Solomon Key

Chapter 19

St. Paul’s Cathedral sat atop Ludgate Hill, the highest point in the city of London. Flanked by ornate spires, the dome of the English Baroque church dominated the city skyline, a familiar sight to Londoners and tourists alike. Founded in 604CE, the historic church was dedicated to the most prominent of the apostles.

“Let me guess,” Bones began, “you know all kinds of boring crap about this place.”

“You mean like the fact that it hosted the funerals of Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, and Admiral Nelson?”

“Yeah, that kind of stuff. Save it.”

“It’s haunted,” Maddock said with casual indifference.

Bones flashed a sharp look. “No way. You’re just trying to pique my interest.”

“Don’t take my word for it. Google it. Or ask when we get inside.”

Bones took out his smartphone and performed a quick web search. A few seconds later he let out a long, low whistle. “The ghost of a kneeling lady. I like the sound of that.”

“We’re on holy ground, Bones. Don’t make me tell your…grandfather,” he finished, lamely. He’d been about to say “sister,” but that relationship seemed to be over.

Bones seemed to understand, and he played it off with a laugh. “I wonder if Avery would be impressed by your one-and-done with the ghost hunting chick?”

“I might see her again,” Maddock said. “I got a text from her just last night.”

“Really, what did it say? Probably something about your small package.”

Maddock’s face went scarlet. Not because of Bones’ insult, but because he realized he hadn’t even looked at the text.

“I don’t remember,” he said, reaching for his phone.

Bones laughed and slapped him on the back. “You didn’t even read it, did you? Here.” With reflexes surprisingly fast for a man of his size, Bones snatched Maddock’s phone and tapped in a four-digit code.

“Don’t bother,” Maddock said. “The code’s not your sister’s birthday anymore. I changed it.”

“I knew you would,” Bones said. “Which means you changed it back to your dad’s birthday.” He held up the phone so Maddock could see that he’d successfully unlocked it. “Seriously, Maddock, you need to pay better attention to security.”

“Says the guy who uses 6969 for every pin number.”

“Touché.” Bones frowned. “Bad news, bro. It wasn’t a sext. She says somebody came asking about us not long after we left. She let slip that we’re investigating Israel Hands. Unbelievable.”

“She’s a civilian. Probably unaccustomed to hiding things.”

“She’s a chick. It’s in her DNA.” Bones frowned. “Just got one from Avery. She went to Caesar’s Rock and found an artifact with a code carved in the bottom. She’s going to try to decipher it.”

“Nice.”

“She also says she’s fine, but she did almost get killed by Nomi and some other chick.”

Maddock snatched the phone away and read the text message, then fired off a hasty reply, thanking her for the discovery and encouraging her to lie low going forward. He knew it was futile. She, too, had inherited their father’s stubborn streak. At least she had Maddock’s crew, plus her fellow Myrmidons to watch her back. Hell, she was probably safer than him and Bones at the moment.

Although it was very early in the morning in Key West, her reply came immediately.

Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.

He grinned and pocketed the phone. They’d arrived at the cathedral entrance. He’d call Kendra later. For now, they had a search to conduct.

They each paid the fee for the guided tour which was about to begin. Their guide began by describing the vastness and complexity of the cathedral. “There are so many parts of the cathedral that many rooms and sections are unknown to most employees. I dare say one would have to work here for quite some time before learning most of her secrets.” Given that the man appeared to be well into his seventies, Maddock wondered if he might have learned of a few out of the way places.

The interior of the cathedral was magnificent. The nave was nearly one hundred feet in height and separated from the aisles by piers with attached Corinthian pilasters. The rectangular bays were topped with domed roofs and surrounded by clerestory windows high above. Far above them, the dome was supported by eight piers. It was difficult to believe that such an incredible structure had been built using seventh-century equipment.

