The Book of Air and Shadows

leaving for Oxford immediately. The car’s outside.”
    “What about our stuff at the hotel?”
    “It’s been collected, packed, and loaded. Just come, Crosetti. You can ask questions later.”
    The Mercedes waited in the street and Jake sat slumped in the backseat, wrapped in a lined Burberry and muffler with a tweed cap pulled low on his head. Paul got into the shotgun seat (startlingly on the wrong side!) and Crosetti sat in the back as far as he could from Mishkin, who said not a word. The small area of skin visible above his collar looked gray and reptilian.
    They drove out of the city through miles of wet brick suburbs, growing increasingly like country as they passed Richmond, and soon they were on a freeway. Crosetti noticed that Paul was checking the side mirror and inspecting passing vehicles with more interest than the average car passenger ordinarily showed.
    “So, why the change of plans?” Crosetti asked when it became apparent after many miles that no one was going to volunteer an explanation.
    “Two reasons. One is that there’s a couple of teams of people following us. They’re good at it, serious professionals, not like those jerks you were fooling with in New York. The second reason is that after Jake’s performance in the bar last night, he was asked to leave, and rather than find another hotel in London we decided to go to Oxford now, stay the night, and see our guy tomorrow morning.”
    “I want to hear more about the professionals,” said Crosetti. “If they’re so hot, how did you find out they were there?”
    “Because we’ve retained a firm of even more highly skilled professionals. Right, Mr. Brown?”
    This was addressed to the chauffeur, who replied, “Yes, sir. They were on Mr. Crosetti from the minute he left the hotel this morning, and of course, they followed you from the Jesuit hostel to St. Olave’s. They’re in a blue BMW three cars behind us and a maroon Ford Mondeo in front of that white lorry in the outside lane just ahead.”
    “Brown is a member of a highly respected and extremely expensive security firm,” said Paul. “It’s a good thing we’re made out of money.”
    “Is there going to be a car chase?”
    “Probably. And at least one substantial orange gassy explosion. Do you want to know what I found at St. Olave’s?”
    “Clues to the location of the Holy Grail?”
    “Almost. You’ll recall Bracegirdle wrote that the key to the ciphers was ‘where my mother lieth,’ and that his mother was buried in St. Katherine Colemanchurch. Unfortunately, St. Katherine’s, which survived the Great Fire, succumbed to the depopulation of the old City of London and the sad tide of unbelief and was demolished in 1926. The parish was united with St. Olave Hart Street in 1921, and so I went there.”
    “Why you’re wearing your priest costume.”
    “Right. Father Paul doing a little genealogical research. Apparently, when St. K.’s bit the dust the graves were moved to Ilford Cemetery, but there were also crypts beneath the church. In medieval times, you know, people were buried in graveyards until they decayed to bones, and then the bones were dug up and put in ossuaries, because obviously a small urban graveyard couldn’t possibly hold the dead of a parish for more than a few generations. And this crypt had a door, in which was a sort of window covered by a small rectangular brass plate, perforated to let in some light. The perforations were in the shape of a weeping willow tree. When St. K.’s was demolished, this plate came to St. Olave’s along with the other church valuables and memorabilia and was displayed in a glass case in the vestry.”
    “Did you see it?” asked Crosetti.
    “No. According to the curate I spoke to, someone broke into the church last summer and swiped it. Didn’t take anything else, just the plate. I suppose we have to refer to it as the grille now. One other interesting thing. Shortly before it got ripped off, a young woman visited the church. She was taking rubbings of church brasses and asked if there was any furniture or brasses from St. Katherine Colemanchurch on hand. The curate showed her the various things and she took a number of photos and a rubbing of the crypt window plate. A few days later the thing was gone.”
    Jake Mishkin stirred, cleared his throat. “Miranda,” he said, at nearly the same time that Crosetti said, “Carolyn!”
    T HE S IXTH C IPHERED L ETTER (F RAGMENT 2)
    yet the two held me &