A Richer Dust Concealed: A gripping historical mystery thriller you won’t be able to put down!

by R P Nathan

I cleared my throat and read aloud:

  20 January 1915

  Today, my darling Anna, I am in black despair. That I am not with you I understand; even though the thought of it is still almost unbearable to me. But at least separation from one’s beloved wife and daughter is the lot of a man from England in his thirtieth year who has reasonable patriotic feeling and wishes to serve his country. But therein is the rub, Anna. I wish to serve my country but am stuck still in Venice doing diplomatic and intelligence work for which I am temperamentally unsuited.

  When we joined up that day, Rupert and Denis Browne and I, we did so to defend England. But whilst Rupert and Denis have already fought their Germans in Antwerp I have merely been fighting boredom in Venice. Please do not consider I love you less thinking this way. You would surely say that any posting that keeps me away from shells and bullets and poison gas is a good posting and that is why your logical mind proves again superior to mine. But though I know it to be the truth I am still sunk in lethargy and a darkness which hangs over me like a pall. I feel useless here, unable to influence much of anything. And working on Polidoro’s journal is not helping me. Here was a man who fought for his cause and risked himself for his friends. And I believed I would do the same, that we would stand shoulder to shoulder and support each other through all trials; that I should be an Ajax to Rupert’s Achilles. But it seems that this will not be and however we spend the war it will be on opposite sides of Europe—

  “He’s talking about Rupert Brooke,” she said suddenly. She caught my bemused expression. “You know. Rupert Brooke. The poet. Died in the First World War. If I should die think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England… Even you must have heard of that?”

  “I guess so…”

  “Well anyway,” she said not looking the least bit convinced. “Henry Shaeffer must have been friends with him. He’s the right kind of age. And the mention of Ajax and Achilles, is just the sort of classical allusion you’d expect from a poet’s friend. Fascinating.”

  She read to herself for a while and I just sat there alongside, warmed through by the sun, happy to watch her.

  “He talks about the code a lot doesn’t he?” she said eventually, frowning.

  “A fair bit. It’s quite interesting though.”

  “It’s OK. It’s more boy’s stuff. Patrick certainly loves it. I hope he’s not too into it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh... nothing.” She read on a little bit more and then smiled. “I prefer it when Henry talks about personal stuff:

  6 March 1915

  1am

  My darling Anna – we finally have our orders!

  They came through yesterday. It is now one o’clock in the morning and we will be catching a train at eight. Suddenly my head is clear again and the paranoias and frustrations have disappeared. It is crystal clear to me now how this past six months without you has been wasted time indeed. You have written me some two dozen letters in that time which have allowed me your thoughts, but these cannot substitute for a moment with you. And when I look back over this journal that I had started as an outlet for my love for you, I realise that without you to hold me and stabilise me I have drifted. I have become distracted by tedium and grown used to indolence, filling my time with the least of puzzles which is probably incomplete or unbreakable in any case, and points to a treasure no doubt long since removed. And I realise now at my return of clarity, that I did this not to dispel my tedium but to fill the jagged hole left in me by being apart from you.

  Since the news of our postings Captain Hargreaves and I have talked earnestly and at length, and I own that I have wronged him in my earlier entries. For he is not the doltard I labelled him. He is just quiet and solid and he too loves his wife and would be with her.

  Yesterday we played a game of deep longing whereby we each gave the other leave for twenty-four hours. What would we do in that time? Captain Hargreaves was shy on this but said he had a young wife and they had known each other for only a short time before they were married and he joined up soon after, so inevitably they would spend their time in bed, twenty-four hours making love punctuated only, he said, by the sandwiches made with the best bacon from her father’s farm – and at this we laughed. He is a good man, Anna.

