Book of Souls by Glenn Cooper (21 page)

“Find the date,” Jean urged him. “Twenty-one February, come on!”

“Why so are you so excited, Jean? You do not believe in the book.”

“I am anxious to expose this fraud, so I can return without distraction to my more productive studies.”

Edgar snorted. “We shall see.”

He sat down on his bed and tilted the book to catch the light. He flipped the pages furiously until he found the first entry for the twenty-first of the month. He stuck his finger at the spot and flipped forward until he saw the first notation of the twenty-second. “My goodness,” he whispered, “there are names aplenty for a single day.”

“Be systematic, my friend. Start from the first and read to the last. Otherwise, you will waste our time.”

In ten minutes, Edgar’s eyes were red and dry and the fatigue of a long day was catching up with him. “I am more than halfway through, but I fear I will miss something. Can you finish the task, Jean?”

The two boys traded places, and Jean slowly moved his finger down the page from row to row, name to name. He turned a page, then another, blinking rapidly and silently mouthing all the names, some of them difficult or impossible to decipher owing to the multiplicity of languages and scripts.

Then his finger stopped.

“
Mon Dieu!”

“What is it, Jean?”

“I see it, but I can scarcely believe it! Look, Edgar, here—21 February 1537 Fremin du Bois Natus!”

“I told you! I told you! Now what do you say my doubting French friend?”

And then, a quarter page below he spied this: 21 February 1537 Jacques Vizet Mors.

He tapped the entry with his finger and bade the amazed Jean to read it also.

The spasm began in his diaphragm and rose through his chest into his throat and mouth. Jean’s sobs alarmed Edgar until he realized his friend was shedding tears of joy.

“Edgar,” he exclaimed, “this is the happiest moment of my life. I now see, in one instant and with absolute clarity, that God foresees all! No amount of good works or prayer can force God to change His holy mind. All is set. All is predestined. We are truly in His hands, Edgar. Come, kneel with me. Let us pray to His Almighty Glory!”

The two boys knelt beside each other and prayed for a long time until Edgar slowly lowered his head against his bed and began snoring. Jean gently helped him onto his mattress and covered him with his blanket. Then he reverentially returned the large book to the chest, snuffed out the candles, and silently left the room.

ISABELLE WORKED FOR an hour making a careful translation onto a lined pad. Calvin’s handwriting was no better than a chicken scrawl, and the old French constructions and spellings challenged all her linguistic skills. At one point she paused and asked Will whether he’d care for a “little drinkie.” He was sorely tempted, but he resolutely declined. Maybe he’d give in, maybe he wouldn’t. At least it wasn’t going to be a snap decision.

Instead, he decided to text a message to Spence. He assumed the fellow must be crawling out of his skin, wondering how he was getting on. He wasn’t inclined to deliver blow-by-blow progress reports—it wasn’t his style. For years at the Bureau, he drove his superiors to distraction by holding his investigations close to the vest, offering up information only when he needed a warrant or a subpoena, or better yet, when he had the case all wrapped up in ribbons and bows.

His thumbs were absurdly large on the cell-phone buttons, and the mechanics of texting never came to him naturally. It took an inordinate amount of time to send the simple message:
Making considerable progress. 2 down 2 to go. No guarantees but hopeful. 1 thing certain. We now know a lot more than we did before. U won’t be disappointed. Tell Kenyon that John Calvin is involved! Hope to be back in NY in a couple of days. Piper.

He hit SEND and smiled. It hit him: all this sleuthing around the old house, the intellectual thrill of the chase: he was enjoying himself—maybe he’d have to rethink his notions of retirement, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the message was forwarded from the Operations Center at Area 51 to Frazier’s BlackBerry. His Learjet was taxiing to a halt on the Groom Lake runway. He was due for a morning briefing with the base commander and Secretary Lester, who’d be patched in via videocon. At least he’d have something new to report. He read the message a second time, forwarded it to DeCorso in the field, and thought, who the hell is this John Calvin guy? He e-mailed one of his analysts to get a rundown on all the John Calvins in their database.

