Landscape of Lies: The Thrilling Race for Treasure

by Peter Watson

  The apples were delicious and Michael and Isobel strolled back to the car munching them.

  ‘Apples and roses . . . There are so many beautiful and poetical things about Christianity,’ said Isobel. ‘It’s a pity more people don’t believe.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Shall we have a picnic today?’ She looked across to Michael. ‘If we found a quiet spot, you could stroke my back. You haven’t done that in the fresh air.’

  ‘What did that Nora woman say about almond?’

  ‘Yes, you are English, Michael Whiting. I’m talking about making love and you mention another woman.’

  ‘Seriously. What exactly did she say?’

  ‘That the flowers were almond. Very common in the Mediterranean countries, not so common here. That she didn’t know where to direct us – we were supposed to be on a treasure hunt, remember?’

  They had reached the Mercedes and Michael immediately dipped inside and reached across the back seat. He snatched at a reference book, straightened up and riffled through it. ‘Useless!’ He bent again, threw it back into the car, grabbed at another book and riffled through the pages of that. Again: ‘Pitibloodyful!’ He tried a third.

  ‘Yes!’ He banged the palm of his hand on the open pages of the book. ‘The almond is rare in Britain. That should have been our clue. Whoever painted the picture wasn’t directing us to look for real almonds. He knew they were rare and would be hard, if not impossible, to find. That was a clue of sorts. We keep forgetting we’re dealing with a religious mind. A poetic Christian mind, as you put it a moment ago. For him, almond was a symbol, just as roses and apples are symbols for Dorothea. White Mead was a red herring. Look, read this.’

  He passed Isobel the reference book and pointed to a paragraph.

  She read it out loud. ‘“Almond: The allusion is to the Book of Numbers, chapter seventeen, verses one to eleven. Among all the tribes of Israel, only Aaron’s rod flourished, with ripe almonds. Fulfilling this poetic prophecy, the House of Levi became the foremost, the royal house, and the white blossom of the almond became a symbol of the Virgin’s purity.”’ She looked at him, her eyebrows arched. ‘The Virgin?’

  ‘Easy, isn’t it?’ said Michael. ‘When you know how.’ He kissed Isobel’s cheek. ‘Like everything else in this damn trail, it’s simple, if you can only work it out. Somewhere along this river, right next to it, is a medieval church dedicated to the Virgin.’

  ‘Of course,’ breathed Isobel. ‘The ecclesiastical mind again.’

  Michael snapped the book closed. This church here is St Dorothea, so that leaves the three others I mentioned this morning – at Moreton, Pallington and Stokeford.’ He was already getting into the car. ‘Let’s go to Moreton first – that’s closest. Then we can cross the river to Pallington. There’s a straight road from Pallington to Stokeford – they are both on the north side of the river.’

  Excited again, they moved off.

  Woodsford to Moreton was just under four miles. It took Michael six minutes. As they drew up at the church, they immediately saw a big board saying ‘St Nicholas, Moreton”. Michael didn’t even bother to stop but instead hauled the car around and headed north.

  The lane twisted through Hurst, then crossed the river to Waddock, where they had to turn left. Pallington was a mile further on. The church was visible from the road but there was no sign this time. Instead there was a gate and a path made of local sandstone. It was chipped and had eroded in layers. Michael left the engine running and ran to the church. There was still no sign outside. He tried the door. It opened. He looked about, found a row of hymnbooks. He opened one. Damn! It wasn’t marked. He looked around again. Yes, there it was. A white satin standard hung down the front of the pulpit. On it, in gold, were the words ‘St Mary the Virgin, Pallington’.

  At last. Halleybloodylullah. He hurried back to the car. ‘This is it! St Mary the Virgin.’

  Isobel’s eyes gleamed. ‘Any sign of Grainger?’

  ‘No – but I can’t say I’ve looked hard. I think we should hide the car before we inspect the church. We can’t be far away now.’

  They drove back the way they had come for a couple of hundred yards, to where Isobel had noticed a leafy track. Michael eased the car in there. About fifty yards along it, a gate opened on to a field, enabling Michael to turn the Mercedes. Before they got out they looked again at the last clue in the photograph. It was actually the eighth figure, but the seventh and the ninth were facing the wrong way.

