The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  Matt smiled but remained silent.

  ‘But like your father, I have a passion for understanding the past. This building itself was once an important feature in Zürich’s past. I think that was why it appealed.’

  A shuffling of papers caught his attention. ‘Anything of interest?’

  Sandra folded the sheets and removed her glasses. She looked at Jura, holding the tip to her lips. ‘The documents here are little more than a keepsake, centring on the order’s day-to-day activities. Where did you find the originals?’

  ‘As I say, they were discovered recently in the archives at the Church of Santa Maria do Olival.’

  ‘When was the archive discovered?’

  ‘The vault was discovered only a few weeks ago behind a wall of plaster. The wall was 17th century, according to the local historian I spoke to. Everyone seemed quite surprised it was there.’

  Sandra lowered her glasses, her eyes moving briefly over the photocopied document. The elongated Portuguese hand was harsh, at times making it difficult to read.

  Jura eyed her curiously. ‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’

  25

  For almost a quarter of an hour, Sandra took charge of the proceedings. She spoke tactfully of Matt’s father possessing a document of historical significance that may or may not have been relevant to the Order of Christ. Every so often, she found herself glancing quickly at the content in front of her, almost as though to convince herself she was not imagining it. The content at least dated from the correct time.

  Jura listened carefully. It was evident to Matt from his facial expression that he understood most, if not all, of what the academic said. Sandra was less precise regarding its significance.

  ‘Wow,’ he said after a while. He rose slowly to his feet and walked in the direction of the nearest window. Outside, the warm afternoon sun was retreating behind the skyline, throwing the street into shadow. Despite its prominent location, the area was quiet and secluded.

  ‘I take it William never mentioned anything about this when you saw him.’ She looked at Matt briefly, winking at him. Matt smiled but remained silent.

  The banker turned. His hand was stroking his goatee, and his expression pensive. ‘The last time I saw your father,’ he said to Matt, ‘was at our lodge. It’s very near to here; we can go later. Your father was often my guest.’

  Matt nodded, his lips unmoving.

  Jura returned his attention to Sandra. ‘May I see the letter?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have it with me.’

  He accepted the response. ‘But you believe it to be genuine?’

  ‘Absolutely, its authenticity is not in question. As a matter of fact, I’m deeply interested by how many of its features overlap so neatly with the content of this discovery,’ she said. ‘Now forgive me if I’m wrong, but its discovery seems to me to be somewhat coincidental.’

  Jura was confused. ‘What was the letter about?’

  ‘The letter was written by Gaspar Corte-Real – I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’

  ‘The enigmatic sailor who disappeared in 1501.’

  Sandra nodded. ‘The correspondence is to his brother, Miguel. Gaspar was clearly aware that something or someone had been buried at Kilwinning, under the guardianship of not only the monks but also prominent members of the Knights of Arcadia. They talk of making something of a pilgrimage.’

  Matt looked at Jura. Though the banker’s expression was neutral, his interest was clear.

  ‘It doesn’t say who?’

  Sandra shook her head.

  ‘But you do believe,’ he said, his interest heightening, ‘that someone or something of importance was buried there?’

  Sandra bit her lip. His hopeful tone irritated her. ‘Come now, Mr. Jura, you don’t have to play dumb with me. You obviously know far more than you let on.’

  Jura remained unflinching. Slowly, he returned to his cake.

  ‘My expertise in history is unlike your own,’ he said. ‘It would be unwise for me to pretend otherwise. Like all members of the Ancient Star, I have a passion for greater understanding.’

  Sandra placed her glasses to her lips. ‘What sparked your interest in Tomar?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Anson’s father.’

  Matt raised his eyebrows. More he didn’t know.

  Jura took the final sip of his tea and poured a fresh cup from the white antique teapot. He offered refills, pouring into Sandra’s empty cup.

  ‘The catacombs, evidently, were discovered by accident. The wall was destroyed for renovations. The discovery was in a small vault. Most of the manuscripts were located in small trunks, little more than ancient suitcases.’ He laughed to himself. ‘The historian was the first to uncover the possible importance of the find, and it was he who spoke to Mr. Anson.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three weeks ago,’ the banker replied. ‘I saw him not long after. He spent less than four days there. As far as I’m aware, much of what remains is still to be investigated.’

  He looked at Sandra and smiled. ‘I must say I am pleased to have had your opinion on the matter. It would be useful to have some full translations. Perhaps more clues are contained within, possibly even a description.’

  ‘I must return to the first question,’ the academic replied. ‘Why the big interest?’

  ‘It is man’s inquisitive nature that separates him from the animals.’

  ‘And women apparently.’

  Matt laughed. Jura grinned awkwardly.

  ‘For many years the Order of the Ancient Star has been following a partially hidden path. The signposts are there, but much of where they lead is still to be discovered. I hope one day that the secrets of the order’s past will reveal something of significance. The path to enlightenment is not itself clear-cut. However, I am hopeful that with your help, progress will be made.’

