The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  Nicole nodded, secretly captivated by the possibility that there existed, or would exist, a book of such epic proportions.

  She rattled the pen in her mouth, contemplating her next question. ‘I understand your father had been travelling recently.’ Silently she was wondering about La Rochelle.

  He shrugged, apparently unconcerned by the question. ‘I don’t know that much, really. As far as I’m aware, he was busy doing research.’

  ‘Any idea what?’

  Another shrug. ‘No, sorry, I hadn’t really seen much of him recently.’

  Nicole nodded, a considerate smile forming. ‘Were you close with your father?’

  ‘I really don’t see that as being any of your business.’

  Nicole smiled. ‘What I mean is: Did he always travel?’

  Matt bit his lip. ‘Yeah, quite often. Though less when Robert and me were growing up. I think he put a lot of stuff on hold to be a dad.’

  ‘He died, didn’t he? Your brother.’

  Matt exhaled loudly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lost at sea?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Strange so many Ansons have gone to sea. I hear you left the navy.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Is it true that you punched your commanding officer in the face?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk about my father.’

  She sipped slowly from her Vodka and Coke, her eyes concentrating on the glass. ‘So you have no idea what he was doing in La Rochelle?’

  ‘I honestly don’t.’

  She wrote something down, Matt was unsure what.

  ‘Why does it matter?’

  She shook her head. Her expression was considerate. ‘It really doesn’t matter. I just like to cover my bases.’

  He nodded, but remained quiet. She did the same. It was clear that the subject matter was upsetting.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I don’t see why that’s important.’

  ‘I’m just trying to get a complete picture.’

  He shrugged. ‘He was born, he lived, he died.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  The question was not unexpected, but it still caught him off guard. ‘My father died of a heart attack.’

  ‘A heart attack?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been told.’

  Nicole eyed him closely. Was this a lie, or did he genuinely not know?

  ‘How about the order? What do you know about its history?’

  Matt’s expression changed slightly. ‘You’d have to ask one of the monks. I only know the basics.’

  ‘How long had he been a member of the Knights of Arcadia?’

  ‘Thirty-odd years, I guess.’

  ‘I understand he was the fourth Anson to be a grandmaster.’

  ‘What can I say, it’s a family tradition.’

  ‘Is getting expelled from the navy also a tradition?’

  He considered retaliating, then decided against it. He let out a laugh, then nothing. ‘No, that was just me.’

  She watched him, her smile somewhere between a giggle and a tease.

  ‘Besides, I was never cut out for the navy.’

  ‘I know. I was at Edinburgh with you.’

  He watched her writing. The way she did so bothered him. ‘Maybe you should write your memoirs. It could be the next Anne Frank!’

  She giggled. ‘Maybe another time. You’ve given me more than enough to get my teeth into. I think the obituary article will be in the Sunday edition; I should have no trouble getting that off before my deadline. Hopefully I’ll be able to get the second article in next week, this time on his life and achievements, et cetera. It would be nice to do one focusing on his books.’

  Matt nodded, another smile forced. ‘Look forward to reading it.’

  She rose to her feet, folding up her papers as she did. She placed her jacket and handbag over her arm and held out her hand. ‘It was nice to see you again, Matthew.’

  Matt paused before finally accepting her hand. As he did, thoughts of the past entered his mind. She was definitely more attractive than she had been: the hair, the clothes – much sharper. There was a casual playfulness to her manner that he still found fairly seductive. At uni it was far more irritating. The girl seemed doomed to pick shit boyfriends.

  But now he hated her. This was not the girl he knew. The front had engulfed her.

  ‘The pleasure, Miss Stocker, was all mine.’

  She watched him, smoothing her hair. She laughed and started to walk away.

  ‘I am sorry about your dad,’ she said, causing both to stop. ‘I remember the one time I met him. You introduced us.’

  He stared back, nodding.

  ‘Do you remember? He thought I was your girlfriend.’

  Matt laughed awkwardly. ‘Yeah. Though he did say in the car after that you were way too good for me anyway.’

  She laughed, louder than the joke merited. ‘You’re such a crap liar.’

  They looked at each other yet without any hint of speech.

  ‘Take care, Matthew.’

  She shuffled for the door to the stairs and slowly opened it. She walked away, not looking back.

  8

  The question was how to get in. The gate was impassable.

  The two men moved silently along the deserted road outside the driveway of the mansion. Their movements did not arouse suspicion. It was nearly 12:45am, and the night air was still. The moon, half full and glowing brightly earlier that evening, was now invisible, its light hidden by dense cloud.

  The nearby village was sleepy: all of its buildings had closed several hours earlier. The houses that lined the road were all mansions, but each one was well hidden. There were no streetlamps, no passing cars with headlights on, nor any hint of light coming from the other houses. If any light was escaping through one of the neighbours’ windows, it was not obvious.

