She opened the red volume to the table of contents.
“Stoker became fascinated with hoaxes and pretenders. He said that ‘imposters, in one shape or another, are likely to flourish as long as human nature remains what it is and society shows itself ready to be gulled.’ So he wrote this account and detailed some of the more famous, and not so famous.”
He studied the table of contents, which listed thirty-plus subjects scattered over nearly 300 pages. The Wandering Jew. Witches. Women as Men. The False Dauphin. Doctor Dee.
“Stoker wrote four nonfiction books to go with his novels and short stories,” Miss Mary said. “He never quit his day job and worked for Irving right up to the great actor’s death in 1905. Stoker died in 1912. This book was published two years before that. When I read what was on that flash drive, I instantly thought of it.”
She pointed to the last section noted in the table of contents, starting on page 283.
The Bisley Boy.
He carefully turned to the page and started reading. After only a few lines he glanced up and said, “This can’t be real.”
“And why not, Mr. Malone?”
KATHLEEN BID THE MASTER GOOD NIGHT AND LEFT THE INNS of Court. Both she and possibly Antrim had been led here. Then she’d been directed to Oxford.
I am of the Inner Temple. A member fifty years.
That was what Mathews had told her earlier.
Then, at Oxford, about the Daedalus Society.
The man who accosted you inside the chapel, we have dealt with his group before. They also confronted Blake Antrim earlier in the Temple Church.
Yet it had been Mathews, through the treasurer of the Inner Temple, who’d arranged for the church’s use.
Not some Daedalus Society.
What was happening here?
Her suspicions had turned to outright distrust.
Her phone vibrated.
She found the unit and noted the number.
Mathews.
“Are you back in London?” he asked.
“As you ordered.”
“Then proceed to a shop, on Regent Street and Piccadilly Square. Any Old Books. The American agent, Cotton Malone, is there, as may be the young man we are seeking, Ian Dunne. The flash drive could also be there.”
“What about Antrim?”
“Things have changed. Seems Mr. Antrim dispatched Malone to find Ian Dunne and the flash drive. Since Antrim clearly does not have the drive, I want you to make contact with Malone and acquire it. Do whatever you have to do in accomplishing that task. Make haste, though.”
She wondered why.
“Mr. Malone is about to find a spot of bother.”
GARY WALKED WITH ANTRIM TO ANOTHER TABLE, WHERE A book rested beneath a glass lid, similar to one his mother used for cakes and pies.
Antrim lifted off the cover. “We keep this one protected. It’s the whole ball of wax.”
“Mr. Antrim, why—”
“Call me Blake.”
“My parents always tell me to address adults properly.”
“Good advice, until the adult says otherwise.”
He smiled. “I guess that’s okay.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t real comfortable with the switch to first names, but kept that to himself as he stared down at the old book.
“This is a journal created by Robert Cecil, the most important man in England from 1598 to 1612. He served Queen Elizabeth I and James I as their chief minister. Go ahead. You can open it.”
The gold-and-green pages, their edges dried and frayed, each one as brittle as a potato chip, contained line after line of handwritten symbols and letters.
“There are 75,000 characters on 105 pages,” Antrim told him. “All in code. Indecipherable since 1612. But we were able to break it.”
“What does it say?”
“Things that may change history.”
Antrim seemed proud of the accomplishment.
“Was it tough to break?”
“Modern computers helped, along with that stone on the floor over there you just saw. The symbols on it match the ones here and act as a translator. Thankfully, Cecil left it behind as a way to decipher the code.”
“Seems like a waste of time then even writing it in code.”
Antrim smiled. “That’s what we thought, too. Until we studied the personality of Robert Cecil. Your father mentioned some of that earlier. What he read on the flash drive. Knowing Cecil, though, it all makes sense.” Antrim pointed to the computers. “Lucky for us those are capable of breaking down ciphers far tougher than Cecil’s.”
He studied the pages. “This book is four hundred years old?”
“Every bit.”
He wanted to know something else and mustered the courage to ask, “I remember that day in the mall back in the summertime. How do you know my mom?”
“We were friends a long time ago. I knew her when she lived in Germany. When your dad was stationed there in the navy.”
He knew little about his father’s navy days. Just the big picture—a fighter pilot, stationed around the world, who became a JAG lawyer. There was a plastic bin in the basement at home with uniforms, caps, and photographs. He’d rummaged through it once. Maybe he should do that again?
“When we saw you at the mall, that was the first time you’d seen her since then?”
Antrim nodded. “In sixteen years. I moved on to other duty stations and they moved on, too. Never saw her again, until that day with you.”
He glanced down at the journal and its coded pages.
“Your mother ever talk about her time in Germany?” Antrim asked.
He’d already done the math. Sixteen years was before he was born. He wanted to ask more questions. Maybe Blake Antrim knew the man his mother had been involved with?
“All she said was that she and my dad had a rough time then. Both of them were seeing other people. You don’t know who my mom might have been seeing?”
Antrim studied him with an intense gaze.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Twenty-seven