Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave

7/29/2019 Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/secrets-of-shakespeares-grave 1/31



Copyright © 2012 by Deron R. Hicks

Illustrations © 2012 by Mark Edward Geyer

All rights reserved. For inormation about permission to reproduce selec-tions rom this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Miin Harcourt

Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

Houghton Miin is an imprint o Houghton Miin Harcourt Publishing Company.

www.hmhbooks.com

The text o this book is set in New Century Schoolbook.The illustrations are pen and ink.

Book design by Carol Chu.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hicks, Deron R.The secrets o Shakespeare’s grave / by Deron R. Hicks ; [illustrated by Mark

Edward Geyer].

p. cm.Summary: “Twelve-year-old Colophon Letterord has a serious mystery onher hands. Will she discover the link between her amily’s literary legacy

and Shakespeare’s tomb beore it’s too late?” —Provided by publisher.ISBN 978-0-547-84034-5 (hardback)

[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.3. Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. 4. Brothers and sisters—

Fiction. 5. Cousins—Fiction.] I. Geyer, Mark, ill. II. Title.PZ7.H531615Sec 2012

[Fic]—dc23

2012014801

Manuactured in the United States o AmericaDOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

4500361544



Le Mont Saint- Michel

May 1, 1616

Wind, rain, and waves have pounded the rocky coast

o Normandy or thousands o years. The orces o na-

ture slowly eroded the vast coastal plains to orm a

large bay and, in the middle o that bay—apparently

Prologue



xii

oblivious to the onslaught o nature—remained an

impossibly large granite rock. According to legend,

the archangel Michael appeared to the bishop o Avranches in A.D. 708 and demanded the construc-

tion o a church on that rock. The bishop, who ap-

parently had other items on his agenda, ignored the

archangel’s demands. The archangel, however, would

not be deterred. With a touch o his fnger, the arch-angel burned a hole in the bishop’s skull.

The bishop got the message.

The church was built.

To honor the legend o Archangel Michael, the

rock has been known or centuries as Saint Michael’s

Mountain—or more commonly, le Mont Saint-Michel.

At the highest peak o le Mont Saint-Michel stands

the abbey church, hewn rom the native granite and

surrounded by beautiul gardens maintained by the

Benedictine monks who have lived in the adjacent

cloister or centuries. A narrow stone road winds its

way up the rock, and through a small village that sits

below the church. The church, the cloister, and the

village are surrounded by a ortifed wall—a testa-

ment to the rock’s history as a token o war. However,

it is the raging tides o the bay that surround andtruly protect le Mont Saint-Michel. The tides are not

timid—they are said to be the switest and deepest



xiii

in Europe. Many a man has lost his lie or ailing to

pay due respect to the charging waters.

Over the centuries le Mont Saint-Michel hadserved as a ortress, a prison, and a sanctuary. On

this particular evening, however, Miles Letterord

hoped that it would oer both a brie respite rom

his long trf and the answer to his quest. He had set

out rom England fve days prior, but the weatherhad not been cooperative. On many occasions he had

been sorely tempted to turn back rom this arduous

and unusual journey. Just a wef ago he had been

sitting by the bed o his dying riend. His riend had

placed a ring in the palm o his hand and asked him

to swear an oath—an oath to recover and keep sae

that which his riend treasured most. Miles now si-

lently cursed his rashness in agreeing to such an

undertaking.

The relentless weather o the Norman coast had

let him cold, wet, and exhausted as he arrived at

the edge o the bay at dusk. In ront o him was le

Mont Saint-Michel. The massive rock—its village

lights ickering in the distance—seemed to oat on

the low og that covered the bay. Miles could see the

silhouette o the abbey church at the top o le Mont.His arrival coincided with low tide, and he knew

that the sea had retreated ar beyond the imposing



xiv

rock. This was not, as he had been warned, a guar-

antee o sae passage, and the ading light and og

made the situation particularly dangerous—the baywas not a place to dally. Miles spurred his horse on

toward the glittering lights o le Mont.

