to become of Freddie’s family? He was still wrestling with his thoughts as he heard a light knock on the door.

Bada had followed Thorne to his office. He came in and stood with his back to the closed door. “I must say, I’m disappointed in the outcome of this affair. No one expected all of these events to happen. Freddie’s in hospital, not expected to live, and now you’re off the job—”

Thorne was closed down. He said tersely, “I’ll be at the White rose Inn in Bridgeport tonight. Would you be able to have a courier drop by with the release papers and the check before eight tomorrow morning? I’d like to get an early start.”

“Yes. I’ll see they’re delivered early. Do you need a ride to the airport or would you prefer to go on the train? I can have arrangements made if you wish.”

“No, thank you. I’ll make my own arrangements.”

Bada held out his hand and said, “I personally think it’s very unfortunate the way things turned out—and that said, I’ll wish you good luck.”

Thorne took Bada’s hand and said without emotion, “Thank you. The same to you.”

Bada left and Thorne called the Excel Auto Rental in Bridgetown. He gave the name David Riley to the young man who answered the phone and asked if they could bring a car, a Land Rover with tinted windows, by the Moldar manor house in a couple of hours. The young man repeated his name back to him and was abruptly interrupted. He said, “Excuse me while I take care of other business. I’ll be right back.”

Thorne waited as he heard muffed conversation in the background. The young man returned, said a driver would bring the Land Rover by at two-thirty, and asked him if he could drop the driver off at an address in Stratford.

His thoughts returned to Freddie and he called the hospital. “Could you please tell me how Mr. Hollister is doing, and can he receive visitors?”

The nurse said, “Mr. Hollister remains in critical condition. At this time, visitors are restricted to family members.”

Thorne cleared out the meager effects in his office and drove the golf cart back to the manor house.

Chapter 42

Thorne sat in his bedroom staring into a diminishing fire in the fireplace. He read one-thirty on his watch. One hour to go before the car would pick him up. He told the staff he wouldn’t be there for dinner that evening, but would be staying at the White Rose in Bridgetown.

He retrieved the packet with the necklace from its hiding place and folded a wool sweater around it. He pressed the sweater between two others and placed them in the bottom of a large Harrods shopping bag. He took his luggage to the foyer and went back to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gweneth sitting alone in front of the fireplace listening to music on the radio.

He hesitated before going in. She immediately turned and said playfully, “Aha, Mr. David Thorne approaches—or whoever’s been in his aftershave.”

Thorne couldn’t help but smile at the bright, cheerful welcome. “True,” he said. “It’s David, and he’s been in his own aftershave.”

She wheeled her chair over to an overstuffed chair facing the fireplace and patted the cushion enthusiastically. “Please come over and sit, David Thorne. Turn the radio off and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

He turned the radio off on his way over to the chair. “Well, to tell you the truth—”

“Oh,” she said with amusement, “I would never expect anything but the truth from David Thorne.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving tomorrow. I’m going back to the states. My work is finished here.”

Her smile disappeared. “Oh, that’s too bad. We’ve enjoyed having you with us.”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow early, so I’m afraid I won’t be seeing you after today. I’ll be staying the night at the White Rose Inn in Bridgetown.”

She said, “Andrea and I will miss our little talks. I wanted to tell you all about my upcoming wedding. Neville and I are going to be married next month. I had so hoped you would be there. It’s going to be a big wedding in the church in Stratford. Are you sure you can’t stay for it?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be here for the wedding. I have important business in Arizona. I’m sorry. But I do want to wish you congratulations.

She said, “Thank you. Too bad, we would have enjoyed having you here.”

She changed the subject. “Well, how’s your book going—and how’s the remodeling of the castle progressing?”

He spent the next half hour talking about the castle. He didn’t know if she had been told about his being fired, or about Freddie’s injuries, so he didn’t bring either subject up.

There was a light knock at the door to the entry hall and the butler entered. “Excuse me, Mr. Thorne, but there’s a car here for you. If you like, I’ll load your luggage.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Thorne pushed himself out of the chair. “Well, I’ve got to be going, but—”

She wheeled over to him and took his hand. “I’ll always remember you David. You’ll always be a special friend.”

He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Me too, Gweneth,” he said. “I’ll always consider you my friend. I’ve enjoyed my time here with you.”

Chapter 43

Thorne went down the front steps to the waiting Land Rover. He placed his Harrods shopping bags in the back seat as the butler loaded his luggage in the trunk. As he opened the passenger’s side door, he was surprised to see the driver was none other than Beth Wright, the cheerful young woman he’d rented a car from in the auto rental store in Bridgetown.

“Hello, Mr. Riley,” she said brightly. “This is indeed a pleasure.”

He fastened his seatbelt and now realized who the young man at the rental agency had been speaking to when he broke off the conversation momentarily. When he’d given the name Riley, Beth Wright had been in the office and had heard the name.

She probably asked if she could deliver the car on her way home. Thorne wasn’t sure she offered to volunteer so she might see him again, but was still flattered.

“I hope this isn’t inconvenient for you, going out of your way to pick me up?” he said.

“Oh no, not at all, Love. I took off a few minutes early. I didn’t have my car today, and this gave me a chance to get a ride home. I would have had to call my Da to pick me up. I hope it’s not too far out of your way. Besides, I had to bring the paperwork by for you to sign.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Beats me. My Da’s working on it. That’s what he does. He’s an auto mechanic.”

“And, a Da is . . .?” he asked hesitantly.

She laughed. “Oh, I keep forgetting, you’re a yank. You’ve a bit of a problem with the English—English. That’s to say, the English we speak here in England.

“Da is what we call my father. He’s from Dublin—Irish, don’t you know. Me Mum’s from London, so I get it at both ends.” She bubbled more laughter. “Half the time people think I’m Irish, half the time people think I’m an East Ender.” It was a pleasant laugh, not quite the same as Gweneth’s—but different—a crisp, pleasant, feminine laugh.

“I’m afraid I’m still working on my English English . . . or my English English. Take your pick,” he said.

They both laughed.

He surprised himself. He wasn’t given to spontaneous laughter, and here he wasn’t five minutes away from a heartbreaking farewell with Gweneth and was carrying on with a stranger he’d only met recently. He decided he liked Beth Wright.

“So,” she asked bluntly, “where are you off to now, Luv?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she asked, “Also, what do you need with a Land Rover just to go back down to London?”

“I thought I’d spend a day or so looking around London, maybe picking up gifts to be shipped home to friends. Something bulky, and the Land Rover might come in handy

My work is finished, so I’ll be going back to the states.”

“Oh,” she said with a mock frown. “England’s loss. Well, Luv, we do hope you come back.” She paused momentarily before saying, “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a day off coming. I could show you the sights in Stratford if you’ve a mind to see them before you leave.”

He was flattered that such an attractive young woman would have an interest in him. He was also surprised at her boldness and his newfound ability to attract good-looking women. “That’s very nice of you, but I do have minor business whilst I’m in London.” He chuckled. “My, my, I just said whilst. Maybe I’m finally learning the English English.”

They both laughed again.

“I think you’d make a right proper English gentleman, you would,” she said half seriously and turned back to concentrating on the traffic. She pulled the car to the curb in front of her house in Stratford. “I must say, I really enjoyed seeing you again.”

She paused as she got out of the car and looked through the open window. “The offer to see the glorious sights of Stratford still stands, Luv . . . or maybe go to the pictures, or perhaps we could . . . Well, later, you’ve got my number on the rental paperwork—and my card.”

“That’s nice of you to volunteer for an assignment above and beyond the call of duty,” he said, trying to maintain a light-hearted spirit.

She was indeed a bold young woman.

He slid over to the driver’s seat. She turned and waved as she went to her front door. “Ta! Ta! World traveler,” she said with a laugh. He waved back and put the car in gear and drove to the hospital.

Thorne had never liked hospitals. They were full of unpleasant smells, traumatic experiences, and sad memories. This hospital was a crisp new all-glass building four stories high designed in the stark International style—a style he had little use for. It didn’t smell bad, and the pleasant background music in the lobby was relaxing.

He went to the receptionist’s desk and asked the older woman behind the desk where he might find Frederick Hollister. She punched the name HOLLISTER into a keyboard and said, “Room 325 in the east wing. You can use the lift down the hall.”

The elevator went to the third floor and opened onto a broad corridor with a nurse’s station directly across from the elevator. He approached and said “I’m here to see Mr. Frederick Hollister.

A nurse looked up from her work and asked, “Are you a member of the family?”

“No, I’m just a close friend.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said in the professional tone nurses adopt. “We’ve been instructed to allow only members of the immediate family.”

A large, solidly built woman with a broad pleasant face approached and asked, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. But I heard you say you were a close friend of Freddie.” She held out a rough hand. “I’m Helena Hollister, Freddie’s wife,” she said quietly.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hollister. I’m David Thorne. I’ve been working with Freddie on the Kilshire Castle project. I was sorry to hear about his accident.”

“Oh, yes, Freddie’s spoken about you. You’re the David Thorne from America, right?”

“Yes.”

One wouldn’t associate the tall, heavily built Helena Hollister with her more diminutive husband Freddie. She had a broad, attractive face. She wasn’t fat and had a well-proportioned figure. Her height and athletic build gave her an imposing presence. But, there was a disconnect with her appearance , her voice, and her personality. On meeting her, one expected a tough, maybe even hard-bitten woman. Instead, Helena turned out to be a soft-spoken young woman with a quiet, and shy demeanor.

“Freddie has spoken highly of you. He said you were helping him and Gilbert Bada with the building of the new wing on the castle.”

“Yes. May I ask how he’s doing?”

She broke into tears and reached in her large purse for a tissue. “The prospects aren’t good,” she said, daubing her eyes. “The doctor said Freddie might not survive.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You and Freddie have my sympathy.”

He guided her to a chair  in a corner. “Has Freddie said anything about his accident?”

She shook her head. “He’s only conscious for short periods of time. They have him well sedated with morphine—you know—for the pain.”

“Would it be possible for me to see him, just for a short period of time? I’ll try not to cause him any undue discomfort.”

“Yes. He’s spoken about you and I’m sure he’d like to see you. I’ll ask the nurse if she’ll take you to him.”

Helena went to the nurses’ station and spoke to the nurse behind the counter. The nurse looked up and smiled in Thorne’s direction before beckoning another nurse over. She whispered to the second nurse who motioned for him to follow.

Helena said, “I have to go back to the bookstore. I’ll be back as soon as possible.” She hurried to the elevator, and Thorne followed the nurse down the hall to Freddie’s room.

Inside the room, the nurse went to the monitor and touched a few dials. “He’s just had his medication, and he’s resting now. He’ll probably drift off to sleep in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The nurse went out and left the door ajar. Thorne went over to Freddie’s bedside and asked quietly, “Are you awake, Freddie?”

Freddie opened his eyes slowly, and when he saw Thorne, he smiled. “Well, the nurse just came in with a tube of morphine. I’m awake, but they’ve got me doped up. How are you, David?”

“I’m fine, Freddie. Look, I can’t afford to lose my best friend. I wish you were in better shape”

Freddie tried to laugh, but it died in his throat. “Me, too.”

Thorne pulled up a chair and moved it close to the bed. “Freddie, do you have any idea what happened to you? I mean, was there anyone who had a reason to do this to you, or do you think it was just an accident?”

“I don’t know—maybe . . . “ His voice trailed off.

Thorne knew about Freddie’s involvement in the search for the necklace, but hoped he would volunteer the details on his own. “Freddie, are you involved in anything—anything to do with something in the castle—something I don’t know about?”

Freddie avoided Thorne’s eyes. “Yes, there is something, David. I would like to clear—that is, I have done something I regret—I really regret.”

Thorne waited as Freddie’s eyes darted about.

“I haven’t told you or the others everything—everything about other portions of the letters. I’ve taken on two partners because I didn’t know what to do with the letters. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how to—“ He coughed and grimaced from the pain.

Thorne held a glass of water with a bent straw to his mouth and Freddie took a sip. Thorne asked, “What is it Freddie? Who are the partners? Do they know about—“

Freddie coughed again. “I should have been more direct. I should have told you . . . I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, David. I never meant—I was confused. I was . . .”

Thorne said, “Tell me, Freddie. Tell me their names.”

Freddie’s eyelids began to droop. The medication was beginning to take effect. “David, please continue the search in castle and—the poesies. Documents are there, I know—I know. In the—bookstore—look for the hills above Great Malvern. You need to . . . buff envelope. I’m tired—very tired.”

Thorne took his hand. “Freddie, don’t go to sleep yet. I need to—”

Freddie’s eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.

Thorne met the nurse as he went out into the hall. “He’s asleep,” he said, and went back down the hall to the elevator.

On the elevator, he knew Freddie would not last much longer. He was going to lose a good, if flawed, friend. For Freddie’s sake, he had do what he could to help him and Helena.

Chapter 44

As Thorne left the hospital, he reflected on his relationship with Freddie. He and Freddie had frequently lunched together in Thorne’s office, and Freddie had continued to open up to him as he had often done in Scottsdale. Freddie told him about his short-term goals for the new bookstore and castle museum. At first Thorne had been uncomfortable in getting into Freddie’s personal life, but the friendly and open young man’s personality gradually won him over.

Freddie continued to say he had never made enough money. He repeated his desire to make big money. Thorne had just written it off to youthful exuberance. Now he knew different. Except for his indiscretion in withholding portions of the letter, Thorne realized Freddie had been the genuine article in a crowd of people Thorne didn’t fully trust.

The Classics Bookstore was located in the center of activity in Stratford. The bookstore enjoyed considerable overflow foot traffic from the Shakespeare Centre and was a major destination for Shakespearean scholars and tourists. The character of the bookstore was totally different from a Barnes and Noble or other commercial bookstores one would find in the States. The low ceiling and narrow aisles between the bookshelves of the Classics Bookstore gave the small store a cramped feel. One could find many such bookstores in the small villages in England.

Two young women behind the checkout counter were ringing up sales and packing the customers’ books in brown paper bags. The bags bore the image of Shakespeare on both sides of the bags over the name THE CLASSICS BOOKSTORE, STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.

A plump older woman sat in a comfortable chair tucked in a corner. Her head was inclined toward the front window, picking up the light as she held a book close to her face.

As the last customer left, Thorne asked one of the young women behind the counter, “Perhaps you can help me. Do you’ve a book titled The Hills Of Great Malvern?”

The young woman smiled. “I’ll look if you have a moment, Sir.” She typed something in on the computer and waited.

“I’m sorry, Sir, nothing under the title The Hills Of Great Malvern,” she said, shaking her head. “Could it be under another title?”

Thorne said, “I don’t know—Hills In—”

The older woman put her book aside. “What’s this you’re talking about? It’s not The Hills Of Great Malvern, it’s The Hills Above Great Malvern.”

“That’s right, Ma’am. Are you familiar with the book?” Thorne asked.

“I should say so. Only it’s not a book—it’s a painting, and I should be familiar with it, I painted it,” she said, pointing to a picture on the wall behind the counter.

Thorne and the other two women looked up to the darkened oil painting of a landscape on the wall. “Well, what about that?” one of the young women said. “I never knew that was what it was called.”

“What is the price on it?” Thorne asked.

The older woman laughed. “Oh, no. It’s not for sale. My son Freddie would never allow it. You see, I painted it when I was just a girl. I painted a lot in those days. Went to Art School, I did. I gave it to Freddie when he opened the bookstore. He even wanted to call the bookstore

The Great Malvern Hills Bookstore because he liked the painting so much, and gave it a place of prominence up here.” She pointed again to the painting.

“The town permit people—bunch of old buggers—refused to give him a permit. Said, ‘If you want a bookstore named Great Malvern, go over there and open it. We’re Stratford—name it The Shakespeare Stratford Bookstore.’ Freddie and the permit people settled on The Classics Bookstore.”

Thorne stood waiting patiently for the old woman to conclude her story. She went back to her chair. “No, the painting never has been for sale. Never will be. Freddie’s instructions—not for sale.”

“That’s true, Sir,” the young woman said. ”We get a lot of inquiries, but Mr. and Mrs. Hollister have told us it’s not for sale. Sorry.”

“Well, thank you,” Thorne said. ”Is Mrs. Hollister around?”

“Yes, I think I saw her go to the office in the back. I’ll call her. May I have your name, Sir?”

“David Thorne.”

She pressed an intercom button. “Mrs. Hollister, a Mr. David Thorne is here to see you.”

Helena Hollister’s voice came back. “Please ask him to come to the office.”

The young woman pointed to the opposite rear corner of the store, and Thorne threaded his way through the narrow aisles and bookshelves to the small office.

Helena stood as he entered and closed the door. She shook his hand and said, “So nice of you to come by, Mr. Thorne. I had planned to come right back, but I’m afraid I got tied up here. I plan to go back and spend the night with Freddie.” She looked at him imploringly. “Did you get to see Freddie? Was he awake? How is he?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t tell me much. He took medication and went to sleep while I was talking to him. He was resting comfortably when I left.”

She started to sob and reached for a tissue from a box on the desk.

“I’m sorry about Freddie,” he said. “He was always nice to me. I considered him a good friend.”

She looked up quickly. “Oh, yes, he spoke about how he felt you were a trustworthy person—not like those others he was involved with. Of course, he liked Gil, but the others—well—”

She fidgeted with a tissue and looked into his eyes. “Freddie associated with a lot of people. He was an open person. What you saw when you met Freddie was what he was. He talked a lot— too much sometimes. I feel that in his enthusiasm he trusted the wrong people.”

She added quickly, “Oh, not you. I think it was good for him to trust you. It’s the others. They . . .” Her voice trailed off, then stopped.

Thorne said, “Freddie said something before he went to sleep about The Hills Above Great Malvern or—”

“He did?” she asked. “That’s strange, he told me to talk to you about the same thing. Evidently, it had to do with his mother’s painting? Freddie said I could depend on you to do the right thing with the painting if anything ever happened to him. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

“May I examine the painting?”

“Of course, but I think it best if we wait until we close and his mother goes home. Naturally, she would be curious. I’ve also instructed everyone not to tell her about Freddie’s condition. She’s not in good health, and . . .”

She glanced at the door and dropped her voice. “This time of year—Christmas season and all—most of the shops don’t close until nine. I’ll pull the front window blinds down at closing.  Can you come back to the delivery door off the back alley tonight after closing, say around ten o’clock?“

“Yes.” He paused at the door. “By the way, my work is complete at the castle. I had planned to return to the States soon, but with Freddie’s condition— well, I plan to stay a little while longer.”

Chapter 45

By moonlight, Thorne found the back door of the bookstore, and knocked lightly. A light came on behind the frosted glass panel in the door, and Helena opened the door. She directed him through the storeroom to the checkout counter, and brought a ladder from a janitor’s closet.

Declining his help, she muscled the heavy wood ladder into the checkout area.

She leaned the ladder against the wall, and went to the front window to make sure the blinds were completely closed. She returned and went up the ladder, retrieved the painting from the wall, and handed it down to Thorne.

The landscape painting was in a heavy frame, and he saw it was dark—not only with age, but the technique was muddy. He smiled to himself. A son’s love easily hides a mother’s inadequacy.

Thorne turned the painting over and found a manila envelope taped to the back. It was a blank envelope, and appeared to have been placed there recently. He carefully opened the envelope, went over to a desk, and switched on a small lamp.

A folded piece of paper dated three days earlier, had a hastily handwritten letter signed by Freddie, and a safe deposit box key taped within the fold

Dear David,

This is to let you know of my concern for my safety. I’ve instructed. Helena to assist you, but I don’t want her involved in the affair.

It’s better at this time for her not to know anything about it. This key is for a safe deposit box at the Beaton and Wicke Bank in the centre of town. Only your name and mine are authorized to use the key. In the box are instructions on how to proceed. I realize you are quite surprised at my asking you to handle this affair, but I feel I can trust you alone to administer to Helena’s best interests should anything happen to me.

Freddie

Thorne folded the envelope and put it and the key in the pocket of his overcoat. He said, “It’s just a personal note to me about his opinions on the additions.”

Helena gave him a puzzled look and shook her head. “That’s Freddie. At times he has a strange way of doing things. But, why the secrecy about that?

Thorne shrugged. “I suppose he didn’t want the others to know. I appreciate your help, Mrs. Hollister, and I’ll—”

“Please, call me Helena, David. I know you must be a good friend of Freddie, and I feel I can trust you, too. Will you promise me you’ll let me know if you find anything that might be related to Freddie’s accident.”

I will,” said Thorne. “In the meantime if you could find any notes Freddie may have left showing his appointments in the past two weeks, please let me know.

Chapter 46

Thorne spent the night in Bridgetown at the White Rose Inn, and went down for breakfast early the next morning. He met a courier with the paperwork Bada had promised the day before, signed it, and took the cashier’s check.

The dining room was almost empty except for a couple of businessmen getting an early start. He buttered a slice of toast and considered the individuals involved in this increasingly complex situation. Who had the motivation and the means to make an attempt on Freddie’s life? He made a list of all those he had come in contact with since taking the job. The list was far too cumbersome, but he felt it best to make it complete and remove the obvious names such as Gweneth, Andrea, Helena and Hammersmith—and probably Gilbert Bada.

But then, who—who were the most obvious persons who would have sought to kill Freddie after they thought he had double-crossed them?

The first to come to mind again was Roger Linsdame, or possibly Roberts and Kelly, but they were just two thugs who were working for another man.

Who else? Raskin? Kirk Halstrom? Blackstone? Rainier? Forestal?

Linsdame had the most to lose if Freddie moved the bookstore. He would lose business to future development east of the river. But was that enough reason to kill a man?

Neville Forestal had been vocal in his opposition, but that was all. Even if he was successful in stopping the relocation of the bookstore, he’d always be at odds with the Bada family—and Gweneth, his future wife.

Freddie made no secret of his past disagreements with Forestal. Was this the real reason Forestal opposed the relocation of the bookstore to the castle enough to kill Freddie? No, Forestal didn’t seem like the type of person who would resort to murder over a loss in a Council meeting.

Jacque Rainier appeared to be unaware of the search for the documents, but he had huge financial problems—problems that the sale of a multi-million dollar necklace—or the documents—would solve.

Thorne put the pen down, leaned back and ran his hands through his hair.

He was going to lose his friend, Freddie. Another good friend, Gweneth, was going marry a man that would disrupt the Bada family—and her life—and on top of all this, he had been fired for no reason.

His job was to have been that of a consultant. Not a private detective—not a problem solver for other people’s problems—not a Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe or Rockford or Magnum chasing criminals. He had no business being involved in these people’s lives. He had taken an assignment as simple as finding a document for a client. Now he had slowly, but surely, gravitated to investigating a possible murder—yes, a murder. He was sure now if—no, not if, but when—Freddie died, it would be murder.

He’d been disconnected for so long from other people he realized he now had had found a friend—a flawed, but genuine friend, in Freddie. Freddie had trusted him and him alone to take care of his wife, Helena.

Quite a commitment from a man he had known for less than two months.

Chapter 47

The Beaton and Wicke Bank was in a small storefront three blocks from the bookstore. Unlike its older, more staid competitors, it wasn’t overly impressive, but was clean and efficient.

A middle-aged man in a tweed sports coat at the front desk stood and welcomed Thorne. “Good morning, Sir. May I help you?”

Thorne produced the key and identification, and the man looked at a monitor. “Fine. Mr. Thorne, Mr. Hollister came in last week and put you on our access list. Now, if you’ll just step this way.”

Inside the vault, the man matched keys and withdrew a large box. Thorne stepped behind a curtain, placed it on a counter and opened the box. A single large manila envelope was in the box, and inside the envelope was another letter from Freddie. A large plastic bag contained old letters on parchment—letters he hoped would better describe the location of the documents supposedly hidden in the castle.

The documents were inserted between acid-free paper sheets and inserted in protective individual plastic folders, the type used to protect photographs and artwork. Freddie’s handwritten letter was paper-clipped to typewritten transcripts of the documents.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN,

If you’re reading this, it means something has happened to me. Whoever you are, Helena evidently trusts you. Please keep this information secret from Helena for her safety. She’s aware only of my Life Assurance Policy, but my whole reason for my actions is for her to benefit from the contents of this box. If I’m correct in trusting you, you need to know about these letters and how they affect the group planning to search the castle for the hidden de Vere documents.

