1
Eddie York had several ways to describe his grandfather, Brigham: World
War Two codebreaker, polymath, a lover of puzzles, video-game pioneer,
Twitter user—and recently discovered dead in his workshop.
The frost-crusted tombs in Kensal Green Cemetery matched the old
man’s quirkiness with their mash-up of Edwardian style, splendor, and quiet
authority.
Tombs featured everything from carved ornate swans with their necks
twisted in an embrace, a moss-spattered marble piano cracked down the
center, to angels guarding a prone figure in a dinner suit lying on a
sumptuous limestone bed with a tumbler glass and novel by his side.
Everywhere Eddie gazed, statues and mausoleums competed for
attention, but he was only here to see one. His breath fogged in the crisp
morning air, and his boots crunched along a gravel path toward his
grandfather’s plot.
The old man never left things to chance. He had meticulously planned
his death in the same way he had lived his life. Eddie visiting the
commissioned memorial was the penultimate instruction before this
afternoon’s reading of his last will and testament. Every detail remained
confidential, but nobody expected a basic epitaph. Brigham York and
simplicity went together like cyanide and Pepsi.
Eddie slowed when he neared his grandfather’s final resting place. He
dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his fake sheepskin coat. He had
expected the gravestone to be in the form of an Enigma machine, or perhaps
one of the first PCs. A last grand hurrah from a man who had thrived on
technology and adventure.
Instead, Eddie faced a sober granite rectangle:
BRIGHAM YORK
Born 23rd
January 1920
Died 5th
March 2018
Aged 98
00100000 01000001 01010101 01010010 01001001 01000010 01010101
01010011 00100000 01010100 01000101 01001110 01000101 01001111
00100000 01001100 01010101 01010000 01010101 01001101
The binary inscription drew a smile. Even now, with Eddie as a thirty-year-
old professional heir hunter, his grandfather still made him work for an
answer—as always.
During Eddie’s youth, his hippy parents had spent a lot of time
gallivanting across the world, visiting spiritual gurus in India, getting zonked
at music festivals, and working at an Israeli kibbutz. A little selfish, perhaps,
but he didn’t care. It meant he had lived with Brigham, and the old man was a
player of games. A master strategist. Every challenge had a purpose, for
example, learning how to wire a plug before being allowed to watch TV,
orienteering around the Cheshire countryside to find different parts of a
games console, or having to catch a salmon and cook it if he wanted an
Easter egg. Creature comforts needed to be earned through tangible activities.
During one particular summer, Eddie had spent weeks deciphering a
message that told him twenty pounds would be deposited into his bank
account after he read every page of Carl Sagan’s seminal work, Cosmos.
Brigham had set a group of questions around the Universe’s fifteen-billion-
year cosmic evolution to ensure that the information had been adequately
digested. The old man’s pet hate was anything done halfheartedly, so
skimming the pages was not an option.
Through the vast array of challenges during Eddie’s childhood, he had
gradually built a wealth of knowledge and a practical skill set compared to
other kids his age. His grandfather knew exactly what he was doing. Then
again, he always did, as the Nazis found out to their ultimate peril when he’d
helped crack their codes with the other breakers at Bletchley Park.
But what are you saying here, you old dog?
Eddie fished out his smartphone, navigated to a binary to text converter,
and input the binary code. He paused for a moment, aware that this probably
signified Brigham’s closing challenge. Nervous anticipation rose inside him
as he thumbed the translate button:
ARIBUS TENEO LUPUM
“Eh?”
A quick Google search initially added to the confusion. The phrase
meant ‘holding a wolf by the ears.’ Digging a little deeper into cyberspace
revealed the line was first used by the Roman playwright Terence and was
once a popular proverb in Ancient Rome. It described an unsustainable
situation where doing something or nothing to resolve it carried an equal risk.
Without context, the phrase didn’t spark anything in Eddie’s mind. The
only unsustainable thing he knew relating to his grandfather was his heart,
which had finally given out while he was tinkering with his latest project.
Even with failing eyesight and curved posture, Brigham had worked until he
drew his final breath.
A few people at the funeral said he had died doing what he loved, and it
was what he would have wanted. Staying alive was probably what he really
wanted, but regardless, his life deserved celebrating rather than mourning.
Eddie crouched by the gravestone, closed his eyes for a moment, and
remembered back to their happiest times together. He’d loved working with
Brigham in his vegetable patch, both wearing vests with their trousers held up
by braces. Even today, he wore a pair to hold up his jeans. Wearing a belt
wasn’t in the York family’s DNA.
His fingers brushed over the carved binary message, breaking his
reverie. Eddie told himself again, everything his grandfather did had a
purpose. He retrieved a letter from his inside pocket and read it once more.
It had arrived through the letterbox of Eddie’s Manchester apartment
four days ago. It was from Skunke & Weesul, Brigham’s London-based
solicitor. Curiously, their address was a pub close to the bustling delights of
Oxford Street. The firm had been established in 1881, had no website, and a
web search didn’t reveal any further details. He guessed they had private
rooms on the second floor of the building—and clients who valued privacy.
The typewritten words gave him three simple instructions:
1. Check in to the Hotel Café Royal on Regent Street. A room has been
booked for the 1st of April.
On first reading this, Eddie had called the number on the letterhead to check
it wasn’t setting him up for a cruel joke, considering the date. A woman
named Sally confirmed the authenticity of the contents and that they had been
communicated exactly as his grandfather had instructed in the event of his
death.
2. Visit plot no. 886 in Kensal Green Cemetery on the morning of the 2nd, 8
a.m. sharp, and be the first person to see the memorial. You’ll know what to
do.
Eddie knew the precise location. Six days previously, his grandfather’s coffin
had been lowered into a freshly dug grave. He had tossed down a bouquet
made from multicolored wires and LED lights before the dirt was shoveled
back. They still did things the old-school way in Kensal Green Cemetery. He
appreciated that, rather than having a small digger looming in the
background, ready to give the funeral a crude mechanical postscript.
3. Meet with Sally Weesul at midday, in the firm’s office, for the reading of
Brigham York’s last will and testament.
Sally had to be a relative of Albert Weesul, who’d worked alongside Brigham
during the war. Albert had visited his house several times a year for as long
as Eddie could remember. The two old men had always chatted over a game
of chess while they shared a bottle of scotch. The booze had often won.
Albert had lost his lengthy battle with cancer over a decade ago, but
Brigham, being the man he was, likely stayed with the solicitor firm through
loyalty to his longtime friend. Eddie was curious to see if Sally shared any
traits of her larger-than-life relative, like his booming laugh and twinkling
eyes. More importantly, he hoped the third and final instruction would shed
more light on what his grandfather meant by ‘holding a wolf by the ears.’
The unsustainable situation.
Eddie rose, gave the gravestone a final glance, and then headed back
through the clutter of mausoleums, intent on solving his grandfather’s final
challenge.
The Argyll Arms was a classic gem from the Victorian era. Lanterns hung
over black frames of both entrances; watery spring sunshine dazzled the wide
front window. Its name stretched across the length of the building in a
gleaming gold font. It sat sandwiched between a modern clothes shop and the
red-tiled Piccadilly Circus tube station as an enduring beacon of a bygone
time.
People hanging about, smoking on the pavement, provided a modern
twist. Their puffing created an odorous cloud for Eddie to negotiate before
reaching the welcome warmth of the bar.
None of the windows on the four floors above the pub had signage,
though it came as no surprise given the solicitors didn’t advertise themselves
anywhere else. The building’s only access was through the pub’s front doors,
so the office had to lay somewhere inside. Eddie held his breath and quickly
entered.
Decorative mirrors covered both walls, and the ceiling’s nicotine-stained
plaster designs contained the type of craftsmanship that embarrassed modern
functional styles. The place positively dripped with history. Eddie headed
straight for the bar and squeezed between two customers.
A young barwoman moved toward him. She rested her hands on two of
the beer pumps. “What can I get you?”
“How do I find Skunke & Weesul?”
“What?”
“How do I find Skunke & Weesul, the solicitors?” Eddie repeated in a
raised voice to make himself audible over the buzz of chatter. He reached
inside his coat and fished out the letter. “The address says it’s here.”
“Okay, okay. One moment.” She turned, picked up the receiver of a
Bakelite phone, and dialed a single zero. Somewhere near the back of the
pub, another old phone rang. After a short conversation, she hung up and
faced Eddie. “Are you Mr. York?”
“The one and only.”