  As for me, I said yes we would make love, but perhaps just once, starting with a kiss and an embrace, undressing, feeling your gentle touch on my skin, which is like electricity to me, and then falling together, caressing, and moving, slowly at first, as each discovered the other’s body again after our time apart, but then with growing momentum, our long limbs intertwined, my sun darkened skin against you, pale and strawberry fresh, our faces close and consumed with mutual desire. And then we would hold each other for some time, just kissing.

  In my mind it is midsummer in Cambridge so that afterwards we would lie together in stillness and calm on the bed with the windows thrown open and a view of green outside, the meadow with its casual flowers and a cool English breeze playing over our nakedness. And then we would talk, just you and I, talk as we have not talked for six months, talk and laugh for our conversations even when on serious topics are punctuated with your laughter and my laughter, yet yours is the more beautiful and matches your smile, and I long to hear and see them again.

  And then Frances. She will be eighteen months old now and to have her in front of me, or dandling on my knee would bring me more happiness than I could ever put into words. You say that she is starting to talk. Please, my love, teach her “Papa” as well as “Mama” so that when I am there again she will have a good word for me. When I think of her my heart jumps and I feel a pure warmth inside and I know that even if I am killed or my name besmirched that her love for me will persist as long as she herself has breath; and one day a child of hers will love her in the same way.

  But I will not be killed, my love, my beautiful tender darling Anna. I will not die in a foreign field as Rupert wrote in his poem. I promise I will return to you and when I do I will love you every single hour of my life, until one day, and without fear, we both shall die, and then I will be glad for the chance to love you on into eternity.

  Chapter 13

  She closed the diary and handed it back to me.

  “Read some more?” I asked her. “It was lovely listening to you.”

  She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. “No. It all seems to be about the code after that.”

  “Oh really?” I said in spite of myself and opened it in my lap. “I’ve not read the end of it. Patrick said Shaeffer got close to breaking it.”

  She shrugged and smiled at me, then looked up through the leaves at the sunlit sky above.

  6 March 1915

  3.30 am

  My dear Anna

  I did not think I should be making another entry into my journal but after the last I was ordering my papers and getting ready to pack them all away when suddenly inspiration struck. It is the clarity which the thought of moving has engendered in me; the same clarity to which I referred before. And this clarity has brought me my breakthrough, and suddenly my vision which was blurred by the lensed jigsaw pieces in their wrong positions has swung into focus and I realise that it is so simple after all. I have broken the code – or rather I know the key and it is so simple that I could almost weep with happiness. And I have discovered the truth in a moment of madness or brilliance that you Anna, dear, dear Anna (I am laughing as I write this, my heart is so gay) would have seen immediately. For there is only one way to make sense of it all: that the coded piece is a letter of course, and then the crib was so obvious as to make me think my idea was laughable. But I tried it nonetheless and though not enough to tell me the keyword in itself, for it was too short for that, it gave me the first few letters and the rest was suddenly clear.

  Dear Anna, how I wish you were by my side now. I look at my watch and see it is almost four o’clock. I simply must rest and catch at least an hour’s sleep. But I
am so excited. That I should have made such discoveries tonight of all nights when I am but hours away from leaving for I don’t know where: it could be France or it could be Africa. I feel like Galois on the night before his duel, desperate to set his thoughts down but plagued also by the constant fear, je n’ai pas le temps. But I have said what I need to my dear, for you will understand and make sense of my ramblings and in any case unlike poor Galois I shall not die in a field without seconds. I shall return to you, I shall be back with you soon on terra ferma. That is the key for me. To be back by your side again to hold you and love you and share these wondrous and exciting discoveries with you.

  Now, enough of this or despite my nervous energy I will be tired later on. I am going to put my papers and books away now and I shall rest. Be it only for two hours I will put my head down and shall sleep.

  And then the very last entry. I read it eagerly, expecting it to reveal the secret of the treasure. But it was nothing like that.

  “You need to see this,” I said to Sarah.

  “No that’s OK,” she said still looking skywards. “The code doesn’t do it for me.”

  “No, really. Read it.” She was struck by the note in my voice and looked at me curiously.

