Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  Malcolm, a master of the art, knew it for the political doublespeak it was. Stabbed in the back! By Balfour. Of all people. He’d trusted him. You fucker! I’ll kill you for this! He glared the message with his eyes.

  “But we must face the fact,” Balfour continued, “that because of his tendency to play rough, he is perhaps less than popular with the electorate. My own polling, on the other hand”—he smiled deprecatingly—“has shown that, if I were to be leader, we would actually get what the Americans refer to as a bounce in the polls.” Balfour sat down to strong applause and cries of “Hear! Hear!” from the assembled party members.

  Plastering a fixed grin on his broad face, Malcolm leaned in to the foreign secretary and hissed in his ear, “You fuckin’ cunt! I’m going to grind you into mincemeat!” Malcolm still couldn’t believe it. He’d been so sure Balfour was an ally. That the nomination, and the vote, was his for the asking. Now he had a fight on his hands. He’d win it. He had to. Then, when’d he’d vanquished Balfour, he’d fight for England.

  Chapter 31

  All Saints Church was beautiful in the classically simple English style. Arches curved gracefully upward from pillars lining the nave. A larger one served as a frame for the altar. Vases of colorful flowers decorated the altar itself. The rows of wooden pews, worn to a high polish by generations of local posteriors, gleamed in their venerable setting. An atmosphere of cheerful sanctity was pervasive.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” The vicar bustled past them toward the rear of the church. She stopped in front of a heavy wooden door set deep in the pale stone wall.

  The stone looked much older than the rest of the structure, Ayesha thought.

  “Tenth or eleventh century?” Niobe asked, as the vicar produced a bunch of keys from somewhere about her person.

  “Tenth. It’s pure Saxon. The crypt is even older.” The vicar unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stood aside for her visitors to enter.

  Ayesha went first. In the natural light that came through two narrow slits in the thick stone walls, she saw that the chamber was small, square, and empty of anything but a circular stone staircase, its treads polished and much worn down in the center, evidence of centuries of use. The staircase wound upward, to the belfry, she supposed, and downward, presumably to the crypt.

  Caroline Frost made her way between them. “Come along,” she said, in the sort of cheery voice Ayesha associated with fictional vicars, and headed down the staircase.

  The others filed after her. Ayesha, directly behind the vicar, trod carefully on the worn steps, one hand against the ancient wall for support—there was no railing and a fall could have serious consequences.

  The staircase turned several times, while the wall alongside grew progressively damper and the moss and lichen, barely noticeable at first, thickened. The daylight that filtered through the slit windows had sufficed for the initial steps, but thereafter they would have been engulfed in darkness if not for a string of naked lightbulbs, not all of which worked, and some of which glowed but dimly. The bulbs, and the cable that linked them, were affixed to the wall with rusted nails and wire. Candleholders, which must have preceded the lightbulbs as the source of illumination, also rusted, and thickly covered in blackened wax drippings, were affixed somewhat more securely to the wall at similar intervals.

  When Ayesha finally stepped onto level ground she found herself in a low-ceilinged tunnel. After several paces this opened into a large vaulted space, approximately the size of the church above. Illumination came from more lightbulbs, strung from the walls and the ceiling.

  “The crypt,” the vicar announced. “Although the technical name for it is the undercroft.”

  The crypt contained a number of imposing stone sarcophagi. Effigies reposed on top of some. Knights and their ladies. At least one of the knights had his feet crossed—the sign that he’d been on a Crusade to the Holy Land.

  Niobe had walked farther into the crypt, almost to the far side. “This is ninth century,” she called, from where she knelt beside a tomb. “It’s one of the oldest crypts I’ve seen in this part of England.” She rose to her feet. “So, Vicar, what makes you think you’ve got King Harold stashed down here?”

  Caroline Frost picked her way between the tombs and memorials with an air of familiarity. She stopped beside a long, low stone, rather like an altar slab, but which only rose a foot or so above the floor. She gestured at the stone. “Here he is.”

  “What makes you say so?” Joram asked, joining her.