“Got any ID?”
Eddie thumbed his driver’s license out of his wallet and held it forward.
Then the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. He leaned over the bar,
and keeping his voice low, he asked, “Am I seeing a solicitor or checking in
for a flight to Glasgow?”
“I’ll take you to Frank.”
“Pardon?”
“Follow me.”
The barwoman flipped up the service entrance and headed deeper into
the pub, toward the location of the other phone. Eddie followed in a mild
state of confusion to a gloomy stall in the back corner.
A stocky, gray-haired man, looking in his seventies with faded navy
tattoos on his forearms, gestured a stiff palm to the opposite bench. Despite
his age, he looked capable of winning a fight against most men half his age,
and his bent nose and intense glare provided potential evidence of his
experience.
Eddie slid onto the opposite bench. A phone and a half-full pint glass lay
on the table between them, but he was in comfortable punching distance of
this aging human tank. He didn’t expect any violence, as his grandfather had
led him here, but under most other circumstances, this was not a situation he
would choose.
Thankfully, a broad grin stretched across the man’s face. “I knew you
were Brigham’s boy as soon as I saw you. I’m Frank.”
“I’m Eddie. His grandson. How did you know him?”
“He’s been coming here for decades. Sorry for your loss. He was a great
man.”
“Do you work for Skunke & Weesul?”
Frank let out a throaty laugh, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “It ain’t
pronounced skunk and weasel. It’s skunk-ay and wee-sule. We have a
working relationship. I’ve owned the pub since the eighties. If you want to
see the solicitor, you have to come through me.”
“It’s all a bit convoluted, isn’t it?”
“On the face of it. You’ll understand once you go down and see Sally.”
Eddie glanced at his watch. “I’m due in two minutes. Where’s her
office?”
“I’ll show you. Come with me; we shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
Frank groaned to a standing position, his knee joints cracking. He led
Eddie through a door marked Private, and they descended a stone staircase
into a musty cellar, snaking between beer barrels toward an electronic pad on
the wall. Events were turning stranger by the minute, but Eddie put his faith
in his grandfather. It was all he could do, as nothing else made sense.
“Where exactly are we going?”
“In the words of Brigham, have patience, dear boy.”
“In the words of me, why are we in the cellar?”
Frank ignored the question and punched a code into the electronic pad.
The bricks in front of them shuddered. Dust dropped from the ceiling. A
vertical fracture line tore down the wall, and dull mechanical clanks echoed
from somewhere behind it.
Eddie’s heart rate spiked, and he took a step back.
The center of the wall parted, revealing an entrance to an art deco lift.
Frank gestured Eddie inside with a sweeping hand. “This is your way to
Skunke & Weesul. All the best, and sorry again for your loss.”
“Here?” Eddie asked, frowning at the dimly lit wooden lift car. “It can’t
go up, or it’ll burst through the bar, so I’m going down?”
“Clever boy.”
Eddie stepped inside and glanced around the oak-paneled walls. A brass
plate featured just two buttons: descend and ascend. “Their office is in the
London Underground system?”
“Nope. You’re going somewhere centuries older than that.”
“Seriously?”
Frank leaned in and hit the descend button. “Make sure you come back
one day. We’ll share a pint and talk about your grandfather.”
“Why not have one on my way back? I doubt I’ll be long.”
“You won’t be leaving through the pub.”
The door slid shut before Eddie had a chance to reply.
A second later, the lift jolted, then plunged deep below London’s
surface.
2
The car shuddered as it descended. Its internal strip light flickered and
fizzed, and somewhere overhead, steel cables creaked under the strain.
Nothing seemed to meet any known safety regulations.
Eddie gripped the brass handrail, hoping the antiquated hoist mechanism
survived for the duration of the trip.
His work as an heir hunter had taken him to some strange places over
the years, such as a house constructed from beer bottles and a hobbit-style
cottage in the Cotswold countryside, but this concealed death trap was virgin
territory.
Regardless of the risk, deep beneath the Argyll Arms was an unknown
part of his grandfather’s life, and evidently more than a simple solicitor’s
office. Eddie wanted to be here as much as he wanted the lift to stop.
Just as he thought the car was going to plummet all the way to the
Earth’s core and melt in an instant, it bumped to a gentle standstill. He was
almost disappointed with the anticlimax.
A polite chime rang out, and the doors parted, revealing a long passage
that curved into the distance. Vintage incandescent lightbulbs hung from the
ceiling at regular intervals, connected with a sagging cable. Their glowing
yellow filaments cast weak light onto the walls and floor of the carved
bedrock.
Eddie stepped out of the car and took it all in for a moment.
Why Skunke & Weesul had their office down here, and who built the
place, only added to the growing list of questions. Eddie had prepared
himself for a solemn day, seeing the memorial and hearing Brigham’s last
will and testament. This was quickly transforming into one of the old man’s
adventures, and it fired a passion inside that Eddie had thought had gone
forever with his grandfather’s passing.
Eddie advanced, his footsteps echoing through the passage as he made
his way around the sweeping shallow bend. A large oak door appeared on the
right side of the passage. A security camera above it rotated, tracking his
approach.
“Grab the knocker,” a breathless woman’s voice crackled through the
speaker. “Preferably with your right hand.”
“What?”
“Grab the knocker,” she repeated. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Are you Sally Weesul?”
“That’s me.”
Eddie clasped the heavy brass door knocker. He noticed the underside
had a shiny black surface. It glowed green around his fingers. A heavy clank
rang out. The door swung inward with an electric grind, dragging him into
what looked like an airport security checkpoint.
An X-ray machine and a body scanner blocked his path. Another wall-
mounted security camera angled down toward him. The pub and the lift had
hinted that this was no normal solicitor’s office. But this outright confirmed
it, and he struggled to imagine what he’d find once through the complex
security measures.
“Can you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes. Put any metallic objects in the tray. I hear you’re like Brigham, so
I won’t bother asking if you’ve got a belt.”
“What is this place?”
“A security checkpoint.”
“No shit. Did that knocker scan my fingerprints?”
“Yes, your grandfather worked in biometrics for a time. We’ve had your
details on file for twenty years, for when this day came.”
Eddie frowned and shook his head. While he emptied his pockets into
the metal tray and placed it on the conveyor belt, he searched his memory for
any information Brigham might have told him regarding business interests in
London.
Nothing came to mind.
Most of their conversations revolved around historical oddities and fun
facts. One of the last things Brigham had told Eddie was about the shrapnel
gouges in the cast-iron sphynxes, sitting at each side of the Egyptian obelisk
overlooking London’s Embankment. Most people didn’t realize it was bomb
damage from one of the first air raids in history. A zeppelin had drifted over
London and dropped its deadly payload.
The plastic tray slid through the plastic flaps of the X-ray machine; the
conveyor belt paused for a moment, then continued.
“Through the body scanner,” Sally said.
“Aren’t these the ones where you can see the naked body?”
“Trust me, I’m not interested. Go in and put your hands on your head. I
promise not to ogle at your nethers.”
The intrigue kept building inside Eddie, and he had reached the point
where he was bursting to know how this place related to his grandfather. He
stepped inside the body scanner, and after a few short seconds, a green light
winked by his side.
“Congrats, you’re human,” Sally said. “Head down the stairs and
through the shelves. You’ll find me at the end of the room.”
Eddie collected his wallet and phone from the tray, shoved them back in
his jacket, and descended a set of marble stairs. When he reached the bottom,
he paused and took in a sharp intake of breath.
Calling it a ‘room’ was an understatement on Sally’s part. It stretched
the length of a football field and was at least three stories high. A central
walkway led to a pair of golden doors at the far end. On either side, rows of
shelf stacks at least ten feet high filled the area. The closest ones were made
from solid wood in the Georgian style. As the shelves moved through the vast
expanses, they changed to Victorian, then art deco, rust-speckled metal, and
finally solid steel at the far end.
Eddie gazed at the first two rows. They contained a variety of objects:
wax-sealed manuscripts, an old Roundhead helmet from the English Civil
War, a dagger in a glass case, a trinket box, ornate chests, and many scrolls.
As he moved forward, the artifacts and documents became newer,
gradually changing from what he guessed were from the mid-seventeenth
century. The first set of metal shelves held objects from the Second World
War, and the newest shelves contained pen drives, modern safes, and disk
drives among devices so advanced he couldn’t even guess at their use.
Eddie stopped at a familiar sight on the final row.
