Solomon Key

Chapter 20

Isla looked around at the ornate interior of St. Paul’s. She’d seen plenty such cathedrals in her time as a travel writer, but this was one of the finest. The architecture was impressive, the sense of history undeniable. Still, it left her feeling empty.

“I always enjoy visiting here,” Gowan said. The big man stood, hands in pockets, looking around. “I wouldn’t say it brings me closer to God, for obvious reasons. But there’s something about the dedication it took to build this place that inspires me.”

“It’s not a patch on Glasgow Cathedral,” Isla said. In fact, she had no opinion on a comparison between the two, but she was still annoyed that Gowan had come along. It seemed Nineve didn’t want her working alone anymore.

“I’d like to see it someday,” Gowan said. “Just think of what was required to build this place — the planning, the resources, the engineering, the labor, the expense. It makes the task before us seem almost trivial, does it not?”

“I dare say mending a fractured Britain will be a far sight more challenging.” She checked her watch. “Almost time.”

“Time for what? You’ve been maddeningly circumspect about why we’ve come here. I am on your side, remember?”

Her eyes fell on the Book of Remembrance. Encased in a glazed box atop an altar, the illuminated manuscript listed the names of the 28,000 Americans, based in Britain, who lost their lives in the Second World War. We fight a new war, now, she told herself. A war against hate and intolerance. We must come together. That’s why I’m doing this. She mulled over similar thoughts on a regular basis these days. They were a balm for the disquiet she felt about Nineve and her aims.

“I tell you what you need to know,” she said to Gowan as she turned and headed in the direction of the library.

“You tell me nothing. I might actually be able to help you, or at least do a better job of watching your back, if I knew what we were about. Also, it might help if you and I developed even a modicum of trust between us.”

“Fine. We have an appointment at the library.”

“What are we looking for in there?” Gowan fell into step beside her.

“Information.” At the sound of his tired sigh, she went on. “I’ve been looking into the life of H. Rider Haggard.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, muscular man with deep umber skin snap his head around and stare in her direction. Lovely. Couldn’t a woman even walk through a church without being ogled?

“The adventure writer?”

“The man who wrote King Solomon’s Mines.”

“A fiction tale.”

Isla grimaced. This was precisely why she hadn’t wanted to have this conversation with Gowan. “A good writer does extensive research. Haggard was no exception. My research suggests he was, in fact, an expert in Solomon lore. He didn’t merely write a novel about the mines; he studied them thoroughly. And he explored angles no one else has ever mentioned, at last, not that I’ve uncovered.”

“You’re telling me you think H. Rider Haggard found Solomon’s Ring?”

“I don’t know, but I suspect he might lead us to the ring or to the mines.”

Gowan scratched his chin. “I suppose anything is worth a try. Considering how many have sought the mines, it seems clear that an out-of-the-box approach is in order.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Isla winced as soon as she’d spoken. Gowan was supporting her, and there was no need for her sardonic tone. “Sorry. I’m on edge. Nineve has set us what seems like an impossible task. If the Haggard angle doesn’t bear fruit, I’m fresh out of new ideas.”

“Understood.”

The library of Dean and Chapter was located on the triforium level behind the cathedral’s southwest tower. Designed by Christopher Wren, the library's collection was almost completely destroyed in the Great Fire of London. It was later restocked during the rebuilding of St. Paul’s.

The library itself was much as Isla had expected. Lots of polished dark wood, shelves overflowing with thick tomes of theology and church history, and the faint musty odor of old paper. She felt immediately at home.

The librarian was an owlish man with thick glasses and pointy tufts of white hair over his ears. He introduced himself as Vernon and fell over himself making Isla feel welcome, but kept glancing nervously in Gowan’s direction. Isla wasted no time in explaining what she was looking for.

“Sir Haggard,” he mused, removing his glasses and wiping his rheumy eyes. “I have heard tell that he spent a great deal of time at the cathedral and made many donations. As to time spent in the library, I fear I cannot help you.”

Isla had expected as much. “I know of one book in particular which was apparently of great interest to him. Perhaps I could take a look at it?”

“Of course. What is the title?”

“The Stories of Father Febland.”

