THE BACK DOOR led into a basement floor. Ben had put the main Reading Room absolutely off limits, on the grounds that the FBI would have planted agents among the scholars. We had arranged, instead, to meet Athenaide in the Founders’ Room, a small haven in a back corner of the main floor. She would arrange, she’d said airily, to use it as a private office that afternoon.
The chaos of preparing to serve a formal dinner to 150 of the world’s foremost Shakespeare scholars and patrons made it easy to slip unnoticed from the kitchen. Rounding a corner, we unbuttoned our white coats and shoved them to the bottom of a laundry cart. Then we hurried down the corridor and up the stairs to the main hallway. Near the end of the day on Friday, it was deserted. At the far end, the door to the Founders’ Room was open.
A little ways down from the stairwell lay the small office that led into the Reading Room. Just inside the open door, another gatekeeper sat at a desk. Ben held me back until we heard someone emerge from the Reading Room and turn in their exit card—not much of a distraction, but all we were likely to get. Ben nodded, and I stepped out of the stairwell, walking as casually as possible past the gatekeeper’s door, down the hall, and into the Founders’ Room.
It was empty. Ben shut the door behind us and locked it.
Originally built as a private retreat for the library’s founders, Henry and Emily Folger, the room resembled an Elizabethan withdrawing room or parlor, with rectangular paneling in dark oak, a beamed ceiling, polished hardwood floors, and blind leaded windows filled with opaque glass. In the middle stretched a long carved table surrounded by chairs a little too delicate for the rest of the room. Presiding over the whole was a magnificent portrait of Queen Elizabeth I.
There was no sign of Athenaide.
While Ben slid around the room’s perimeter, I gazed up at the queen. Her gown of red velvet and padded ivory satin worked in gold and pearls set off a fair complexion, deep red curls, and black eyes. In one hand, she held a sieve, symbol of her persona as the Virgin Queen. The painter had given her a face capable of both greatness and cruelty.
Ben was checking a set of paneled doors sealing off a stone archway, when we heard a bang in the back left corner. Both of us turned.
Through a door tucked into a nook, Dr. Nicholas Sanderson, the Folger librarian, bolted into the room, holding a loosely bound sheaf of typescript. “This had better be—” he began. And then he stopped cold on the other side of the table, looking from Ben to me. “Dr. Stanley,” he said in a strangled wheeze.
A dapper Southern gentleman in size small, he had a light Virginian accent, dark, soft eyes like a deer’s, and a sharply pointed nose. His skin was nut-brown and polished like a river stone, and curly gray hair ringed his head in a middle-aged tonsure not unlike Shakespeare’s. He was an aficionado of bow ties—that afternoon’s was red paisley—and he favored shiny shoes that clicked on hard floors.
“They—the FBI—said you might come. How did you get past them?”
“I walked.”
“I’m not sure they’ll be glad to hear that,” he said dryly.
“I’d rather they didn’t. I came to ask for your help, Dr. Sanderson.”
He put both hands behind his back, considering me. “You will understand my reluctance. As I understand it, Dr. Stanley, wherever you have appeared in the past few days, Folios have shown a marked tendency to burst into flame along with the buildings that house them.”
“The Folios at the Globe and Harvard didn’t burn,” I said calmly. “They were stolen.”
“What?”
“Seventy-nine,” said Ben. “That’s the number you own, isn’t it?”
Dr. Sanderson turned to him. “And you are?”
“Hall,” answered Ben, before I could introduce him. “Jude Hall.”
I winced, but no flicker of recognition crossed Dr. Sanderson’s face. Then again, he hadn’t heard it paired with Susan Quinn. “That’s correct, Mr. Hall,” said Dr. Sanderson, his indignation reinforcing his drawl. “It is a number that comes with a certain burden of responsibility.”
“Have you counted them recently?” I asked.
He bristled. “If you are suggesting that one might have disappeared without our knowing, I must tell you that we’re a mite finicky about who handles them, even in the best of circumstances.”
“So were Harvard and the Globe,” I said.
“On top of our normal security,” Dr. Sanderson went on, “the FBI has been here for two days.”
“We got in,” said Ben.
“You may find you have a harder time getting out again,” Dr. Sanderson retorted. “But I take your point. If you’ll excuse me, perhaps I’ll make a count myself.”
“Wait,” I said, as Ben stepped between Dr. Sanderson and the door in the corner.
“Why stop me?” asked Dr. Sanderson, looking from Ben to me. “If, as you have implied, you care about the Folger and the safety of our Folios?”
“I need to look at the Bacon papers.”
“Then I take it that this is not for Mrs. Preston, after all.” Stepping forward, he set the catalog he was holding on the table.
Delia Bacon, it read. Papers.
“Unfortunately, the Reading Room is now closed for the conference, and if you’re asking for access to the vault, the answer is no. Senior staff only.”
“You’re senior staff.”
