The Cromwell Deception

by John Paul Davis

  “Is that the only legend associated with the area?”

  The woman paused before replying. “People used to say there were things buried in the fields. In the 1700s there were many stories that people used to come digging. Then, they disappeared.” She passed Nat his sandwich, wrapped up in a paper bag. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Ham and mustard to take away, please,” she said, watching the woman cut the bread. “What’s so special about the site? Why do people come?”

  “The site is old, and at the time had remained undisturbed since the battle. When the government bought the land, rumours began to spread that they had only acquired it to protect what was buried there. Even then, people still used to come with forks and spades. Those who were caught were taken away.”

  Gillian felt the hair begin to stand up on the back of her neck. The jewels had been missing since the Civil War, be it missing or destroyed. For the first time she considered the possibility that the revelations in the painting, though new to her, were not necessarily new to others. Before today she was unfamiliar with any existing legend, story, or manuscript that connected the jewels with the site.

  Did the government own the land because they knew something others didn’t?

  Gillian paid for her sandwich and felt Nat’s hand guiding her away.

  “Thank you,” she said. She picked up her Coke from the bar and downed half of it in one go.

  “And thanks for the directions.”

  15

  The staff car park was located on a slope between the inn and the road. Gillian headed left on leaving the inn, toward the first area of woodland, and left again, joining a footpath.

  There were three yellow arrows painted on wooden poles, each pointing in a different direction. A lifetime walking the countryside of England told her the walk around the battlefield formed part of a larger and widely recognised public footpath.

  One of the arrows directed them left to a kissing gate that allowed access into a large field. There was a stone bench on the opposite side, located to the right and perched on the side of the hill. According to the pamphlet, it had been erected shortly after the battle and offered some of the best views in the entire country.

  Gillian sat down on the bench. It was cold, hard, and felt uncomfortable. Ignoring the temporary discomfort, she allowed herself a moment to take in the landscape. In the last half hour the sun had disappeared, replaced by moderate cloud that was getting steadily darker. Beneath the skies, remote settlements dotted the landscape that was dominated by green fields separated by ancient hedgerows and tall trees.

  The setting made her feel uncomfortable. It was lonely. Atmospheric. If anywhere in England had been destined for a great battle, it was here. A trio of horses galloped across a nearby field, crossing into another before easing to a gentle trot. Even from a distance she could hear the sounds, galloping, breathing, the echo of a neigh. She thought about what the woman at the deli had said, the warnings, the legend, the phantom armies the royal commission had allegedly seen in the sky. She was open-minded about the existence of the paranormal, but it wasn’t that which scared her.

  She was contemplating intruding on government property.

  Nat sat down beside her, eyes on the map.

  “So where exactly did you concentrate your efforts?” she asked, remembering this wasn’t Nat’s first visit. “I’m guessing much of this is familiar to you.”

  “The site itself may be off-limits, but we did receive temporary permission to investigate. Most of the time we pottered the fields with metal detectors.”

  “Metal detectors?”

  “Of course. How else do you go about finding buried jewels?”

  She decided not to answer. “Where have you searched?”

  “All over,” he replied, gesturing across the vale. Acre after acre of farmland continued into the distance; from their current spot it was unclear exactly where the MoD land started. For the first time Gillian noticed how little information there was around the site itself. There were no information boards, no ruins, no designated visitor centres. Even the pamphlet barely scratched the surface.

  It was as if its very memory had been forgotten.

  She looked at the map and noticed a triangular symbol accompanied by the word ‘obelisk’. Her heart skipped a beat as she recalled the hidden diagram alongside the message in the painting.

  “Have you dug around the obelisk?”

  “Among other places. We searched every part of the designated site.”

  She doubted that. She looked across the fields, comparing the view with what she could see on the map. “Okay, so if we’re here,” she pointed toward the field in front of her, “the obelisk must be here.”

  Nat studied the map. The stone seat on which they were sitting was clearly marked, close to the Castle Inn. The castle woods were located to the right, on the opposite side of the path from the obelisk.

  “We need to head right.”

  Cooper pushed his shovel into the ground. There was something beneath him, buried in the earth.

  François was standing alongside him, panting. Like himself, his sweat-soaked shirt was starting to smell and mud stains ruined his jeans. He had an inquisitive look in his eye; Cooper had seen it once that day already. The location matched the description in the manuscript.

  Moving to one side, he allowed François access. He watched the Frenchman jab at the area with his shovel before knelling down to remove the loose soil with his hands. He could make out a shape, square or possibly rectangular, and made of metal. His heartbeat was rising, his breathing tight.

  Through the dirt, he could see a fleur-de-lis.

  16

  The route to the obelisk involved following the footpath in the opposite direction to that described in the pamphlet. Doing the walk in reverse made the printed text irrelevant, but the yellow arrows confirmed they were heading in the right direction.

  Nat recognised the path. “The obelisk should be up here on the left. About another few hundred metres.”