A stack of old disks and books packed the top shelf, matching the ones
in Brigham’s workshop. At their side lay his grandad’s journal. Eddie had
often seen him writing in this, though as far as he knew, the old man had
never let anyone read the contents.
Behind the final shelf, a woman, presumably Sally, pedaled with steady
cadence on a sleek exercise bike while eating salad from a paper plate. She
was wearing a bright green and black Lycra cycling outfit. She stared at an
overhead screen broadcasting the BBC news. To the left, five other monitors
displayed different angles of the passage and security checkpoint.
She wore her raven-dark hair in a perfectly styled pixie cut. Thin wisps
of blond hair shot through her dark locks.
“Hello,” Eddie said.
“Bear with me. Just one more minute. She glanced at him with piercing
green eyes, hinting at a formidable intelligence. She had high cheekbones and
thin lips, which gave her face a severe appearance but seemed somehow
fitting for a solicitor. In all of Eddie’s experience, they had all shared that
quality, regardless of their looks.
Eddie moved to her side. “So this is your office?”
“Has been for over three centuries.”
“You don’t look a day over two hundred.”
“Sadly, I’m not eternal. Skunke joined the Weesuls in the early eighteen
hundreds when the firm was set up.”
To Eddie, she appeared in her early thirties, but given her obvious health
regime, he could easily be out by a decade.
As she looked back at him, he could see some familial resemblance
between her and Albert. She had his wide ‘swimmer’s’ shoulders. Although
given the LCD panel said she’d clocked in 20k on the bike, it wouldn’t
surprise him if she were also a long-distance swimmer.
Unsure of what else to say, he decided to break the ice. “I take it the lift
isn’t health and safety approved?”
“The better question is, do you trust your grandad?”
“Of course.”
“Well, he installed it in 1946. He and my grandad, Albert, recovered it
from a hotel in the West End before it was knocked down after suffering
devastating bomb damage. It’s worked like a charm ever since.”
“Good to know. Sorry about Albert, by the way.”
“Thanks, but it was ten years ago now. I’m sorry about Brigham.”
“Appreciated.” Eddie peered at the vaulted wooden ceiling, which had a
similar appearance to Westminster’s Great Hall. “This all seems a bit
elaborate for a solicitor firm. What’s really going on here?”
“To you, I’m Brigham York’s solicitor. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“And to others?”
“Would you expect a solicitor to give out client information?”
“Fair point.”
Sally stopped pedaling, sucked in a few deep breaths, and wiped her
face with a towel. She jumped off the bike and waved Eddie toward the gold
doors. “This way, Mr. York.”
Before they reached the gold doors, both opened with an automatic whir,
revealing a brightly lit, modern office. Sally moved behind a desk and
slumped into a large leather chair.
Eddie sat opposite her and guessed her casual attitude was from
spending years in this environment, because the thought of being among so
many historical artifacts set him on edge. He wanted to search each shelf and
marvel at the delights, but he assumed that wouldn’t be allowed. Besides, the
main priority was finding out what Brigham had to do with all this, besides
installing a lift.
Sally’s screen burst to life, casting her face with a blue glow. “Now,
let’s get down to business. You’ve visited Kensal Green Cemetery?”
“This morning.”
“And you saw the gravestone?”
Eddie nodded. “Yep, and Brigham’s journal on your shelves.”
“That remains confidential, for the moment.”
Sally opened a drawer and pulled out a cream-colored envelope with BY
embossed on the bottom right corner. He immediately recognized it as one
from his grandfather’s study. His heart skipped a beat.
“I bet you’ve seen this a hundred times before, being an heir hunter and
all. What’s been your biggest recovery?”
“So it’s okay for you to ask questions about my job?” Eddie teased.
“Just making conversation. It gets lonely down here.”
“Given the size of this place, you must tend to a lot of clients.”
“Clients isn’t exactly the right word. I have trustees, contractors, and
active members.”
“Which one am I?”
“None—yet, at least not yet.”
She grabbed a letter opener from her desk, sliced open the envelope, and
slipped out a letter and a chunky key that Eddie didn’t recognize.
He leaned forward and drew in a deep breath. Nervous anticipation
consumed him as he wondered where the key would lead him. He was sure of
one thing: this wasn’t a normal will reading.
Silence filled the office while he waited.
Sally whispered the words to herself then looked over the top of the
letter. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Okay. It says ‘Eddie, I’m leaving you my Whitby property—’”
“Wait, what? He had a property in Whitby?”
Sally shrugged. “It’s my job to read this letter and hand it over with the
key. There’s an address at the bottom. I don’t know any other details. It’s not
uncommon for family members to discover the deceased had assets they were
unaware of.”
“Okay,” Eddie said, though his mind raced at a million miles per hour.
Brigham was always full of surprises, but he had left his two biggest, the
solicitor’s office and the mystery property, until after his death.
“You look flustered, Mr. York. Do you want me to continue?”
“Please do.”
“All right. Eddie, I’m leaving you my Whitby property. To claim it, you
must visit on your own the day after the reading of the will. Once there, recall
the Conan Doyle incident.”
Sally folded the letter, placed it back inside the envelope with the key,
and handed it over the desk.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Have you been to Whitby? It’s a lovely part of the country.”
Eddie cast his mind back fifteen years to a summer holiday. Brigham
had hired a cottage near the seafront, and he had often disappeared for hours
on end, saying he had to ‘see a man about a dog’ while he got on with his
mysterious business. Eddie loved the freedom as a teenager, and the time
went quickly when playing the one-armed bandits in the array of amusement
arcades.
“You’d better make tracks if you want to get there on time,” Sally said.
“It’s a long drive.”
“You’re getting rid of me already? I’d like to take a look at Brigham’s
journal.”
“That’s not possible. I’m a busy woman. No offense, but you haven’t
proven yourself worthy of my time yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I suggest you follow Brigham’s instructions if you want to find out.”
“I repeat: what does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Our meeting is over, Mr. York, but you have my
number should there be any emergencies—do not call in other
circumstances.” Sally rose from behind the desk, moved to the golden doors,
and extended a palm toward the vast room. “This way, Mr. York. I don’t
have all day.”
Eddie stood and followed her out of the office, past the rows of shelves,
and back to the marble steps. Leaving here this quickly didn’t feel right when
there was so much to see, especially the journal, but Sally’s demeanor made
it obvious she wanted him to go. In fact, she had changed from friendly to
businesslike to cold in the space of ten short minutes.
He paused by the body scanner. “Who built all this?”
“Its roots go back hundreds of years. The Earl of Argyle added most of
what you see here during the Civil War. It was built out from the main tunnel
that led from his house to a folly in the grounds.”
“Where does it lead now?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s the only way out.”
The entrance automatically opened when Eddie neared. He walked
through the door and turned. Sally gave him a firm nod. “Good day, Mr.
York.”
The door closed.
Silence filled the passage.
Eddie stood frozen to the spot, attempting to process what had just
happened and what was hiding below the streets of London. He felt the
weight of the key and envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to know
more about Skunke & Weesul and Brigham’s association, which was clearly
more than just a solicitor-client relationship.
The passage continued to sweep around to the right. Eddie followed it
up a slight incline, and soon, the gradient increased, and the bends tightened
until he trudged up a corkscrew-shaped passage toward the surface.
After a few minutes, he came to what appeared to be a fire door. He
pushed down the metal bar, headed into a dark room, and swept two velvet
curtains apart. The passage had led to a box in the Royal Palladium. He stood
looking at the brightly lit stage from his elevated position.
“If you wouldn’t mind following me, sir,” a voice said behind him.
Eddie spun to face a man in the red trench coat and top hat.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
“This way, sir. The theatre’s closed.”
“That much is obvious. Do you know where I’ve just come from?”
“The solicitor. We get informed of every exit. Don’t worry, sir, this is
standard procedure. Now, if you’d like to follow me.”
The man spun and headed toward the front entrance, down a wide
staircase.
Eddie pinched himself to check he hadn’t just dreamt the whole
experience. Things had become stranger by the minute, but knowing his
grandfather as he did, this was also planned. But why… he had no idea.
Only one thing was certain: tomorrow, he would be at Whitby and the
secret property. At this moment, nothing else mattered but finding out what
this mystery contained.
3
Eddie cruised across the North Yorkshire moors in his Triumph TR7,
marveling at the majestic beauty of the rugged landscape. Heather-covered
hills surrounded the road on either side, and beyond, the sea glistened
beneath the late afternoon sunshine.
