Matt allowed himself a smile. The answer seemed too easy. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘The unbroken chain from the Templars to Scotland and Corte-Real to Portugal and then the year he went to Newfoundland is pretty conclusive.’ She laughed. ‘Before I met you, I would never have believed it.’
He smiled. Was that an insult or a compliment?
Her expression seemed unsettled. ‘But there are other things,’ she said, ‘things less easy to pinpoint.’
‘What kind of things?’
She laughed, this time a nervous laugh that Matt found vaguely out of character for her. ‘Well, it’s written in the Old Testament that King Solomon abused his power. His wife led him to idolatry. That he forsook the one true God.’
Matt watched her closely. He was surprised how anxious she looked. ‘You think it’s dangerous?’
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of hiding something in a part of the world that most people had never even heard of.’ She shook her head. ‘The nature of the trek surely demonstrates that whatever they uncovered was not meant to be rediscovered.’
Matt nodded. The conundrum was unexpected. ‘Who was Guercino?’
‘He was an Italian painter, Baroque style, famous for his lively subject matter and use of allegory. As far as I’m aware, he was most prolific. Painted over 100 pieces during his lifetime.’
‘What was so special about the shepherds?’
‘I don’t know, nor do I understand the inscription,’ she said, her teeth biting against her lip. ‘Ask most art historians, they’ll tell you it’s a memento mori: two shepherds coming face to face with mortality.’
She shook her head. ‘Something tells me it is actually a clue to the Templars’ past. The Cistercians were famous for their sheep farming.’
Matt nodded. He remembered seeing sheep in the fields at Kirkheart.
She looked at him closely. ‘It seems to Guercino, Marsyas is still under attack.’
Matt’s mind was in overdrive. ‘I think I’m starting to understand why my dad wanted you to co-author his book.’
She looked at him and smiled. ‘That’s really sweet.’
Matt saw her brush a few tears from her eyes and wipe her hands on her jeans. There was a distance to her.
‘I assume you never married.’
She looked away, slightly taken off guard. ‘Ha. Men never really interested me.’
Matt eyed her closely. Was this a genuine reason or something of an excuse?
‘You’d have made a smashing mum.’
She laughed. ‘Matt, stop.’
She looked at him and held his gaze. A strange expression overcame her. ‘Your father was different with me. With him, there were no complications – unlike some other colleagues I’ve had.’
‘You mean they always hit on you?’
‘Not especially.’ The comment still made her laugh. ‘But some men still think they know better. Even in this day and age – incredible, isn’t it?’
Matt continued to watch her, this time remaining silent. There was something he was still to find out about her, but what?
She wiped her eyes again. ‘The academic community is always one big competition. Some pour scorn on you for the slightest thing. And of course, there are those who won’t even consider the most likely of theories because they contradict their own. It never does well to lose face.’
‘You seem to do pretty well.’
She smiled, then slowly rose to her feet. ‘I’m going to head off to bed.’
41
Mills scanned the content and threw it on the desk. ‘I’m not printing that.’
The reply was not unexpected, but Nicole decided to grill him anyway. ‘Why not?’
‘The Order of the Ancient Star – super villains!’
‘Jerome Belroc was killed after I interviewed him about his article on the doctor who died in Switzerland. There is a connection between all of the killings, he told me. He also gave me a book written in the 19th century about how the Order of the Ancient Star has carried out acts of this type since the Middle Ages. And the author was killed shortly after its release.’
Mills huffed. ‘Stocker, why did you become a journalist?’
The question surprised her. ‘I’ve always had an inquisitive nature.’
‘So it wasn’t because you have a desire to be sued?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The Order of the Ancient Star has existed for five hundred years and has at least a million members,’ he said, the volume of his voice rising. ‘You cannot go around writing slurs about organisations of that stature without firm proof.’
‘Like that’s ever stopped you before…’
‘And just what’s that supposed to mean?’
She bit her lip. ‘Nothing.’
Mills eyed her closely. ‘Listen to me – it does not do well to get messed up in these events. Drop it, understand? Drop it!’
She huffed and turned, leaving the office and walking in the direction of her desk. She dropped into her chair by Amanda.
‘He’s such a douche.’
She smiled. ‘He’s probably doing you a favour.’
‘I’m really tempted to contact the guy at the Chronicle.’
‘He wouldn’t accept it while you’re still here.’
The voice of wisdom.
‘If you’re that desperate, there’s always Wikipedia.’ She smiled. ‘Or the blog.’
A smile crossed Nicole’s face. When she started at the Tribunal, she had the intention of writing a daily blog, but after twelve months she had only written six.
She considered the possibility.
Eight minutes later, it was on the web.
Alone in a bare room, the monk known as Stuart looked at the new blog with interest.
A man had died in the Czech Republic, his killers a ruthless ancient society whose real identity remained unknown from the wider world. The article asked that very question.