  Gillian nodded. The map showed the obelisk to be in a nearby field, close to the footpath and within a dense area of woodland located beyond some form of boundary.

  Separating the walk from government land, apparently.

  The path sloped upward into the heart of the woodland. Tall beech trees surrounded them on every side, their thick branches blocking out light from the sky. The sounds of nature had broken the silence, birds and squirrels moving from branch to branch, their chirps and squawks echoing endlessly amongst the greenery.

  They followed the path for three minutes, long enough for Gillian to finish her lunch.

  “There.” Nat pointed to his left, a small gap in the foliage. Gillian could see something: a large structure, presumably made of stone. It was difficult to tell for sure with so many leaves blocking the view.

  She left the path, stopping at the bottom of a ridge. A barbed-wire fence guarded the perimeter of the next field; judging by its ruinous appearance, it had been there quite some time.

  Nat was still on the path. “Come on, it’s this way.”

  The path continued northeast, more or less parallel with the road. In the past, access to the obelisk had been easy. A second footpath passed between a small mount on which the monument had been erected and an old duck pond several metres below.

  Neither appeared to still be in use.

  They took the path until they were in line with the obelisk, searching for the best point of entry. A dense cluster of beech trees flanked the old pathway like a walled passageway, shielding it from the wind. A second fence, this one made of wood, ran alongside it, separating the path from the pond. Although both fences prohibited access, there were no ‘keep out’, ‘no access’, or ‘enter at your own risk!’ signs to make her think twice about proceeding.

  Even if there had been, she guessed the area was too remote for active surveillance.

  Gillian headed down the slope. The barbed-wire fence was
still in operation, but exposure to wildlife and the uncontrolled growth of nearby vegetation had caused significant damage.

  “Help me over,” she said to Nat, placing her left foot on the lowest line of wire.

  Nat took her hand, and she made her way across. She came down on the other side, stumbling but using her hands to keep her footing.

  With Gillian across, Nat started over himself.

  “Bugger!”

  “What is it?”

  “Damn thing’s sharp.”

  On any other day the sight of Nat in such a compromising position might have been worthy of a grin, if not a photo on her mobile phone, but today she had no time for delays. Declining to wait, she broke into a jog, hurrying through the foliage toward the obelisk.

  The obelisk was located at the summit of a small mount surrounded by trees on three sides. The west side was more open and exposed to the wind and the wider countryside. Like the area near the stone bench, the views were far-reaching, scenery visible all the way to the Malverns.

  Gillian approached the obelisk and circled it in a clockwise direction. It had a square base with an inscription on one side and supported a long orange column that extended gradually inward before becoming pointed at the summit.

  It reminded her of the Washington Monument in America.

  Nat caught her up, walking with a slight limp. He read the inscription and was immediately confused. “Gillian, this isn’t for the Civil War.”

  Gillian returned to the south side of the monument and read the inscription in detail. Sure enough, the inscription dated the monument to 1854, in memory of a soldier who had fought at Waterloo.

  She smiled at Nat, smug that she knew something he didn’t. “You really need to research things more. The monument here isn’t the original. Another existed before. It was destroyed by a gale in the late 1700s. This one was built several years later.”

  Nat raised an eyebrow, deciding not to argue. In theory it was plausible. Moving on, he circled the monument from the right, meeting Gillian on the opposite side.

  They both stopped in their tracks.

  The ground had recently been disturbed.

  The roads were busy, particularly the motorway. It was a Saturday, and in the height of summer. Hordes of holidaymakers travelled on both carriageways, heading for destinations in the Home Counties and the south, or in the Lake District and the north.

  Alain was becoming impatient. They had hit the jam five minutes ago, and it showed no sign of clearing.

  Cooper was doing his best to stay calm. Travelling in these parts had always been a passion, but being trapped in the back seat alongside a Frenchman with a gun felt more like a fate worse than death.

  He closed his eyes in an extended blink, allowing the feeling of the soft leather headrest to sooth his tense neck. On any other day the luxury furnishings and the melodious sound of Mozart’s Symphony #40 in G minor that reverberated softly through the stereo speakers would have helped put his mind at ease, but he couldn’t help think about Megan. He wanted to see her, hold her, tell her everything would be okay.

  He prayed nothing would happen to her.

  In the seat alongside him, François was a picture of calm. He hated the jam, but he knew such things were unavoidable. So far the day had proven useful.

  He glanced through the rear windscreen, reminding himself of what now lay safely concealed beneath a blanket in the boot, alongside the two stolen portraits. The information in the painting was proving correct.

  He no longer doubted the next would be the same.

  17

  Gillian thought she was seeing things.

  The area around the obelisk was clearly well maintained. There was evidence of grass cuttings everywhere, the familiar aroma causing her throat to itch and her eyes to water. The trees were also in good condition, their branches clipped on a regular basis. The gap between the trees on the west side allowed sunlight to cross the greenery, causing long shadows to form from the top of the obelisk. Whilst the majority of the stone had lost its shine, the orange exterior depleted after a century and a half of exposure to the weather, the area in general was well cared for.

