Book of Souls

“There’s something wrong with the back cover,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen one like this.”

He carried it over to the scooter and put it on Spence’s lap. “Show me,” Spence demanded.

“It’s too thick. And it’s spongy. See?”

Spence pushed down on the back endpaper with his pointer finger. “You’re right. Will, do you have a sharp knife?”

“You want to cut it?” Kenyon asked.

“I just paid $300,000 for the privilege.”

Will had a beautiful little William Henry folding knife, sharp as a razor, a Christmas present from his daughter.

While he rummaged for it in the coffee-table drawer, Nancy came out of the bathroom and pierced him with a look as pointed as the knife blade before clicking the bedroom door shut.

Spence took the pocketknife and boldly cut an eight-inch slit through the edge of the endpaper. Then he inserted the blade, tented up the paper, and tried to get some light in. “I can’t see well enough. Do you have tweezers?”

Will sighed and went to the bathroom to get Nancy’s.

Spence stuck the tweezers through the slit, probing and clamping until something started to emerge. “There’s something in here!” He slowly pulled it through.

A folded piece of parchment.

The creamy sheet was surprisingly fresh and pliable, long protected from the light and the elements. He unfolded it once, twice.

It was written in a flowing archaic script, perfectly centered on the page, executed with care. “Alf. I don’t have my glasses. What is it?” He handed it to his friend.

Kenyon studied it, shaking his head in disbelief. He read it to himself, then muttered. “This is incredible. Incredible.”

“What?” Spence wheezed impatiently. “What!”

His friend’s eyes were moist. “It’s a poem, a sonnet actually. It’s dated 1581. It’s about the book, I’m sure of it.”

“Hell you say!” Spence exclaimed, too loud, making Will wince. “Read it to me.”

Kenyon read it out loud, his voice hushed but husky with emotion.

Fate’s Puzzle

When God did choose to show man’s fickle fate,

Throwing wide the doors to heaven and hell,

Wise souls did try to wipe and clean the slate,

Forsooth such secrets surely can’t be well:

’Tis best to tuck away and privy hide,

The puzzle pieces numbering one through four,

Lest foolish men awash in willful pride,

Pretend to comprehend and soak up more;

The first one bears Prometheus’s flickering flame,

The next does bless the gentle Flemish wind,

The third soars high above a prophet’s name,

The last, close by a son who darkly sinned;

When time doth come for humbled man to know,

Let’s pray God’s grace shan’t ebb but swiftly flow.

W. Sh.

1581

Kenyon was shaking with excitement. “W. Sh! Holy Christ!”

“This means something to you?” Will asked.

Kenyon could hardly speak. “Fellows, I think this was written by Shakespeare! William Shakespeare! Do either of you know what year he was born?”

They did not.

“Do you have a computer?”

Will found his laptop under a magazine.

Kenyon literally grabbed it from him to get online, then leapt onto a Googled Shakespeare site. His eyes danced over the first few paragraphs. “Born 1564. He’d be seventeen in 1581. Early life a mystery. Didn’t surface in London till 1585 as an actor. Stratford-upon-Avon’s in Warwickshire! That’s where Cantwell Hall is.” He returned to the parchment. “Forsooth such secrets surely can’t be well. It’s a pun! Can’t be well-Cantwell. Shakespeare was a big punster, you know. This is a puzzle poem. He’s writing about a series of clues, and I’m certain they’re about the origin of this book! They were hidden in Cantwell Hall, I’m sure of it, Henry!”

Spence’s jaw was slack. He turned up his oxygen flow a notch for fortification. “Goddamn it! I was right about this book-it is special! We’ve got to go there immediately.”

He said “we,” but he was staring directly at Will.

When DeCorso met him at the car, Frazier didn’t have to ask how it went. It was written all over his face in welts.

“What happened?”

“He was a pro.”

“Is that right?”

DeCorso touched his swollen lip. “He was a pro!” he said defensively.

“Did you get anything out of him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He put up a fight. It was him or me.”

Frazier shook his head. “For fuck’s sake.”

“I’m sorry.” He handed Frazier DeCorso’s papers.

Frazier examined the wallet. A license and credit card, some cash. His UK passport looked routine.

DeCorso was reliving the experience in his head. “The guy had commando training. I got lucky. It could’ve been me.”

“He was SIS.”