The second time he saw the body of Luke Bowden was no less shocking. The overwhelming smell, previously restricted to the study, now wafted clearly through the open doors. On the second occasion he noticed things he hadn’t noticed the first time. In addition to cuts to the chest and wrists, there were similar blows to the ankles. Within minutes of the policemen seeing the body, a further seven vehicles arrived, their personnel ranging from forensic to medical. According to the chief medical investigator, Luke Bowden died from a combination of shock from the removal of his skin followed by respiratory acidosis: a process where excessive carbon dioxide in the bloodstream causes the blood to become more acidic due to decreased ventilation, leading to an irregular heartbeat and finally cardiac arrest.
In short, the effects of flaying.
His thoughts were racing. He had agreed to the police’s request to question him, which lasted over six hours. He was informed from the start that his involvement was voluntary, but in the circumstances he felt he had no way of saying no. He stuck to the key points: Professor Bowden was a family friend who was absent from his father’s funeral, and growing concerned, he called after having not heard from him in over a week. After fluking an entry, he found the professor’s house unlocked and the man inside already dead.
Based on their reactions, none of his story was doubted. It was obvious from the vomit stains and his tendency to wet eyes that he was hardly a serial killer – but more conclusive still, the man had been dead more than a few hours. Based on initial opinion, the professor had been dead between six and seven days, dating his death to the same day as his father, though Matt decided against mentioning the voicemail. He silently wondered whether the man’s death was connected to the break-in the night before. It must have been the same people following him, but who were they?
What was a Templi Desertore?
Matt inserted the key into the front door and slowly unlocked it. The house was well lit, particularly the lounge. He entered slowly, his hands busy with the keys. He saw Scott sitting alongside Catherine. Both looked up at him.
‘Hey.’
‘Matt, where have you been?’ Catherine asked. It was evident from her eyes that she had been crying.
Matt grimaced. ‘I don’t really know where to start.’
He looked at his aunt and then Scott. Silence followed, strangely awkward or judgmental in nature.
‘What is it?’
Catherine sought to respond but instead ended up bursting into tears. Scott looked at him, a hard expression dominating his features.
‘This came today,’ he said firmly, then hesitating. ‘Em…You might want to brace yourself.’
Matt accepted the package gingerly. It was a brown envelope, addressed to the family. Strangely, there was no Christian name.
He held Scott’s gaze before opening the package. The items came loose instantly. They were photographs, three in total. All were of his father, all in black and white.
His appearance was identical to that of Luke Bowden’s.
Matt’s eyes were open, more so than any other time in memory. The words on his father’s chest, difficult to clarify in the black and white, he was sure were the exact same he had seen earlier that day. He checked the second photograph, then the third.
This simply could not be real.
He hesitated, his attention on Catherine, then Scott. ‘Who…who sent this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Scott said. He placed his hands to his head and brought them down quickly. ‘See, it turns out the eyewitness reports don’t mention him jumping from the tower. One of them states quite clearly that they saw him stumbling forward and losing his balance.’
Catherine rose slowly to her feet and departed, tears flowing quickly from her eyes.
Scott approached Matt tentatively. ‘I went back to the apartment earlier. This was sent for you.’
He held in his hand a large package, over a foot in length and at least half that in height and depth. The exterior was brown and the address handwritten. A series of strange markings appeared at the top right, demonstrating that the package had been sent from Europe. He didn’t recognise the writing, but his attention was immediately taken by the postal address.
La Rochelle, France.
His eyes focused on the package. Unsurprisingly, the wrapping was sealed with Sellotape. He ran his hands over the package. The surrounding was hard but at the same time flexible. He assumed from the way it felt that whatever was enclosed was heavily protected.
‘When did this arrive?’
Scott shrugged. ‘Must’ve been two days after we left. Before the funeral.’
Matt nodded. Biting his lip, he detached the first seal and continued along the top of the package. He pushed down gently, afraid of damaging whatever was inside.
What he saw was confusing. What awaited was a box. There was a note at the top.
Removing the box, something else fell to the floor. It was an object: a medallion, gold, with an engraving of the Knights of Arcadia logo. He held it, looking it over. The medallion was old, unlike anything he had seen before.
Scott’s attention was on the note. ‘What’s it say?’
Matt read it to himself before reading it aloud. ‘It’s about time you learned the truth about your family.’
He continued to stare at it.
‘What?’ Scott exclaimed.
Matt looked at Scott, his expression unchanged.
Matt returned to the box, opening it with little difficulty. Within it was another box, this time smaller and older. He placed it on the side and looked at it carefully. The item was brown, possibly antique. He opened the gold latch and carefully raised the lid. In reality the precaution was unnecessary. Framing the content, itself perfectly preserved, was two layers of cloth that created a minor vacuum.
Matt removed the cloth, taking care to grip the corners tightly. He placed it down on the table and slowly unwrapped it. Inside were several pieces of parchment, some vellum, others paper. They looked old, unmistakeably handwritten and appeared to be in Spanish or Portuguese.
