The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  ‘Don’t get up, Mr. Anson,’ she replied.

  ‘Call me Scott.’

  She looked up from the tray and smiled. She placed the tray down on the table, sliding it away from the edge. She tucked her hair behind her right ear and poured tea into a cup for Matt.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Another polite smile. ‘If I’d known you were coming, I could have made you some food. The city is brilliant for its seafood. I particularly like the red snapper.’

  Matt nodded, a doleful smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind us dropping by. I thought about ringing, but well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how much you knew.’

  She nodded, holding her smile. On closer acquaintance, it became clear that she smiled as a reflex, practically every time she was questioned.

  ‘That’s quite okay,’ she said, her hand touching her hair. ‘I’m really very glad you did. William mentioned you both frequently.’

  Matt smiled awkwardly. He added sugar to his cup and stirred. ‘I saw you at the funeral.’

  She looked up.

  ‘Why didn’t you stay?’

  ‘I…didn’t want to intrude. You know, funerals. I hate stepping on people’s toes. They’re such private affairs.’

  Matt nodded; usually he felt the same way. ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘A week ago,’ she said. She carried a teacup and saucer with her but refrained from drinking. ‘I’d been trying to contact Luke for quite some time. It wasn’t until Friday I found out for sure about him. Once I heard about your father, well, I tried frantically to contact him.’

  Matt nodded. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘It’s a small city, Mr. Anson,’ she said. ‘Word gets around…as for poor Luke, I had to read about it in one of the British newspapers. Not the nicest way to learn of the death of one of your closest friends.’

  Another nod. Matt refrained from admitting that he knew one of the journalists.

  ‘I understand you were working on a new history book with my father and Professor Bowden?’

  She nodded, her eyes more excited than before. ‘That’s quite correct,’ she replied, replacing her cup on the saucer. ‘It was your father’s book, really. I only helped with parts of the research, particularly the European history. It’s my specialty.’

  Matt nodded, his eyes watching hers. The woman seemed to jump every time she spoke.

  ‘Your father approached me some years ago – back when I was a fellow at St. Andrews. A year or so ago, he asked me to become a co-author. He was very generous in that way.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘It was a history of Europe, dating from 3000BC to the present. Your father, shall we say, liked to challenge mainstream.’

  Matt sipped from his tea. Nothing new.

  Not yet.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What brings you to La Rochelle?’

  He leaned over to pick up the box. He offered the Portuguese manuscript in its entirety.

  She looked back, startled. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘My father sent it to me before he died.’

  ‘Oh my.’

  ‘Unfortunately, he didn’t say what it was.’

  Sandra nodded, her attention firmly on the manuscript.

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to fill in some gaps.’

  ‘Of course, I’d be delighted.’ Sandra walked to the other side of the room to retrieve her reading glasses. Coupled with the blonde hair, the rimless frames completed the appearance of a teacher, or possibly a librarian or secretary.

  ‘Well, the letter is written in Portuguese,’ she said, confirming what Darren Johnson had already told them, ‘and, unless I’m very much mistaken, seems to catalogue the antics of a famous member of the Knights of Christ.’

  Matt watched her, waiting for something to happen. ‘You recognise it?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I found it myself.’

  ‘I know – I saw your letter.’

  She smiled awkwardly, her attention alternating between Matt and the letter. She made space at the table and unfolded the final page – the one that included the diagram; it was longer than the others, reaching over six feet by four – allowing the entire scroll to open.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve brought this. Your father mentioned it on many occasions. I’d never seen anything like it.’

  Matt looked back, confused. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This particular piece is what historians of the 17th century dubbed the Kilwinning Scroll.’

  Matt looked back blankly.

  She laughed at him. ‘The Kilwinning Scroll, your father first speculated of its existence to me twenty years ago. According to a letter found about ten years ago in the national archives of Torre do Tombo in Lisbon, prior to his ill-fated trip to the New World, Gaspar Corte-Real learned of a strange map pinpointing the location of an ancient treasure accompanied by a tomb of someone. According to some academics, including your father, the scroll is believed to possibly be a map containing the whereabouts of the lost treasure of the Knights Templar.’

