spend 200,000 quid on my book? Obviously pleased you did, but for the life of me, I don’t see the value.”
Will spoke up to penetrate the man’s hearing impediment. “I’m not the buyer, sir. Mr. Spence called you. He’s the buyer. He’s very interested in the book.”
“Why?”
“He thinks it’s a valuable historical document. He has some theories, and he asked me to come over here and see if I could find out more about it.”
“Are you an historian like my Isabelle? You thought the book was worth something, didn’t you, Isabelle?”
She nodded and smiled proudly at her grandfather.
Will said, “I’m not an historian. More like an investigator.”
“Mr. Piper used to be with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Isabelle offered.
“J. Edgar Hoover’s gang, eh? Never liked him.”
“He’s been gone for a while, sir.”
“Well, I don’t think I can help you. That book’s been in our family as long as I can remember. My father didn’t know its provenance, nor did my grandfather. Always considered it a one-off oddity, some sort of municipal registry, possibly Continental in origin.”
It was time to play his cards. “I have something to tell you,” Will said, looking each one of them in the eye, playing out a melodrama. “We found something hidden in the book, which may be of considerable value and might help answer questions about the book’s origins.”
“I went through every page!” Isabelle protested. “What was hidden? Where?”
“Under the back endpaper. There was a sheet of parchment.”
“Bugger!” Isabelle cried. “Bugger! Bugger!”
“Such language,” Cantwell scolded.
“It was a poem,” Will continued, amused by the girl’s florid exasperation. “There wasn’t time to vet it, but one of Mr. Spence’s colleagues thinks it’s about the book.” He was milking it now. “Guess who it’s written by?”
“Who?” Isabelle demanded impatiently.
“You’re not going to guess?”
“No!”
“How about William Shakespeare.”
The old man and the girl first looked to each other for reaction, then turned back to the certifiable American.
“You’re joking!” Cantwell huffed.
“I don’t believe it!” Isabelle exclaimed.
“I’m going to show it to you,” Will said, “and here’s the deal. If it’s authentic, one of my associates says it’s worth millions, maybe tens of millions. Apparently there isn’t a single confirmed document that exists in Shakespeare’s handwriting, and this puppy’s signed, at least partially-W. Sh. Mr. Spence is going to keep the book, but he’s willing to give the poem back to the Cantwell family if you’ll help us with something.”
“With what?” the girl asked suspiciously.
“The poem is a map. It refers to clues about the book, and the best guess is that they were hidden in Cantwell Hall. Maybe they’re still here, maybe they’re long gone. Help me with the Easter egg hunt, and, win or lose, the poem’s yours.”
“Why would this Spence give us back something he rightfully paid for?” Cantwell mused. “Don’t think I would.”
“Mr. Spence is already a wealthy man. And he’s dying. He’s willing to trade the poem for some answers, simple as that.”
“Can we see it?” Isabelle asked.
He pulled the parchment from his briefcase. It was protected by a clear, plastic sleeve, and, with a flourish, he handed it to her.
After a few moments of study, her lips began to tremble in excitement. “Can’t be well,” she whispered. She’d found it immediately.
“What was that?” the old man asked, irritably.
“There’s a reference to our family, Granddad. Let me read it to you.”
She recited the sonnet in a clear voice, fit for a recording, with nuances of playfulness and drama as if she had read it before and rehearsed its delivery.
Cantwell furrowed his brow. “Fifteen eighty-one, you say?”
“Yes, Granddad.”
He pressed down hard on the armrests and worked himself upright before Will or Isabelle could offer assistance, then started shuffling toward a dim corner of the room. They followed, as he muttered to himself. “Shakespeare’s grandfather, Richard was from the village. Wroxall’s Shakespeare country.” He was scanning the far wall. “Where is he? Where’s Edgar?”
“Which Edgar, Granddad? We’ve had several.”
“You know, the Reformer. Not our blackest sheep, but not far off. He would have been lord of the manor in 1581. There he is. Second from the left, halfway up the wall. You see? The fellow in the ridiculously high collar. Not one of the most handsome Cantwells-we’ve had some genetic variation over the centuries.”
Isabelle switched on a floor lamp, casting some light upon a portrait of a dour, pointy-chinned man with a reddish goatee standing in an arrogant, puffy-chested, three-quarter pose. He was dressed in a tight, black tunic with large gold buttons and had a conical Dutch-style hat with a saucer-shaped brim.
“Yes, that’s him,” Cantwell affirmed. “We had a chap in from the National Gallery a good while back who said it might have been painted by Robert Peake the Elder. Remind your father of that when I pop off, Isabelle. Could be worth a few quid if he needs to flog it.”
From across the room, a woman’s foghorn voice startled them. “Hallo! I’m back. Give me an hour, and I’ll have lunch ready.” The housekeeper, a short, sturdy woman, was still in her wet scarf, clutching her handbag, all business.
Isabelle called to her, “Our visitor is here, Louise.”
“I can see that. Did you find the clean towels I put out?”
“We haven’t been upstairs yet.”
“Well, don’t be rude!” she scolded. “Let the gentleman have a wash. He’s come a long way. And send your grandfather to the kitchen for his pills.”
“What’s she going on about?”
“Louise says, take your pills.”
Cantwell looked up at his ancestor and shrugged emphatically. “To be continued, Edgar. That woman strikes fear in my heart.”
The upstairs guest wing was cool and dark, a long, paneled hall with brass valances and dim-watted bulbs every few yards, rooms on either side, hotel-style, long, worn runners. Will’s room faced the rear. He gravitated toward the windows to watch the intensifying storm and absently brushed dead flies off the sills. There was a brick patio below and a wild expanse of garden beyond, fruit trees leaning in the stiff wind and sideways rain. In the foreground, off to his right, he could see the edge of what looked like a stables, and over its roof, the top of an outbuilding, some sort of spired structure, indistinct in the downpour.
After he splashed some water on his face he sat on the four-poster and stared at the single bar of service on his mobile phone, probably just enough for a call home. He imagined the awkward conversation. What would he say that wouldn’t just get him into more trouble? Better to get this over with and start to thaw out his marriage in person. He settled for a text message: Arrived safely. Home soon. Love U.
The bedroom was old-ladyish, lots of dried flowers and frilly pillows, gossamer, lace curtains. He kicked off his shoes, laid out his heavy body on top of the floral bedspread, and dutifully napped for an hour until Isabelle’s voice, chiming like a small bell, called him for lunch.
Will’s appetite took everything that Louise could throw at him and more. The Sunday roast dinner sat well with his meat-and-potatoes predilection. He ate a small mountain of roast beef, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and gravy but stopped himself from drinking a third glass of Burgundy.
Isabelle asked her grandfather, “Is there any history of Shakespeare visiting Cantwell Hall?”