Last year I bought these letters. The first is a two-page letter from Richard  Moldar to his son, Bascomb. I’ve revealed only the first page of this letter to the group involved in the search. It alludes to the possibility of finding proof that Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, was the true author of the works attributed to William Shakespeare. In my opinion, the letter is inconclusive, but shows promise. The last line of the first page of the document indicates the strong possibility ‘treasures’ are hidden in the castle. I think this may be construed by others to mean the writings of Edward de Vere. However, this isn’t the complete case. The second page reveals that Moldar has hidden within the walls of the castle a priceless necklace designed for Queen Elizabeth I. I have shown the group only the first page of the Moldar letter, not the second as their interest appears to be solely in the de Vere documents.

I don’t know what to do, or who I can trust with this information, so I am in the  process of finding someone who may give me advice and assistance.

The second smaller document is a letter to Richard Moldar from his father Thomas and tells about the origin of the stones in the necklace. Both letters are weathered with age and are difficult to read even under the best of circumstances. I went to a specialist in antiquated documents in Newcastle and told him this was an old novel. I asked him to authenticate the period of the document and give me a transcription, which is enclosed. Please remember to provide for Helena if anything happens to me.

She has been a wonderful wife.

My unending gratitude,

Frederick Hollister

Stratford-upon-Avon

October 23, 2012

Chapter 48

Thorne paused after reading Freddie Hollister’s letter. He collapsed in the chair in the cramped cubicle and realized Freddie’s real purpose. His plan to acquire big money was to secure financial security for his wife, Helena—and now Thorne was part of that plan.

Staring at the letter, he began to think how he could extract himself from this convoluted maelstrom. His mind was in a tumult. Events were pressing in, crowding in upon him.

No, don’t panic, he told himself. Get control. Think. No impulsive moves to run. Think it out before you make a decision. Remember, you had a friend in Freddie. Don’t abandon your friends. For you, they’re few and far between.

He sat in the same position for the next fifteen minutes until he was interrupted by a man’s voice through the curtain. “Is everything all right, Mr. Thorne?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m just going over a few things. It may take time.”

“That’s all right, Sir. Please feel free to take as much time as you need.”

He went back to reviewing the transcripts of the documents. Carefully removing the plastic inserts containing the aged documents from the envelope, he set them aside. He scanned the transcription of the first document and realized he’d already seen it. It was the copy of the letter that had been furnished him by Bada and Freddie in Scottsdale and the one he’d read on the flight to England.

He read again the first page of the transcript he had previously seen.

To my deare son Bascomb

In the yeare of our Lorde 1594

I wish you goodspeede on travel to the Newe World.

Our woorke and stryving in tyme should yield goode

benefitte to us for our Patent of Monopoly for the

newe tobacco and corne to England. You are commended

for your labours and are a wyse young man naming sons

Cecil for Lord Burghley and Raleigh for the Queene’s

friende. Burghley is a wyse man and doth gyve us

the Patent. He hathe received great support from me.

I now gyve you other counsel to remember. In previous

yeares your tutor Warren Cagney hathe sat at meate

at Moldar Manor with the man Edward de Vere. A man of

talent clever and accomplished and fitte and well

traveled. Cagney saith he was a goode and trusted

freend of de Vere and tutor in his tender yeeres.

Cagney when visited upon by the man who spoke in

private of his family tree and records. He did shew

these to Cagney and he marveled. He did also shew

his writing of playes and poetry and giveth them to

Cagney. They bespoke of strange things of highe

importance of Court and suche. They bespoke also of

a Venetian merchant, a high-borne and sad Denmarke

prince, a violent Moor and others. The man de Vere

asketh Cagney for the safekeeping of suche and

saith a gentleman cannot offer suche and would

suffer damage at Court. He taketh another name.

Upon arrest and debtors prison for Cagney he doth

leaveth all his goodes and de Vere papers behind in

the manor and de Vere papers may be used for oure

benefitte when needes be to  seeketh the Queene’s

favour. I have builded her a castle and a Keepe and

these treasures are kept safe where the poesies doth

welcome and should I pass you will fynd such upon

your safe return from the Newe World.

The transcription of the second page of the Richard Moldar letter to his son Bascomb, had been described in Freddie’s note. Thorne now realized why the letter had stopped so abruptly on the first page.

Chapter 49

This second page took up where the first page left off.

Other treasure, hid too where the poesies also welcome, is suche of rare diamondes to maketh of us the most desirable of all men before our gud Queene Elizabeth. This treasure I freely gyveth her when she cometh to Kilshire. I have a necklace mayde of the diamondes given me by my deare father Thomas may God rest his Soule. The stones were placed in designe by Henri DuBoise of Paris and the most prominent diamonde is large and magnificent and one of pinke. Its name was called by the king of the island Fire of Ar-Wan and it is surely priceless. My deare father Thomas Moldar May God rest his Soule giveth when upon his death bede to me his son Richard the diamonds and his letter and it telleth of the origin of diamondes.

Fair Winds and Affection,

Your Father

Richard Moldar

Earl of Hofley.

In the yeare of our Lorde

1594

The letter Richard spoke of was the smaller document that had been included with the other two sheets of parchment.

To Deare Son Richard

In my manner I writ you and my gud King Henry is dead, God rest his Soule. I too will soon take  leave of you. I gyve my guds and lands to you, deare son. In packet withe this is my treasure of stones from my father Geoffrey Moldar, God rest his Soule. When at a tender age in 1507 I tooke my dvffle to sea with my father Geoffrey Moldar, God rest his Soule, and my fellowes Chandler Garret and David Doyle of Manchester and Joshua Jacobs and the Travis brothers, Corey Travis and Nicholas Travis, God rest their Soules. All fyne freends to drinke and wench and makemerrie and set at meate with. We all became gud friends with the holystone and to scrvbe the decks. Our gud King Henry, God rest his Soule, charged us to sea for guds in the East with leaders Captaine Peter Alexander and Captaine Richard Cotton and Captaine Gregory Frederick, God rest their Soules. All ships in the flotilla of Admiral Samuel Leon, God rest his Soule. Diego Dias, the Portugee, fovnd the islande of Madagascar gud for lymes after much salmagundi in 1500. We did followe his rovte of traval around Africa and were blown southe to

unknown lande. My father Geoffrey Moldar, God rest his Soule, did go ashore in a smalle boate with five other stout men in the darke nighte on the unknown land of King Anikan and found his treasure of golde and great and valuable stones.

He returneth to the ship with his eye out and dreadfully wounde on his head and did hide up the stones in the hold and he did yeeld to death at dawn. He gyveth me his bootie and charged me home to England lest crewe gyve me the Black Spote and stealeth the treasure. My gud King is now dead, God rest his Soule. I go soon.

Your Father with Loving Affection,

Thomas Moldar

Earl of Hofley

Stratford-upon-Avon

In the yeare of our Lorde

1548

Thorne now knew where the necklace he’d found had originated. He revisited the question in his mind who the necklace belonged to, and who was working clandestinely with Freddie.

Normally, the legal owner of the castle, the Bada family—or Bada, Limited—owned what might be found within its walls. Then again, would the necklace ever have been found were it not for Freddie and his curious spirit? Upon Freddie’s death, should it go to Helena? That was Freddie’s desire. What about the partners of the original group that hired him; Bada, Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom? Should they share in the find?

What about the partners in the castle that night? It would appear those partners—whoever they were—should not be considered true partners, and were probably responsible for Freddie’s death. The conversation overheard by Thorne the second night at the castle seemed to indicate this might be the case.

It would be just a matter of time before Freddie died. Thorne felt he should make another visit to Freddie and try and find out who these partners were. He placed the packet with the necklace and the plastic inserts containing the original transcripts of the documents back in the manila envelope. He paused before putting Freddie’s letter back in the envelope. He decided he should keep it, closed the safe deposit box, and called for the attendant.

Chapter 50

When Thorne stepped off the elevator at Freddie’s floor, he knew immediately he was too late. Helena was in a corner crying uncontrollably and being comforted by a man and a woman.

The doctor was speaking to another group of four. One of the young women was sobbing and wiping her face with a handkerchief.

The doctor broke from the group and Thorne caught him as he headed back down the hall. “Pardon me, but I’m here to inquire about Mr. Frederick Hollister.”

The doctor stopped briefly and shook his head. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it. Fortunately, he was in no pain when he went. I’m sorry.”

Thorne found a chair in the corner. Helena saw him and went to him. She was still sobbing. “Freddie is—”

“I know, the doctor told me. I’m sorry to hear it. Freddie was a good man, an exceptional man.”

She stopped crying. “I knew it would happen all along, but when it does you—”

“Is there anything I can do, Helena?”

She was resolute. “I need to get the affairs of the bookstore in order and determine how Freddie would have wanted us to proceed.” She moved closer to him and said in a low voice, “If you could come by the store tomorrow morning, I’d like to talk to you about something very important. Around nine o’clock?”

“Of course. In the meantime can you ask the nurse to release Freddie’s medical information to me?”

Helena and Thorne went to the nurse’s station and she asked the nurse to release the information. She thanked Thorne again before returning to the man and woman she been talking to. A petite, efficient-looking woman in her fifties was summoned to the counter. “Yes? What can help you with, Sir?” She spent ten minutes describing the extent of Freddie’s  injuries and his condition before he died.

“Mr. Hollister said nothing before he died, except to inquire about his wife.”

As he went down on the elevator, he wondered what Helena Hollister wanted to talk to him about that was so important. With Freddie gone, she was the only person left in Stratford to whom he felt any obligation, as he could no longer help Gweneth.

At nine o’clock, the following morning Thorne went to Helena’s office in the bookstore. From the looks of the office, Helena had been there since early morning. The credenza was piled high with files and books. “Please sit down, David. I’m sorry, but the office is a mess. Freddie was great with customers and picking out books and all, but his organization of files and such was—”

Thorne asked, “What can I do to help you, Helena?”

“I remember you told me you were no longer working for Freddie’s group—Gil Bada and the others. I thought you might be able to work for me. What do you charge for your type of work?”

This was it, he thought. Now he was in danger of being totally immersed in the affair. There was no way out. “Don’t be concerned about that. I was Freddie’s friend, and I want you to think of me as yours, too. I don’t want any fee to help.”

“I’d feel better if you would—”

He shook his head. “No, I just wouldn’t feel right. Please tell me what kind of help you need.”

“Well,” she said haltingly, “I’ve been asked by Inspector Hammersmith if he could come by this morning. If you could stay until he comes, it would be helpful to me. I know he’s going to ask me a lot of questions and—”

“I’ll be glad to remain while you talk to him. Perhaps I can help.”

She gave a smile of relief. “Thank you.”

Chapter 51

Inspector Hammersmith was surprised to see Thorne when he entered the office. “I thought you had completed your work and was headed back to the U.S.?”

“I thought I might be of help to Helena. I’ve moved out of the manor house, and now I’m staying at the White Rose until I go back to London.”

Helena said, “I asked Mr. Thorne to come by. He was a good friend of Freddie and I thought he might help with the design of our living quarters in the castle. Regarding Freddie’s accident, I want to be as helpful as possible, but I don’t know what you need from me.”

“You might have information that did not seem important at the time. Did Mr. Hollister have visitors recently.”

“I don’t remember anyone out of the ordinary visiting him here. Of course, there was Mr. Thorne here, a publisher’s representatives, and a few friends came by from time to time.”

“Did he discuss the work at the castle with you?”

“No, except for where we were going to live in the castle, and about the new bookstore there—the layout of the store and all.  She smiled and nodded in the direction of Thorne. “He did mention Mr. Thorne and how helpful he’d been in explaining what they were doing.”

“I’ve spoken with a number of other people,” Hammersmith said. “They’re mostly merchants here in the center of town, including Mr. Linsdame. Some said he was being disloyal to the town by  directing tourists away from Stratford.

“Oh, that’s not so,” said Helena. “Freddie thought the addition to the castle would enhance the town’s business and bring even more people here. Freddie loved Stratford.”

Hammersmith didn’t respond to Helena’s passionate outburst, but studied his notes. He turned again to Thorne. “May I ask what your plans are, Sir.”

“I’ve agreed to help her— if she needs me.”

“Do you think it might be a bit—well—a bit sticky, working for Mrs. Hollister since you had been working as a consultant for Mr. Bada? Did you leave on good terms?”

Thorne attempted to direct the conversation away from the confrontation with the group. “Mr. Bada and his associates felt my services were no longer required and I agreed. It’s that simple. Mr. Bada and I are still good friends.”

Hammersmith’s brow wrinkled into a frown. “But still—” He put his notebook back in his pocket and said, ”Well, that’s for you and Mrs. Hollister to work out.”

Thorne said, “I’ll be glad to keep my eyes and ears open and let you know if I hear or see anything that might be helpful.”

Hammersmith smiled knowingly. “If you’re thinking of investigating Mr. Hollister’s death I would discourage you from doing so. We’re quite capable of doing that.”

“Well, as I have said, my main function would be in simply helping Mrs. Hollister as she needs me

“Good,” said Hammersmith. He tipped his hat to Helena. “Well, Mrs. Hollister, I’ll take my leave now. If either of you can think of anything that might be helpful, or that might relate to Mr. Hollister’s accident, please let me know.”

After Hammersmith left, Helena said, “Thank you for being here, David. It was not as bad as I thought it would be, but you were very helpful.”

She sat down at the desk and shuffled papers. “I may want to ask your opinion on things about the design of the bookstore—if we—if I—still move it over there. I know it was Freddie’s dream to have a bookstore—and a research center there. I don’t know now if I . . .”

She paused and went to the door, opened it, and looked out to see if there may have been listeners outside.

She closed the door behind her and dropped her voice. “David, I’m also concerned about something else—something I’ve been aware of for the past two months,” she said, just above a whisper. “It’s the financial condition of the store. I do have a couple of friends who have offered me advice on the subject, and possible assistance. I’m concerned more than ever now about Freddie’s accident. Inspector Hammersmith’s questions seemed to indicate it might not have been an accident. Do you think I might be in danger?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. You’re just imagining things.”

“I know the Inspector said you should stay out of it, but if you could help me. That is, finding out whether it was or wasn’t an accident, it would help ease my mind

Thorne said, “I’ll do what I can.”

Helena said, “Freddie didn’t discuss finances with me that much. It wasn’t his strong suit. You were Freddie’s friend. Did he ever give you any indication he might have been in financial trouble I might not know about?”

“No, he never mentioned anything to me. He didn’t discuss the business of the bookstore with me. I do know he had an interest of making more money, mostly for your security.”

She smiled sweetly and looked down at her large hands resting on the desk. “I don’t want to take undue advantage of our friendship, and I know you’re anxious to return to the States.”

“Don’t worry about that, Helena. I’ll see what I can find out.” He went to the door. “Are these friends of yours—these advisors, professional people or just friends?”

“They’re not really professional types—just friends that can help and I think I can trust.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement, “It’s good to have friends you can trust.”

Chapter 52

Thorne entered the castle from the north side, worked his way through the queen’s guards’ room and hurried up the long winding stairs of the queen’s Keep. At the top floor, he casually took out his note pad and began to write. The workmen at the castle appeared to be unaware Thorne was no longer involved in the job.

The stone masons working in the queen’s apartment had seen him often over the past month. They exchanged nods and smiles of recognition. He singled out an older man, the foreman of the stone masons, and said casually, “Looks like the work is progressing nicely.”

“Yes, Sir. We should be out within the month.”

Thorne continued in the same casual manner. “Good. How many men do you have working on pointing up the joints?”

“Oh, it varies. There’s around two dozen or so.”

Thorne abruptly changed the subject. “Oh, by the way, I heard there was an accident here. I was out for a while and didn’t find out about it until I returned. What happened?”

The foreman dropped his head. “Ah, bad business that. Someone up here must have accidentally knocked a stone off, and it caused a pallet to fall. I checked with all my lads here and none of them did it. It must have been one of the building inspectors. They was up here mucking about at the time.”

“How many were there? I mean, we’re supposed to monitor anyone not working on the job.”

“That’s true, Sir. The Clerk of Works was up here with them, so I thought it was O.K.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Thorne said. “He’s got to keep up with that sort of thing.” He went over to the wall and looked closely at new mortar in the joints. Nodding approvingly, he said, “Good work—good work. You have a good crew, Sir. Have you had all of them long?”

The foreman beamed and straightened perceptibly as Thorne called him Sir. “Thank you, Sir. We try to do quality work. All good lads. We’ve had most of them for up to ten years. Top men all.”

“They didn’t say they saw anything, did they? For example, like you said, could one of the visitors have accidentally kicked the stone over?”

The foreman stroked his chin, then called, “Hey, Pete, come here.”

A young muscular man walked over and looked quizzically at Thorne. “This is Pete,” said the foreman. “He’s one of our hod carriers. He mixes the mud and hauls the stone up for us.”

He turned to Pete. “You said something about warning one of those visitors about getting too close to the opening in the floor, didn’t you?”

“I did, Sir,” Pete said. “I told one of them blokes who was mucking about to be careful because we was about to pull up a pallet with bags of cement.”

“Cement bags only? No Stones?” Thorne asked.”

Pete shook his head. “Nope, just bags of cement We already had the stones up here..”

“What did he look like. Was he one of the town inspectors?”

“A short, wiry little fellow with a thin face. Had a town inspector’s nametag with ROBERTS or maybe ROGERS on it.”

Thorne asked, “Where was he when you heard the pallet fall?”

Pete said, “He was walking away from the opening. He must have been fifteen or twenty feet away.”

“What happened when you all heard the pallet fall?”

The foreman said, “Well, we all stopped what we was doing and ran over to have a look. “It was a proper mess down there. The bags had busted, and poor Mr. Hollister was lying under them.”

“Did this inspector, this Roberts, say anything?”

The foreman shrugged. “He came over and said we had a major safety hazard here, and he’d have to write it up. We never heard any more about it.”

Thorne asked the foreman, “Did you ever see Roberts up here at other times?”

Pete broke in. “I found him up here early that morning when I got here. That was the morning of the accident. Said he was checking on the stone wall anchors. I thought that was strange since we ain’t using no anchors on the job. We were just pointing up joints. I got busy, and when I looked again, he was gone.”

“What time do you usually come in?”

Pete said, “I usually get here around five-thirty. I’m supposed to be on the job at six, like the masons, but I want to have their mud ready when they get here, so I come in early.”

Thorne wrote in his notebook and asked, “So, you’re sure this building inspector, Roberts, was here when you arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you investigating this thing, too, Mr. Thorne?” the foreman asked.

“No, but since I was out of town at the time, I just need to be up-to-date when I discuss it with the Clerk of Works for his report.”

He put his notebook back in his pocket on his way to the stairway. “Well, I best be off, I have other things to do. Keep up the good work. That’s the best joint work I’ve seen.”

The foreman and Pete exchanged smiles, and the foreman said, “Well, thank you, Sir. It was good talking to you.”

Chapter 53

Thorne waited in the outer office of the Stratford police station. He knew he might be making a mistake by getting more deeply involved in Freddie’s death, but at this point, he felt he couldn’t escape the responsibility..

The dispatcher said, “I think the Inspector can see you now, Sir. His office is at the end of the hall.”

He went down a hallway to a door with the lettering DETECTIVE INSPECTOR COLIN J. HAMMERSMITH on the upper panel of obscure glass.

Hammersmith waved Thorne to a chair as he entered the small office. “Well, Mr. Thorne, I see you haven’t been able to book your flight. Maybe we can assist you.”

Thorne ignored the Inspector’s facetious remark. “Before I leave, I want to give you additional information you may not have. I was out at the castle picking up a few things before leaving and came across something that might be of use to you. I also have a suggestion.”

Hammersmith crossed his arms and said, “Let’s have the something first, then I’ll determine if I’m interested in the suggestion.”

Thorne told him of the conversation he’d had with the foreman and Pete that morning.

Hammersmith said, “I also spoke with the foreman immediately after the accident—Dickinson is his name, I think.” He opened a folder on his desk. “Yes, that was his name, and I don’t remember anyone named Pete. Dickinson didn’t say anything about a Pete and nothing about an inspector named Roberts or Rogers..”

“Maybe Pete told Dickinson about it after you had talked to him.”

“Could be, could be.” Hammersmith asked, “What about this suggestion?”

“Inspector, I know you’ve been in police work for many years. I’m sure all kinds of—”

Hammersmith was becoming impatient. “Please get on with it.”

“Perhaps this Roberts isn’t sure if Pete saw him kick the stone over the edge. If this Roberts thought Pete might have seen him, he may try to silence him.”

“Mr. Thorne, it appears you’ve been reading a lot of crime novels or watching a lot of detective shows on the telly. I see where you’re going with this. You want to offer Pete as “bait”, right?”

Thorne said, “Pete is usually the only one there early to start mixing mortar and setting up stone for the masons. He told his foreman and me he saw Roberts the morning of the accident. If you were to—”

Hammersmith steepled his hands and nodded. “This Roberts might not even work for the town. But, if I were to put out the word around town that there’s new evidence, or that Pete might know something, you think this Roberts might come back early in the morning to look for the evidence and wait around for Pete?”

“Yes, to search for overlooked evidence and to catch Pete alone. If we were to be there first and wait for Roberts—well, it might work.”

“Mr. Thorne, there are a lot of things that might work.” He  leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think we’ll need Pete there. But, let’s talk a little more about how me might flush out this Roberts—or whoever killed Freddie Hollister.”

Chapter 54

Hammersmith planted seemingly discreet information around Stratford about the upcoming investigation of Freddie’s accident. It soon became overt information about the strong possibility of new evidence at the castle. Hammersmith said there would be a meeting on Thursday afternoon at the queen’s Keep to determine what might have been the cause of the accident.

He suspected Roberts, or others responsible for Freddie’s death, would come to search for the so-called evidence—or to silence Pete—in the early morning hours prior to the meeting. He planned to wait with two assistants through Wednesday night and Thursday morning to catch the murderer. Thorne had requested to be present with them, and Hammersmith had relented.

Hammersmith and Thorne sat on cement bags behind a stack of lumber in the Queen’s apartment on the top floor of the Keep. A detective sergeant was positioned on the ground floor and a police constable on the floor just below the apartment. To keep in contact all three groups had walkie-talkies. Around four o’clock Hammersmith received a buzz on his walkie-talkie. The sergeant said, “There’s someone coming up the stairs. He’s just now on the second landing. “Shall I follow him?”

“No,” said Hammersmith. “Both of you stay put until I tell you different, but in no case allow him to leave the building.”

Roberts reached the top landing of the stairs and slowly opened the door to the queen’s apartment. He switched on a flashlight and walked to the center of the room. He stood listening for a moment before moving over to the now covered floor opening in the center of the room. He played his flashlight around the room and on the floor around the opening, bending over occasionally to examine the floor.

Hammersmith motioned for Thorne to cover the door to the stairs. Thorne moved stealthily toward the door and stepped on a small chunk of dried mortar.

Roberts’s flashlight swung immediately in the direction of the sound, catching Thorne in the beam of light. At the same time, Hammersmith’s flashlight came on, and he shone it directly in Roberts’s eyes.

“Drop the torch and don’t move,” demanded Hammersmith.

Roberts hesitated briefly before dropping the flashlight. “What’s this?” he asked. “I’m a town building inspector. Who are you, and what are you two doing here?”

“I’m Inspector Hammersmith of the Stratford Police Department, and I’ll ask the questions, Roberts. What are you doing here?”

“Like I said, I’m a town building inspector. There’s been a serious accident here. I’ve come to investigate. The town may want to file charges against the general contractor.”

Hammersmith sneered, “At four o’clock in the morning—in the dark? My, but aren’t we ambitious.”

Roberts stammered. “I—I say—what are you getting at? I just wanted to—to—investigate when there was no one here so as to—to—not arouse—not arouse suspicion with my investigation.”

“That’s enough, Roberts. We know you don’t work for the town. Maybe you should—”

Roberts looked around wildly as if he were seeking for an avenue of escape. “I—I don’t—”

Hammersmith grabbed him by his lapels and snapped, “It’s no use, Roberts, we know all about you. Tell us what happened.”

Roberts relaxed and said resignedly, “All right—all right. I’ll tell you what happened, but it’s not what it seems.” He reached for his wallet and produced a business card.

Hammersmith read the card; VICTOR ROBERTS, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.