  ‘It’s very grisly, isn’t it?’ said Isobel. ‘I suppose, strictly speaking, a skeleton doesn’t mean a cemetery, but death. So we could be looking for a grave outside the church, or a tomb inside it.’

  ‘But which one?’

  ‘What is it the skeleton is holding as well as the crosier – a glass container of some sort?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll look up glass.’ A pause. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Jar?’

  Another pause. ‘No. Nothing at all.’

  ‘What other words are there? Bottle? Phial? Flask?’

  ‘I’ll try. Hold on.’ Silence. ‘Nothing under “bottle”.’ Another silence. ‘Got it! “Phial, a small glass flask, is the attribute of Bishop Januarius.” That must be right because he’s holding a crosier – a crosier is the symbol of a bishop.’

  ‘Funny name, though.’

  ‘No. It’s obvious. We’re looking for someone who died in January. There must be another clue here as to the person’s name.’

  Isobel was inspecting the figure in the photograph. ‘What about that? It looks like an arrow sticking through his hand.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll try arrow.’ More silence. But not for long. ‘Perfect. Listen to this. “Arrow. The arrow is not merely a weapon but the carrier of disease, traditionally the plague . . .” Lower down: “The arrow is also the attribute of several saints. Arrows piercing the breast are the symbol of St Augustine; arrows held by a richly dressed maiden symbolise Ursula; several arrows piercing a nude body refer to St Sebastian” – I knew that, of course – and this: “an arrow piercing the hand depicts St Giles.”’

  ‘Aha! So, we are looking for –’

  ‘A Giles who died in January.’

  Isobel grinned, took the book from Michael and threw it into the back of the car. She kissed his cheek. ‘Neat. Very neat. Let’s move.’

  Instead of walking on the road, they kept to the fields, always with a hedge between them and the church, just in case Grainger was about. As they approached the church, Michael said, ‘He can’t be far away. One of us should keep a lookout while the other searches in the church and the graveyard.’

  ‘Let me look, please. I’ll die of nerves if I have to act as lookout for Grainger.’

  Michael hid behind the hedge opposite the church as Isobel ran swiftly across the lane. She began systematically going around the graves outside the church. It wasn’t easy. Over the centuries, the writing had in many cases become so eroded it was virtually impossible to read. Moss covered the stones, like brown liver spots on old skin. There were grey streaks from rain down the years.

  ‘Car!’

  She dived behind the church, heart pounding.

  A moment later, the vehicle sped on and out of sight. ‘All clear!’ Michael shouted.

  Isobel resumed her search. It took her about forty minutes to inspect the churchyard properly, by which time she was reasonably certain that there was no one in the graveyard who had been called Giles and died in the month of January. Where she couldn’t read the names, the month didn’t tally, and, where the date couldn’t be read, the name was wrong. She went round to the front of the church, stood by the porch and waved at Michael.

  He sprinted over. ‘No luck?’

  ‘It must be inside. It’s not out here.’

  ‘Do you think we still need a lookout?’

  ‘I’d be happier.’

  He nodded. ‘You’d better go in, then. I’ll wait here and only disturb you if a car stops.’

  ‘Right.’ She went i
nside.

  Michael felt very exposed in the porch, and not a little ridiculous, so he ducked behind the door, which he kept open a little.

  Inside the church, Isobel found that it was light but rather cold. The Norman walls were thick, cut into by only small windows. At the back of the church was a large semicircular arch containing a Crucifixion scene and carvings of people, birds and fish. She tried to imagine what this building must have been like, all those centuries ago, packed with people truly frightened of God, facing the small, bleak apse beyond the altar. This was a church built before the Crusades, or before the early Crusaders had come back. God was not glorified in this church. There was little art, no magnificent soaring architecture to lift the spirits or to carry singing on high. Apart from the arch of carvings, this was a dour church, efficient, businesslike, built when people didn’t need convincing of God’s authority or majesty.

