Landscape of Lies: The Thrilling Race for Treasure

by Peter Watson

  ‘We could ask the vicar to let us in.’

  ‘And draw attention to ourselves? No. It hasn’t come to that yet. Let’s go back to Burning Cliff, have a sandwich and browse in the books for a while. You never know, we might come across what we’re looking for, just as I did that night when I saw those dance figures which told us Peverell Place was a red herring.’

  He held the door of the car open for Isobel. She was just about to get in when they both heard the rattle of an engine stopping outside the church. They looked at each other. Then they ran down the track to the road. Carefully, they peered out.

  A red motor cycle was parked by the gate to the church. There was no one on it. ‘Wait here,’ said Michael. ‘We can see perfectly well and whoever it is can’t see us. It’s not the vicar or the flower lady, that’s certain.’

  They didn’t have long to wait. After a few moments, they both flinched as they watched the dreadfully familiar figure of a tall man wearing a helmet get back on to the motor cycle. Instinctively, they hid deeper in the hedge, but he wheeled his bike around, kick-started it and rode off in the direction he had come from.

  ‘Should we follow him?’ said Isobel.

  ‘I doubt if we could catch him now. By the time we’ve got back to the car and crawled out of this track here, he’ll be miles away.’

  ‘Is this the first time he’s been to the church, do you think?’

  ‘Nnno – he wasn’t there very long and he didn’t bother with the graveyard. That must mean he already knows the answer is inside. He went off to do his research on the three Maries, or three somethings, just as we did. Except that when he came back the church was locked, just as happened to us.’ Michael sighed. ‘We were very lucky we didn’t bump into him again.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not such an easy target on dry land, Michael.’ Isobel’s expression was fierce, though it wasn’t really directed at him. ‘What I am frightened about is that he’s the scholar and already knows what to look for. He’s ahead of us.’

  ‘Correct.’ Now Michael looked at Isobel. ‘This is where it gets very messy, Inspector Sadler. We have to think this through hard, and accept the consequences.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

  He took her hand and kissed her little finger. ‘Start with the fact that, if our reasoning is right, we are one move away from fabulous relics which are hidden somewhere near here. So too is Grainger. Although he arrived here after us, it looks as though he’s actually half a step ahead.’ Michael kissed Isobel’s third finger. ‘Add to that the fact that Grainger knows we’re around, that although we can’t read the clues as well or as quickly as he can we may be on his tail.’ He kissed her middle finger. ‘And, finally, consider the fact that we know Grainger can play rough, very rough. What do you deduce from all that?’

  Isobel stared at Michael.

  ‘I’ll answer for you, in case you’re afraid to say it. There are three important deductions to be made. One, he won’t wait until the church is opened tomorrow. He’s going to break in! My guess is that he won’t do it in daylight. He’ll do it tonight, while it’s dark.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m not a detective or a psychiatrist or an astrologer. But we are nearly there, Isobel, and so is he. The pace always hots up near the end of a chase, the prize is so close.’

  ‘And the second deduction?’

  ‘We know he’s violent, explosive as an oil rig. We don’t want to tangle with him if we can avoid it. The only way to beat him and avoid him is to get into the church ourselves, first.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting we break into the church, are you?’

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t dream of it. We could quite happily wait until tomorrow. But if Grainger is going to break in tonight we have to beat him to it. We could try to convince the vicar to open the church for us but, as of this moment, we don’t know what to tell him. That’s where my third deduction comes in. We now need to bring in Veronica Sheldon.’

  Isobel stared at him.

  ‘This is an emergency, agreed?’

  Isobel didn’t move.

  ‘Veronica is an old girlfriend. She’s on the staff of the V and A Medieval Department. We were only an “item” for a few months but we keep up, sort of. It might take you and me hours – days – to find out what those three lines stand for. But it’s Vron’s bread and butter. She could help us in minutes, if you’ll okay it.’

  Isobel hesitated. ‘We’ve come so far without –’

  ‘This may be as far as we get!’

  ‘It can’t be that easy to break into a church.’