  Both looked back with stunned expressions.

  ‘I don’t know what to say; I still find it incredible. I dare say, after I heard what happened to your father, I feared I’d never see it again.’ She examined the scroll with intense interest. She looked at him again. ‘He told you about it, surely?’

  Matt shrugged hesitantly. ‘I only knew of its existence a few days ago. Being honest, I wasn’t convinced it was genuine.’

  ‘Oh, it’s genuine,’ she said, adjusting her glasses. ‘Have a closer look at this.’

  Matt leaned across the table, careful to avoid upsetting anything. He moved to within a couple of feet of her and paused. Her perfume was strong and overwhelmingly feminine.

  She pointed to a segment of the parchment flanking the main blueprint. The area included a series of symbols and writing in Latin.

  ‘The story tells of members of the Knights Templar returning to France in 1291 following the fall of Acre. The caption here,’ she said, pointing to a specific image, ‘tells of how some of the knights travelled to Scotland in 1308 and have in their possession something of importance.’

  Matt read the caption. His Latin was weak, but he decided to go with what she had just said. The image was in keeping with the sort often found on a medieval tapestry or in a chronicle. The figures were two-dimensional, two men to a horse, undeniably Templar symbolism, and included a large object drawn to represent a tomb. He guessed it was probably more symbolic than physical.

  Matt rubbed his chin. ‘Okay, so what does it mean?’

  She removed her glasses. ‘Well, being honest, I’m not quite sure. The treasure of the Templars is famous, but more so in fiction. Historically, it has always been thought nothing more than a myth.’

  Scott arched his eyebrows. ‘But you think it’s genuine?’

  Replacing her glasses, she pointed once more at the same section. ‘The authenticity is not in doubt,’ she said. ‘You see this symbol?’

  Both nodded.

  ‘It’s called a Seal of Solomon. A symbol once used by the Templars, but less famous than the traditional red crusader cross.’

  Matt nodded, recognising the symbol seen at Kirkheart. Once again he thought back to the similar symbol on Jura’s tie.

  The thought bothered him.

  ‘Are you sure he never showed it to you?’

  ‘No, never. Being honest, we weren’t exactly close.’

  ‘How about when you were young?’

  Matt lowered his head. For the first time he examined her hands. She wore a dazzling ring on the ring finger of her right hand but nothing on the left.

  ‘Positive.’

  She nodded, vaguely at first. She looked briefly at Scott and rose to her feet.

  ‘Your father told me something several years ago,’ she said, walking around the table. ‘You’re undoubtedly aware of the legend regarding the Knights of Arcadia and the Knights Templar?’

  M
att shrugged. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘According to their official history, the Knights of Arcadia was formed by the Cistercians in the 1480s. Ask any mainstream historian.’

  She smiled, slightly mischievously.

  ‘However, there is a legend that the original order began at least one hundred years earlier – a more select group, or committee, entrusted with the secrets of the Templar order. According to an even earlier legend, during their first hundred years, the Knights Templar found an object of religious importance somewhere in the Holy Land. There, another order was founded, existing within the Templars themselves. According to the legend, it consisted of four men known as the Keepers of the Light.’

  She looked briefly at Scott, then Matt.

  ‘Exactly what the term Keepers of the Light means is a subject of debate among both mainstream and esoteric historians,’ she said. ‘It was mentioned in one French document, allegedly concerning the Templars, but this is impossible to prove. Your father was a keen observer of medieval history, including that of the Knights of Arcadia. Your family has long links with the order; their Catholicism thrived even when others’ perished.’

  She paused, her eye contact wavering. The way she walked was professional. It was as if she was parading up and down in front of a lecture theatre.