The tour continued, their guide pointing out many interesting details, including many important works of art, and seemingly more impressive to most of the tourists, a staircase made famous by the Harry Potter movies. He described at length the grand organ, which had more than seven thousand pipes, and had been played by both Mendelssohn and Handel. Finally, they made their way down into the crypt. This was where Maddock had hoped to discover something about the last resting place of Israel Hands, but he was disappointed. The crypt was nothing like he’d expected. Rather than a dark, dungeon-like space, it was bright and open. There was little here to suggest it served as a burial site. It even boasted a Crypt Cafe. As they navigated the crypt, their guide discussed the many luminaries who were buried here. Tombs and memorials included those of artists, scientists, musicians, even royalty stretching back to the early days of Anglo-Saxon England. Furthermore, there were cenotaphs dedicated to the memories of those who were buried elsewhere, including William Blake, whose grave was lost after he died in obscurity; Florence Nightingale, who was buried with her parents in Hampshire; and Lawrence of Arabia, who was laid to rest in Dorset.

At the heart of the crypt stood the tomb of Admiral Horatio Nelson, who died in the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. He was laid to rest in a coffin made from the timber of L’Orient, a French ship he had defeated in the Battle of the Nile. His black marble sarcophagus had originally been made for a Cardinal Wolsey, who fell from favor during the reign of King Henry VIII.

Though he found everything interesting, Maddock kept an eye out for any indicator of a secret burial site, a hidden door, anything that might lead to the remains of Israel Hands. Nothing caught his eye. At the end of the tour, he approached their guide.

“Are there any paupers buried on this site?”

The guide scratched his bulbous nose, frowned, and shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“Any secret burial chambers. Maybe some that aren’t safe for tourists to visit?”

Again the guide shook his head. “Sorry, but no.”

Bones let out an impatient huff of breath. “Look, dude, my friend’s not exactly a people person. Here’s the deal — we research myths and legends for a television show. Ever heard of Joanna Slater?”

The guide shrugged. “No, afraid not.” But the mention of television had changed his demeanor. His eyes brightened and his thin lips curved into an insinuation of a smile.

“Anyway,” Bones continued, “can you tell us who knows the most about this place? You know, the secret stuff — the stuff a tourist would never see. Things that don’t show up on photo galleries or YouTube videos.”

“I would have to say that would be me,” the man said. “I’ve worked here for more than twenty years.”

“Sweet.” Bones took out his money clip and began peeling off twenty pound notes. “How much for a private tour? Show us all the cool stuff. If we think the viewers will like it, we’ll pass it along to the producers.” The guide hesitated, eyeing the money as Bones peeled off a fourth note. “Nothing sketchy,” Bones assured. “Nobody’s office, nothing like that. Just the interesting places. For a hundred?” He held out five twenty pound notes.

The guide grimaced, then accepted the money, tucking it into his pocket. “Very well. It’s not against the rules and I have my lunch break next. Where shall we start?”

“Down here if there’s anything you can show us,” Maddock said.

“Alas, you’ve seen everything on this level, but I can show you some fascinating sights upstairs. Let us go.” As they ascended from the crypt, the guide, whose name was Timothy, began listing the various rooms he’d stumbled across which were apparently unfamiliar to most of his colleagues. Most were simply small, empty spaces that had served no use for a long time. Maddock doubted any of them would be of interest, but he was determined to earn the man’s trust, so he listened politely.

Timothy guided them to a place high above the cathedral and took them out onto a roof. Far below them, London swept out into the distance.

“Dude, you can see for miles from up here,” Bones said. “We should ride the London Eye later.” He pointed to the giant Ferris wheel in the hazy distance. “Kidding,” he said to Timothy, who was frowning in disapproval. “That thing screws up the skyline.” Timothy’s grin vanished and he began pointing out different sites in the distance. Bones looked at Maddock and winked.

“Well played,” Maddock said quietly.

Next, Timothy showed them the vast swathes of black on sections of the wall, caused by acid rain due to the polluted air of London. The problems stemmed mostly from coal smoke up until the late twentieth century. Maddock nodded along, trying not to show impatience. He sensed they hadn’t yet reached a level of comfort at which they could broach the subject of Israel Hands. He asked a few questions, made conversation, showed interest in everything Timothy showed them until, finally, the guide’s lunch hour was drawing to an end.