His analyst had the diplomatic good sense to baldly reply with a link to a Wikipedia page. Frazier scanned it before stepping into the briefing room in the Truman Building deep underground at the Vault level. For Christ’s sake, he moaned to himself. A sixteenth-century religious scholar? What was his job turning into?

Isabelle put her pen down and announced she was done. “Okay, a little background. Calvin was born in 1509 in a village called Noyon and was sent to study in Paris round about 1520. He went to a couple of schools affiliated with the University of Paris, first the College de Marche for general studies, then Montaigu College for theology. You sure you don’t want a drink?”

Will frowned. “Thinking about it, but no.”

She poured herself a gin. “In 1528 he went to the University of Orleans to study civil law. His father’s doing—more money in law than the clergy, then as now! Now mind you, he’s a Roman Catholic up to this point, very strict and doctrinaire but somewhere around this time he has his great conversion. Martin Luther’s been stirring the pot, to be sure, but Calvin jumps in with both feet, rejects Catholicism and becomes a Protestant, basically founds a new branch that takes the religion in a radical direction. Until now, no one knows what caused his change of heart.”

“Until now?” Will asked.

“Until now. Have a listen.” She picked up her pad and began to read.

My Dearest Edgar,
I can scarce believe that two years have passed since I left Montaigu for Orleans to pursue the career of law. I sorely miss our discourse and camaraderie, and I trust, my friend, that your remaining time in Paris will be deservedly free of Bedier’s cane. I know you long to return to your precious Cantwell Hall, and I can only hope you do so before the plague returns to Montaigu. I hear it has claimed Tempête, may he rest with the Lord.
You know, dear Edgar, that God drew me from obscure and lowly beginnings and bestowed on me that most honorable office of herald and minister of the Gospel. My father had intended me for theology from early childhood. But when he reflected that the career of the law proved everywhere very lucrative for its practitioners, the prospect suddenly made him change his mind. And so it happened that I was called away from the study of philosophy and set to learning law. I tried my best to work hard, but God at last turned my course in another direction by the secret rein of his providence. You know full well what I speak of, for you were there at the moment of my true conversion although it has taken a full measure of reflection to convince me of the course my life must take.
Your miraculous book of souls, your precious jewel from the Isle of Vectis, demonstrated that God is fully in control of our destinies. That we proved on that splendid winter
We learned that God alone chooses the moment of our birth and our death, and by logic, all that transpires during our days on earth. We must, indeed, ascribe both prescience and predestination to God. When we attribute prescience to God, we mean that all things always were, and ever continue, under his eye; that to his knowledge there is no past or future, but all things are present, and indeed so present that it is not merely the idea of them that is before him, but that he truly sees and contemplates them as actually under his immediate inspection.
This prescience extends to the whole circuit of the world, and to all creatures. And it follows that God alone chooses whom to elect to bring to himself, not based on merit or faith or corrupt indulgences but on his mercy alone. The superstitions of the Papacy matter not. The greed and conceit of degenerate forms of Christianity matter not. All that matters is the gift of true godliness that I received that day, which set me on fire with a desire to progress to a purer doctrine founded on the absolute power and glory of God. I must count you as the man who caused me to be imbued with a singular and godly pursuit of all that is pure and sacred, and for that I remain your obedient friend and servant,
Ioannis Calvinus
Orleans, 1530

Isabelle put her pad down and simply delivered a breathless, “Wow.”

“This is a big deal, isn’t it?” Will asked.

“Yes, Mr. Piper, it’s a big deal.”

“How much is this puppy worth?”

“Don’t be such a capitalist! This has the highest academic value imaginable. It’s a revelation of one of the underpinnings of the Protestant revolution. Calvin’s philosophy of predestination was based on knowledge of our book! Can you imagine?”

“Sounds like big money.”

“Millions,” she gushed.

“Before we finish, you’ll be able to add a new wing onto the house.”

“No thank you. Plumbing, wiring, and a new roof will do nicely. Surely you’ll join me in a drink now.”

“Is there any more scotch lying around?”