“I’ve been hired to do a little surveillance for clients. I only met one, the other I spoke with over the telephone. Not too long ago, before the unfortunate accident, they requested things of me that I’m not usually involved in. They asked me to do a job here in the building.” He paused and ran his tongue across his lower lip.

“And that was?”

“They said they wanted to send a signal—a casual message.”

“A signal? What kind of signal?” Hammersmith asked.

“They wanted me to come up here and—and cause a pallet to fall to—to the floor down below. I don’t know what the purpose was.”

Hammersmith was furious. “You didn’t know what the purpose was! What the purpose was? Don’t give me that.”

“Well, they said they wanted to send a signal. I suppose it could have been a warning.” He shrugged, “But who knows. I didn’t want to get too involved.”

Hammersmith exploded. “Didn’t want to get involved! A man was killed, you idiot. You call that a warning?”

Roberts shrugged. “It was suggested I doctor up the rope—you know, cut it a little to weaken it. Then come up here and push off a few stones to make the load on pallet heavier.”

“And drop it on the man a hundred feet below!” Hammersmith retorted, his voice rising.

“Wait a minute—wait a minute,” protested Roberts. “Now—no one was supposed to be there. I suppose they—my client—clients—just wanted to show how dangerous it was. What could happen to them if they—if they—”

“Well, it appears there was someone down there. You’re telling me he just happened to walk under the—”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Roberts said excitedly. “That’s right. He must have just walked into it. I looked down. Before I nudged the stones onto the pallet, there was no one down there.”

Roberts put his hand over his face.“ And then I heard the man scream. Then I knew what had happened as everyone rushed over to look down. I felt terrible. I didn’t look, I—”

Hammersmith moved over close to the small man, not six inches from his face. “You’re holding out on us, Roberts. We want the name of who—”

Thorne could keep quiet no longer. “He’s lying, Inspector. He attacked me and he’s been trying to kill me, too—even while I was in Arizona.”

Roberts broke for the door, and Hammersmith reached for his walkie-talkie. “He’s coming down! Stop him, but be careful. He may be armed.”

Thorne moved to stop the fleeing Roberts, but the small man ducked under his outstretched arm and came up with his fist, catching Thorne on the shoulder. Thorne staggered backward, trying to keep on his balance as Roberts went through the door and down the stairs.

The constable on the floor below came out of the room onto the landing as the small man crashed into him, knocking him to the floor. Roberts continued his flight down the stairs and met the sergeant coming up just as he broke onto the top landing of the large eighty foot high space.

Roberts was still moving as he swung a clinched fist at the policeman. He missed and lost his balance, crashing against the temporary wooden guardrail on the outer side of the landing.

With a resounding crack, the wooden guardrail collapsed and fell over the side into the darkness. The sergeant frantically grasped at thin air as Roberts followed it over. Roberts and parts of the guardrail crashed to the floor eighty feet below.

Thorne joined the others as they looked over the landing and shone light on the crumpled form on the stone floor below.

Hammersmith was the first to speak. “Well, I guess that solves who killed Mr. Hollister. The man saved us a lot of paperwork and a trial. Now we have to find out who he was working for. I think we’re agreed Roberts was only the instrument.”

Chapter 55

Thorne put down the newspaper describing the previous night’s events. He didn’t like the thought of leaving England without knowing who else besides Roberts may have been involved in Freddie’s death. Although Helena had told him she was in financial trouble, she also said she had friends who were helping her. Still, he felt he would give her peace of mind with the disclosure of Roberts’s role in Freddie’s death.

Thorne went to the bookstore, planning to see Helena one last time before leaving Stratford. He smiled at the two women as he passed the checkout counter on the way to the office in the corner of the store. As he approached the closed office door, he heard voices coming from within. He went over behind a high bookshelf, picked up a magazine and sat in a chair to wait for the person to leave before seeing Helena.

The door was cracked, and he could hear their conversation. The first voice was that of Helena.

“But, aren’t you planning on getting married.”

“Helena, surely you know it’s always been you even when we were kids together in school. Now that Freddie’s gone—”

Thorne stood, stunned at what he was hearing. He moved closer to the door. Now he recognized the voice. It was one of the voices he’d heard that night before in the castle.

It was Neville Forestal!

It was now clear. Forestal had been one of Freddie’s partners in the search for the necklace. Freddie had given Forestal and the other unknown partner the second page. Now Forestal was ingratiating himself with Helena for additional information about the necklace.

“Neville, I appreciate you helping me get the line of credit for the store. It’s going to solve our problems, but—.

“Helena, you know I’ve always—the only reason I planned to marry Gweneth is because you were with Freddie and I—“

“Neville, when we were younger—before Freddie, I cared for you, but—”

“Oh, it makes no difference now, Helena. I’m fond of Gweneth, but I love you. Don’t you remember what we had years ago. You chose Freddie, and I’m sorry he’s gone, but—”

Thorne couldn’t believe his ears. What was going on here?

A chair scraped and Helena said, “Oh, I don’t know—”

Forestal changed direction in the conversation. “What did Freddie tell you about the—the new bookstore—and the castle addition? I could help you more if I knew. We could do so many things if I knew what Freddie’s plans were. I want to help you take over what Freddie was doing. Did he tell you anything?”

The realization of what Forestal was trying to do shocked Thorne. It was now coming clear to him. Evidently, Forestal and Helena had been romantically involved when both were younger.

Forestal was using their former relationship—before her marriage to Freddie—and pleasant memories to convince her he was willing to give up Gweneth in hope of reviving their romance.

If this was true, Forestal was giving up everything in Stratford—all for the necklace. It was also obvious, he had no long-term plans with Helena. It was all a ruse. He was now into pumping her for information about what Freddie had done with the necklace he had taken from the castle.

“Did Freddie ever tell you about things he may have found in the castle?” Forestal asked.

“What kind of things?” There was puzzlement in her voice.

“Oh, things he may have found that might be used in the new bookstore. Artifacts. Things like that—things of value.”

There was a silence, then she said, “No—no, I can’t think of anything like that. He never told me he’d found anything.”

Forestal was giving up. Freddie had told her nothing. His fake ardor cooled. After a long silence, he said, “Well, I have things I must do. I’ll meet you at the bank and sign as a reference for you, say around ten o’clock? Think about what I’ve said—will you. Try to remember—and please, don’t mention our conversation to anyone.”

“All right, and thank you, Neville. You’ve been a dear to do this for me.” She paused. “And Neville—I appreciate your interest in our—in our previous relationship, but I don’t feel the same way now.”

They were both silent for a while. She said, “Oh, I forgot. Mr. Thorne came by and looked at that painting we have at the front checkout counter. Is that of any help?”

There was silence before Forestal spoke. “What did he find?”

“He said it was just a note from Freddie. Something about construction—the addition. He didn’t seem to think it was too important.”

The door began to open, and Thorne ducked back behind the bookshelves. Forestal paused at the door before coming out.

“Helena, please don’t tell anyone about our conversation.”

After Forestal left, Thorne sat for a long time in his position behind the bookshelves. He’d been stunned by the conversation. He no longer had conflicting emotions about extracting himself from the situation. The complexities of the relationship of the people here in Stratford wasn’t what he wanted any part of. There wasn’t anything to be gained by talking to Helena.

He had been fired and shorted on his fee—his friend Freddie was dead—Helena no longer needed his help. He was worried about Gweneth but realized he could do nothing for the time being. He repeated over and over in his mind that he didn’t owe anybody anything. He was ready to take the necklace and leave. He would see that Helena got a share after he sold the necklace and that would be the end of it. He owed that much to Freddie. He knew he would also have to eventually tell Gweneth about Forestal.

Should he put a bug in Inspector Hammersmith’s ear about Forestal? No, he would have to explain about the necklace and he shouldn’t get any further involved. No one knew he had the necklace and Hammersmith would find out the other facts soon enough. After all, he had no proof Forestal was the one who ordered Freddie’s death. It was just an assumption. No, he would just cut his losses, let it lay and get out of here—and soon.

He realized he’d been all over the map with the emotional doubts—his guilt—his desire to remain true to Freddie’s memory and to be helpful to Helena and Gweneth. Now, he had made up his mind about the necklace.

He began to formulate a plan as to how he would proceed.

Chapter 56

Thorne went to the Beaton and Wicke bank and retrieved the packet with the necklace.. He left the letters in the safe deposit box, withdrew all of his funds on deposit, and changed them into Euros, Pound notes, and American Express Travelers Checks.

Back in his room at the White Rose, he repacked his luggage for the trip to Paris. He stuffed the packet with the necklace into an expandable file folder, and placed it into his laptop briefcase..

He flipped open his cell phone and called Tom Willis. They chatted briefly about Denver and England and how their respective jobs were going. Thorne told him his job in Stratford was finished, and he was leaving for Paris, keeping details to a minimum. He didn’t mention the death of Freddie, the firing, or finding the necklace. After more small talk, he got around to asking Willis for information. He knew Willis would not ask why he wanted the information.

“I need a contact in London. A fence in London or Paris who can provide a passport, driver’s license, and travel ID. That sort of thing.”

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” said Willis.

Thorne finished packing and was sitting on the edge of the bed when Willis called back.

“Dassin Stockton. Runs Stockton and Rohmer, Ltd., a photography studio in London near the Tower Bridge. From what I hear, he’s discreet, does excellent work, has a lot of contacts, and is expensive. Tell him you were referred by Mr. Mittelmeir of St. Paul, Minnesota. He’ll ask for the given name of Mittelmeir. Tell him it’s Helmut—Helmut Mittelmeir.” He gave Thorne the London address and phone number. “Let me know how things work out. Keep in touch.”

“Thanks. Let me know if I can return the favor,” Thorne said and hung up. He looked at his watch and decided it was too late in the day to drive to London and make connections with Stockton. He would drive down the following morning.

He dialed the telephone number given him by Tom Willis. A man answered the telephone. “Yes?”

“I’m David Riley. I was given your number by a Mr. Mittelmeir of St. Paul. I understand you take passport pictures.”

“St. Paul?”

“St. Paul, Minnesota.”

“Oh yes. How is Dietrich?”

Thorne played along with the qualifying procedure. “I don’t know Dietrich, but his brother Helmut is doing just fine.”

“All right, come by tomorrow around eleven. Bring cash—in pounds.”

“I’ll need to wait for the identification.”

“No problem. Be here at noon.” He repeated the address and hung up.

Now that Roberts was dead, he was sure Kelly, Forestal, and his partner would intensify their efforts to get the necklace and silence him. They would not give up shadowing him. They would follow him to London, and on to Dover where he planned to catch the ferry to Calais the next day.

Chapter 57

LONDON

Tuesday, December 21

10:45 AM

The following morning Thorne put maps and the packet with the necklace in a large expandable file folder and took them with him when he went down to breakfast. He studied the maps over breakfast and traced the route he would take to Paris.

Back in the room, he put the packet back in the laptop briefcase before carrying his luggage down to the Land Rover. As he left the hotel parking lot, he did not see the now familiar van fall in behind him. After he had driven a mile or so, he saw the van following about two hundred yards back. .He couldn’t make out who the two men in the van were, but he assumed they were Kelly and Forestal. He could not see anyone else in the van.

The van followed at a distance of a quarter of a mile or so. That was interesting. Why so much distance behind him?

He suddenly realized they had bugged the Land Rover, probably with one of those GPA devices that was transmitting his exact location. They could have planted the GPS device on the Land Rover while it was parked at the hotel the night before, or possibly earlier. They must be confident of his location as they kept a distance of ten to twelve cars from him throughout the trip to London. When an opportunity presented itself, he would look for the suspected transmitter on his Land Rover.

When Thorne arrived in London, he drove to the Tower Bridge and found the address given him by Dassin Stockton and the sign displaying STOCKTON & ROHMER, PHOTOGRAPHERS AND REPRODUCTIONS in the second floor windows. He didn’t see the van, but was sure they were close by.

He took his laptop briefcase with him as he went up to the narrow stairs to the office. Inside the large well-lit reception room, photographs of wedding parties and brides covered the walls. A door to the rear opened and a mild middle-aged woman in a long black rubber apron and straight hair the color of dried grass appeared. She smiled and the corners of her calm blue eyes crinkled into crow’s feet behind rimless glasses. She had a pleasant voice that would have coaxed relaxation from any subject being photographed. “Hello? May I help you?”

“I’m David Riley. I have an appointment with Mr. Stockton.”

She pressed the intercom button on the desk. “Mr. Riley is here.” She smiled again, and went back through the rear door.

After a short interval, a gruff voice came over the intercom. “Come in, Riley.”

Stockton was a portly red-faced man with an unpleasant smirk on his fat lips. He didn’t rise or offer his hand as Thorne entered. “What is it you need?” he asked abruptly and popped a chocolate bonbon into his mouth.

“You’ll recall Mr. Mittelmeir of St. Paul, Minnesota referred me to you. I need a passport, license, pocket litter, and—”

“Where do you want to go?”

“France—Paris. Then back to London, and then to New York. I’ll also need the name of a contact in Paris who deals in gold coins, expensive antique jewelry, and crystal—that sort of thing.”

“That’ll be a thousand pounds, and two hundred extra for a Paris contact. I’ll contact him and say you’re coming”

Thorne reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a book of traveler’s checks, and placed it on the desk and reached for a pen.”

“Cash—in pound notes,” said Stockton as he examined another bonbon.

Thorne withdrew his wallet, counted out twelve one-hundred pound notes, and pushed them across to Stockton.

The round man leaned forward with effort and picked up the money. He pressed a button on the intercom. “Adele, come in.” He continued staring at Thorne as they waited, his fat lips moving as he enjoyed another mouthful of chocolates.

Adele came into the office wiping her hands on a towel.

“Take Mr. Riley back and take his picture. Then give him the usual ID—passport, pocket litter, etcetera.”

Thorne followed Adele to a small room off the lobby where she photographed him and searched through a file cabinet for various documents. He waited in the reception room while she printed the photographs and put the identification and papers together in a packet. She carefully inserted the photograph onto the passport, stamped it, and handed him the packet of documents.

Thorne went back into Stockton’s office and Stockton handed him a card. “That’s my partner, Marcel Rohmer, in Paris,” Stockton said. “He can give you the name of a buyer for your what-ever-it-is you have for sale. I don’t need to know—I don’t want to know.”

He popped another chocolate bonbon in his mouth, swiveled his chair around, and looked out the window. “Remember, you weren’t here.”

Thorne slipped the business card in his shirt pocket and followed Adele to the outer office. Holding out his hand, he smiled. “Thank you ma’am, the work you did was not just good, it was exceptional. I enjoy seeing a true artist at work.”

Adele blushed and said softly, “Well, Thank you much, Sir. It’s nice to work with a gentleman who appreciates what I do. I wish you the best of luck.”

Thorne descended the stairs, went out onto the sidewalk, and looked around for the van.

It was nowhere in sight, but he suspected it was close by. He paid no attention to the two men across the street with their backs to him, leaning on a gray Nissan. As he pulled out into the traffic, the two men got into the car and followed him to the Dover ferry terminal.

Thorne glanced in his rear view mirror as he handed the ferry conductor his ticket. The van remained in the queue six cars back and followed him onto the ferry. He could now see the driver was Kelly, but couldn’t make out the other man in the van, but he assumed it must be Forestal. His attention was fixed on the van, and he gave little notice to two men in the gray Nissan parked in the next row, their faces obscured behind newspapers, The large engines churned furiously as the ferry worked its way out into the channel. Thorne relaxed, read the map of northern France and made notes during the crossing

PART 4

Chapter 58

FRANCE

Tuesday, December 21

4:30 PM

The Land Rover was jolted as the ferry moved into its slot at the dock in Calais. The lorries were directed to a covered shed, and the remaining traffic pulled straight ahead to a custom booth at the head of their line.

Thorne showed his new passport and ID and asked the attendant the best way to get to Dunkerque. He eased onto the main highway, making sure the van was within sight. At Dunkerque, he turned southeast, hoping the van would assume he was headed to Antwerp via the longer but more traveled route. He saw them and sped up, hoping to put distance between himself and the van on the crowded highway.

As he passed the Antwerp and Lille intersection, he had the option of heading north to Antwerp or south to Lille and then on to Paris. He quickly pulled off the motorway at a truck stop and drove to the rear and the cover of the building. He got out quickly and asked a waiting truck driver which truck might be going to Antwerp or Brussels.

The truck driver pointed to a truck with the lettering on its trailer reading TRANSPORT HOLLAND-FRANCE. “That truck travels between the two cities, but I don’t know which way it’s going this time.”

When the driver left, Thorne opened the door to the cab and looking at the manifest. It read LYON TO BRUSSELS. Satisfied the truck was going to Brussels, and not to Paris, he rushed back and crawled under the Land Rover. He quickly found the GPS transmitter attached to the frame of his Land Rover with a strong magnet. He easily detached it, and placed it under the frame of the truck.

He pulled the Land Rover out of sight behind a line of parked trucks at the rear of the property, and waited for the van to get closer. As he waited, he opened his laptop and made room reservations for the night at La Chateau Rameau, a small hotel off the Boulevard Périphérique, a main highway north of Paris. He calculated he had put about two kilometers between himself and the van after they came off the ferry. They would be content to follow the GPS transmitter and receiver link instead of following by sight.

A few  minutes later, the TRANSPORT HOLLAND-FRANCE truck pulled out. Thorne continued to wait another ten minutes before driving to the side of the building.

He took a pair of small binoculars from his briefcase and glassed the parking lot in front of the station. There was no sign of the van, only three vehicles, and a small truck with a Belgium license tag, a brown Peugeot with a French tag, and a gray Nissan with a British tag. The Peugeot and the Nissan were parked with their backs to him and there were three men in the brown Peugeot. There was none in the Nissan or the truck. He wrote the numbers of the license tags of the three vehicles in his notebook and gave one last look before retracing his route back behind the station. He searched the lot behind the station. There were no cars, only trucks at the rear of the building. He left the station by the way he’d entered, watching closely to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Satisfied the van would be following the truck and transmitter on its way to Brussels, Thorne headed back in the direction of Dunkerque. As Thorne’s Land Rover pulled out of the service station, the brown Peugeot followed and kept a safe distance between the two vehicles.

Kelly was driving the van and Forestal sat in the passenger’s seat. Their eyes were glued on the receiver screen and they failed to see Thorne’s Land Rover clustered in a long line of cars on the opposite side of the roadway

Forestal said, “Look at the screen of the receiver. It looks like he’s on his way to Antwerp.”

Kelly looked at Forestal. “We’re dealing with a smart cookie here. You don’t think I’d rely on only one transmitter do you? Sure, he thinks we’re in the dark now, but he quit looking after he found the first GPS transmitter.

“The first GPS transmitter is on that lorry that just passed on its way to Brussels. The second and most important one is in his laptop briefcase. I had a man go into his hotel room in Stratford on the morning he was at breakfast, and glue it under the cover of his laptop carrying case. It’s one of these tiny, very high-tech GPS transmitters—nanotechnology or some such thing. Clever, what? Of course, I never told my man about the necklace, for obvious reasons.”

He looked down at a map on the other receiver screen. “From the looks on this second screen, the second transmitter shows he’s headed back to Dunkerque. We just missed getting a visual on him. We should be on our way.”

As Kelly pulled the van back on the motorway, Forestal glanced at the map overlay on the receiver screen. “Wait a minute, it looks like he’s turned off and heading south. My guess is Paris.”

Chapter 59

PARIS

Tuesday, December 21

6:45 PM

As Thorne drove slowly into the outskirts of Paris it began to rain. It was getting dark when he stopped and waited in the parking lot in front of the La Chateau Rameau Hotel where he had reservations for the night. None of the cars stopped or turned around, and he didn’t recognize any of the cars as they passed.

A kilometer back, the van pulled off the highway and into a parking lot when the map on the GPS receiver screen showed the Land Rover had stopped.

Forestal said with annoyance, “Kelly, get rid of that first receiver. It’s of no use to us now, and it’s just confusing. Show me how to work that second receiver, the one that’s receiving a signal from his lap top.”

He flipped open his cell phone and spoke into it. “Thorne’s stopped at a hotel north of Paris. It looks like we’re going to have to spend the night here and catch him in Paris. We assume he has what we’re after. We’ll get him when he stops to make contact with the fence, or sooner if we can get him alone.”

Thorne spent the night in the hotel, and the following morning he placed the necklace packet into a slot in the laptop case and double-zipped the compartment shut. He checked the clip in the Glock before putting it in his shoulder holster.

The Peugeot waiting across the road at the rear of a restaurant, pulled out and followed him as he drove the Land Rover out onto the roadway.

A kilometer back down the roadway, the van spent the night parked off the shoulder of the roadway. Kelly was awakened by Forestal. “Let’s go, he’s up and moving.” Forestal said wearily, “I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my entire life. I need a bed and a bath. Try to keep close contact. We don’t want to depend fully on that second transmitter. In fact, we agreed to get rid of this van.. Did you do what we discussed last night?”

“Don’t worry,” Kelly said. “Like I said, I’ve already taken care of it. I called my contact last night and he gave me the name of a driver in Paris. Her name is Nan D’Autry. She’s a young bird, but a first class driver. Speaks a little English and knows Paris like the back of her hand. From what I hear, she’s worked on a lot of high-profile jobs around Paris, but she’s clean, never done time, never even been charged.”

“Wait a minute. We don’t want anyone involved with—”

“No—no—like I just said, she doesn’t have a record. She’s just a driver. I called and offered her ten-thousand Euros as we discussed. She’ll be meeting us with a white Volvo SUV at the large Horvalt Elf petrol station. The station is just before we get to Boulevard Périphérique.

“She’s a tall redhead, and she’ll be wearing a red jacket. She’ll be a great help, even though she’s expensive, but we need a new vehicle—so—”

Forestal said, “Well, maybe you’re right. We’re both easily recognizable to Thorne.”

Kelly said. “I’ll just pull up the map on the Paris screen, and we’ll always have a fifteen kilometer range on the receiver, so, it shouldn’t be hard to keep track of the Land Rover.”

When the van reached the Elf station, a new white Volvo SUV was parked by the side of the building. A tall red-head in a short Bolero-style red leather jacket leaned against the driver’s door, smoking a cigarette. She had a thin, angular build, and was just under six feet tall. A black beret covered the top of the shoulder-length red hair. Her heavy-lidded, large green eyes were set in a long hard face. She had smooth, easy movements and was attractive in an exotic sort of way.

Kelly parked next to the Volvo, and both men quickly moved the receiver and their bags from the van to the SUV. D’Autry crushed out the cigarette with the heel of her boot and climbed in behind the wheel.

Kelly was sitting in the front seat with her, holding the receiver. “We’re following a dark green Land Rover with GB plates. We don’t have a clue what he’s got in mind. All we know is we have him on our GPS receiver, and the map here on the screen will tell us where he is. I’ll just have to tell you as we go, okay? We had better be on our way, we only have a fifteen kilometer range.”

She turned to Kelly and said in English with a French accent, “Last night you said you would pay to me ten-thousand Euros. I like to have the half now.” Forestal handed a sheaf of bills over D’Autry’s shoulder.  She examined the bills before putting them in the inside pockets of her jacket. “We are fine. I am ready. Now, where do we go?” she asked as she turned on the ignition.

Chapter 60

Thorne continued through the outskirts of Paris before pulling into a hotel parking lot. He waited in a far corner to see if he was being followed. Two cars pulled into the lot in the next five minutes, a silver Citroën with two women passengers and a black Renault with a family of five. With a sigh he put the Land Rover into gear, and worked his way back onto the road that would eventually put him into the center of Paris. As he inched along he began to wonder if his paranoia at being followed had been justified. He hadn’t seen the van, nor been able to determine whether he was being followed by any other vehicles.

The brown Peugeot followed at a safe distance. The driver spoke to the two passengers in English before flipping open a cell phone and speaking in French, “This is Inspector Andre’ Trudeau, of Europol, Code RT365. It is nine-twenty AM. Our man has just crossed Boulevard Périphérique and is driving south in a dark green Land Rover. British license plate number GB BDC545 STMB. If our information is correct, he plans to turn onto Rue La Fayette and go to the Stockton-Rohmer studio on 1534A Rue de Château dun. Notify INTERPOL and Europol headquarters in Lyon and Paris to keep in close contact with Monsieur Jacques Cravelle of INTERPOL at Stockton-Rohmer. We are following him by sight only and we are driving a brown Peugeot sedan with the standard sticker in the windows. Do not detain Thorne at this time. We want to follow him to his next stop after he leaves the studio. He is traveling under the name David Riley.”