Vernon frowned. “Not familiar with that one. Let me have a look.” He led the way to a desk where a PC stood in the midst of a jumble of discarded volumes. He saw the bemused expression on Isla’s face and winked. “You expected a card catalog system?”

“Or a monk with an ink-smudged face riffling through stacks of parchment?” Gowan jibed.

Isla resisted the urge to call him a bawbag. She didn’t know if Vernon was clergy or a layperson, but it still felt wrong to curse inside a cathedral, regardless of her religious leanings.

After a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse, Vernon’s brow furrowed. “Nothing by that name. I’ll try some alternate spellings of Febland.” They waited as he worked, the lines in his forehead growing deeper, until finally, he pushed away from his desk. “I’m sorry, but as far as I can tell, there’s never been any work in our collection with ‘Father Febland’ in the title.”

“I don’t understand.” Again Isla resisted the urge to swear. “Haggard was very specific about visiting this cathedral so he could learn from those stories.”

“What if it’s not a book, but a person?” Gowan asked.

Isla rounded on him, ready to tell him where he could stick his suggestion, but she stopped short, gaping. Of course, that was a possibility. Had Haggard capitalized the word ‘stories’? She honestly couldn’t remember. If not, then Father Febland could have been a clergyman appointed to the cathedral…and Isla would be an idiot.

“Good thought,” she managed.

Vernon was already tapping away. “Success!” he crowed. “Father Benjamin Febland served St. James in the early twentieth century. Let me see if I can find anything else.” He worked for a few minutes. “Nothing else, I’m afraid. Not to be unkind, but it sounds as if he lived a rather unremarkable life.”

Isla felt the sting of disappointment. So close. “Any idea what stories Febland might have told Haggard?”

Vernon shook his head. “None. As I said, the only thing I can find about him is that he served here. There’s nothing else.”

Isla nodded slowly and turned to tell Gowan they could leave. Something caught her eye. Someone had been peeking through the doorway. She’d only caught a brief glimpse of him, but that was enough. It was the same man who had taken notice earlier when she’d mentioned Haggard. There was no way he’d arrived in this out-of-the-way spot by mistake.

Gowan read her expression and frowned.

“Someone’s following us,” she mouthed.

He nodded. “That’s very helpful,” he said in a conversational tone, apparently for the benefit of the man at the door. “Is there a back way out?” he whispered to Vernon, who nodded. “You and Isla get out of here. I’ll lead him away and make my own way back home.” Before Isla could protest, he turned and headed for the door. “I’ll check it out. I think we’re on the right track. You keep digging, just to be safe.”

“What is going on?” Vernon asked.

“There’s no time. How do we get out of here?”

“This way.” He led her deep into the library, passing row upon row of books until they all seemed to blur together in Isla’s mind and she felt as if they were moving in place. “Not much farther,” Vernon whispered. “But I don’t see why I need to leave.”

“All I can tell you is you might be in danger. If someone is following us, they’ll want to know what, if anything, you told us.”

“But why…” Vernon shook his head. “Haggard. King Solomon’s Mines? You can’t be serious. It’s just a legend.”

“Not to these people,” Isla said.

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know.” Isla heard the sound of footsteps somewhere behind them. She grabbed Vernon by the arm and hauled him between two rows of shelves. His eyes bulged but he had the good sense to remain silent. She peered around the shelves, looking back in the direction from which they had come. She could just make out Vernon’s desk in the distance. A man, not the same one who had been shadowing them, peered down at the computer screen. “He’s looking at your computer,” she whispered softly.

“Bollocks. I left my browser open. He’ll know about Father Febland now.”

Isla winced. The reference she’d found in Haggard’s papers was an obscure one and she doubted the clue would lead her pursuers anywhere, but still she hated losing what tiny lead she had. “Could be good news for you. They might not bother questioning you.”

“Just the same, I think I’ll take a short holiday. Get out of the office.”

“Good idea. Now, where’s the way out?”

He pointed to a far corner and they took the roundabout way, staying out of sight, until they finally ended at a bookcase.

“And this,” Vernon said proudly, “is our own secret door.” He tugged at the side of the case and it swung forward, revealing a narrow staircase that descended into the darkness. “It doesn’t lead anywhere special; only to the car park. But that is exactly where I want to be.”

Isla nodded. “Me too.”