Jura looked up and laughed. ‘I figured that much. But you are like your father in many ways. The true origins of the Knights of Arcadia are lost, even to your father. But he shared my interest in uncovering the secrets of the past: including whatever became of the treasure the Templar deserters took from England. If the story is true, then it did indeed lie for a time in Scotland. Both orders claim descent from the original Knights. In the eyes of some, one is the rightful owner, the other is not.’
‘Is that why my father is dead? For a story that might not even be true.’
‘For what it’s worth, your father never doubted its truth. Furthermore, he was more interested than anyone in validating it. Why do you think he owned those artefacts you spoke of: the letter, the scroll? He knew the clues existed. He also knew of their importance: not only from a monetary perspective, but such things provide a direct link with our pasts. The discovery would be an historian’s dream, not only that but, for your father and Professor Bowden, a symbol for a better world.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why they were killed.’
‘Some of their brothers are selfish. Rather than share his vision, they sought only their own gains. If you want my opinion, he probably knew what was coming to him. But it is a testament to the man’s character that he should send the letter to you, the one person he trusted, the one person capable of figuring out the problem for himself. I thank God that he succeeded. Who knows what might have happened had such precious items found their way into the wrong hands.’
Matt breathed deeply. The story was overwhelming. Was this the real reason his father was murdered? Was the reason he detested the Knights of Arcadia really valid?
‘Who are these people?’
‘They are old people, not to be messed with. The monks have many secrets and many skills.’
‘Two of them broke into my house after the funeral. They beat up my cousin – I’ve never seen anyone capable of that.’
Jura looked at him seriously. ‘What did they take?’
A shake of the head. ‘I don’t know. A book and an old painting.’
Jura nodded.
‘Why would the Knights of Arcadia call him a deserter? Who flays a human being?’
Apollo has returned to Arcadia.
Matt was breathing quickly. He found himself so taken that the words would no longer come.
‘The monks are barbaric. They may look saintly on the outside, but their legacy is older than time.’ The tone was serious. ‘Beware of the abbot.’
‘My uncle?’
Jura nodded. He moved his face closer to Matt. ‘Father Winter is ruthless. The man is cunning; his resolve reaches no bounds.’
Matt eyed him closely. His lip trembled slightly. The words were disturbing.
‘People have died to possess this item; others have died to defend it. The monks desire the lost treasures of the past above all others. They will stop at nothing to locate it.’
Matt’s eyes were wide open. The air in his lungs seemed trapped, making it difficult to breathe. He stuttered, but the words jammed in his mouth. ‘What is it?’
Jura shook his head. ‘No surviving document speaks of it. Only one clue exists.
‘When the knights of France left England, it was said that four knights came to Scotland and placed the artefact in a specially built holy of holies. The men were known as the Keepers of the Light. What exactly this means, I cannot possibly fathom.’
Matt nodded, his gaze unflinching. Was it possible that it was these same men who had broken into his house, who killed his father, Professor Bowden?
The patio door opened. A man was present. He was dressed smartly and had a full head of brown hair and a moustache. He looked with interest at Matt and Jura.
The banker looked across the concrete. ‘Wilfred.’
‘Good evening, Charles.’
An awkward pause followed. Matt looked at the man closely. Though he did not recognise him, he felt as if he did. The man’s eyes were alert, his face shrivelled. It was the moustache that did it. It seemed somehow to thin and thicken enigmatically when he changed expression.
‘Wilfred, I would like to introduce Matthew Anson.’ He turned to Matt. ‘Matthew, this is Wilfred Mansell, an antiquarian from Lebanon and my long-time friend.’
Matt nodded, forcing a smile. ‘How do you do?’
‘How do you do?’
Jura smiled at Matt. ‘I’ll be right back, Matt.’
Matt watched as Jura and Mansell re-entered the lodge. He studied Mansell closely. His face looked threatening, almost as if he was a prison warden preparing to rip a new assignment of criminals into shape after they had been captured.
He looked at the patio, then back to the water. It was beautiful the way the light danced on the ripples.
Still his mind was disturbed. Whatever the Keepers of the Light were said to have possessed, his dad clearly thought it was worth dying for.
Whatever the Light was, it had been hidden for a long time.
Perhaps one day he would find them.
Perhaps one day the Keepers would present themselves.
And perhaps one day he would kill them.
Wilfred Mansell looked with interest through the glass. He liked the way the boy seemed completely unfazed by all that was being thrown at him. ‘Such a burden for one so young.’
Jura nodded, his face concerned. ‘Soon the riddle will be over.’
Mansell inhaled deeply. As he did, he remembered the words of St. Paul.
“Everything is exposed by being shown up to the Light. And whatever is shown up to the Light shall itself become Light.”
