The next morning, Crosetti left the hotel very early and went to the British Film Institute on the South Bank, where he watched Jean Renoir’s Boudu Saved from Drowning and The Rules of the Game. He would have stayed for The Grand Illusion, but while he was in the lobby seeking a drink of water, someone tugged at his sleeve, and when he turned around it was Paul Mishkin in a leather coat and clericals. Crosetti thought he looked like an actor playing a priest.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Where else would you be? Not Madame Tussaud’s. Come on, there’s been a slight change of plans.”
“Such as?”
“We’re leaving for Oxford immediately. The car’s outside.”
“What about our stuff at the hotel?”
“It’s been collected, packed, and loaded. Just come, Crosetti. You can ask questions later.”
The Mercedes waited in the street and Jake sat slumped in the backseat, wrapped in a lined Burberry and muffler with a tweed cap pulled low on his head. Paul got into the shotgun seat (startlingly on the wrong side!) and Crosetti sat in the back as far as he could from Mishkin, who said not a word. The small area of skin visible above his collar looked gray and reptilian.
They drove out of the city through miles of wet brick suburbs, growing increasingly like country as they passed Richmond, and soon they were on a freeway. Crosetti noticed that Paul was checking the side mirror and inspecting passing vehicles with more interest than the average car passenger ordinarily showed.
“So, why the change of plans?” Crosetti asked when it became apparent after many miles that no one was going to volunteer an explanation.
“Two reasons. One is that there’s a couple of teams of people following us. They’re good at it, serious professionals, not like those jerks you were fooling with in New York. The second reason is that after Jake’s performance in the bar last night, he was asked to leave, and rather than find another hotel in London we decided to go to Oxford now, stay the night, and see our guy tomorrow morning.”
“I want to hear more about the professionals,” said Crosetti. “If they’re so hot, how did you find out they were there?”
“Because we’ve retained a firm of even more highly skilled professionals. Right, Mr. Brown?”
This was addressed to the chauffeur, who replied, “Yes, sir. They were on Mr. Crosetti from the minute he left the hotel this morning, and of course, they followed you from the Jesuit hostel to St. Olave’s. They’re in a blue BMW three cars behind us and a maroon Ford Mondeo in front of that white lorry in the outside lane just ahead.”
“Brown is a member of a highly respected and extremely expensive security firm,” said Paul. “It’s a good thing we’re made out of money.”
“Is there going to be a car chase?”
“Probably. And at least one substantial orange gassy explosion. Do you want to know what I found at St. Olave’s?”
“Clues to the location of the Holy Grail?”
“Almost. You’ll recall Bracegirdle wrote that the key to the ciphers was ‘where my mother lieth,’ and that his mother was buried in St. Katherine Colemanchurch. Unfortunately, St. Katherine’s, which survived the Great Fire, succumbed to the depopulation of the old City of London and the sad tide of unbelief and was demolished in 1926. The parish was united with St. Olave Hart Street in 1921, and so I went there.”
“Why you’re wearing your priest costume.”
“Right. Father Paul doing a little genealogical research. Apparently, when St. K.’s bit the dust the graves were moved to Ilford Cemetery, but there were also crypts beneath the church. In medieval times, you know, people were buried in graveyards until they decayed to bones, and then the bones were dug up and put in ossuaries, because obviously a small urban graveyard couldn’t possibly hold the dead of a parish for more than a few generations. And this crypt had a door, in which was a sort of window covered by a small rectangular brass plate, perforated to let in some light. The perforations were in the shape of a weeping willow tree. When St. K.’s was demolished, this plate came to St. Olave’s along with the other church valuables and memorabilia and was displayed in a glass case in the vestry.”
“Did you see it?” asked Crosetti.
“No. According to the curate I spoke to, someone broke into the church last summer and swiped it. Didn’t take anything else, just the plate. I suppose we have to refer to it as the grille now. One other interesting thing. Shortly before it got ripped off, a young woman visited the church. She was taking rubbings of church brasses and asked if there was any furniture or brasses from St. Katherine Colemanchurch on hand. The curate showed her the various things and she took a number of photos and a rubbing of the crypt window plate. A few days later the thing was gone.”
Jake Mishkin stirred, cleared his throat. “Miranda,” he said, at nearly the same time that Crosetti said, “Carolyn!”
THE SIXTH CIPHERED LETTER (FRAGMENT 2)
yet the two held me & struggle as I might I could not get free: & there was the box empty & the accusing coines strewn about. Then Mr W.S. held up a candle to my face sayinge Dick what’s this? Dost steal from thy friends? From me? With such a look on his face that I burst forth in unmanly teares. Then he sits me kindly upon a chayre & sending my captor to wait without he sits him too & saies Dick you are no thief, an you are in need cannot you come to your owen cosen, will Will not help thee? More teares upon this til I thought my harte would breke & say I Nay, thou art too goode for I am a foule traytour & no friend to thee for I have werked to thy destruction these manie moneths & now I am so tangled in complots I cannot see my waye clare, o woe &c. He saith, now Dick thou must confesse alle I shalbe thy priest & no man shall know what may be said between us.
Soe, my Lord Earle, I tolde him all, which I have related to you before in this letter, the Lord Dunbarton, Mr Piggott, the playe of Mary & all the plottinges. And further what I had learned that morn at the Lamb, St. Clements, & the two murtherers who tread close upon us both. Here he looketh most grave & stroakes his beard som tyme & saith: Dick thou foolishe boy we must twist harde to scape these netts. O cosen saies I dost forgive me, & he answereth yea thou art a childe in these thynges and were compelled to advaunce the plotts of these rogues to save thee from the Tyburn daunce. Yet all is not lost, for I am no childe.
Then he strides crost the room & back manie tymes, at last he saies know you the Lord Verey is clapped in the Tower, the same as carreyed you the supposed letter from my Lord of Rochester that began these merrie games; & I say nay, I did not & what’s this news to us? Why, he saies, Vesey is my lord Rochester’s man & if he be taken up, it telleth that he hath been discouvered plottinge in some way gainst the Spainish match, it matteres not howe & may soone be put to the queastion & thus all will be revealed & this affayre of oure play will oute withal. Therefore must they covere the trayle they have laid: you & I must be cut off & the play burnt, so my lord Dunbarton may saye if asked nay my lord tis but a phantasma of a racked man wherein I had no hand & no one left to give him the lye.
I asked how we may escape this troubel what shal I do & he answereth canst use a sword lad & I saie passing onlie for I am a gonner & never learned fenceing & he saies no matter we shal have Spade & Mr Wyatt & Mr Johnson shal be of oure partie he hath killed his man, or soe he often saith & I too. What you, quoth I? Aye, saies he, have I not fought more duellos than half the dons in Flanders? Yea, but with false swords onlie, say I. Think you, so? saies he. This sword at my belt is no trumperie boy and have I not walked a thousand nights through Shore-ditch with a sack of silver from the box & fought cut-purse rogues for’t with my steel? Ask Spade can I wield a blade for he taught me & I ween he’ll call me not his least pupiclass="underline" ho now Shake-spear shall shake sword to-night. Tremble thou murtherers!