“Are you asking me to conduct research for you? Now?” Exasperation crackled through him. “As you’ve just made abundantly clear, what I need to be doing is counting Folios.”
“This is bigger.” Roz’s words. I realized that, even as I said them.
His eyebrows bristled. “Bigger than safeguarding seventy-nine First Folios?”
“A manuscript.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of manuscript?”
“One of Shakespeare’s.”
Silence cut between us. “That’s a pretty tall claim, Dr. Stanley.” His eyes flicked past me. “You look like her, you know.” He gestured behind me, and I glanced back to see Queen Elizabeth. “A great queen,” he continued, “but she could lie through her teeth to get what she wanted.”
“I’ve walked into a trap to ask for your help, Dr. Sanderson.”
“I expect that’s not quite true, and that your brooding Mr. Hall here has a weapon. In any case, if, as you say, you’re not the culprit, the trap’s not set for you. Though I take it your search has something to do with the burning—or stealing—of the Folios.”
“I’m not the one burning and stealing. But I’m on the same trail as the thief. I want to reach the end of it before he does. I’m not asking you to do anything dangerous or wrong. All I need is some help picking up the trail of one woman.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, folding his hands atop the catalog. “What do you have to offer in exchange?”
I remained standing. “Part credit, when I find it.”
“And the manuscript?” His voice tightened with hunger and curiosity.
“It belongs in a library.”
“Such as the Folger?” He made no move, but the air between us quivered with tension.
Slowly, I nodded.
He pushed the catalog across the table. “What is it you want?”
“The woman in question wrote to the Bacon estate in 1881 and was given permission to research Delia’s papers. I’m hoping to find a lead to her.”
Dr. Sanderson shook his head. “I’m afraid our records for that will only be as good as the family’s were.”
Ben had picked up the catalog, leafing through. “She’s not here,” he said, returning it to the table.
“What was her name?” asked Dr. Sanderson.
“Ophelia,” I answered.
“Apropos, for someone researching a madwoman.”
“Ophelia Fayrer Granville.”
Dr. Sanderson let out a hoot. “You’re after the Granville letter.”
“You know it?” I asked.
“I know of one letter by Ophelia Granville in our collection, but you won’t find it in the Bacon catalog. She wrote it to Emily Folger, one of our founders, in the early thirties. Mrs. Granville was the daughter of Delia Bacon’s doctor, the man who first committed Delia. He ran a private asylum in Henley-in-Arden. Near Stratford.”
“Upon Avon?”
“Of course ‘upon Avon.’ If I meant Ontario, I’d say so. You’ll want to see the brooch, too, I expect.”
“Brooch?”
“The one she sent to Emily Folger with the letter. You’re wearing a copy of it there on your shoulder. Museum-quality reproduction, exclusive to our gift shop. You didn’t know that?”
Pinned to my blouse, the brooch felt suddenly heavy. A brooch had come with the letter? And had been copied? I tried not to sound as startled as I felt. “Roz gave it to me.”
“Not surprising,” said Dr. Sanderson. “It was her idea that we should copy it.” Rising, he set the chair back exactly where it had been and retrieved the Bacon catalog. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have seventy-nine Folios to count and one letter to pull. It will take some time, but I’ll be back as soon as I finish. Meanwhile, so long as you remain in this room, the FBI will not hear of your presence from me.” He turned for the door through which he’d come.
“One more thing,” I said.
His shoulders set with impatience. “On top of everything else, I also have a major conference opening in twenty minutes. I can only do so much.”
“This thief. He doesn’t just steal and burn. He kills.”
“Professor Howard,” he said softly.
I nodded. “He killed again last night. Maxine Tom, at the Preston Archive in Utah. And he’s tried once for me.”
Dr. Sanderson grimaced. “Thank you. Perhaps you will let me give you a warning in return. I was told it was Mrs. Preston who wished to see this catalog. Are you in league with her?”
“I’m not sure that’s—”
“Be careful, Dr. Stanley.”
“About Athenaide?”
His eyebrows furled in a single foreboding line. “Reputation, my dear, reputation. Lose it, and you have lost the immortal part of yourself. What remains is no more than bestial.” Abruptly, he darted out the corner door. It closed, and I heard the lock click into place.
A moment later, a knock came at the main door. “It’s Athenaide,” she said. “Open up.”
Motioning me behind him, Ben drew his gun, unlocking the door with his other hand.
“No luck with the Howards,” said Athenaide as she stepped inside, carrying a pile of books. “And now the Reading Room’s closed.”
Ben was shutting the door after her, when someone outside said, “Athenaide, wait!” and barreled in after her.
It was Matthew Morris.
“I thought I made it clear I was not to be disturbed,” said Athenaide icily.
“Why do you think I’m playing errand boy?” Matthew retorted. “Everyone else is quaking in their—Kate!” Then he caught sight of Ben’s gun and went still. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Ben shut the door.
