Landscape of Lies: The Thrilling Race for Treasure

by Peter Watson

  Michael wasn’t sure. But what he said was, ‘Terrific, Vron. Saved my day. I owe you one. Many, many thanks . . . See you soon. Give my love to your Ma –’ and he put the phone down as Veronica shouted her reply.

  He explained everything to Isobel. Neither of them could see any immediate way forward.

  ‘I didn’t notice . . . but maybe the tower of the church has three windows. Or perhaps there’s a Barbara in the church.’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘It can’t be a tomb. We decided that.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Michael paused. ‘No “suppose” about it. You’re right.’ He was still sitting on the bed and she stroked his arm.

  ‘Now what?’

  Michael looked at his watch. ‘The Three Maries pointed us to a sarcophagus – which must be wrong. The silver age points to scales, for Justice. The three zones of the church and the Barbara business suggest the top of the church somewhere. Conbloodyfusing.’ He looked at Isobel and smiled. ‘It’s just coming up to half past six. It gets dark around nine-thirty tonight –’

  ‘Michael, do we have to? Break into a church, I mean.’

  ‘We’ve been through this before, Isobel. I don’t like it any more than you do. But there’s no other way. You burgled Grainger’s office, after all. Is this so much worse? What I suggest is that we get some sleep now. It will take – what? – half an hour to drive back to Pallington and we should aim to arrive just before ten.’ He pulled the curtains closed and shut out the raging day. Then he took off his dressing-gown and got into bed. For a moment he had a glimpse of Isobel’s flesh but firmly told himself that, just now, he needed the sleep more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Michael awoke around 8.30. The sun was going. He kissed Isobel awake, then called down for a bottle of whisky and some sandwiches. They ate as they dressed.

  Isobel wore trousers and a brown woollen shirt and carried a dark sweater in case it should turn cold. Michael put on his navy blazer and a pair of brown corduroys, the darkest clothing he had.

  To anyone watching them as they left, they looked as though they were going out for a casual dinner in a nearby pub. On the way to Pallington, Michael stopped for petrol. The 190 was running low and, all being well, they would be coming back in the small hours, when there would be no petrol stations open.

  They arrived at Pallington just after 9.30 and installed themselves well down the track they had hidden in earlier. It wasn’t yet fully dark, so Michael switched off the car lights and they waited. As their eyes adjusted they found they could still see quite well.

  ‘How long are we going to sit here?’ said Isobel.

  ‘At least until it’s fully dark. I also want to watch the traffic. It’s only a lane that goes past the church but lanes can carry a surprising number of cars. I’d like some idea of how busy, or un-busy, this lane is at night. It will give us a feel of how safe, or unsafe, we are. Also, we might listen out just in case I was wrong about Grainger. Maybe he will try to get into the church earlier.’

  ‘How are we going to get into the church? You said you knew what to do.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do. I was once burgled in London because I used to hide my key for the daily woman. Burglars know all the hiding places and afterwards I received the briefing which the Metropolitan Police issue about places not to hide your key in. I’ll bet the vicar doesn’t know about all that. I’ll bet he hides the key somewhere and I’ll find it.’

  ‘You sound very cocky.’

  ‘I’m whistling in the dark, to keep my spirits up.’

  ‘It’s nearly ten. Why don’t we listen to the news?’

  Michael switched on the radio. It was the usual mix. Isobel tensed involuntarily as Beirut was mentioned. But it was a raid by the Israelis that was making news and there were no references to hostages. The programme also carried a short preview of the next day’s papers, which consisted of a great deal of speculation on whether the Queen was about to announce her abdication. There had obviously been a high-level leak of some sort. But for Michael the gloomiest item was the news that there had been a multiple pileup on the M25 and a twenty-nine-mile tailback had formed near Guildford. That could easily be a winning bet – but it wasn’t his. Was it an omen?

  The news slid smoothly into a late-night music-and-chat show. ‘Don’t switch off,’ said Isobel. She moved in her seat and leaned her head against Michael’s shoulder, then reached down and clasped his hand. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to cigar smoke, Michael Whiting, but I’ve come to like you rather a lot.’

