Matt swallowed with difficulty. His lips had cracked as a result of humidity and wind, and his throat was sticky and dry. The rafters rattled ceaselessly as the wind picked up, making a tuneless whistling noise as it blew through gaps in the wood.
He looked out across the darkness. The soaked greenery looked like a clearing in a rainforest, while the cloud seemed to swirl menacingly above the ageing white timbered building. In his disturbed sense of mind, he thought he saw shadows: not of any human being, no one could be stupid enough to venture out on such a treacherous night, but figures, perhaps of malevolent intention, floating lifelessly towards the ruins. Supposedly the area was famed for its hauntings, its ghosts including everything from natives, to figures in armour, to Lord knows what else. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he believed in other things.
Secretly, Sandra’s comments worried him.
It didn’t do to tempt fate.
He turned away from the window of the parlour and walked through the hall past the dining room. The smell of clam chowder and other vegetables lingered in the air from the evening meal mixed with the smell of damp wood from the floor, causing a sickly sensation in his stomach. He looked fleetingly at various paintings hanging from the wall as he passed and entered the sitting room. A roaring wood fire filled the fireplace, overwhelming the smell from the other rooms.
It was a pleasant room. Two windows at either end were closed and curtained, keeping in the light provided entirely by one table lamp and a television in one corner of the room. Above the fireplace hung yet another portrait of Admiral George Anson.
Matt looked at the painting. Like most back in Scotland, it was original, the man dressed in naval regalia, standing by the sea. Supposedly the man himself had been responsible for the house’s construction. From what he had gathered, the house had three storeys plus the cellar that had been built over part of the ruins. Allegedly the cellar surrounded the central area, including what had once been a well.
He continued to study the painting, his attention on the man’s neck. The outline of a chain was visible, partially hidden by his garments. He recognised it immediately. It was the same one he wore around his own.
The medallion once worn by his father.
Either side of the fire, two antique armchairs had been placed opposite one another. Scott occupied one, sitting with his legs crossed and a cigar in his left hand. An almost empty glass of port was located on the small table, along with countless books and maps. A photograph of the fourth monument had been put up on the nearest wall, alongside exact copies of the Guercino paintings.
This was the third day since their arrival, barely four days since Matt had learned that his father once owned the house at New Ross. He discovered from the documents that the house was left to the family in his will and was currently vacant, though furnished. At least twelve years had passed since the house was used regularly.
Strange, he thought. Other than the estate covering ground that included the ruins, it seemed to have no obvious purpose.
Things that had started quickly were now progressing at a snail’s pace. The site itself was considerably smaller than expected. The garden had become overly rugged and unkempt as time passed by, and the notion that any former castle existed on the site seemed improbable. Aside from the vegetation, the only evidence was now below the soil.
If something once existed there, the clues were minimal.
He smiled as he looked over at Scott. ‘You look like a right berk with that cigar.’
His cousin exhaled, making rings. ‘Bite me, English.’
Matt turned away, directing his attention to the remainder of the room and particularly the paintings by Guercino. There was another alongside them, this time by an unknown artist, depicting the castle as it apparently had appeared during the 17th century. Curiously, that had come with the property.
It wasn’t the castle itself on which Matt’s thoughts were focused. He guessed that there was a vault located somewhere beneath it, perhaps accessible from somewhere in the garden. He looked out at the garden, holding the curtain. Then he looked again at the photograph of the monument.
The portrait of the flaying by Apollo really hit him.
‘Why on earth would someone paint something like that?’
His cousin shrugged. ‘Why on earth would anyone kill someone like that?’
Matt shook his head, his attention once more on the paintings. Other than the location, as given by the monument in his father’s garden, he felt there was nothing in the painting alone. Based on the foreground, it was impossible to tell where in the region it was describing. He guessed that the shepherds were in a cave, but even that was questionable. In the background, there was at least one tree and what appeared to be either a waterfall or the horizon.
The image was ambiguous.
Scott finished his port and yawned loudly. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Matt nodded.
Scott made his way across the wooden floor, walking in the direction of the stairs. Lightning nearby caused shadows throughout the hall, followed by the clatter of thunder, startling him slightly. Inhaling deeply, he made his way up the steps and along the corridor.
Someone was coming the other way.
‘Hey.’
Sandra appeared from around the corner, practically bumping into him.
‘You okay?’ Scott asked.
She looked at him with a stern expression. ‘Fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, you startled me, that’s all.’
He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you.’
‘Well, yeah, you should be,’ she said, flicking her hair. ‘Sneaking up on people.’
He lowered his head; a smile touched his lips. An awkward silence followed as the sound of the wind and rain became louder.