  “Local legend.” The vicar sounded defensive.

  Niobe sighed and walked back toward the staircase.

  “Please,” the vicar beseeched. “I know that local lore and legend isn’t terribly reliable or scientific. Not something that archaeologists take much notice of. But in this case it’s remarkably persistent. It has endured for centuries.

  “Look,” Caroline Frost continued, into the silence. “I know what you’re thinking. But I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve been doing this a lot of years, and this is my fifth parish. Yes, I’m a vicar, but I’m not naïve, and I don’t believe the stars are God’s little daisy chain.”

  Ayesha’s mouth twitched in a smile.

  “When I came here and first heard the story,” the vicar went on, “I took it with a huge dose of salt. But after a while I did some research of my own. The more I learned, the more convinced I became. For a start, there are a lot of families who have lived around here since before the Norman Conquest. Their very names, their farms, are recorded in the Domesday Book. And their families, all of their families, have the same story, handed down to the present generation. That King Harold’s corpse, shot through the eye with an arrow, just as the legend tells it, was brought here. To this church, after having been first interred in the church at Battle.”

  “I’ve never seen any mention of such a tale,” Niobe said. “It’s not in any of the primary sources. Believe me, I know them all. If it wasn’t for something I’ve only just discovered in our excavation at Battle, I wouldn’t put any credence in this.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” The vicar shrugged. “In my amateur way I’ve tried to confirm the legend. I’ve looked into church records, of course, although anything about the original church here long predates the establishment of the Church of England. Everything was Catholic back then. I have contacts with them, though, here in England with the primate’s people. And in Rome.” She blushed and lowered her eyes. “I once dated a priest who now works in the Vatican’s Secret Archives. Before he was a priest, of course,” she added hastily.

  “Was he able to find anything?” Joram asked.

  “Well…something. There was a mention in a letter to the pope, sent from the local bishop sometime after the battle. It was thirdhand, though. The bishop had heard tell of Harold’s corpse being removed to a little church on a wooded hill, close to the seashore.”

  “How does that help?” Ayesha’s hopes faded. “We’re nowhere near the seashore.”

  “Not now we’re not.” The vicar’s smirk had returned; a note of triumph had crept into her voice. “But according to the historical geographical surveys, back in 1066 the shoreline was just down the hill. Not much beyond the castle. There’s something else….”

  “All right, Vicar.” Joram smiled. “Come on. Spill it!”

  “All right. The bishop didn’t use the phrase ‘wooded hill’ in his report to the pope. Not surprisingly, he used the Anglo-Saxon word instead.” Caroline Frost looked at each of them, drawing out the drama. “Hyrst,” she said finally.

  Ayesha’s hopes crested a rise.

  “Hyrst?” Joram asked. “As in Herstmonceux?”

  “That’s it!” The vicar beamed. “The Monceux part comes from the name of the family who were the first lords of the manor here.”

  Niobe frowned. “I hate to be the one to pour cold water, especially as I’m wearing my Indy hat, which means I’m required to believe six impossible things before breakfast. But a local legend
about an unmarked tomb, supported only by a letter from a bishop to the pope passing on an unconfirmed report of a burial in a church on a wooded hill near the shore. I mean, it’s hardly conclusive….”

  “Do you have a crowbar, Vicar?” Ayesha was impatient with the academic debate. She nodded toward the slab at their feet. “Let’s take a look. That will settle the matter.”

  Niobe blanched beneath her tan. Caroline Frost looked as if she wanted to make the sign of the cross. Or something to ward off the evil eye. “You can’t! It would be sacrilege.”

  “We can’t go digging up a grave with no proof,” Niobe echoed the vicar. “You need a coroner’s order. We need X-rays. Soil analysis. Carbon dating. You’d be disturbing centuries-old remains. There’s no telling the damage!”

