The guide grimaced, then accepted the money, tucking it into his pocket. “Very well. It’s not against the rules and I have my lunch break next. Where shall we start?”
“Down here if there’s anything you can show us,” Maddock said.
“Alas, you’ve seen everything on this level, but I can show you some fascinating sights upstairs. Let us go.” As they ascended from the crypt, the guide, whose name was Timothy, began listing the various rooms he’d stumbled across which were apparently unfamiliar to most of his colleagues. Most were simply small, empty spaces that had served no use for a long time. Maddock doubted any of them would be of interest, but he was determined to earn the man’s trust, so he listened politely.
Timothy guided them to a place high above the cathedral and took them out onto a roof. Far below them, London swept out into the distance.
“Dude, you can see for miles from up here,” Bones said. “We should ride the London Eye later.” He pointed to the giant Ferris wheel in the hazy distance. “Kidding,” he said to Timothy, who was frowning in disapproval. “That thing screws up the skyline.” Timothy’s grin vanished and he began pointing out different sites in the distance. Bones looked at Maddock and winked.
“Well played,” Maddock said quietly.
Next, Timothy showed them the vast swathes of black on sections of the wall, caused by acid rain due to the polluted air of London. The problems stemmed mostly from coal smoke up until the late twentieth century. Maddock nodded along, trying not to show impatience. He sensed they hadn’t yet reached a level of comfort at which they could broach the subject of Israel Hands. He asked a few questions, made conversation, showed interest in everything Timothy showed them until, finally, the guide’s lunch hour was drawing to an end.
They stood in a secret room above the choir. Timothy jokingly urged them not to feel nervous knowing that only a centuries-old, nine-inch thick stone floor lay between them and a fall to certain death. Maddock and Bones laughed along.
“I should probably move,” Bones said. “I weigh more than you two put together.”
“I hope this has been helpful,” Timothy said. “Perhaps there’s something here that will interest your producers.”
“Absolutely,” Maddock said. “I do have a question about a story we were asked to follow up on. It’s about a man named Israel Hands.” He recounted the story they’d been told at the Docklands Museum. Timothy listened and nodded along, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that particular story. In fact, the only story I know about a man named Israel is quite far-fetched, but it might actually be of interest to your viewing audience.”
“What’s that?” Maddock asked.
“It’s absurd, really, but there have been many accounts of,” he paused and cleared his throat, “of ghosts haunting the grounds of the cathedral. Superstition, of course, but there is one story that stands out.”
“What story would that be?” Maddock asked.
“Most the accounts of ghosts are the usual claptrap: a whistling clergyman, a kneeling worshiper, the sorts of things you always hear about in old cathedrals. They are lighthearted, amusing tales that add color to the history of the church. No one takes them seriously. There is, however, another ghost, the ghost of a man who calls himself Israel, which is so frightening, so real, according to those who have seen him that it gives them the chills to even talk about him. We don’t share that story with the public.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Bones said.
“A gaunt man, he paces back and forth, never covering more than a few meters, as if he is confined to a cell.” Maddock raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. “He mutters about the people he killed, about atoning for his sins, about the secrets he hides, and the spirits that torment him. And he always talks about wanting to teach, as if he has a lesson to share.”
A smile creased Bones’ face at the mention of the word “teach.” He was obviously thinking the same thing as Maddock. The ghost could be talking about Edward Teach.
“What else can you tell us?” Maddock asked. “Anything at all.”
Timothy’s face went ashen and he wobbled.
“You okay?” Bones reached out a hand to steady the old man.
“I’m quite fine. It’s just that I’m one of the people who has seen Israel. I’ve never been a believer in ghosts, but I believe he is very real.”
“If it helps, I’ve studied this sort of thing for a long time,” Bones said, not untruthfully. “The hauntings that appear to be most real are still harmless. They’re just trying to work out their own issues. Think of it as, I don’t know, a patient lying on a therapist’s couch.”
Timothy nodded. “Quite right. You asked about other details. I can tell you he wears colonial garb, and he always disappears into exactly the same spot in the wall. In fact, construction workers back in 1925 found a secret door in that exact spot.”
Maddock’s heart skipped a beat. “What was behind it?”
“Just an empty room. Would you like to see it?”
“Definitely,” Maddock said.
“You can actually get a look at the spot from up here. Follow me.” Timothy moved to the middle of the room, leaned down, and plucked a wooden peg from the floor to reveal a hole a few inches wide. “This hole looks directly down upon the Book of Remembrance, but if you look over to the left, you can see the tiny door.”
Bones went first, but backed away quickly. “Holy crap, that makes me dizzy. Sorry. No disrespect.”
Timothy smiled and waved the apology away. “I understand. It underscores just how high up we are…and how far we would fall should anything happen.”
Maddock put his eye to the peephole and his head began to swim. Bones was right. The floor seemed impossibly far below them, the splash of colors blurred into a kaleidoscope. He blinked a few times, took a breath, and refocused. Pretend you’re looking through binoculars, he told himself. That helped a little. His vision now steady, he scanned the area until he spotted a tiny door set in the wall. “I see it. Can we go down there and…” The words died on his lips.
“What’s up, Maddock?” Bones asked.
Maddock was speechless. Far below, a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair wandered through the cathedral. It was someone he knew very well.
“It’s Isla,” he rasped. “She’s here.”
Chapter 20
Isla looked around at the ornate interior of St. Paul’s. She’d seen plenty such cathedrals in her time as a travel writer, but this was one of the finest. The architecture was impressive, the sense of history undeniable. Still, it left her feeling empty.
“I always enjoy visiting here,” Gowan said. The big man stood, hands in pockets, looking around. “I wouldn’t say it brings me closer to God, for obvious reasons. But there’s something about the dedication it took to build this place that inspires me.”
“It’s not a patch on Glasgow Cathedral,” Isla said. In fact, she had no opinion on a comparison between the two, but she was still annoyed that Gowan had come along. It seemed Nineve didn’t want her working alone anymore.
“I’d like to see it someday,” Gowan said. “Just think of what was required to build this place — the planning, the resources, the engineering, the labor, the expense. It makes the task before us seem almost trivial, does it not?”
“I dare say mending a fractured Britain will be a far sight more challenging.” She checked her watch. “Almost time.”
“Time for what? You’ve been maddeningly circumspect about why we’ve come here. I am on your side, remember?”