‘Not scared, are you?’
Sandra looked away. ‘Night.’
She walked slowly, heading toward the stairs. She heard Scott say, ‘My door’s always open if you are,’ but on this occasion she didn’t think about looking back. She laughed to herself as she made her way downstairs into the sitting room. Matt was still there, sitting by the fire.
He looked up. ‘Hey.’
She returned a smile and walked to where Scott had previously been sitting. She filled the empty glass with port, swigging it down quickly. The liquid felt pleasant on her dry mouth.
She looked at the printout of the monument, her attention on the inscription below. She thought about asking a question but instead listened to the silence. With the door closed, she could no longer hear the sound of the wind whistling in the rafters. The crackling of wood was the only threat to the silence.
She walked over to Matt, the bottle of port in her hand.
‘I’d love to know what it means,’ she said, her tone almost apologetic. She looked down at the floor. The carpet was covered with countless pieces of paper with various writings, some with sentences crossed out. She had written them herself, and not just tonight: the efforts of two nights looked more like the efforts of a lifetime. Any clue, she considered; every one, she rejected.
She was missing something.
She poured port into Matt’s glass, waiting until it was half full before taking the bottle away.
‘Thank you.’
She held her smile. ‘Five minutes and you’ll be a year older.’
Matt was confused. ‘How’d you know it was my birthday?’
‘I know lots of things.’
He laughed, his attention partly on her, partly on the floor. In the background, the sound of the weather was becoming louder.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-five tomorrow.’
She nodded, her expression still playful. For several seconds she watched him before her eyes returned to the printout. She thought back to the day she first saw it.
‘Have you ever heard of it before?’
She laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘When the inscription D.M. is found
‘In the ancient cave, revealed by a lamp
‘Law, the King and Prince Ulpian tried.
‘The Queen and Duke in the pavilion undercover.’
She looked at the painting of the shepherds. ‘The painting could be of a cave,’ she guessed.
‘Who was Ulpian?’
‘A Roman jurist.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
She shrugged. ‘Not quite sure what it has to do with anything, to be honest. A liberal interpretation could be that once the inscription is uncovered, old laws will be rediscovered and kings and queens will be tried!’
‘Sounds like ancient wisdom.’
Sandra returned her attention to the letters of the code – if indeed it was a code. It reminded her of a time seven years earlier when she had ventured with a colleague to Egypt to research one of the minor pyramids. The letters alone meant nothing. It was hopeless.
‘We know we’re in the correct place,’ Matt said.
She turned to face him. ‘We’re not the first,’ she said, her tone sounding a little lost. ‘Dare I say it: we won’t be the last.’
‘Presumably, the tomb is buried underground.’
‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’
She looked at the wall, her attention on the photograph of the monument. For the first time she noticed the differences. In the monument, the mouse’s tail was covering the R in Arcadia, a nice deduction by Matt.
Other parts of the monument were not included in the painting. There were three layers surrounding the sculpture: an arch, a doorway, and then the two towers that incorporated a roof with symbols on it.
She shook her head in frustration. ‘Guercino must’ve known. Everything is there: the owl in the top right, the bee: all of it adds up to Solomon. He knew what he was doing. The man was a genius.’
Matt rolled his fingers around the glass, contemplating the scenario. ‘So what have previous endeavours actually uncovered? If anything.’
‘They have proved that the foundations of a large structure existed,’ Sandra said. ‘We know that the stones present beneath the surface are not indigenous to New Ross.’
‘Okay,’ Matt said. ‘But surely they would have had technology at their disposal, you know, cameras, drills, possibly ultrasound.’
‘Yes, they did. And rumour has it that there is indeed either a cave or a cavern somewhere below the house.’
The revelation enthralled him. ‘How about what was down there?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
He looked at her, awkwardly. A disturbing thought had entered his head. ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘What’s in this for you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, as a professor of history. This must be pretty big for your career.’
She looked at him for several seconds and started smiling. ‘You think I’m motivated by glory?’
‘I…didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.’
‘What did you mean?’
Matt fiddled with his hair. ‘I don’t know. I mean it’s such a big event. I’ve never seen anyone so determined.’
He looked at her, as if waiting for more that never came. He looked down at the floor, paying particular attention to the crunched up pieces of paper. Matt detected a certain frustration in her.
The sound of an antique grandfather clock chimed from the hallway. She walked towards Matt and sat down on the edge of the seat.
‘It’s midnight.’
He forced a smile. Not for the first time, he felt awkward in her presence.
‘Another year older.’
‘Aye.’
She looked at him, and he looked at her. Her eyes were alight, that strange feeling he often got when she looked him in the eye.