  ‘According to your father, the Kilwinning Scroll is just one piece of evidence that, shall we say, questions the mainstream view. If you look at the scroll, particularly the bit we’ve just examined, there is something of a link between Kilwinning Abbey and the original Knights Templar. Now the original Templars existed from 1118 up until the Church dissolved them in 1312. Legends between Kilwinning Abbey and the Knights of Arcadia are also old. The abbey was constructed around 1162 by French stonemasons and is chock full of legends. Several have claimed that when the Templars were excommunicated, they may have continued in secret. However, your father was the first to find any serious evidence.’

  ‘This scroll?’

  ‘No.’

  She walked away from them, heading in the direction of the bookcase. She examined her possessions for several seconds and removed a large hardback history book.

  Walking towards them, she turned pages quickly, stopping at one large colour print towards the end.

  ‘Kilwinning Abbey is one of many pieces of evidence that led him to his conclusion. Now, I assume you’ve heard about the Templar order in Portugal, or as they were later known, the Order of Christ.’

  ‘Only what I’ve been told about the manuscript.’

  She removed her glasses and put the tip to her mouth. She eyed him closely before returning her attention to the book.

  ‘Your father believed that the foundation of the Knights of Arcadia is intrinsically linked with the Order of Christ in Portugal,’ she said, showing Matt a photograph. ‘As I say, ask any mainstream historian about the Knights of Arcadia and they’ll tell you the same thing. The Cistercians formed the order around 1480. Now, for many years your father assumed this to be accurate; however, what he found in the archives of Lisbon confirmed that correspondence between the Order of Christ and the Knights of Arcadia goes back at least to 1450. Look here.’

  She pointed to a particular plate in the book. It was a photograph of a letter, similar to the one on the table. The Portuguese was impossible to read.

  Matt nodded. ‘What did Portugal have to do with Scotland?’

  ‘Gaspar Corte-Real was a Knight of the Order of Christ in Portugal; he also had a brother named Miguel, also a Knight of Christ. Gaspar sailed across the Atlantic in 1500, one of the first men to do so.’ She paused. ‘But in 1501 his second mission was less successful. After discovering what is believed to be Newfoundland, he sent Miguel home. Gaspar, however, is never seen nor heard from again. Within a year, Miguel set out to find him. Nothing more is heard.’

  Matt nodded. He swirled his tongue around his mouth, his attention scattered. He assumed the conversation was going somewhere, but for now, what it meant bypassed him.

  ‘But you think it’s possible this is legit?’ Scott said, referring to the scroll. ‘That something of interest is buried there?’

  She looked at them in turn, her stance almost seductive. ‘Well, it seems unlikely; the abbey is little more than a ruin these days. And if this letter is correct, it appears that should there have been anything, Gaspar Corte-Real might also have been aware of it.’ She placed her glasses to her lips and smiled. ‘Tell you what, how would you boys like to take me there? Maybe we can find out together.’

  Scott raised his eyebrows. He looked at Sandra then at Matt. The boy was speechless.

  Matt stuttered slightly. ‘How…would you know where to find it?’

  Richards pointed to something on the scroll. ‘You see this here.’

  Matt moved nearer, his eyes following the academic’s finger. He looked in closer detail at the blueprint of the abbey, noticing things he hadn’t seen before. Like most abbeys from the Middle Ages, the layout was in the design of a massive cross. The diagram offered a precise ground map of the abbey in its heyday.

  ‘Kilwinning Abbey is famous for its legends,’ she said. ‘According to local lore, there are other treasures there, Catholic relics buried at the time of the Reformation. However, despite the rumours, they’ve never been found.’

  ‘You know where they are?’

  Her face broke into a smile. ‘This gives an exact location for the site’s main vault. The scroll refers to it as a holy of holies: a sacred term to the Templars. This map is exactly the same as what the Bible mentions for the Temple of Solomon.’

  ‘The Temple of Solomon?’

  She nodded, removing her glasses. ‘The Templars may not have built the abbey, but judging by this map, they have given it its greatest feature.’