The ride across the bay took ar longer than Miles

had anticipated. The lights—so clear rom the ar

shore—were rendered almost nonexistent by thethick og that now enveloped him and his horse. Miles

wondered more than once whether he had rambled

o course—whether he would eventually run into

the teeth o the returning tide. He was thereore

greatly relieved when the light rom a lamp outside

the village gates fnally burned its way through the

thick haze and oered him a guidepost.

Once inside the village gates, Miles ound a public

stable where, or a small ee, his weary horse was

permitted some hay and shelter rom the weather.

Although his body ached and his stomach protested,

he knew that he would have to wait or his ood and

rest.

The rain had now passed and night had come;

the sky opened to reveal a ull moon. Miles walked

quickly through the empty, moonlit streets o the vil-lage, up a steep set o stone stairs, and onto a landing

at the top o le Mont. The imposing stone acade o



xv

the abbey church now towered above him, its spire

reaching ar into the night sky.

Miles looked around the landing.He was alone.

He opened the heavy wooden door o the church

and slipped quietly inside.

He stood inside the entrance and stared down the

nave. The church was dimly lit—our small lanternsoered only the merest hint o the space within.

Looking upward oered nothing more—whatever

moonlight illuminated le Mont could not penetrate

windows darkened by centuries o candle soot. He

could not see the ceiling—just darkness. The shad-

ows in the side aisles hung like curtains. Everything

was black and gray.

Miles stepped into the shadows o the side aisle

and listened intently.

He heard nothing.

The monks who inhabited the abbey ollowed a

rigid schedule—a schedule that called or them to

be in their rooms or evening prayers or at least the

next hour. The church itsel was used only or mass in

the morning and vespers in the evening. Otherwise

it remained empty, except or the occasional pilgrimand cleaning—neither o which would be expected

at this time o night.



xvi

Satisfed that he was alone, Miles walked down

the nave to the center o the church—the crossing—

and turned right down a short passage. At the endo the passage, several small prayer candles burned

on a wooden pedestal. Above him towered a large

wooden sculpture o Archangel Michael, standing

triumphantly with his right arm raised high above

his head, a aming sword in his hand, and under hislet oot, the decapitated head o a dragon.

Miles pulled out his dagger, paused, and listened

once again.

Nothing.

He placed his let hand on the top edge o the ped-

estal and elt along its edge. Almost two-thirds down

the edge, he ound what he was looking or—a small,

almost imperceptible notch. He placed the tip o his

dagger in the notch and pulled.

CRACK

The sound reverberated through the church. The

ront o the pedestal separated slightly rom the rest

o the base.

Miles listened or any sounds.

Again, nothing.

Miles set the dagger in the crack in the pedestaland pulled again.



xvii

The wood groaned and then . . . CRACK. The ront

o the pedestal separated a ull hand’s width rom

the base.Miles paused and listened once again.

Nothing.

He grabbed the ront o the pedestal, took a deep

breath, and pulled.

CRACK The ront o the pedestal had now separated en-

tirely rom the rest o the base. Miles careully placed

the ront o the pedestal aside, grabbed one o the pil-

grim candles, and held it up to the base. The base, as

he expected, was hollow. Inside was a box, which he

careully removed.

Miles examined the box. It was constructed o

dark, almost black wood, edged at its corners with in-

laid brass. Carved into the top o the box was a alcon

holding a spear with the words non sanz droict in-

scribed beneath. On the ront o the box was a large

brass oval inscribed with the symbol or the Gref

letter sigma—∑.

Miles ran his hand over the carving on the top o

the box. It was exactly as described to him. His heart

raced with anticipation, the long and demanding journey now orgotten.



xviii

In his excitement, however, Miles did not hear the

ootsteps bind him.

WHACK The frst blow went directly into his ribs.

WHACK

The second blow struck him below his right shoul-

der blade.

Miles dropped the box and tumbled to his side inpain. He gasped or air as he looked up and saw stand-

ing above him a large bald man dressed in a gray

tunic—the traditional vestments o a Benedictine

monk. In his hand he held a thick wooden sta. His

ace was red with rage.