  Michael turned his head and kissed her hair. ‘How much?’

  ‘Well, if I was your goddaughter, I’d probably say you were my third favourite thing.’

  ‘Third! After what?’

  ‘Oh . . . rivers . . . boat-hooks . . .’

  ‘Flattering.’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  She turned towards him. In the light from the car radio, he could just make out Isobel’s face, her skin disappearing here and there into shadow. He kissed her mouth.

  On the radio, a slow sentimental song was coming to an end.

  Michael brushed Isobel’s cheek with his lips and kissed her throat. As he did so, she tilted back her head so that the muscles in her neck flexed. Michael ran the tip of his tongue down to her collar bone.

  The smooth voice of the presenter could be heard on the radio. He was introducing a regular guest, an astrologer. The astrologer was giving horoscopes and she began with the presenter’s own sign, Leo.

  Isobel began to undo the buttons on her shirt. The collar widened and Michael was able to kiss the skin on her shoulders.

  ‘Leo cannot be coaxed or forced,’ said the woman on the radio. ‘. . . But you need to come to terms with events and developments of the past few months . . . A major career change could be in the offing . . .’

  Michael moved his lips across Isobel’s skin. She finished unbuttoning her shirt and unfastened her bra. Michael gripped its edge with his teeth and pulled it upwards, revealing her breasts, the shadows curving around them.

  ‘Virgo . . . Circumstances beyond your control will bring all major issues to a head . . . This month will mark a significant turning-point in your life . . . Putting others first may not come naturally . . .’

  Michael kissed Isobel’s nipples. She stroked the back of his neck. He held one of her nipples between his lips, and squeezed. She gave a soft moan. Gently, he touched the nipple with his teeth. Again he squeezed.

  ‘Brute!’ But it was a whisper. ‘Do it again.’

  ‘Libra . . . At some point this month you may feel trapped or at odds with partners and close friends . . . But there will be a catalyst and before long a balance, as befits a Libran, will be restored . . .’

  Isobel’s nipple glistened in the dim light, fleshy and swollen. Michael transferred his attention to its twin. He lowered his lips again.

  He stopped. ‘Balance!’

  Isobel opened her eyes. ‘Beast!’ But the spell was broken. ‘What?’

  ‘I am a beast, you’re right. Only a dinosaur would stop what I’m doing when he doesn’t have to.’ Michael manoeuvred Isobel so he could look at her as he spoke. ‘Don’t be angry, please, but three, the number three, among three hundred other things, stands for the ages of the world – remember? We’re looking for silver and, as Vron said, in the silver age man learned right from wrong. So . . . the symbol of the silver age was the figure of Justice holding a sword and scales. The sign for Libra is scales, or a balance.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘So . . . at the back of the church is that tympanum, that semicircle of carvings, with the Labours of the Months . . . January, February —’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘September . . . Libra, Isobel. The sign for which is scales! That has to be it. What’s more, it’s high up in the church, in the third zone. I’ve only just thought of that. It must be right. Come on, let’s go!’

  ‘Michael!’

  Softly
, he said, ‘I’m not being unromantic. If we get this sorted out we can make love in all sorts of exotic places, not just Mercedes cars.’

  ‘I was enjoying it. You said you wanted to wait for a while.’

  ‘I was enjoying it too. Believe me. And I did want to wait. But now we know the final clue we stand a real chance of getting into the church and away before Grainger appears. Come on!’

  He switched off the radio and got out of the car. From the back seat he took his blazer and from the boot he took a torch, a large screwdriver and a spanner. ‘Elbow grease may not be enough,’ he said. ‘Ready?’

  Isobel refastened her bra, buttoned her shirt and pulled on her sweater. She nodded.

  They walked gingerly down the track to the lane. It was now nearly 10.30 and properly dark but, as they came to the lane the headlights of a car swept by.

