“No trouble at all, sir. No trouble at all.” The bursar darted back inside and returned with a ring of keys. “This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
They were led to the college chapel and to a door set inside the entrance; Simeon Cakebread produced a large iron key from the ring, unlocked the door, and led them down a set of spiral stairs into the darkness below. A second door was unlocked and pushed open. As soon as Kit’s eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a vaulted room with a narrow grate high up in one wall. The six-sided room smelled of dust and age, but was dry. Ranks of ironclad chests of assorted sizes-some no bigger than shoe boxes and others larger than tea chests-lined the perimeter wall, and in the centre of the room stood a low table with a large candle on a brass plate. “Shall I light the wick for you, my lord?”
“Thank you, Simeon, but that will not be necessary. We will fend for ourselves, if you have no objection. We intend only the briefest of visits.”
“Then I will leave you to your business, Sir Henry.” He opened the ring and removed one of the smaller keys, passed it to his lordship, then departed by the staircase.
“My friend, you do the honours,” said Sir Henry, handing the key to Cosimo. “It is your map, after all.”
Cosimo gave the torch to Kit and moved to one of the strongboxes; he bent down and fumbled with the lock for a moment. There was a chunky click and a rusty squeal as the heavy lid raised on stiff hinges. Cosimo stooped and reached down into the chest, felt around a bit, then lifted out a roll of coarse cloth. Returning to the table, he drew off the cloth covering to reveal a scroll of parchment tied with a black satin ribbon. He loosed the ribbon and carefully unrolled the scroll.
Kit moved closer and held the torch over the table.
Gazing down in the flickering light he saw an oddly shaped piece of parchment roughly five or six inches long and ten inches or so wide. The surface was covered with weird little symbols-dozens of them: small, curious shapes that owed nothing to either nature or language. At least, no language or nature Kit knew.
“Is this…?” he started to ask.
“Yes,” said Cosimo. “I brought it here for safekeeping some years ago. It was Sir Henry’s idea. Cakebread is completely trustworthy and asks no questions. This crypt is virtually unknown outside of the few who use it, and is protected from the elements as well as casual observation. I keep it here because it would not do to have the map fall into the wrong hands.”
“Quite,” agreed Sir Henry as, with a fingertip, he lightly traced one of the symbols-a tiny spiral with dots along its outer rim and a jagged double line through its heart. “It has been a long time since I saw this.”
Cosimo fished in his pockets for a pencil and paper-brought from another place and time-and bent over the parchment. “Here, Kit, hold this down, will you? I need to copy this section.”
Kit put a hand on an unruly corner of the map and gazed at the meaningless scrawl and swirl and interlacing lines of the strange symbols. “They tell you where we’re going, is that it?”
“They do, and more,” answered Cosimo, busying himself with the pencil. “I shall teach you how to read them, of course, but right now
…” He paused, gazing at the parchment before him. “Hello!”
He jerked upright, still staring at the map.
“What?” asked Kit.
Cosimo turned to him, eyes wide with shock.
“Seen a ghost?”
“Worse than that,” muttered Cosimo. “Far worse.” Seizing the parchment in both hands, he brought it to his face. “More light,” he ordered.
Kit, grasping the torch, brought it as near as he dared.
“Just as I thought!” cried Cosimo, flinging the map at Sir Henry. “A fake!”
“Upon my word, sir,” gasped Sir Henry, looking at it closely. “Are you certain?”
“There is not the least shred of doubt. See here! The symbols are sloppy, poorly rendered imitations. Why, the thing is almost illegible. Obviously, whoever made this had not the slightest idea what he was copying.” He snapped the heavy parchment with an angry finger. “This is not the map. Someone has purloined the original and left an inferior copy in its place. In short, chaps, we’ve been nobbled!”
“Outrageous!” cried Sir Henry. “This trespass shall not be allowed to go unchallenged. Bursar Cakebread will know who has been down here and when. He will have a record of their names. We have only to-”
“Wait! Wait,” said Cosimo. He ran a hand through his hair and turned around in a full circle. “Forgive me, Sir Henry, but no-we will do nothing, say nothing.”
“Nothing? But surely this crime must be reported. We must-”
“We must not let on that we know anything is amiss, lest we risk warning the thief to be on his guard.” Cosimo flung the fake map onto the table. “Don’t you see? Whoever has done this must remain confident that his subterfuge remains undetected.”
“False confidence will make him careless,” declared Sir Henry, “and thereby hasten his downfall. Very wise, sir. I yield to your superior intellect.”
“What about the map?” asked Kit. “Can we still use it?”
“Sadly, no,” replied Cosimo. “I fear it is worthless. Who knows what errors it now contains? We’ll have to think of something else.” His brow creased with concentration, and then he brightened somewhat. “I have it!” he announced. “Black Mixen.”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Sir Henry with slow appreciation. “I concur wholeheartedly. That will be our best course.”
“Black Mixing?” interrupted Kit. “What is that when it’s at home?”
“Black Mixen Tump,” replied Cosimo, “is in the Cotswolds, not far from here.” At Kit’s puzzled expression, he said, “Never mind, you’ll see soon enough.” Turning, he carefully rolled the parchment, retied the ribbon, and wrapped it in its cloth. He placed it back into the chest, which he locked. “There-that’s that. Now, not a word to Cakebread or anyone else about what we’ve discovered down here tonight. Agreed?”
“Absolutely,” said Sir Henry. “Not a word.”
“Just one thing,” wondered Kit as they started up the circular stairs. “Whoever stole the map went to a lot of trouble to cover the theft. Why not just take the map and abscond?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, I’m afraid,” replied Cosimo. “We may not find out until we catch whoever perpetrated the hoax.”
Outside, the evening had grown chilly and there was a haze of wispy, horsetail clouds high above the rising moon. A gaggle of black-robed students scuffled noisily along the cloister. The three visitors paused at the bursar’s office to return the key. “I trust you found everything to your satisfaction, Sir Henry, did you?” asked Simeon, coming out to collect his key. “Everything in order, then?”
“We are content,” Sir Henry replied politely. “And now, Bursar Cakebread, I will wish you a very good night, and farewell until we meet again.”
“And to you, Sir Henry,” answered the official with a bow. “God keep you right well, gentlemen-right well. Good night.”
As they were leaving the gatehouse, the college bells began to toll, and those of Pembroke across the now-deserted street. “Time for all God-fearing men to be at their prayers,” observed Sir Henry. “Would either of you care to join me?”
“Why not?” replied Cosimo. “No doubt we’ll have need of a prayer or two before the end of this adventure moves into view.”
Kit was not reassured by this announcement, but dutifully followed the other two across the road to the church whose bells were cleaving the crisp night air with their knife-sharp voices. They entered the churchyard, and as the last peals rang out across the town, the three men slipped quietly into the sanctuary.
CHAPTER 15
In Which Kit Makes a New Friend
The Golden Cross was awake at the crack of dawn and heaving with activity. All the establishment’s patrons were keen to be about their business, and after a breakfast of stale bread and a hastily gulped jar of steaming ale, they wrestled one another out the door and into departing coaches. Sir Henry, commanding his own coach, was able to leave in a less fraught and harried manner-though still much too early for Kit. He lingered over his ale and bread, wishing with every half-asleep nerve and sinew that it was a cup of strong, black coffee and a flaky warm croissant. Coffeehouses, however, were still few and far between in Oxford just then, and were the exclusive haunts of the idle wealthy, intellectuals, radicals, and other misfits of various stripes.