“Thie!” the monk growled. “Wretched vile

miscreant!”

Miles attempted to scramble to his eet, but an-

other blow to his back sent him at to the ground.

“Ill-bred, bee-witted varlet!” the monk hissed.

Miles struggled to catch his breath. His chest

burned. “Wait . . . ,” he coughed.

“Fie upon you!” the monk exclaimed. “Ye will get

no sympathy rom me!”

Miles crawled toward the crossing as the beating

continued.WHACK

“Villain!”



xix

WHACK

“Louse!”

WHACK “Venomous cutpurse!”

Miles reached the crossing and rolled over onto

his back. The monk—sweat pouring rom his bald

head—stood over him and raised his sta high,

ready to strike. Miles covered his ace with his handsand awaited the next blow.

But the next blow never came.

Miles waited, eyes closed, hands over his ace.

Nothing.

He chanced a pef at his attacker. To his surprise,

the monk was reaching down, his hand extended to-

ward Miles.

“My apologies,” said the monk.

It’s a trick, Miles thought, and covered his ace.

“I pray thee,” said the monk, “stand up.”

Miles slowly removed his hands rom his ace. The

monk simply stood there, his hand extended. Miles

did not move.

“Come now,” said the monk. “I haven’t all night.”

Cautiously, Miles extended his right hand to the

monk, who grabbed it and pulled him to his eet. Themonk stood him upright and brushed him o.

“There—just as I ound ye,” said the monk, who



xx

extended his right hand. “My name is Gallien.”

Miles ached rom top to bottom.

The welts on his back and side pounded with pain.His breaths came in short, painul gasps.

All courtesy o the monk standing in ront o him.

But, Miles realized, he had just been caught break-

ing into a church and destroying church property. As

such, he considered it a ar better approach to makepeace with his attacker rather than argue over his

own inconveniences. He took the monk’s hand and

shook it. “My name is Miles Letterord,” he said, and

paused. “Not to seem ungrateul, but may I ask why

you relented?”

The monk gave a short laugh. “The ring, o course.”

The ring.

The ring was why he was in this dark, dank

stone church. The ring was why he had made this

journey.

“You know o the ring?” asked Miles, suspiciously.

“But how?” His riend had not mentioned that anyone

else knew o the ring—or the box, or that matter.

“Aye,” replied the monk. “Many years ago your

riend—the man who once wore that ring—de-

livered that very box to me or safeeping by thearchangel.”

The monk sensed Miles’s uncertainty. “Fear not,



xxi

my riend. I swore an oath to watch over the box, but

I have never asked its contents, nor sought to know

them.”Miles breathed a sigh o relie. “Forgive my

suspicions.”

“No orgiveness is necessary,” replied Gallien.

“However, I ear that your journey brings bad tid-

ings.”Miles nodded. “Indeed. He died a wef ago.”

The monk sighed. “When I saw the ring, I knew.”

His voice was heavy.

“Good monk,” said Miles, “I must again sef your

pardon or my actions this night. Had I known that

you—”

“Nay,” interrupted Gallien, “no pardon is neces-

sary. I am pleased that the archangel has success-

ully ulflled his duty.”

The monk placed his hand on Miles’s shoulder.

His tone was solemn. “Now, my riend, that duty has

allen upon you. I pray thee, carry it well.”

Miles looked back at the box. He knew what was

inside and what it meant. For the frst time, however,

the weight—the signifcance—o this undertaking

was clear to him.Miles retrieved the box and carried it to the en-

trance o the church.



xxii

Gallien held open the door. “Do ye need assis-

tance?” he asked.

“No,” replied Miles. “It is a weight that I mustbear.”

The monk smiled in appreciation. “Then God keep

ye, my riend.”

Miles hoisted the box onto his shoulder and

stepped out into the night.

England

Winter 1623

Ellis Hollensworth could not reuse the oer, as

strange as it may have been.

It was more than he could earn in six months.

Six months? Gad! It was easily a year’s pay.