  ‘No, but I have some ideas –’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Isobel! We’re wasting time . . . we can discuss that later. Please! Can I call Vron?’

  She was silent.

  ‘Isobel! Isobloodybel! If we know what we’re looking for, we can stop Grainger taking it.’

  Isobel thought again.

  This time Michael was silent too.

  After a moment, Isobel said, ‘I’m sorry, Michael. You’re right. Let’s do it.’

  He led the way back to the car at a dash, then hustled the Mercedes down the track as fast as the branches would allow. Reaching the road he turned left, away from the church and from Grainger. ‘I’ll make for Burning Cliff and stop at the first telephone box I see. Veronica will need a little time to check her books and it will do us no harm to have a little early sleep, if we can. It gets dark around nine-thirty. We’ll have to hope that Grainger plans his escapade for later rather than earlier, when fewer people will be about. Well after the pubs close. Say from midnight on. That means we have to be ready about ten. Dangerous, but it can’t be helped.’

  He turned left at Tincleton, returned to Woodsford and stopped at the callbox in the village. It had been vandalised. Cursing, he drove on, to Crossways. Thankfully, the phone there was in order. He dialled Veronica’s number in London.

  She was surprised to hear from Michael, but pleasantly so. He knew that her speciality was medieval sculpture and that she was preparing a new catalogue for the museum. He asked her how it was progressing.

  ‘Academics have three speeds, you know that. “Slow”, “Dead slow” and “Stop”. I’m in the middle lane.’

  He laughed and then outlined his problem, promising to explain more fully at a later date. ‘What I need, Vron, are all the meanings and associations in art for three, the number three. What it refers to symbolically. What we have is the Roman numeral for three. We – I – have thought of the Trinity, of course, the Three Graces, the Three Fates and the Three Maries. As a result, we – I – have one possibility that might work but at the moment I’m stymied, having to tread water for a little while, and I’m by no means convinced that what I have is enough. There have to be other symbolic meanings and I need to know what they are.’

  ‘Is this another coup, Michael?’

  ‘It might be, if you can help me. There’s a rival in the fast lane.’

  ‘The same old Whiting. A fish doing the fishing. Sounds more exciting than sculpture catalogues . . . Oh well, let’s see . . . Off the top of my head there are the three theological virtues, faith, hope and charity, the three denials of St Peter, the three faces of Prudence, the three aspects of time . . . Jesus rose on the third day, of course . . . the three ages of man, the three ages of the world – gold, silver and iron . . . anything there of any use?’

  ‘Nnnot sure,’ said Michael. ‘Tell me about the ages of the world, silver especially.’

  ‘I can’t, not just like that.’

  ‘Aren’t there any books you can check in?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not here. I’d have to go to the library.’

  Careful. ‘Vron . . . that’s what I’m asking.’

  At the other end, silence.

  ‘Vron, please!’

  Veronica breathed out heavily. ‘Some people don’t change. Oh, all right. If you’re sure it’s that urgent.’

&n
bsp; ‘Vron, some day soon I’ll tell you just how urgent it is.’

  ‘It will take me ten minutes to get to the library. Give me three-quarters of an hour there . . . Can you call me back in – oh, an hour and a half?’

  ‘I’m in a phone box in Dorset, but I should be at a hotel by then. Sure. Vron, you’re an angel.’

  Michael jumped back into the car and drove south, towards Burning Cliff. When they arrived at the hotel the sun was beginning to turn the Channel a pale straw colour. It was close to four o’clock when they entered their room and flopped down on to the bed. Neither had done very much that day, but the nervousness brought on by the constant tensions was wearing.

  Michael slipped his arm under Isobel’s shoulders and hugged her to him. She kissed his neck. The contact was settling for both of them and their breathing became more regular.

  Isobel put her arm around Michael’s waist and drew him closer. ‘I’ve been a burglar once, already. I’m nervous about doing it again, in a church.’

  ‘Worried you’ll get used to crime?’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Like I’m getting used to vice?’

  She kissed his neck again. ‘You call this vice?’

  ‘This is not all I had in mind.’