Who are the real Order of the Ancient Star?
The monk closed his notebook computer and headed straight for the door.
This was either the best or worst thing that could ever happen.
42
Matt stood quietly, leaning his weight against the inside of the door. It was late evening, and the sun was setting over the horizon. The outside air was still. Barely a leaf fluttered, so soft was the breeze. Seldom had he known it so still. So peaceful.
He looked across the balcony to the garden. The four monuments were all visible, each partially hidden by vegetation. The archway, the tabernacle, the stone, the sculpture: each isolated, their stone shining as they caught the light.
He watched the monuments, the fourth in particular. A couple of birds, perhaps magpies, perhaps something else, had perched on top of it. He watched as they stayed briefly before flying off into the western sky. Still no sound, even the flapping of the wings seemed eerily quiet. The image was timeless. The silence, the location, the way the sun cast long shadows over the recently cut grass.
It truly was paradise.
The sound of a door opening stole his attention. Scott had entered, dressed in tatty jeans and a tank top. He stuck a thumb up at Matt.
‘Welcome back,’ Matt said, looking him over.
He smiled. ‘Ya not figured it out yet?’
Matt shook his head, his attention still on the final monument. ‘I still don’t understand it all. The painting in the safe was identical. Why take it?’
Scott sipped from an open can of lager. ‘Your dad obviously thought it important enough to hide.’
Matt nodded, not knowing what else to do. Little things bothered him. The way the sculpture was mirrored, the slight differences in the shepherds, the image of Apollo flaying Marsyas. He accepted Sandra’s explanation for why the image was mirrored, but other things made no sense.
Apollo has returned to Arcadia.
‘I really wish he was here.’
Scott smiled, unusually sympathetic. He put
his hand to Matt’s shoulder and looked across the grounds.
‘All of the monuments were put down by George Anson’s brother. Apparently George Anson visited them all.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t help feel his diary was the key. Whoever took it knew what they were looking for.’
Scott nodded, evidently thinking the same thing. ‘You cannae change what ye cannae change.’
Strange words, wise words.
Matt looked at him and laughed. ‘You’re such an idiot.’
‘Your mum’s an idiot.’
Matt’s smile widened. ‘I missed you, man.’
Just inside the door, Matt’s phone was ringing atop the desk. He looked at it and put it down.
‘You gonna get that?’
‘No.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Nicole Stocker.’
‘You mean the girl you fancy?’
‘Shut up, I never fancied her.’ He paused, struggling to control his temper. ‘I’m not speaking to her.’
‘Why? ’Cause of the article?’
‘Not just that.’
‘What then?’
Matt considered his words. It seemed the harder he searched for reasons, the less they came. ‘I thought she was better than that.’
Scott sipped his drink, finishing it. He threw the empty container in the direction of the freshly placed rubbish bag and missed.
‘How figure?’
Matt picked up the can. ‘She asked me questions about Dad, his career…and then she wrote that.’
Scott looked at the phone. It vibrated again, this time for a text. He picked it up and read it.
‘Matt, please I really need to speak to you. I think there’s more to the Knights of Arcadia than you know.’
Scott looked up at Matt. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘Give me that.’ He snatched the phone from Scott. ‘I don’t go through your phone.’
‘You should really listen to her before you jump to conclusions.’
He looked at his cousin seriously.
Suddenly Scott broke into a smile. ‘You still like her.’
‘Oh, piss off.’
Scott laughed out loud. ‘You are such a girl.’
Matt didn’t respond.
‘Just phone her back and tell her.’
‘For your information, Nicole Stocker is the last girl in the world I would go out with.’ He hesitated, surprised by his own rage. ‘In the past maybe…I could’ve had her in Kirkheart.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because…’
‘You wanted to stay a virgin?’
He looked at Scott, who was laughing. ‘Piss off, you knob.’
Scott looked at him and smiled. ‘So you don’t love her?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s okay, then, isn’t it? No complications with the woman you do fancy.’
He looked at him and huffed again. It was obvious that he was talking about Sandra.
‘Sandra is forty-eight years old.’
He shrugged. ‘Some women like younger men.’ He leaned against the balcony. ‘Don’t you think it was odd that ya dad spent so much time with her?’
‘No. Dad spent time with a lot of women – and men for that matter.’ He paused, struggling to get out the words. ‘Even if he did, Mum died a long time ago.’
Scott nodded, silence taking over. ‘Or maybe he was a real Templar.’
‘It’s well known that many Templars had sex.’
‘You mean with each other?’
‘No.’ That one made him laugh. He shook his head, leaning against the balcony. ‘This whole thing has really made me question a few things. You know?’
Scott nodded sombrely. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He looked at him and held his gaze. For the first time, Matt appreciated the sentiment.
Matt inhaled and exhaled in quick succession. He removed the medallion from around his neck.
‘Why would Dad send us this?’