  There were memorial plaques, in stone or plaster or brass, let into the walls and covering much of the floor. Isobel soon established that the dates of the plaster and brass ones were much too late. The stone slabs, on the other hand, were mostly on the floor, shiny and worn and far more difficult to read. She decided to work systematically down from the back of the nave towards the altar.

  She hadn’t gone very far, however, when Michael suddenly hissed, ‘Someone’s stopping!’

  He rushed in. Isobel had already got to her feet. ‘There!’ she whispered. ‘Behind the organ, by that curtain.’

  The organ, a small, modern instrument, was kept in the north transept, and was mostly hidden by a red brocade curtain. They both scrambled to the far end of the nave. There was a space between the organ and the wall where they could wedge themselves.

  They heard footsteps approach on the gravel. The door swung open, grudgingly. From where they were crouched they could not see who had come in, but they heard someone shuffling about in the nave, stopping every so often and then moving on again. Was it Grainger reading the tombstones on the floor? Just as Isobel had been doing only a moment ago? She felt weak just to be this close to him. The image of the boat-hook, glinting in the sun, danced before her.

  The footsteps moved back and forth. Objects were picked up and put down. Isobel looked at Michael. She had begun to shake once more. Michael stroked her cheek and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  For over a quarter of an hour the footsteps moved around the nave. They went out but, just as Michael and Isobel were beginning to relax, they came back again. The footsteps retreated a second time, only to return once more. Isobel was growing weary and more terrified than ever. They were both aching from the need to remain in one position for so long. Was it Grainger, and did he know they were there? Was he teasing them, trying to flush them out?

  After nearly half an hour the footsteps left the church a third time. They crunched away down the path. Still Michael made Isobel wait where she was. It could be a trap. They heard a car door slam and then the engine sprang to life. They relaxed, but still waited by the organ for a few minutes in case Grainger should drive off, stop the car and sneak back.

  Eventually, they agreed that the threat was over. They stood up and rubbed their sore joints. Michael stretched. ‘Now, was that, or was that not, Grainger?’

  Isobel had moved out into the nave. ‘No.’

  ‘How come you’re so certain?’

  ‘Come here and look.’

  He followed her into the nave and looked to where she indicated at the back of the church, where the semicircular arch of carved figures dominated the architecture. Michael smiled sheepishly. The flowers had been changed.

  ‘I’ll go back and be lookout again.’ He made to move off but she caught his arm.

  ‘There’s no need.’ And she led him back behind the organ. On the far side was a slab of stone, shiny with age. She had noticed it while she was hiding. It was slightly sunken in the middle and one corner was cracked, but the writing on it was clear enough: ‘Giles George Beechey Bt: 15 April 1473 to 3 January 1531’. Below it was a motif, three straight vertical lines cut deep into the stone.

  ‘I don’t know whether to feel elated or frustrated,’ said Isobel. ‘If the treasure is under there, we’ll never get it up’.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Remember that man at the beginning? The one with the iron wand? The five steps to truth. Giles-who-died-in-January was only the fourth figure – you pointed that out, remember? There’s one more step to go and it must have something to do with these lines on the tomb.’

  ‘What are they, do you think?’

  ‘They look like Roman numerals – yes? For three. There must be some symbolic meaning in the number.’

  ‘The Trinity?’

  ‘That’s one.’ Michael looked to the back of the church. ‘That’s the Crucifixion back there, with the Virgin at the top. Two figures only. Besides the Trinity there are the Three Fates, the Three Graces . . .’

  Instinctively they both moved to go out of the church. At the bottom of the nave they stopped and looked up at the tympanum.

  ‘What are all those little carvings around the edge of the circle?’ asked Isobel.

  ‘Looks like the Labours of the Months to me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You start at January, bottom left. A little carving of men felling trees, gathering wood for winter. Next to it, the zodiac sign for January, Aquarius. The medievals were quite superstitious, even in churches. Anyway it goes all the way round to December, bottom right.’

  Michael led the way out, back to the Mercedes and the reference books. They were halfway down the drive when another car pulled up. They had forgotten to keep a lookout and they both tensed.