29
Fleet Street was populated by an odd assortment of people who were either thirty minutes too early or an hour and a half too late. Nearby, swarms of people walked up and down the steps of the tube stations at Temple, Chancery Lane, or Blackfriars, some bustling for position, clenching briefcases in their hands as they moved in and out of the crowds. To the east, Ludgate Circus had ground to the usual halt; engines revved, horns honked and drivers on mobile phones shouted loudly at unseen voices as they waited impatiently to cross the box junction. To the west of Fleet Street, tourists walked along the Strand toward the Mall, stopping occasionally to take photographs and incurring the frustrations of busy citizens, while others browsed the Royal Courts of Justice or one of the nearby churches. The early June weather was a nasty mixture of warm temperature, abundant cloud and overwhelming closeness. In the nearby parks, swarms of people soaked up the weather, lying or sitting on the grass, eating picnics, or walking through the scenery.
Among the people with too little time on their hands was Nicole Stocker. Departing the tube at Blackfriars, she took a wrong turn before making the correct way in the direction of Fleet Street.
Nicole had learned from her contacts that the journalist named Milton Tomlin had left the Tribunal just before Christmas and was presently working for another national, the Daily Chronicle, the only major paper still located in that part of London. Despite its historical relevance, it was tough to imagine from its present façade that the street was once the home of British publishing. While in days gone by, hoards of journalists had walked the streets, frequenting its taverns and inns, the modern-day picture was one of lawyers and bankers ambling leisurely, briefcases hanging, takeaway coffees at their lips as they headed in various directions at the end of their lunch break.
Even on a Saturday the world never stopped.
The headquarters of the Daily Chronicle was located on the corner of Fleet Street, less than two hundred metres from the building once used by the Tribunal. Like most buildings lining the street, it was four storeys of previously dilapidated shell that had narrowly avoided destruction at the hands of the Luftwaffe. Officially the building dated back to the turn of the previous century, but wear and neglect had twice left the original building unusable. The present exterior was out of keeping with the original and comprised several ornate windows, a thick laye
r of white coating, and the occasional wall carving that matched the majority on the street and appeared typically British.
Nicole entered the building through heavy double doors and paused on reaching the foyer. While the exterior was typically British, the interior was lushly furnished and distinctly American in feel. Large leather couches rested on beige tiling that presented an alluring smell of cleanliness, while directly in front of her, a large reception area guarded lifts and staircases to the floors above.
Nicole walked slowly and stopped on reaching the reception desk. A cute receptionist, with brown hair and speaking on Bluetooth, smiled as she approached before typing something into a computer. She continued to talk to the unseen caller for over two minutes; during which time, Nicole waited patiently.
Twenty-four hours had passed since her meeting with Mills. She had tried phoning Tomlin eight times that day and four more today, but she was still to hear an answer. She had learned from a female journalist he worked with that the man was away writing, but she was coy on offering anything definitive on when he would return. Nicole assumed the precaution was a legal one. Somehow the Tribunal’s journalists seemed synonymous with writs and death threats. She needed to speak to the man face to face. At the very least, Tomlin’s knowledge of the murdered doctor could be important.
The receptionist smiled at the unseen caller as she politely ended the call. She pressed the button on her phone before turning her attention to Nicole. Somehow the wideness of her smile knew no bounds. The girl was probably in her teens and possessed a permanently upbeat personality.
‘Hi, may I help you?’
Nicole returned her smile the best she could. ‘Hi there, I’m here to see Milton Tomlin; he’s a journalist here.’
She held her smile. ‘Okay, is he expecting you?’
‘No, this is sort of off chance. I used to work with him.’
‘Okay, sign in, please.’
Nicole grabbed the open biro from the desk surface and quickly filled in the visitor register. She liked the way that the biro was free, unlike most where the pen was always chained to the desk.
Why the hell do people steal biros?
She returned the pen. ‘Could you tell me where I can find him, please?’
The receptionist typed quickly into the computer. Her expression changed to one of confusion. ‘Try the third floor.’
Nicole thanked the girl for her help before heading in the direction of the lift. She pressed the button for the third floor and waited for the lift to rise. A delicate chiming sound preceded the closing of the doors, followed by a sharp turn as the lift took her up three floors.
The journey was over quickly. An identical chime summoned the opening of the doors, revealing a well-lit office area. Like at the Tribunal, there were seemingly hundreds of suited individuals sitting at desks, many cloaked by cubicles, staring into computer screens. The sound of a million conversations overwhelmed that of fingers on keyboards. Despite the mugginess outside, a nice recurring breeze from the air conditioner filled the floor that even though being slightly cluttered was not without plant life or colourful ornamentation. The carpet beneath her was evidently new and smelled of a carpet shop. Better yet, there were no stains, nor the stench of recycled cigarette smoke that she was used to.
Nicole stopped an attractive woman in her thirties and asked if she knew Milton Tomlin. She paused for several seconds, recognising the name.
‘I think he’s over there somewhere,’ she guessed, pointing in the one o’clock direction. ‘Everyone’s area is named. If you can’t find it, one of the guys up top might know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She continued along the aisle and stopped at a cubicle parallel where the woman had pointed. A brown-haired man with glasses looked up at her from behind his cubicle wall. She could see by the name on the sign he was not Milton Tomlin.
‘Hi, you know where I could find Milton Tomlin, please?’
