‘The bones, and the wisdom, of wise King Solomon!’
Sandra’s eyes lit up. The text on the page in front of her, though noticeably faded due to years of exposure, stood out before her clear as day. The document was another letter, this time written by Miguel Corte-Real to another sailor, Vasco Anes Corte-Real, also his brother.
She had learned from the previous document that a description of the same artefact once located at Kilwinning was mentioned as having been on a voyage involving Gaspar Corte-Real – almost certainly the same one he had made from Scotland.
Three years later, in 1502, the description turned up again, this time on an inventory of another voyage, this time involving Miguel.
The date was significant. She knew from the known history of the order that Gaspar Corte-Real disappeared around the year 1501, having voyaged to the area now known as Newfoundland. Initially Miguel had been part of the fleet, but he returned to Portugal. A year later, he also disappeared, according to rumour while attempting to find his brother.
No longer was this rumour.
The fact that the same artefact was included in the last recorded voyage of Miguel Corte-Real was alarming. Whatever it was, its whereabouts was no longer recorded.
But the letter was puzzling. Not only had Miguel informed Vasco that his three-ship fleet had reached Newfoundland, but it also included diagrams and descriptions of the locations. If the third brother was aware of the location, he could have successfully tracked their path.
Sandra adjusted her glasses. She squinted at the crudely drawn diagram. Based on the letter, the sailors had carved symbols of the order into a rock in a location somewhere off the coast of America. Just like the Vikings, the Knights had left a land claim.
If the third brother could locate the land claim, the route on which the party continued would be obvious.
The young monk waited until the three men had disappeared from sight before crossing the aisle in the direction of the sacristy.
He nudged the already open door, careful of the movement making a prolonged creak. Inside, he could just make out a basic room. One person was inside, a woman, her concentration fully occupied.
Slowly, he entered.
The symbols on the rock were well drawn and instantly recognisable. The symbol of the Knights of Christ was located partially up the stone, surrounded by various inscriptions, most of which appeared to be written in code. From what she could gather, the stone was indeed a land claim, identifying the party as having three ships of fourteen men each, one of which continued north while the others returned to Portugal.
She squinted, attempting to translate the other words.
Portuguese and Scots on a journey of discovery from Portugal went west. We camped. One week’s journey south from this stone we fished – three men were red with blood.
She bit her lip, her eyes struggling to focus. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The reference to the Scots and the Portuguese was more than she had hoped for.
She scanned the line beneath. Men red with blood was a graphic description. She had seen similar descriptions, usually referring to plague. Yet another voyage hindered by uninvited passengers.
She continued to read, her attention now on the instructions in the letter rather than what the explorer had written on the rock.
We continue north, twenty days journey from here, and set up base. 1513.
More surprising was the date. According to the rock, the date they had left the land claim was 1511, whereas the letter was stated as being 1513, eleven years after Miguel Corte-Real’s disappearance.
What had happened to the knight?
Her eyes watered slightly. Concrete proof was emerging. Better yet, she knew exactly where to look.
Suddenly she felt a presence behind her.
She removed her glasses and placed them on the desk. ‘Oh my God, you’re never going to believe this…’
Sandra turned to face the newcomer. A blow to the head knocked her unconscious.
33
Gozo, Malta
Nicole parked her hire car outside a modern block of luxury apartments and locked it electronically. The white, towered complex that overlooked the perfect blue Mediterranean was less than five years old and contained over forty apartments ranging in size from studio to three bedrooms. The penthouse deck incorporated luxury balconies, and a flat roof at the top of the complex allowed helicopter landings. She had seen from the local estate agents that the penthouses were the most expensive, where prices ranged from £95,000 to just less than half a million.
The lower bracket caught her eye.
Maybe she could quit her job and move into one.
Although she had been to Malta before, this was the first time she had visited Gozo. Her favourite grandparents had owned a small house on the waterfront that her parents borrowed as a holiday villa. Despite being twelve years since her last visit, she was pleased to see how much of the island she recognised and how little it had been contaminated by big industry or the tourist sector. The island had a nice family feel.
She had learned that the widow of the businessman Lawrence C. Denison was also a respected author not unknown to the British public. She had identified that Lorraine Denison, née Bell, lived in Gozo, and she learned her address through fan mail. She knew the woman had a history with the Tribunal, and not a bad one.
Credit Amanda Hopkinson.
Nicole made her way to the entrance of the complex. A double set of glass doors prohibited her from entering without use of either a master key or being buzzed in using the intercom. She examined the numbers and pressed the button for a penthouse.
Seconds later a voice responded. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mrs. Denison.’
‘Speaking?’
‘Mrs. Denison, my name is Nicole Stocker. I sent you an email.’
A brief pause followed. ‘Come on up.’
A sharp buzzing sound informed her that the door had disconnected. She pushed hard against the heavy weight, slowly opening the main door. She took the stairway to the top floor and followed the corridor in the direction of Lorraine Denison’s penthouse.