‘Happy birthday, Matthew.’ She kissed him softly on the cheek, then she pulled away, her eyes still on his. The smile returned, this time more vivid than before – more so than he had ever seen.
As Sandra pulled away, he saw that her expression changed. Once again she walked toward the wall. Her eyes had landed on the illustration of the castle. All of the usual things were there: eight turrets, gatehouse, drainage, et cetera.
Her attention was on the well. She knew that the house had been constructed over it.
Matt approached her, unaware what it was that had excited her so much. According to the illustration, a four-pillared structure surrounded the well. The upper area was decorated by carvings ranging from that of the green man to images from the period of antiquity.
‘Why does the well have such an elaborate protection?’
Matt was confused.
‘How could I have been so stupid?’
Sandra left the room and headed through the hall in the direction of the parlour.
‘Sandra, what is it?’
‘It fits,’ she said, not breaking stride, ‘every bit fits.’
He looked at her, confused.
‘The house dates back to the 1750s, just before your ancestor built the monuments back in Scotland.’
‘I guess.’
‘Why build a house over a castle well? It doesn’t make sense.’
Matt failed to respond. It was unclear what she was getting at.
‘The structure in the monument is the exact same as the well in the painting of the castle. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.’
The door to the cellar was located just off the parlour: a typical white door that could lead to anything from a kitchen to an outhouse. The cellar was old, very old, even compared to the rest of the house. The structure was bricked at every wall, and the floor was made of stone, in keeping with the foundations. The brickwork was dirty, covered in dust and debris, and was ugly in appearance.
Sandra led the way, guided by the power of her torch. The light bulb that dangled from above remained unlit, even when the switch was pressed. Outside, heavy wind and rain continued to bang against the house. The sound was unsettling. Matt feared one blow too many would bring the whole thing crashing down.
Sandra stopped, taking the time to regain her bearings.
‘What are we looking for?’ Matt asked.
His question went unanswered. The academic walked slowly, her eyes surveying the room in detail. She made her way in the direction of the western wall, taking particular care that her bearings were correct.
She was aware that the walls directly matched every point of the compass.
She walked along the western wall, feeling the bricks with her hands. They were dry but rough, the feeling unpleasant on her smooth skin.
She felt them carefully, as though looking for the precise one where something would change. Changing tactic, she moved closer to what remained of the well located in the centre of the dirty floor. She knew that the top was covered, and the body of the well itself was now below the ground. She knelt down, placing her fingers to where it had been covered up. Although the area was concrete, there were gaps, not obvious without close examination.
She pressed her hands in the gaps. For the first time Matt realised what she was doing. He came down alongside her. He felt for the gaps and realised the circular area that had once been the well was separate from the surrounding floor. He grabbed it firmly and pulled.
For several seconds nothing happened. Then he felt movement. The lid that covered the bricked-in well, moments earlier appearing a permanent feature, moved to one side as if it was a door.
Sandra leaned over with the torch in her hand and shone it on the void directly below. For several seconds it was not obvious exactly what she was looking at. Then she saw it.
‘There’s no water,’ Matt said.
‘There never was,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, let’s se
e where it leads.’
52
Matt passed the rope through his fingers, lowering Sandra into the void. She untied herself on reaching the bottom, allowing Matt to reclaim the rope and do the same for himself.
He felt like he was abseiling, though the circular tunnel was confined. Lowering himself, he struggled to balance his feet against the wall for friction. He hit bedrock after less than twenty feet, a rugged yet straight pathway.
Matt watched the light of Sandra’s torch identifying areas of rock, presumably natural, that was broken into a small tunnel heading west and downward. The area directly ahead was perhaps three or four metres in width and reached a height at least double his own. The area was dry, but noticeably cold.
Matt pulled the zipper on his jacket to the top. They had returned to the well within twenty minutes of the discovery, this time prepared. Matt wore a pair of brand-new hiking boots, combats, a large jacket accompanied by a black body warmer and a black woolly hat over his head. Beside him, Sandra was similarly dressed and carrying a rucksack on her back.
Matt followed Sandra along the tunnel, stopping from time to time for a closer look at the surroundings. The rock was jagged, in keeping with that of a cave. He assumed from the layout that the area was natural, though somehow manipulated by ancient tools to establish some kind of brilliant labyrinth.
Matt looked at Sandra. The idea of exploration worried him, whereas she was focused. She removed a large piece of string from her rucksack and connected it to a strap on her waist.
‘We’ll attach one end to here,’ she said, connecting it to a jagged piece of rock, less than five metres from the start. ‘Don’t separate from me.’
Matt nodded, taking the situation extra seriously. ‘Where will it lead?’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 35
