Book of Souls

Chapter 21

Isabelle worked for an hour making a careful translation onto a lined pad. Calvin’s handwriting was no better than a chicken scrawl, and the old French constructions and spellings challenged all her linguistic skills. At one point she paused and asked Will whether he’d care for a “little drinkie.” He was sorely tempted, but he resolutely declined. Maybe he’d give in, maybe he wouldn’t. At least it wasn’t going to be a snap decision.

Instead, he decided to text a message to Spence. He assumed the fellow must be crawling out of his skin, wondering how he was getting on. He wasn’t inclined to deliver blow-by-blow progress reports-it wasn’t his style. For years at the Bureau, he drove his superiors to distraction by holding his investigations close to the vest, offering up information only when he needed a warrant or a subpoena, or better yet, when he had the case all wrapped up in ribbons and bows.

His thumbs were absurdly large on the cell-phone buttons, and the mechanics of texting never came to him naturally. It took an inordinate amount of time to send the simple message: Making considerable progress. 2 down 2 to go. No guarantees but hopeful. 1 thing certain. We now know a lot more than we did before. U won’t be disappointed. Tell Kenyon that John Calvin is involved! Hope to be back in NY in a couple of days. Piper.

He hit SEND and smiled. It hit him: all this sleuthing around the old house, the intellectual thrill of the chase: he was enjoying himself-maybe he’d have to rethink his notions of retirement, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the message was forwarded from the Operations Center at Area 51 to Frazier’s BlackBerry. His Learjet was taxiing to a halt on the Groom Lake runway. He was due for a morning briefing with the base commander and Secretary Lester, who’d be patched in via videocon. At least he’d have something new to report. He read the message a second time, forwarded it to DeCorso in the field, and thought, who the hell is this John Calvin guy? He e-mailed one of his analysts to get a rundown on all the John Calvins in their database.

His analyst had the diplomatic good sense to baldly reply with a link to a Wikipedia page. Frazier scanned it before stepping into the briefing room in the Truman Building deep underground at the Vault level. For Christ’s sake, he moaned to himself. A sixteenth-century religious scholar? What was his job turning into?

Isabelle put her pen down and announced she was done. “Okay, a little background. Calvin was born in 1509 in a village called Noyon and was sent to study in Paris round about 1520. He went to a couple of schools affiliated with the University of Paris, first the College de Marche for general studies, then Montaigu College for theology. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

Will frowned. “Thinking about it, but no.”

She poured herself a gin. “In 1528 he went to the University of Orleans to study civil law. His father’s doing-more money in law than the clergy, then as now! Now mind you, he’s a Roman Catholic up to this point, very strict and doctrinaire but somewhere around this time he has his great conversion. Martin Luther’s been stirring the pot, to be sure, but Calvin jumps in with both feet, rejects Catholicism and becomes a Protestant, basically founds a new branch that takes the religion in a radical direction. Until now, no one knows what caused his change of heart.”

“Until now?” Will asked.

“Until now. Have a listen.” She picked up her pad and began to read.

My Dearest Edgar,

I can scarce believe that two years have passed since I left Montaigu for Orleans to pursue the career of law. I sorely miss our discourse and camaraderie, and I trust, my friend, that your remaining time in Paris will be deservedly free of Bedier’s cane. I know you long to return to your precious Cantwell Hall, and I can only hope you do so before the plague returns to Montaigu. I hear it has claimed Tempete, may he rest with the Lord.

You know, dear Edgar, that God drew me from obscure and lowly beginnings and bestowed on me that most honorable office of herald and minister of the Gospel. My father had intended me for theology from early childhood. But when he reflected that the career of the law proved everywhere very lucrative for its practitioners, the prospect suddenly made him change his mind. And so it happened that I was called away from the study of philosophy and set to learning law. I tried my best to work hard, but God at last turned my course in another direction by the secret rein of his providence. You know full well what I speak of, for you were there at the moment of my true conversion although it has taken a full measure of reflection to convince me of the course my life must take.

