The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  Acting on instinct, he switched off the light.

  Crouching before the open safe, Matt was startled by the sudden darkness.

  For several seconds, he failed to move. He looked to his right, his eyes seeing little more than a pitch-black room. The light from outside failed to offer any direction.

  He remained still, barely a metre from the hidden door, still on the inside. He listened. He thought he heard sound, though he was unsure what. Footsteps? Breathing? Perhaps talking?

  He considered the possibility that the light had just failed, terrified by the alternative. The switch was noiseless, making it difficult to tell.

  He called out. ‘Scott?’

  No response.

  ‘Aunty Catherine?’

  The shuffling of feet was getting nearer. As best he could tell, it was coming from the centre of the room. Matt rose quickly to his feet, carefully avoiding the open door. He put his hand into his pocket, removed his mobile phone, and selected the flashlight facility. He shone it in front of him.

  Movement startled him.

  Seconds later he hit the floor.

  The monk looked down at the body of the young man sparked out on the floor in front of him. He picked up the phone, using its flashlight. He studied the features of the man, taking in every aspect. He recognised him immediately. He found himself momentarily distracted, but he had a more pressing activity. Slowly, he walked towards the compartment. If his sources were correct, a hidden void was located behind the panel.

  He breathed out in relief. Beneath his dark jacket, he could feel his heart beating fiercely. He brushed his right arm against his forehead and paused to control his breathing. Beads of sweat had formed beneath his hair, now sticky from the heat. The room was noticeably warm. He assumed from experience that the void was heavily insulated, perhaps even more so than the rest of the room. If the items were indeed hidden in this room, it would have figured. The owner would have feared the damp.

  The space continued for less than two metres before a second wall appeared, sloping down from the ceiling at a thirty-degree angle, restricting headspace. Even a child would have struggled to survive for long, even with rations. The location had a different purpose.

  The intruder allowed himself a rare smile. The safe was what he expected and positioned exactly where he had been told it would be. Better luck had prevailed.

  It was already open.

  Wasting no time, the young monk removed the contents. Retrieval was important, but he took the time to handle them carefully. Soon he would be able to study them in detail.

  He looked quickly at his watch. It was almost 1am.

  He paused, his focus once more on the dial. Inhaling deeply, he closed the safe. A dull clanging sound followed, informing him that the door had joined. Then something unexpected happened.

  The burglar alarm went off.

  10

  Scott awoke with a start. He was completely disoriented. He considered the possibility that he was still in Edinburgh and that the alarm belonged to the apartment. Then he considered the possibility he was still at the hotel in Kirkheart: perhaps a genuine alarm or malfunction, probably suggesting a fire.

  Then he realised he was back in his bedroom at his uncle’s home, surrounded by past familiarities.

  The alarm was not the only sound. A strange dragging noise was audible from somewhere on the same floor.

  Scott rolled off his bed and hit the floor. Scampering to his feet, he switched on the wall light and grabbed his jeans from the back of his chair. He attempted to put them on as he ran, failing to avoid hitting the door.

  The intruder immediately realised his mistake. The grandmaster was evidently prepared for the possibility of attempted theft.

  He had one chance, and it had to be now. Returning to the study, he picked up the body of the young man and dragged him into the small compartment, careful to avoid hitting his head. He hoped that by closing the compartment the noise would stop, but that was not the case. Regrettably, the damage had already been done.

  He needed to think. There would be a specific code to be entered on the dial to silence the sound, but he had no idea what it was. The noise was deafening. It was not just his ears that were affected. A series of heavy reverberations pounded through the floor. A hard throbbing sensation engulfed his larynx, caused by the constant drumming from below him.

  The sound of worried voices was evident behind the door, followed by the shining of a light from the corridor. For several seconds he waited, the feeling bringing back bad memories. Despite the years of experience, the sensation was always there, haunting him.

  Death waited at any second.

  The risk should he be caught was unthinkable: not for him, but for the order.

  He considered the possibilities. Based on the alarm alone, he doubted this room would be the first they would check. If luck would have it, nor would they.

  The harsh whining of the burglar alarm continued for several seconds before stopping inexplicably. In the upstairs corridor, Scott stood in silence, his ears adjusting to the quiet. The heavy throbbing that had overwhelmed his senses seconds earlier had gone, replaced instead by a loud ringing in his ears.

  He stood dumbstruck. His mother was standing less than a yard away, dressed only in a dressing gown and minus any make-up.

  ‘Where’s Matt?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Scott sprinted to Matt’s bedroom and entered without invite. The bedside lamp was still on, but Matt was missing.

  He called for him, then more frantically.

  ‘He’s not there.’

  Catherine was now by the stairs. ‘I think it was just a malfunction,’ she said, panting slightly. ‘There’s no sign of a break-in.’

  Scott nodded. ‘I’m gonna check the rooms, just in case.’

