Read The Fairytale Code - Chapter 3 & 4

The fairytale code

Chapter 3

10:25 am: The British Library, London

Anne removed her trench coat and followed Jonathan Gray into the office.

Last year, she'd accompanied a group of professors who authenticated the original copy of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures Underground. Publicly known as Alice in Wonderland. She was honored to authenticate this book all by herself.

 The newly discovered book of Children's and Household Tales, (commonly known as The Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales), summoned her from the middle of the room. Jonathan had placed it upon a podium with an overhead lamp stand. The light swathed its open pages with a golden hue. It reminded her of treasure findings in an Indiana Jones movie.

In Anne's mind, she heard her sister's distant voice. Back when they were teens in California. You found the book, Anne, the one with all the secrets I told you about. I'm so proud of you.

"The second most sold book of all time, after the Bible itself," Jonathan mused with fascination. 

However, the book didn't have the desired effect on her at first glance. In her experience, authentic finds emanated an unseen aura of a lost past and buried secrets. This one lacked it. So much so, it almost looked forged.

She was about to comment, but her sister's voice stopped her: Give it a chance, Anne, Rachel told her. You're not always right, remember?

Rachel, her older sister, was instrumental in Anne's obsession with folklore. Ever since the first time she told her the story of Snow White and Rose Red. The tale of the inseparable sisters who killed a wolf to save one another's life. Anne and Rachel's life grew into a mirror image of the beloved fairytale.

"I'll leave you with this masterpiece for an hour and come back," Jonathan said. "Then we can make an official announcement to the guests outside."

"I don't need an hour, Mr. Gray," Anne wore the white gloves he'd set on the podium and picked up the magnifier. She was ready to begin.

"Perfect!" Jonathan glanced at his expensive Rolex that slid out from under the sleeves of his tailored Armani suit. "I didn't think you'd authenticate it this fast."

"You mean discredit it this fast," she said.

Gray's face dimmed. Anne could tell he didn't appreciate her confidence.

"First of all," she flipped to the first page. "This version was printed in 1802."

“Sounds about right to me."

“That’s where you’re wrong. The book was originally printed in 1801. Later published in 1802 due to Napoleon threatening to invade their hometown, Kassel. Therefore, the printing date should be 1801.”

"You brought this up in your thesis," Jonathan commented. "Yet, there's no conclusive evidence for such assumptions.”

She hadn't the heart to argue her expertise with him. Jonathan barely knew enough about anything. She decided to go on a streak of objections to make her points instead.

"Also, I see this version mentions Snow White's stepmother, which isn't true—"

"I know. I know. I attended that lecture when you proved that it was Snow White's real mother in the early drafts who poisoned her."

“Exactly, and for undisclosed reasons, the Brothers Grimm later changed it into  'stepmother' in the 1857 version."

"Probably to make it more suitable for children, Anne," Jonathan argued. "It's no big deal."

"Fairy tales were never meant for children in the first place, Mr. Gray. It's a hoax invented by Disney to cash in on old stories without copyright," Anne said, knowing he was aware of this already. "The earlier versions had real names, dates, and even darker crimes. That is why folklorists dispute the origins of these tales in the first place. We want to know what they meant and why the true stories were altered."

"Anne, I am a Catholic who has a thousand questions about my religion," Jonathan sighed, rechecking his watch. "I can dispute the Bible's crazy stories all I want, but someone out there will authenticate it at the end of the day. I'm giving you a chance to be that someone."

Anne wasn't listening, flipping through pages in frustration, "Snow White's real name was Margarette, not mentioned in this copy. Margarette's hair was blonde, not black as in the commercial versions. In those days, blondes were considered average girls by European societal standards. Black hair was a privilege, and Snow White was a relatable story of an average-looking, pale girl who wanted to fall in love with a prince."

"Please stop—".

"And here," she pointed at another page. "The fairy tale about The Five Apples. The Brothers Grimm never used the number five in any title. They only used 1,2,3,4,6,7 and 12. There are Twelve Princesses, Seven Dwarves, Six Swans, etc., but never a five."

She knew he couldn't dispute this. After Anne’s discovery of authentic letters written by William Grimm to his wife, Jonathan had witnessed the approval of that thesis with the board from Oxford University. The letters mentioned the 'seven numbers,' eliminating the number 5 from all titles. William mentioned how he changed the title of a tale called The Five Servants to The Six Servants to honor the code.

"Anne, you're wasting an opportunity,” Jonathan said. “This book will make us both a lot of money. Imagine the rights to reprints, the Disney movies that will be retold, and the events we'll host here in the museum."

“I’m not in it for opportunities. May I ask who found this copy?”

"The descendants of a hundred and two-year-old librarian in London. They discovered it in her closet in a small apartment after she died last week."

“Her name?"

“Lady Ovitz," he said as his phone rang. He checked the number and ran his hand over his face to calm down. "Anne, they're waiting for you outside."

"I'm not going to authenticate this one, Jonathan," Anne took off her gloves and returned the magnifier.

"Then I have no choice but to tell the press your darkest secret," his threatened, speaking darker and more desperately. 

"What did you just say to me?" she titled her head in disbelief. 

He stepped closer, staring into her eyes. 

"I'll tell the press what you did to your sister eighteen years ago, Anne."