The door was open when she arrived. Nicole knocked and opened it simultaneously, unveiling an open-plan location with walls that reflected the sunlight and caught the sea breeze through open windows. The furniture was modern, but surprisingly sparse. A large kitchen was located just inside the door, and a woman in her early fifties was standing near the breakfast bar.
The woman was instantly recognisable. She was a brunette with occasional grey, bright blue eyes and a pretty nose that showed slight evidence of a nose job gone wrong.
The woman beamed a smile and held up the kettle. ‘I could never say no to a friend of Amanda.’
Nicole smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Denison.’
‘Please. Call me Lorraine.’
Lorraine Denison sat herself down on one of two three-piece suites facing each other at right angles and placed her tea on a coaster. She crossed her legs, her body language open to Nicole.
Nicole sat down, also with tea. It was obvious why Amanda liked her so much. The woman was overwhelmingly friendly, despite not being naturally chatty. Nicole had used the flight as an opportunity to read one of her novels, a chick flick involving a young receptionist whose pursuit of fame eventually came unstuck and led to her marrying her childhood sweetheart. The author clearly valued friendship and integrity above materialism.
Nicole paused, preparing for the first question. Quietly the thought worried her. Media coverage of Lawrence Denison’s death and the things that Amanda had shown her made her wonder what the woman actually knew.
‘So, Miss Stocker. What can I do for you?’
Nicole hesitated before starting. ‘Mrs. Denison, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your husband?’
The woman smiled weakly. ‘If you like. Though before you do, would you mind if I ask why?’
Nicole bit her lip. She was on dange
rous ground.
‘When your husband died, the story of his death was included in two Asian newspapers, including an English-speaking paper.’ Nicole started. ‘A couple of days later, it was picked up by a journalist at the Tribunal, a Walter Davis, a former colleague of mine.’
Denison remained unmoved. ‘Okay. This isn’t going to appear in print, is it?’
‘No, Mrs. Denison, you have my word on that.’
Denison relaxed slightly. ‘Being honest, the whole thing was something of an ordeal.’
‘I was hoping you might be able to clarify the circumstances of your husband’s murder.’
The woman’s eyes shone slightly fiercer than before. ‘My husband’s death was an ordeal, but being in the public eye just made it worse.’
Nicole nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t wish to intrude,’ she said, fidgeting slightly. ‘I understand your husband was a member of an organisation called the Knights of Arcadia.’
A brief nod. ‘Yes.’
‘I was wondering if you could tell me about them.’
Lorraine forced a quick smile, this time noticeably forced. ‘They were just a group. They were nothing important even though they all thought they were.’
‘Has anyone ever been charged with your husband’s murder?’
A bitter shake of the head. ‘No.’
‘Do you still have contact with the police there?’
Denison’s goodwill was beginning to wane. ‘Most of the police are corrupt, and those who aren’t are ignorant.’ A few tears fell from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Stocker, I think you should go…’
‘Lorraine, I think I know who killed your husband.’
The strength of her words surprised both of them. Lorraine had risen to her feet and almost immediately returned to her seat. Her lip wobbled.
‘How? How could you possibly know?’
Nicole considered her words. ‘I don’t, at least not a hundred percent.’ She saw the expression in the author’s eyes had faded slightly. ‘But recently I have, aided by Amanda, found a number of startling coincidences between the death of your husband and many others.’
Lorraine eyed her blankly. The mention of Amanda’s name did nothing to help on this occasion.
‘Miss Stocker, I warn you…’
‘Lorraine, your husband is not the only person associated with the order of the Knights of Arcadia to have met his end in recent months. Recently two others have followed. The newspaper report that went to print in the Sunday Tribunal referred to a mugging, but having spoken to the journalist in Singapore, I have reason to believe that your husband’s death was a lot more serious than that.’
Nicole moved forward slightly. She placed her hand on Denison’s arm.
‘Lorraine, please, I need to know. What was your husband’s involvement with the Knights of Arcadia?’
She raised her eyes to meet Nicole’s. ‘I only know he was a member. Tell you the truth, I wasn’t in Singapore when my husband died,’ she said, a touch of regret in her voice. ‘Truth be told, we weren’t overly close in his last years.’
Nicole’s expression was non-judgmental. ‘Would you mind if we spoke about how he died?’
Lorraine Denison picked up her mug but paused before drinking. ‘It wasn’t until three days later I first saw his body. I never saw the crime scene, nor did I want to.’
She replaced the mug on the coaster and wiped her hands against her jeans. A spill had left a small mark, no larger than a 2p.
‘I’m guessing you know what happened?’
A grim nod. ‘Why would anyone flay another human?’
The woman’s eyes began to water, at first slowly, then fiercely. Nicole looked on with anguish. She found herself close to tears. She always hated interviewing victims or relatives of victims.
She moved from her seat next to Lorraine and grabbed her hand. For several seconds Nicole sat awkwardly. ‘It’s okay.’
Finally the author composed herself. ‘The only time I saw him again was in the morgue,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘His eyes were closed, but his face was lifeless. I felt so bad I wasn’t there for him.’