  Outside, the monk named Stuart watched the house from his position among the trees. He could see life downstairs, lights turning on then off, clearly in sequence.

  He heard a door open. Quickly he moved further from sight.

  Inside, the monk waited. The panel that had been hidden by the painting was closed, offering no clue to the existence of the compartment – at least for those who did not know it was there. He guessed that the grandmaster would not have entrusted the location to anyone else, at least not intentionally. Nevertheless, the cramped conditions were uncomfortable. The angle of the ceiling prevented him from standing.

  Directly below him was the grandmaster’s son, fortunately still unconscious. He could no longer see his face. For that, he was grateful.

  For over ten minutes he waited. He doubted that the family would accept that the alarm was a malfunction without checking the rooms, and sure enough, that was what happened. Warning of the inspection was given early. He could hear the sound of a light switch being pressed in the adjoining room, confirming what he remembered of the property. What surprised him was the time lag. Evidently whoever was checking the room was leaving nothing to chance. He guessed over two minutes passed before the light was extinguished. Although he knew he was hidden, he did not dare risk the torchlight. Soon it would pass.

  Then he would leave.

  The door to the study opened slowly. Though he heard no sound of a switch, the light was just detectable, piercing through the gap under the hidden door. The lack of light was reassuring, suggesting to him that the person inspecting the room had no chance of seeing they were there. Only if the person knew the exact layout would he check.

  He held his breath.

  Scott paused, his focus on the far wall. Four paintings were hanging from the wall, their colours partially obscured by the reflection of the light. Strangely there was one painting missing: the one of George Anson was placed on the floor, leaning at an angle against the other wall. He looked at the painting with interest for several seconds.

  ‘Matt?’ he shouted. ‘Matt?’

  Silence.

  He considered the position of the painting. He thought about r
eplacing it on the wall but decided against it.

  Slowly, he left the room.

  The monk breathed in gratefully. He heard the sound of the door for the second time. He knew the man had left; the sound of footsteps was audible directly behind him, marching with intent along the corridor. If luck held out, it was over.

  If luck held out, he was clear.

  11

  Matt leaned over, his eyes focused on the window. Light entered the room, piercing through the smallest of gaps in the curtain and illuminating the far wall. For several seconds he focused on it. No matter how hard he tried, he just didn’t seem to be able to get comfortable.

  The more he thought about it, the more he thought about other things. The sound of Luke Bowden’s voice message replayed over and over in his mind, seemingly more and more anxious every time. Until earlier that day he had thought little about it, but now it was eating away at him. It was his interview with Nicole that had done it: not the questions as such, but the process. Throughout the last week he had been asking similar questions himself, but only now was he listening. There was more to the phone call than he initially wanted to accept.

  But it wasn’t just that what bothered him. Clearly there was more to the house than met the eye.

  Insecurity had beaten him.

  He sought to get up, but struggled. For the first time he realised he’d been lying on a hard floor. His head hurt, making it difficult to control his balance.

  Suddenly he was nervous. The last thing he remembered was the light going out. What the hell had happened?

  He rose to his feet. He could see from the light that he was still in the study, but all else had changed.

  Then he heard a door open.

  ‘Scott?’

  The movement of the door stopped. Then started.

  Then he heard footsteps in the corridor.

  The monk had waited thirty minutes before leaving the compartment. Pain shuddered down his back, hamstrings and calves. He needed to get out.

  He had opened the panel slowly, careful of being observed. He exited quietly before dragging Matt outside, leaving him on the floor.

  Deciding against moving the picture, he closed the panel. Using torchlight, he found the door before extinguishing the light. The corridor was dark, its destination a mystery except for the vague outline of shapes at the far end.

  Slowly he entered the corridor.

  Matt opened the door of the study and immediately stopped dead. Despite the darkness, his hearing had not let him down. There were footsteps in the corridor.

  ‘Scott?’

  The footsteps stopped. He waited for a response but received none. He called for his aunt. Again no response. Seconds later the footsteps resumed.

  He switched on the light.

  The intruder paused, frozen to the spot. Instinct told him to run, but his legs refused to allow it. In that split second it was unclear who was the more surprised. The young monk was unrecognisable, a balaclava covering his head, black clothes the rest of his body. The young monk sprinted.

  Astonished, Matt chased after him. He caught up with him three-quarters of the way down the corridor and jumped on the monk. He felt a fierce retaliation and raised his arms as a reflex. The intruder’s forearm made contact with Matt’s cheek but drew no blood. Nevertheless, the blow caught him hard.

  Doors opened behind him, followed by more voices. He heard Scott swear violently before sprinting to the end of the corridor, pushing Matt out of the way as he passed.

  Matt followed his cousin in the direction of the far room and entered through the open door. The light to the room came on suddenly, illuminating a cluttered room with curtains partially drawn and the window open.

  The next thing he saw was unlike anything else. The intruder was standing outside the window. Then, inexplicably, he vanished.