Thorne followed his map to the address on Rue de Château dun given him by Stockton and parked a block away. He waited and looked behind him to see if he’d been followed. The Peugeot had turned off the main road and came in from a different direction, parking on a side street with a view of the studio. He walked a block to the studio that bore the letters STOCKTON-ROHMER, REPRODUCTION PHOTOGRAPHIQUE, PASSEPORT on the window

Forestal monitored Thorne’s route and directed D’Autry to park the Volvo SUV two blocks back on Rue de Château dun. They waited, keeping the Land Rover’s location in sight as well as on the screen of the receiver.

“Now what?” she asked

“Let’s hold here for just a bit,” Forestal said. “Let’s see what he’s going to do. None of us can follow him into the shop. He’d recognize any one of us except you, and you have to drive.” He paused to think and then said, “Okay, once he’s inside, drive by and let’s get a name and address of the shop.”

The Volvo slowed as it passed the shop. “I know those people,” Kelly said. “Dassin Stockton has his operation in London. Furnishes phony passports and other types of identification. Rohmer’s his Paris partner. Thorne’s probably getting the name of a fence name from Rohmer.”

Forestal said “Drive around the block and park on a side street. Kelly, you go into the shop and talk to Rohmer after Thorne comes out. Convince Rohmer to tell you where he sent Thorne. Rohmer’s in the same business as Stockton, so it’s fairly certain he speaks English. We’ll follow the Land Rover when he comes out. You can relay the information to us on your cell phone—that is if you can convince him where he sent Thorne. We’ll pick you up later “

Kelly gave a yellow-toothed grin at the prospect. “Don’t worry, I’ll convince him.”

Inside the shop, Thorne approached the older man sitting at a desk behind a low rail. “Is Monsieur Rohmer in?”

The dour old man replied in broken English, “For what you want to see him?”

“I was sent by Mr. Stockton in London. Monsieur Rohmer is expecting me. My name is David Riley.”

The man picked up a phone, pushed a button and spoke in French.

As he waited, Thorne looked around the reception room. It wasn’t much different from Stockton’s office, with numerous pictures of wedding pictures and family groups covering the walls. The main difference was the old sourpuss at the front desk. He was no Adele.

A small, compact man in a white shirt and conservative tie emerged from a hallway and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Riley, I am Marcel Rohmer. Dassin said you would be coming.”

His English was precise with just a hint of a French accent. “Please come on back.” Thorne followed him to his office and was directed to a chair facing the desk. “Dassin tells me you need a contact who deals in gold coins, antique jewelry and crystal.”

“Yes.”

“I have an excellent contact that may be of assistance. He is very discreet and can handle large transactions. How large of a transaction were you thinking of?”

“Perhaps I should discuss that with him,” Thorne said. “I can tell you it’ll be well over seven figures—in pounds.”

The man across the desk shrugged. “His name is Henri Delain, and he does speak English.” He wrote the address and phone number on a slip of paper and pushed it across the desk. “I will call and tell him you will be in contact. His office is near Place de la Concorde, close by the east end termination of the Champs-Elysées. Unless you are familiar with Paris, I suggest you avoid Place de la Concorde. It can be quite congested at times. Many Parisians think of it as a race track.”

Thorne looked at the address on the slip of paper handed him. “Which side of the river is this?”

“Rive Gauche, the Left Bank—on Boulevard Saint-Germaine.  I’m sure Dassin told you we prefer not to have our names revealed to anyone other than the contact. Dassin has already told me you have paid him in full.” He stood, went to the door and held it open. “Our business is done here. Remember you were never here.”

Back on the street, Thorne looked around and made a mental note of the cars in hopes of noticing those that might start up when he drove off. He started the Land Rover and eased slowly into the traffic. He saw no one following as he made his way to Place de la Concorde..

Rohmer dialed his cell phone and said, “Officer Trudeau, this is Cravelle with INTERPOL. Riley just left my office. I have directed him to Henri Delain on Boulevard Saint-Germaine. You have Delain’s address so stay with him and I’ll alert your Lyon and Paris offices. I will meet you on the street in front of Delain’s office building and we can wait there. I will be in a black Renault with the standard insignia on the rear window.”

Trudeau turned to the other passengers in the car. “He is moving. We are getting close to wrapping this thing up. It looks like we will get all our targets.” He put the Peugeot into gear and moved closer as he followed the Land Rover.

Chapter 61

After Thorne left the studio , the Volvo dropped Kelly off and followed the Land Rover. Inside the shop, Kelly received the same unfriendly welcome Thorne had received from the sour old man. Kelly asked to speak with Rohmer, and when Cravelle appeared, Kelly said, “I’m from London. Mr. Stockton’s office in London sent me. Is there an office where we can speak in private?”

Cravelle directed him to his office, and after he closed the door behind them said, “What can I do for you, Sir?”

“I’m certain you can do a lot for me, Mr. Rohmer, it appears you had another gentleman just here, and you directed him to another fence. I assume that since you’re in the same business as Mr. Stockton, you don’t deal in things that the gentleman wanted. Am I right?”

Without waiting for a reply, Kelly said, “Of course I’m right. Now, I know you have names of people who deal in various things for sale. What I need is the address and name of the man you sent that last man to. Of course, I prefer you give it to me without any problems for yourself

—if you know what I mean.”

Kelly leaned back, smiled broadly and waited.

A slight smile appeared on the face of Cravelle. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said and reached over and pressed the button on the phone three times. Turning back to Kelly, he said slowly, “Of course you must know I cannot do anything for you. I have no idea what you are talking about. Now if you will just—”

Kelly stood, a contorted grin on his red face, and rotated his shoulders back and forth. “Oh, I think you know what I’m talking about. Now, it looks like you need a bit of convincing.”

He started around the desk and was interrupted as the door opened and Sour Puss stood in the doorway. His left hand was palm up at his waist, the butt of an automatic pistol resting comfortably in it as his right hand held it steady.

“Please to put hands on table,” he said with authority. A tall burly man stood silently behind him. Sour Puss moved to a far wall and flipped the barrel of the pistol up sharply. “Now, hands above head,” he said, and the tall burly man went through his pockets. Both men followed him out of the office and down the narrow hall to a storeroom.

After Kelly had been removed, Cravelle picked up the phone and dialed a number. “This is Officer Cravelle. Have the Paris office send the Renault and two agents over for me as soon as possible, and notify Lyon to call INTERPOL’s Paris office and clear this with the police. Contact Officer Trudeau of Europol and tell him we have one of the people who was following David Thorne. Thorne is now traveling under the name David Riley. I sent him to the office of Henri Delain on Saint-Germain and we will follow him there.

“We will keep Kelly here for a short time and then allow him to escape on his way to the police station. Otherwise, our operation here could be compromised. The information that I am not Rohmer may get back to Stockton. In the future, we will need Stockton to think Rohmer is still working with him and running things here.

“I will meet Trudeau at Delain’s address. However, I do not think Delain can handle a transaction this large so he will probably broker the deal and find another fence, hopefully the man we have been looking for. Make sure no one apprehends  Delain and Thorne, but keep them under close surveillance. I think they will lead us to our man.

Chapter 62

Thorne looked at the map and decided he had no choice but to go through Place de la Concorde. He had been lost on earlier visits in Paris while trying shortcuts on winding streets with obscure names. At least on the busy Place de la Concorde he would know where he was. As he entered the large oval, he realized what Rohmer had said about Parisians thinking of Place de la Concorde as a racetrack. The pre-Christmas traffic only intensified the experience.

He remembered to stay in the right lane of the eight lane oval to make an easy exit. He crossed the Pont de la Concorde bridge at the south end of the square and turned left onto Boulevard Saint-Germain. He found the building housing Delain’s office,  parked across the street, and called the phone number Rohmer had given him.

A woman’s sweet voice answered, “Bonjour, Delain Importateur et Exportateur.”

Thorne said, “Monsieur Delain, s’il vou plait.”

A soft, almost feminine voice came on the line. “Allo?”

“Hello, Mr. Delain, this is David Riley. I believe Mr. Rohmer told you I would be calling. I have an item I’d like to talk about with you.”

“Of course. Did you speak to Girard about what it was?”

Thorne laughed. “Excuse me, but I find your process a little amusing. Do all of you go through these verbal gymnastics when you meet someone new?”

“What do you mean? I am sorry, but I do not think I understand—”

“His name is Marcel—Marcel Rohmer, not Girard.”

“Of course, we just have to qualify our . . .”

“When can you meet me and have a look at the goods?”

“What kind of goods?”

“Antique jewelry. Rare. Historical.”

“Size?”

“Pink and white diamonds. Unknown sizes. I’m not a jeweler. Maybe three hundred total carats, maybe more, set in an antique gold necklace.”

Delain paused before asking, “How much?”

“I’m sure all of the goods would appraise at well over eight figures in pounds. My price is five million.”

There was silence as Delain gathered his composure. Then he said slowly, “I am sorry Mr. Riley, but I think I will need to have another party involved in a purchase of this size. Also, I do not think we should discuss this further on the telephone. You should bring the goods up to my office where I might examine them more closely.”

Thorne became more assertive. “No, I’ll want to meet in a public place. I’ve made reservations at Le Claridge on the Champs-Elysées. I can meet you in the lobby at six o’clock.” He looked at his watch. “That’s about five hours from now. How can I identify you?”

“The time and place is agreeable, Mr. Riley. I have short black hair, I am about five foot six and slender. I will be wearing a double-breasted navy chalk-stripe suit and a solid pink tie. How will I identify you?”

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Delain, I’ll find you. Just come to the front desk and ask for the manager. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“I do not wish to be difficult, Mr. Riley, but I do not think it wise to have too many others involved in the . . .”

“Don’t worry, you’ll only deal with me. If it becomes necessary, I’ll just tell the manager we’re discussing a real estate transaction. You will not have to give your name.”

After a pause, Delain said, “That will be fine. We will see you at six in the lobby of Le Claridge.”

“Bring cash. I prefer hundreds and fifties—in pounds—no Euros. Nothing larger than one-hundred pound notes.”

“That may be difficult, Mr. Riley, it is already past noon. My contact can be there even though he is out of the country. It may take him two or three hours to get there.”

“If you and your associate feel you’re interested in the price range, I’m sure you both can secure the cash. If you can’t, there’s no point in coming, is there? I’ll just make other arrangements.”

Chapter 63

Thorne closed the cover on his cell phone and sat quietly in the Land Rover, staring into the distance. His shoulders sagged. He was tiring of the deception, the constant stress of being on the lookout for a tail; the stress of knowing he had an irreplaceable piece of history in his briefcase. He knew if the two were qualified in judging the value of the historic necklace, the five million pounds would not be considered an obstacle.

Would it all be over after he met with Delain and his money man this evening?

In the back of his mind, he again questioned if he was doing the right thing? The way the clients had unfairly fired him without letting him finish his search? Their only interest was in proving Shakespeare wasn’t who everyone thought he was. He couldn’t have cared less if the Stratford man or de Vere wrote the works.

And what about Gweneth Bada? He had never had a real sister—or daughter—and felt a responsibility for her—as he had for Freddie. She had chosen Neville Forestal to marry and now he was genuinely concerned for her. He felt he had to warn her about Forestal—but how? He realized this was a loose end he would eventually have to address.

He had come to realize Forestal was involved with his unknown partner and Roberts in Freddie’s murder. Then there was his deception of Freddie’s widow, Helena. The man didn’t care for either of the women, he was in it for the money. Why could Gweneth not see he was a man not worthy of her—or any woman?

These thoughts swirled around in his head and confused him. He was in danger of losing control. No, he had lost control. He was becoming a man without character or morality. Any integrity he had once had was now in critical territory, and he was now a common thief. He shook his head as if he were trying to shake away the unpleasant thoughts.

I need a break.. I need to stop thinking about this.

He unzipped the laptop briefcase and took out the necklace packet. He shoved it under his jacket and climbed out of the Land Rover. He reached back into the passenger’s seat, grabbed his coat and quickly put it on. He tied the belt tightly around the Burberry to keep the packet from falling out and walked quickly to the sidewalk. Once on the sidewalk, he forced himself to slow to a casual stroll. He wished he could relax and enjoy the warm Parisian sun.

He walked half a block, entered a small park off the crowded boulevard, and saw an empty park bench in a back corner. An old man and woman in dirty clothes and rubber sandals were holding onto a shopping cart piled high with paper sacks and dirty clothing. They were engaged in a violent argument, but stopped talking as he approached. They smiled nervously at him and pulled their shopping carts closer. After he passed, they continued their argument.

A seriously overweight young woman sat quietly on a low wall in the opposite side of the park, sharing scraps of bread with pigeons. She took a bite of bread and tossed crumbs to the birds gathered at her feet.

A middle-aged man in a suit sat staring into space, his briefcase open beside him. A lost job? A failed marriage? Maybe a salesman relaxing between appointments. Maybe nothing.

Thorne realized there were so many people, isolated human beings, involved in living out their lives oblivious to others. Everyone had problems—problems that were theirs alone—separating them from the outside world. His problem was having a historic item worth millions of dollars—and it didn’t belong to him.

His problem back in Chicago, years ago, was partially his own doing, A lapse in judgment by trusting a client had cost him his architectural practice—and eventually, his marriage. He knew bad things happen to everyone at one time or the other. The secret is how one confronts adversity.

His thoughts were interrupted by a noisy group of young children running in circles at their game of tag on the sidewalk. Their parents trudged along in front of them, their arms loaded with Christmas packages. The children passed an older woman who had bent over to insert a coin in a newsstand machine. In the process, she dropped a few coins and a few rolled into the gutter. Unaware she’d dropped the coins, she crept down the sidewalk, her eyes glued on her newspaper.

A little boy of seven or eight saw the coins roll into the gutter and immediately ran to retrieve them. He scooped them up, ran after the old woman and extended his hand with the coins. She accepted the coins and smiled warmly at the young boy. He immediately ran back and resumed the game of tag with the other children.

Thorne remembered when he was that young boy about the same age and had found a wallet with money in it. He hadn’t thought twice about keeping the wallet, but returned it immediately to the grateful man who had dropped it.

As the noisy group passed out of sight, he was lost in thought as he continued to stare in their direction—remembering.

Chapter 64

Officer Cravelle parked his car and joined Officer Trudeau, and the other two passengers in the Peugeot, as they watched Thorne across the street in the park “What is he doing?” asked Cravelle, puzzled at the inaction of Thorne.

Trudeau shrugged and said, “I have no idea. He has been sitting there for over two hours. Evidently, he did not go to see Delain, and Delain did not come down to meet him. It appears they have something else in mind. We will just have to keep close surveillance on both of them. We have no idea where he will end up for the night, but we need to stay close. I have called to keep track of Delain and they will keep us apprised on his movements.”

They watched as Thorne returned to the Land Rover and slipped something back into the laptop briefcase. As he drove off, the Peugeot followed close behind. When Trudeau saw the Land Rover pull into the covered entry of the Le Claridge Hotel, he removed an electronic address book from his jacket pocket and pressed a series of buttons.

The polite feminine voice answered, “Bonjour, Hotel Le Claridge.”

In French, Trudeau said, “I need to speak with the manager immediately. Police business.”

After a short pause the voice of a cultured man answered in French. “Bonjour, this is Louis Reton. I am the manager. How might I help you?”

“This is Inspector Andre’ Trudeau from Europol. I am being accompanied by Monsieur Jacques Cravelle, Criminal Investigations Officer of INTERPOL. We wish to see you immediately—in private. We need to see you because you have—or will have shortly—a guest by the name of David Riley registering at your hotel. Please delay his checking in and tell him you have to make up a room. We need for you to provide him a room with a door to an adjoining room that is presently unoccupied. We need access to that vacant room before he occupies his room. The door lock on his side needs to be disabled as soon as possible.”

Reton said, “I’ll contact my maintenance man and we’ll see to it as soon as possible.”

Trudeau said, “I realize this is short notice, but time is of the essence here. We are familiar with Le Claridge and will enter through the kitchen. Can you meet us there immediately?”

“Oui, Monsieur Trudeau,” said the manager. “We will cooperate and do whatever you feel is necessary.”

Trudeau led the other three men through the rear door of the kitchen.. Trudeau and Cravelle displayed their identification and followed Reton to a large freight elevator. The group got off on the third floor and went immediately to a door halfway down the long hallway. The maintenance man unlocked a door, handed them the key. The manager returned to the lobby after giving the maintenance man instructions on disabling the door between the two rooms.

Cravelle left a miniature microphone and remote transmitter on the back of the television cable box in the room to be occupied by Thorne. He returned to the vacant room and adjusted the volume on the small receiver he held in the palm of his hand. Trudeau locked the door on their side, and the four men settled in and waited.

Chapter 65

Thorne arrived mid-afternoon at Le Claridge, and left the keys for the Land Rover with the parking valet. He carried the laptop briefcase with him to the front desk, registered, and asked to speak to the manager.

The desk clerk said, “We are still making up your room. If you could wait a few minutes the manager, will be available,” Thorne left his luggage with the bellman and took his laptop briefcase with him to a chair where he could wait for the manager.

Ten minutes later the manager emerged from an elevator and went behind the reception desk. The young receptionist motioned in the direction of Thorne.

The manager came from behind the desk and extended his hand. “Bonjour, Monsieur Riley. We see you have registered and hope you will have a pleasant stay with us. How may I be of service?”

Thorne was concerned for his safety if left alone in his room with Delain and his partner. “Can we speak in private?”

“Of course. Please follow me to my office.”

Once inside the office, Thorne set the laptop briefcase on the floor next to his chair and sat down. “I plan to meet business associates at six o’clock today here in the lobby. We’ll be going up to my room for a confidential discussion, and I’d like a couple of your husky young bellmen to follow us up later and wait in the hallway outside the door during the meeting. We may need them to go down and unload heavy boxes out of our car and bring it up to the room. Naturally, we don’t wish to leave the discussions. I fully understand it’ll take these young men away from their other duties so I’ll pay them for their time and trouble.

“Now, I don’t wish to be overly dramatic, but one of the men I’ll be meeting with is cautious. He doesn’t like other people around or involved when he discusses business. If you could tell the two young men to be discreet and not come up until we’ve been in the room for a few minutes.”

“I fully understand. We will be pleased to assist you, Mr. Riley. I will personally see you have two of our best.”

Thorne was followed to the elevator by a bellman with his luggage. Once inside the room, Thorne dismissed the bellman and removed the laptop and the necklace packet from the briefcase. He lifted a cushion on a chair in the corner and stuffed the packet into the crevice of the seat of the chair. He returned the cushion and placed his open laptop briefcase on the chair to discourage anyone from sitting in the chair..

He took off his boots and  jacket, loosened his tie, and slipped off his shoulder holster. He called the front desk, asking to be called at five o’clock, before collapsing on the bed and drifting off to sleep.

Chapter 66

Forestal had continued monitoring the movements of Thorne’s Land Rover on the GPS receiver screen as it went back across the bridge in the direction of Place de la Concorde. Thorne’s Land Rover turned west on Voie George Pompidou and the Volvo followed at a safe distance, The Land Rover turned north on Av Marceau and headed in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. At the circular roadway at the Arc, the Land Rover turned back east on the Champs-Elysées.

Forestal said, “He’s going in circles. Get closer to him, he won’t recognize the Volvo. We’re in a bit of a quandary here, D’Autry. If Thorne’s going to meet someone, we have no idea where he’s going to meet them; when he’s going to meet them; or where he’s going to spend the night.”

He looked down at the map on the screen of the receiver. “Fortunately, we have the transmitter secreted in the laptop’s briefcase. He’s not going to get rid of the laptop or the case.

When he comes to ground, I’ll need you to shadow him. He’s never seen you before and you can call me back with his location. I should tell you our target is meeting a fence to dispose of some goods.”

D’Autry negotiated a right turn and quickly responded, “I did not sign on for this. I understood I was to drive for you—nothing else. No—un ombre. No shadowing.”

“How much extra would you want?”

“When Mr. Kelly called me, he said I would be needed to drive around Paris, then drive to Zurich. At that point, I was to be out of it. There was never mention of—courir le barriére—that is, chasing a fence, or anything else except—shadow—a car. I am to drive—that is it. He said it would be a two day job. We agreed on ten-thousand Euros, half up front, the other half in Zurich.”

Forestal was becoming impatient “How much, D’Autry?”.

“Where is Kelly? I thought Kelly was to be involved in this.”

“We’ve yet to hear from him. I can’t get him on his cell phone.” Forestal was louder now. “How much do you want?”

D’Autry pursed her lips in thought. “I want another five-thousand—that is, if you want me involved in something other than just driving—and I want all the money now.” Forestal reached into a briefcase, counted out the amount, and handed her another sheaf of notes that she stuffed into her jacket pocket.

The Volvo stayed back within a few hundred feet and Forestal continued to monitor Thorne’s Land Rover on the GPS receiver screen. As they approached the Le Claridge Hotel on Champs-Elysées Forestal saw Thorne emerge from the Land Rover and go inside. He said hurriedly, “Pull up and stop. I’ll drive around the block. Hurry inside and follow him to the front desk, stand next to him, and listen as the receptionist gives him his room number. If you can’t find the room number, follow him upstairs, but be discrete.”

D’Autry followed Thorne inside and stood next to Thorne as he registered. After he left to go to his room, she asked the receptionist for directions to a restaurant. She returned to the curb and slipped in on the passenger’s side. “He’s in room number 312 and his name is David Riley.”

Forestal assessed their situation and said, “We know where he’s staying, but how about the meeting with the fence? Where and when will the meeting take place? ”He turned back to D’Autry. “I think he’s smart enough to meet the fence in the lobby first. He’ll feel safer in a public place and have a look at who he’s dealing with, maybe even do the transaction in a corner of the lobby—even though that’s doubtful.”

“How large and crowded is the lobby? Are there any private rooms or seating areas where you can monitor his movements?”

She replied, “The lobby is large.” There are trente—thirty—people milling around and waiting. There were a few seating areas in a corner that would be good for me to use. I could see him from the corner.”

“Good. Here’s what we’ll do.”

Chapter 67

The ring of the telephone roused Thorne from sleep. He stretched, looked at his watch, and went to the bathroom. After he had showered and shaved, he slipped his sports jacket on over his shoulder holster and went downstairs.

D’Autry returned to the front desk at four o’clock and registered for a room, telling the receptionist she’d be meeting someone later and would wait in the lobby until they arrived.

She positioned herself in a chair where she could see the elevators and the front desk, and opened a magazine as she waited for Thorne.

At five-forty, Thorne emerged from the elevator and went to the front desk. He asked the receptionist a question before going up the stairs to the mezzanine and sat at a table.

D’Autry changed chairs where she also had a view of him out of the corner of her eye. From behind her magazine, she dialed her cell phone and called Forestal. “He is here. He is at a table up on the mezzanine. He’s looking at front desk like he is waiting for someone.”

“Fine. When his contact shows up, get on the elevator with them and make sure they go to his room on the third floor and not to his contact’s room on another floor. Then call me and confirm where they are.”

Thorne sat at a table on the mezzanine reading a newspaper and glancing up from time to time to see if Henri Delain had arrived at the front desk. He glanced at his wrist watch. Five-fifty.

Five minutes later two men approached the front desk. One was a small slender black man in his thirties. He wore a stylish dark blue chalk-stripe double-breasted suit with a white shirt and pink tie. Undoubtedly this was Delain. The other man was taller and heavier, and carried two large black briefcases. He was wearing a fur-collared overcoat and a Glen plaid cloth hat.

Thorne recognized him immediately. It was Leopold Darver from Antwerp.

Thorne leaned back in his chair and pushed it back a little further to keep out of their line of sight. He wanted a few minutes to think.

How had Darver come back into the picture? It had to be mere coincidence. Evidently, it was well-known among smaller dealers—small-time fences like Delain—Darver was a major player in Europe at moving large diamonds. It had to be that. There was no other explanation. The mention of a rare and historical gold necklace had piqued his interest. Perhaps Darver had assumed it was the same people he had spoken with in Stratford—Hollister, Forestal and the other partner. The nameless man Darver had met only once at the castle.