  The question was how to get in.

  The two men stopped briefly in front of the gate and studied the area in detail. The first had seen it many times before, but so long had passed, it seemed like another lifetime. He knew the layout, the tricks, the secrets – he knew the set-up exactly. The gate rose to ten feet in height, the same as the surrounding fence. In total, the metal continued for over two miles, ending with a large garden, presently out of sight. Where there was metal there was also dense woodland. In front of the fence was a ditch or, in some places, wall. In each case, impossible to penetrate.

  The question was how to get in.

  They parked the UV in an isolated field, less than one mile from the house. Wasting no time, both men left the car and removed the boat from the back. The boat was simple, in practice little more than a rowing boat.

  Tonight it was all they needed.

  Once on the water, they rowed slowly to the west, heading where the river ran through the grounds. Though the grounds were secluded, they kept as close as they could to the bank, to avoid the possibility of being detected by a rare passing car. After continuing for about sixteen hundred metres, they stopped at a small jetty, where they tied the boat up.

  They were now in the grounds of the estate.

  The question had been answered.

  The first of the men led the way in the direction of the house, doing his best to navigate in the darkness. Above them, the sky was now much lighter: the moon shining brightly, its light joined by the twinkling of stars, interrupted by passing cloud. The cloud assisted their seclusion. The estate was black as coal, its landmarks blending in with the night. Even in such a remote location they could not dare to risk torchlight.

  Light attracted attention.

  The first monk led the way through both woodland and lawn and stopped before a large monument. There were four monuments in the grounds: all remote and seemingly unconnected to the house itself. The monk took in the features of all four as he passed, reminding himself of their connection to the past – his past. He knew if they followed them, they would take them where they needed to go.

/>   They were now west of the estate. The house was isolated, its windows consumed in darkness. If they had planned this one correctly, the house would be empty and remain so for at least one more night. Both men knew from attending the funeral that all of the occupants had been accounted for.

  The question remained. Despite offering no sign of life, the mansion was well protected. The large oak doors, rising to over eight feet in height, were both physically heavy and psychologically imposing. The windows to the ground floor were potentially vulnerable, but the panes were small, far too small to break into. From the outside it wasn’t clear whether the windows were even intended to be opened.

  The intruders moved quickly across the rear of the house and paused on reaching the southwest wing. This was the newest part of the house, dating back to the 1980s. Though it was joined to the rest of the house and created in the same manner, the area jutted out ten metres from the original layout and included a conservatory at the back and a new garage running along the side of the house. The garage was over twenty feet in width, the same in length, and was created in brick, the only part of the house obviously distinct from the original building. The double doors were painted white, barely visible in the darkness, and evidently locked. Two cars lined the driveway, one of which they didn’t recognise. The description did not correspond with any owned by the family.

  The intruders continued along the side of the house, changing direction on reaching the conservatory. They kept close to the wall, leaving nothing to chance. The building was stated as having both working burglar alarms and security cameras at four known points, including outside the conservatory. All being well, surveillance was not the issue.

  The question was how to get in.

  They navigated the courtyard carefully, avoiding the CCTV. Twenty yards on, the wall of the newest wing joined the main body of the house, the west wall.

  Suddenly, the first man froze. Through the slightest of gaps in the curtains, a light was flickering from a second-storey window. The light was small, but in the darkness, highly noticeable.

  It was surely too late to be a timed light.

  Matthew Anson yawned. His eyes were tired, as was his mind, but sleep refused to come. For the last week the pattern had been similar. If things continued, he would fall asleep sometime between 4 and 5am and wake up just after midday. Every time he closed his eyes, he started to think dark thoughts, unhappy thoughts.

  They arrived back just after midnight. Though Matt’s initial desire was never to see the house again, his audience with the man from Switzerland bothered him. He knew that his father harboured plenty of secrets, and most of the physical ones would be inside the house. The note intrigued him. The layout of the numbers, the message: it meant only one thing.

  Matt made his way slowly into his father’s study and stopped inside the door. With the light on, he could see the interior perfectly: the desk, the walls, the portraits, row after row of history books – just like it had been several days earlier – just like it had been all those years before.

  He walked slowly in the direction of the furthest wall and paused in front of the portrait of his ancestor. The man was elegant. Unlike most portraits of the man in the house, on this occasion he was standing, practically leaning, on what appeared to be a large chair, while behind him a large galleon was sailing on the water.

  Admiral George Anson. In all his glory.

  Matt removed the painting from the wall, taking great care to avoid damaging it. What it revealed was a wooden wall, typical of an 18th century house.

  Matt crouched to his knees, looking closely at the grooves in the wood. He followed it from right to left and stopped. He smiled to himself.