“Of course she’s fine,” said Athenaide.
“Who’s the cowboy, then?” asked Matthew.
“Protection,” said Athenaide. “Now, what was it you so urgently needed to tell me?”
Matthew looked askance at Ben’s gun and then faced Athenaide. “At the moment, it looks as if I’ll go unopposed at the debate tonight. Your protégé hasn’t shown.”
Dropping the books on the table, Athenaide pulled a phone from her purse. “Wait, please,” she said curtly, walking off to a corner as she dialed.
“Protégé?” I asked Matthew.
“Wesley North,” he said with a grin.
I did a double take. “The Wesley North? Author of Truer Than Truth?” It was the first major book to argue the case for the earl of Oxford as Shakespeare, and argue it well, in a bona fide academic style, as opposed to the style and tone of a querulous amateur.
“One and the same,” said Matthew. “I’m to debate him as part of the opening festivities of this blasted conference. Dr. Sanderson fingered me to uphold orthodoxy, and I agreed mostly because I couldn’t turn down the chance to see Mr. Mystery.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“Never laid eyes on him. Neither has anyone else. Not even Athenaide, I’ll bet. He teaches at an online university, and he’s never come to a conference before. Unfortunately, it looks like that streak might continue unbroken.”
“What kind of conference is this?”
“You haven’t heard?” From his computer bag, he pulled a program and set it in my hands. Ben leaned in to look over my shoulder.
Red letters blazoned the title across the top of a glossy brochure: WHO WAS SHAKESPEARE?
I looked up quickly. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious,” answered Matthew. “Though it has potential for being pretty entertaining. There are papers on all the major candidates: the earl of Oxford, Sir Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, Queen Elizabeth—”
“Queen Elizabeth?” asked Ben in disbelief.
“Oh, it gets better than that frigid old bat,” said Matthew with a dismissive wave at the queen’s portrait. “Henry Howard, the earl of Surrey, for example, who died forty years before Shakespeare’s first play hit the stage. And Daniel Defoe, who was born forty years after. Or my personal favorite, the otherwise unknown Frenchman named Jacques Pierre.”
I caught Matthew’s name on the schedule for Saturday morning. “‘Shakespeare and the Fires of Secret Catholicism’?”
“Going head to head with the Archmage Wayland Smith on ‘Shakespeare, the Brethren of the Rosy Cross, and the Knights Templar,’” said Ben. “Tough competition.”
“The archmage has a vivid fantasy life,” Matthew said archly. “I have evidence. And in any case, I’ve been reslotted.” He looked at me with eyes full of pity. “I’m the new keynote speaker.”
“Find him,” I heard Athenaide say. She hung up and came back toward us. “You’re not off the hook yet,” she said to Matthew. “Tell the fussbudgets in the office that we’ll find him.” When Matthew didn’t move, she added, “Please.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked me.
“As long as the police don’t find me.”
The color drained from his face. “I’m so sorry. I thought—”
“It’s all right.”
He fished out a card. Jotting his cell number on it, he thrust it into my hand. “Just promise that you’ll call if you need help.”
I pocketed the card. “I’ll be fine, Matthew.”
“Meanwhile,” prompted Athenaide, “I’ve asked for your help.”
Cautiously, Ben opened the door, and Matthew left.
“Wesley North,” I said accusingly, as the door closed.
She ignored me. “How did your chat with Nicholas go?”
Nicholas? Nobody called Dr. Sanderson Nicholas. Not even Roz. Quickly, I told Athenaide about Ophelia, her connection with Delia, and the letter that was not in the Bacon papers. I kept the brooch, however, to myself. That had been Roz’s gift to me, and I saw no reason, yet, to share it. “We’re waiting for Dr. Sanderson to come back with the letter,” I said. “Meanwhile, we can stick to my point. You’re an Oxfordian, Athenaide.”
“Vero nihil verius,” she said, spreading her hands.
I knew that phrase. Latin for “Nothing truer than truth.” But it was no random platitude. It was the earl of Oxford’s motto. A password of sorts, belonging to the Shakespearean demimonde. A fringe world filled with all kinds of madness.
Athenaide smiled ruefully. “She does not compliment me, Mr. Pearl, on having attended the University of Oxford, which in any case would make me an Oxonian, not an Oxfordian. Nor does she point to familial roots in Oxford, either in England or in Mississippi.” Taking the brochure, she folded it back to show the portrait of a man in a white high-collared doublet, his ruff edged with black lace. Dark hair and a close-clipped beard edged a heart-shaped face; his nose was long and supercilious. He fingered a golden boar suspended around his neck on a black ribbon.
“By Oxfordian,” continued Athenaide, “she means that I believe that the plays we call Shakespeare’s were actually written by the man you see pictured before you. Edward de Vere, the seventeenth earl of Oxford.” She shifted her gaze to me, her eyes bright and defiant. “She means that I am a heretic.”