The early pages were clearly continuous text, while one of the later pieces was larger. His attention fell on the largest piece. It seemed to contain some sort of architectural blueprint – perhaps of an abbey or a cathedral – and was created on vellum parchment rather than paper. Countless figures, illustrations and symbols flanked every side of the building. Most were inconsequential, but more intriguing were figures of knights in crusader uniform in the top right. A red cross adorned their torsos. Matt guessed the image was of something to do with the Crusades. Similar crosses appeared, yet they were different, noticeably so. Had his youth been different he may have failed to notice the difference. He had seen the symbol many times, and recently. It was the symbol of the Knights of Arcadia.
Only this was strange.
The date at the bottom was 1315. Over one hundred and fifty years before their creation.
There was another note, written on white paper.
‘What’s it say?’
Matt read it quietly before aloud.
William
The archive at Lisbon held an unexpected gift. May this assist you in your quest.
Sandy
He looked at Scott, then once more at the package.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Scott shouted.
Matt returned his attention to the new document. Frightened, awestruck. He read both notes once, then again.
What was the truth about his family?
Nicole knocked on the door as she entered Gladstone’s office and stopped on reaching the desk. She handed him three sheets of printed A4 paper and turned to leave the office.
‘Did you email me the electronic copy?’
Nicole stopped, taking the opportunity to compose herself. It was nearly 9pm and tiredness was beating her. ‘No, but I will do.’
Gladstone nodded but remained silent. He skimmed the pages with finger and thumb. He muttered, ‘Thank you,’ as she left.
The fourth floor was practically deserted. Along the corridor, a lone desk light was shining from her station. Outside, the glow of nearby streetlights filtered through the half-open blinds that covered every window. Though there was cloud, there was no rain, nor would there be. Instead, the night’s air was warm and humid; the building’s air conditioner offered slight relief to the close stickiness that engulfed the room.
She sat down on the edge of her seat and quickly clicked the mouse. Seconds later the file was attached and the email sent. She waited for the delivery report before shutting down her computer. Placing her shoulder bag and jacket over her arm, she leaned across for her digital voice recorder.
She paused. The words ‘Thank you’ echoed along the corridor, coming from the open door. She frowned and departed the room, forgetting her voice recorder.
In a poorly lit chapel in Kirkheart, Abbot Winter knelt quietly at prayer. There was a disturbance behind him, rousing his attention.
Looking over his shoulder, he made out the familiar appearance of the new seneschal Andrew Landry: a man tall in height and wide in girth, bearded and aged somewhere between early and late sixties. He bowed his head reverently in front of the abbot and came to a standstill less than two feet away. There he waited, as though preparing himself for some kind of instruction.
The abbot ascended to his feet and made the sign of the cross.
‘Tell me, Andrew. Is what I have heard true?’
The Scotsman nodded sombrely. ‘Aye, Father, I’m afraid it is.’
The abbot bowed his head. What followed was a nod, either one of understanding or resignation.
‘Father, in the light of recent events, there is suggestion among the brothers that you might put yourself forward for leadership.’
The abbot made eye contact. ‘By my faith, I cannot accept so exalted a mission. I am old and weak,’ he said slowly. ‘Surely, such a burden must be taken by a younger man. I, for my part, see only one such man.’
The seneschal smiled peacefully. ‘No, Father, you are so fine a man. Make this your charge and you shall have the support of all the brothers – as long as you shall live.’
‘Surely Rule forbids a man of such age.’
‘Our scholars have informed me that no such restriction exists.’
The abbot turned away, his focus on the windows. The fine stained-glass images that he had seen so many times before seemed to glow slightly in the moonlight.
‘I say with all sincerity that you are the man, so loved, so respected. It is you that ought to be chosen. You who the brothers desire to serve.’
The abbot walked towards him. There were tears in his eyes, the likes of which the seneschal had never before seen. ‘If by undertaking this office I am absolved of my sins, then perhaps,’ he said, his face sombre. ‘If this is God’s will, this office suits me. And I will take it, though the burden weighs heavily.’
Gladstone switched off the light to his office and walked briskly along the corridor. He slowed his pace on reaching Nicole’s desk and stopped altogether. Her voice recorder was perched precariously on the edge of the desk, liable to fall off at any minute.
Gladstone leaned across the desk to retrieve the item. He removed the earphones and pressed the play button.
Seconds later he returned to his desk.
Alone in a darkened room, the grandmaster of the Order of the Ancient Star sat quietly. A large piece of parchment lay opened on the desk in front of him.
Few in the world had ever seen the document. He, himself, had only recently been granted the privilege.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The content suggested it was some kind of legal agreement, but whatever it was was written in an age when such things were meaningless and in a location where concept of ownership did not exist.
