The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  On this night, the room was lit in the usual cosy half-light and the attendees clocked at half a dozen. Three elderly men sat reading papers, while two old friends, one distinctly Kensington, the other Indian, sat drinking port and chatting with good nature.

  At just after 9pm a seventh man joined them. He was smartly dressed and wore an expression of complete worry. He ignored the other five and headed in the direction of Wilfred Mansell sitting alone, pretending to admire a painting of a former member. He unfolded his newspaper and showed it to the man. The date was over two weeks old.

  ‘Another fine edition, Mr. Mills,’ Mansell said, remaining seated. ‘Sit, there is much to discuss.’

  It was approaching midnight when Gladstone left the office. As usual, he was the last to leave, and chances were he’d be the first to arrive. After seven years in the job, he was getting used to the rigours of being the editor of a well respected national.

  Social time was the pitfall.

  Gladstone departed through the main doors of the building and walked confidently toward the nearby multi-storey car park, at this hour largely deserted. The bright glow of several wall lights guided his way to storey three.

  He walked in the direction of his car, his pace increasing. Outside, the rain was beginning to lash down all the more heavily, accompanied by the rumbling of thunder in the distance.

  The cold was affecting him.

  He continued up the steps and passed through the door, entering level three. Directly in front of him, his brand new Mercedes-Benz was one of two cars occupying the otherwise deserted floor. Another car was next to it: a dark sedan of otherwise unrecognisable brand.

  As he approached the car, he saw movement. Two men emerged, both dressed all in black.

  Gladstone hesitated. The men were walking towards him.

  24

  Zürich, Switzerland, two days later

  Matt had stayed in Zürich before, years ago. It hadn’t changed very much. It was a city of grandeur and promise, yet there was also a hint of desperation in the air, illustrated perfectly by the natives and tourists frequenting the Bahnhofstrasse, the mile-long shopping centre renowned for its elegance, boutiques, departments stores, et cetera, which Sandra knew all too well. As ever, hundreds of shoppers lined the street, armed to the teeth with shopping bags boasting the names of designer labels, accompanied in their quests for bargains by armies of men in suits, walking, practically strutting, with a fixed determination, a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone glued to their ear in the other as they aimed to dot the I’s and cross the T’s on contracts that hadn’t even been written for products that hadn’t even been produced.

  Other things never changed either. Everywhere they went, there was an art gallery or museum, for which the city was famous, and for every art gallery, there was a church. Many of the traditional buildings remained. As Matt drove slowly across the city into the Limmatquai area, connecting the squares of Bellevue to Central, the appearance of chronic shoppers and bankers diminished, replaced now by a different type of person altogether. The area suggested wealth, but these were not the wannabes. These were the real deal.

  The old town is one of the most sought after areas of Zürich, and is certainly a beautiful sight. Elegant buildings, tangible reminders of the city’s past, stand dominantly rising up to six storeys high like imperial monuments. The River Limmat glistened brightly in the afternoon sun, and in the near distance, the Rathaus, the town hall building, was visible yet almost anonymous. The Swiss were renowned for their secrecy and the building was in keeping, tucked away discreetly.

  From what Matt had been told, Charles Jura lived in a stylish mansion near the river. In the past, hoards of gentlemen, dressed in all sorts, would emerge from the buildings that once served as guild houses. At one time there had flourished over seventy guilds in Switzerland, each one varying in craft from knife makers, chain forgers, and locksmiths to anything from armourers and polishers. Though those days were gone, their meeting places remained, offering tangible reminders of their rich heritage.

  Matt parked the car and followed Sandra in the direction of a large building. Bearing in mind Jura’s house was located in an area where the guild houses had survived the centuries, it was no surprise to Matt that the building had once operated as one of them. What was once an elegant guild house had been converted in recent years into a luxury mansion standing five storeys in height and in appearance almost resembled a gigantic yacht. Blue was in keeping with much of the style of the street, with a sloping roof that peaked in the centre, reflecting the midday sun that appeared almost orange in the light. The first four storeys contained six windows at equal intervals, most of which were bordered by wooden shutters, while the fifth storey had three, including a double door leading to a balcony.