Still, the ride had taken much longer than he had

anticipated.

He had no idea where he was.

Had they let London and gone north? South?

East? West?

He simply did not know.

For all he knew, he could still be in London. They

may simply have been riding around in circles or

hours.

The thick wool blindold prevented him rom see-



xxiii

ing anything. It also covered his ears and mued any

sounds. Not that it mattered anyway. Heavy drapes

covered the windows o the carriage. He had seenthat much beore the blindold was put in place. The

constant beat o the carriage wheels and the sound o

the horse’s hooves drowned out any other noise.

The carriage had stopped just minutes ago, and

now he was being led somewhere. He could hear thedead winter grass crunch under his boots, and the

aint sounds o owing water in the distance. There

was a slight but bone-chilling breeze.

Is it nighttime already? he thought. How long

have we been riding?

“Stop,” the voice said. And he did.

He could hear the heavy creaking o hinges.

A hand on his right orearm pulled him orward

yet again.

Three steps orward, and his eet hit solid oor.

The wind stopped, but it was still cold. He was now

inside some sort o structure. The hinges creaked

again, and he heard the door shut.

THUD. Something heavy landed on the oor be-

side him. He assumed it was the device and his tools.

The instructions or the device had been very pre-cise—they had made clear to him that there was no

room or error. He had spent six months orging it.



xxiv

Although he had constructed devices with similar

components in the past, none o them approached the

scale and complexity o the one that now sat—pre-sumably—in a crate at his side. The customer had

provided a single set o plans. When Ellis completed

the work, the customer had demanded the return o

the plans and an oath that they had not been copied.

He had placed the device and his tools in a woodencrate and, as instructed, waited to be picked up at the

appointed hour. Now he was blindolded and stand-

ing in some unknown structure in some unknown lo-

cation in England.

The blindold was removed. The light in the

room—although represented by only a couple o

lanterns—immediately blinded him. It took several

minutes or his eyes to adjust beore he could even

squint at his surroundings. When he did, he discov-

ered that he was in a small limestone room with a

low ceiling. There were no markings in the room. No

ornamentation. There was nothing to suggest where

he was or the purpose o the room.

In ront o him were the our horizontal limestone

blocks into which the device would be ftted—just

as the plans had indicated. Each block was exactly aoot and a hal high and six eet wide. Although the



xxv

blocks appeared massive, they were, in act, barely

fve inches in thickness. And, critical to his particular

task, each block was hollowed out, leaving a two-inchcavity that ran its length. When they were stacked

one on top o another, the internal cavity would be

exactly six eet high, fve oot six inches in width, and

exactly two inches in depth. The device was designed

to ft into this cavity.He began unpacking the crate. Slowly and pre-

cisely, he set each piece o the device into place in the

cavity. The device had been made, in large part, o

an alloy o bronze and gold. The metal was hard and

expensive but would resist corrosion. The device was,

he understood, intended to last or centuries.

Strange, though, he mused. Built to last forever,

but designed to be used only once.

Finally, it was time or the central component.

The placement o the central component was criti-

cal. He slowly lowered it into place until the right

and let sides clicked into position. From the box

he retrieved an iron rod with a slightly concave tip.

Placing the tip into a slot in the right side o the de-

vice, he gave a slight pull until he elt it click. He

then moved back to the central component and in-serted the tip o the iron rod into yet another slot.



xxvi

This will not be as easy, he thought.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled hard on the iron

rod. Slowly it began to move.One click.

A second click.

A third click.

One more click, and the device would be set.

He pulled hard. The iron bar did not want to move.Despite the cold, he was sweating intensely.

And then, fnally, when it appeared that it was not

going to budge . . .

CLICK

It was done. Once the stones were put in place, the

device would set itsel until . . .

Until whenever.



S e c r e t s

of

S H a k e s p e a r e ’S

Grave



“Change at the top for

publishing firm”

B y W alter r. lichand

W all S treet J ournal

J anuary 24, 2005

For more than our hundred years, Letter-

ord & Sons has published books o note

What News, I Prithee?