After dinner, Will kept drinking, steadily enough to begin to feel his brain starting to vibrate harmonically. The notion of two down, two to go, reverberated in his mind. He was two clues away from finishing the job and heading home. The isolation of this drafty old house, this beautiful girl, this free-flowing whiskey, all of them were demonizing him, sapping his strength and resolve. This isn’t my fault, he thought numbly, it’s not. They were by the fire in the Great Hall again. He forced himself to ask, “Prophets, what about prophets?”

“Do you really have the energy to tackle the next one?” she answered. “I’m so tired.” She was slurring her speech too. She reached over and touched his knee. They were heading for a repeat performance.

“Name me some prophets.”

She scrunched her face. “Oh gosh. Isaiah, Ezekiel, Muhammad. I don’t know.”

“Any connections to the house?”

“None that come to mind, but I’m knackered, Will. Let’s get a fresh start in the morning.”

“I’ve got to get home soon.”

“We’ll start early. I promise.”

He didn’t invite her into his room—he had the willpower not to do that.

Instead, he sat on a lumpy bedside chair and clumsily texted Nancy:
Clue #2 was behind a windmill tile. Another revelation. The plot thickens. On to clue #3. Know any prophets??? Wish U were here.

Twenty minutes later, as he was falling asleep, he didn’t have the willpower to prevent Isabelle from slinking in. As she slid under the sheets he grumbled, “Look, I’m sorry. My wife.”

She moaned and asked him like a child, “Can I just sleep here?”

“Sure. I’ll try anything once.”

She fell asleep spooning him, and when the morning came, she hadn’t moved an inch.

It was pleasantly and unseasonably warm that morning. After breakfast, Will and Isabelle planned to take advantage of the fine, sunny day to walk in the fresh air and formulate their plan of attack.

As Will was fetching his sweater, Nancy called him on his mobile.

“Hey you,” he answered. “Up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was rereading your poem.”

“That’s good. How come?”

“You asked for my help, remember? I want you home, so I’m motivated. The second clue was important?”

“In an historical way. I’m going to have lots to tell you. A prophet’s name. What do you think old Willie was referring to? You’re a Shakespeare nut.”

“That’s what I was thinking about. Shakespeare would have known about all the Biblical prophets—Elijah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and also about Muhammad, of course.”

“She thought of those.”

“Who?”

He hesitated a moment. “Isabelle, Lord Cantwell’s granddaughter.”

“Will…” she said sternly.

He responded quickly, “She’s just a student.” Then, “Nothing about any of those guys rang any bells.”

“What about Nostradamus?” she asked.

“Isabelle didn’t mention him.”

“I don’t think Shakespeare ever referred to Nostradamus in any of his plays, but he would have been popular throughout Europe in Shakespeare’s day. His
Prophecies
were best sellers. I looked them up in the wee hours.”

“Worth a thought,” Will said. “What did Nostradamus look like?”

“Bearded guy in a robe.”

“Lots of those around here.” Will sighed.

The garden at the back of the house was wild and unruly, the grasses, high and unsown and beginning their autumn wilt. It had once been a fine garden, a prizewinner spanning five acres with wide, open views over native hedges to fields and woodlands. At its peak, Isabelle’s grandfather had employed a full-time gardener and an assistant, and he had taken an active hand himself. No aspect of Cantwell Hall had suffered more than the garden from the old lord’s advancing age and shrinking bank account. A local boy cut the grass from time to time and pulled weeds, but the elaborate plantings and immaculate beds had literally gone to seed.

Near the house there was a disused kitchen garden, and just beyond that, two generous triangular beds on either side of a central, gravel axis leading to an orchard. The beds were edged with low evergreens, and in their day had brimmed with tall ornamental grasses and sweeping schemes of perennials. Now they looked more like sad jungle thickets. Past the orchard was a large, overgrown and weedy wild-flower meadow that Isabelle used to adore as a freewheeling young girl, especially in the summertime, when the meadow dazzled with a spectacular show of white oxeye daisies.

“Two for joy,” she suddenly said, pointing.

Will looked up confused and squinted at the blue sky.

“There, on the chapel roof, two magpies. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy.”

The grass was wet and soon soaked their shoes. They trudged through an overgrown verge toward the chapel, its spire beckoning them in the sunlight.