The Keepers of the Library (20 page)

After the most debauched meal of which Franklin had ever partaken, the group moved through another series of passageways into a large chamber, this one much more dimly lit. It was apparent that this room was set up as an abbey of sorts, complete with pews and an altar.

Lord Sandwich, referring to Dashwood as the abbot, called him to begin the mass and among general sniggering and catcalls, Dashwood drunkenly offered an ersatz version of a Latin mass, replete with profanities and double entendres. The assembled monks, who by now were dividing their attentions between Dashwood and canoodling nuns, grew louder and louder in their responses and began to openly call for the Devil to appear. And when the congregation was in a high lather of fevered excitement, Dashwood reached for and pulled a hidden string, connected by a pulley to the top of a large chest next to Sandwich’s chair.

Out sprang a gibbering and shrieking baboon, which burst from its confinement, scampered over Sandwich’s head, and ran amok among the howling monks, who either broke into hysterics as Franklin did or alternatively cowered in fear at the perceived actual arrival of Satan.

The sight of this black creature appearing out of the gloomy red atmosphere of the chamber, seemingly conjured by their exhortations, unnerved Sandwich
so greatly that he promptly let loose a full bladder of urine and ran from the hall, shouting in alarm. It took a number of his peers to fetch him back and one of the nuns was dispatched to procure a mop to erase the evidence of his cowardice.

When order was eventually restored, Dashwood declared the black mass concluded, and upon reiterating their motto, “
Fay ce que voudras!
” the night took its inevitable turn. Franklin, for his part, was delightfully accosted by a comely nun with raven hair and clear skin who asked him if he would care to accompany her to a couch in one of the side chambers.

“Do you desire a lesson in the catechisms?” Franklin asked woozily.

“Wot’s that?” the girl asked.

“If not, we can discuss current theories of electricity.”

Again, a blank look.

“Never mind,” Franklin said, as the girl pulled him to his feet. “I am a most patient teacher, and I am certain we can find a subject that interests you.”

Franklin was shocked at Le Despencer’s appearance. He had not seen him for the better part of a year, and the man had gone downhill. Once hale and hearty with a perpetual spring to his step and an air of mischief in his eye he was pale and drawn, his inverted lower lip, once impish, now dry and forlorn.

Yet when Franklin voiced concern about his well-being, the baron brushed it off and told him he had come calling because of concern about his American friend’s health.

“Tragic news about your wife’s passing, old man. What a blow,” he said, slumping into an armchair.

Franklin sighed heavily. “Her death was not a shock, Baron. She suffered a stroke some years back, and her health had declined. I could divine that from her letters well enough. My greatest sadness is that I was not at her side during these long years in England.”

“You are a fine public servant, a credit to your compatriots, though I fear we shall be at arms soon enough. Is it, do you think, inevitable?”

“I fear it is. I have spent many years of my life endeavoring to find compromises and solutions, but I’m afraid the intransigence of the king and his Parliament has brought us to the brink.”

“I hear,” the baron said sadly, “that you will be departing these shores soon.”

Franklin nodded. “I have some last maneuvers I would see through, but yes, I believe I will have to sail these old bones back across the sea to be with my people during the approaching storm.”

“Then come with me to West Wycombe one last time for what may be the final meeting of the Friars. I’ve had my own small storms, I’m afraid, and I will be closing down our fraternal order.”

Franklin knew well of Le Despencer’s woes. Many were a direct result of that wretched baboon. Lord Sandwich had not taken his humiliation that night well, and the baron had found he was not the best of men to anger. In the intervening years, Le Despencer’s political career had collapsed at the hands of Sandwich’s marionette maneuverings, and neither had his business interests fared well. The expense of being England’s leading lush was no longer tenable.

“I’m a bit old for the doings in your caves,” Franklin said.

“By God, man, you’re only two years my senior, so don’t play at decrepitude. You must come! I will be bereft if you do not.” He looked truly despondent.

Franklin reluctantly agreed to the baron’s pathetic request, then purposely turned the conversation to the last-ditch efforts afoot to avert a great war.

T
hough Franklin had been in the West Wycombe caves many times, he couldn’t remember a more desultory occasion. The twenty or so monks in attendance tried their best to appear merry, but none seemed up to the occasion. Even Le Despencer in his banqueting speech sounded more like a eulogizer than anything else. It was the end of an era, the monks were aging, and war was coming.