Your miraculous book of souls, your precious jewel from the Isle of Vectis, demonstrated that God is fully in control of our destinies. That we proved on that splendid winter

We learned that God alone chooses the moment of our birth and our death, and by logic, all that transpires during our days on earth. We must, indeed, ascribe both prescience and predestination to God. When we attribute prescience to God, we mean that all things always were, and ever continue, under his eye; that to his knowledge there is no past or future, but all things are present, and indeed so present that it is not merely the idea of them that is before him, but that he truly sees and contemplates them as actually under his immediate inspection.

This prescience extends to the whole circuit of the world, and to all creatures. And it follows that God alone chooses whom to elect to bring to himself, not based on merit or faith or corrupt indulgences but on his mercy alone. The superstitions of the Papacy matter not. The greed and conceit of degenerate forms of Christianity matter not. All that matters is the gift of true godliness that I received that day, which set me on fire with a desire to progress to a purer doctrine founded on the absolute power and glory of God. I must count you as the man who caused me to be imbued with a singular and godly pursuit of all that is pure and sacred, and for that I remain your obedient friend and servant,

Ioannis Calvinus

Orleans, 1530

Isabelle put her pad down and simply delivered a breathless, “Wow.”

“This is a big deal, isn’t it?” Will asked.

“Yes, Mr. Piper, it’s a big deal.”

“How much is this puppy worth?”

“Don’t be such a capitalist! This has the highest academic value imaginable. It’s a revelation of one of the underpinnings of the Protestant revolution. Calvin’s philosophy of predestination was based on knowledge of our book! Can you imagine?”

“Sounds like big money.”

“Millions,” she gushed.

“Before we finish, you’ll be able to add a new wing onto the house.”

“No thank you. Plumbing, wiring, and a new roof will do nicely. Surely you’ll join me in a drink now.”

“Is there any more scotch lying around?”

After dinner, Will kept drinking, steadily enough to begin to feel his brain starting to vibrate harmonically. The notion of two down, two to go, reverberated in his mind. He was two clues away from finishing the job and heading home. The isolation of this drafty old house, this beautiful girl, this free-flowing whiskey, all of them were demonizing him, sapping his strength and resolve. This isn’t my fault, he thought numbly, it’s not. They were by the fire in the Great Hall again. He forced himself to ask, “Prophets, what about prophets?”

“Do you really have the energy to tackle the next one?” she answered. “I’m so tired.” She was slurring her speech too. She reached over and touched his knee. They were heading for a repeat performance.

“Name me some prophets.”

She scrunched her face. “Oh gosh. Isaiah, Ezekiel, Muhammad. I don’t know.”

“Any connections to the house?”

“None that come to mind, but I’m knackered, Will. Let’s get a fresh start in the morning.”

“I’ve got to get home soon.”

“We’ll start early. I promise.”

He didn’t invite her into his room-he had the willpower not to do that.

Instead, he sat on a lumpy bedside chair and clumsily texted Nancy: Clue #2 was behind a windmill tile. Another revelation. The plot thickens. On to clue #3. Know any prophets??? Wish U were here.

Twenty minutes later, as he was falling asleep, he didn’t have the willpower to prevent Isabelle from slinking in. As she slid under the sheets he grumbled, “Look, I’m sorry. My wife.”

She moaned and asked him like a child, “Can I just sleep here?”

“Sure. I’ll try anything once.”

She fell asleep spooning him, and when the morning came, she hadn’t moved an inch.

It was pleasantly and unseasonably warm that morning. After breakfast, Will and Isabelle planned to take advantage of the fine, sunny day to walk in the fresh air and formulate their plan of attack.

As Will was fetching his sweater, Nancy called him on his mobile.

“Hey you,” he answered. “Up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was rereading your poem.”

“That’s good. How come?”

“You asked for my help, remember? I want you home, so I’m motivated. The second clue was important?”