She turned to face Nicole. ‘Promise me this won’t appear in print.’
‘Lorraine, I swear, that’s not why I’m here.’
She forced a grateful smile and returned to her tea.
Nicole tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘Lorraine, I have a list of names. I’d like to clarify if your husband knew them.’
For several seconds she continued to cry.
‘Please answer as best you can.’
She nodded.
‘William Anson?’
‘He was the Knights of Arcadia grandmaster.’
‘Did you know him personally?’
‘I met him a few times, but, no.’
‘Presumably you’re aware he died recently. In similar circumstances.’
Denison nodded weakly.
‘How about Luke Bowden?’
‘Same.’
Nicole nodded, no surprises. ‘Another is Dr. Philip Gray, found dead in Zürich.’
Denison shrugged. ‘No.’
‘There is one other. However, this man died a little longer ago. The last one was an archaeologist from Glasgow.’
She looked with more interest than before. ‘What was his name?’
‘Dr. Graham Bell.’
A further tear fell from her eye. ‘He was my father.’
34
Nicole was gobsmacked. She knew from the woman’s internet biography that her maiden name was Bell, but nowhere in her investigations had she learned that there was a connection between the two.
Lorraine left the room. She walked alone into the kitchen and returned with two fresh cups of tea. She sat down in the same place. After a while she sipped it slowly, using the mug to cover parts of her face. Nicole did the same, mimicking Lorraine’s actions.
‘I didn’t know he was your father.’
Silence lasted several seconds. ‘Officially my father died of heart failure,’ the author said sombrely. ‘It wasn’t until after the funeral it was revealed that he had been murdered.’
Nicole nodded. Clearly the news was not broadcast.
‘How did you find out?’ Lorraine asked.
‘My editor gave me a lead, a couple of days after Anson died. Now even he’s disappeared.’
Lorraine nodded, sipping her tea as an opportunity to take a break. ‘Whoever killed my father wanted it to look like murder. I couldn’t bear the world to know. He was worth so much more.’
Nicole still struggled to conceal her surprise. Why would their murderers make the murders obvious?
‘My father, as you’re clearly aware, was also a member of this society.’
Nicole nodded. The distaste was evident from Denison’s expression.
‘My husband was never particularly important to the order. My father, however, had a greater interest. As an historian, he had taught in many of the great universities of Europe and America. As a biblical scholar, he was respected worldwide.’
Nicole nodded.
Another forced smile. ‘He was what the Knights of Arcadia called a seneschal. One of three, as I understand it. His interest intensified after he found some remains of importance in an abbey in Scotland. According to my father, the abbey offered a new slant not only on the history of the order but also the country.’
She hesitated before continuing. ‘My father was the chief historian of the order and a patron. He always believed that the order’s history, the history of all Europe, was misleading. Since his retirement, he devoted most of his time to learning more about it.’ She looked at Nicole and smiled. ‘It was his hobby.’
Nicole looked away briefly, her eyes on the water through the window. In the distance, she saw the flag of Malta flying from a mast, out towards the harbour. It seemed ironic Denison should choose to live here.
Even Malta was synonymous with the history of the Crusades.
‘Do
you know who was responsible?’
Denison shook her head. ‘No. But William Anson thought he knew who was responsible.’
‘Lorraine, what can you tell me about the Order of the Ancient Star?’
She brushed her hair back behind her ear. ‘My father always believed that both the Order of the Ancient Star and the Knights of Arcadia were created earlier than most people believe. He claimed to have proof that the order was started in the early 1300s by fleeing members of the Knights Templar.’ She waited to ensure Nicole had understood. ‘He said the Ancient Star might be earlier still.’
‘How early?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps Old Testament.’
Nicole raised her eyebrows. The claim seemed difficult to substantiate.
‘According to my father, the Templars in France were tortured, but many who weren’t remained in France or fled to Switzerland to ensure another continuation of the society. These were known as the Order of the Ancient Star.’
Nicole nodded. The name still meant nothing.
‘My father once told me that the Order of the Ancient Star and the Knights of Arcadia have been at war ever since, sometimes more literally than others.’
‘Did he ever say why?’
Lorraine shook her head. ‘No, but I’ll never forget when I was younger, my father used to tell me a bedtime story. He spoke of four mystical knights, known as the Keepers of the Light. They came from across the sea and had in their possession an artefact of extreme significance.’ She looked at her and smiled. ‘He liked making up stories – it was like his own version of the grail knights…silly, I know.’
She smiled back. ‘Did he ever say what it was?’
‘No. But in later years I started to wonder if the story was connected. His affiliation with the Knights of Arcadia dates back to before I was born. He became a member early in his career as a lecturer.’
‘He never let you in on the details?’
She shook her head. ‘Being honest, I never asked; perhaps he would have told me had I asked, but back then I was less interested.’ She sipped again from her tea, this time finishing it. ‘William Anson told me that the Order of the Ancient Star was dangerous, and that he feared them. In recent years, the orders have been closer, but historically the feuds have been great. I believe they killed my father.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 23
