At no time had the acknowledgement of mortality seemed more appropriate.
He looked at them from across the garden. The more he thought about it, the more confused he felt.
What on earth was wrong with his family?
Matt emerged from his room at just after ten. He had showered, but the dreariness remained. The episode from several hours earlier replayed over and over in his mind. He was aware that his father had set up various surveillance devices, and possibly even the odd booby trap, in areas of importance, and that infiltration would lead to an alarm.
Whoever these men were, they had come with a purpose.
The more he thought about the break-in, the more he found himself thinking about Luke Bowden. All morning the voice message had replayed over and over in his head, the tone becoming ever more urgent. Worse still, he was still to hear from him. Matt was starting to wonder whether the two were connected. Why hadn’t Bowden been at his dad’s funeral?
His memory replayed the last words of the message.
Apollo has returned to Arcadia!
He’d heard the words mentioned before – another legacy of his youth. According to Greek mythology, Apollo had been a son of Zeus. If the conspiracy theorists were correct, the words were intrinsically linked with the safety of those of the order.
He couldn’t be certain, but Apollo’s return to Arcadia was surely not a good thing!
Matt made his way along the corridor and stopped outside the door to his father’s study. He paused before deciding to enter. A strange feeling of apprehension overcame him as he entered the room. The safe was still open, both shelves empty. Still it made no sense. The more he thought about it, the harder it was to remember. He recalled markings on the back of the painting; there was also 18th century handwriting in the diary.
He cursed himself for being beaten.
Matt took a seat behind the desk and switched on his father’s iMac, shifting in his seat. His initial reaction was to readjust it, but he was reluctant to do so. This was his father’s seat, set to his comfort. Throughout his youth he associated the room as being his father’s more than any other. The seat would remain as it was.
The computer loaded, its boot-up sound seeming ominous under the circumstance. The icons on the left were a mixture of the traditional and the unique, many of which belonged to software relevant to history and translations of foreign languages into English and vice versa. He clicked on the icon for Microsoft Excel and waited patiently for the program to load. Clicking the mouse, he navigated the options. He had decided to visit Luke Bowden personally. After failing with the phone, he figured face to face would be the best option. If he was correct, Bowden was unaware his father was dead.
That also disturbed him.
He knew his father had compiled an extensive database of contact details for his friends, acquaintances and colleagues, and he assumed Bowden’s address would be on the list. He guessed correctly. The professor lived alone in a large house, less than thirty miles away to the north. He was aware that the twice-married professor was a fan of all things nature.
Matt shut down the computer and left the house moments later. As best he could tell, the house was empty, but he couldn’t be sure. The layout was ambiguous: even in his youth he remembered how confusing the squeaking of the floorboards could be. In his earliest years he feared the house was haunted.
But now he feared nothing but intruders.
The drive to Bowden’s took 45 minutes. He followed the GPS route map through the countryside and pulled off a main road and along an unclassified, less than half a mile from the local hamlet. Like his father’s house, the property was gated, hiding a large period building that had at least five bedrooms and was at least two hundred years old.
He pressed the intercom button and waited quietly for a response. The front of the house was devoid of cars, but he knew from years earlier that most parked around the back near the garage. For several seconds he waited, now growing frustrated. He tried the intercom again and received the same result. Using his mobile phone, he tried all three phone numbers, mobile, home and, alas, university and each time got only voicemail. The result was hardly surprising.
It had been the same story for almost a week.
From the gate, he surveyed the house. The building comprised at least three storeys and had a grey stone exterior with high windows at the front. The setting was affluent, located in close proximity to the nearby hamlet and a short walk from the hills. It was peaceful – and very secluded.
Matt made his way along the side of the gate and used the trees to assist himself over the fence. He walked briskly in the direction of the front door and immediately rang the doorbell.
Again he waited. After failing twice, he moved to his left and looked into the house through the nearest window. Visibility was nonexistent through the white shades.
He cursed his luck. Continuing to his left, he followed the house to the gate. It opened – strange, considering all else was secure. He followed the layout of the house into the garden. Well-maintained lawns and hedges confirmed the house had been recently occupied. He continued to the back door and knocked.
The door was ajar.
Matt paused, undecided whether or not to enter. He called out into the garden but was disappointed to receive no response. He considered the possibility that a cleaning lady or gardener had opened it, but this seemed unlikely.
The garden was deserted.
He breathed in deeply and entered. First came the kitchen, in keeping with a farmhouse kitchen from the period. Then the lounge, the dining room – all of the downstairs…
Unquestionably the place was empty.
He climbed the stairs, slowly at first, then more quickly. The soft texture of carpet beneath his feet absorbed the sound, preventing his footsteps from echoing. The vague shuffle, audible only to himself, was the only threat to the silence.