  *

  Around five, Michael got up, stepped out on to the balcony and lit a cigar. He looked out to sea. Sailing boats, white wedges no bigger than fingernails, zigzagged across the water. To the west there was a line of them: a race. Somewhere, nearby, Michael could hear a tennis match being played. Qwoq, as the ball was hit. Squeals of excitement, shouting when a point was disputed. Laughter. All of them, the whole world, unaware of the treasures so close in Pallington church. Unaware of Grainger’s wild attempts to kill.

  Michael pulled on his cigar. If they got it wrong tonight and they had to deal with Grainger . . . His skin itched at the thought. It struck him how very brave Isobel was being. She must know they ran that risk yet she wasn’t deterred. Or, if she was, she must have overcome the feeling. She must have learned to overcome such fears when she was working all those hotspots around the world. He smoked on. Could you ever learn to overcome something as basic as fear? He had never been truly frightened at any point of his life. There had been a time when an aeroplane he was on, flying from New York to Toronto, had caught fire and been forced to turn back. Other people on the plane had panicked. But you never knew, with planes, just how bad it was. They never told you. And there was nothing you could do, personally, to remove the danger. The danger wasn’t aimed at you personally either, that was another difference. Maybe he should have been more scared on the flight than he had been. It had taken seventeen minutes to get back to New York. It was a long time to be kept in suspense, knowing that at any minute an explosion could kill you. It had happened not long after the space shuttle disaster, and mid-air explosions were more familiar horrors than usual.

  Isobel’s bravery warmed him. He looked back into the room to where he could just see her hair on the pillow. She looked so calm. Their lovemaking was getting slower and better. No tears now. Instead, Isobel murmured very soft, very erotic words. He had never known such a captivating surrender.

  It was time to phone Veronica. He went back into the room, shook Isobel awake and lifted the receiver. He was put through. At the museum Veronica was located easily enough but when she answered the phone she sounded tetchy.

  ‘Vron, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Someone else has got the book I want.’

  ‘What? Oh no!’

  ‘Yes, but all is not lost. I know who took it out. He’s away this week but he’s not allowed to take books home, so what I want must be in his office. If I can find a security man with the right key, I can get into his office and look at the book. But it’s an odd request and it will take time.’

  ‘How long?’ Michael knew he sounded ungrateful but couldn’t help it.

  ‘Another twenty minutes, maybe. My problem is my mother. She’s picking me up from the museum in about an hour and we’re going to the theatre. If I can’t get at the book by then, I won’t be able to help. I’m sorry.’

  Michael’s heart sank. But all he said was, ‘Yes, Vron. I understand. Will you call me – or shall I call back?’

  ‘No, give me your number. I’ll call you if I have anything to tell you.’

  ‘No, no . . . Call me either way.’ He gave her the number and reluctantly hung up.

  ‘Let’s have some tea,’ he said to Isobel after he had explained the problem with Veronica. ‘Anything to be doing things. I shall go mad just waiting here.’

  They ordered the tea and it came. They drank it. That took twenty-five minutes at the most. Vron would only just have got to the book, even if all had gone well in London.

  Michael decided to have a bath. It was something else to do. He managed to drag it out for twenty minutes. He put on his dressing-gown and tried some more tea, but it was cold. Isobel was under the sheets and trying to catnap. Michael looked out again at the Channel. The sounds of the day were everywhere – children’s voices, a horse whinnying, the throaty growl of a power boat. It felt odd to be in the room, in a dressing-gown, with Isobel almost asleep and a summer’s day raging all around them.

  He noticed a woman walking towards the hotel. She had been to the beach and was carrying some towels. But what attracted his attention was her hair. It was the same kind of red as old Julius had uncovered in the Victorian portrait and it reminded him that he would have to research those three families whose coat of arms featured emeralds. He’d start with the Dictionary of National Biography, then the library of the Genealogical Society. Genealogy was a passion these days. People compiled histories of families that were often so run-of-the-mill they stood no chance of being published. But the manuscripts were lodged in the Genealogical Society and could be very useful to someone like Michael. Then there was that weird chesspiece or turret she was holding in her hand. What could that mean?