  Sandra replaced her glasses and scanned the photocopy in her hand for the umpteenth time. ‘You mentioned there are other manuscripts.’

  ‘There are.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Still at Tomar, in the vaults of the church.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, I guess that is the next port of call. Perhaps you could set up an appointment for me with this local historian.’

  ‘I only wish I could.’

  ‘You don’t have his details.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not that. He died just over a week ago.’

  26

  Nicole entered the office at nine. She powered through the corridor, surprisingly deserted for a Friday, and entered Gladstone’s office through an open door.

  The editor was at his desk. As usual, he was leaning back in a semi-slouched position and looking at his desktop with a somewhat haggard look. Despite the early hour, his sleeves were rolled up and his collar was unbuttoned and minus a tie.

  One aspect was not usual.

  The man was not Gladstone.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Where’s Mr. Gladstone?’

  The man exhaled lengthily. ‘Mr. Gladstone will not be with us for a while. He has been laid low for reasons I do not know,’ he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I am his successor, Mr. Mills.’

  Nicole sighed. Daniel Mills was the editor of the Sunday Tribunal: facially he was a man of nerdish leanings, perhaps anywhere between forty and fifty, with a bald head that was part shaven, part receding. His only hair of note was his goatee, brown or ginger depending on the light. Like Gladstone, he wore glasses, but unlike Gladstone, they were a permanent feature.

  Nicole fidgeted with her hands that carried several newspapers. ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I have no idea. I will be taking his place for the immediate future.’

  Nicole was disappointed. She prepared to leave.

  ‘I mean, it’s not right, is it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That they make me do Gladstone’s job but without his pay. Life’s a bitch.’

&nbs
p; For several seconds she stood in silence. ‘Nice seeing you, Daniel.’

  ‘That’s Mr. Mills to you, Stocker,’ he said, his eyes on Nicole. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m pulling you from your current assignment. You and that brain-dead twerp Gavin will be renewing the old partnership. Tomorrow I want you to do an article on Battersea Dogs Home and how the credit crunch has neglected the puppies.’

  Nicole looked back, livid. ‘I’ve already got an assignment. I’m starting to make progress.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve read your recent articles: a serial killer that only attacks teachers.’

  ‘I think you’ll find there’s more to it than that.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you, Stocker. My paper, my rules.’

  ‘Two men died with connection to this order. Now a curator of a church in Portugal has been found dead in the same way. Kind of coincidental, don’t you think?’

  ‘Most probably.’

  Nicole folded her arms, her thoughts returning to what Amanda had said the other night. What was he hiding?

  She leaned over the desk and opened the first newspaper to the relevant page. She had scanned the same papers countless times since she had first been shown them by Amanda.

  ‘Anson and Bowden were both murdered within days of each other. At least three others were killed before.’

  ‘You don’t know that Anson was murdered.’

  ‘I saw a picture of him flayed. You think it was self-inflicted?’

  He failed to respond.

  ‘I was reading through the old papers, these are the fourth and fifth murders in the last three years.’

  She passed the first paper to Mills. The article was on the businessman in Singapore. ‘You remember this?’

  ‘Yeah, vaguely.’

  She passed him the next paper. This time on the archaeologist. ‘How about this one?’

  Mills scanned it.

  Then came the final one. He read it quickly and removed his pen from his mouth. ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean “and”? I saw the original articles. Each one was originally written with reference to an organisation called the Order of the Ancient Star. Someone, however, removed it.’

  Mills threw his pen to the desk. ‘Stocker, your assignment was to investigate the man, not the order.’

  ‘What happened to Davis?’

  ‘Walter?’ He shook his head. ‘Poor chap died just before you came here.’

  ‘Also so happened to die shortly after the articles were written.’

  The editor’s expression was blank.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I’m aware.’

  She huffed, her face reddening. She opened her handbag and passed Mills a final document. Unlike the others, it was a printed copy of the pdf document on the murdered doctor. More importantly, it included the photograph. ‘I also found this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This was the original article written in Switzerland. For some reason the photograph never made the final version.’

  Without a word, Mills returned the document. He looked slightly ill.

  ‘Why was this left out of the Tribunal copy?’

  Mills’ expression hardened. ‘Um, perhaps because the last thing people want to see is a man who has been crucified.’

  ‘Crucified? Is that what the marks are?’

  Mills breathed out lengthily. ‘Stocker, enough already; this has nothing more to do with you.’

  ‘Mills, what is it?’

  ‘Stocker, go. I don’t want you to speak about this again…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Go.’

  Nicole eyed him for several seconds before walking in the direction of the door. She collected the papers from the editor’s desk before storming to her cubicle.

  She parked herself with fury. Behind her, Amanda sat with her phone to her ear.

  She covered the mouthpiece. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Usual shit. Mills is an even bigger cretin than Gladstone.’