The grandmaster lifted the glass of port to his lips. The flavour tasted sweet, more so when considering what the document represented. He had heard rumours of a vast inheritance left behind by the order in their previous incarnation.
Whatever the Larmenius Inheritance was, it was worth more than anything else on this earth.
14
Edinburgh, two days later
Matt pulled up in an empty space adjacent to George Square and immediately switched off the engine. His location was central Edinburgh, less than half a mile from the famous Royal Mile.
Many of the buildings in this part of the city belonged to the university. To the south, the Business School and the main library were quiet, surprisingly quiet; it was the week before exams, and the campus was deserted. To the west, the psychology department was equally sparse, students walking quickly inside or else exiting in the direction of the nearby greenery of George Square.
He recognised the David Hume Tower, while to his left were several buildings, ranging in purpose from the office for international students to the School of Informatics. He looked further to his right, recognising the College of Humanities from his time as an undergrad. Slowly, he moved toward the entrance.
Once inside the building, he climbed the stairs, and within two minutes he was standing outside a prestigious office with a brown door, gold handle and a similarly coloured title about two thirds of the way up, Dr. Darren Johnson. The door clearly belonged to the office of a senior lecturer. The man was black, suited, and had a smart persona. A pair of dark-framed glasses sat atop his strong nose, partially obscuring brown eyes.
‘Brother of Anson,’ the man said, arm outstretched. ‘An unexpected honour.’
‘So they finally made you a doctor, huh, Darren.’
The man smiled. ‘What brings you back to the site of your torment?’
Matt smiled. The boy hadn’t changed a bit. ‘I was hoping I might be able to get your opinion on something. Something historical.’
The man didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’ll do what I can. What is it?’
Matt removed the recent package from the carrier bag and placed the box down on the desk. He opened the lid and gestured for Darren to continue.
The American academic peered inside the box and slowly removed the contents. He examined the material quietly, searching the pages one at a time.
‘Well, it’s paper,’ he said, perhaps to himself. ‘Probably late 15th century. Emblem of the Order of Christ.’
‘Order of who?’
‘Order of Christ. Or the Knights of Christ, as they were perhaps better known,’ he said, his tone certain. ‘A Portuguese military order – famous for their ability as sailors. The Knights Templar’s successor in Portugal.’
Matt was interested. ‘You’re positive it’s them?’
He looked up. ‘Oh yes.’ The American replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose. ‘As a matter of fact, there are two schools of thought on the early years. To some, when the Knights Templar were disbanded, the Portuguese arm merely changed their name and continued…you’ve heard of the Templars?’
‘Aye.’
‘According to others, they were merely the successors, but comprised of completely different personnel. All were famous for their ability as sailors. Played a most prominent role in the so-called Age of Discovery.’
Matt nodded, vaguely aware that Columbus had connections with the Portuguese.
Darren scanned the pages quickly. ‘The document itself appears to be a segment of a letter, apparently written by the Portuguese explorer Gaspar Corte-Real, also a Knight of Christ, to his brother Miguel. Apparently Gaspar made a brief visit to Scotland, stopping at an abbey named Kilwinning, not a million miles from where we are now. Supposedly, Gaspar made some form of pilgrimage, visiting a tomb of some kind.’
He pondered what he had just read.
‘Most fascinating. I dare say this letter gives evidence of a previously unknown trip. The letter has been dated to late 1499; eighteen months later he made a rather more famous journey to Newfoundland.’
Matt nodded, his attention firmly on the academic. ‘You understand Portuguese well?’
; ‘I get by. Do you?’
‘Not really. My father was the real expert.’
Johnson smiled. ‘Your father must have been fluent in every language known to man.’
‘Eight as far as I’m aware.’
Johnson laughed sharply, a quick noise followed by silence. ‘This is quite a find.’
‘Any idea what it means?’
Johnson smiled awkwardly. He scratched his head, squinting in an attempt to concentrate. The penmanship was tough to read.
‘From what I can see, the letter refers to fourteen men, all members of the Order of Christ in Portugal, travelling to Scotland from Tomar, and then back again, though many sadly succumbed to plague.’
Johnson skimmed the passage.
‘Seems they found relics of some sort. I really don’t know what to make of it.’
Anson felt his heart rate pick up. Inside, he was surprised, but not shocked. ‘That makes two of us.’
Johnson looked up at Matt and pointed at a particular point at the end of the fourth page of the letter. ‘The last page is particularly interesting. You’ll recognise that name, no doubt.’
Matt looked at the text. To him the words were unreadable. He shrugged.
‘Gabriel de Anson. Former grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia. Apparently in control of his own ship, sailing with the fleet of Corte-Real.’
Matt looked at him and then at the text. He focused for several seconds. The possibility was surely out of the question.
‘Your brother once told me of a somewhat maverick ancestor who went on to become a sailor – even before the famous Admiral George. Apparently, he was one of the first to travel to the New World, almost as early as Columbus. I expect you know it all.’
Matt forced a smile.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 10