  ‘You don’t think we’re too early, do you?’ said Isobel. ‘I’m scared we’ll be seen.’

  Michael didn’t answer but jogged down the road to get to the church gate before the next car arrived. Isobel followed.

  They turned into the graveyard and just had time to duck behind some headstones when the next set of headlights flashed by.

  After the car had gone, they stood up. ‘Pity about that bend in the road,’ said Michael. ‘It means headlights shine right into the church. One of us will have to keep a lookout.’ He moved off towards the porch.

  ‘Now this is the really tricky bit,’ he said when they got there. ‘I’m going to have to use the torch to find the spot where the key is hidden. If you see or hear anything, give me a whistle or something, so I can put my light out.’ He kissed her cheek and moved off.

  From time to time he flashed the torch into a shadow. Isobel could hear him moving further and further away from her. Then he came walking back. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It must be on the other side.’ He went past her.

  Moments later she hissed, ‘Car!’ He snapped off the light and they both ducked down behind the gravestones.

  The car approached, but slowly. The light from its headlamps looked strangely wobbly, throwing large quivering shadows over the walls of the church. When it got close enough, however, they could see it wasn’t a car, but a tractor, going home late. Its rumble filled the air as it reached the church and trundled by. Isobel’s eyes were now quite accustomed to the gloom and from where she knelt she could see the silhouette of the driver quite clearly. The tractor rattled on without stopping and its clatter disappeared behind the pine copse next to the churchyard. Isobel breathed again. She heard Michael moving about too.

  Moments later she heard voices. ‘Michael!’ she hissed, but he had heard them too, for his light snapped off.

  Isobel’s eyes raked the road, searching for the source of the voices. She heard a laugh, off to the right. Was it some people out for a walk? Was it the vicar, coming to the church? Please God, not that.

  ‘Get back!’ said Michael’s voice, out to her left.

  Deftly, she slipped behind the end of the church and turned to watch.

  A moment later from behind the trees came two small lights, almost as wobbly as the tractor headlamps. It was two bicycles, two old men by the sound of it, riding home after an evening in the pub. Isobel’s heart almost burst when, halfway along the graveyard, the men stopped. Were they coming in? What would they want with a church in darkness? Maybe one of them was a policeman and Michael or she had been seen. A moment later she had her answer. ‘That’s better,’ said a voice. ‘That’s the trouble with beer. Goes right through you.’ The other man laughed and the two lights wobbled off into the night.

  Isobel moaned softly in relief and moved back to her vigil. A moment later, just as she was beginning to relax, she heard another voice.

  ‘Allebloodyluia!’

  It was Michael, coming towards her. As he approached she could see he was smiling and holding a key. ‘In the gutter on the next gable. According to the Metropolitan Police, a gutter is the seventh favourite hiding place.’

  ‘What are the first six? – no, don’t tell me. Let’s get a move on.’

  They crowded into the shadow of the porch. The night was absolutely still, save for the cry of a bird on the river. Michael inserted the key and turned it. The lock rotated but with what seemed to Isobel a dangerously loud rattle. She was reminded of the lock that had rattled in her own house, the night of the burglary all those weeks ago. She looked out, back towards the road. Everything appeared calm.

  Michael pushed the door and they went in.

  Inside, the church was very dark. ‘Should one of us keep a lookout?’ said Michael.

  ‘No. Please. Don’t let’s separate now. Please.’

  Michael led the way to the main aisle, turned left and stopped in front of the west wall. He switched on his torch and found the curve of figures at the edge of the tympanum.

  Isobel craned her neck.

  ‘See the first figure, someone chopping trees. And the second, a figure carrying a bucket —’

  ‘Aquarius.’

  ‘Correct. Now we proceed round —’

  ‘Car!’

  Michael snapped off the beam and froze. The car came towards the church, its headlamps filling the interior with a silver light that rose up the walls, swept across the ceiling, and died rapidly as the car turned the bend and sped off. As it did so, the light brushed over the tympanum at the end of the nave. The beam threw the huge semicircle of stone carvings into a jigsaw of shadows shimmying around the high figure of the Crucifixion in the centre. Then the light was gone.