  “It tells you what happened to him,” I said and handed her the book.

  She read aloud:

  6.30am

  Colonel Roberts’ car drew up outside some half an hour ago and the estimable Signor Mocenigo is supplying him and Captain Hargreaves with breakfast. All my things that I cannot fit into my pack and this diary too will be with you soon: Mocenigo has promised it. Note the date it arrives: I wager a month from today.

  This will be my last entry for we shall be away by seven o’clock. The Colonel has finally given me an indication of our mission. Lord Kitchener and First Lord of the Admiralty Churchill are concerned that the Western Front has become static and so Churchill has devised a new way to push the war forward. Attack up through Turkey with the intent of taking Constantinople, thus neutering the Ottoman threat and opening up the supply routes again to our great but poorly equipped ally Russia. What a capital plan and how poignant and wonderful that I shall be rejoining Rupert as we head for Troy no less! I shall be Ajax to his Achilles after all! He has already set sail from England on board the SS Grantully Castle with the rest of the Royal Naval Division and we shall join them in Greece in just three days.

  I am desperately excited now for it feels like decisive action is being taken to produce a rapid conclusion to the war. We shall force our way through the Dardanelles and then upwards into Austria-Hungary and Germany. Open another front, break the stalemate, and be back home by the Autumn.

  Oh, I hear Colonel Roberts calling to me now. All my love, my darling Anna and to Frances too. Do not worry for me, for I promise I will return. And how could I not for I will be with Rupert again and the estimable Captain Hargreaves and the best forces in the world heading off to the turning point of the war. We will put on a show that will make all England sing our names in years to come, the names of we who changed the course of this great war and fought and won in Gallipoli.

  Chapter 14

  She was sitting staring out over the square. It was quiet, just the sound of the bunting above us waving in the breeze to disturb our thoughts.

  “We should never have read that,” she said eventually. “It was meant to be a private diary.”

  I nodded, a feeling of guilt rising inside me.

  “And how come it was never sent back to his widow? To Anna.” She sounded suddenly close to tears; but angry ones. “She should have been reading this. Not us. What would she have felt when she heard he’d been killed? She wouldn’t have even had his words to comfort her. And poor little Frances?” She looked at me, her eyes glistening, and all I wanted to do was to hold her. “Oh I know it’s such a long time ago but Signor Mocenigo or whatever his bloody name was should have sent Henry’s stuff on like he said he would. It would just have been something.”

  There was nothing to say in reply so I sat and stared out as well, watching the shadows of the trees play on the walls opposite. Eventually she sighed loudly and stood up rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Come on. We’ve got to go and meet the others for lunch back at your place.”

  We walked in silence.

  I wondered whether I should say anything to try and cheer her up but in the end decided to save it. I’d wait until the afternoon and tell her a joke while we were walking around St Mark’s or just brush up against her or maybe even tell her some cool stuff about Relativity. There was plenty of time.

  Patrick and Maya had already got back and were sitting with Julius and Duncan on the terrace of a trattoria a few doors down from our hotel. It seemed quite nice though I’d never even properly noticed it before. Somehow, though, Julius’s restaurant radar had detected it. Normally I’d have expected some kind of self-congratulatory burble from him about it. But neither he nor anyone else even registered our arrival as they were in the middle of a fully fledged shouting match.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Julius sounded angrier than I’d ever heard him before. “Will you stop going on about this ridiculous treasure, Patrick! It doesn’t exist.”

  “It does exist.”

  “It doesn’t. If it did, it wouldn’t just be lying around waiting for someone to find. It would be in a museum somewhere by now. Ergo, it doesn’t exist.”

  “It does exist. The book says it does.”

  “The book’s a fake. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Well who wrote it then?”

  “Who cares? Maybe it was Shaeffer himself. Maybe he was bored. Who cares? Just accept the fact that you’re wasting your fucking time.”