He continued up the stairs until he reached the second floor. The landing led either left or right, its walls painted white and covered with paintings and photographs. Keepsakes from the man’s life of academia included relics, items of furniture and unique artwork, most of which was Inca related. Lining the right wall, separated by a corridor leading to the bedrooms and bathrooms, were countless items of historical interest from Europe, some genuine, some replica, including swords, shields, tartans and several paintings. Among them was the logo of the Knights of Arcadia, the sight of which unnerved him slightly.
He started by checking every room to the left and proceeded to do the same to the right. Each was uninhabited, clean, and seemed devoid of anything suspicious. He checked the master bedroom and continued to the end of the corridor. He heard a sound, not loud, almost like a humming, obviously belonging to a computer.
He knocked firmly on the final door. In his mind he rehearsed what he would say should the occupant be present, but what happened next was disturbing.
The force of his knock revealed that the door was also ajar, causing it to open slightly. For several seconds, he stood in silence, unsure whether or not to enter. Inhaling deeply, he walked slowly inside and called out, ‘Hello?’
He paused a second time, waiting before calling out again.
Still no response.
The feeling was unsettling. On entering the room, he pulled the door to, looking with interest at the design. A large window offered views across the garden. The room was airy, light in setting and furnished with an impressive selection of art and artefacts that suited the man’s personality. Though the furnishings were varied, they were surprisingly complementary, giving Matt the impression he had entered a library or study.
Matt called out and yet again received no answer. The curtains to the window on the right side of the room were drawn, bathing the room in a strong brown tint given off by the colour of the material. A large L-shaped desk was tucked up in the corner of the room, a flat screen computer the standout feature. The screen was switched on and partially covered in a strange
goo that appeared black in the light. An assembly of random books and papers were scattered across the desk, one of which was open. A black revolving office chair was placed in front of the desk, its back in line with the computer.
‘Professor Bowden,’ Matt said, startled. ‘Professor?’
Matt received no response. As he neared the chair, it appeared that the professor was asleep. His bearded face was tilted to his right, his glasses absent from his face. Matt nudged him on the shoulder but still received no sign that he would wake. A half-full cup of coffee was located on a coaster near the mouse, now cold and stale. A strong odour permeated from the coffee, but that was not the only smell. Another was present, more distinctive. It was close, but he couldn’t place it. He retreated slightly, opening the curtains.
Suddenly he recoiled in horror. The black substance he had seen covering the computer screen was blood. The markings were hard, suggesting their creation was not recent. Struggling to control his breathing, Matt moved closer to the professor, eyeing him in detail. Though the left side looked normal, on closer inspection, what he saw made him sick to his stomach. His white shirt was ripped, and his arms were spread out widely, his hands bound. His eyes were closed, but the expression on what remained of his face was not peaceful. It depicted hardened anguish, as though the man had been tortured. Most of his upper torso was stained with blood: the wounds had gushed at an alarming rate and trickled down both sides of his body, forming a puddle on the floor.
Never in his life had Matt experienced such panic. His first urge was to flee, but something made him stop. There were markings across what remained of the professor’s chest. A red cross had been smeared, created in the man’s own insides. The symbol was reminiscent of the logo of the Knights of Arcadia though its design suggested it was older, possibly crusader. Directly above the cross were the words
Templi Desertore.
Matt ran from the room, covering his mouth. He sprinted all the way down the stairs and continued through the front door of the house. The fresh air took away the overwhelming sensation of the smell, but the sights he had witnessed refused to go away. Still they dominated his mind, flashing like a lightning storm. As he reached the drive, his body gave way. He sank to his knees and found himself unable to hold down the sick.
For several days he had feared the possibility that the professor was in danger, but nothing had prepared him for this.
This was no ordinary murder.
The man had been flayed alive!
13
Nicole reread the last paragraph of her article and immediately deleted it. Her eyes felt heavy, and the throbbing headache that had lasted all morning was tearing through her like a jackhammer. Still, she forced herself to concentrate. The article needed finishing.
She looked at the clock at the bottom corner of the screen. It was almost two thirty, and Wednesday. Less than three hours had passed since her return from Scotland. The events of the previous day, fresh in her mind when she wrote William Anson’s obituary, were now starting to fade. The order of proceedings seemed to have become jumbled, and the more she attempted to focus on them, the less sense they made.
The obituary was written on the plane and was completed in less than half an hour. The article was brief, less than five hundred words, and would appear as little more than a sidebar, probably in the Culture section of the Sunday edition. She assumed that the editor would place his seal on it, usually for the worse. Officially the Sunday editor was Daniel Mills, a once-divorced man in his forties, famous for being both a journalistic terrier and a complete pain in the neck. In her earlier days, some of the nicer journalists had reassured her that most of the flak she received was because she was a pretty girl. Initially, she assumed they were just being nice, but now she realised they had a point. Having worked first for a local paper, her preconception of the big time was one in keeping with what she was used to: nice guys working hard alongside nice girls who respect each other.
She cursed her naivety.