  What was unseen to the wider world was obvious to one who knew where to look. He had seen it opened in the past.

  The compartment could be opened with a key.

  The intruders stood silently. Their game plan was ruined.

  ‘We must proceed.’

  The first man hesitated, cursing his luck. The longer they waited, the more potential problems could arise.

  He looked at the window, then at the landscape.

  They needed to succeed.

  Matt placed the key he had received from Jura into the lock, and immediately the compartment opened. For several seconds he was presented with the strange illusion of looking at a black background.

  Matt leaned on his side. The area was cramped, but large enough if he was efficient. He entered, moving several feet inside, opening the hidden door enough to allow the light to enter.

  A safe was located in front of him.

  For several seconds his eyes focused on the small object. He placed his hand to the dial and carefully entered the combination as instructed in the letter. He brought the number back to double zero and pulled to his right. Still silence.

  Then it opened.

  The intruders walked slowly around the property, coming to a halt at the south point. As expected, the solution presented itself. A disused ladder had been leaning against a locked tool shed, partially hidden from view. The moon was still visible, lighting up the metallic frame of the ladder.

  The intruders retrieved the ladder and leaned it up against one of two windows lining that side of the building. The location was perfect. The room in question had been used as an overspill, and the double window was large enough to be entered from the outside.

  The first man looked at the second. ‘You stay here, Brother Stuart. It’s bad enough just one of us taking the risk.’

  The second man nodded, watching silently as the first monk climbed the ladder. The window opened with a screwdriver. The monk levered the frame and opened the window as wide as he could. He entered slowly, afraid of taking any chances in the poor light. Balancing himself against the lower part of the frame, he raised his legs one at a time and entered. His movements made no sound, at least nothing that could be heard beyond that room.

  He was in.

  9

  Matt looked at the open safe in front of him. What he saw made no sense. There was no money, no legal documents, no family heirlooms. No, what awaited him was different.

  There were two shelves, both occupied by single items, the only contents of the safe.

  The first was definitely paper, clearly handwritten, perhaps fifty or sixty pages in total. He guessed it was 18th century and, judging from the entries, a diary. Reading the early content, it became increasingly obvious it was a ship’s log cataloguing a journey. He assumed the diary was the property of one of his ancestors, but he was unsure which. Skimming through the later pages, he saw the signature was that of George Anson. He’d seen similar.

  He assumed it was connected with his round-the-world voyage.

  It was surely no coincidence that his portrait guarded the wall.

  The second item was altogether stranger. As opposed to a diary or paper document, the item was a painting: two shepherds, standing, looking at a skull lying atop a tomb.

  The intruder turned the latch of the door and slowly nudged it open. The handle was round and heavy with an emblem engraved into it, vaguely visible in the darkness. The faintest gleams of moonlight did little to improve visibility, but still he refused to risk torchlight. It was only to be used as a last resort.

  The door opened slowly. Its movement was restricted by the presence of a rug or carpet that jammed slightly against the door. He made a sign of the cross as he continued. Had it not been there, the noise of the opening door might have been costly.

  The monk continued. The darkness was less restrictive, allowing him to see most of what was in front of him. A long corridor had presented itself, lined on both sides by wall and doors, all of which were closed. The floor below him was made entirely of wood, causing a slight thud as he walked. He attempted to time his footfalls, restricting the possibility of the sound attracting unwanted attention.

  The layout matched that of his memory. The room he needed was located at the opposite end of the house, enterabl
e through a door to the left.

  Outside, the monk named Stuart waited anxiously. Any slip-up and there would be hell to pay.

  He prayed his companion succeeded.

  Matt turned the painting over. There were markings on the back.

  Unrolling the canvas further, he saw that there were four lines of writing, handwritten, and in English.

  When the inscription D.M. is found

  In the ancient cave, revealed by a lamp,

  Law, the King and Prince Ulpian tried,

  The Queen and Duke in the pavilion undercover.

  He looked at the words for several seconds. The more he did so, the more confused he felt.

  Turning it over, he looked once more at the front and, after several seconds, returned it to its rightful location.

  The monk froze. The light was coming from the room directly in front of him. He cursed himself.

  If only they had come hours earlier.

  Retreat was not an option. Taking his chances, he continued in the direction of the study, pausing before the door. The door was heavy, but slightly ajar. The low-pitched creak continued for several seconds before fading as the door closed on its hinges. He closed it slowly, determined not to allow for the possibility of disturbing anyone in the house.

  Despite the light, the room was darker than he anticipated. The window directly in front of him was curtained, slightly open, confirming the light could be seen from outside. He surveyed the room. On appearances alone he assumed that the room had been used as a minor library by the former Knights of Arcadia grandmaster. Several paintings lined the walls, one of which was on the floor.

  Then he noticed the compartment was open.

  Someone was within.