  Michael gripped the torch but he didn’t switch it on just yet. He waited for his eyes to readjust to the dark. After a moment he said, ‘September is three-quarters of the way through the year, so it must be on the right, near the top.’ He shone the light again. ‘Threshing, that’s right . . . and next to it . . . aha, the Balance.’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘Fingers crossed. We’ve got to get up there somehow.’ He looked around and flashed the light across the nave. ‘There! That table with the hymn-books on it. Let’s clear it and bring it over here.’

  Together they moved across and started lifting off the books. The dust they disturbed made Isobel sneeze, and they both froze for a minute. In the silence they heard a bird squawk on the river but that was all. After a moment they continued clearing the table. It was heavy, but with a mixture of lifting, pushing and dragging they managed to manoeuvre the table back across the nave and slide it beneath the tympanum. Michael climbed on to the table but when he stood up he still couldn’t reach the top of the semicircle.

  ‘A chair!’ he whispered. ‘Quick, get me a chair from the choir.’

  Isobel tiptoed down the aisle to where several chairs were laid out opposite the organ. She carried one back and handed it up to Michael. He placed it on the table and tested it to see if it was firm. It was.

  He climbed on to it, and straightened himself up. His face was level with the feet of Christ on the Cross. In one hand he had the torch and with the other he reached up.

  He could just grasp the scales. He pulled.

  ‘Any luck?’ whispered Isobel, peering up out of the gloom.

  ‘No, it must be stuck. Look, why don’t you climb on to the table and shine the torch for me. Then I can use both hands.’

  Michael waited as Isobel hauled herself up. It wasn’t easy with him and the chair already in the way. Then she had to shuffle herself into a position where he could hand her the torch and she could shine it so that he could see what he was doing. But eventually it was arranged. Michael reached up and grasped the scales with both hands. He pulled. The carving wouldn’t budge.

  ‘It’s ossibloodyfied!’ he hissed. ‘It must have silted up over the years.’

  ‘Try again.’

  He reached up and pulled again. He pulled and almost hung his entire weight on the stone. ‘Give, damn you,’ he hissed. ‘Give!’

  ‘Try twisting,’

>   Michael twisted. The carving of the Crucifixion hung before him as he reached up. He was sweating and aching. ‘It’s no good,’ he whispered. He lowered his arms and got down from the chair. ‘I was so certain I was right.’

  Isobel lowered herself from the table to the floor. ‘Maybe it’s to do with the tower after all. If there is one.’

  Michael, disappointed and breathing heavily, followed her down off the table. ‘Where would the stairs be, do you think? Behind the organ, by the vestry?’

  They moved across the church but there was no doorway out of the vestry. It appeared there was no tower, at least not one that could be climbed from inside.

  ‘I’m lost,’ said Michael. ‘My brain’s gone on “freeze frame” again.’

  ‘Could we have been wrong about Beechey?’ said Isobel. ‘Shine your light down, he’s right here.’

  They were indeed standing behind the organ curtain, where earlier in the day, they had hidden from the woman changing the flowers. Michael switched on the torch and shone it on the gravestone. ‘No, we’re right this far. Beechey . . . Giles . . . born in April. And the symbol for —’

  ‘Car!’

  Again Michael snapped off his light and they both stood still, waiting for the car to go by. The headlights flashed across the ceiling as before, down over the tympanum and died as the car disappeared into the night.

  ‘Michael? What are you doing . . .?’

  Michael had fallen to his knees and switched on the light. Isobel also lowered herself so she could study his movements. He had taken the screwdriver from his pocket and was scraping the tomb.

  ‘Michael, that’s more than burglary, that’s –’

  ‘Watch!’ He was scraping at the numerals, the three slashes on the tomb. Dirt, crusts of grime and stone dust began to come away. For thirty seconds, a minute, he kept at it.

  ‘I don’t see —’

  ‘Look, this isn’t a three –’