Thorne went down the stairs to meet them, keeping his hands in his pockets. Behind his glasses, his eyes moved from man to man. Neither had ever seen him as David Thorne and most surely not as David Riley.

“Mr. Delain, I’m David Riley,” Thorne said without offering his hand.

Delain spoke softly and held out a soft brown hand in greeting. “Mr. Riley, I’m pleased to meet you. This is Mr. Sansome. He deals in this type of thing and has agreed to associate with me.” Thorne ignored the outstretched hand and Darver’s phony name. Darver stared at him and said nothing.

Without smiling, Thorne said, “Perhaps we should retire to my room upstairs.” After catching the eyes of the two waiting bellmen, Thorne led the two men to the elevator.

Just before the elevator door closed, D’Autry rushed into the elevator and apologized. She started to press a button and stopped. “Oh, I guess we have the same floor.” During the ride up to the third floor, she busied herself with a map, and no one spoke as Darver cast admiring glances in her direction. When the elevator door opened, she stepped out first and stopped, letting them pass as she continued to study the map. She followed them down the main corridor, fumbling in her purse for her card key. Thorne and the others stopped at room number 312 and waited as she continued walking down the main corridor.

D’Autry turned right at the end onto a secondary hallway and waited. She heard the door close and waited a few minutes before starting back to the elevator. When she looked back into the main corridor, she saw the two bellmen had arrived and were standing across from room 312. She ducked back into the hallway and waited another five minutes before checking again. When she checked again, they were still there. She realized they wouldn’t be leaving.

Halfway down the small hallway was a door she took to be a linen closet. She opened the door and found a good-sized closet with towels and linen stacked on the shelves. She ripped a sheet into long wide strips and placed them on the shelf where they would be easily accessible. She closed the linen closet door and walked back down the main corridor, stopping when she reached the two bellmen.

Speaking in French, she said, “Pardon me, but are you two busy?”

“Yes ma’am,” the shorter one said. “We have to stay here.”

“Oh, that is too bad. I wonder if one of you could help me. My window is stuck and it is unbearably hot in my room. I cannot seem to get it up, perhaps . . .”

The short man looked at his partner. “I suppose it would be all right if I just popped in and helped you, ma’am.” To the other bellman he said, “I will be back in a wink.”

As they disappeared around the corner to the secondary hallway, she drew a small automatic pistol from her jacket pocket. Placing her fingers to her lips for silence, she showed the gun to the surprised bellman. She pointed to the door of the linen closet and indicated for him to go in.

Inside, she handed him a long cloth strip from the sheet and instructed him to sit on the floor and tie his feet. She then told him to tie a slip knot in a strip and face the wall with his arms behind him. She wrapped the loop around his hands and pulled it up tight, adding a few knots to secure it. Then she wadded up a few strips and stuffed them into his mouth.

She returned to the other bellman. “I’m afraid I’ll need both of you. It’s stuck tight.”

He looked at the door across from him. “All right, but I have to come right back.”

Once around the corner she repeated the same procedure, with the second bellman and returned to the main corridor. On her way back to the elevator, she opened her cell phone and called Forestal. “We are all clear. There are three of them in room 312.”

“Good, come back downstairs and meet me outside the loading dock behind the kitchen.”

D’Autry went out the rear door of the kitchen and found the Volvo and Forestal. She asked, “Now, what?”

Forestal said, “I’ll go through the kitchen while you wait here. I’ll get the goods and return in less than fifteen minutes. Then we’ll be on our way to Zurich. I can’t reach Kelly on his cell phone, so I have to assume he’ll return to London on his own.”

Chapter 68

Once inside the room, Thorne sat on the edge of the window seat and motioned for the two men to sit on the small loveseat against the opposite wall. After they were seated, Darver immediately took control of the conversation. “I think we need to see the goods to determine if we’re interested. I assume you have them here?”

Thorne paused and stared at Darver.

Darver exchanged glances with Delain, waited, and said, “I have to be in Berlin this evening. If we could please proceed.”

Thorne said, “May I see the money, please?”

Darver opened the briefcases and turned it so Thorne could see the money. “Five-million in British pounds. Now, if we could see the goods.”

Thorne went to the chair where he’d placed the packet and set the briefcase on the floor. He reached down inside the crease, removed the packet, and placed it on a desk.

Darver removed a loupe from his coat pocket and pulled a chair up to the desk. He examined the scroll work on the outside of the packet before opening the flaps on the packet.

When the last flap fell away Darver was momentarily stunned. Delain had moved behind him and froze as he stared at the necklace. Darver turned to look at Delain as the small man inched forward, his slender hand reaching out to touch the necklace. Darver put the loupe to his eye, bending forward as he examined the various stones. His attention returned to the large pink diamond, and he looked at it for a long time. He cleared his throat and fingered the packet. “This is an interesting piece.”

Delain was mesmerized by the necklace. “Five-million?” he said, an incredulous look in his eyes. “Five million?” he repeated, as if he were in a daze.

Darver gave Delain a reproachful look. “That’s what he said, right?”

Darver turned to Thorne and repeated, “You’re asking five-million pounds, right?”

Thorne didn’t answer. The previous experience at the park in the afternoon flashed before his eyes. He saw the old man and woman, the young overweight girl, the man in the suit, and  the young boy giving back the coins to the old woman. The young boy had Thorne’s face. He looked at the necklace spread out on its velvet pad.

Darver was impatient. “We’re not going to negotiate this. I repeat, five million, right? How many times do I have to ask you?”

Thorne turned slowly to Darver. “No,” he said. “It’s not mine to sell.”

Delain spun around. “What do you mean? You never told me it was not yours!”

“What’s this?” growled Darver. He turned to Delain. “What’s going on here?”

Thorne stood and went over to the desk. He folded the flaps back on the packet. “It has to be returned.”

Delain’s high-pitched voice was intense now. “Returned? Returned to who?”

“I have to return it to its rightful owner. It wasn’t mine to begin with.”

Darver arose quickly and stood in the center of the room, dumfounded. “I don’t think I understand . . .”

There was conversation out in the hallway and footsteps retreating. A knock on the door was followed by a faint voice. “Mr. Riley, this is the manager. May I see you? It should only take a minute.”

Thorne was relieved. He knew Darver and Delain weren’t going to accept the necklace not being for sale. The manager and the two bellmen had arrived just in time. He went to the door and opened it. The door pushed in, shoving Thorne to one side.

“Move over to the other side of the room, Thorne.”

Darver stared at the man standing in the doorway. “You? I suspected you might be involved in this. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on here?”

Chapter 69

Forestal closed the door behind him. In his right hand was a snub-nosed .38 Service Revolver. “Well, this is a surprise, I must say, Mr. Darver.”

Henri Delain was confused. He asked, “Who is this, Leo?”

Darver said sarcastically, “This was one of the people who promised me this piece previously, but obviously he couldn’t deliver.” He turned his attention back to Forestal. “So, I suppose you sent this man here today to do—to do—what? I have no idea. Perhaps you can clear things up for us, Mr.—Mr.—I still don’t know your name?”

Forestal ignored the question, motioned to Darver and Delain with his revolver and barked an order, “Both of you, over by the loveseat. You—Thorne—back to the wall next to them.”

Forestal ran his hands over Darver’s and Delain’s coats and found nothing. He opened Thorne‘s coat, took the Glock from the holster, and tossed it on the bed.

“All of you, face that wall and put your hands on top of your heads,” he ordered and went to the desk. His eyes widened as he looked at the necklace and the giant pink diamond. He asked, “How much is he asking?”

Henri Delain’s voice wavered. “Five-million pounds.”

Forestal laughed. “Five-million pounds? The Hope Diamond is valued at well over one-hundred million at around 45 carats. I should say this necklace would be valued at least twenty to thirty million pounds, and would fetch at least forty million at auction—probably much more.”

He asked, “What about it, Mr. Darver? That pink is record size, and worth at least twenty million—right?” Darver started to turn away from the wall. Forestal snapped, “Keep your face to the wall.”

Darver turned back to face the wall and said, “So, if you’re not in this with him—whoever he is—I’ll deal with you. He’s so confused he doesn’t even know who it belongs to. This Boy Scout says he has to return it to its rightful owner.” Forestal sneered at Thorne and glanced at the large black briefcase on the floor next to the loveseat.

Forestal said to Darver, “I assume you have the money in that.”

Darver said, “We’re good for another five million pounds if you want to deal. “I can get it, but not until I get back to Berlin tomorrow. Ten million pounds is a lot of money, but I’m sure I can set up other partners. I’m also sure I have a buyer once it’s appraised.”

He asked, “By the way, where are your partners? Are they still in on the deal?”

Forestal didn’t answer and went back to examining the necklace. He had what he came for and turned to Thorne. “All right, this has been taken care of. Now the documents. Where are the documents? Are they in that suitcase?”

Thorne gave him a puzzled look. “What documents? What are you talking about?”

Forestal turned to Darver. “The documents were also part of the sale also, were they not? Delain exchanged looks with Darver and Thorne and said, “We never spoke about documents.” He looked at Thorne. “What is he talking about?”

Thorne realized now Forestal had thought he hadn’t only found the necklace, but also the de Vere documents. He said, “I don’t have the documents. They haven’t been found.”

Forestal stammered, “We—I thought you had— I thought— I need to make a call.”

He flipped open his cell phone and with the other hand pointed the gun at the three against the wall. He said, “All of you, keep looking at the wall. Don’t turn around.”

There was a long pause as he tried to remember the number to call about the documents.

Everyone in the room turned as the door to the adjoining room burst open, and Trudeau and Cravelle entered with guns drawn.

“Put your weapon on the bed, Forestal. Trudeau ordered. “You—on the other side of the room—keep your hands in plain sight.”

Forestal was shocked into action by the noise behind him and wheeled, firing his gun in the direction of the order. Three shots rang out from his gun and all missed their target. Trudeau fired twice, hitting Forestal in the shoulder with one shot and the other going wide. Forestal dropped his gun, clutched his shoulder, and let out a cry before crumpling to the floor. Trudeau bent over  Forestal and raised him to the bed.

Trudeau said, “Call an ambulance. It looks like he may have a broken bone in his shoulder

Cravelle  picked up Forestal’s and Thorne’s pistol and shoved them into his waist band. He went to Darver and Delain and pushed them toward the door. “You two—into the other room.”

There was movement and a lot of other voices in the adjoining room. Orders were being given as two other men surprised Thorne when they came into his room.

Chapter 70

Thorne was varying his attention between Trudeau and Forestal and did a double take when Gilbert Bada and Inspector Hammersmith entered the room.

Bada smiled warmly at Thorne. “Well, David you had me fooled—and more than once. I never thought you would have taken the necklace in the first place, and when I found out—I never thought you’d give it back. I’ve got to tell you, I’m glad it turned out this way.”

In a conference room at the police station, Thorne sat across from Bada and Hammersmith at a large conference table. They watched through a two-way mirror as Darver and Delain were being questioned in another room by Cravelle and four other men.

Trudeau entered the conference room and took a seat across from Thorne. “You are in luck, Mr. Thorne, Mr. Bada has agreed to drop all charges” He couldn’t hide his disgust. “I disagree. We do not like people bringing stolen goods and weapons into our country.” He gave Bada a look of disdain. “But obviously Mr. Bada has connections with those above me.”

Trudeau placed a small recorder on the table in front of Thorne and said sarcastically, “Now, just for the record, I would like to know what you have done since you set foot on French soil.”

Everyone listened as Thorne explained what had taken place in the past few days. Trudeau nodded and turned off the recorder. Without speaking, he arose and picked it up from the table. As he went out the door, he said over his shoulder, “We are releasing you to Inspector Hammersmith.” With added sarcasm he said, “So, you are free to go, Mr. Thorne. I would suggest you catch the earliest flight back to the states—or England—but out of France.”

After Trudeau left the room, Bada turned to Thorne. “You led us on a merry chase, David. I would like to know two things. Why did you plan to take the necklace and consider selling it? And— what made you decide to return it?”

“I guess I was just bitter at the way everything was turning out. The death of my friend Freddie—the deception of Forestal with Helena and Gweneth—being fired for what I considered inadequate reasons—and without complete compensation.”

Thorne looked back to Bada. “Why did I decide not to go through with the sale and to give it back?” he asked wistfully. There was a distant look in his eyes. “I know it sounds strange, but I guess I wanted to be a child again—if just for a moment.”

Bada and Hammersmith exchanged puzzled looks. Hammersmith broke the emotional tension. “I don’t believe you know how much danger you were in by coming to Paris. Trudeau and I were ready to arrest you immediately, but because INTERPOL and Europol needed to capture Darver—and at Mr. Bada’s insistence—we held off. You should know Mr. Bada has also dropped all charges against you in Stratford.

“Darver had been number one on INTERPOL’S and Europol’s list for a long time. He’s heavily involved in the worldwide trafficking of stolen diamonds—and more specifically, blood diamonds. This was a major coup for them.

“In regard to Neville Forestal, he was prepared to kill you, or anyone else who got in his way. There was no other way out for him after his indirect involvement in the death of Freddie.”

Bada said, “My sources tell me he was having financial difficulties. Even with his problems, I was impressed with Neville’s achievements and qualifications. While I never suspected he was tied up in anything criminal, I suspected his purported affection for Gweneth was shallow and financially motivated. I started to tell her of my concern, but decided against it. I didn’t want to appear to be a meddler. She’s had enough problems. But there again, none of us would have ever dreamed he’d resort to being involved in a murder plot.”

Hammersmith said, “I can tell you it was also a complete shock to everyone at the station back in Stratford. Looking back over his record, I now realize Forestal was always setting his sights higher. I think coming from such a modest existence as a child, he always harbored a well-hidden resentment for the success and affluence of the Bada family. I personally believe Forestal’s plan to marry Gweneth was just a precursor to his eventually doing away with Mr. Bada and inheriting the Bada fortune.”

Thorne turned to Bada and said, “Money can make people do things out of character with their basic instincts. I know it did in my case. This time—and there have been other times in my life—I felt put upon, and as a result felt justified doing things I later regretted.

“But in the end, you have to realize you can’t always seek vengeance. Vengeance will eventually destroy you, not the person who you think may have injured you. I’m deeply sorry for what I did, Gil.”

Bada smiled and said softly, “Try not to think about it, David, it’s over now. I appreciate your final decision. That’s what counts.”

He took an envelope from his coat pocket, removed the contents and placed them on the table in front of him. “David, we were wrong in letting you go. I’d like to renew our contract, have you return, and continue the search for de Vere’s papers. I firmly believe they are still in the castle.”

Thorne looked at the papers spread out in front of Bada. He shook his head. “Gil, I do appreciate you not holding a grudge against me for what I’ve done. I’ve also enjoyed working with you and Freddie, but . . .”

Bada said, “I understand, and I also want to apologize for letting myself be convinced by Simon, Chester, and Lionel to terminate our agreement. It was wrong. You need to know, I have broken off any contractual obligations I had with them. They’ve been paid their expenses in full by Bada, Limited and are out of the picture. I’ll also see that Freddie’s widow, Helena, will be well taken care of. From here on out all activities relating to the search in the castle for the de Vere documents will be conducted by Bada, Limited.

Thorne glanced at Hammersmith who looked up from examining the files in front of him..

Bada continued, “The search has become public knowledge and will no longer be conducted in secret. I do have a strong suspicion Roger Linsdame was aware of it all the time. I don’t know how, I just sense it.

Chapter 71

Bada sat back and steepled his hands. “Now that the demolition phase is almost complete, and construction on the addition will begin shortly, I’ve hired at least ten additional men to assist you in the search for the documents, and to provide security.”

Hammersmith looked up and said, “Mr. Bada, I don’t wish to meddle in your personal affairs—or the affairs of Bada Limited— and even though they are on private property, I would like to have your security people register with me.”

Bada said, “Of course, Inspector. I had originally thought my staff at the company and I would supervise these men, but as you know, we don’t have the time—or experience. I had toyed with the idea of contracting our architect, Rainier, to head up the search operation. However, he’s so busy with other business—and personal—matters, I didn’t think he could devote the time required to assist us with the search.”

He paused and turned to Thorne. “I’m asking you again, would you consider coming back and helping us? I would want you supervising the search and documenting the search areas. You’ll have free reign and will be working strictly for me.” He pushed the papers across to Thorne. “Here’s a new contract for you to continue as before. Take your time. I want you to be satisfied with the new arrangement.”

Thorne opened the envelope. It was the same contract as before, but now, only Bada, Limited’s name was listed as the client.

Hammersmith interrupted. “Gentlemen, if we could, I’d like to wrap up the matter at hand, and then you can conduct your business affairs between yourselves. I need to be back in Stratford on business.” He looked at his notes briefly before continuing. “To get back to the Forestal matter, I found a Nanette D’Autry, evidently a driver for Forestal, waiting outside the kitchen loading area. After D’Autry was apprehended, she told of their plans to drive to Zurich after the business in the hotel. She’s also been implicated in other robberies around Paris. Michael Kelly was also apprehended at the Stockton-Rohmer studio earlier today. He had tried to coerce Cravelle, the INTERPOL officer who was masquerading as Rohmer, into giving them information about your visit to Delain. Cravelle allowed him to escape to protect Cravelle’s identity as Rohmer. They want Dassin Stockton in London to be unaware INTERPOL has taken over the studio in Paris. Kelly was to have been apprehended before he could return to London, but the French police allowed him to give them the slip.”

Hammersmith shook his head. “I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t understand how INTERPOL and Europol come up with their ideas. The Foreign Office has asked me to defer to them, so . . .”

He stood and put his notebook in his coat pocket. “We don’t want to forget we still need to identify and apprehend Forestal’s partner—or partners. We’re finished here, and I’m on my way back to Stratford. Mr. Thorne, if you can, finish up with any work you have to for Mr. Bada. We do hope you have a pleasant trip back to the States after you’ve finished.” He stopped at the door and said, “Good luck on your activities at the castle. I think you may need it.”

Thorne looked again at the contract before taking a pen from his pocket and signing both copies. Bada placed his copy back in the envelope and put it in his pocket. He withdrew another envelope and placed it in front of Thorne. “Here’s the retainer. As I recall, you prefer a cashier’s check.”

Thorne smiled. Bada had been sure of himself.

“By the way, we would enjoy you spending Christmas with us at the manor house—if you like.”

Thorne’s thoughts returned fleetingly to Gweneth Bada. She would take Forestal’s involvement hard.

But, he was relieved Forestal and Roberts would no longer be threats. Kelly was still on the loose, and Thorne knew he had not seen the last of the big man, or the shadowy figure behind the whole affair

PART 5

Chapter 72

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

Monday, January 3

9:45 AM

The construction on the castle was interrupted by the holidays and heavy snow and Thorne and the Bada family enjoyed the respite. During this time, Thorne made efforts to encourage Gweneth to put Forestal’s involvement behind her, but with little success. Her depression was understandable, this being the second potential husband she had lost. Despite Thorne’s comforting, she was convinced she was the problem. After two unsuccessful attempts to help her out of her depression, he resolved not to give up on her, but realized it would require more time.

Thorne sat in a hard straight-backed chair in the outer office of the Stratford Police Station reading an article about the upcoming Shakespearean Festival. The dispatcher sitting behind a desk across the room picked up a telephone and listened. She hung up the phone and said politely, “Inspector Hammersmith will see you now, Mr. Thorne.”

Hammersmith tossed a folded newspaper across his desk as Thorne came through the door. “Mr. Bada was quick in letting the cat out of the bag. Now, everyone knows what you’re after.”

Thorne glanced at the headline. BADA CORPORATION SEEKS ANTI-SHAKESPEARE DOCUMENTS IN STRATFORD. He couldn’t restrain a chuckle.

Hammersmith said, “You have no idea how upset the people here in Stratford are about this. Roger Linsdame called me this morning and insisted I arrest you. I guess he heard about your little escapade in France. I do want you to know you’re a lucky man, Mr. Thorne. Gilbert Bada and Bada, Limited carry a lot of weight around here—and in France, too—so, that’s it. Now what do you want?”

“Like I said, I just wanted to check in with you, and see if you have leads on the other man—Forestal’s partner.”

Hammersmith stared at him with incredulity. “Mr. Thorne, I don’t understand you. You steal a valuable necklace, lead us all over France, indirectly get a man seriously injured because of your foolishness, and now you come in here as good as you please asking questions, just as if it never happened.”

“Inspector, Mr. Bada has dropped all charges against me. Both the French and English authorities don’t consider me a threat, and as far as I know, the matter has been dropped here in England, too.”

Hammersmith said sarcastically, “It may have been officially dropped as far as the Foreign Office is concerned, but I assure you it has not been forgotten by a lot of people around town.”

He took a folder from his file cabinet and spread it out before him. “We’ve been unable to find out who the other man was. The cell phone he used was new and had no record of previous calls on it. His call also went to a new phone number we have been unable to track. It appears he and his partner took a lot of precaution to remain anonymous.”

Thorne stood and prepared to leave. “I’ll be staying at the Bada manor home if you need me.”

“Need you? Why would I need you?” As Thorne passed through the door, Hammersmith said loudly, “. . . And please keep out of my hair.”

Thorne went to the door, paused, and started to return. He wanted to ask if he could carry protection as he still expected confrontations as he had in the past. He thought better of it and turned back.

As he continued down the hallway, he heard Hammersmith grumble, “I would appreciate you letting me know what you find out.”

Chapter 73

Thorne met with Bada’s staff of security people early the next day in the Great Hall. Activities at the castle had been suspended for the holidays, and now assignments were given to continue the search for the documents. They were instructed to look for clues in various areas of the castle where anything relating to “where the poesies welcome” might be.

Thorne created a large printout of each floor of the castle, attached it to a cork board, and added color-coded pins for each member of the search team to keep track of their daily searches. The remainder of the group was assigned as security guards to restrict access to the grounds to construction personnel only. Visitors, consultants and vendors went through a screening process and were only given access at certain times of the day, and they would always be accompanied by security personnel.

A week passed and after a grueling day in the castle, Thorne returned to the manor house and stayed in his room to avoid being invited to dinner. During dinner, he moved into the parlor and situated himself in a deep chair in the corner of the room. He had asked Charles to tell Gweneth he would be there and wished to see her after dinner. He had no idea what he’d say to her. Maybe he would start by talking about the weather or other mundane subjects, hoping to put off the discussion of Forestal as long as possible. Knowing they’d have to talk about it eventually, he wanted to help her confront her situation. It wouldn’t be easy.

The door to the dining room opened, and he heard voices as the diners moved into the hallway and foyer. The large figure of Charles loomed over the others as he moved slowly in the direction of the parlor.

Thorne stood and waited nervously as Charles pushed the wheelchair into the parlor and closed the door. “Hello, Gweneth,” he said softly, “It’s good to see you again.”

Gweneth said nothing as Charles pushed her close to the fireplace. In the past, she had smiled at the sound of his voice. She was not smiling now.

He said, “Hello Charles.” Charles said nothing, but gave him a slight smile before going back to the door. He turned and said, “Can I get you anything, Ma’am?”

Gweneth’s voice was small and strained. “No, thank you, Charles. Please close the door when you leave.”

She and Thorne said nothing for a long while before she broke the silence. It appeared she didn’t want to start the conversation with small talk. There was a sadness in her soft voice Thorne had not seen before. “This has been extremely difficult—and heartbreaking for me, David. It’s so hard getting through it.”

“I know.”

“It’s confusing. I think—I did think—I loved Neville. But now, I’m not sure. How could he—how could I—have loved a man who did what he did. Shouldn’t I have known, David? It’s tragic losing both Freddie—and now Neville. I feel like a fool. How could I not have known about Neville?”

“Don’t blame yourself, Gweneth.” he said. “You had no way of knowing. None of us did. He moved over and sat on the hearth before her, taking her hands in his. “You know the old saying, Love is blind.”

A smile broke on her face and she gave a slight chuckle as he took her hands. “David, you don’t know how glad I am that you came back. I know you’ll be a great help to Gil—and me.”

He squeezed her hands and said, “It’s wonderful to see you again, too, Gweneth. I’ll help all I can.”

She smiled and regained her composure. “All right, David. Tell me how things are going at the castle. I must say, I had no idea what Gil and the others were up to. Andrea read the newspaper article to me. It all sounds very exciting.”

