“I’m afraid I’m going to need your help,” she said, pointing to one of the top shelves.
He was six feet tall. She stood a good foot shorter.
“At your service.”
“It’s there. The fourth book from the left.”
He spotted the red-bound volume and reached for it, maybe ten inches tall, four inches wide, and not quite an inch thick. In good condition, too. Late 19th century, he estimated from its bindings and cover.
He read the title.
Famous Impostors.
Then noted its author.
Bram Stoker.
Twenty-six
KATHLEEN PARKED HER CAR. DURING THE DRIVE BACK FROM Oxford she’d become convinced that she was being played. There was no Eva Pazan, or at least not one who worked at Lincoln College. Maybe Pazan was told to lie. But why? Weren’t they all on the same side? And Mathews had sent her specifically to meet with the professor. If Pazan was a sham, what had been the point? She’d re-checked Jesus College and found a deceit. Now she’d returned to the Temple Church. Things about what happened here earlier bothered her, too.
She parked again outside the walls and entered the Inns of Court through the unmanned vehicle gate. King’s Bench Walk was wet and, thanks to the late hour, empty of cars.
Sometimes she regretted never actually practicing law. Neither her father nor her grandfathers had been alive when she chose SOCA. She hardly knew her father—he died when she was young—but her mother kept his memory alive. So much that she decided that the law would be her career path, too. Being back among the Inns, recalling her days here and at Oxford, had definitely reawakened something inside her. At thirty-six she could easily re-hone her skills and perhaps earn entry into the practicing bar. A tough path, for sure. But soon that might be her only option. Her SOCA career seemed over, and her short foray into intelligence work would probably end before it ever started.
Quite a mess she’d made of her life.
But she had no time for regrets.
Never had, really.
She knew that tomorrow, Saturday, visitors would be everywhere among the Inns, enjoying the grounds and touring the famous Temple Church. But little about the ancient building was original. Centuries ago Protestant barristers, wanting to efface all emblems of Catholicism, whitewashed the interior and plastered the columns—a puritanical cleansing that destroyed all of the olden beauty. Most of what the visitors now saw was a 20th-century reconstruction, the aftermath of German bombs during World War II.
At this hour the church was dark and locked for the night. Midnight was fast approaching. Lights burned, though, in the nearby master’s residence, the custodian charged with the church’s upkeep, a servant of both the Middle and Inner Temples.
She approached the front door and knocked.
The man who answered was in his forties, dark-haired, and identified himself as the master. He seemed perplexed she was there, so she displayed her SOCA identification and asked, “What time does the church close each day?”
“You came here, at this hour, to ask me that?”
She tried a bluff. “Considering what happened earlier, you should not be surprised.”
And she saw that her words registered.
“It varies,” he said. “Most days it’s 4:00 PM. Sometimes it’s as early as 1:00 PM, depending on if we have services or a special event planned.”
“Like earlier?”
He nodded. “We closed the church, at four, as requested.”
“No one was there after that?”
He tossed her a curious look. “I locked the doors myself.”
“And were the doors reopened?”
“Are you referring to the special event?” he asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m referring to. Did everything perform brilliantly?”
He nodded. “The doors were reopened at six, locked back at ten. No personnel were on site, as requested.”
Improvise. Think. Don’t waste this opportunity.
“We are having some … internal issues. There were problems. Not on your end. On ours. We’re trying to backtrack and trace the source.”
“Oh, my. I was told that everything must be precise.”
“By your supervisor?”
“By the treasurer himself.”
The Inns were run by benchers, senior members of the bar, usually judges. The senior bencher was the treasurer.
“Of the Middle or Inner Temple?” she asked.
The church sat on the dividing line between the two Inns’ respective land, each contributing to its upkeep. Southern pews were for the Inner Temple, northern pews accommodated the Middle.
“Inner Temple. The treasurer was quite emphatic, as was the other man.”
“That’s what I came to find out. Who was the other man?”
“Quite distinguished. Older gentleman, with a cane. Sir Thomas Mathews.”
MALONE LAID THE BOOK ON THE COUNTER. MORE CUSTOMERS wandered in through the front door and browsed the shelves.
“They do come after the final curtain in the theaters, don’t they?” he said.
“The only reason I stay open this late on weekends. I’ve found it to be quite worthwhile. Luckily, I am a bit of a night person.”
He wasn’t sure what he was. Night. Morning. All day. It seemed he simply forced his mind to work whenever it had to. Right now, his body was still operating on Georgia time, five hours earlier, so he was okay.
Miss Mary pointed to the book he held. “That was published in 1910. Bram Stoker worked for Sir Henry Irving, one of the great Victorian actors. Stoker managed the Lyceum Theatre, near the Strand, for Irving. He was also Irving’s personal assistant. Stoker penned most of his great works while in Irving’s employ, Dracula included. Stoker idolized Henry Irving. Many say the inspiration for the title character in Dracula came from Irving.”
“I hadn’t heard that one.”
She nodded. “It’s true. But in 1903, while searching for some land Irving might be interested in purchasing, Stoker came across an interesting legend. In the Cotswolds. Near Gloucestershire and the village of Bisley.”