Yet the nuns buzzing about seemed out of touch with the mood of the place. Like the professionals they were, they stayed in character, showing a good bit of leg and saying all the right naughty things to spice up the evening. Franklin, in particular, given his fresh bereavement, was in no mood for frivolity, and, indeed, he felt silly wearing his monk’s habit. But one girl persisted in her attentions to the sixty-eight-year-old statesman and succeeded in rallying his spirits.

She was a black-haired beauty with buttercream skin, certainly not yet twenty. During supper, she kept his wineglass full and insisted on licking his fingers clean, one by one when he was done. Then she pulled him off to one of the private rooms and sat upon his lap.

“You’re a pretty lass,” Franklin told her. “Have you been to these before?”

“Aye,” the girl said with a thick northern accent, playing with his long, thinning hair.

“And what is your name?”

“Sister Abigail.”

“Your real name.”

“Abigail.”

“I see,” Franklin said. “You are not employing a nom de plume.”

“A what?”

Franklin chuckled. “You’re using your real name.”

“Aye.”

She put her hand under his habit, but he blocked its upward progress and removed it.

“You’re a very sweet girl, and I will put good coin in your donation cup, but I would rather talk than play.”

“Why?” the girl asked.

He slid her off his knee and had her sit beside him.

“Because I am old, and I am sad.”

“Why are you sad?”

“Because I have recently received a letter from America informing me that my good wife has passed.”

“Was she sick?”

“Indeed she was.”

“It was her time,” the girl said emphatically. “Everyone has their time. You shouldn’t be sad. ’Tis God’s will.”

Franklin seemed happy to have been given entrée to a conversation topic.

“I’m not so sure I fully adhere to the Calvinist principles that everything under the sun is subject to God’s predetermination. Surely there are some elements under the direct control of man.”

“That is not so,” the girl insisted. When she drew up her knees for comfort, her saucy nun’s robe parted to reveal all.

Franklin rearranged her gown, mumbling, “I am apt to lose the direction of my thoughts. There, that’s better. Abigail, you seem very sure of yourself on this point of theology. Why is that? Is that the way you were raised?”

“I’m sure because I know.”

“To my mind, one can know something, truly know it, only via the powers of direct observation. Faith requires more of a leap because we cannot directly observe the provenance of God. The only things in life I feel I sincerely know are the things I have seen and studied.”

“I know about you,” Abigail said. “You’re an inventor, ain’t you?”

“I am indeed.”

“You invented lightning.”

At that Franklin nearly laughed himself off the settee. “Hardly, my dear! God takes credit for that. I merely chronicled the properties of lightning and invented the lightning rod to tame its wrath. How do you know of me?”

“I heard the baron talking.”

“Where?”

“In his house.”

“Do you live there?”

She nodded, but as she did, a tear dribbled down her cheek.

“Are you in the baron’s employ?” Franklin asked.

She nodded.

“But surely that is a good thing, is it not, rather than being on the streets like so many waifs?”

“I want t’ go home.”

“Then tell the baron, and he will surely let you go.”

“He will not. I’m inventured.”

Franklin smiled at that. “I believe you mean indentured.
How did you wind up in indentured servitude?”

“I ran away from home. I shouldn’t have, but I done it. A traveling man found me on the road and took me with him, made me do things with him and other men. He took me t’ London, where he sold my indenture t’ the baron. Now I’m indentured t’ His Lordship. I’d need fifteen pounds to buy my freedom. And then I’d have t’ find my way home.”

Franklin shook his head. “What a tale of woe child! And fifteen pounds! A criminal sum given the circumstances and altogether a criminal enterprise. I shall speak to the baron and see what can be done.”

She flung her arms around his neck, and pleaded, “Please take me home, kind sir. I’ll do anything. Anything!”

He extricated himself, and said, “All I can do is speak to the man. I fear I have too much on my plate at the present to attend to your problems, worthy as they may be. A war is coming. My country is teeming with Abigails and I must try to save as many souls as I can.”

“If they are doomed, they are doomed,” she said petulantly.

“As you said,” Franklin intoned. “Now run along. I would like to spend a while in solitude and contemplation like a proper monk.”

She screwed her face into a stubborn pose. “Take me back to Yorkshire, and I’ll show you the most amazing things. Things you could never imagine.”

“What kind of things?”

“Proof there’s a God in the sky. Proof he sets the fate of men.”

Franklin raised his eyebrows. “Tell me what this proof is.”

“No! If I tell you, you won’t believe me. You must pay my indenture and take me home in a carriage under your protection.”