Back in Portugal, Jura entered the priest’s study and closed the door behind him. He breathed loudly. The evening was warm, and beads of sweat were beginning to form across his brow and under his white shirt.
He looked at the priest.
‘If the tomb was taken on the voyage of Miguel Corte-Real, it will take a miracle to retrieve it.’
The priest smiled. ‘I cannot deny the enigma is a surprising one.’ Silently he was left awestruck by the result.
‘We have little to no chance of discovering the whereabouts of the tomb.’
‘It is at times like this, my friend, I thank God that I am a religious man.’
Jura smiled wryly. ‘Why? You think if you pray really hard, it will magically appear? Raining down like the manna?’
The priest smiled kindly. ‘Perhaps not, but still I remember what was written in the gospels. As was said by Luke:
‘No one after lighting a lamp covers it with a jar or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light. For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light. Take care then how you hear, for to the one who has, more will be given, and from the one who has not, even what he thinks that he has will be taken away.’
Jura turned and eyed him closely. ‘Luke 8: 16-18.’
The priest smiled.
Jura’s expression was stern. ‘I remember another quote: Behold, you have driven me today away from the ground, and from your face I shall be hidden. I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.’
The priest laughed. ‘If we’re quoting the Old Testament, perhaps you might recall Isaiah 45 verse 3: I will give you the treasures of darkness, and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.’
Jura looked at him with an irritated expression.
‘Your father also lacked your patience,’ da Bonisca said.
‘You leave my father out of this.’
The priest held his hands up with his palms flat. ‘Well, perhaps remember this one: Seek and ye shall find.’
The Swiss laughed. He turned and sat down by the priest, hands on his knees.
‘What is really troubling you?’
Jura hesitated. ‘Whatever the real treasure of the Knights Templar, it has remained at large far too long.’
‘You should be humbled. Many have tried, but soon you shall succeed.’
‘How can anyone find what’s been lost for so long?’
He walked away from the priest, his attention on the landscape. The sun was setting, its orange light engulfing the city. Even in the modern day it had a timeless quality.
‘There is another legend,’ he said, his gaze still on the horizon. ‘You know of the one I speak.’
‘I expect you are talking of Admiral George and the Italian painter.’
He placed his hand to his goatee. ‘You know he was capable.’ He continued in the direction of the desk. ‘Even Nostradamus spoke of it.’
The priest laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
The priest shrugged. ‘No one alive can ascertain the significance of the DM code. It is impossible.’
Standing alone, his attention on the garden, Matthew Anson was hit by a sudden thought.
From where he stood, he could see the monuments clearly. The one from Kilwinning was nearest, perhaps less than twenty metres from the start of the garden.
The one from Tomar was to the left, almost exactly in line.
The other two were further away. The fourth from the third was easily reachable.
Finally, it dawned on him.
He looked at the first two monuments, attempting to see them from the side on. Unmistakeably the second monument was left of the first.
Roughly south of the first.
Suddenly he was thinking differently. He moved away from the window and immediately started rattling through his father’s drawers. He was l
ooking for something, something specific.
Seconds later he found it. A large map, a world map. He spread it over the desk. He immediately found Kilwinning and then Tomar.
He sprinted to the balcony, double-checking what he could see. The location at Tomar could correspond with that of Kilwinning.
Doing the same with the Dighton Rock, he satisfied himself it could fit. He drew a straight line with a ruler across the map, making sure.
Now the tricky bit.
He needed to find the fourth.
Minutes later Matt was sprinting through the garden, approaching the fourth monument. He had established from early inspection that the distance from the first to the second was 180.6 metres, in keeping with the distance of 1,806km from Kilwinning to Tomar, as found on the internet.
Two to three was also a match. It took Matt over a minute to sprint the 514.8 metres to the Dighton Rock monument, itself coinciding with the 5,148km from Tomar to Berkley.
He smiled, practically dancing with delight.
Now for the fourth. He stopped at the third, adjusting the map, and prepared to make an exact calculation. He started at the top of the third, looking directly at the fourth. He pointed the compass where he needed to go and made a note of the degrees to the next.
Then he started walking, measuring the distance. He finished the walk in under a minute and took what he knew to the map.
He was still unsure of the exact scale, but he had a result.
Sandra was still awake when Matt knocked on the door. He entered, almost in hysteria, at first making no sense. Scott followed, just behind.
‘Matt?’
‘The monuments,’ he said, ‘they’re not just replicas. They’re located at precise points.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The first one is located in relation to the second on a lesser scale of Kilwinning to Tomar. It’s the same for all. I know where the fourth monument is.’
Sandra’s face was at first in a daze. Slowly her excitement was building. For now it was unclear whether to take it seriously or not.
‘Matt.’
‘Look here,’ he said, showing her the map. He showed her the line from Kilwinning to Tomar, apparently an exact match to the first two monuments in the garden. Then the second to Berkley, also a fit.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 29