They stood in a secret room above the choir. Timothy jokingly urged them not to feel nervous knowing that only a centuries-old, nine-inch thick stone floor lay between them and a fall to certain death. Maddock and Bones laughed along.

“I should probably move,” Bones said. “I weigh more than you two put together.”

“I hope this has been helpful,” Timothy said. “Perhaps there’s something here that will interest your producers.”

“Absolutely,” Maddock said. “I do have a question about a story we were asked to follow up on. It’s about a man named Israel Hands.” He recounted the story they’d been told at the Docklands Museum. Timothy listened and nodded along, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“I don’t know that particular story. In fact, the only story I know about a man named Israel is quite far-fetched, but it might actually be of interest to your viewing audience.”

“What’s that?” Maddock asked.

“It’s absurd, really, but there have been many accounts of,” he paused and cleared his throat, “of ghosts haunting the grounds of the cathedral. Superstition, of course, but there is one story that stands out.”

“What story would that be?” Maddock asked.

“Most the accounts of ghosts are the usual claptrap: a whistling clergyman, a kneeling worshiper, the sorts of things you always hear about in old cathedrals. They are lighthearted, amusing tales that add color to the history of the church. No one takes them seriously. There is, however, another ghost, the ghost of a man who calls himself Israel, which is so frightening, so real, according to those who have seen him that it gives them the chills to even talk about him. We don’t share that story with the public.”

“What can you tell us about him?” Bones said.

“A gaunt man, he paces back and forth, never covering more than a few meters, as if he is confined to a cell.” Maddock raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. “He mutters about the people he killed, about atoning for his sins, about the secrets he hides, and the spirits that torment him. And he always talks about wanting to teach, as if he has a lesson to share.”

A smile creased Bones’ face at the mention of the word “teach.” He was obviously thinking the same thing as Maddock. The ghost could be talking about Edward Teach.

“What else can you tell us?” Maddock asked. “Anything at all.”

Timothy’s face went ashen and he wobbled.

“You okay?” Bones reached out a hand to steady the old man.

“I’m quite fine. It’s just that I’m one of the people who has seen Israel. I’ve never been a believer in ghosts, but I believe he is very real.”

“If it helps, I’ve studied this sort of thing for a long time,” Bones said, not untruthfully. “The hauntings that appear to be most real are still harmless. They’re just trying to work out their own issues. Think of it as, I don’t know, a patient lying on a therapist’s couch.”

Timothy nodded. “Quite right. You asked about other details. I can tell you he wears colonial garb, and he always disappears into exactly the same spot in the wall. In fact, construction workers back in 1925 found a secret door in that exact spot.”

Maddock’s heart skipped a beat. “What was behind it?”

“Just an empty room. Would you like to see it?”

“Definitely,” Maddock said.

“You can actually get a look at the spot from up here. Follow me.” Timothy moved to the middle of the room, leaned down, and plucked a wooden peg from the floor to reveal a hole a few inches wide. “This hole looks directly down upon the Book of Remembrance, but if you look over to the left, you can see the tiny door.”

Bones went first, but backed away quickly. “Holy crap, that makes me dizzy. Sorry. No disrespect.”

Timothy smiled and waved the apology away. “I understand. It underscores just how high up we are…and how far we would fall should anything happen.”

Maddock put his eye to the peephole and his head began to swim. Bones was right. The floor seemed impossibly far below them, the splash of colors blurred into a kaleidoscope. He blinked a few times, took a breath, and refocused. Pretend you’re looking through binoculars, he told himself. That helped a little. His vision now steady, he scanned the area until he spotted a tiny door set in the wall. “I see it. Can we go down there and…” The words died on his lips.

“What’s up, Maddock?” Bones asked.

Maddock was speechless. Far below, a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair wandered through the cathedral. It was someone he knew very well.

“It’s Isla,” he rasped. “She’s here.”