Thorne returned her smile. He warmed at the thought this still young woman may yet get over Forestal, and find a man worthy of her.

Chapter 74

For the next few days the search continued, but without success. At the end of a day of rummaging through the stables, Thorne sat on a stone bench in the courtyard of the castle. As he reflected on what had happened over the past week, his train of thought was broken as the supervisor of the guards came by.

“Mr. Thorne, we’ve completed the sweep of the top floor. Since it’s almost the end of the day, the men would like to know if you want to meet and discuss their findings, or wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Tell them tomorrow will be fine. We’ll meet briefly at eight and discuss their activities for the day.”

The supervisor said, “At the meeting tomorrow, perhaps you could amplify your comments on this  “where the poesies welcome”. We’ve scoured the top floor and other areas, and I know you also spent a lot of effort before we came on board. We’re coming up empty, but we’ll keep trying. I’ll be around for a few minutes more, and then I’ll close down for the night.”

After the supervisor left Thorne arose from the bench. It was true, nothing of interest had been found. If things continued as they had up to now, maybe they wouldn’t find anything. He stood in the middle of the courtyard and turned in a circle, surveying the various walls, windows and doors. The courtyard had been one of the first areas examined in detail and searches there had proved fruitless.

Thorne turned and looked back to the main gate. He stood for a long time surveying every area above and on either side of the gate to see where there may be a cavity or recess where the documents could have been hidden. He then turned to his right and walked to the stables just off the main courtyard. Inside the stable he repeated the cursory survey he had done on the main gate. There were no areas in the stables where anything could be secreted away.

The sun disappeared over the top of the castle walls as he returned to the stone bench. He turned his head in all directions, searching the courtyard for a clue—any area not fully investigated.

The large front entrance doors again caught his attention. He walked slowly over to the steps, and looked up at the wood-paneled, fanned out decorative soffit—the ceiling above the entryway. A half-circle tiled roof projected out and covered the entrance. The approach to the front doors was wide, funneling in to the doors..

He had previously examined the large bronze panels on either side of the door approach. The relief of the ship at sea was on the left panel, and the panel opposite to his right contained a collection of short poems incised in the bronze panel.

Suddenly his mind jumped, almost as if he had been prodded.

He remembered a poem he’d recently read which contained the line—”and poesies I have sung to thee.”

The poesies the letter spoke of were not flowers as he had originally thought. Poesies I have sung, meaning spoken—or read’. They were poems!

His answer was on the wall before him.

Chapter 75

Thorne moved quickly to the panel and searched the edges. The panel was set in a beveled opening in the stone wall at least an inch deep. There was nothing to show they had ever been disturbed. He tapped the panel with the end of a multi-purpose tool he carried. There was a hollow sound, indicating there may be a cavity behind the panel. He moved across and tapped on the panel on the opposite wall. Solid.

An investigation on the wall with the poesies was a triangle-shaped stone mass and showed no disturbed mortar joints. Inside the castle, the joints in the foyer’s stone wall also showed no signs of the mortar being tampered with. He returned to the outside entryway and looked up. The truncated wood panels in the soffit followed the curve of the roof overhang and were at least three feet across at the wide ends and were separated by curved wood beams.

He called to the guard at the front gate to tell the supervisor to return and bring a tall stepladder.

As he stood atop the ladder, he examined the wood trim where the wood panels butted against the beam. The trim wasn’t fastened, but was set in a slot and could easily be slipped out of position with a large screwdriver. Once the trim was removed, he found he could easily push the three-foot wide soffit panel upward, much the same as you would a lightweight acoustical tile found in modern office ceilings.

“Bring me a torch and a larger ladder, and also a rope ladder.”

The stepladder was replaced by the large ladder that provided access to the attic space. Once inside, he sprayed the beam of the flashlight on the ceiling cavity and the large timbers that radiated out, making up the structure of the semi-circle roof.

He moved to his right to where he assumed the wall with the plaque would be. On the other side of the wall, at his feet, was another panel with a short rope fastened to it. The foot-long rope had a large knot tied on the end. His hand shook as he eased open the panel.

He directed the light of the flashlight down into the cavity below and froze.

The walls of the small cavity below were lined with shelves, and on the shelves were small wooden boxes and various-size stacks of dust-covered paper bound up with cords. He fastened a rope ladder to a large timber and climbed down into the dust-covered space. At the bottom, he turned his attention to what proved to be the back of the large bronze panel.

On one side were three large hinges, and on the opposite side was a large iron bar and catch that operated much the same as the catch on a wood gate. He brushed away cobwebs and lifted the iron bar, separating the panel from its fixed position. Light from the outside flooded the cavity as he pushed the heavy panel outward.

A group of guards and workmen stood before him, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said to those standing outside. “Our search is over.”

Orders were passed to the men to cordon off the courtyard and place four guards in the area on a twenty-four hour basis. All passes and access to the castle, except for authorized staff members, were to be canceled until further notice.

He spoke into his cell phone. “Gil, I think you will want to come over to the castle. We’ve found what we’ve been looking for.”

Chapter 76

Thorne and Bada sat at the conference table with six men and women in the Great Hall of the castle. The group meeting with Bada were close friends, consisting of professors, writers, and academics from Oxford interested in the controversy.

There was little organization to the multiple sheaves of bound paper and twelve small boxes containing documents piled high on an adjoining table. At a cursory glance they appeared to include: castle construction sketches and records; business records of financial transactions—including bribes to Court administrators; and Moldar’s business and personal correspondence.  The bound records of de Vere had been removed from their wooden boxes and their significance was yet to be determined. The paper was brittle and faded with age, and in many cases the writing was almost illegible.

Bada said, “Our first order of business is to catalog and organize the papers for our own purposes. Next, I think we need to consider the order of how we’re going to release the documents. Do we want to do it piecemeal ,or wait until we have translated,  cross-referenced, and cataloged the entire trove of documents?”

Thorne’s mind wandered as the group discussed options. He had agreed to continue to assist Bada, but was beginning to wonder just how much he was needed now that the documents had been discovered, even though he still had a few weeks to run on his contract. Bada had brought in the academic types to evaluate and separate the documents into categories. Thorne had little skill—and even less interest—in the process.

Thorne recognized Bada had not only severed his collaboration, but had also effectively taken Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom out of the picture as active participants. He had returned their original investments, and made it known Bada, Limited would go it alone as the search continued for the documents in Kilshire Castle. While they weren’t to be involved in the search, this hadn’t diminished their interest in the de Vere controversy, and they made it known to Bada. After the documents had been found, Bada politely accepted their requests to be included in the list of journalists, scholars, and others who would be provided access to the documents after an appropriate time.

During the organization and cataloging, Thorne was given full authority to direct activities in the castle relating to the security of the documents. He wished to leave for the States as soon as possible and was uncomfortable with the task, but felt an obligation to complete the job. He positioned several security guards in the Great Hall where the documents were spread out on long tables that filled the room. The documents, hundreds of them, were placed under glass panels. He gave specific instructions no documents were to be removed unless so directed by Bada or himself. Bada also furnished him with a list of persons acceptable to view the documents.

In addition to choosing the select group of six he was meeting with in the Great Hall, Bada directed the storage building completed quickly, and made plans to bring in other friends and acquaintances—de Vere and Shakespearean scholars—to examine the portions of what could be de Vere’s writings. He was well aware there would be immediate disagreements on the validity of the claims that de Vere’s prose was the same as that of Shakespeare.

Chester Raskin and Lionel Kirk-Halstrom sat at breakfast in the dining room of the Commonwealth Club, one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. Raskin said, “I suppose you’ve heard they’ve discovered the documents in Kilshire Castle?” He looked at his watch. “Simon is late. I thought we made out to meet at nine.” Just then, Blackstone appeared in the doorway preceded by a doorman and ambled over and took a seat.

“Good morning. I apologize for being late. I spent the night in Birmingham on business, and the traffic was atrocious.” A waiter appeared at his elbow and Blackstone ordered fried eggs and a rasher of bacon. When the waiter left, he turned to the two men and asked, “What was it you wished to speak to me about?”

Raskin said, “I suppose you’ve heard they’ve discovered the documents in Kilshire Castle?”

“Yes, I read about it in the News-Journal yesterday.”

Kirk-Halstrom said, “Gilbert Bada has accepted our request to observe them. I understand they’ve been laid out in the Great Hall at the castle.”

Blackstone said, “Yes, I contacted him when he publicly revealed they were conducting the search. He said he was considering allowing certain people to view the documents if they were discovered.”

Kirk-Halstrom picked up a point of buttered toast and put a dab of marmalade on a corner. “Chester and I have spoken about driving up to the castle today. We think it would be a good idea for all three of us to attend the viewing together.”

Raskin said, “I understand there have been additional documents found, but there’s been no word as to what they are. Lionel and I’ve been wondering what they may contain. While we’re sitting here wondering, they could well be in the process of releasing them to the public.”

Blackstone looked at both men. “What other documents do you think there could be?”

Kirk-Halstrom’s face was blank. Raskin shrugged and said, “There’s no way of telling until we see them. However, I think it’s very important we see them as soon as possible.”

Chapter 77

Raskin called Bada and asked if he, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom could visit the castle that day for the purpose of examining the documents.

Bada said, “Of course, Chester. I realize all of you have invested a lot of effort in finding them, and I think it would be appropriate for you come on over. David will meet you at the entrance and give you identification badges. We all wear them. It’s essential for security. I’m sure you understand.”

The three men were struck by the large number of guards and other personnel on the grounds and at the entrance to the castle. A young man sat behind at the front desk set up in the foyer, with two armed guards flanking the door that led to the Great Hall. Thorne was standing behind him studying a computer screen before looking up to see Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom enter.

Thorne’s greeting was polite and business-like, but he did not extend his hand. The three men appeared uncomfortable and looked at the young man behind the desk instead of at Thorne.

Thorne said, “I’ve spoken to Gil and your badges are ready. The procedure is you may examine the documents, but Gil has asked no notes or photographs be taken of the documents at this time. He said he would like to speak with you in the next few days and ask for your opinion about the documents.” They nodded their agreement, as they fastened their badges to their coats.

Thorne pushed a button, and two guards appeared momentarily from behind the doors to the Great Hall. “Please take these gentlemen in to view the documents.”

Inside the Great Hall, the guards were as numerous as the guests. There were a few people looking at the documents and knots of scholarly types gathered about the room speaking in low tones among themselves. The twenty-foot long green felt-covered tables were set up with space between them for two lines of observers. The documents were organized in groups, and a small number were visible under glass panels. A portion of the documents were temporarily obscured with the same green felt. A large index board with a layout and list showing each table and its contents was mounted on the wall at one end of the large room.

The documents, some on parchment, some on yellowing plain paper of various sizes, were spread out over the entire length of the tables. The documents covered records of Moldar’s business ledgers, and a mixture of Moldar and de Vere family records, crests, personal letters and writings. The poems and plays relating to the controversy were obscured under the felt.

Raskin, Blackstone, and Kirk-Halstrom studied the index, glanced about the room, and smiled greetings to acquaintances. They joined others flitting back and forth from the index board to the tables.

After a cursory examination of the documents, the three men went to chairs near the fireplace. They were surprised to see Jacques Rainier sitting with two elderly men who appeared to be college professors. An older man sat outside the circle, listening to their conversation.

One of the professors said timidly, “I say, they do appear authentic. After all, Mr. Bada is a reputable scholar.” The other snorted, “Pah! I’ve studied de Vere’s writings for years and find nothing new or anything to indicate these are different. They prove nothing.”

Rainier’s face was drawn and he was uncharacteristically silent as he listened intently to their conversation.

After a few minutes of back and forth between the professors, Raskin arose and said to the group in general, “Well, gentlemen, I have pressing business and will be going now. It was a pleasure to meet you and share your insights.” He turned to Kirk-Halstrom and said, “I’ll be seeing you and Jenny for dinner tonight then?”

Kirk-Halstrom said, “Yes. Why don’t I walk out with you, Chet. I have something to ask you.”

Blackstone acknowledged their departure and glanced in the direction of the still silent Rainier, before turning his attention back to the two elderly men. “Perhaps you could expand on your opinion about de Vere. It’s of interest to me”

The older man who had been sitting outside the circle moved forward, taking a seat next to Blackstone and Rainier

Chapter 78

Ye Olde Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Inn and Publik House squatted behind a large sign on the Banbury Road three miles east of Stratford-upon-Avon. No one coming to Stratford-upon-Avon from London could miss it.

The faux Tudor-style building housing the Inn and Pub could easily have been transported from Disneyland and dropped down on the road to Stratford. The façade was constructed of stucco and dark imitation-wood timbers made of foam. Its purpose was to create an ambience and attract—then fleece—visitors on their way to give homage to the Bard in Stratford.

Inside the pub, the visitor walked through a sawdust-covered, stone-patterned, concrete floor. Posters from Shakespeare’s plays covered the walls, and comely young women dressed in Elizabethan uniforms sold kitsch plaster busts of Shakespeare behind the front counter.

The Ye Olde R and G was a tourist trap of the first order where the visitor could buy his Guinness Ale, Yorkshire Pudding, Bubble and Squeak or Steak and Kidney Pie at twice the price he could just up the road in Stratford. A local wouldn’t be caught dead in the place, and that was the main reason the very recognizable Roger Linsdame agreed to meet there.

He wove his way through the crowd of tourists, stopping at the bar to get a glass of beer before continuing to the rear of the pub, and opening a door leading to a private dining room. Inside the room, the shades were drawn, and he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. “All right,” he said gruffly to the man sitting at the far end of a long dining table, “I’m here. What is it you can tell me about Kilshire and de Vere that I don’t already know?”

The man in the obvious disguise of a heavy overcoat, drooping felt hat, black wig, and dark glasses, sat behind a small table in a corner. He held a handkerchief over his mouth and affected a slight cough. “Forgive the handkerchief, but I have a slight cold.”

Linsdame ignored the ruse and sat down. “You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Let’s keep this short, I’m busy.”

“Of course, Mr. Linsdame, you and I share the same goal. Fortunately, I’m not involved to the point where I could be suspect of having an interest in having the documents suppressed. Neither of us want the de Vere documents found—or analyzed—if for different reasons. Now  that they have been discovered, they’ll only add fuel to the controversy, whatever they disclose. Your motives are obvious. The discovery—if proven to be authentic—will draw visitors away from town, and your side of the river and . . .”

Linsdame shifted in his chair and said gruffly, “Don’t tell me what my interests are. Let’s move along. You have your reasons—it’s not necessary to discuss mine.” He became impatient, “So, what’s your point—and your reasons?”

“My point is this. I think both of us would like to affect the outcome and see the documents—or at least some of the documents, those that apply to de Vere—disappear before they can fully be authenticated. If we could acquire them, we both would like to see them destroyed. Correct?”

“And . . .?”

“Our problem is Thorne. As you know, he was rehired by Bada to head up the search. He’s a smart, thorough, and qualified man.”

After a thoughtful pause, Linsdame asked, “What do you propose?”

“I’ve checked on your background, Mr. Linsdame,” he said from behind the handkerchief, “I think we both know you have never hesitated to act and do things when you felt your interests were threatened. For example, the disappearance a few years back of the CEO of the company that had planned a major project in Stratford. Also the fatal injury of . . .”

Linsdame leaned forward. “What are you trying to do, blackmail me?” There was menace in his voice. “I can tell you it’s been tried before and has proved disastrous for the blackmailer. Follow?”

“It’s not necessary to threaten me, Mr. Linsdame. I have as much interest in squashing this as you do. We need for Thorne to go away permanently, or . . .”

“You want me to kill Thorne? Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, I meant find someone qualified to do it. The most desirable result would have been the documents never being discovered. However, they have, so the next most desirable result is that we have to assure their destruction. We need Thorne to furnish us with the documents, then have him and the documents go away. After your designee takes care of Thorne, my man will take charge of specific documents and deliver them to me, where I’ll dispose of them. I assure you, I never want them to see the light of day. I’ve said nothing about you personally removing Thorne. So . . .” He reached into his bulky overcoat and took out five bundles of one-hundred pound notes.

“I’ll participate in our project. That is, I’ll furnish the funds. I have limited connections for this sort of thing. I’ll compensate my man separately. I don’t think he has the experience to complete the—the elimination of Thorne. I’m sure you can find a professional from the continent, or the U.S.—a man more qualified who could assist in performing the service on short notice.”

Linsdame looked at the four sheaves of notes. “That looks like a lot of money. Maybe twenty-thousand Pounds.”

“Twenty-five thousand to be exact. That should buy sufficient services from your end. As I’ve said, I have my own man and I’ll compensate him separately as it’s a two-man job.”

Linsdame asked, “How do I know your man is qualified for this type of work? I would only use a professional from my end.”

“I’ve used my man for this type of work before. He’s well-qualified for a lot of things, but I would prefer your specialist be in charge of this event.”

Linsdame arose and pushed away the untouched beer. “Just make sure he understands this is important. It has to be a precision operations—no loose ends. I want my man to direct all the procedures.” He picked up the money. “Don’t have any of your people contact me again. This will be our first, last and only meeting. From here on out we let our respective people handle the job.”

Linsdame took out a ballpoint pen and reached for a paper napkin. “Have your man stay at the Briarwood Inn in Bridgetown under the name Carson and wait for my man Brent to call him. When your man speaks with Brent, he’s to give him this identification number for confirmation. This is the number they’ll both use for communication.”

Linsdame scribbled a six-digit number on the napkin. “My man Brent will run the operation. Make sure your man understands this. We also need your man to find a safe house in Bridgetown—not Stratford—where both our men can stay until the job’s finished. Brent will have his own car.”

He leaned over the table. “None of this gets out—not to anyone. This meeting never took place. Follow? Just remember what happened to that CEO who disappeared.”

He went through the door and closed it quietly behind him..

Chapter 79

Linsdame returned to his office in Stratford and sat behind his desk. He called his secretary in and said, “I’m not to be disturbed—not by anybody—understand?”

His secretary nodded and closed his office door.

He took a cell phone from a locked drawer in his desk and dialed a number in Copenhagen.

A voice with a Scandinavian accent answered. “Good afternoon, Steenberg Financial, Mr. Steenberg speaking,”

“This is your client, Newcastle 6265.”

There was a pause as a keyboard clicked away over the line. “Ah, yes. What can I help you with, Sir.”

Linsdame said, “I need full service on a matter.”

“Location? Time? Duration?”

“England. Stratford-upon-Avon. Tomorrow or the next day. It’s a rush job. The job must be finished in two days or less. Your man will have assistance.”

“Contact?”

Linsdame read off the phone number of the Briarwood Inn in Bridgetown and the confirmation code number he’d given to the man at the R and G. “Your man should identify himself as Brent to my man we will call Carson here in Stratford.“

“Is your man in Stratford a professional? My man would not want to work with a non-professional.”

“My man is a professional—at certain things.  However, your man Brent is to run the operation. He’s to choose the time, location and method of elimination. My man on this end will provide a safe house, and only assist your man as needed. The safe house will be located nearby and both men should stay there. We don’t want anyone staying in a hotel after my man leaves the Briarwood, and they are not to have a presence in Stratford, so the safe house will be in Bridgetown.”

“Good.”

“It needs to look like an accident—maybe drugs.”

“Of course. Will you be able to provide my man with the necessary equipment?”

Linsdame said, “No. He will have to furnish his own equipment.”

“That should not be a problem.”

Linsdame cleared his throat. “Before we proceed, I think I need to tell you it’s a multiple.”

“Hmm, it sounds a little out of the ordinary, but I am sure my man can handle it. How many? Can you give me more information?”

“Total of three targets. Here’s the way it should go. Brent will contact Carson and get the pertinent information. Both will contact Target One—a man in Stratford—an architect named David Thorne—and get materials from him, then eliminate him.

“Carson will take possession of a stack of the materials and deliver them to Target Two. Brent is to shadow Carson and eliminate Target Two—and then Carson, too.”

Steenberg said, “Excuse me, did you say Brent is to eliminate your man after Target Two is eliminated? That is a bit unusual, but it can be done.”

Linsdame said, “Brent will take possession of the material, put it in a British Airways flight bag and place it in a locker at Gatwick Airport in London. He’ll give the locker key to you. After you confirm you have received the balance of the fee in your Zurich account, you’ll send the key to me. Send it to me by registered mail to the box we’ve used in the past in Newcastle. At that point you’re out of it.”

Steenberg was quiet as he digested the information. He put his pen down and said, “Just to ask, do you really think one man from me is enough to satisfy the entire contract? Since there are three targets.”

“No, I only want one man, and he needs to be your top man. I’ll pay you, as I have in the past, and you in turn will pay your man. I have your account number, and I’ll make the transfer to your account in Zurich, the same as before.”

Steenberg said, “Yes, that will do just fine. The job is out of the ordinary, three targets on one assignment. The fee will be fifty-thousand Euros. I recall you prefer to work in Euros instead of pounds. One half deposited in the account in Zurich within twenty four hours, same as before.”

“Mr. Steenberg, you’ve always provided me with top men in the past. I expect this to be the same.”

“Yes, it will—and thank you, Sir. It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”

Chapter 80

The small non-descript, middle-aged man in a gray suit and black raincoat bypassed the baggage carousel on his way to the Gatwick Airport rental car counter. The rimless glasses and a small carry-on bag, identified him as just another traveling businessman.

Inside the car, he adjusted his glasses, ran a small soft hand through his short blonde hair, and dialed his cell phone. “I understand a Mr. Steenberg from Copenhagen has ordered a piece of equipment for me—a Walther with a suppressor and clips. The name’s Brent. Please give me directions from the airport to your place. I should be there shortly. I would also appreciate directions to Stratford-upon-Avon.”

The cell phone rang. Kelly wiped wisps of the shaving cream from his chin, and flipped it open. “Hello.”

The voice on the other end had an undistinguishable accent. It could have been British, American or Canadian. “Hello, this is Brent, is this Mr. Carson?”

Kelly said, “Yes, I was told to expect your call. Do you have anything for me?”

Brent recited the confirmation number and said, “Where can we meet and discuss our plans?”

Kelly said, “There’s a place called the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Inn on the road from London to Stratford. After you pass it, the next street on your right will take you into a parking lot. To the rear of the lot is Winnie’s Restaurant and Bar. It’s small and quieter there. I’ll be in a booth away from the bar, and I’m wearing a white golf hat and a dark blue windbreaker.”

“I’ll be wearing a black raincoat, and I have short blonde hair. I’ve left London and should be there in about an hour. I understand our job needs to be done in a timely manner, so I’d like you to have the information ready for me.”

Inside the bar, the sullen barmaid brought the two men their drinks, and Brent paid the check, casually waving off the change. In a voice implying command, he said, “Now, you understand, don’t you, I’m to call all the shots in this matter?”

The big man looked at the unimpressive little man across from him and chuckled. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“All right, now that we have that straight, tell me what the situation is.”

For the next half hour, Kelly repeated the information given him by his boss. “I have been directed to secure a safe house a mile or so off the main road for us to operate out of. I’ve been very cautious about giving any information about my interest in the short rental time.”

Brent ignored Kelly’s self-congratulation. “As long as we have a safe house. That’s the main thing. In the meantime, we have to move quickly. The first thing we need to do is snatch this woman, Gweneth Bada, and secure her at the safe house. What’s the story on her?”

“She’s blind and in a wheelchair. It shouldn’t be that difficult. The only problem is going to be her guardians. She’s got a personal nurse and a big bodyguard. He’s always close by.”

Brent was writing down notes. “We need to get used coveralls and pose as workmen—plumbers or gardeners or such. A needle should put both of them out of commission while we make the snatch. Are you familiar with the manor house?”

“Yes. I went up there yesterday in coveralls to check the gas meter. I thought you might want . . .”

“Good. We’ll go back under the same guise today.”

Kelly asked, “Once we’ve got the woman, what then?”

“Then we’ll call Thorne and notify him of the situation. He does what we say or the woman’s history. He’ll have to furnish us with badges and take us in with him to get the materials from the castle. After we leave the castle, we’ll take him to a remote location and get rid of him. Then you can deliver the materials to your boss and I’m out of it.”

Kelly grinned. “You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?”

“It’s what I do.”