Whitby lay a mile ahead. It would be his base while he found Brigham’s
place, which, according to the address, he had called Cook’s Lookout. It
appeared on no map or satnav, so Eddie decided the best way forward was
local knowledge.
But first, he had to check in to a local B&B.
Eddie hit the edge of town and, following the navigation commands,
negotiated Whitby’s narrow and often winding roads until he arrived at
Ghosts, Ghouls, and Greasy Spoons. It didn’t take long to find the place. A
plastic figure of Dracula on the pavement, scruffily painted, pointed toward a
large Victorian-style house.
Eddie parked on the gravel drive beside the entrance, pulled up the hand
brake, and grabbed his bag from the passenger seat. With only a couple of
hours of sunlight left, he intended to check in, grab a bite to eat, and head out
immediately in search of Cook’s Lookout, avoiding having to do it in the
dark. He didn’t want to wait until morning either, knowing he was unlikely
going to be able to sleep.
The front door swung open, and a man stood at the entrance, dressed in
a grease-stained white T-shirt and a black cape, his hair dyed the same color
and slicked back.
In a theatrical voice, the B&B proprietor welcomed Eddie. “Good
afternoon, sir, do you have a reservation?”
“Hi, I’m Eddie York. I’ve booked a night in the poltergeist room.”
“Welcome, my friend. Ah, the poltergeist room. A fine choice, even if
your stay carries great risk.”
Eddie couldn’t help smiling. “From what, the cooking?”
“Strange things are afoot in Ghosts, Ghouls, and Greasy Spoons. Please
follow me. I’ll take you to your sanctuary.”
After dealing with some incongruous computer work to book Eddie in,
the man turned and, with stiff movements, led Eddie up a flight of stairs, past
a coffin crudely painted with white emulsion, and into a bedroom. Fake
cobwebs hung from a cast-iron four-poster bed. A small tea and coffee kit sat
next to an old portable TV.
“If thoust requires any assistance, please ring the buzzer by the bed. I
can bring garlic for protection—or extra custard creams.”
The man handed Eddie a key, bowed like a Benedictine monk, and
shuffled backward out the door.
“Do you serve food?” Eddie asked.
The man promptly fished a small laminated menu from his inside his
cape and handed it over. “We’re serving for the next hour or so. Anything
there you desire?”
Eddie scanned the menu. It was all pretty basic fare.
“Any chance of a fried egg sandwich?”
“Your wish is our command, sir.”
“That’d be great. Can you whip it up quickly for me? I’m on a tight
schedule.”
“Certainly. It’ll be ready in five minutes. Join me in the basement for an
afternoon snack by candlelight.”
Eddie hadn’t stopped anywhere to eat on his way up to Whitby. His
mind had raced with the possibilities of what he might find, and before he
knew it, he was here, with a growling stomach. He dumped his bag on the
bed and followed the man downstairs.
In the basement, four tables were set, each with four candles, bathing the
room in pale yellow light. Two goths, presumably here for the twice-annual
goth festival, a woman, and a man, sat at the far table, excitedly comparing
pictures on their phones. They had all-black clothes, multiple wristbands, and
foundation whitened their faces.
Eddie went over and sat at the table next to them.
“Hey, man,” the woman said.
“Afternoon. I don’t suppose you know where I can find Cook’s
Lookout?”
“No idea.” She turned to the man. “Nigel?”
“Yeah. It’s, like, so out of the way, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I would,” Eddie replied. “How can I get there from here?”
“You head north on the coast road. Keep your eye on the cliffs. You’ll
see a dirt track cutting off to the left just before the ground dips towards
Staithes. If you reach the village, you’ve missed it.”
“Cheers. What’s there?”
“Dunno. Why?”
“I’m carrying out the final request of a dead man.”
The goths stared at each other; then the woman looked back. “Is the
dead man from the Victorian era? We ran a Ouija board session last night.
We contacted an old sailor with gambling debts, who supposedly drowned
off the coast.”
“Nah, it’s my grandfather.”
“Oh.”
The owner bumped through a service door, shambled to Eddie’s table
like a zombie, and put a plate in front of him. The egg had red slashes across
it, as though it had been cut with a knife and bled.
Eddie peered down at the dish.
“It’s just ketchup,” the owner said, flashing a pair of fake plastic fangs.
“Artistic license… You do like ketchup?”
“It’s fine, thank you.”
“I’ll put it on your bill. You can pay tomorrow. If you survive the
night…”
“You better hope I do, or you won’t get a penny.”
“Unless you rise from the grave.”
“Do you vampires use credit cards?”
The owner nodded and returned to his kitchen. “Vampires have long had
an association with banks—we both suck people dry. Ha-ha!”
Eddie made quick work of the sandwich and stood to leave.
“Hey,” the male goth said, “you’re staying in the poltergeist room?”
“I am.”
“A couple stayed in there last night. I heard some weird shit.”
“What? Like the headboard knocking? Groaning?”
“I’m serious, man. This town is possessed.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
With food in his belly and an idea of where to start his search, Eddie locked
his room and left the B&B. Within minutes, he was accelerating along the
coastal road, with the sun over the moorland to his left, casting a watery
orange glow over the North Sea. A signpost marked Staithes—another small
village—as two miles away. He slowed, searching for the track or any
buildings.
Over the next hill, a white lighthouse came into view, standing at
attention on a small parcel of headland. Its dirty white exterior screamed out
for a lick of paint. The dusty glass at the top told Eddie it hadn’t been
operational for some time.
A small cottage stood at the base of the lighthouse, made out of the
distinctive brown Yorkshire stone. The type of construction that would stand
for a thousand years, unlike modern houses.
Just like the goth had said, a track appeared at the side of the road,
cutting through the bleak, weather-beaten terrain toward the property. Eddie
slowed and navigated his way closer.
The Triumph was not suited to the bumpy surface with its old-design
suspension. Eddie jolted in his seat, gripping the steering wheel with both
hands, fighting to stop the car from veering into one of the many boulders
that lined the side of the track.
He eventually pulled up a hundred yards short of the lighthouse, partly
through fear of smashing up his pride and joy, and partly because any more
of the tossing around and the half-digested egg sandwich would end up all
over the inside of the windscreen.
Darkness threatened to come faster than expected. Eddie locked the car
and trampled down the last part of the weed-covered track, peering through
the murky air towards where Brigham had likely visited hundreds of times.
He wondered just what his grandfather had been hiding here.
A gate lay at the end of the track, secured with a thick chain and rust-
speckled padlock. Eddie vaulted over it and continued forward. Excitement
rose inside him as he saw the lighthouse and noticed a relatively modern
antenna jutting from the top, pointing towards potential recent usage.
But what was it for, and why had it been kept a secret?
No obvious answer came, just like the multiple unanswered questions
Eddie had regarding Skunke & Weesul, or the inscription on the gravestone
‘holding a wolf by the ears.’ But he reminded himself that Brigham wasn’t a
time waster. If he had wanted him here on his own, there was good reason.
Eddie slipped the envelope from his pocket and fished out the key. He
slid it into the lighthouse door and twisted. It didn’t work.
Next, he moved to the front of the cottage that overlooked the cliffs. A
stiff breeze blasted his face, carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh sea air.
Thick velvet curtains had been drawn against across each of the windows,
and a lone wicker chair sat on a small veranda. Eddie imagined Brigham
sitting there, taking in the view while dreaming up his next project. But
again, he asked himself why. Brigham wasn’t a loner. He had the privacy of
his office, library, and workshop in his Kent residence.
Eddie slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and the bolt mechanism
snapped open. He took a deep breath, depressed the door handle, and creaked
it ajar.
Stepping into the dark hallway, with its wood-paneled walls, felt like
stepping into a second unknown part of Brigham’s life in the space of twenty-
four hours, albeit recognizable as the old man’s style, and he couldn’t wait to
delve inside. Catching up with the finer details of his secret life started now.
Eddie patted his hand against the wall, searching for a light switch
without success. He reached inside his jacket for his smartphone. At the far
end of the long corridor, something whirred to life, and a stream of light
speared through the darkness.
The shadow of a man holding a weapon, maybe an axe, appeared on the
far wall, hiding behind a corner, ready to strike. Eddie staggered back a
couple of paces and turned, ready to run. He considered himself physically
capable but was no match for what looked like a halberd.
No footsteps followed, and the only sound was the wind whistling
through the hallway. The shadow remained static, unmoving. Far too still,
and at a second look, it had an unnatural shape. It appeared more like a
theater prop than somebody waiting to pounce and butcher him in the
darkness.