  Ayesha’s gaze was drawn to the stone slab while she half listened to the arguments about why it shouldn’t be opened. They were, she knew, more about the vicar and the archaeologist persuading each other that it would be all right to go ahead, than otherwise. The cold, blank granite told her nothing. Her gaze drifted to the wall adjacent to the slab. It was lit by a naked lightbulb that dangled from a rusted bracket. The bracket had been placed partially atop an earlier mounting for a candle. Ancient wax drippings clung to the wall beneath the bulb.

  Ayesha stepped closer. Her heart rate quickened. She scraped at the wax. It crumbled and fell away. “Ha!”

  The argument behind her stopped abruptly.

  “It’s the Templars, isn’t it?” Ayesha asked Niobe. “Two knights riding one horse?”

  “Oh God!” The archaeologist almost pushed Ayesha out of the way. She broke away more of the wax.

  “What’s all the excitement about?” Caroline Frost asked. “I mean I’m thrilled we have the badge of the Templars on the wall of our crypt, but what’s so significant about it? They weren’t founded until, what, the early eleven hundreds, wasn’t it? So Harold can’t have been in the Order.”

  The archaeologist beamed. “Exactly! Harold can’t have been a Knight of the Temple. Given their vows, it would not have been possible for a king to be admitted, anyway. But look around you. This is the only tomb in this part of the crypt. Harold wasn’t associated with the order. Could not have been. So why is it here? What is it marking?”

  “Vicar,” Joram said.

  “Please, call me Caroline.”

  “Caroline, then, and I’m Joram. We’re not just looking for King Harold.”

  It took a while, but, as with Niobe before her, the vicar had little difficulty in grasping the significance of what Joram explained to her.

  “Holy heck,” she said, her eyes round with a combination of astonishment and excitement when he finished. “Do you think we could get a new roof for the church?”

  Joram laughed. “I should think you’ll be able to do a whole lot more than that, Caroline. Always supposing we discover the treasure.”

  “Now can we find a crowbar?” Ayesha demanded.

  The vicar held Niobe’s gaze for several interminable heartbeats. Then she nodded. “There’s one in the sexton’s shed. I’ll go and get it.”

  Nearly a quarter of an hour passed, during which Ayesha read most every inscription in the crypt, trying to contain her impatience. Then, finally, the vicar, panting slightly, returned. She placed two crowbars and a brace of flashlights on the ground next to the stone slab.

  “Let’s see,” Niobe muttered. The archaeologist dropped to her knees beside the slab. She ran her hands along its edges. “We don’t want to do any more damage than we can help.”

  The archaeologist completed a circuit of the stone slab, using a thin piece of metal to probe the crevice beneath it along each side. When she had finished, she allowed Joram to help her to her feet. Ayesha, watching, was surprised at the strength of her emotion. Jealousy? The feeling was something totally new to her. She had no idea how to deal with it, so she ignored it.

  “It’s not mortared in place,” Niobe told them. “There should be nothing to stop us levering it up, other than the weight of the thing, and our own strength.” She rubbed her hands together and bent to pick up one of the crowbars, but Ayesha beat her to it. Joram had the other one.

  The archaeologist opened her mouth to protest, then, with a shrug, she stooped to a small pile of rubble at the base of the nearest pillar. “Wedges,” she explained, gathering stones and placing them beside the corners of the sarcophagus.

  Ayesha and Joram took up positions at either end of the slab. Each carefully worked the narrow ends of their crowbars into the join.

  “On three?” suggested Joram. Ayesha nodded her agreement. He counted. “One…two…three!”

  Ayesha felt the strain in her arms and shoulders. In her neck. She gritted her teeth. For the longest moment nothing happened. Then, so suddenly that she gasped aloud, with a sharp crack the slab lifted. Just an inch. She and Joram continued to lean all of their weight on the crowbars. The slab rose a little more. Enough for Niobe and Caroline, crouched ready with their wedges, to shove them into the gap. With a feeling of unutterable relief, she relaxed.

  Niobe allowed Ayesha and Joram a minute to recover. Then, kneeling once more, she thrust her fingers beneath the raised edge of the slab. When the others had followed suit, she asked, “Everybody ready? Okay. On three.” This time the archaeologist counted. Four people heaved. The slab moved. Slowly at first. Then with increasing speed.