“In an historical way. I’m going to have lots to tell you. A prophet’s name. What do you think old Willie was referring to? You’re a Shakespeare nut.”

“That’s what I was thinking about. Shakespeare would have known about all the Biblical prophets-Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and also about Muhammad, of course.”

“She thought of those.”

“Who?”

He hesitated a moment. “Isabelle, Lord Cantwell’s granddaughter.”

“Will…” she said sternly.

He responded quickly, “She’s just a student.” Then, “Nothing about any of those guys rang any bells.”

“What about Nostradamus?” she asked.

“Isabelle didn’t mention him.”

“I don’t think Shakespeare ever referred to Nostradamus in any of his plays, but he would have been popular throughout Europe in Shakespeare’s day. His Prophecies were best sellers. I looked them up in the wee hours.”

“Worth a thought,” Will said. “What did Nostradamus look like?”

“Bearded guy in a robe.”

“Lots of those around here.” Will sighed.

The garden at the back of the house was wild and unruly, the grasses, high and unsown and beginning their autumn wilt. It had once been a fine garden, a prizewinner spanning five acres with wide, open views over native hedges to fields and woodlands. At its peak, Isabelle’s grandfather had employed a full-time gardener and an assistant, and he had taken an active hand himself. No aspect of Cantwell Hall had suffered more than the garden from the old lord’s advancing age and shrinking bank account. A local boy cut the grass from time to time and pulled weeds, but the elaborate plantings and immaculate beds had literally gone to seed.

Near the house there was a disused kitchen garden, and just beyond that, two generous triangular beds on either side of a central, gravel axis leading to an orchard. The beds were edged with low evergreens, and in their day had brimmed with tall ornamental grasses and sweeping schemes of perennials. Now they looked more like sad jungle thickets. Past the orchard was a large, overgrown and weedy wild-flower meadow that Isabelle used to adore as a freewheeling young girl, especially in the summertime, when the meadow dazzled with a spectacular show of white oxeye daisies.

“Two for joy,” she suddenly said, pointing.

Will looked up confused and squinted at the blue sky.

“There, on the chapel roof, two magpies. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy.”

The grass was wet and soon soaked their shoes. They trudged through an overgrown verge toward the chapel, its spire beckoning them in the sunlight.

Isabelle was well used to the oddity of the stone building, but Will was as taken aback as the first time he had seen it. The closer they got, the more jarring the perspective. “It really looks like someone’s idea of a joke,” he said. It had the identical iconic look of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, the Gothic exterior and flying buttresses, the two broad towers topped with open arches, the nave and transept crowned with a filigreed spike of a tower. But it was a miniature version, almost a child’s toy. The great cathedral could comfortably accommodate six thousand worshippers, but the garden chapel held twenty at most. The spire in Paris soared 225 feet into the air, whereas the Cantwell spire was a scant 40 feet.

“I’m not very good at maths,” Isabelle said, “but it’s some precise fractional size of the real thing. Edgar Cantwell was apparently obsessed with it.”

“This is the Edgar Cantwell in the Calvin letter?”

“The same. He returned to England after studying in Paris, and sometime later commissioned the chapel to honor his father. It’s a unique piece of architecture. We sometimes get tourists wandering by from the walking path down the bottom, but we don’t publicize it in the least. It’s strictly word of mouth.”

He held up his hand to block the sun. “Is that a bell in the tower closest to us?”

“I should ring it for you. It’s a bronze miniature of the one that Quasimodo rang in the Hunchback of Notre Dame. ”

“You’re better-looking than him.”

“The flattery of the man!”

They began walking onward toward the meadow. Isabelle was about to say something when she noticed he had stopped and was staring skyward at the bell tower.

“What?”

“Notre Dame,” he said. Then he raised his voice, “Notre Dame. That’s pretty damned close to Nostradamus. Do you think…?”

“Nostradamus!” she shouted. “Our prophet! Soars o’er the prophet’s name! Nostradamus’s name was Michel de Nostredame! Will, you’re a genius.”