Chapter 81

Brent and Kelly drove their van around to the tradesman’s entrance of the manor house and rang the bell. A woman looked out the window before opening it. “What is it you want? Wasn’t you here yesterday to look at the gas meter?”

Brent said, “Yes, ma’am. My man here said it was acting up, and I just wanted to have a look at it myself.”

“Oh, all right. Come on in, but wipe your boots first.”

As the woman turned, Brent moved in quickly and plunged a hypodermic needle into her arm. She turned and frowned at him. “I say, what’s that you’re doing, you little toad. I think it’s best you keep your hands to yourself. You’ve no call to— to—” She began to slur her words and she sat at a small table. “I’m dizzy. What is it you’ve done— I’m—” Brent eased her head down onto her hands as she passed out.

Brent returned the syringe to its packet and motioned for Kelly to follow. They moved stealthily through the dining room and looked into the parlor where Gweneth sat near the fireplace, listening to music on the radio.

Brent led the way, and Kelly tapped him on the shoulder. As Brent turned, he saw Charles and his wife, Mairead, sitting across the room on a couch, reading magazines. He took out two needles and whispered to Kelly, “Get them to turn their backs away from me. I’ll come in from the other door and get behind them.”

Kelly nodded, walked casually into the parlor and pointed to the kitchen. “Pardon me, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone back there. Can you help me find the gas meter?”

Charles and Mairead were both on their feet immediately. Charles moved across the room with Mairead and said, “I’m sorry, you’ll have to find—”

Brent was behind Charles with a sap and brought it down hard on the big man’s head. He staggered and fell to the floor. Brent quickly placed his hand over Mairead’s mouth and stuck the syringe in her arm. He held her until she became limp in his arms and slowly lowered her to the floor beside Charles. He moved over and stuck the syringe in Charles’ arm and went across to Gweneth, who had turned in the direction of the sounds of scuffling.

Brent placed a handkerchief over her mouth and injected her with another syringe. She went limp and Kelly tied her with a cord so she remained upright in the wheelchair. He quickly pushed her wheelchair in the direction of the kitchen. Brent followed after dragging the unconscious Charles and Mairead behind a sofa.

Kelly opened the rear door of the van and lifted the wheelchair and Gweneth inside. He braced the wheelchair so it wouldn’t move and closed the door. “That should do it,” Brent said. “Now let’s take her to the safe house.”

“What about the other three people inside the house?” Kelly asked. “You’re just going to leave them to wake up and call the cops?”

“We have not been instructed to do anyone except the target. Don’t worry, I gave them all heavy doses. They’ll all be out for hours.”

Once inside the safe house, Brent taped Gweneth wrists, stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth, and placed a strip of tape across it. He surveyed the front room and checked the clip in his automatic pistol. “All right, let’s take care of Thorne.”

Chapter 82

The young man left his desk in the foyer of the castle and went to where Thorne was seated in the Great Hall. “Pardon me, Mr. Thorne, but there’s someone on the telephone in the foyer who wishes to speak with you.”

Thorne frowned. He was curious as to why anyone would call him on the phone at the front desk, but he followed the young man out. “Hello, this is Thorne.”

Brent said, “Mr. Thorne, we need to have you help us. We’ve detained Miss Bada, and we assume you do not want anything to happen to her.”

“Who is this? What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Thorne, I’m sure you know what this means. We have Miss Bada and we won’t harm her as long as you do what we wish. Don’t contact the police and don’t reveal this conversation to anyone.”

“What do you want?”

“We want you to bring two badges and meet us at one o’clock at  the Triton Truck stop on Banbury Road five miles east of Bridgetown. Please put the following names on the badges. Robert Jones and William Baker. Now, don’t worry about finding us. We know what you look like, so we’ll find you . . . and Mr. Thorne, I’m sure you know how these things work. I’m in contact with the people who have Miss Bada, and if anyone else gets wind of this—if you notify the police—well— you understand, don’t you?”

The phone went dead, and Thorne hung up.

“Is everything all right, Sir?” the young man asked.

“Everything’s fine,” Thorne said. “Could you please get me my notepad at my desk in the hall?”

As the young man disappeared through the door into the Great Hall, Thorne opened a drawer and took out two blank badges. He quickly typed the names given him on the badges and wrote their names on the authorized visitors list before the young man returned.

Kelly drove the van to the side of the building at the Triton Truck stop. He pointed to Thorne standing against a wall. “That’s him. I remember him.” He laughed. “He probably has my little trademark scar on his forehead.”

Both men got out of the van and approached Thorne. Brent said, “Please come with us.”

As Kelly took his arm, Thorne remembered the foul breath of the young man. “Hello, Sweet breath. Beat up any innocent bystanders lately?”

Kelly smirked and said sourly, “Only those who need it.”

Inside the van, Thorne sat between the two men, turning his head to avoid the stench of Kelly’s breath. He took out the two badges and handed them to Brent. “All right, I’ve brought you the badges. Now what?

Brent said, “We wish to return with you and get a few of the documents you have on display. I assume you’re authorized to take them from the castle?”

Thorne didn’t answer. Then he said, “Another thing, how do I know you have Gweneth Bada?”

“I’ll take your silence as a yes—and yes, we do have Miss Bada. You just have to trust us, unless you want to take a chance on her life.”

Thorne said, “All right, I’ll take you to the castle and get the documents. We leave together, I assume?”

”Correct. You know, you’re smart. You already know how it’s supposed to work.”

Kelly took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. “All right, this is what we want,” he whispered to Thorne. “Get one of your people to help you with the glass tops and put all of the documents listed here, in your briefcases. And remember, that cute little girl we got sure would like to see you again—Ha Ha.” Kelly laughed at his little inside joke.“

“What about Miss Bada? When do I get her back?”

Brent said, “Soon enough. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

The young man at the desk smiled as Thorne came through the front door, The two men arrived a few minutes later. “May I please have your names and badge numbers?” he asked. Both men handed their badges to him and waited.

He checked the list of authorized visitors against their badges. “Thank you, Mr. Jones, Mr. Baker,” he said as the two men went through the door to the Great Hall.

Brent and Kelly strolled around casually, nodding and smiling at the others as they pretended to be examining the documents. Kelly followed closely as Thorne and an assistant picked out the documents listed on the sheet of paper furnished by Kelly.

After replacing the glass panels, Thorne organized all of the documents neatly into various stacks on his desk and placed them in separate plastic folders. He then retrieved two large briefcases from under his desk and loaded the documents into them.

Brent and Kelly watched Thorne from across the room as he loaded the briefcases. Neither paid attention as Thorne put lip salve on his lips, and then with his hands under the desk, slathered the salve on both wrists.

He nodded to the young man at the desk as he carried the two briefcases through the doors and into the Foyer. “I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” he said as he went out the front doors into the courtyard. Brent and Kelly came out a few minutes later, and the three walked slowly out the main gate to the waiting van.

Chapter 83

When they reached the van, Kelly pushed Thorne up against the side, away from the view of those entering the castle. “Hands behind your back,” he barked.

Brent took the briefcases from Thorne and moved behind Kelly. He blocked the view of anyone passing by as Kelly wrapped four turns of duct tape around Thorne’s wrists. Thorne fidgeted as the tape was wrapped around his wrists He knew if he was to have any chance of getting loose, he would need a little slack in his bindings to go with the lip balm he had smeared on his wrists.

Kelly backhanded him across the face. “Keep still.”

Brent loaded the two briefcases in the rear of the van and pushed Thorne toward the passenger’s door.

The three sat in the front seat with Thorne in the middle. As Kelly pulled out of the parking lot, Brent put a strip of tape across Thorne’s eyes and pulled down the cap they had placed on his head. After ordering Thorne to drop his head as if he were asleep, Brent said, “Let’s go to the safe house. Be sure to take the back road.”

Inside the safe house, Brent ripped the tape from Thorne’s eyes and motioned with the automatic pistol. “Sit in that chair.”

“I’ve got to go to the toilet,” Thorne said.

Kelly took a folding knife from his pocket and cut the tape from his wrists. Brent motioned in the direction of the back room. “Come with me.”

As Thorne passed through the narrow hallway, he glanced into the bedroom and saw Gweneth in the wheelchair. Her head drooped, and she was still.

“Gwen!” he said.

She raised her head slowly and stared into the distance. “David? Is that you?”

“Don’t worry, Gwen, everything is going to be all right.”

Brent said, “Hurry it up. I’ll be right outside the door.”

Inside the small windowless bathroom, Thorne looked for what he might use—a towel bar or curtain rod. Nothing. After he finished, he washed his hands in the dirty sink and dried them on his shirt. He removed the tube of lip balm from his pocket and rubbed it on his wrists.

Back in the kitchen, Brent motioned with the pistol. “Hands behind your back,” he said as he replaced the strip of tape over Thorne’s eyes.

As Kelly wrapped his wrists with the duct tape, he said, “Hold your hands still. Stop moving around.” The big man pushed him into a small chair. He put his mouth close to his ear and said, “The sooner you accept what you’re getting, the better off you’ll be.” Thorne’s upper body was encircled with five or six wraps of duct tape, then his ankles were wrapped. Two short strips of tape were added over his eyes. A wad of tissue paper was stuffed into his mouth before a strip of tape was placed over it.

Kelly looked in Brent’s direction. “Now what?”

Brent said nothing, but went into the back room where Gweneth was bound in her wheelchair. He smiled benignly and said softly, “Don’t worry, dear, we’re not going to hurt you. Just remain calm.” He gave her another injection and returned to the front room.

“Check that back door again,” he ordered. “Make sure it’s locked.”

Kelly tried the knob on the door. ”I guess you know what you’re doing, but I thought we were going to—”

Brent frowned and shook his head. “I’ll fill you in later,” he said as he took the packet with syringe from his pocket. He injected the drug into Thorne’s upper arm and massaged the spot where he’d punctured the skin.

“Let’s go,” Brent said to the perplexed Kelly.

As they went to the front door, Kelly stopped Brent and asked, “Do you want to fill me in now on what’s going on? I thought we were supposed to get rid of Thorne. Take him out and—”

“All in good time. That’s not your concern. He’ll be out for at least an hour. I didn’t give him a heavy dose because I’ll need to move him around later, when I finish the job.”

Kelly said, “Look, I’m involved in this, too. He’s seen my face. All those people at the castle saw my face. How are you going to do it? I thought we were going to take him out and make him disappear. I need to know what you’re going to do.”

Brent said patiently, “I can tell you this. It’s just as easy to give two people a heart attack as it is to put them to sleep. Do you understand? They’ll both be found on a cot in the back room and— well, you get the picture, don’t you? And besides, we may need him later after everything else is complete.

“All right,” Kelly said in exasperation, “I just need to get up to speed on this.”

A smile crossed Brent’s small fat face. “All of this has created a small change in plans.” I need you to call your boss and tell him we’re both coming to deliver the material.”

“But—”

“Where can we meet him? We need a public place—noisy, yet where we won’t be noticed, but where we could be alone. Maybe a private meeting room. I don’t want to go to his home or office.”

“The R and G would be a good place.”

A large truck roared by and Brent stepped back inside the house and asked in a loud voice, “The R and what?”

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s. It’s that busy tourist place up the road from the bar where we first met. It’s always crowded with tourists, and we’ll go unnoticed there. They have a private dining rooms. He’s used it before for meetings.”

Brent looked at his watch. “Let’s have lunch first. Call him, and tell him to get a private room and meet us there in an hour. We’ll drop off the material to him, then I’ll come back and take care of the rest of this business here.” He patted the big man on his shoulder again. “And don’t worry so much. You’ll be out of it soon,” he said as he locked the deadbolt with a key.

Thorne heard the roar of the passing truck and the voices in the distance, but the mild injection of the sleep-inducing drug was slowly beginning to take effect. He felt as if he was swimming in whipped cream. Then everything slowly went black.

Chapter 84

When Thorne awoke he didn’t know how long he’d been out. He couldn’t see, and then he remembered the tape that had been put across his eyes. He was bound to the chair and tried to move his taped wrists. He gradually recalled Kelly’s foul breath as he bound his wrists. He had purposely tried to move his hands around as Kelly had bound his wrists, and the lip balm residue had prevented the duct tape from adhering to his wrists. Now he was able to move them around inside the tape. He pulled hard and rotated his wrists for fifteen minutes until they were free.

Jerking his body violently from side to side he loosened the tape wrapped around his upper arms, and after a few minutes, it loosened enough to move his hands around to the front. He reached up and grabbed the tape that encircled his upper body, and alternating his hands, pulled it upward over his head until he was free. He winced as he slowly removed the tape that clung to his eyebrows and mouth. The tape wrapped around his ankles came off easily

He ran to the back room where the unconscious Gweneth was slumped in her wheelchair.

Her hands were tightly bound and rested in her lap. He slowly removed the tape from her mouth, and loosed the cords wrapped around her small body. When she started to fall forward he caught her, and secured her to the wheelchair by loosely re-wrapping a length of tape around her upper body,

She was still unconscious as he pushed the wheelchair through the house to the front door. He turned the deadbolt from the inside of the door and cautiously looked out. There was no one there. He pushed her out onto the porch, and scanned the neighborhood

The small house was evidently a guest house set to the rear of a larger house nearer the street. The large house appeared to be empty, and there were high weeds in the back yard. The next house was over two hundred feet away, and he headed in that direction with the wheelchair.

Gweneth began to regain conscious as he knocked on the side door of the next house. With a hand placed a hand on her shoulder, he said softly, “Don’t worry, Gwen, it’s David. You’re safe now.”

“What happened?” she asked groggily.”

“Just know you’re safe. The others have gone.”

A small man wearing a cardigan sweater and smoking a pipe opened the door. “Hello,” he said cheerfully as he looked down at Gweneth. “How can I help you?”

“We have an emergency. May we come in?”

“Of course. Is she all right?”

“Yes. I’ll try to explain later. In the meantime could she have a drink of water—and could I use your telephone?”

The man tamped out his pipe. “Righto. She does look a bit done in,” he said as he went to the kitchen

Thorne dialed and waited. “Inspector Hammersmith, this is David Thorne. Gweneth Bada and I have been kidnapped. We’re free now, but I need to have you come over and pick us up immediately. Can you do that?”

Hammersmith said, “Yes. We’ve been notified that Gweneth Bada had been kidnapped. Give me the address.”

Thorne turned to the man who was now giving the glass of water to Gweneth. “Can you please give me your address?”

Thorne repeated the address into the telephone, and Hammersmith asked, “Do you know who they were?”

“Only one of them. I’ve had an encounter with him before. I’ll fill you in later. They kidnapped Gweneth and forced me to remove documents from the castle. I’ll tell you more about it when I see you. Also, could you please contact Gilbert Bada and tell him Gweneth is all right?”

Hammersmith asked, “ Do you know where they may have gone?”

“No, I only heard one of them, a small blonde man named Brent who appears to be in charge, say something about the ‘R and what’. They gave me a sedative and I must have drifted off at that point. I didn’t hear anymore.”

Hammersmith said, “That must be the R and G. That’s the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern place east of Bridgetown. It’s a restaurant and bar—and a well-known tourist trap. Don’t worry, I’ll send plainclothes people over to the R and G to wait for us and make sure no one leaves. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

“Good. Please send an ambulance. Gwen should go to a hospital.”

Chapter 85

Carrying the briefcases with the documents, Kelly and Brent threaded their way through the crowd at the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern bar room to the private back room. Inside the darkened room, they saw a man sitting at a table at the head of the small conference table

“Don’t turn on the light, Kelly. Bring the briefcases over here.” Kelly set the briefcases on the table, and sat down. “What is this, Kelly? I thought I told you to come alone.”

Brent remained standing and said, “I thought you wanted both of us to deliver the material

—I thought you knew.”

“I knew nothing of the sort. What about Thorne? I assume he has been taken care of?”

Brent walked to the other end of the table. “I’ll take care of him after I leave here.”

Kelly said, “Why don’t I unpack the briefcases for you.” “No, Kelly, I’m only interested in certain portions of the documents. Mr. Brent can deliver the balance to his client.” He placed a small flashlight on the table and went through the stacks of documents in front of him, separating out certain documents and placed portions of the stacks back into the briefcase.

“This is what I’m looking for. Pack the rest of the documents back into the other briefcase and give them to Brent.”

As Kelly packed the remaining documents, Brent said, “I’ll relay these to my client, but first I have to go to the loo. I’ll be right back.”

Inside the rest room, he removed a small metal cylinder from his pocket and screwed the suppressor on the barrel of his automatic pistol. Back inside the room, he held the pistol behind his leg. “It looks like we’re done here.” A mischievous smile creased his face as he raised the pistol level to the chests of the two men at the other end of the table.

Kelly was the first to respond. He threw a sheaf of papers at Brent. Momentarily distracted, Brent’s first shot swished past Kelly’s head and thudded into the wall beyond. The second caught Kelly in the forearm as he rushed out the door and slammed it behind him. Brent’s third shot thudded into the closed door.

Brent wheeled around and saw only a flash of the other man’s dark coat and the briefcase he carried. The man pulled a small automatic pistol from his coat pocket as he disappeared into a butler’s pantry at the other end of the room.

The lock inside the pantry clicked into place, and the man slid out of his dark coat and dropped it on the floor. Clutching the briefcase and gun, he continued through a door into another conference room. The room was being refurbished, and there were drop cloths and cans of paint on the floor. At the other end of the room, a stepladder reached almost to the low ceiling. Still holding the briefcase and gun, he scrambled up the ladder. At the top, he pushed the two by four acoustical tile panel up and climbed into the space above the ceiling. Hoping to conceal his presence, he reached down and pushed the stepladder until it toppled over, folding up and crashing to the floor. It required effort, but he still managed to slide the ceiling panel back into place before easing himself onto the cross member supports.

He was panting from the over-exertion and he froze, listening for any movement below.

Chapter 86

In the rear parking lot, Hammersmith and Thorne met with three policemen. The man in charge said, “I’m sorry, Inspector, but we had no idea who we’re looking for. We do have the entrances blocked off and no one has left in the past twenty minutes. We’re detaining everyone in the main room of the bar.”

Hammersmith gestured to Thorne. “This man can identify the two who should be in there.”

Just then, there was a scuffle at the rear of the building as two uniformed policemen led a big man through the rear door. Blood was streaming down the his arm.

Thorne exclaimed, “There’s one of them!” “That’s Kelly. The other two must still be inside.”

Hammersmith pushed Kelly against the wall of the building. “All right, where are the other two?”

Kelly’s face was contorted in pain. “I need to go to the hospital— I think— I think the bone’s broken in my arm. I need help!”

“You’ll get it when you tell me where they are,” Hammersmith snapped. “Who are they? Give me names and descriptions.”

“In a back room— the middle room— they’re in a back room—two of them. I can’t think. It hurts, it really hurts—get me to a hospital. I’m bleeding to death!” he screamed.

Back in the conference room, Brent quickly realized the attempt to kill the other two men had failed, and began to load the documents back into the briefcase.

There was a commotion in the bar room. A policeman was ordering the people in the bar against the wall. Brent stopped and thought about his predicament. He no longer had any intention of taking the documents with him. No one here knew him. He would just have to abandon the documents and fake it. He wiped his prints from the gun and placed it and the shoulder holster in the briefcase with the documents. Then he removed his black raincoat and tie, and moved slowly toward the door. He took a roll of dark hair from his jacket and unrolled it. He put the wig on and smoothed it down.

There were a few people milling about in the hallway as he slipped across the narrow hall to the rest room and into a stall. He took off his rimless glasses and donned a pair of horn-rim glasses, fitting them to the bridge of his nose as he quickly removed his jacket.

As he unbuttoned his dress shirt, he exposed a yellow tee shirt displaying a Guinness Beer logo. He took off the dress shirt and wrapped it in his jacket. As he exited the stall, he stuffed the rolled-up jacket and shirt into a waste can, and glanced in the mirror as he moved slowly to the door. He grabbed a glass that had been left on the shelf in the restroom, and ran water into it. He opened the door and waved the glass at a passing policeman, “What is it, officer? Whash the matter?”

The policeman said, “There’s been a shooting, Sir. No one can leave the building. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go into the bar room and wait with the others.”

“Of course. How awful—fully dreadful,” Brent said in a slightly slurred voice. “Do they have the perf—perp—etrator?”

The policeman ignored the mumblings of the drunk and went down the hall, ordering those milling about to go to the bar room.

Brent staggered slightly as he went into the bar room. His eyes darted left and right taking in the scene. He picked out a small homely woman standing alone against the wall. He went to her and hooked his arm into hers, hoping to give others the impression they were together.

“Oh my, this is exciting, isn’t it? Do you mind if I stay here with you? I’m dreadfully afraid of gunfire. Was anyone hurt?”

She appeared flattered and relieved to see him. “A big man ran through here, and then went out the back. He was bleeding bad.”

Brent casually adjusted his horn-rim glasses and put on his most charming persona. “That’s terrible. I was just back there, but I didn’t see anyone.”

They found a table near a window and sat down. He checked the window to see if it was locked. It was, and he casually unlocked it before returning to the table. He pretended to listen to her as he calculated his next move.

Chapter 87

Hammersmith spoke casually into his cell phone before directing the policemen to question everyone in the bar room. He took his time as a ruse to allow Thorne time to search the faces in the room.

Thorne scanned the room. In the corner of the room, he saw what he was looking for. He recognized the face on a small man at a table against the far wall. There wasn’t a single short-haired blonde man in the room, but this face was the right size and shape. The long dark hair, oversize glasses and yellow tee shirt couldn’t overcome the image of the face Thorne remembered.

He looked hard at the man across the room and waited for him to return his stare. Brent casually looked in the direction of Thorne, and their eyes locked. Brent realized he’d been made and realized he had to make a move.

He rushed to the window and threw up the lower portion of the window. Twisted his body around, he went through feet first. He landed on the ground six feet below and braced himself against the side of the building. He turned to his right and saw three uniformed policemen advancing. Reversing his direction of escape, he was immediately smothered and forced to the ground by two other policemen.

He went limp as his hands were roughly pulled behind his back and handcuffed. “It’s all right,” he said with resignation. “Take it easy, I’m not going anywhere.”

Thorne poked his head out the window and exchanged looks with Brent. “Where is the—?

Brent, the professional to the end, shrugged and with a wane smile said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne, I can’t help you.”

Thorne turned back to Hammersmith. “No help there. I have no idea who we might be looking for, but I know he’s still here, and he probably has the documents with him.”

Hammersmith’s assistant whispered something in his ear, and he motioned for Thorne to follow them.

In the meeting room, two plainclothesmen were unloading the documents, pistol and shoulder holster from the briefcases. Thorne went immediately to the documents and examined them. He said, “Some of the records are missing. He’s got them, and he’s still in the building. Make sure no one leaves.” He tried the door to the butler’s pantry.

“This door is locked—what’s in here?” he asked the manager.

“It’s a pantry. It’s accessible from another conference room on the other side.”

Hammersmith directed his men to stay in the room and guard the documents. He and Thorne followed the manager out into the hall. They approached the door of the other conference room and the manager withdrew.

Hammersmith took out his gun, and he and Thorne cautiously entered the room. They stood looking at the pantry door. Thorne jerked the door open quickly and stepped back, dropping out of the probable line of fire of Hammersmith’s gun. The small pantry was empty except for the black coat that had been dropped on the floor.

Hammersmith put his gun in his holster and motioned for Thorne to follow him back into the hallway. “Nothing. Let’s see what the others may have found.” He went through the door, and Thorne followed.

As Thorne closed the door behind him, he gave the room one last glance, noticing the ladder at the other end of the room that had fallen on a flat paint pan and roller, and spilled fresh paint on the floor. He stopped, went back into the room, and silently closed the door behind him.

Something wasn’t right. Why would a painter drop a stepladder on a pan of wet paint and leave it to dry on the floor?

He stood perfectly still, listening. He heard a slight sound, as if cloth was brushing against something. The sound seemed to becoming from the ceiling at the other end of the room directly over the fallen ladder. Thorne said with finality, “We know you’re up there. It’s over. You’re going to have to come down.”

There was more movement, then a sound of the ceiling tile fracturing. Suddenly, the ceiling collapsed and a body came crashing down into a pile of paint-stained drop cloths on the table below. Thorne rushed the fallen figure and cocked his fist to throw a blow.