  “Don’t stop,” gasped Joram. “Keep going. We’re almost there. That’s it. That’s it! Yes!” The slab swung to the side.

  The tomb was about five feet deep. The sides were bare stone. The floor, too. Ayesha gathered herself and looked at Joram. When he raised his head, she spoke. “So, it’s empty. Now where do we look?”

  Chapter 32

  “Battle?” Dame Imogen listened to Danforth on her phone, her gaze on Susannah Armstrong. Imogen’s phone had buzzed before she’d had a chance to say more than hello to Susannah, who’d gestured for her to answer it. The prime minister was sitting up in her hospital bed. Apart from a slightly fevered look in her eyes, she seemed practically normal. Waves of relief washed over the head of MI5.

  “She’s still very weak,” McKenzie had told Imogen. “But another twenty-four hours should see her out of danger. After that, I’d prescribe a month’s complete rest. Preferably on a beach in the Caribbean.”

  “Then she’ll be fine?”

  “No reason why not.”

  “Incredible! And what I asked you before? You’ve told no one?”

  “Not a soul. Her room’s off-limits to everyone but me. As far as the whole world is concerned the prime minister is at death’s door.”

  Imogen forced herself to concentrate on what her American colleague was saying; her phone reception was poor. “Battle’s where Ayesha went?”

  “Yes. She was spotted boarding a train at Victoria, with a man we’ve identified as Joram Tate. He’s the librarian at the Walsingham Institute.”

  Librarian? “Thanks, Danforth. You’ll go to Battle?”

  “Yes. What do you want me to do when I find her?”

  “Get her back here. ASAP!”

  “Understood.”

  “And John?”

  “Immy?”

  “Be careful.” Imogen ended the call. She tried to shake off the feeling that had led her to caution Danforth. Like someone had walked over her grave. It was a feeling she’d had before; she knew better than to dismiss it.

  “Battle?” Susannah Armstrong queried her.

  “That was John Danforth. You remember him? CIA’s London station chief.”

  “How could I forget?”

  Imogen winced. It was Danforth who’d come to Susannah with evidence of her sexual liaison with Diana Longshore, the erstwhile US secretary of state, with whom Shamir had plotted to bring down the head of the British government. “Our guess is that Ayesha has the Maltese Falcon and that it contained a clue that took her to Battle Abbey. The abbey is a likely spot to look for King Harold’s burial pl
ace, and the sword Noel Malcolm wants. Ayesha’s with someone from the Walsingham Institute; the librarian, Joram Tate.”

  “Joram? I know him. He’s…helped me with one or two things over the years. He’s a strange bird.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. Imogen wanted to ask more; Susannah’s face had assumed an odd look when she spoke about Tate. She decided to let it go for now.

  “Speaking of strange birds,” Susannah said, “you know there’s another legend about the Maltese Falcon?”

  Of course there is. “It seems to be quite the multipurpose bird.”

  “It’s the real reason Ayesha was so keen to find it.”

  Imogen perched on the edge of Susannah’s bed. She felt a little like a child at bedtime waiting for her parent to unfold a tale of magic and derring-do.

  “The Falcon is also said to contain clue to the location of a lost treasure—”

  “Let me guess. Blackbeard?”

  “No. A certain order of knights.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes. “This sounds like the plot for a Hollywood movie. But with Ayesha involved…”

  Susannah smiled. “I know what you mean.” Her smile faded. “What if Ayesha finds Harold and his sword?”

  Imogen frowned. “She’s probably safe until she does find it.”

  “And then?”

  “And then.”

  Chapter 33

  “This makes no sense.” Niobe Bagot knelt beside the empty tomb, a frown creasing her forehead.

  Ayesha stepped forward, but the archaeologist beat her to it. Niobe half rose, swung her legs over the edge, and dropped into the tomb. Her booted feet struck the stone at the bottom with a hollow sort of booming sound. She froze in a crouch. Then a slow smile spread across her angular features. “The ground. It moved!”