She sipped slowly from her coffee mug and replaced it on her coaster. She paused, taking her eyes away from the screen. The fourth floor of the newspaper’s main office that had been packed to the rafters and alive with activity all morning was now practically deserted. Countless desks – some in cubicles, others in pairs – were empty, their PCs in standby mode whereas screens of the others moved to the flow of the Windows’ screensaver. Ever since her arrival at the Tribunal, she never ceased to be amazed by the building’s seeming ability to suddenly empty without warning, usually before lunchtime. It was inexplicable. Seemingly every day the pattern was the same. According to official rules, every journalist had to work for a minimum of 37 hours a week, but the best ones worked a lot longer – and probably six days a week. Technically a journalist could take a two-hour lunch break and claim it as work time. She had seen most of the timesheets, but she could never quite work out how some of them worked the hours they did. She had a theory that most of the employees worked diddily squat and blagged the time with their superiors. The concept was easy enough. If the Tribunal worked the key-in system, they would probably have failed, but most journalists were encouraged to live the job, including travelling.
That was the one part of the job she could get used to.
At just before midday, hoards of men and women, some dressed in suits, some casual, made their way loudly past her desk, in the direction of the lifts in the foyer. She had another theory that most of the idiots deliberately saved the loudest stuff for when they came to her desk – and the crappiest. Though she knew the faces, she was still to have anything to do with most of them. She had heard a few rumours regarding one or two, but she put most of them down to shit-stirrers and big egos. In a perfect world she would have loved to find a way of exposing some of them: particularly the ones who seemed to base an entire career ratting on celebrities. She wondered how many of them had skeletons in their own closets: affairs, speeding tickets, fraud…
Murder maybe?
She rubbed her eyes rigorously and typed quickly on the keyboard. She read the newest section through and returned to the top of the screen.
She looked up. Gladstone had appeared in front of her, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.
‘How’s your article on William Anson?’
‘Good. It’s nearly finished.’
‘Well, as long as it’s better than the crap you served Daniel with.’
Nicole pushed the monitor to one side, allowing Gladstone a better look.
The editor of the Tribunal lowered himself onto the side of her desk and leaned in closer to the screen, taking the mouse in his right hand. The desk was arc-shaped, one of four placed at equal intervals, two of which were deserted. The one adjacent was Amanda’s. Like Nicole’s, her cubicle walls were filled with photographs of friends and family and attached to the right side of the monitor was a to-do list. Nicole was in one of the photos, taken in a nightclub three months earlier for Amanda’s twenty-seventh birthday.
‘Hmm,’ he said, backing away. ‘I think we can do a little better than “Professor Anson, wow, he was a teacher”.’
Nicole shrugged. ‘You have any better ideas? Basically that’s the story.’
‘Do me a favour, Stocker, if I wanted boring, I’d have let Amanda write it.’
Amanda turned, clearly annoyed.
‘Have it on my desk tonight – and try making it a bit more interesting. After all, the man had been flayed to death.’
Nicole watched him leave, annoyed but silently admitting he had a point.
‘If you’re lucky, it might make the Monday edition.’
The sarcasm was evident. Nicole made a face at Gladstone as he stood. With his back turned, he missed it.
She turned and faced Amanda, immediately warmed by her smile. Her reddish brown hair was done up in a ponytail, and her lips somewhere between red and purple. Her eyes were made up, but her face was largely plain. What she lacked in natural prettiness, she made up for in nic
eness.
‘You ever killed anyone?’
Nicole laughed and shrugged.
Amanda swung on her chair. ‘You know, no jury would believe you could kill a man that big. You might even get a suspended sentence.’
Nicole laughed again, her attention once more on her article. Her voice recorder was on the desk in front of her, switched off and stopped somewhere toward the middle. She started at the beginning and placed the earphones in both ears. Matt’s voice was the only sound, interrupted by her asking questions. The more she listened, the harder it was to concentrate. For the next thirty minutes she forgot all about her article.
Who had murdered William Anson?
What was so special about La Rochelle?
Matt drove slowly along the driveway of his family home and pulled up outside the garage. The electronic clock on the dashboard read 7:52pm, appearing all the brighter with the headlamps turned off. The wall light by the garage that normally illuminated most of the driveway had failed. Matt couldn’t help consider the possibility that the intruders had sabotaged it the night before, but he assumed more likely it was its failure that allowed them access. In the poor light, the nearby trees caused eerie shadows against the brick, heightened all the more by the rays of moonlight penetrating the cloud. As he left the car, the first thing he noticed was the sound of the nearby branches, swaying from side to side in the wind. In his nervous state, he found himself looking over his shoulder.
The driveway was littered with hiding places.
The worst week of his life had now hit rock bottom. He had called the police from his mobile after vomiting for the second time and waited outside the gate for their arrival. The wait was brief – despite the isolated location. At first a squad car with two officers pulled up by the gate before searching the house.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 9
