Book of Souls

Will smiled impishly. “I may have something in my bag that’ll solve your problems.”

She arched her eyebrows, suspiciously, and said dryly, “Wouldn’t that be marvelous. Why don’t I see what’s keeping Granddad?”

Just as she rose to find him, the old man shuffled into the Great Hall, staring quizzically at Will.

“Who’s that?” he called out.

She answered at a volume he could hear. “It’s Mr. Piper from America.”

“Oh, right. Forgot about that. Long way to come. Don’t know why he didn’t just use the telephone.”

She ushered Lord Cantwell over for introductions.

He was well into his eighties, mostly bald except for an unruly fringe of silvery hair. His red, eczematous face was a weed garden of hairy tufts the razor missed. He was dressed for a Sunday afternoon, twill trousers, herringbone sports coat and an ancient university tie, shiny with wear. Will noticed his trousers were too large for him, and he was using a fresh belt hole. Recent weight loss, not a good sign in an older fellow. He was stiff with arthritis and had the gait of a man who hadn’t loosened up yet. When Will shook his hand, he got a stronger whiff of urine and concluded he’d been sitting on the fellow’s favorite chair.

Will ceded Cantwell his usual seat, a courtesy Isabelle approvingly noticed. She poured her grandfather a coffee, then improved the fire and offered Will her chair, pulling up a footstool for herself.

Cantwell was not given to subtlety. He took a loud slurp of coffee and boomed, “Why in hell did you want to spend 200,000 quid on my book? Obviously pleased you did, but for the life of me, I don’t see the value.”

Will spoke up to penetrate the man’s hearing impediment. “I’m not the buyer, sir. Mr. Spence called you. He’s the buyer. He’s very interested in the book.”

“Why?”

“He thinks it’s a valuable historical document. He has some theories, and he asked me to come over here and see if I could find out more about it.”

“Are you an historian like my Isabelle? You thought the book was worth something, didn’t you, Isabelle?”

She nodded and smiled proudly at her grandfather.

Will said, “I’m not an historian. More like an investigator.”

“Mr. Piper used to be with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Isabelle offered.

“J. Edgar Hoover’s gang, eh? Never liked him.”

“He’s been gone for a while, sir.”

“Well, I don’t think I can help you. That book’s been in our family as long as I can remember. My father didn’t know its provenance, nor did my grandfather. Always considered it a one-off oddity, some sort of municipal registry, possibly Continental in origin.”

It was time to play his cards. “I have something to tell you,” Will said, looking each one of them in the eye, playing out a melodrama. “We found something hidden in the book, which may be of considerable value and might help answer questions about the book’s origins.”

“I went through every page!” Isabelle protested. “What was hidden? Where?”

“Under the back endpaper. There was a sheet of parchment.”

“Bugger!” Isabelle cried. “Bugger! Bugger!”

“Such language,” Cantwell scolded.

“It was a poem,” Will continued, amused by the girl’s florid exasperation. “There wasn’t time to vet it, but one of Mr. Spence’s colleagues thinks it’s about the book.” He was milking it now. “Guess who it’s written by?”

“Who?” Isabelle demanded impatiently.

“You’re not going to guess?”

“No!”

“How about William Shakespeare.”

The old man and the girl first looked to each other for reaction, then turned back to the certifiable American.

“You’re joking!” Cantwell huffed.

“I don’t believe it!” Isabelle exclaimed.

“I’m going to show it to you,” Will said, “and here’s the deal. If it’s authentic, one of my associates says it’s worth millions, maybe tens of millions. Apparently there isn’t a single confirmed document that exists in Shakespeare’s handwriting, and this puppy’s signed, at least partially-W. Sh. Mr. Spence is going to keep the book, but he’s willing to give the poem back to the Cantwell family if you’ll help us with something.”

“With what?” the girl asked suspiciously.

“The poem is a map. It refers to clues about the book, and the best guess is that they were hidden in Cantwell Hall. Maybe they’re still here, maybe they’re long gone. Help me with the Easter egg hunt, and, win or lose, the poem’s yours.”

“Why would this Spence give us back something he rightfully paid for?” Cantwell mused. “Don’t think I would.”

“Mr. Spence is already a wealthy man. And he’s dying. He’s willing to trade the poem for some answers, simple as that.”

“Can we see it?” Isabelle asked.

He pulled the parchment from his briefcase. It was protected by a clear, plastic sleeve, and, with a flourish, he handed it to her.

After a few moments of study, her lips began to tremble in excitement. “Can’t be well,” she whispered. She’d found it immediately.

“What was that?” the old man asked, irritably.

“There’s a reference to our family, Granddad. Let me read it to you.”