Eddie closed the front door and slowly moved along, wincing every time
a floorboard creaked beneath his boot, until he reached the source of the
shadow and the light—and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
An old suit of armor stood in a shallow enclave, in a similar design he
had once seen in the Tower of London from early Tudor times. The whirring
came from inside the open helmet, and a beam of light shot out and
brightened the opposite wall.
“Hello, Eddie,” Brigham’s voice boomed from inside the armor. “I bet
cyberlibris
Arkusze
ENIGMA KEY A GUARDIAN GROUP NOVEL
TOM DEFOE DARREN WEARMOUTH D&W BOOKS
CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39
Message from the Authors About the Authors
1 Eddie York had several ways to describe his grandfather, Brigham: World War Two codebreaker, polymath, a lover of puzzles, video-game pioneer, Twitter user—and recently discovered dead in his workshop. The frost-crusted tombs in Kensal Green Cemetery matched the old man’s quirkiness with their mash-up of Edwardian style, splendor, and quiet authority. Tombs featured everything from carved ornate swans with their necks twisted in an embrace, a moss-spattered marble piano cracked down the center, to angels guarding a prone figure in a dinner suit lying on a sumptuous limestone bed with a tumbler glass and novel by his side. Everywhere Eddie gazed, statues and mausoleums competed for attention, but he was only here to see one. His breath fogged in the crisp morning air, and his boots crunched along a gravel path toward his grandfather’s plot. The old man never left things to chance. He had meticulously planned his death in the same way he had lived his life. Eddie visiting the commissioned memorial was the penultimate instruction before this afternoon’s reading of his last will and testament. Every detail remained confidential, but nobody expected a basic epitaph. Brigham York and simplicity went together like cyanide and Pepsi. Eddie slowed when he neared his grandfather’s final resting place. He dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his fake sheepskin coat. He had expected the gravestone to be in the form of an Enigma machine, or perhaps one of the first PCs. A last grand hurrah from a man who had thrived on technology and adventure. Instead, Eddie faced a sober granite rectangle: BRIGHAM YORK Born 23rd January 1920
Died 5th March 2018 Aged 98 00100000 01000001 01010101 01010010 01001001 01000010 01010101 01010011 00100000 01010100 01000101 01001110 01000101 01001111 00100000 01001100 01010101 01010000 01010101 01001101 The binary inscription drew a smile. Even now, with Eddie as a thirty-year- old professional heir hunter, his grandfather still made him work for an answer—as always. During Eddie’s youth, his hippy parents had spent a lot of time gallivanting across the world, visiting spiritual gurus in India, getting zonked at music festivals, and working at an Israeli kibbutz. A little selfish, perhaps, but he didn’t care. It meant he had lived with Brigham, and the old man was a player of games. A master strategist. Every challenge had a purpose, for example, learning how to wire a plug before being allowed to watch TV, orienteering around the Cheshire countryside to find different parts of a games console, or having to catch a salmon and cook it if he wanted an Easter egg. Creature comforts needed to be earned through tangible activities. During one particular summer, Eddie had spent weeks deciphering a message that told him twenty pounds would be deposited into his bank account after he read every page of Carl Sagan’s seminal work, Cosmos. Brigham had set a group of questions around the Universe’s fifteen-billion- year cosmic evolution to ensure that the information had been adequately digested. The old man’s pet hate was anything done halfheartedly, so skimming the pages was not an option. Through the vast array of challenges during Eddie’s childhood, he had gradually built a wealth of knowledge and a practical skill set compared to other kids his age. His grandfather knew exactly what he was doing. Then again, he always did, as the Nazis found out to their ultimate peril when he’d helped crack their codes with the other breakers at Bletchley Park. But what are you saying here, you old dog? Eddie fished out his smartphone, navigated to a binary to text converter, and input the binary code. He paused for a moment, aware that this probably signified Brigham’s closing challenge. Nervous anticipation rose inside him as he thumbed the translate button: ARIBUS TENEO LUPUM “Eh?”
A quick Google search initially added to the confusion. The phrase meant ‘holding a wolf by the ears.’ Digging a little deeper into cyberspace revealed the line was first used by the Roman playwright Terence and was once a popular proverb in Ancient Rome. It described an unsustainable situation where doing something or nothing to resolve it carried an equal risk. Without context, the phrase didn’t spark anything in Eddie’s mind. The only unsustainable thing he knew relating to his grandfather was his heart, which had finally given out while he was tinkering with his latest project. Even with failing eyesight and curved posture, Brigham had worked until he drew his final breath. A few people at the funeral said he had died doing what he loved, and it was what he would have wanted. Staying alive was probably what he really wanted, but regardless, his life deserved celebrating rather than mourning. Eddie crouched by the gravestone, closed his eyes for a moment, and remembered back to their happiest times together. He’d loved working with Brigham in his vegetable patch, both wearing vests with their trousers held up by braces. Even today, he wore a pair to hold up his jeans. Wearing a belt wasn’t in the York family’s DNA. His fingers brushed over the carved binary message, breaking his reverie. Eddie told himself again, everything his grandfather did had a purpose. He retrieved a letter from his inside pocket and read it once more. It had arrived through the letterbox of Eddie’s Manchester apartment four days ago. It was from Skunke & Weesul, Brigham’s London-based solicitor. Curiously, their address was a pub close to the bustling delights of Oxford Street. The firm had been established in 1881, had no website, and a web search didn’t reveal any further details. He guessed they had private rooms on the second floor of the building—and clients who valued privacy. The typewritten words gave him three simple instructions: 1. Check in to the Hotel Café Royal on Regent Street. A room has been booked for the 1st of April. On first reading this, Eddie had called the number on the letterhead to check it wasn’t setting him up for a cruel joke, considering the date. A woman named Sally confirmed the authenticity of the contents and that they had been communicated exactly as his grandfather had instructed in the event of his
death. 2. Visit plot no. 886 in Kensal Green Cemetery on the morning of the 2nd, 8 a.m. sharp, and be the first person to see the memorial. You’ll know what to do. Eddie knew the precise location. Six days previously, his grandfather’s coffin had been lowered into a freshly dug grave. He had tossed down a bouquet made from multicolored wires and LED lights before the dirt was shoveled back. They still did things the old-school way in Kensal Green Cemetery. He appreciated that, rather than having a small digger looming in the background, ready to give the funeral a crude mechanical postscript. 3. Meet with Sally Weesul at midday, in the firm’s office, for the reading of Brigham York’s last will and testament. Sally had to be a relative of Albert Weesul, who’d worked alongside Brigham during the war. Albert had visited his house several times a year for as long as Eddie could remember. The two old men had always chatted over a game of chess while they shared a bottle of scotch. The booze had often won. Albert had lost his lengthy battle with cancer over a decade ago, but Brigham, being the man he was, likely stayed with the solicitor firm through loyalty to his longtime friend. Eddie was curious to see if Sally shared any traits of her larger-than-life relative, like his booming laugh and twinkling eyes. More importantly, he hoped the third and final instruction would shed more light on what his grandfather meant by ‘holding a wolf by the ears.’ The unsustainable situation. Eddie rose, gave the gravestone a final glance, and then headed back through the clutter of mausoleums, intent on solving his grandfather’s final challenge. The Argyll Arms was a classic gem from the Victorian era. Lanterns hung over black frames of both entrances; watery spring sunshine dazzled the wide front window. Its name stretched across the length of the building in a gleaming gold font. It sat sandwiched between a modern clothes shop and the
red-tiled Piccadilly Circus tube station as an enduring beacon of a bygone time. People hanging about, smoking on the pavement, provided a modern twist. Their puffing created an odorous cloud for Eddie to negotiate before reaching the welcome warmth of the bar. None of the windows on the four floors above the pub had signage, though it came as no surprise given the solicitors didn’t advertise themselves anywhere else. The building’s only access was through the pub’s front doors, so the office had to lay somewhere inside. Eddie held his breath and quickly entered. Decorative mirrors covered both walls, and the ceiling’s nicotine-stained plaster designs contained the type of craftsmanship that embarrassed modern functional styles. The place positively dripped with history. Eddie headed straight for the bar and squeezed between two customers. A young barwoman moved toward him. She rested her hands on two of the beer pumps. “What can I get you?” “How do I find Skunke & Weesul?” “What?” “How do I find Skunke & Weesul, the solicitors?” Eddie repeated in a raised voice to make himself audible over the buzz of chatter. He reached inside his coat and fished out the letter. “The address says it’s here.” “Okay, okay. One moment.” She turned, picked up the receiver of a Bakelite phone, and dialed a single zero. Somewhere near the back of the pub, another old phone rang. After a short conversation, she hung up and faced Eddie. “Are you Mr. York?” “The one and only.” “Got any ID?” Eddie thumbed his driver’s license out of his wallet and held it forward. Then the ridiculousness of the situation hit him. He leaned over the bar, and keeping his voice low, he asked, “Am I seeing a solicitor or checking in for a flight to Glasgow?” “I’ll take you to Frank.” “Pardon?” “Follow me.” The barwoman flipped up the service entrance and headed deeper into the pub, toward the location of the other phone. Eddie followed in a mild state of confusion to a gloomy stall in the back corner.