  A tall, thin man got out of the car. When he turned, however, they were relieved to see the flash of white at his throat. It was the vicar. He saw them staring at him and smiled. ‘Good morning. I hope you enjoyed the church?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Isobel, recovering first. ‘Yes. And such lovely fresh flowers.’

  ‘Mrs Summers has been, has she? Then I’ve missed her again. Oh dear, now she’ll be angry.’ He gave them a rather resigned look. Mrs Summers was clearly a trial to him. He went on past them into the church.

  Isobel grinned at Michael and they hurried back to the track where the Mercedes was hidden. Inside the car they fell on the reference books. Silence for a few moments, save for the rustling of pages. Then:

  ‘“The Trinity . . . God is of one nature yet three persons, Father, Son and Holy Ghost . . . is often represented as three interlocking circles . . . The Father was shown as a hand, an eye on a crown . . . The Son is shown on the Cross . . . and the Holy Ghost as a dove . . .”’ Isobel read the rest in silence. ‘No . . . I can’t see anything relevant here.’

  Michael sighed. ‘The Trinity is the most obvious but it’s vague in my book as well.’ He paused, then read aloud: ‘“The Three Graces . . . were often the handmaidens of Venus, the Roman goddess of love and fertility . . . Their names were Aglaia, Euphrosyne and Dice. Typically the two outer Graces face the viewer while the middle one turns away. Seneca said they stood for the threefold aspects of generosity – the giving, receiving and returning of gifts . . . The humanists of Italy in the fifteenth century saw in them the three phases of love: beauty, arousing desire, leading to fulfilment.” Sick joke maybe . . . we’re no nearer to fulfilment.’

  Isobel arched her eyebrows. ‘The Three Fates aren’t much better. “Old and ugly, their names are Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos and they are shown spinning the thread of life with Atropos about to snip the thread with her shears . . .” Hold on, the next paragraph I didn’t know about. “The three Maries at the Sepulchre.” It says: “See Holy Women at the Sepulchre.”’ Quickly, Isobel riffled the pages back through the book. ‘“Three Maries, or myrrhophores, bearers of myrrh, accompanied the body of Jesus to the tomb after the Crucifixion. They had come to anoint the body but discovered that the stone sealing the entrance had been rolled away and the body gone
. . . In art the tomb usually takes the form of a conventional stone sarcophagus . . . There is a figure sitting on the tomb, either simply a young man, which is Mark, or with wings – Matthew – or a sceptre tipped with a fleur-de-lis, which identifies Gabriel.” Maybe that’s what we’re looking for – a sarcophagus with one of those three names on it.’

  Michael nodded and closed his book. ‘It’s the best bet yet. Come on, let’s hope the vicar has gone.’

  They retraced their steps.

  The vicar had gone. Not only that, he had locked the church. ‘Shhhanghaied again!’ said Michael. ‘That, presumably, was what he had come to do when we bumped into him.’

  Isobel examined the church board in the porch. It said: ‘Services: Sundays and other designated feast days: 7.30, 9.30, 11.30, 6.30. At other times the church is open from 10.00 am to 2.00 pm.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Isobel. ‘This means we’ll lose another day.’

  ‘Not if the sarcophagus is in the graveyard,’ said Michael. ‘Come on.’

  This time they both inspected the stones and didn’t bother with a lookout. They had no luck, however. So far as they could tell, there was no Mark, Matthew or Gabriel in the cemetery. They tried all the graves as well as the handful of sarcophagi.

  They walked back to the car. ‘Surely,’ said Isobel, ‘the tomb would have to be inside? Even in those days they must have known that the weather does awful things to gravestones.’

  ‘You’re right,’ replied Michael. ‘What’s more, we are forgetting that our painter and his abbot were very religious men. They would never have countenanced hiding something in a sarcophagus. It was sacrilegious.’

  ‘Maybe it was a fake tomb.’

  ‘That would be a serious offence too, for a very religious person. They didn’t toy with death in those days. There’s something we are missing here. We’re not thinking like medievalists again.’

  They had reached the Mercedes. Michael looked at his watch. ‘This is annoying. Only two-thirty and we’re stymied for the day. I could weep.’