“To Yorkshire? I simply cannot do that! I have pressing engagements, my dear. I must return soon to Philadelphia.”

She went silent for a while, then said, “Then take me to a place called the Isle of Wight. Have you heard of it?”

“Indeed I have.”

“Is it far?”

“Not very. A day from London. What is on the Isle of Wight?”

“There’s proof there too. I’m sure of it.”

I
t was late afternoon, and the sun
over the Dales was providing little in the way of light or warmth. Flocks of sheep began huddling, and Harris hawks sailed the thermals searching for the last meal of the day. In the approaching dusk, the MI5 team rolled up to the Lightburn Farm.

Rob Melrose climbed out of the car, and said to Annie, “God, can you imagine living in a place like this. Might as well be in the Middle Ages.”

She looked up at the steep, wild fells, and said, “I think it’s quite beautiful.”

“Right,” Melrose said, “I don’t expect any problems, but better be safe than sorry. Mitchell, come in with us so we can efficiently do a search if they consent. David, stay with the car.”

The driver made a move for his shoulder pistol, but Melrose said, “Don’t show any weapons, please. We’re not going to war.”

Annie knocked at the door, her two colleagues behind her. She waited half a minute, then knocked again. This time the door opened a few inches and Cacia peered out.

“Oh, hi,” Annie said. “Remember me? Miss Locke
from the Security Services? Sorry to bother you again, but we’d like to come in and ask you a couple more questions?”

“About what?” was the frosty response.

“Well, actually, it’s about the gentleman I was with earlier, Mr. Piper. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Lost another one?” Cacia asked sharply.

“Yes, well, it seems so. It would really be very helpful if we could come in and chat about it.”

Cacia nodded. “Just give me a few seconds.”

The door closed, and Annie turned to Melrose with a shrug. “I think she’s going to cooperate.”

“Thought you said she was friendly,” Melrose said.

“At least she didn’t bless us out,” Annie said.

K
enney and his team scrambled to get eyes on the front door of Lightburn Farm from a concealed vantage point across the road. When the MI5 vehicle entered the farmhouse lane, Kenney had Harper pull off the road and led his men on a dash by foot, toting their gear. They crossed the River Eden at a footbridge and headed uplands to the foothills of Great Boar Fell which was towering over them. About a quarter mile from Lightburn Farm they found a good stand of bushes.

Through binoculars, Kenney watched the front door open again and the three agents enter the house.

“What now?” Harper asked his boss.

Kenney said, “Hopefully, they’ll leave with Piper. If so, we’ll tail them back to the hotel or wherever and grab the son of a bitch quietly, then lean on him hard to find out if he knows anything about the postcards.”

“And if they leave without him?”

Kenney breathed on his cupped hands to warm them. “Then we keep on trucking.”

C
acia let them in. The hearth had a good fire going. Annie scanned the kitchen to the left and the sitting room to the right, both empty.

“We haven’t seen your Mr. Piper again,” Cacia said, eyeing her visitors nervously.

“That’s odd,” Annie said. Then she lied. “He said he was coming back here to ask you more questions.

“Well, he didn’t.”

Melrose came forward, thrusting out his chin. “Look here, Mrs. Lightburn, this is a serious matter for the authorities and I’ve come all the way from London to sort it out. We would like to search the premises to satisfy ourselves that Mr. Piper is not here.”

“I told ya he wasn’t,” Cacia said truculently. “Why’s that not enough for ya?”

“I’m not suggesting that you aren’t being truthful, ma’am, but if I had a pound for every lie I’ve been told in my line of work, I’d be a wealthy man. I can’t write in my report to my superior that I simply accepted the representations of a member of the public. I must insist that you allow us to have a look about.”

Cacia’s cheeks reddened. “And I say no t’ you! You’ll have t’ leave.”

Annie piped up, “Rob, let me talk to her alone, okay?”

Melrose stiffened and ignored her. “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either you voluntarily consent to a search of your property, or we will be back here shortly with a judicial order and the local police. If you resist then, you’ll be jailed.”

Daniel Lightburn bounded down the stairs into their midst brandishing a shotgun, and shouting in rage, “You come here ont’ my land and start makin’ demands? You’re threatening t’ put us in jail? I don’t think so, mister.”

Mitchell reached into his jacket for his pistol and moved to shield Annie and Melrose. He’d done bodyguard work for the Crown Protection Services and was probably operating on pure instinct.