  ‘You really think the Templars formed the Knights of Arcadia?’

  She smiled playfully. ‘Come with me to Scotland, maybe we’ll all find out together.’

  Matt led the way out of the building and continued in the direction of the harbour.

  Scott broke into a jog behind him. ‘Dang,’ he said.

  Matt turned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, like you didn’t notice.’

  ‘Notice what?’

  ‘Dude, she was fine.’

  Matt laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh yeah, like you didn’t notice.’

  Matt continued to walk. ‘Admittedly, the woman was not without talent.’

  ‘How old d’ya reckon she was?’

  He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Guess.’

  Matt hesitated briefly. ‘I don’t know, mid-forties.’

  ‘Definitely a cougar.’

  Another shake of the head. ‘Yeah, probably. Still way too good for the likes of you.’

  Scott laughed. ‘So, you do think she was fit?’

  He forced a smile.

  ‘You should’ve seen your face before we left.’

  Matt ignored him.

  ‘So how would you boys like to take me there? Maybe we can find out together.’

  Matt bit his lip, struggling to hide his smile. ‘Yeah, she’s fit, but come on, she was my dad’s friend.’

  ‘She was flirting,’ Scott said.

  ‘No, she wasn’t.’

  Scott grinned. ‘Come with me to Scotland, maybe we’ll all find out together,’ he said with a fake girl’s voice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Matt looked up at the window to Sandra’s apartment. The visit had been useful, but where there was progress in one aspect, another problem had arisen. He knew his dad had spent a lot of time away from home that last year, but until now he had never given much thought to the reasons why.

  His mind was full of uncertainty. At the time he read Nicole’s article, his mind was resolute. Now for the first time he asked the same question.

  Why was his father spending so much time with Sandra Richards in La Rochelle?

  Sandra watched from
the window as the son and nephew of William Anson left the building, heading in the direction of the harbour. She waved to them as she saw Matt look up to her window, though it was unclear if he saw her.

  Closing the curtain, she walked away from the window. The features of her attractive face that had been both serious and light-hearted for over two hours now suggested only focus. She trod loudly across the wooden floor toward a small table near an armchair and stopped on reaching a bookcase. She rummaged through a selection of photographs and looked at a nice picture in a frame.

  She studied it for several seconds.

  Over twenty years had passed, but the boy hadn’t changed.

  19

  Nicole finished typing on her computer before hanging up the phone. Tracking down the second wife of Professor Luke Bowden had taken all day, but thanks to the call, she had a good background on the man.

  According to his ex-wife, Bowden had been married twice: first to his childhood sweetheart, straight out of university, but lost her to a freak car crash in 1993. He remarried soon after, his wife’s best friend, a Lindsay Harper, a lawyer from London now teaching in Boston. From what Nicole had gathered, the marriage had been sudden. The first wife had borne Bowden one child, now an adult, to whom Harper was godmother. The marriage to Harper was on the rebound, and for three years they were there for each other. The marriage led to a miscarried child and followed with an amicable divorce. It was obvious to Nicole that theirs was never a marriage of love.

  The rest concurred with the man’s staff profile. He was fifty-five years of age, a tenured professor of medieval history, author or co-author of over ten books, all non-fiction, each time the co-author was William Anson. His daughter was a teacher and pregnant.

  Sad, she thought. He would never see his first grandchild.

  She considered trying her luck there, but the second wife put her off. If Bowden was close to them, it wasn’t obvious. The man valued his career.

  But the trail went cold where she needed it to be warm. Taking note of Gladstone’s theory, she attempted to ascertain his involvement with the Knights of Arcadia. According to his second wife, he was never a member, which was odd. Amanda had established from a source north of the border that details regarding the death of Luke Bowden potentially concurred with that of Anson. The word was murder, but without detail. A rumour from Edinburgh had come out the previous day, adding flesh to the bone that the killing had been ritualistic.