A stocky, gray-haired man, looking in his seventies with faded navy tattoos on his forearms, gestured a stiff palm to the opposite bench. Despite his age, he looked capable of winning a fight against most men half his age, and his bent nose and intense glare provided potential evidence of his experience. Eddie slid onto the opposite bench. A phone and a half-full pint glass lay on the table between them, but he was in comfortable punching distance of this aging human tank. He didn’t expect any violence, as his grandfather had led him here, but under most other circumstances, this was not a situation he would choose. Thankfully, a broad grin stretched across the man’s face. “I knew you were Brigham’s boy as soon as I saw you. I’m Frank.” “I’m Eddie. His grandson. How did you know him?” “He’s been coming here for decades. Sorry for your loss. He was a great man.” “Do you work for Skunke & Weesul?” Frank let out a throaty laugh, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “It ain’t pronounced skunk and weasel. It’s skunk-ay and wee-sule. We have a working relationship. I’ve owned the pub since the eighties. If you want to see the solicitor, you have to come through me.” “It’s all a bit convoluted, isn’t it?” “On the face of it. You’ll understand once you go down and see Sally.” Eddie glanced at his watch. “I’m due in two minutes. Where’s her office?” “I’ll show you. Come with me; we shouldn’t keep her waiting.” Frank groaned to a standing position, his knee joints cracking. He led Eddie through a door marked Private, and they descended a stone staircase into a musty cellar, snaking between beer barrels toward an electronic pad on the wall. Events were turning stranger by the minute, but Eddie put his faith in his grandfather. It was all he could do, as nothing else made sense. “Where exactly are we going?” “In the words of Brigham, have patience, dear boy.” “In the words of me, why are we in the cellar?” Frank ignored the question and punched a code into the electronic pad. The bricks in front of them shuddered. Dust dropped from the ceiling. A vertical fracture line tore down the wall, and dull mechanical clanks echoed from somewhere behind it.
Eddie’s heart rate spiked, and he took a step back. The center of the wall parted, revealing an entrance to an art deco lift. Frank gestured Eddie inside with a sweeping hand. “This is your way to Skunke & Weesul. All the best, and sorry again for your loss.” “Here?” Eddie asked, frowning at the dimly lit wooden lift car. “It can’t go up, or it’ll burst through the bar, so I’m going down?” “Clever boy.” Eddie stepped inside and glanced around the oak-paneled walls. A brass plate featured just two buttons: descend and ascend. “Their office is in the London Underground system?” “Nope. You’re going somewhere centuries older than that.” “Seriously?” Frank leaned in and hit the descend button. “Make sure you come back one day. We’ll share a pint and talk about your grandfather.” “Why not have one on my way back? I doubt I’ll be long.” “You won’t be leaving through the pub.” The door slid shut before Eddie had a chance to reply. A second later, the lift jolted, then plunged deep below London’s surface.
2 The car shuddered as it descended. Its internal strip light flickered and fizzed, and somewhere overhead, steel cables creaked under the strain. Nothing seemed to meet any known safety regulations. Eddie gripped the brass handrail, hoping the antiquated hoist mechanism survived for the duration of the trip. His work as an heir hunter had taken him to some strange places over the years, such as a house constructed from beer bottles and a hobbit-style cottage in the Cotswold countryside, but this concealed death trap was virgin territory. Regardless of the risk, deep beneath the Argyll Arms was an unknown part of his grandfather’s life, and evidently more than a simple solicitor’s office. Eddie wanted to be here as much as he wanted the lift to stop. Just as he thought the car was going to plummet all the way to the Earth’s core and melt in an instant, it bumped to a gentle standstill. He was almost disappointed with the anticlimax. A polite chime rang out, and the doors parted, revealing a long passage that curved into the distance. Vintage incandescent lightbulbs hung from the ceiling at regular intervals, connected with a sagging cable. Their glowing yellow filaments cast weak light onto the walls and floor of the carved bedrock. Eddie stepped out of the car and took it all in for a moment. Why Skunke & Weesul had their office down here, and who built the place, only added to the growing list of questions. Eddie had prepared himself for a solemn day, seeing the memorial and hearing Brigham’s last will and testament. This was quickly transforming into one of the old man’s adventures, and it fired a passion inside that Eddie had thought had gone forever with his grandfather’s passing. Eddie advanced, his footsteps echoing through the passage as he made his way around the sweeping shallow bend. A large oak door appeared on the
right side of the passage. A security camera above it rotated, tracking his approach. “Grab the knocker,” a breathless woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Preferably with your right hand.” “What?” “Grab the knocker,” she repeated. “It’s perfectly safe.” “Are you Sally Weesul?” “That’s me.” Eddie clasped the heavy brass door knocker. He noticed the underside had a shiny black surface. It glowed green around his fingers. A heavy clank rang out. The door swung inward with an electric grind, dragging him into what looked like an airport security checkpoint. An X-ray machine and a body scanner blocked his path. Another wall- mounted security camera angled down toward him. The pub and the lift had hinted that this was no normal solicitor’s office. But this outright confirmed it, and he struggled to imagine what he’d find once through the complex security measures. “Can you hear me?” he asked. “Yes. Put any metallic objects in the tray. I hear you’re like Brigham, so I won’t bother asking if you’ve got a belt.” “What is this place?” “A security checkpoint.” “No shit. Did that knocker scan my fingerprints?” “Yes, your grandfather worked in biometrics for a time. We’ve had your details on file for twenty years, for when this day came.” Eddie frowned and shook his head. While he emptied his pockets into the metal tray and placed it on the conveyor belt, he searched his memory for any information Brigham might have told him regarding business interests in London. Nothing came to mind. Most of their conversations revolved around historical oddities and fun facts. One of the last things Brigham had told Eddie was about the shrapnel gouges in the cast-iron sphynxes, sitting at each side of the Egyptian obelisk overlooking London’s Embankment. Most people didn’t realize it was bomb damage from one of the first air raids in history. A zeppelin had drifted over London and dropped its deadly payload. The plastic tray slid through the plastic flaps of the X-ray machine; the
conveyor belt paused for a moment, then continued. “Through the body scanner,” Sally said. “Aren’t these the ones where you can see the naked body?” “Trust me, I’m not interested. Go in and put your hands on your head. I promise not to ogle at your nethers.” The intrigue kept building inside Eddie, and he had reached the point where he was bursting to know how this place related to his grandfather. He stepped inside the body scanner, and after a few short seconds, a green light winked by his side. “Congrats, you’re human,” Sally said. “Head down the stairs and through the shelves. You’ll find me at the end of the room.” Eddie collected his wallet and phone from the tray, shoved them back in his jacket, and descended a set of marble stairs. When he reached the bottom, he paused and took in a sharp intake of breath. Calling it a ‘room’ was an understatement on Sally’s part. It stretched the length of a football field and was at least three stories high. A central walkway led to a pair of golden doors at the far end. On either side, rows of shelf stacks at least ten feet high filled the area. The closest ones were made from solid wood in the Georgian style. As the shelves moved through the vast expanses, they changed to Victorian, then art deco, rust-speckled metal, and finally solid steel at the far end. Eddie gazed at the first two rows. They contained a variety of objects: wax-sealed manuscripts, an old Roundhead helmet from the English Civil War, a dagger in a glass case, a trinket box, ornate chests, and many scrolls. As he moved forward, the artifacts and documents became newer, gradually changing from what he guessed were from the mid-seventeenth century. The first set of metal shelves held objects from the Second World War, and the newest shelves contained pen drives, modern safes, and disk drives among devices so advanced he couldn’t even guess at their use. Eddie stopped at a familiar sight on the final row. A stack of old disks and books packed the top shelf, matching the ones in Brigham’s workshop. At their side lay his grandad’s journal. Eddie had often seen him writing in this, though as far as he knew, the old man had never let anyone read the contents. Behind the final shelf, a woman, presumably Sally, pedaled with steady cadence on a sleek exercise bike while eating salad from a paper plate. She was wearing a bright green and black Lycra cycling outfit. She stared at an
overhead screen broadcasting the BBC news. To the left, five other monitors displayed different angles of the passage and security checkpoint. She wore her raven-dark hair in a perfectly styled pixie cut. Thin wisps of blond hair shot through her dark locks. “Hello,” Eddie said. “Bear with me. Just one more minute. She glanced at him with piercing green eyes, hinting at a formidable intelligence. She had high cheekbones and thin lips, which gave her face a severe appearance but seemed somehow fitting for a solicitor. In all of Eddie’s experience, they had all shared that quality, regardless of their looks. Eddie moved to her side. “So this is your office?” “Has been for over three centuries.” “You don’t look a day over two hundred.” “Sadly, I’m not eternal. Skunke joined the Weesuls in the early eighteen hundreds when the firm was set up.” To Eddie, she appeared in her early thirties, but given her obvious health regime, he could easily be out by a decade. As she looked back at him, he could see some familial resemblance between her and Albert. She had his wide ‘swimmer’s’ shoulders. Although given the LCD panel said she’d clocked in 20k on the bike, it wouldn’t surprise him if she were also a long-distance swimmer. Unsure of what else to say, he decided to break the ice. “I take it the lift isn’t health and safety approved?” “The better question is, do you trust your grandad?” “Of course.” “Well, he installed it in 1946. He and my grandad, Albert, recovered it from a hotel in the West End before it was knocked down after suffering devastating bomb damage. It’s worked like a charm ever since.” “Good to know. Sorry about Albert, by the way.” “Thanks, but it was ten years ago now. I’m sorry about Brigham.” “Appreciated.” Eddie peered at the vaulted wooden ceiling, which had a similar appearance to Westminster’s Great Hall. “This all seems a bit elaborate for a solicitor firm. What’s really going on here?” “To you, I’m Brigham York’s solicitor. Nothing more, nothing less.” “And to others?” “Would you expect a solicitor to give out client information?” “Fair point.”