  Matt followed Sandra to the front door. The doorbell echoed, enhancing the feeling that the building was steeped in history. A stone archway flanked two large wooden doors. The top of the archway sloped in a triangle shape and also included reference to the name of the building. A strange emblem, unrecognisable to Matt, was placed at the centre of the triangle, while on both sides of the door, lanterns hung from the wall. Several feet above the door, the flag of Switzerland was flying just under the first-storey window.

  The sound of footsteps from the other side of the door preceded its opening. The briefest of gaps revealed the face of a small woman, no more than five foot two and possessing a small physique.

  Sandra spoke to the woman in German. The only word Matt recognised was Jura’s name. The woman on the other side paused before opening the door fully, revealing a large entrance hall abundant in natural light. With the door open, the woman was revealed to be a maid or housekeeper. She spoke briefly with Sandra before departing in the direction of a spiral staircase, leading up to the first floor and continuing all the way to the summit. The steps were hard, and her footfalls banged loudly as she walked, the sound resembling a hammer on wood.

  The interior was luxurious. The large entrance hall boasted an array of fine artefacts and art, illustrating the owner’s love of Renaissance art. Blue walls, stunning antiques and Belgian chandeliers gave the building a château-like quality, but for Matt, its appearance was misleading. It was evident from the layout that the furniture reflected the owner’s taste rather than being in character with the house.

  While Sandra was drawn to the size, Matt found himself taken by a small section on the wall near the stairs. Like most areas, the walls were glistening, lined with artwork and neatly presented.

  He walked slowly in that direction, his eyes focused on the artwork. Among the pictures was an original painting of a battle in a mountainous area, possibly the Alps. In the pass below, a strong army, possibly early German or Austrian, was being annihilated by a horde of peasants ambushing them from the higher ground. While the scene alone was dramatic, more surprising was the presence of a group of knights on horseback charging in the direction of the depleted army.

  He looked at the painting with suspicion. Though it was unclear where the location was, or even if it was historical, to Matt the scene seemed implausible. The knights were helmeted, heavily protected, and wore white mantles with red crosses, reminiscent of knights fighting in the Crusades.

  Footsteps from above diverted Matt’s attention. He studied the painting for a final moment before walking slowly to the foot of the stairs.

  The footsteps became louder, changing in direction as they followed the natural course of the stairway. A figure appeared at the top of the first flight, instantly recognisable as Charles Jura. As Matt remembered, he was a man of sharp but friendly features, a well-trimmed goatee, and smart dress that effectively concealed an extra stone in weight.

  Matt watched with interest as the man jogged, practically jumping, down the stairs.

  ‘Mr. Anson, well, I am blessed,’ the man said, his smile beaming. He held Matt’s outstretched hand, cupping it with the second. ‘Good to see you.’

  �
��Nice to see you again too, sir,’ he said, his eyes exploring the interior. ‘This is quite a place.’

  ‘Yet another indulgence that I owe entirely to the endeavours of my ancestors,’ he said. His smile widened. ‘Your aunt and cousin not joining us?’

  ‘No, sir. Sadly, they’ve both got their separate affairs to attend to.’

  He held his smile, his focus now on Sandra. ‘My, my, who do we have here?’

  ‘This is Professor Sandra Richards,’ Matt said.

  ‘Professor. My, my,’ Jura said, kissing her hand.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Jura.’

  ‘Please, call me Charles.’

  She forced a smile, her eyes penetrating. It was amusing to Matt how she unnerved him.

  Jura held his smile. ‘Come,’ he gestured in the direction of a large sitting room along the corridor, ‘you must be thirsty.’