C hAPter o ne



2

and distinction. Established in 1590 in

London by Miles Letterord, the company

had opened its frst ofce in America in1793 in New York City. Although Letter-

ord & Sons is not the largest publisher

in the world, many in the publishing com-

munity consider it the most prestigious.

It remains a amily-owned and -operatedbusiness. Yesterday, ater orty years un-

der the successul direction o Raymond

Letterord, Jr., ownership o the company

passed to his oldest son, Raymond “Mull”

Letterord III. Mull Letterord has most

recently served as vice president o busi-

ness operations or the company. A cer-

emony celebrating the transition took

place at the amily’s ancestral home in

London.

“W arehouse fire Destroys

book inventory ”

B y roJas smith

loS angeleS t imeS

m ay 19, 2008



3

A fre broke out in a warouse on Smak-

lin Street last night, destroying over ten

thousand copies o the new book by au-thor Debra Tavenhast. Tavenhast is the

author o the wildly popular children’s se-

ries about Tobby, the boy accountant. The

books destroyed in the fre represented

the entire frst printing o her latest book,Tobby Bridges the GAAP. It was expected

to be released on June 5. Mull Letterord,

president o Letterord & Sons and the

publisher o the series by Tavenhast, was

not available or comment. The cause o

the fre is unknown at this time and is

under investigation.

“reClusive a uthor signs ContraCt

With Dougherty house”

P ubliShing t imeS

neW y ork

June 14, 2008

Dougherty House Publishing announced

today that it has acquired the exclusive



4

rights to publish the orthcoming novel by

the reclusive and eccentric author Brog-

don Honeycutt. Honeycutt, who has notappeared in public since the publication

o his renowned novel Concrete Monkey

Hymns in 1977, is reportedly receiving

an advance o more than $3 million, hal

o which, he has insisted, must be paidin Mongolian Tugrik coins. The novel is

expected to be ready or publication in

time or the holiday shopping season. The

signing o Honeycutt by Dougherty House

ended one o the fercest bidding wars be-

tween publishing houses in recent years.

Mull Letterord, president o Letterord

& Sons, expressed disappointment at his

ailure to acquire the rights to the new

novel. The ailure was a particularly hard

blow to Letterord & Sons, which had pub-

lished Honeycutt’s amous 1977 novel.

Honeycutt, who purportedly reuses to

acknowledge the existence o Canada, re-

leased a two-word statement through his

gardener regarding his agreement with

Harvest House: “Pepper butterbottom.”



5

Dougherty House oered no comment on

the statement by its author.

“Death of loCal philanthropist

stuns Community ”

m ancheSter S tar m ercury

July

2, 2008

The sudden and unexpected death o

Raymond Letterord, Jr., has shocked the

Meriwether County community and the

worldwide publishing community. Well

known or his local philanthropic eorts,

Raymond Letterord died o a heart at-

tack at his amily’s home in Manchester

on Monday, June 30. Letterord gained

ame and ortune as the owner o Letter-

ord & Sons, perhaps the most prestigious

publishing company in the world.



Manchester, Georgia

Wednesday, November 26

Late afternoonColophon Letterord took o her glasses, stuck her

head out the open window o her ather’s car, and

Homeward Did They Bend Their Course

C hAPter t wo



7

breathed deeply. The cool wind whipped across her

ace and through her shaggy blond hair.

Fall was ar and away her avorite time o year.The mornings were cool enough to justiy jeans and

a light sweater; the aternoons were warm enough to

accommodate shorts. The all air smelled o dry grass

and smoke rom distant freplaces, and the autumn

sun painted the countryside with a warm ocher glaze.Colophon took it all in. It was perect.

The moment, however, did not last.

“Hey, doous, shut the rigging window. I’m

reezing.”

It was Case, Colophon’s older brother and con-

stant source o irritation. At fteen, Case was three

years older than Colophon. He had grown tall over

the past year—at least two inches taller than their

ather—but this growth spurt had done little to ma-

ture him. He was the same bully that he had been a

year beore, only bigger and stronger.