Sally stopped pedaling, sucked in a few deep breaths, and wiped her face with a towel. She jumped off the bike and waved Eddie toward the gold doors. “This way, Mr. York.” Before they reached the gold doors, both opened with an automatic whir, revealing a brightly lit, modern office. Sally moved behind a desk and slumped into a large leather chair. Eddie sat opposite her and guessed her casual attitude was from spending years in this environment, because the thought of being among so many historical artifacts set him on edge. He wanted to search each shelf and marvel at the delights, but he assumed that wouldn’t be allowed. Besides, the main priority was finding out what Brigham had to do with all this, besides installing a lift. Sally’s screen burst to life, casting her face with a blue glow. “Now, let’s get down to business. You’ve visited Kensal Green Cemetery?” “This morning.” “And you saw the gravestone?” Eddie nodded. “Yep, and Brigham’s journal on your shelves.” “That remains confidential, for the moment.” Sally opened a drawer and pulled out a cream-colored envelope with BY embossed on the bottom right corner. He immediately recognized it as one from his grandfather’s study. His heart skipped a beat. “I bet you’ve seen this a hundred times before, being an heir hunter and all. What’s been your biggest recovery?” “So it’s okay for you to ask questions about my job?” Eddie teased. “Just making conversation. It gets lonely down here.” “Given the size of this place, you must tend to a lot of clients.” “Clients isn’t exactly the right word. I have trustees, contractors, and active members.” “Which one am I?” “None—yet, at least not yet.” She grabbed a letter opener from her desk, sliced open the envelope, and slipped out a letter and a chunky key that Eddie didn’t recognize. He leaned forward and drew in a deep breath. Nervous anticipation consumed him as he wondered where the key would lead him. He was sure of one thing: this wasn’t a normal will reading. Silence filled the office while he waited. Sally whispered the words to herself then looked over the top of the
letter. “Are you ready?” “As I’ll ever be.” “Okay. It says ‘Eddie, I’m leaving you my Whitby property—’” “Wait, what? He had a property in Whitby?” Sally shrugged. “It’s my job to read this letter and hand it over with the key. There’s an address at the bottom. I don’t know any other details. It’s not uncommon for family members to discover the deceased had assets they were unaware of.” “Okay,” Eddie said, though his mind raced at a million miles per hour. Brigham was always full of surprises, but he had left his two biggest, the solicitor’s office and the mystery property, until after his death. “You look flustered, Mr. York. Do you want me to continue?” “Please do.” “All right. Eddie, I’m leaving you my Whitby property. To claim it, you must visit on your own the day after the reading of the will. Once there, recall the Conan Doyle incident.” Sally folded the letter, placed it back inside the envelope with the key, and handed it over the desk. “That’s it?” “That’s it. Have you been to Whitby? It’s a lovely part of the country.” Eddie cast his mind back fifteen years to a summer holiday. Brigham had hired a cottage near the seafront, and he had often disappeared for hours on end, saying he had to ‘see a man about a dog’ while he got on with his mysterious business. Eddie loved the freedom as a teenager, and the time went quickly when playing the one-armed bandits in the array of amusement arcades. “You’d better make tracks if you want to get there on time,” Sally said. “It’s a long drive.” “You’re getting rid of me already? I’d like to take a look at Brigham’s journal.” “That’s not possible. I’m a busy woman. No offense, but you haven’t proven yourself worthy of my time yet.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I suggest you follow Brigham’s instructions if you want to find out.” “I repeat: what does that mean?” “Exactly what I said. Our meeting is over, Mr. York, but you have my number should there be any emergencies—do not call in other
circumstances.” Sally rose from behind the desk, moved to the golden doors, and extended a palm toward the vast room. “This way, Mr. York. I don’t have all day.” Eddie stood and followed her out of the office, past the rows of shelves, and back to the marble steps. Leaving here this quickly didn’t feel right when there was so much to see, especially the journal, but Sally’s demeanor made it obvious she wanted him to go. In fact, she had changed from friendly to businesslike to cold in the space of ten short minutes. He paused by the body scanner. “Who built all this?” “Its roots go back hundreds of years. The Earl of Argyle added most of what you see here during the Civil War. It was built out from the main tunnel that led from his house to a folly in the grounds.” “Where does it lead now?” “You’ll find out soon enough. It’s the only way out.” The entrance automatically opened when Eddie neared. He walked through the door and turned. Sally gave him a firm nod. “Good day, Mr. York.” The door closed. Silence filled the passage. Eddie stood frozen to the spot, attempting to process what had just happened and what was hiding below the streets of London. He felt the weight of the key and envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to know more about Skunke & Weesul and Brigham’s association, which was clearly more than just a solicitor-client relationship. The passage continued to sweep around to the right. Eddie followed it up a slight incline, and soon, the gradient increased, and the bends tightened until he trudged up a corkscrew-shaped passage toward the surface. After a few minutes, he came to what appeared to be a fire door. He pushed down the metal bar, headed into a dark room, and swept two velvet curtains apart. The passage had led to a box in the Royal Palladium. He stood looking at the brightly lit stage from his elevated position. “If you wouldn’t mind following me, sir,” a voice said behind him. Eddie spun to face a man in the red trench coat and top hat. “What the hell’s going on here?” “This way, sir. The theatre’s closed.” “That much is obvious. Do you know where I’ve just come from?” “The solicitor. We get informed of every exit. Don’t worry, sir, this is
standard procedure. Now, if you’d like to follow me.” The man spun and headed toward the front entrance, down a wide staircase. Eddie pinched himself to check he hadn’t just dreamt the whole experience. Things had become stranger by the minute, but knowing his grandfather as he did, this was also planned. But why… he had no idea. Only one thing was certain: tomorrow, he would be at Whitby and the secret property. At this moment, nothing else mattered but finding out what this mystery contained.
