Book of Souls

Back home, he imagined that Nancy would be up soon, and later in the morning she would take Phillip out in the stroller, that is, if it weren’t pouring there too. He’d forgotten to check the forecast before he left but regardless, he was certain Nancy would have her head in a personal little rain cloud. When he got done with his treasure hunt, he planned to spend some time in Harrods figuring out how to buy his way out of his mess. Anyway, he could afford it. He was embarrassed to tell her, but Spence had made an off-the-scale offer. He’d never considered himself someone who could be seduced by money, but then again, no one had ever thrown cash his way before. As a new experience, it wasn’t unpleasant.

The price tag for the assignment? A check for $50,000 and the title to the bus! As soon as Spence kicked it, the motor home was his. He didn’t know how he’d afford to gas it up, but worst case, he’d plant the thing in an RV park in the Florida panhandle and make it their vacation getaway.

The bigger carrot was still on the stick. Spence wanted the DODs for his clan, but on that request, Will would not relent. The number Spence put on the table made him gasp for air, but there wasn’t enough money on the planet. If he flagrantly violated his confidentiality agreements, then he was afraid Nancy’s assessment would be correct: he’d be putting their heads on the chopping block.

Awakening from a doze, he heard the conductor over the loudspeaker and blinked at his watch. He’d been out for the better part of an hour, and the train was slowing as it approached the outskirts of the large market town.

Stratford-upon-Avon. Shakespeare country. The irony made him smile. He’d gotten into Harvard because he could clobber a running back who was trying to get a football past him, not because of his aptitude in literature. He’d never read a word of Shakespeare in his life. Both his ex-wives were theater nuts, but it wasn’t contagious. Even Nancy tried to get him to see a crowd-pleaser, Macbeth, if he recalled, but he’d pouted so much, she dropped it. He couldn’t imagine what all the fuss was about, and here he was, carrying perhaps the rarest of all Shakespearean artifacts, possibly the only known piece of work definitively written in Shakespeare’s own hand.

The station was Sunday-quiet, with only a handful of cabs at the stand. A driver was standing next to his car, smoking a cigarette in the drizzle, his cap soaked through. He flicked away the butt and asked Will where he was heading.

“Going to Wroxall,” Will said. “A place called Cantwell Hall.”

“Didn’t figure you for a Willie Wonka tourist,” the cabbie said, looking him up and down. Will didn’t get his meaning. “You know, Willie Shake Rattle and Roll, the great bard and all that.”

Everyone’s a profiler, these days, Will thought.

Wroxall was a small village about ten miles north of Stratford, deeper into the ancient Forest of Arden, now hardly that, the forest cleared centuries ago for agriculture. The Normans had called Arden the beautiful wild country. The best description it could muster today would be pleasant and tame.

The taxi sped along the secondary roads past dense hedgerows of field maple, hawthorn, and hazel, and plowed, stubbly fields.

“Lovely weather you brung with you,” the cabbie said.

Will didn’t want to do small talk.

“Most folks going to Wroxall go to the Abbey Estate conferencing center. Beautiful place, all done up ’bout ten years back, stately hotel and all. Christopher Wren’s country digs.”

“Not where I’m going.”

“So you said. Never been up to Cantwell Hall, but I know where it is. What brings you here, if I may ask?”

What would this guy say if he told him the truth, Will thought? I’m here to solve the greatest mystery in the world, driver. Meaning of life and death. Beginning and end. Throw in the existence of God while you’re at it. That’s why I’m here. “Business,” he said.

The village itself was a blip. A few dozen houses, a pub, post office, and general store.

“Entering and leaving Wroxall village,” the cabbie said with a nod. “Just two miles on now.”

The entrance to Cantwell House was unmarked, a couple of brick pillars on either side of a threadbare gravel lane with a central row of untamed grass. The lane plunged through an overgrown, wet meadow dotted with the fading hues of late-season wildflowers, limp, blue speedwells mostly, and the occasional clump of fleshy mushrooms. In the distance, around a sharp curve, he caught sight of gables peeking above a high hedge of hawthorn that obscured most of the building.