For a split second the room was quiet until Annie saw the hatred and resolve in Daniel’s face and screamed, “Nae!”

The shotgun was loaded with #8 birdshot. The scatter-blast tore through Mitchell’s chest, piercing his heart and lungs. His body absorbed most but not all of the lethality. Melrose was hit with a half dozen pellets in his left cheek and eye and collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Mitchell teetered upright a few moments like a logged tree succumbing to gravity and fell down onto him, stone dead.

Annie caught a couple of pellets in her right leg, but she ignored the lancinating pain and dropped to her knees to tend to the wounded men. “Get an ambulance!” she shouted. “Right now!”

Two strapping young men, Haven’s brothers, rushed down the stairs to help their father.

Daniel repumped the shotgun and kept it leveled at Melrose and Mitchell. “No ambulances! Boys, take their guns. Cacia, do something for that man t’ shut him up and stop th’ blood. Take ’em all downstairs.”

Haven was on the stairs, crying at the sight of carnage. Behind her, her two little cousins appeared wide-eyed. Their mother, Gail, ordered them back to their rooms then joined Annie and Cacia on the stone floor to tend to Melrose’s bloody face.

Outside, the agent who’d stayed with the car reacted
to the sound of the shotgun and began opening the driver-side door.

Before his foot touched the ground another blast fractured the air and peppered the car door. Blood began to ooze from his leg and flank. At the sight of Kheelan lining up another shot he threw the car into reverse and flew back down the lane.

More shots were fired, blowing out the windscreen, but the frantic driver reached the road and slammed the car into drive. Grimacing in pain he headed at speed toward Kirkby Stephen, voice-dialing Emergency Services.

F
rom their post across the road, Kenney and his team watched in quiet fascination as the scene unfolded. The blast from inside the house was audible, and Kenney immediately identified it with a matter-of-fact, “Shots fired.”

When the driver of the idling car was attacked, Lopez asked him, “What’s our move, chief?”

“This isn’t our shooting match, gentlemen. We’re paid spectators. But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m as pleased as a tick on a fat dog. This means that Piper’s in there. These sons of bitches are doing the heavy lifting for us.”

T
here was chaos inside. Haven’s brothers peeled back a rug in the mudroom and yanked open a trapdoor. A steep staircase plunged into the ground. Daniel was barking orders to take the dead man to the barn; blindfold Annie with duct tape; wrap and tape a towel round Melrose’s head.

Kheelan rushed in, breathing very hard, yelling that the driver had gotten away.

“Jesus, what are we t’ do?” Cacia cried.

“Don’t know,” Daniel said. “I fuckin’ well don’t know. Boys, get ’em down th’ stairs now! Cacia, tend their wounds down there. And make that man shut up even if you have t’ finish ‘im off. One dead, two dead, what’s th’ difference? Kheelan, fetch the other shotguns and give ’em to th’ lads. We’ve got a war on our hands.”

Blindfolded and in shock, Melrose and Annie were marched down the secret stairs. Cacia went first. At the bottom landing, she pushed open a large, heavy door that led directly into the Library at the opposite end from the dormitory and writers’ room.

Annie could see none of it, not the books from 2027, not the endless stacks. She kept talking to Melrose, telling him he’d be okay, telling him to hang in there. But his only response were sharp breaths and groans.

T
hough he was loath to stop reading, Will laid down Franklin’s journal the moment he heard the muffled retort.

Benjamin Franklin at Vectis! What did he find there?

But he had to stop. It’s a gunshot, he thought. The cavalry’s here.

He tucked the book under the mattress and woke Phillip.

“Get the cobwebs cleared, kiddo,” he told the boy. “I think a rescue party’s topside.”

The second muffled shot confirmed his opinion.

They sat, chained to their bunks and anxiously waited. Finally, there were voices coming, not from the direction of the storeroom but from the anteroom connecting the writers’ room and the Library.
The door opened, and Cacia came in. Will could tell instantly that something was very wrong and that rescue wasn’t in the cards.

Melrose was brought in first, half-carried by Kheelan, his head wrapped in a bloody towel. Annie was next, limping and guided by one of Haven’s brothers.

Will tried to stand, forgetting for a moment he was chained to the bunk. “Christ!” he said.

Phillip was shocked at the sight of the wounded captives, and said, “Dad?”

“It’s all right, Phillip.”

Annie turned her blindfolded face toward the direction of Will’s voice. “Will? Is that you?”

“It’s me. You’re hurt.” Blood was trickling down her leg. “Cacia, unlock me so I can help.”