  Scott placed his leg outside the window and almost immediately lost his balance. The intruder had slid down the ladder as though it were a fireman’s pole and was now attempting to run for it. A second man had also appeared, standing at the bottom of the ladder.

  Scott did the same, though without composure. The metal ladder was cold and caused cuts and bruises against his naked legs as he fell. He hit the ground with a thump, the impact excruciating on his bare feet. Rising to his feet, he followed the intruders. Without warning, both men stopped and turned on Scott. Kicks came to the kidneys and ribs. Scott fell to his haunches, pain running through his body. For several seconds he struggled to breathe.

  Now at the bottom of the ladder, Matt watched the intruders assault his cousin. Never in his life had he seen Scott beaten so easily. Both men were highly skilled, their actions reminiscent of the Shaolin Monks. He observed them sprinting in the direction of the grounds before disappearing from sight.

  Matt accelerated in the opposite direction from the window and stopped in front of his father’s study. He opened the door, switched on the light, and hurried toward the small compartment. Paying little attention to the portrait, he opened the sealed chamber.

  Footsteps behind him belonged to his cousin and aunt. Scott looked over Matt’s shoulder, his attention on the safe.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Matt glanced at Scott, and then turned back to the safe. He opened it with the code and looked in disbelief.

  The safe was empty.

  Twenty minutes later the intruders were driving north along a deserted road. The first monk removed his mobile phone from the glove compartment and quickly put it to his ear.

  Outside, the night was cool and still; the sensation of recent rain felt pleasant on his face after enduring so long in the cramped room. Still he felt breathless. Yet now this was a different panic.

  The ringing was replaced by the sound of a voice. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Father Winter.’

  ‘Robert.’

  ‘Father, our mission was complicated, but successful. The artefacts have been removed.’

  At the other end of the line, the abbot remained silent.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘You must return to Kirkheart, Robert,’ the abbot said calmly. ‘Come to me in two days.’

  Robert hung up the phone, replacing it in the glove compartment. He was ventilating quickly, his breath visible with the window down.

  It was written in the Scriptures “thou shalt not steal”.

  Only now he faced a bigger problem.

  12

  Matt was awake by nine the next morning. Even prior to the disturbances of the night before, his body refused to rest.

  What the hell was happening? Every time his mind attempted to make sense of the situation, he found himself going round in circles. The intruders were unlike any burglars he had ever known – not that he knew any. Both men were masked and well dressed, but somehow both had the technical know-how to overcome both a former lieutenant and chief petty officer in the Royal Navy. Hardly an ordinary occurrence.

  He awoke suddenly, feeling panicked. Although he could not remember what he was dreaming about, he felt his body moving beneath the sheets. He coughed as he came to. For the first few seconds his dazed mind was unsure whether he was conscious or not. His throat was dry and his cheek slightly sore.

  Then he remembered the masked intruder had punched him.

  He rolled to his side, facing the right side of his room. Sunlight pierced the gap in the curtains. The intrusion of light had disturbed him all night, but he could not find the energy to get up and fix it. At times he’d found himself staring at it, his concentration focused on that one spot: the gap was no more than an inch, unveiling clear blackness and reflected moonlight, partially hindered by condensation. It was around dawn his eyes finally closed, but even then sleep refused to come quickly. Over the past week his life had been plagued by fear and sorrow. Now, in an instant, a new fear had emerged. The biggest puzzle was that as far as anyone could tell, the intruders had not taken anything else. He’d noticed how when the intruders called to themselves they referre
d to one another as brother.

  No burglar operated that way.

  He walked to the other side of his bedroom and unlocked the balcony door. He slid it open and wandered onto the balcony, his attention on the garden.

  The garden was always his favourite feature of the estate. About a mile away, a small loch was located among the grounds, its backdrop an image of perfection against the rugged Scottish landscape. In the distance were the mountains, shrouded in gloom. As a child his father had told him it was an ancient belief that the mist of the mountains contained the spirit of Ayrshire’s past – that every lost soul would join the mist, casting the mountains in an obscure eeriness. Even to this day the superstition made him slightly uneasy.

  The garden was a photographer’s dream. To a one-off visitor it was like something out of the National Trust. Several well-maintained lawns were broken by various pathways and streams, including the river, that ran through the garden. Scattered throughout were various monuments, all history related. They had always disturbed him. According to family tradition, Admiral George Anson’s brother had added them personally in the 1760s as a testament to one of his brother’s voyages.

  There were four in total: one an archway, allegedly a deliberate ruin; the second a classical building, reminiscent of something from the Old Testament; one was a large stone with peculiar markings on it; while the fourth was a sculpture of two shepherds surrounding a ruined tomb alongside a second scene of a man being murdered – apparently a story from antiquity. Though years had passed since he had seen them properly, he remembered the monuments portrayed only scenes of death. As a child it had scared him. His father referred to the style as memento mori.