A terrified, wide-eyed Kirk-Halstrom, retrieved the briefcase, threw his hands and the briefcase up to protect himself,. “No! No! Don’t hit me.”

Hammersmith rushed into the room with his gun drawn and yelled at Thorne, “Back away! Give me room!” His attention was fixed on the small figure cowering on the other side of the room. “Drop the briefcase and let me see your hands!

Kirk-Halstrom dropped the briefcase and exposed the gun he was gripping in his small hand. He whimpered, “No, no! This can’t be happening! No!”

The shots from his gun rang throughout the small room. The first shot went into the wall high above Hammersmith’s head. The second caught Hammersmith in the thigh and he went down. With Hammersmith down, the wild-eyed Kirk-Halstrom pointed his gun at Thorne and was getting ready to fire again when Hammersmith’s .357 exploded twice, catching him in the forearm and grazing his side, throwing him against the wall.

He rebounded off the wall, and Thorne kicked his legs from under him, as he collapsed into the pile of drop cloths. He began to groan as he lay motionless, face down, his hand draped across the half-opened briefcase and scattered documents.

Chapter 88

The large conference room was filled. Reporters, police officials, and governmental-types stood or sat in chairs against the walls. Thorne, Bada, Raskin, Blackstone, Helena, and Rainier sat on either side of the large conference table. Gweneth, in her wheel chair, sat near Thorne, Bada and Charles and Mairead hovered close by.

Chief Constable Ronald Barclay was presiding and sat at one end of the table with two stacks of documents before him. Hammersmith sat to his right, rummaging through files, and placing them in order.

Barclay folded his hands on a note pad. “We appreciate all of you taking the time to come by today. I’ve asked Inspector Hammersmith to provide me with a summation of his report regarding the case. Should you wish to ask questions or add anything to these proceedings, please feel free to make inquiries in writing later.

He turned to Hammersmith. “Inspector.”

Hammersmith grimaced in pain as he moved his leg in the process of straightening in his chair. “Thank you , Sir. We’ve all read the recent news stories about the unusual importance the Home Office has placed on this case, as well as yourself, and your office, Sir. Therefore, I think an explanation is in order, so if you’ll bear with me. A more comprehensive report with names, dates, and places has been furnished you for your review, and you can dispense it to the public as you feel appropriate.”

He paused briefly before continuing. “I think it’s important that we face first things first.

The documents found in the castle—and those retrieved when Kirk-Halstrom was captured—are presently under review, and the controversy about the Shakespeare and de Vere controversy is far from over. Who knows when it will be resolved. That is not my concern. I believe Mr. Bada will release his findings at the proper time.”

He cleared his throat and paused. “For my part, I deeply regret the action I had to take in regard to the injuries to Mr. Kirk-Halstrom. Shooting another man in most circumstances seems extreme, but I think Mr. Thorne will bear me out that I had to take the action I did in defense of our lives. As you know, Mr. Kirk-Halstrom has completely broken down, and has been placed in an institution for the criminally insane.”

Other parties involved in the affair, including, Mr. Linsdame, Mr. Brent, and a Mr. Steenberg in Copenhagen, have been apprehended and are now awaiting trial.

He returned his attention to the file in front of him. After he was satisfied the papers were in order, Hammersmith said, “We have questioned the various parties involved in the affair and I believe the following to be accurate. I have tried my best to summarize it.

“First, it should be disclosed, Lionel Kirk-Halstrom’s interest in the documents were centered on the family history of Edward de Vere and how they related to him personally. He feigned an interest in the Shakespeare-de Vere controversy and promoted the group’s search for the documents that would prove their case. He had a strong interest in heraldry and the genealogy of his family and had made it well-known he was related to de Vere. He was contacted by Freddie Hollister about letters that may have connected Richard Moldar with de Vere, and  he was deathly afraid any de Vere records—if found—may challenge his claims of being related to de Vere.

“When Mr. Hollister originally heard about the letters that described the documents, he felt he needed assistance and counsel, and Kirk-Halstrom’s prominence and reputation prompted Hollister to seek him out for advice. Kirk-Halstrom told him to obtain the letters and he would advise him how to proceed. Upon reviewing the letters, both were intrigued that the letters not only suggested de Vere may have written the works attributed to Shakespeare, but of a priceless diamond necklace which was also hidden away in the castle.

Kirk-Halstrom knew of Neville Forestal’s obsession with wealth and seduced him to join in the venture to find the documents and the necklace. Kirk-Halstrom was already wealthy and his obsession was solely in securing—and suppressing—the de Vere’s documents, specifically those relating to de Vere’s genealogy. He suggested Freddie convince you—Mr. Bada—to renovate the castle. This would afford Hollister a method to search for the documents—and the necklace.”

Unfortunately for Mr. Kirk-Halstrom, the group decided to bring Mr. Thorne in to conduct the search. Kirk-Halstrom soon realized Mr. Thorne had the capability to find the documents. When Mr. Thorne eventually found the documents, Kirk-Halstrom conspired with Linsdame to have Brent and Kelly kidnap Miss Bada. They threatened her with death if Thorne did not give them the documents.

Bada had remained silent and now spoke. “It’s true Freddie approached me with the proposal and I made contact with Mr. Kirk-Halstrom, Mr. Raskin, and Mr. Blackstone to join in the enterprise. Freddie said his desire was to have a more prominent venue for research into the matter, and I still believe that was a major part of his interest. The relocation of his bookstore would do this. My staff and I examined his proposal at length. We all agreed it made a lot of sense.”

Chapter 89

Bada continued to address the rest of the group in the room. “Freddie hoped to establish a Shakespeare and de Vere research center on the scale of the famous Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington. I believe that was his sincere desire. I must say I thought he was a little over the top, but I was impressed—and I admired his enthusiasm.”

Hammersmith made a note on the papers in front of him and continued.

“Hollister was confused as to how he should proceed. He and Kirk-Halstrom agreed to release only the first page of the two-page Richard Moldar letter to Mr. Bada, Mr. Raskin, and Mr. Blackstone. He also withheld the one page Thomas Moldar letter that described the origin of the diamonds that Richard Moldar had included in the necklace made for Queen Elizabeth.

“So, to summarize, the three eventually got together for their own personal reasons.

“Hollister was in it for his intense interest in de Vere, the potential of a more prestigious bookstore, and a possible windfall—and financial security for his wife—from the sale of the necklace.

“Forestal was motivated by the money he would reap from the sale of the necklace. He also harbored a painful resentment for the Bada family, because of his modest upbringing. The marriage to Gweneth Bada and his new-found riches would alleviate that pain.

“Kirk-Halstrom did it for that which is most debilitating to the human spirit—personal pride. Pride in his ancestry, and his obsession with genealogy, heraldry and pomp. It became his reason for living.

“As noted previously, Kirk-Halstrom suspected he may have been from peasant stock or a family of brigands and pirates and he wanted it kept secret at all costs. He believed the de Vere family records might confirm he was not of the same linage as de Vere.

“It is ironic the records confirm he was descended from the de Vere line, so all his machinations were in vain. Kirk-Halstrom did not want the search to be successful, so he hired Victor Roberts and Michael Kelly to go to America with him and discourage anyone his group may decide to hire—in this case Mr. Thorne.

“It became evident to Kirk-Halstrom that Hollister was becoming unreliable, especially when he developed a friendship with Thorne. Later, Kirk-Halstrom and Forestal lost confidence in Hollister altogether and had Roberts create an accident that eventually resulted in the death of  Hollister.

“Roger Linsdame’s interest was simply to sabotage any find in the castle that he thought would discredit Stratford’s claim to Shakespeare. It’s well-known he felt this would impact his extensive business interests in a town where he enjoys tremendous prestige, and Shakespeare is the primary industry.”

“Kirk-Halstrom played on Linsdame’s fears and conspired to have his man Kelly work with Linsdame’s man, Brent in the kidnapping.”

The room was silent before Bada said, “It was tragic what happened to Freddie, and also Gwen. It doesn’t appear to have been worth all the effort. I feel I—”

Barclay was sympathetic in his response to Bada’s self-doubt. “Mr. Bada, I don’t think you should blame yourself. You did what you did out of a sincere desire to do something worthwhile.”

Bada said, “I’d like to take this opportunity to express our thanks for what David has done. I think the results would have been markedly different had he not been involved. He could have easily walked away after his initial unpleasant experiences with our group.”

Thorne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Careful, Gil, I may want to renegotiate our contract,” he said as the room burst into laughter.

Chapter 90

Thorne sat in the airport waiting area reading a newspaper article about the discovery of the de Vere documents. He chuckled when he read the controversy had not been resolved by the discovery, and the Stratfordians and the anti-Stratfordians were still doing battle.

He glanced up and broke into a smile when he saw Gwen’s wheelchair emerging from the crowd accompanied by Bada and Andrea. Charles’s wife, Mairead, walked along side as Charles pushed Gweneth’s chair over facing Thorne. Bada said, “We wouldn’t have missed seeing you off, David. It’s the least we could do.”

Mairead moved away and said, “Charles and I will wait over there, Ma’am. Let me know when you wish to go.”

Bada, Andrea, and Gweneth sat across from Thorne, and Bada said, “Again, we want to express our appreciation for all you’ve done. I know Freddie would have been pleased, too.”

Andrea said, “We were all so saddened by Freddie’s death. He had always been such a dear friend.”

Thorne added, “In spite of his faults, I considered him a good friend, too.”

He changed the subject. “Well, it’s good to see you, Gweneth. You’re looking well. I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal. I feel indirectly responsible.”

“Oh, David. Don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault. They were just evil men doing evil things. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

The three engaged for small talk before an announcement came over the loudspeaker: BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 2538 TO NEW YORK IS NOW BOARDING AT GATE 15.

Bada arose and said, “Well, have a great trip. I do hope you’ll come back and see us. You’ll always be welcome.”

They spent another few minutes saying their goodbyes at the gate before Thorne shook Bada’s hand and bent over and kissed Gweneth and Andrea on their cheeks. Gweneth smiled and said, “I hope you have a wonderful flight, David. I do hope you come back and visit us soon.”

They all turned and gave a small wave of their hands as Charles pushed Gweneth’s wheelchair back up the concourse.

“Just remember,” Bada said as he waved goodbye, “You’re always welcome in Stratford.”            Thorne boarded and, once he took his window seat, he saw an older woman in a wheelchair being pushed onto the plane by her husband.  Thorne stared at the back of the wheelchair for a long time. His mind turned to Gweneth and the tragedy of Neville Forestal. He hoped she would find a good man to share her life with. She was truly a good and decent young woman.

As the engines ramped up, Thorne gave one last wave to Bada who was still standing behind the large plate glass window of the terminal. Then the plane roared down the runway and became airborne.

Minutes later, out over the deep blue Atlantic, the Irish countryside, now turning green, slowly receded in the distance.

Epilogue

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON

THREE YEARS LATER

The Haarvaland International Corporation had hired Thorne to travel to their plant in Helsinki on a two-month contract to assist in the implementation of new security practices. After completing the contract, he decided to extend his layover in London, rent a car, and drive up to Stratford-upon-Avon. On his way up he rolled over in his mind the events of his earlier visit.

Stratford-upon-Avon hadn’t changed over the past three years, just as it hadn’t changed over the past three-hundred—that is, except Ye Olde Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Inn and Publik House. He chuckled as he passed the full parking lot.

In the center of town, the William Shakespeare souvenir stores were still as busy as ever, and the Bard’s name and picture was still prominent everywhere. Regardless of what the outside world may have thought about the Shakespeare and de Vere controversy, the people of Stratford were satisfied with their opinion. The greatest writer of the English language would always be their very own.

Thorne was surprised to see The Classics Bookstore was still there, too.

He went inside and was greeted by a cheerful, straight-backed, and ruddy-faced man in his late thirties. His military bearing indicated he was a retired Army officer.

“Good day, Sir,” he said in a commanding voice. “Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” It wasn’t a question, just a positive way of directing your attention to the beautiful day with the surety the listener would agree.

His red hair was close-cropped in the military style and he wore his red Alec Guinness mustache in the style most people associate with a British colonel or major. His blue eyes were alert and intense. Thorne half expected to see him whip the side of his leg with a quirt and say, “Jolly good!”

Thorne returned his smile. “It is. I find it pleasant.”

“Ah, a Yank.” He thrust out his lower lip, raised his chin, and exuding good will, extended his hand across the counter. “How do you do, Sir. I’m Timothy Carlyle, retired colonel in Her Majesty’s service. I’m always pleased to see one of you from across the pond. Had a lot of chums who were Yanks during my tour in Afghanistan.”

He slapped his leg with his imaginary quirt. “Got my souvenir from there. Bum leg. I can still run the hundred. It just takes a few minutes now.” He laughed at his joke, and Thorne joined him.

“When I was here last,” Thorne said, “the plans were to move the bookstore across the river to Kilshire Castle. I see that didn’t happen.”

“No, my wife and I thought about it and decided to stay put. Better Freddie’s library and research center in the castle, than the bookstore.”

Thorne gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing. He assumed correctly if one were to keep quiet, the talkative colonel and now new owner of the bookstore, would tell him everything he wanted to know and possibly a lot of things he didn’t.

The colonel resumed the cadence of one speaking to the troops and not needing any input to interrupt his train of thought. “Yes. Of course, of course. Helena—that’s my wife—and I made the decision and it was all for the good. “Freddie—” He interrupted himself. “Did you know Freddie?”

Thorne barely got out a yes before Carlyle was off and running again.

“First rate fellow, Freddie. He and I were chums together in our younger days. He became a scholar, I became a warrior, but always the best of friends. Like that,” he said, holding up two index fingers, side by side. I don’t know if you knew it or not, but Freddie had an accident. Lost his life, God rest his Soul. I came up from London to help out Helena and—and—well, I just stayed.” He boomed with laughter again.

“Here we go,” he said and pointed to a framed picture of him and Helena and two small children.”

Thorne never failed to be amazed how much personal information people would tell complete strangers if they just kept quiet. He asked. “What was that you said about Freddie’s library and research center in the castle?”

“Ah, yes, the library,” the colonel said in a serious and dramatic tone. “When Helena and I got married, we decided, along with Mr. Bada to . . . You know Mr. Gilbert Bada? Fine fellow, Mr. Bada.”

Thorne was able to nod in the affirmative before the colonel continued.

“In any case, we decided the library would be a fitting memorial to Helena’s dead husband and my best friend, Freddie. We pooled our funds and kept the bookstore alive here, and Freddie has what he well deserves, a memorial to his work. Are you familiar with his work on Shakespeare and de Vere?”

“Yes.”

“Now, I’ve told you a lot, but I didn’t even get your name. I’m afraid I do go on at times,” he said.

“I’m David Thorne.”

Colonel Carlyle’s eyes narrowed in thought before he exploded. “Oh, David Thorne! Helena has spoken highly of you and the help you provided. I’m pleased to meet you, Sir.” He extended his hand again and squeezed even harder than the first time. “I’m sorry she isn’t here to see you, but she’s busy full-time with the little ones, you know. Takes most of her time these days.”

The two young women cashiers came in, and he looked at his watch. “Well, here are my replacements. I’m afraid I’m off to chicken and peas at Rotary.” He came around from behind the counter, wrapped his arm around Thorne’s shoulders and led him out the front door.

“Mayor Dell is our speaker at Rotary today.” He leaned close and whispered, “I’m afraid to say, he’s a bit of a pill. Not a bright sort of chap.  He helped quiet everyone down after the Town Council approved the castle project.”  He threw back his head and laughed. “But, he was a little peeved, I must say, when a couple of years later, the Bada Corporation, Limited donated five-million pounds to the project. The donation was to set up the now prestigious Frederick Hollister Literary Research Center there to do research on the Shakespeare and de Vere thing. Dell thought it was only going to be a small bookstore.” He laughed again. “Like I said, he’s not  a bright sort of chap.”

Thorne said, “I’m pleased to hear Freddie’s being honored. I always knew he was quite sincere about the research.”

“That’s right. Freddie was quite a fellow.” He continued talking as he limped down the street to his Rotary Club meeting. He assumed Thorne wanted to walk with him, which fortunately, Thorne did. “I only have a block or two to go. You don’t mind do you?” he said.

Thorne never had a chance to answer as the colonel continued with a chuckle. “Linsdame was never one to buck against, but Bada did, and good for him.”

Thorne asked, “You remember the Neville Forestal case, don’t you? I remember Gweneth Bada, and she and Forester had  planned to be married, but—”

“Ah, yes. Nasty business, that. Forestal and Roger Linsdame went to prison, and that other Kirk-Halstrom, went to a mental institution. There doesn’t seem to be a chance he’ll ever get out.

Thorne asked, “What ever happened to Gweneth Bada?”

“Best thing that could have. She married two years ago. Man in the music business. Makes violins and cellos and such. Nice fellow. Family’s well-known in London.”

He stopped in front of a large hotel. “Well, here’s my stop.”

He shook Thorne’s hand for the third time. “Again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Sir, and I’ll tell Helena you came by. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

Favoring his bad leg, he clutched the handrail and mounted the steps. “Best of luck to you,” he said as he snapped a sharp salute and disappeared through the revolving doors.

The hulking form of Kilshire Castle still brooded over the River Avon. The addition had been completed, but the massive stone structure still retained its original character.

Thorne parked in a large lot outside the walled-in Outer Ward and caught a shuttle to the main gate of the castle. As the shuttle bounced along the cobble-stone road, he glanced out of the window to the large Bada manor house high up on the hill. Nothing seemed to have changed in its outward appearance, but inside the manor house he knew it was quite different.

Inside the castle, much had also changed. The workmen were gone. The Inner Ward, the main courtyard, was empty of all the equipment and materials he remembered piled high during the demolition and construction.

The gate keeper, a large man over six and a half feet tall, was dressed in Elizabethan era clothing. He welcomed everyone in a booming voice one could hear from across the moat. The rest of the museum staff were dressed in contemporary clothing. The Great Hall and the rest of the rooms on the ground floor were furnished in reproductions, and in some cases, the actual furniture of the late sixteenth century.

In the center of the Queen’s Keep the large table remained. A clear glass cylindrical case was set in the center of the table.

Thorne was stunned to see the diamond necklace suspended in the center of the case.

He looked around for guards. There were none.

Perplexed as to how a priceless piece of historical jewelry could be displayed so casually, he moved closer and found the answer.

It was a hologram.

He walked around the table and viewed it from all sides. The digital representation of the necklace was spectacular. He’d seen holograms before, but none of this quality. He suspected the original may still be in the castle, and his eyes moved quickly to the poesies plaque on the first landing.

There was a framed document next to the plaque. He went to it and read the information on the papyrus under glass in a gold frame.

The Fire of Ar-Wan

This necklace was a gift to

Elizabeth I

Queen of England, Ireland and Wales

1533-1603

By Richard Moldar

2nd Earl of Hofley

Lord of Kilshire Castle

1515-1595

Thorne smiled at the succinct description. It wasn’t inaccurate as much as it was incomplete. True, the necklace was never delivered, presented, or accepted, but that didn’t alter the fact that it was a gift—a gift of a totally devoted, but flawed man—a man hopelessly loyal to a queen who despised him.

Thorne left the Keep and strolled toward the new library. He thought this was as good a time as any to do what he came here for.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he removed an envelope with a cashier’s check for twenty-thousand dollars. On a small separate piece of paper he wrote, Donation to the Freddie Hollister Memorial Library. He placed both check and note in the envelope, sealed it, and dropped it into the donation box.

Thorne smiled as the slot in the donation box received the envelope. He was satisfied. He realized the Bada Corporation didn’t need his donation. He knew he was donating it for his own peace of mind, as well as for Freddie’s memory. The necklace he’d taken had been returned three years earlier to the rightful owner, the Bada Corporation. Now, he felt this donation partially completed his atonement for what he’d done.

Strolling through the library, Thorne was pleased with Rainier’s design and layout as well as the great number of books on the literary history of England, Europe and the New World.

The large circular room was four stories high with a large circular skylight in the center. Wide balconies housed bookshelves on the walls surrounding the enormous central volume.

On the ground floor on opposite sides of the room were two large glassed-in rooms. Inside were stacks containing thousands of books. Above the door on one was the inscription:

THE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LIBRARY

The inscription on the other door read:

THE EDWARD de VERE LIBRARY

Fitting. Thorne thought. Freddie would have been proud.

On his way back to his hotel, Thorne reflected on the reason he had been brought to Stratford three years earlier. He had completed his task, that of uncovering the de Vere documents. When he took the job, he needed the money, and had no interest who wrote Shakespeare’s work. However, for the past three years it had become impossible for him to maintain his original disinterest and skepticism.

When he returned to Arizona he went on with his life. He would occasionally surf the web to see if anything had come of the studies of the documents and the controversy in general. Bada, Raskin, Blackstone, and the Oxfordians were still studying what had been found, and trying to make the case for de Vere as the true author. Just as often, the Shakespeare Trust came up with new information proving the Stratford man was the true author.

Thorne found himself drifting toward Bada and the Oxfordian point of view—the idea of a man, unfamiliar with the life of the Royals and locales in Italy, being able to write about them, seemed doubtful. He immediately forced himself to stop thinking about the subject. He realized the controversy would continue—at least for his lifetime. He shuddered when he imagined himself spending the rest of his life studying a controversy where there was no answer. He would drop it—he had other things to occupy his life.

The sun was setting over Stratford-upon Avon when Thorne returned to his hotel. The last vestiges of light produced a golden glow on the uppermost walls of Kilshire Castle and reflected off the windows of the queen’s Keep. Four hundred years ago Queen Elizabeth would have had a grand view of her subjects from the high windows, had she chosen to do so. But, it was never to be.

The capricious, and contemptuous, attitude of the most prominent woman in English history, casually cast aside the efforts of one of her most loyal subjects. Moldar’s efforts proved to be for naught. The secret of his gift to her was taken with him to his grave and remained there for four hundred years.

Thorne contemplated the strange choices of those creatures called women. He had always had a soft spot for all women, but realized they are often drawn to the men not always worthy of them. Quick, eccentric and social were their choices as if they were flitting moths drawn to the danger of the flame.

As Thorne relaxed on the balcony of his fourth floor room, these thoughts of the fickleness and inconsistency of womanhood swirled about him. Still, in spite of her attraction to Forestal, his thoughts of Gweneth were pleasant. She would always be special to him.

His room was one of the most expensive in The Avon Vista Hotel, Stratford’s finest. He usually took the more modestly priced accommodations for lodgings. Ignoring the cost, he had chosen this specific room far in advance when he knew he would be coming back. He’d taken it for the view.

Looking east, he made out the roof of the Royal Shakespeare Theater below, and across the Avon, the glowing mass in the setting sun that was Kilshire Castle. Still farther up the hill the setting sun reflected off the windows of the Bada manor house.

The lights had been going on in the manor house for the past half-hour. It appeared a festive event was planned for the evening, and now a long line of limousines and cars worked their way up the winding road to the large motor court. Women in evening dress and men in tuxedoes emerged from the cars parked around the flood-lit fountain.

Thorne supposed it was an important event—perhaps a birthday party for Gweneth—or perhaps . . .

Interesting, he thought. In all their conversation, those wonderful conversations with her, he had never inquired about Gweneth’s actual age or birthday.

When he determined he would return to Stratford, he had made no plans to see anyone of the Bada family. He wasn’t sure he wanted to resurrect old memories.

He went back inside and washed up before going out for an evening drive and one last look at Stratford. He remembered Beth Wright and her invitation. Three years had passed, maybe she was married—maybe she was not. He took her card out of his wallet. Maybe he would call her—it couldn’t hurt. If she was still single, she might enjoy a drive down to London. He had heard a performance of The Music Man was playing in the West End.

He was in no hurry to get back to Arizona.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Larry and Mary Anne Gessner, Pamela Morgan, Kelly Sheppard, Samuel Clemons, Heather Justesen, and my wife Vita.

Other Works by this Author

102 Arizona House Plans

The Clemons Scenebook for Actors

About the Author

Loy Ray Clemons is a mystery writer living in Lehi, Utah, He is a former actor, architect, and president of LRC Design, Inc., an architectural and construction company. He has traveled extensively throughout the U.S., Europe, and Mexico, and is married to his wife, Vita. They have two adult children, Petra and Peter.

Table of Contents

Prologue

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

PART 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

PART 3

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47