He watched her through his glasses, his face giving little away. ‘Milton hasn’t been in for a while,’ he said, his tone sincere. He pointed to the end of that row. ‘He sits over there. You can ask Mel, she might know more than me.’
‘Thanks.’
The woman he referred to was aged around fifty, brown to grey hair, round glasses, and displayed a sense of smartness. Nicole approached her slowly and stopped five feet away.
‘Hi, I was looking for Milton.’
The woman examined her. ‘Is he expecting you?’
Nicole guessed from the voice that this was the woman she had spoken to on the phone. ‘Not exactly, I used to work with him.’
The woman nodded, her expression softening. It was clear to Nicole that the woman also recognised her voice. ‘Take a seat, young lady. I’ll try to locate the editor for you.’
Nicole sought to respond, but the woman was already to it. She began walking in the direction of the corridor and stopped.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’
‘It’s Nicole Stocker.’
‘Stocker.’
‘Yes, I work for the Tribunal.’
She smiled, effectively concealing a frown. Newspaper rivalry was often prevalent.
The section where Milton Tomlin worked was largely enclosed. Four desk spaces were located at right angles to one another and partially hidden by partitions. A large slimline computer monitor was the main feature of a surprisingly clean desk; it was unclear whether the desk was in use. There were no gadgets, no notes or pens lining the desk; there were no photographs of loved ones, personalised gimmicks or novelty items; no coffee or tea bags, which seemed to be included on the desks of most. Nor was there any hint of a calendar, any ‘to-do’ reminders or even anything remotely similar. Whereas the two desks opposite had all such things, this one was bare, giving no indication that anyone had ever sat there.
She sat in silence. Although her position was isolated, she could not escape the feeling that unseen eyes were watching her, perhaps in judgment. It was a strange feeling. Not common but not completely unknown either. In a way, the sensation was the same as walking alone on a dark night, aware that unseen terrors might be lurking nearby, intent on taking her wallet, or worse. She remembered the feeling of being followed when she was seventeen. Even though it never came to anything, walking alone was something she always tried to avoid.
Was her mind playing tricks on her?
Everywhere she looked, she saw nothing but the tops of heads. As usual, unseen voices spoke to unseen listeners, some on the end of a phone line, perhaps anywhere in the world. Aside from the intimidation of being on someone else’s turf, the atmosphere was subdued, surprisingly so for a newspaper. It was as if she was in a random government department winding down to the weekend. Yet there was a nice sense of peacefulness about the building that she found suited her.
The woman named Mel returned five minutes later.
‘Mr. Harris will see you.’
Nicole forced a grateful smile before ascending quickly to her feet. She followed Mel back along the corridor and was directed to an open door to a large office. A friendly looking man with spiked grey hair and a moustache was leaning on his desk.
Mel introduced her. ‘This is Nicole Stocker of the Tribunal.’
The man’s smile widened. ‘David Harris, editor in chief of the Chronicle,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘But my friends all call me Rolf.’
Nicole grinned, but instantly regretted it.
‘Let me know if you need anything.’ Mel said.
‘Thanks, Mel.’
The woman left, closing the door behind her.
‘Take a seat, Ms. Stocker.’
Nicole sat down opposite Harris. She found herself inspecting the room out of habit. The room was larger than Mills’ office, cleanly furnished, and was nicely colour co-ordinated. The usual iMac monitor sat atop the desk, the untidiest feature of the room, but no worse than any she had seen before. A small photograph, p
artially seen from her position, included Harris, his wife and two kids, now in their teens. The family seemed to suit him.
‘So, Ms. Stocker, are you happy at the Tribunal?’
She laughed. ‘For now.’
He smiled back.
‘Mr. Harris–’
‘Call me David.’
A quick smile. Not Rolf.
‘I’m not looking to take up much of your time. I was hoping to see Milton Tomlin.’
Harris leaned back in his chair and swayed from side to side. ‘Do you know Milton well?’
Nicole pondered her words. The man was capable of spotting lies. ‘I worked with him only briefly.’
‘So you weren’t good friends?’
‘I only knew him for a few months. But some of our subject matter has overlapped – particularly from his former role. I was hoping to pick his brain on a few things.’
Harris leaned forward, cupping his hands together. ‘Well, young lady, I’m afraid you might have to join a queue.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
Nicole hesitated. ‘It must have been just before he left the Tribunal.’
‘I thought as much.’
Nicole eyed him closely. The man’s position had become defensive. ‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
‘I wish I knew myself, Ms. Stocker. Milton disappeared three weeks ago.’
In the Order of the Ancient Star lodge, Charles Jura, Wilfred Mansell, Karim el Tutken and Benjamin Ben Fulda gathered in the sitting room. On most evenings the lodge was alive with activity, but this afternoon they were the only four.
Jura lit his cigar and exhaled breezily. An overwhelming stench of smoke inflamed his mouth and nostrils before passing into the air.
He eyed the Egyptian first. ‘Does any of this sound familiar?’
The Egyptian held his stare. ‘There was only one person capable of such a thing.’
Ben Fulda was interested. ‘What do you know about Guercino? As an academic, of course.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 20