3 Eddie cruised across the North Yorkshire moors in his Triumph TR7, marveling at the majestic beauty of the rugged landscape. Heather-covered hills surrounded the road on either side, and beyond, the sea glistened beneath the late afternoon sunshine. Whitby lay a mile ahead. It would be his base while he found Brigham’s place, which, according to the address, he had called Cook’s Lookout. It appeared on no map or satnav, so Eddie decided the best way forward was local knowledge. But first, he had to check in to a local B&B. Eddie hit the edge of town and, following the navigation commands, negotiated Whitby’s narrow and often winding roads until he arrived at Ghosts, Ghouls, and Greasy Spoons. It didn’t take long to find the place. A plastic figure of Dracula on the pavement, scruffily painted, pointed toward a large Victorian-style house. Eddie parked on the gravel drive beside the entrance, pulled up the hand brake, and grabbed his bag from the passenger seat. With only a couple of hours of sunlight left, he intended to check in, grab a bite to eat, and head out immediately in search of Cook’s Lookout, avoiding having to do it in the dark. He didn’t want to wait until morning either, knowing he was unlikely going to be able to sleep. The front door swung open, and a man stood at the entrance, dressed in a grease-stained white T-shirt and a black cape, his hair dyed the same color and slicked back. In a theatrical voice, the B&B proprietor welcomed Eddie. “Good afternoon, sir, do you have a reservation?” “Hi, I’m Eddie York. I’ve booked a night in the poltergeist room.” “Welcome, my friend. Ah, the poltergeist room. A fine choice, even if your stay carries great risk.” Eddie couldn’t help smiling. “From what, the cooking?”
“Strange things are afoot in Ghosts, Ghouls, and Greasy Spoons. Please follow me. I’ll take you to your sanctuary.” After dealing with some incongruous computer work to book Eddie in, the man turned and, with stiff movements, led Eddie up a flight of stairs, past a coffin crudely painted with white emulsion, and into a bedroom. Fake cobwebs hung from a cast-iron four-poster bed. A small tea and coffee kit sat next to an old portable TV. “If thoust requires any assistance, please ring the buzzer by the bed. I can bring garlic for protection—or extra custard creams.” The man handed Eddie a key, bowed like a Benedictine monk, and shuffled backward out the door. “Do you serve food?” Eddie asked. The man promptly fished a small laminated menu from his inside his cape and handed it over. “We’re serving for the next hour or so. Anything there you desire?” Eddie scanned the menu. It was all pretty basic fare. “Any chance of a fried egg sandwich?” “Your wish is our command, sir.” “That’d be great. Can you whip it up quickly for me? I’m on a tight schedule.” “Certainly. It’ll be ready in five minutes. Join me in the basement for an afternoon snack by candlelight.” Eddie hadn’t stopped anywhere to eat on his way up to Whitby. His mind had raced with the possibilities of what he might find, and before he knew it, he was here, with a growling stomach. He dumped his bag on the bed and followed the man downstairs. In the basement, four tables were set, each with four candles, bathing the room in pale yellow light. Two goths, presumably here for the twice-annual goth festival, a woman, and a man, sat at the far table, excitedly comparing pictures on their phones. They had all-black clothes, multiple wristbands, and foundation whitened their faces. Eddie went over and sat at the table next to them. “Hey, man,” the woman said. “Afternoon. I don’t suppose you know where I can find Cook’s Lookout?” “No idea.” She turned to the man. “Nigel?” “Yeah. It’s, like, so out of the way, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I would,” Eddie replied. “How can I get there from here?” “You head north on the coast road. Keep your eye on the cliffs. You’ll see a dirt track cutting off to the left just before the ground dips towards Staithes. If you reach the village, you’ve missed it.” “Cheers. What’s there?” “Dunno. Why?” “I’m carrying out the final request of a dead man.” The goths stared at each other; then the woman looked back. “Is the dead man from the Victorian era? We ran a Ouija board session last night. We contacted an old sailor with gambling debts, who supposedly drowned off the coast.” “Nah, it’s my grandfather.” “Oh.” The owner bumped through a service door, shambled to Eddie’s table like a zombie, and put a plate in front of him. The egg had red slashes across it, as though it had been cut with a knife and bled. Eddie peered down at the dish. “It’s just ketchup,” the owner said, flashing a pair of fake plastic fangs. “Artistic license… You do like ketchup?” “It’s fine, thank you.” “I’ll put it on your bill. You can pay tomorrow. If you survive the night…” “You better hope I do, or you won’t get a penny.” “Unless you rise from the grave.” “Do you vampires use credit cards?” The owner nodded and returned to his kitchen. “Vampires have long had an association with banks—we both suck people dry. Ha-ha!” Eddie made quick work of the sandwich and stood to leave. “Hey,” the male goth said, “you’re staying in the poltergeist room?” “I am.” “A couple stayed in there last night. I heard some weird shit.” “What? Like the headboard knocking? Groaning?” “I’m serious, man. This town is possessed.” “I’ll take your word for it.”
With food in his belly and an idea of where to start his search, Eddie locked his room and left the B&B. Within minutes, he was accelerating along the coastal road, with the sun over the moorland to his left, casting a watery orange glow over the North Sea. A signpost marked Staithes—another small village—as two miles away. He slowed, searching for the track or any buildings. Over the next hill, a white lighthouse came into view, standing at attention on a small parcel of headland. Its dirty white exterior screamed out for a lick of paint. The dusty glass at the top told Eddie it hadn’t been operational for some time. A small cottage stood at the base of the lighthouse, made out of the distinctive brown Yorkshire stone. The type of construction that would stand for a thousand years, unlike modern houses. Just like the goth had said, a track appeared at the side of the road, cutting through the bleak, weather-beaten terrain toward the property. Eddie slowed and navigated his way closer. The Triumph was not suited to the bumpy surface with its old-design suspension. Eddie jolted in his seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, fighting to stop the car from veering into one of the many boulders that lined the side of the track. He eventually pulled up a hundred yards short of the lighthouse, partly through fear of smashing up his pride and joy, and partly because any more of the tossing around and the half-digested egg sandwich would end up all over the inside of the windscreen. Darkness threatened to come faster than expected. Eddie locked the car and trampled down the last part of the weed-covered track, peering through the murky air towards where Brigham had likely visited hundreds of times. He wondered just what his grandfather had been hiding here. A gate lay at the end of the track, secured with a thick chain and rust- speckled padlock. Eddie vaulted over it and continued forward. Excitement rose inside him as he saw the lighthouse and noticed a relatively modern antenna jutting from the top, pointing towards potential recent usage. But what was it for, and why had it been kept a secret? No obvious answer came, just like the multiple unanswered questions Eddie had regarding Skunke & Weesul, or the inscription on the gravestone ‘holding a wolf by the ears.’ But he reminded himself that Brigham wasn’t a time waster. If he had wanted him here on his own, there was good reason.
Eddie slipped the envelope from his pocket and fished out the key. He slid it into the lighthouse door and twisted. It didn’t work. Next, he moved to the front of the cottage that overlooked the cliffs. A stiff breeze blasted his face, carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh sea air. Thick velvet curtains had been drawn against across each of the windows, and a lone wicker chair sat on a small veranda. Eddie imagined Brigham sitting there, taking in the view while dreaming up his next project. But again, he asked himself why. Brigham wasn’t a loner. He had the privacy of his office, library, and workshop in his Kent residence. Eddie slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and the bolt mechanism snapped open. He took a deep breath, depressed the door handle, and creaked it ajar. Stepping into the dark hallway, with its wood-paneled walls, felt like stepping into a second unknown part of Brigham’s life in the space of twenty- four hours, albeit recognizable as the old man’s style, and he couldn’t wait to delve inside. Catching up with the finer details of his secret life started now. Eddie patted his hand against the wall, searching for a light switch without success. He reached inside his jacket for his smartphone. At the far end of the long corridor, something whirred to life, and a stream of light speared through the darkness. The shadow of a man holding a weapon, maybe an axe, appeared on the far wall, hiding behind a corner, ready to strike. Eddie staggered back a couple of paces and turned, ready to run. He considered himself physically capable but was no match for what looked like a halberd. No footsteps followed, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the hallway. The shadow remained static, unmoving. Far too still, and at a second look, it had an unnatural shape. It appeared more like a theater prop than somebody waiting to pounce and butcher him in the darkness. Eddie closed the front door and slowly moved along, wincing every time a floorboard creaked beneath his boot, until he reached the source of the shadow and the light—and breathed a deep sigh of relief. An old suit of armor stood in a shallow enclave, in a similar design he had once seen in the Tower of London from early Tudor times. The whirring came from inside the open helmet, and a beam of light shot out and brightened the opposite wall. “Hello, Eddie,” Brigham’s voice boomed from inside the armor. “I bet