Colophon kept her eyes closed and pretended that

she hadn’t heard her brother. This strategy didn’t

work. A quick punch to her let arm ensured that she

paid attention.

“Jerk! You’re not supposed to hit a girl.”“Bite me,” he replied with a smirk.

Colophon shut the window, put her glasses back



8

on, and sat back in her seat as their ather’s car

trundled lazily down the long driveway leading

to their home in Manchester, Georgia. Colophon’sgreat-great-grandather had moved to Manchester

in 1876. He had selected the small southern city

because it shared the name o his mother’s home-

town in England, but not the cold and wet climate.

Originally intended to serve as only a summer home,it eventually became the amily’s ull-time residence.

The drive home rom school had been unusual. As

a general rule, their ather was usually too busy to

pick up Colophon and her brother rom school. The

amily’s publishing business occupied his time—now

more than ever. Moreover, when her ather did pick

them up rom school, he normally rambled on non-

stop about some new manuscript that he was read-

ing or a new book that would be coming out soon.

Today, however, he remained silent as they drove

home. Although his cell phone rang twice, he made

no eort to answer it.

Colophon knew her ather’s company had recently

suered a series o mishaps, tragedies, and outright

disasters—the loss o a best-selling author to a ri-

val publishing house, a fre in a storage acility, andworst o all, the death o her grandather. These

events had led her ather to be somewhat disengaged



9

rom amily matters. Lately, he always seemed to be

distracted. Case was, o course, oblivious to his a-

ther’s mood. He passed the time on the drive homerom school in his usual ashion—with earbuds in

place and tethered to his iPod.

The driveway leading to the amily home wound

its way through a thick orest o tall hardwoods and

then a large rolling feld. Golden bales o reshly cuthay peppered the landscape. On both sides o the

road, a low-stacked stone wall corralled the vicle

as it sped toward the large brick Victorian resting

at the edge o the feld. The three-story home was

constructed o a dark red brick that had grown con-

siderably darker over the last hundred years or so. A

fne knit o fg ivy covered the tower at the ront o

the house.

As the vicle turned into the pea gravel drive in

ront o the house, Colophon spied her mother wait-

ing or them by the ront door. Beside her sat Maggie,

the amily’s golden retriever, her tail beating the

ground in anxious anticipation.

Meg Letterord, Colophon’s mother, was a small,

thin woman with short, dusty-blond hair. A college

proessor by trade, she was as comortable sitting ona tractor as she was teaching history bind a class-

room podium. She had an earthy, outgoing quality



10

that perectly balanced her husband’s bookish and

scholarly demeanor.

Mull Letterord pulled to a stop. As Case andColophon stepped out o the car, their mother greeted

each o them with a hug and a kiss on the chef. Case,

in usual teenage ashion, shrugged o his mother’s

aections, although his eorts appeared halhearted

at best.“Any homework?” asked Meg Letterord.

“No,” replied Colophon. “We have all o

Thanksgiving o—no homework and no assigned

reading!”

“Pity. I’m sure I could come up with something, i

you like? Perhaps a call to one o your teachers or

some suggestions?”

Colophon eigned shock. “Mom!”

“Very well,” Meg Letterord replied in mock ex-

asperation. “Rot your brains with TV and video

games—see i I care.”

“You know better,” Colophon said.

“Indeed I do,” replied Meg, who was intensely

proud o her daughter’s academic eorts.

Meg bent over and whispered in Colophon’s ear:

“How was your ather on the way home rom school?”Colophon could hear the concern in her mother’s

voice. “Quiet,” she replied.



Meg sighed deeply.

“Is everything OK?” asked Colophon.

Her mother stood up straight. “Just business, that’sall. It’s been tough lately. It has him distracted.”

Colophon looked into her mother’s eyes. She could

sense there was more going on than she was willing

to say. She started to ask, but her mother interrupted.

“This, too, shall pass,” she said. “Let’s have a happyThanksgiving break, OK?”

Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave

Documents

Transcript of Secrets of Shakespeare's Grave