  The sitting room was located at the far end of the mansion, away from prying eyes. The room was epic in size and purpose, with decoration that was overwhelmingly European. Though Matt had seen the type before, its appearance was unexpected.

  The man’s wealth clearly knew no bounds.

  Matt followed Jura’s invitation and took a seat on a velvet three-piece suite that was placed with a view of the window and situated close to a brown antique coffee table. Sandra sat to the left, occupying a large armchair.

  Jura was the last to sit down, also in an armchair. He requested the housekeeper bring in refreshments, evidently not unexpected. Minutes later the selection came in quantities, ranging from biscuits, cakes, cheeses and dessert food washed down by everything from tea and coffee to exquisite liquors and spirits.

  ‘I’m so pleased you could make it,’ Jura said, shuffling for comfort. ‘It must be a busy time for you in the navy; I remember as much from my own time.’

  Matt returned the pleasantries. ‘Actually, I’m no longer a member.’

  Jura nodded. ‘You served long?’

  ‘Three years,’ he said. ‘Being honest, I was never cut out for the military. It was really just a family tradition.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ the Swiss replied. ‘I have many myself. I sharn’t bore you with the details.’

  Matt forced a smile, his attention on the room. Jura meanwhile also watched, unsure whether to pursue the subject. The man’s outward demeanour was neutral, demonstrating a clear knowledge of tact. He remembered as much from the funeral.

  ‘So how are you enjoying Zürich? Is this your first time?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled. ‘Beautiful city. The lights, the shops, the Bahnhofstrasse at Christmas.’ He kissed his fingers.

  Silence fell, not awkward but still unnerving.

  ‘So,’ Jura said, sipping his tea and replacing the cup. The sound of china on china made a strong clink in the otherwise silent room. ‘What brings you to my home?’

  Matt paused before answering. ‘You mentioned at Kirkheart that my father had asked you to carry out an instruction from his will. I was wondering if you could reveal the precise instructions of my father.’

  The man was confused. ‘The precise instructions?’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly typical for a CEO of a major Swiss bank to make personal calls regarding such trivial things. I’m guessing there was a reason.’

  Jura’s face suggested uncertainty. ‘The best leaders are always the ones who serve others,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Mr. Anson, but you talk as if I have done something to offend you.’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m merely curious. You see my father and me weren’t particularly close. I was merely wondering exactly what relationship you had with my father. And don’t you worry yourself about offending me, Mr. Jura. We Ansons are not given to easy offence.’

  Jura smiled to himself. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t know how far apart you and your father were,’ he said, his hand gripping the armchair. ‘I don’t mind going into detail. It’s hardly normal for me to do so, but then again, your father was hardly a normal client.’

  Sandra watched with interest. Where was this going?

  ‘Your father and I go back a long way. We met when he was a guest speaker at the university around the corner. I was most honoured to invite him to my lodge – located just up the road from here. The Knights of Arcadia have something of a prestigious history in these parts.’

  Matt bit his lip. There was a question he wanted to ask. ‘The day we met in Kirkheart, you wore a certain tie and blazer.’

  ‘Most of my jackets are the same – we are a nation of bankers after all.’

  Matt faked enjoyment in the joke. ‘There was a logo on the tie.’

  ‘That’s the logo of my lodge.’

  ‘Your lodge?’

  ‘The Order of the Ancient Star.’

  Matt looked at Sandra. A blank stare answered him.

  ‘The Order of the what, sorry?’

  ‘Emmm,’ he said, sipping his tea. ‘The Order of the Ancient Star is a bit like the Knights of Arcadia in many ways: mainly local businessmen meeting up for a chat. Like the Arcadians, our lodges can be found far and wide. In many ways they are like sister orders.’

  Sandra beat Matt to a response. ‘I understand the order traces its origins back to the early days of the Confederacy.’