Kheelan said no, but Cacia did as he asked, whispering plaintively in his ear, “Don’t try anything. There’s one dead already.”

Will rose and peeled the tape from Annie’s face and hair as gently as he could. She looked around, frightened, and saw the rows of empty cots. “What is this place?”

“Later,” Will said. Without asking permission, he raised her skirt up to look at her wounds. “Buckshot. Cacia, get me some clean bandages and some rubbing alcohol. And some matches and a tweezers.”

“I’m okay,” Annie said. “He needs the help.”

“Who is he?” Will asked.

“My boss.”

“Who got killed?”

“His name’s Mitchell,” she said, anguished. “An agent.”

With Kheelan’s scowling help, they got Melrose onto a cot. He immediately curled himself into a ball, his moaning growing louder.

“Does anyone know we’re here?” Will asked Annie.

“Shut up!” Kheelan demanded.

Cacia intervened, “Kheelan, go back upstairs. You’ve got more important things t’ do. Andrew, go back with ‘im and fetch alcohol, bandages—all the things Will’s asked for.”

“Chain ’em all up first, Cacia,” Kheelan insisted.

“They’re not going anywhere. The doors are locked, and I’m watching,” Cacia said.

“Not good enough,” Kheelan huffed. “Andrew, take th’ gun and shoot anyone if they try anything. I’ll fetch th’ supplies.”

The young man nodded gravely and took the gun from his uncle but when Kheelan left, Cacia told him, as only a mother can, to keep it pointed at the ground.

Annie finally answered Will’s question, loud enough for everyone to hear. “One of our agents escaped. The farm will be swarming with police within the hour.”

Will and Annie were kneeling over Melrose, but it was Cacia who peeled back the towel. Melrose effected a defensive posture and raised his arms to fight her, garbled out some words, but then grew quiet as if his energy had been spent. His eye was swollen shut and was oozing with blood, and his cheek resembled bloody, fresh meat.

“He needs a hospital, Cacia,” Will said. “We can’t treat this. A pellet could have gone into his brain.”

“No!” she said. “No hospitals. We’ve got t’ deal with this ‘ere.”

Will was thinking fast. “Look, Cacia, you’ve got a little time before the police arrive. Carry him up, lay him beside the road. They’ll find him and take care of him. You’ve got plenty of hostages here. One more won’t make a difference.”

She seemed to instantly take to the idea. “Andrew.
Go get Daniel or Kheelan to come down and ‘elp. We’re going t’ do as Will suggests.”

The young man screwed up his face. “But Uncle Kheelan said …”

“I don’t care what he said! You’ll mind your mother!”

Andrew stood his ground and half raised the shotgun.

“Will, will you promise you won’t try anything while Andrew’s gone.”

Will said an emphatic yes, and Andrew reluctantly retreated.

The blood began flowing more aggressively through Melrose’s torn eyelid and Cacia stood up. There were clean towels in the storeroom, and she went to get some.

Will saw that Annie was experiencing paroxysms of traumatic shivering. He got the blanket off his bed, wrapped it around her, and hugged her for added warmth.

“I’m sorry I ditched you,” he said. “I had to do it to find Phillip.”

“Hello, Phillip,” she said weakly.

“Hey,” the boy answered, frowning.

“What do they do down here?” she asked Will.

“I’ll explain later. Let’s concentrate on getting ourselves out of this mess.”

She finally let loose and cried, apologizing between sobs, that a trained agent shouldn’t be acting like this.

“It’s okay,” Will said, planting a kiss on her hair. “You’re a human being first, an agent second.”

“Dad, I’m right here,” Phillip said in exasperation.

Will smiled. The boy was protecting the honor of his mother. He liked that. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he said, waving his ring finger. “The wedding band’s still on and your mom’s number one.”

Cacia ran back through the dormitory with some white towels and applied one to Melrose’s eye.

“Cacia,” Will said gently, “this is over. I’m really sorry it’s come to this. I know this has been your life’s work, and I know how important it is, but it’s out of your hands now. You’ve got to let us go. You’ve got to surrender. For Haven, for you, for your whole family. If you don’t, this will end badly.”

Her lip trembled. “What about th’ Library?” She gestured in the direction of the writers’ room. “What about them?”

“I don’t honestly know,” Will said. “I’ll do what I can, but like I said, it’s not in your hands anymore.”

“I know,” Cacia said, with an abject sadness that gave Will a pang. “I’ve always known.”