  The phone, when it rang, seemed to Michael unnaturally loud and he flinched. Isobel, who had risen from her catnap very quickly, lifted the receiver from its cradle and passed it to him as he sat on the bed.

  ‘Are you ready with pen and paper?’ said Veronica without any preamble. ‘Let’s get on. Entertaining my mother isn’t my idea of heaven but at least she pays for the tickets.’

  ‘Ready. I’m ready. Shoot.’ He motioned to Isobel for a pencil and notepad.

  ‘Which do you want first – all the meanings “three” can have, or the three ages of the world?’

  ‘Give me a tour of all the meanings first. Then we can close in on some of them.’

  ‘Okay. I won’t say this too fast, so you can get it down. But I don’t have all day.’

  ‘I’m ready, I’m ready . . . Dictate away.’

  ‘In no particular order . . . the three generations, three violent deaths – execution, murder, suicide – the three zones of the church, the three angels welcoming Abraham. Three feathers are the symbol of Lorenzo de’ Medici and a couple of popes, three bells are the symbol of music, three nails are the instruments of the passion, a crown with three heads on it stands for philosophy, a three-pronged fork symbolises Neptune – are you keeping up?’

  ‘Three yeses.’

  ‘Three forms of love, Christ had a vision of three arrows, three crosses stand for Golgotha, Paris judged three naked beauties, there is a legend of the three living and the three dead, though that makes six, I suppose, the three “nodi d’amor” symbolise the problems of love – that is, two’s company, three’s a crowd – a tower with three windows is a symbol of chastity, a crosier with three transverses stands for the pope, and three children in a barrel stand for Nicholas of Myra. And I think I’m scraping the barrel here, Michael. That’s about it.’

  Michael was scribbling furiously. He grunted approval, finished writing and then said, ‘Fine . . . okay . . . Here are my three queries . . . what more can you give me on the silver age, the three zones of the church and the tower with three windows
?’

  ‘Hold on while I look them up.’

  Michael handed Isobel the list he had copied down and prepared to write more notes on a fresh sheet of paper.

  ‘Ready? There are actually four ages of the world, it seems – the gold, silver, iron and bronze ages – but in art bronze is usually omitted. I’ll read it out. “In the golden age man lived in a state of primal innocence . . . without tools he fed on berries, and Saturn, the ancient Roman god of agriculture, reigned . . . In the silver age the eternal springtime was over, man learned to sow and knew right from wrong. In art the female figure of Justice is seen holding a sword and scales. . . . Iron was discovered “to the hurt of man” and usually soldiers are shown slaying a figure crowned with laurel, to personify learning and the arts.” Hold on . . .’

  Veronica riffled the pages again. ‘Three zones . . . three zones . . . Here we are. “As a result of Byzantine influence, in medieval times churches were divided into three zones. Crudely speaking these were heaven, the Holy Land and the terrestrial world. In the dome of the church, heaven was portrayed, with Christ, the Virgin and the Apostles peopling this zone. The second zone was the upper areas of the vaulting and the arches below the ceiling, where the events of the gospels in the Holy Land were depicted. In the third, the lowest zone, are shown saints, martyrs and more notable ecclesiastics.” Enough?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Next.’

  ‘“There are several legends of a daughter shut in a tower by her father to ward off her suitors. In time, therefore, towers came to symbolise chastity and the attribute of Barbara, whose tower often had three windows, as well as the Virgin, and Danaë.”’

  ‘Tell me about Barbara – please.’

  Another delay while Veronica turned the pages. ‘“Barbara’s father shut her in the tower to discourage lovers. The tower had two windows but Barbara persuaded the workmen to build a third window because, she said, they symbolised the Trinity which lighted her soul. Barbara was often invoked against sudden death by storms and lightning and thus sometimes held a chalice and wafer, implying the last sacraments. She may have a cannon at her feet.”’ Veronica sighed and said, ‘I hope that’s enough, Michael. I’d like to go now, if that’s all right with you. I hope it’s been worth the wait.’