London
Thursday, December 18
2:05 p.m.
The cold London air and a chilling mist enveloped Colophon and Julian as they made their way along the crowded streets of London. They walked for several blocks in silence, their frosty breaths trailing behind them. Suddenly, Julian stopped.
“Why have we stopped?” asked Colophon.
“This is the intersection of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street,” said Julian as he turned and gestured at the cross streets in front of them. “Threadneedle Street used to be—as the name suggests—the street where you could find a good tailor. It’s now the heart of London’s financial district. The Bank of England is located just down this street. Millions of people entrust the financial institutions here to take care of their most valuable financial assets. But as we discussed this morning, when Miles Letterford was alive, there were no banks.”
“Yes,” Colophon said, “and people used goldsmiths to protect their treasures. But what does that have to do with where we are now? This wasn’t the goldsmiths’ district.”
Julian gestured for her to follow as he proceeded down Threadneedle Street. “It’s true that there were no banks and that this was not the goldsmiths’ district. Goldsmiths, however, had to be very careful. The items that they worked on were valuable. So they had to develop ways of protecting them from thieves and burglars. Out of necessity, they became very good at doing just that. Many goldsmiths soon discovered that it was more profitable to hold items of value for a fee than to produce gold objects.”
Colophon stopped. “Wait,” she said, “are you trying to tell me that the goldsmiths became—”
“Banks,” interjected Julian. “Not all of them, of course. There are still goldsmiths. But yes, that is essentially how many of the banks in England were founded.”
Julian then pointed to the building in front of where they had stopped.
“This is B and C Bank of London,” he said. “Care to guess what the B in B and C stands for?”
“Bartwick!” exclaimed Colophon.
“Exactly,” replied Julian. “B and C Bank of London, or more formally, Bartwick and Cavendish Bank of London.”
Colophon patted the pocket in which she had placed the key prior to leaving the house. “Do you think that they would still have whatever this key opens?”
“Well, my dear, there is only one way to find out. Shall we cross the street and go see?”
Trigue James had followed Colophon and Julian as they left the Letterford home and now watched from across the street as they entered the bank. A quick Internet search on his phone told him everything he needed to know about the bank—private institution, rich clientele, world-class security, and a reputation for strict confidentiality. This would not be easy.
James knew he didn’t have much time, but he had already started formulating a plan. Fortunately, he knew people—people who would do anything if they got paid and who had rather unique skills.
He dialed a number on his cell phone. The phone rang twice and was picked up on the other end. James did not introduce himself. “I have a job for you,” he said.
Colophon and Julian entered the lobby of the bank through a pair of large, ornate brass doors. The lobby—such as it was—did not appear anything like the banks she had been to in America. In the middle of the room was a small glass desk, behind which sat an extremely proper-looking middle-aged woman. There was no other furniture in the room.
“This doesn’t look like a bank,” whispered Colophon.
“It’s a private bank,” replied Julian. “It serves a very limited number of select customers. In many ways, it still operates much like the goldsmith who founded it.”
“May I help you?” the receptionist interrupted. Her tone was pleasant but matter-of-fact.
“Ah,” replied Julian, “is there a banker with whom we may speak?”
She looked at Julian and then at Colophon, and then back at Julian. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” replied Julian.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “Our bankers meet with customers by appointment only.” Colophon noted that the tone of this statement was decidedly cooler, and she most certainly did not sound “terribly sorry.” “If you will leave me your name and contact number,” she continued, “I will have someone call you at their earliest convenience.”
Colophon bristled at the receptionist’s tone. She knew that they were running out of time. She took out the key and placed it on the receptionist’s desk. “We need to speak with someone about this immediately,” she said.
The receptionist picked up the key and examined it. She offered no indication as to whether she recognized it. Her outward demeanor did not change.
“Please wait,” she said. The receptionist then exited through a door hidden in the panels of the wall behind her desk, taking the key with her.
Colophon and Julian stood in the lobby. The only sound was the faint whoosh of the heated air as it entered the room through vents in the white marble floor. The receptionist returned moments later and took her seat. “Someone will be with you shortly,” she said. No other commentary or explanation was offered.
Finally, after almost five minutes, a door in the wall to their left opened, and a proper-looking older gentleman in a pinstriped gray suit entered the room. The man stood ramrod straight, with a shock of white hair on top of his head. Dark, thick-rimmed glasses sat on the end of his nose.
“Good day,” he said in a pleasant manner. “I am Walter Davenport. I am in charge of the stored assets collection. Would you care to follow me?”
Julian and Colophon followed Mr. Davenport through the door, down a short nondescript hallway, up a short flight of stairs, and into an office overlooking Threadneedle Street. He directed Julian and Colophon to a set of chairs in front of a large oak desk. The room was devoid of anything other than three chairs and the desk. Nothing on the walls. No bookshelves. And nothing on the desk except for a single folder. Colophon could make out the word on top of the folder—LETTERFORD.
Mr. Davenport sat in a chair behind the desk and peered over his glasses at Julian and Colophon. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this afternoon?”
“My name is Colophon Letterford, and this is my cousin, Julian Letterford.”
“Very good,” replied Mr. Davenport. “That offers at least a partial response to my next question.”
“Which is?” asked Julian.
“How you happened to come into possession of this particular object?” Davenport placed the key on the envelope on his desk.
“It belongs to my family. Do you know what it is?” asked Colophon.
“I should say so,” replied Davenport.
“And what is it? What does it open?”
“In due course, Ms. Letterford, in due course. As you may know, we are a private bank. We maintain a strict code of protecting both our clients’ assets and their privacy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but we normally don’t hand over information to people simply because they show up with a key with our name on it.”
Davenport paused. He ran his fingers across the key.
“This is not,” Davenport continued, “a normal situation, is it?”
He did not wait for a response.
“We have, for centuries, maintained and protected our customers’ most treasured assets—many in safe boxes. Once someone has purchased a safe box from our firm, it is that person’s property forever. We, in turn, are obligated to secure that box forever. We have several safe boxes that are extremely old. None, however, are older than one particular box.”
Davenport held up the key.
“This is the key that opens that particular box.”
“What’s in the box?” asked Colophon.
“I have no idea,” replied Davenport. “My job is to protect the box and its contents. What it contains is of no relevance to me. That particular box has remained locked for almost four hundred years. I doubt that there is a living soul who knows what it contains.”
“Can I open it?” asked Colophon excitedly. “I have the key.”
“I am afraid not,” replied Davenport. “According to the registration documents”—Davenport patted the envelope on his desk—“the only person authorized to access the box is the owner of Letterford & Sons, and no one else.”
“But my father—”
“Is not here, is he?” responded Davenport, politely but firmly.