Anne's face numbed, astounded that he even knew about her past. She'd done everything to keep it a secret. Did he really know, or was he bluffing?

"You know what this kind of information would do to your career," Jonathan smirked. "Your credibility, and mental health, will be scrutinized. You’ll be ruined."

The numbness ran through her body down to her arms. She worried her knees would buckle underneath her. Jonathan lay a cheque written for a quarter of a million pounds in her name right over the book.

"Authenticate it, Anne," Jonathan said. "Or one of your colleagues will."

Chapter 4

10: 47 am Henry VII's Lady Chapel, Webmeister Abbey, London 

“What do you think she is looking at, Mary?” David contemplated, still facing the girl on the cross.

“You want my opinion?” Mary looked startled. “I’m just the photographer.”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” David said. “What do you see through the lens of your camera?”

“Things, however morbid, look better through the lens, David. I don’t think it’ll help.”

“We used your photos to zoom on the apple and found the pentagram. I know you’ve dabbled with the occult. Let me see with your eyes.”

“I think you read too much into that apple part,” she said.

“You don’t think it matters?”

“I don’t know. I’m surprised that you overlooked the bigger picture.”

“Which is?”

“The connection between the burial vault and the girl on the cross.”

“I’ve been trying to connect the dots, but haven’t figured it out. You have a theory?”

“Uh-huh,” she pointed at the tombs. “Here lies Queen Mary the First, aka Mary Tudor. She was infamous for burning Christian protestants on the stake.”

“You think the girl symbolizes one of her victims?”

“Can’t see it  any other way.”

“The girl is tied to a cross, not burned at the stake,” David said, then shook his head, realizing his foolishness. “Then again, I wouldn’t expect the killer to actually burn a girl on the stake and ruin his masterful design. Interesting theory, Mary.”

“It also explains why she is tied to the cross, not nailed.”

“Because burned victims were tied to the stake—and with dock line ropes if I remember correctly. She was brutal, Mary Tudor.”

“They didn’t call her Bloody Mary for nothing.”

“I guess we shouldn’t call you that anymore,” David pondered.

“I didn’t burn anyone, swear to God,” Mary raised a hand in her defense. “It’s a nickname bullies gave me at school because they thought I was as ugly as the infamous queen.”

David grimaced. He was about to comfort her when a man dressed expensively from head to toe, burst into the crime scene. 

“Stop gossiping and do your job!” the man roared with authority. Then he flashed some ID in the air, “Tom John, representing Her Majesty. I want all reports sent to me right now.”

David and Mary exchanged eye rolls at Tom’s behavior.

“I guess the pentagram apple really bothered Her Majesty,” Mary said between pressed teeth. “I’ll get back to work and let you welcome your royal guest, David.”

David checked his phone and saw Harriet sent a text message about the Queen sending someone.

“Tom John,” Tom stretched a hand to David. “I represent her…”

“You already said that,” David pulled back his brown leather jacket and tucked his hands in the pockets. He overlooked Tom not mentioning a title before his name. Was he Her Majesty’s henchman or something?

“You’re David Tale—“

“You already know that.”

“I see,” Tom rubbed his chin, flashing his expensive watch. “How about you fill me in on what you’ve discovered so far.”

“We discovered we need a Historian. One who’s an expert in Mary Tudor’s era.”

“A Historian?” Tom chuckled. “Are you serious?”

“You asked. I answered. We believe the killer is trying to tell us something.”

“So you think this is some Dan Brown shit?” Tom laughed, looking around at the forensics team to back him up. No one did, so he turned his gaze back at the dead girl. “This is merely the work of a bloody sick fuck, that’s all.”

“David!” Mary interrupted. She was kneeling by Mary Tudor’s tomb, and pointing at the inscription on the side, “You have to see this.”

David knelt, but couldn’t read the Latin sentence:

Regno consores & vrna hic obdor Mimvs elizabetha et maria sorores in spe resvrrec tionis.

Mary translated, “Partners both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in the hope of the Resurrection.”

“Except that certain letters are circled in blood,” Tom pointed out, standing over them. “And you, Detective Tale, claimed you couldn’t find a single drop of blood in the crime scene, huh?”

David dismissed Tom and examined the circled letters:

Regno consores & vrna hic obdor Mimvs elizabetha et maria sorores in spe resvrrec tionis

“The circled letters are e.n.n.n.d.a.e.a.s.o.r.n.” David read the letters aloud. “That’s what the girl is looking at. Not the tomb itself, but the message the killer left us.”

“So, we do need a historian? Or someone who can explain this?” Mary asked.

“Tom,” David beckoned. “Be a good boy to Her Majesty and type those letters into an online anagram generator.”

Tom froze to David’s insult, so Mary pulled out her phone instead.

“Did I authorize you to do this?” Tom grunted.

“Mary?” David said.

“Too many variables. That’s if the answer actually is an anagram.”

“Stop there,” Tom pointed at the screen, breathing over her shoulder. “This name.”

“The anagram is a woman’s name?” David squinted. “The victim?”

“Not the victim,” Tom said. “Someone I know.”

“I’m not following,” David said.

“Let me spell it out to you, detective. It seems the killer disagrees with you about needing a Historian,” Tom said, hands in pockets, leaning back, delighted in his discovery. “He recommends a folklorist, and her name is Anne Anderson.”

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