  Amanda smiled, returning her attention to the phone. Seconds later she started talking.

  Nicole pulled the seat closer to the desk and started typing quickly on the computer keyboard. She looked at the most recent of the newspaper articles and examined the name of the journalist.

  Milton Tomlin, a decent enough chap, one of the few at the Tribunal. She knew him briefly. He left nearly seven months ago. She thought that he had taken a job with another tabloid, but she was unsure which.

  She needed to know why the doctor was killed.

  She needed to find the other journalist.

  From the main window of his office, Mills saw Nicole and Amanda leave the building before crossing the street, heading in the direction of the tube. He noticed how they walked with a sense of purpose, not arrogance but not without confidence.

  Mills walked away from the window and picked up the phone. He dialled the number from memory and waited patiently for a connection.

  No reply, at least not yet.

  He cursed himself. Soon she would be in way over her head.

  27

  The evening passed. Matt listened as Sandra and Jura spoke at length about Tomar, but most of what was said bypassed him. He was tired, not just physically but emotionally. He found himself thinking again of his father, particularly his last year. The more he heard, the less he knew, or at least that was the feeling. Hearing Jura and Sandra speak made him feel like an outsider.

  Secretly he didn’t know what to believe. It was obvious from the Corte-Real letter, or whatever the hell it was, that his father was sharing something – something intrinsic to the past, perhaps even his family’s past. Whatever it was, it was important enough for his father to make sure it found its way to him, perhaps even important enough to die for.

  But whatever its connection to the past, it was not his past.

  Dinner was served by Jura’s maid in the nearby dining room, an impressive room with impressive tableware. In recent hours it had become clear that Charles Jura III was anything but ordinary, but from an outsider’s perspective, Matt silently questioned whether the trimmings of his lifestyle, his heritage, were exactly his own decision. He was right in one way: Matt, too, knew something of living in a family of heritage. Other than himself, he knew of no one who knew their roots further back than three generations. Matt felt that was the correct way.

  No one should live in the past for too long.

  On Jura’s invitation, Matt had spent most of the evening in the nearby lodge of the Order of the Ancient Star: a five-storey building of the usual style located two streets away from Jura’s house. Like the former guild house, the building was terraced, well presented and possessed a unique fraternal quality in keeping with its past. Inside, a small gathering of gentlemen, mostly Swiss or from nearby European countries, stood or sat in small groups chatting about all sorts. As usual with such lodges, the building was an assortment of chequered history, mostly meaningless to an outsider. A large chessboard floor occupied the main area, enclosed by two mock pillars, symbolising the stonemasons’ heritage. A library was located in a large side room off one of the main corridors that also included three empty conference rooms, a kitchen and a large sitting room containing comfortable chairs, a roaring log fire and several nice works of art and artefacts, most of which were of famous past members.

  He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, but curiosity got the better of him. He still knew little of the Order of the Ancient Star and knew visiting it was not a bad idea. What caught his eye was the symbolism, particularly the crest.

  He was still unsure what religion it was meant to be.

  The lodge was sparsely populated, typical of a non-lodge night. There were no hidden ceremonies, nor large gatherings of men in uniforms. Instead, the atmosphere was somewhat similar to that of a gentlemen’s club, or even a social club. After a few polite introductions, Matt drifted off, spending his time outside on the balcony. Like the guild house, the lodge
was located on the banks of the river and offered pleasing views of the city.

  Despite the cool Friday night air, the location was appealing. For over an hour Matt had stayed there, watching the city and letting his mind wander. The buildings in front of him were lit up like halos, basking the city in a pleasant glow. Directly below him, the lights of passing boats cut through the darkness, moving like fireflies against the current. Up above, the sky was dark as coal. There was no moon that night and occasional rays of starlight were blocked by stationary cloud. It had not rained for several days in the city, but the signs were ominous for the next day.

  But it was not cold. Instead, the cloud gave off something of a muggy quality.

  He had been alone for almost half an hour. In truth, he enjoyed being alone. Even when he was young, given the choice of playing with his friends or being on his own, he would pick the latter at least half the time. His aunt referred to him as a lone wolf; it was an Anson trait, supposedly.

  What came natural to him came from his forebears.

  What was natural in him was natural in many. That much he was sure of. During his life, he had experienced death, but until recently he was still to experience grief. His father once told him that pain was relative: what hurts some does not hurt others, and for others, what hurts is also conditioned by previous hurts and whether or not they even had any.

  Life was always a matter of perspective.

  As Matt continued to stare at the slow-moving water, his mind began to create images. He saw his father in front of him, the image larger but somehow grainier than the man had been in life. He found himself struggling with the picture. The more he thought about his father’s appearance, the more he found himself distracted, as if he was forgetting what he looked like. His memories were changing. It was ironic. They say how in the moment you die your life flashes before you: for Matt the sensation was with him.