Chapter 19
St. Paul’s Cathedral sat atop Ludgate Hill, the highest point in the city of London. Flanked by ornate spires, the dome of the English Baroque church dominated the city skyline, a familiar sight to Londoners and tourists alike. Founded in 604CE, the historic church was dedicated to the most prominent of the apostles.
“Let me guess,” Bones began, “you know all kinds of boring crap about this place.”
“You mean like the fact that it hosted the funerals of Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, and Admiral Nelson?”
“Yeah, that kind of stuff. Save it.”
“It’s haunted,” Maddock said with casual indifference.
Bones flashed a sharp look. “No way. You’re just trying to pique my interest.”
“Don’t take my word for it. Google it. Or ask when we get inside.”
Bones took out his smartphone and performed a quick web search. A few seconds later he let out a long, low whistle. “The ghost of a kneeling lady. I like the sound of that.”
“We’re on holy ground, Bones. Don’t make me tell your…grandfather,” he finished, lamely. He’d been about to say “sister,” but that relationship seemed to be over.
Bones seemed to understand, and he played it off with a laugh. “I wonder if Avery would be impressed by your one-and-done with the ghost hunting chick?”
“I might see her again,” Maddock said. “I got a text from her just last night.”
“Really, what did it say? Probably something about your small package.”
Maddock’s face went scarlet. Not because of Bones’ insult, but because he realized he hadn’t even looked at the text.
“I don’t remember,” he said, reaching for his phone.
Bones laughed and slapped him on the back. “You didn’t even read it, did you? Here.” With reflexes surprisingly fast for a man of his size, Bones snatched Maddock’s phone and tapped in a four-digit code.
“Don’t bother,” Maddock said. “The code’s not your sister’s birthday anymore. I changed it.”
“I knew you would,” Bones said. “Which means you changed it back to your dad’s birthday.” He held up the phone so Maddock could see that he’d successfully unlocked it. “Seriously, Maddock, you need to pay better attention to security.”
“Says the guy who uses 6969 for every pin number.”
“Touché.” Bones frowned. “Bad news, bro. It wasn’t a sext. She says somebody came asking about us not long after we left. She let slip that we’re investigating Israel Hands. Unbelievable.”
“She’s a civilian. Probably unaccustomed to hiding things.”
“She’s a chick. It’s in her DNA.” Bones frowned. “Just got one from Avery. She went to Caesar’s Rock and found an artifact with a code carved in the bottom. She’s going to try to decipher it.”
“Nice.”
“She also says she’s fine, but she did almost get killed by Nomi and some other chick.”
Maddock snatched the phone away and read the text message, then fired off a hasty reply, thanking her for the discovery and encouraging her to lie low going forward. He knew it was futile. She, too, had inherited their father’s stubborn streak. At least she had Maddock’s crew, plus her fellow Myrmidons to watch her back. Hell, she was probably safer than him and Bones at the moment.
Although it was very early in the morning in Key West, her reply came immediately.
Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.
He grinned and pocketed the phone. They’d arrived at the cathedral entrance. He’d call Kendra later. For now, they had a search to conduct.
They each paid the fee for the guided tour which was about to begin. Their guide began by describing the vastness and complexity of the cathedral. “There are so many parts of the cathedral that many rooms and sections are unknown to most employees. I dare say one would have to work here for quite some time before learning most of her secrets.” Given that the man appeared to be well into his seventies, Maddock wondered if he might have learned of a few out of the way places.
The interior of the cathedral was magnificent. The nave was nearly one hundred feet in height and separated from the aisles by piers with attached Corinthian pilasters. The rectangular bays were topped with domed roofs and surrounded by clerestory windows high above. Far above them, the dome was supported by eight piers. It was difficult to believe that such an incredible structure had been built using seventh-century equipment.
The tour continued, their guide pointing out many interesting details, including many important works of art, and seemingly more impressive to most of the tourists, a staircase made famous by the Harry Potter movies. He described at length the grand organ, which had more than seven thousand pipes, and had been played by both Mendelssohn and Handel. Finally, they made their way down into the crypt. This was where Maddock had hoped to discover something about the last resting place of Israel Hands, but he was disappointed. The crypt was nothing like he’d expected. Rather than a dark, dungeon-like space, it was bright and open. There was little here to suggest it served as a burial site. It even boasted a Crypt Cafe. As they navigated the crypt, their guide discussed the many luminaries who were buried here. Tombs and memorials included those of artists, scientists, musicians, even royalty stretching back to the early days of Anglo-Saxon England. Furthermore, there were cenotaphs dedicated to the memories of those who were buried elsewhere, including William Blake, whose grave was lost after he died in obscurity; Florence Nightingale, who was buried with her parents in Hampshire; and Lawrence of Arabia, who was laid to rest in Dorset.
At the heart of the crypt stood the tomb of Admiral Horatio Nelson, who died in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. He was laid to rest in a coffin made from the timber of L’Orient, a French ship he had defeated in the Battle of the Nile. His black marble sarcophagus had originally been made for a Cardinal Wolsey, who fell from favor during the reign of King Henry VIII.
Though he found everything interesting, Maddock kept an eye out for any indicator of a secret burial site, a hidden door, anything that might lead to the remains of Israel Hands. Nothing caught his eye. At the end of the tour, he approached their guide.
“Are there any paupers buried on this site?”
The guide scratched his bulbous nose, frowned, and shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“Any secret burial chambers. Maybe some that aren’t safe for tourists to visit?”
Again the guide shook his head. “Sorry, but no.”
Bones let out an impatient huff of breath. “Look, dude, my friend’s not exactly a people person. Here’s the deal — we research myths and legends for a television show. Ever heard of Joanna Slater?”
The guide shrugged. “No, afraid not.” But the mention of television had changed his demeanor. His eyes brightened and his thin lips curved into an insinuation of a smile.
“Anyway,” Bones continued, “can you tell us who knows the most about this place? You know, the secret stuff — the stuff a tourist would never see. Things that don’t show up on photo galleries or YouTube videos.”
“I would have to say that would be me,” the man said. “I’ve worked here for more than twenty years.”
“Sweet.” Bones took out his money clip and began peeling off twenty pound notes. “How much for a private tour? Show us all the cool stuff. If we think the viewers will like it, we’ll pass it along to the producers.” The guide hesitated, eyeing the money as Bones peeled off a fourth note. “Nothing sketchy,” Bones assured. “Nobody’s office, nothing like that. Just the interesting places. For a hundred?” He held out five twenty pound notes.