  “You think that anything that’s not decided by you is a waste of time. Well fuck you.” Patrick pushed his chair back and stood up. “Fuck you, Julius. I’m not wasting my time and I’ll prove it. Because I know where the treasure is.”

  “Well why don’t you go and get it then.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” and he turned and ran out of the square.

  We looked at each other uneasily. Except Maya that is. “Your cousin’s bloomin’ bonkers.”

  Sarah looked like she’d been slapped. “What do you mean?”

  “What d’you think I mean? He’s nuts.”

  “Didn’t you have a good time together?” she asked in dismay.

  “No we didn’t. He spent the whole time telling me daft stuff about Polly-bloody-doro and codes and treasure. On and on and on. A total fruit loop.”

  “Hey! Don’t talk about him like that.”

  Maya shrugged. “Well it’s true. He’s completely doolally—”

  “Don’t talk about him like that!”

  “Well, someone has to,” said Julius now. “He’s not been himself for ages. He’s been acting really strange this whole holiday—”

  “Not strange,” I snapped. “Just quiet. He hasn’t wanted to talk to you and I don’t blame him.”

  He looked at me in disgust. “Oh grow up for Pete’s sake. There’s something wrong with him. Can’t you see that? And you’re not helping by filling his mind with this... this crap.”

  “Stop it!” said Sarah both hands raised to her face. “If you two weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, I’m sure everyone else would be fine. Now, Julius, what did you mean Patrick’s been acting strange?”

  “Well he’s always been quiet but now he’s up and down and when he’s up he’s seriously manic. He was practically jabbering earlier on about sapphires and gold and Cyprus and God knows what else.”

  “And what about you John?” Sarah asked me. “You’ve spent most time with him. Has he been acting strangely?”

  I looked at her face racked with concern. My head was addled with molten fury at Julius and torn between loyalty to my friend and the worry that perhaps there was actually something seriously wrong with him. But before I could voice any of this my mind was blanked by an o
verriding flash of realisation and I jumped to my feet genuinely scared.

  “Shit,” I said and I felt the blood rush from my face. “He’s gone to Bragadino’s tomb. He thinks that’s where the treasure is.”

  We ran through the streets to get there. The half kilometre over to the edge of Cannaregio and the Church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. We jostled past the tourists and into the cool dark of the huge church. Our eyes strayed over the chequered marble floor, wandered between the tall white columns, thinking maybe we’d been mistaken; and that’s when we saw him.

  “Patrick what are you doing?” screamed Sarah. Her voice echoed around the nave and a hundred heads turned to look at her; then followed the direction of her gaze. Fifteen feet off the ground, Patrick was clambering up Bragadino’s memorial, his hands finding purchase on the stone carved coats of arms, inching his way higher using his arms to pull himself up, his legs hanging free.

  “Please Patrick.” Sarah rushed over to him. “Please come down.”

  From the far end of the church there was the sound of running and two officials in suits and ties pounded over. They started shouting in Italian from halfway across the church. Tourists were starting to gather as well, camera flashes going off. Sarah was sobbing and we others were looking on ashen faced. One of the officials ran from the church and we could hear his shouting outside in the Campo. Inside the noise grew. Patrick reached a hand up to the ledge on which the bust of Bragadino and the urn were sitting. He reached but then almost immediately drew back, clasping at nothing as though he were suddenly unsure of himself. Then his other hand slipped and in an instant he was falling, arms flailing, desperate to slow his descent. His foot caught the bottom of one of the marble columns flanking the inscription and sent him tumbling. There was a loud slap and a thud as he hit the marble floor.

  Screams echoed around the church, and then we all rushed forwards. Patrick had got to his feet and was standing dazed. Before the official could reach him Duncan had sprinted between them and started remonstrating in his loud American accent about how he was going to sue the church for emotional distress. Meanwhile Sarah and I grabbed one of Patrick’s arms each and when Julius hissed, “Meet you back at your hotel,” we sprinted for the huge doorway and out into the square blinded by the sudden brightness.