“Or married to one,” he muttered.

She grabbed him by the hand and almost pulled him up the path to the chapel.

“Can we get up there?” he asked.

“Yes! I spent a lot of my childhood in that tower.”

There was a heavy wooden door at the base of the tower facade, which Isabelle pushed open with a shoulder shove, the swollen wood harshly scraping the stone threshold. She dashed toward the pulpit and pointed at the small Alice-in-Wonderland door off to the corner. “Up here!”

She squeezed through almost as easily as she had done as a child. It was more of a labor for Will. His large shoulders got hung up, and he had to throw off his jacket so it wouldn’t be ripped. He followed her up a claustrophobic wooden staircase that was little more than a glorified ladder up to the bell landing, a wooden scaffolding that surrounded the weathered hanging bell.

“Are you scared of bats?” she said, too late.

Hanging above their heads was a colony of white-bellied Natterer’s bats. A few took to flight, soaring through the arches, and darted crazily around the tower.

“I don’t love them.”

“I do,” she cried. “They’re adorable creatures!”

Inside the tower, he could barely stand without hitting his head. There was a view through the stone arches to neatly plowed fields and, farther away, the village church. Will hardly noticed the landscape. He was searching for something, anything, a hiding place. There was wood and masonry, nothing else.

He pushed at mortared blocks of stone with the heel of his hand, but everything within reach was solid and firm. Isabelle was already on the floor, on hands and knees, doing an inspection of the guano-covered planks. Suddenly, she stood up and started scraping at a spot with the heel of her boot, kicking up a small cloud of dried droppings. “I think there’s a carving on this plank, Will, look!”

He dropped down and had to agree there appeared to be a small, curved etching of sorts on one of the planks. He reached for his wallet and plucked out his VISA card, which he used like a trowel to scrape the plank clean. Clear as day, there was a round, five-petaled carving, an inch in length, inscribed into the wood.

“It’s a Tudor rose!” she said. “I can’t believe I never noticed it before.”

He gestured over his head. “It’s their fault.” He stomped hard on the plank, but it didn’t budge.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I’ll get the toolbox.” In a flash, she was down the stairs and he was alone with a few hundred bats. He warily looked up at them, hanging like Christmas ornaments, and prayed no one rang the bell.

When she returned with the toolbox, he hammered a thin, long screwdriver into the space between two boards and repeated the maneuver up and down the length of the inscribed plank, each time gazing upward to see if he was bothering the dormant mammals.

When he created enough separation, he drove the screwdriver all the way through and used it as a pry bar to jerkily raise the board a quarter inch. He slid a second, thicker screwdriver into the space and pushed down hard with his full weight. The plank creaked and popped up, coming away clean in his hand.

There was a space underneath, a foot deep, between the floor and the ceiling planking. He hated sticking his hand into a black space, especially with all the bats around, but he grimaced and plunged it in.

Right away, he felt glass against his fingertips.

He grabbed on to something smooth and cold and brought it into the light.

An old bottle.

The vessel was handblown into an onion shape, made of thick, dark green glass with a flat bottom and a rolled string lip. The mouth was sealed with wax. He held the glass up to the sun, but it was too opaque. He shook it. There was a faint knocking sound.

“There’s something inside it.”

“Go on,” she urged.

He sat down and wedged the bottle between his shoes and began lightly chipping away at the wax with one of the screwdrivers until he saw the top of a cork. He switched to a Phillips head and gently tapped the cork into the bottle with the hammer. It plopped to the bottom.

He turned the bottle over and shook it hard.

A roll of parchment, two sheets thick, fell onto his lap. The sheets were crisp and pristine.

“Here we go again,” he said, shaking his head. “This is where you come in.”

She unrolled the pages with trembling fingers and scanned the pages. One was handwritten, the other printed.

“It’s another letter to Edgar Cantwell,” she whispered. “And the title page from a very old and very famous book.”

“Which one?”

“The Prophecies of Nostradamus!”