  ‘You’ve hit upon an interesting subject, even if I do say so myself. That was the core of my friendship with Mr. Anson’s father. I’ve never met a man who knew so much about history – notably his own order. He spent much time researching similar things to myself.’

  ‘I thought you were a banker,’ Matt said.

  ‘Even bankers must have a hobby, Mr. Anson.’ A dry smile. ‘As a matter of fact, the last time I saw your father was to do with that very subject. I met him in a city in Portugal called Tomar.’

  Sandra was confused. ‘I never knew William had been there.’

  He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, his appearance came at a good time. As fate would have it, a series of important documents have recently surfaced, located in the Church of Santa Maria do Olival. The archive itself was located in a vault beneath the church, forgotten. The originals had been untouched for centuries.’

  ‘I never even knew that the church had an archive.’

  ‘Nor did we,’ Jura said. ‘It was only recently discovered.’

  Sandra’s interest heightened. ‘Do you have any of them with you?’

  ‘A few, no originals.’

  ‘If appropriate, I would very much like to see them.’

  He smiled. ‘Nothing like a woman who gets straight to the point.’

  Matt laughed, Jura louder. Sandra looked back with a dry expression. It was evident to Matt that she didn’t trust Jura; it was less clear whether she liked him. The woman had a knack for concealing feeling. In recent days Matt had become used to Sandra responding with coldness to a man’s admiration though on this occasion she did so more tactfully.

  Jura left the room and returned quickly, this time with his hands full. He looked across at Sandra and passed her seven pages of A4. ‘Most of these are inventories or itineraries; others are letters written between members of the Order of the Knights of Christ.’

  She received them without expression. ‘These are copies.’

  ‘The archivist at Maria do Olival was most insistent on keeping the originals.’

  Sandra paused before turning her attention to the photocopies. She opened her handbag and removed her glasses case, opening it quickly. She eyed the content, translating it in her head.

  ‘Where is Tomar?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Tomar itself is merely a city and a small one at that,’ Jura said. ‘It lies about 40 miles from the west coast of Portugal. In the past, the city was predominantly a Templar stronghold; it was the fourth grandmaster of the Templars in Portugal who ordered its construction. Following the dissolution of the Knights Templar, the land passed on to the new order, the Knights of Christ, as it were.’

  Matt nodded. In truth, he had never heard of the pla
ce.

  ‘The discovery was of great surprise,’ he continued. ‘Following the dissolution of the original order, the new Knights took over and very little changed. It was not until at least a century later that the city discovered its true importance.’

  ‘What was that?’

  Jura took a bite from a piece of gateau and chewed slowly. ‘The Knights of Christ served a whole new purpose,’ he said after swallowing. ‘The Crusades were over, and wars were no longer their primary concern. During the 14th and 15th centuries, the Knights were to become instrumental in the Age of Discovery.’

  He laughed as he spoke. He placed his side plate down on the table and clasped his hands together loosely.

  ‘What you must understand is that they lived at a time when many of the world’s citizens still believed the world was flat, that any person reckless enough to voyage across the so-called green sea of darkness would fall into oblivion.’ He laughed again, shaking his head. ‘The Knights of Christ were indeed the NASA of their day.’

  Matt nodded, his eyes alternating between Sandra and the Swiss. The resulting silence was awkward. Though he was aware that the man knew his father, he felt insecure about saying too much too soon.

  ‘So how come you know so much?’ Matt asked. ‘I thought most bankers were more interested in their bonuses.’

  Jura chuckled, his face lighting up. ‘Banking is very much different in Switzerland. Here, it is an art! It’s not like in England and America. There, it is just a means to an end, an easy way to make a quick buck.’ He laughed again. ‘The Swiss have always triumphed on their ability to keep the common touch.’

  He gestured to a portrait on the wall, 18th century, a grand man of noble features. ‘Banking is my heritage, my family heritage. Just like yourself, fate was perhaps at its most jovial when it came to placing us in families of, shall we say, colourful history.’