  Strange, then, the clear evidence that the ground had been disturbed.

  Gillian knelt down where the soil was at its darkest. The shape was a perfect rectangle, approximately two feet by four, and about ten metres from the obelisk. There was further topsoil on the nearby grass, indicating it had formed part of a pile. The hole had been made and refilled.

  Recently.

  She looked at the monument and again at the ground, remembering the hidden diagram in the portrait. There was a triangle inside two squares and a rectangle, all clearly drawn to scale. The sharp pointed tip of the monument was represented by the triangle, while the base appeared as a square.

  A bird’s-eye view of the site on which they were standing.

  Gillian rose to her feet and walked purposefully back along the pathway.

  “Gill…” Nat called after her.

  “The original obelisk was placed here in 1649 by Oliver Cromwell in honour of his lost friends and comrades. The obelisks are obviously the key. Whatever was there, Cooper has already taken. We need to get to the next site.”

  They returned to the original path and followed it back to the inn. Gillian sprinted across the road, not stopping until she reached the car.

  “What were the three major battles of the war?” Gillian asked, unlocking the car electronically. The car park was empty apart from her BMW and two other vehicles, a white van with 55-plates and a smart-looking Land Rover. Since their arrival she was still to see another car on the road.

  Nat followed just behind, his windswept hair unkempt. “What were what?”

  “What were the most famous?” Gillian pressed. “If you were Oliver Cromwell and you’d made the decision to hide clues at the three great battles of your time, which three battles would you choose?”

  “Edgehill, Marston Moor and Naseby. Gill, we’ve been through this.”

  “Are you sure about Naseby? Maybe you missed something. A miscalculation.”

  Nat was getting frustrated. “Gill, everyone who’s studied the period knows the importance of the three battles. It’s impossible to miscalculate Naseby. It was the battle Cromwell won. The one that changed the war.”

  She nodded, remembering. “Right. Where is it?” She typed the name into the satnav and reversed out of the bay.

  “Northamptonshire. East of here.”

  The results came up. The route finder indicated it would take them just over an hour, the majority of which was by B-road.

  “Hold onto your hat. This might be a bumpy ride.”

  In the grounds of a luxury chateau overlooking the Anjou countryside, a large white helicopter had been waiting on the helipad for over ten minutes. The pilot looked through the window as the smartly dressed owner moved quickly in his direction, carrying a light suitcase.

  The pilot saluted. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  The Duke ignored him as he took a seat in the row behind. His face was red, his white hair askew, his forehead peppered by beads of sweat.

  “Have you been informed of the flight plan?”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot said as he went through the usual preflight checks. The instruction was for the north of England. Yorkshire, in particular, was a popular region among his other clients, but this was the first time the Duke had asked to go anywhere near that part of the world.

  An even greater surprise was the landing point.

  “Fasten your seatbelt, please. Take-off will commence immediately.”

  18

  By the time Gillian and Nat arrived in Northamptonshire, the steady drizzle that had plagued their journey for the last hour had developed into a moderate downpour. The steely grey skies that had dominated their view through the front windscreen since leaving Edgehill had moved into the rear-view mirror, replaced in the front by ominous dark clouds that threatened later thunder.

>   It was quiet on the roads, strange for a Saturday. Water splashed up off the tarmac that had darkened in the last half hour. Cars passed by in both directions, their headlights and windscreen wipers on full setting, some heading into better weather, others worse. It was a sight Gillian was used to, a common occurrence in England.

  A summer’s day ruined by rain.

  Gillian had visited Naseby once before, but so long ago that she no longer remembered it. A winding main road led through the heart of the village, offering a tour of the sights. The village was larger than Edgehill and completely different in manner and appearance. It amalgamated the old and the new, often in the same street, but without evidence of prior planning. Character houses from thatched cottages from the Georgian era to those of redbrick Victorian lined the road, the sequence occasionally broken by side roads that led off to more recent developments. There was a feeling of randomness about the village, as if the new had been built around the old to make use of the space. A war memorial capped with a sculpture of a lion, inspired by the four that mark Nelson’s Column, stood on a small area of grass at the end of School Lane, while nearby a 14th-century market cross covered an almost identical space, its ancient stone displaying evidence of past damage.

  Despite its centralised layout, Gillian had no idea where she was going. A series of signposts on the corner of a green, opposite a Norman church, generated more confusion than clarification. She knew she was looking for some form of obelisk, probably identical to the one they had seen at Edgehill.

  If it existed, it could be anywhere.

  “Turn here,” Nat said unexpectedly, pointing to his left through the passenger-side window. “It leads to the main battle site.”

  The call came far too late to make the turn. As she passed the signposts, she noticed one in particular, white letters on a brown background.