“The Coronation Spoon.”
Gillian’s eyes lit up. Despite the item’s insignificant size, the style was famous to historians worldwide. Before the Reformation, the anointing of the king with holy oil was considered one of the most meaningful parts of the ceremony, the sign of God’s blessing. Jewels were encrusted into the top side of the spoon: colours ranging from gold to green.
Gillian returned her attention to the tomb, convinced more would follow.
François moved to the left side of the tomb. The hole on the right had made the rest of the lid unstable, causing it to bend inward toward the centre. He lined up the chisel with the centre of the stone lid, an area where the indentation was at its greatest. He banged down hard with the mallet, repeating the process until the lid caved in completely.
The impact was greater than before. The sound of falling rubble echoed off the narrow walls before reverberating around the crypt. A further cloud of dust rose from the centre of the tomb, catching François straight in the face. As it settled, he shone the light inside, examining every inch in detail. There was something among the wreckage, tall and wooden.
François gestured for Jérôme to come alongside him. He placed his hands on the right side of the object, while Jérôme did the same on the left. They counted to three and lifted, revealing the content for the first time. Slowly they set it down on the floor and examined its exterior in the torchlight. The chest was wooden, with iron hinges that connected the lid. A large hole on the right side offered a partial view of the inside, explaining the source of the glow. There was a keyhole at the centre, moderate size. Jérôme felt in his pocket and removed the key. His heart missed a beat.
It was a perfect fit.
As soon as the gunmen disappeared, Edmund left the car. Closing the door as quietly as possible, he moved slowly around the back of the Ford and glanced in both directions along the road. The green 4x4, parked at a slight angle to the kerb, had flashed orange as the gunmen had departed, indicating the car had been locked electronically. A disturbing thought hit him. If he was mistaken, his exit had been witnessed.
If it had, there was nothing he could do about it.
The road wound gently from left to right. He could see movement up ahead, dark silhouettes close to the walls of the ancient buildings. The gap was about thirty metres, close enough to keep them in view. There was purpose in their movement, something between a quick walk and a slow jog: quick enough to pass the nearby houses without their footsteps disturbing the residents.
Edmund had expected the walk to take them to the churchyard, most likely past the small green where Gillian and Nat had parked. Instead they took an unexpected right turn, moving quickly along a gravel driveway lined with trees.
He picked up the pace, staying low as he passed a series of gate-lined driveways and keeping close to a green picket fence. As soon as he took the driveway, he saw them skirting around a small tool shed, most likely property of the house next door. On the opposite side was an area of dense greenery that bordered the gardens of nearby houses and the churchyard.
He found them again at the perimeter of the churchyard, now pitch black as midnight approached. The last he saw they were heading for the main doorway of the church, disappearing from sight as they navigated their way through the tombstones. Their ability to move quickly without light impressed him. The men were pros, unquestionably, and most likely armed with some sophisticated technology. He needed light but daren’t chance it; if he was seen, it would be game over.
Perhaps for good.
He entered the churchyard from the south. Directly in front of him the great transept loomed above him like a castle tower. To his left, the main entrance was clearly visible. Light appeared before vanishing almost immediately.
Presumably they had entered the church.
There was no pathway in this part of the churchyard, but even if there was, he knew taking it would probably be a mistake. He moved cautiously but quickly, keeping the church in sight. His research from the Internet told him there was a bellcote at the top of the oldest wall, the west wall, with possible blocked-off archways and doorways at various intervals. The front entrance would almost certainly be monitored, at least from the inside if not the out. If the plan had been to take Gillian and Nat off guard, chances were the entrance would be blocked off anyway.
If he wanted to enter the church, he needed to find another way in.
Cliff hated being alone, particularly in a situation like this. With Edmund gone, he finally noticed how quiet the setting was, how even the slightest breeze became audible as it passed through the tree branches close to the car.
His heart was pounding, his pulse vibrating through his thorax. His breathing had become louder, his lungs tight, his nose suddenly blocked. His eyes were at the point of watering, clouding his vision. If anything was to go wrong, he was alone and unprotected.
Suddenly he missed the cigarette smoke.
He leaned to his right and felt beneath the steering wheel. A huge onset of relief hit him as he realised Edmund had left the keys in the ignition. Buoyed, he waited until the clock on the dashboard had confirmed two minutes had passed before leaving the car through the passenger door.
Edmund had a point. Photographs of the car would be a good idea. Removing his phone, he circled the car, making a mental note of the number plate as he passed. He took photographs with rapid-fire, single shots on his smartphone, deciding not to risk possible observation by chancing use of the flash.
He started at the back of the car before moving to the sides and, finally, the front. He was just about to finish when an unexpected sound caught him off guard. Even from a distance, the sound was distinctive.
Gunfire.
39
The key was a perfect fit. Even before Jérôme inserted it, he had no doubt it was made to measure. He heard a dull metallic grating sound as the key slid into the lock, the trajectory slightly offset due to three centuries’ build-up of dirt and dust.
He turned it to the right. A heavy thud-like sound preceded a slight lift in the lid, confirming the lock had opened. Jérôme’s excitement was now at fever pitch. He bit his lip and removed the key before taking the first look inside. As the lid edged upwards, revealing at first an inch of space, a similar soft glow shone out, becoming ever brighter as the lid continued to open. Unmistakeably there was gold inside, not only that but other metals. An amalgamation of colour sparkled in front of him, red, green, blue and purple. Even before the lid opened completely, one thing had become clear.
They had found what they were searching for.
Gillian couldn’t believe her eyes. The shimmering of light, at first a distant glimmer, had developed into a radiant glow reminiscent of a small lantern. Objects of various sizes filled the chest: spoons, chalices, plates and bowls…the essence of a coronation feast.
Next came a collection of sceptres, rings and coronets, their spotless appearance dazzling her eyes. Among the valuables there were boxes: square, wooden, clearly reinforced – the home of something special. Jérôme spent only seconds examining the visible jewels before removing the boxes from the heart of the chest, starting, surprisingly, with the smallest. Gillian realised that by starting with the smallest, he was allowing the anticipation to build, saving the best till last.
There were four boxes in total, the first of which was about eight inches by ten and partially broken on the top. Dismantling the box, Jérôme placed the wood down on the floor and removed the item carefully. Moments later, she saw he was holding a crown, a thin round object comprised chiefly of gold, in essence little more than a ringlet. Standing beside her, Nat was transfixed.
“The crown of Queen Edith.”
Gillian nodded, recognising the name. Traditionally, the smallest of the four crowns; the one used by the wife of Edward the Confessor prior to the Norman Invasion.
Which meant three larger items would follow.
The second crown was similar to the first, a broad ring of gold, Gillian es
timated of a size to fit the average head. The body of the crown was lined with gems at equal intervals with four fleurs-de-lis rising highest at equal points of the compass.
The Crown of Alfred the Great.
The third box was easily the largest. As Jérôme dismantled the wooden exterior, the casing collapsed to reveal an item wrapped in a large shroud. As the shroud unravelled, it revealed something uncannily reminiscent of the crown used by the monarchs of the modern era. While Gillian was aware that the appearance of the other three crowns was largely lost to history, their descriptions in the chronicles inconsistent at best, the first thing that struck her was how much of this crown she recognised. Famous portraits of the Tudor monarchs had lined the walls of rooms two and three of the gallery since the day she arrived. She recalled one in particular of Elizabeth I, her grand robes of state filling the bottom half of the portrait from side to side, and the state crown placed on top of her head. An estimated 344 gems were incorporated into its body, including nine pearls, all of different types, and three sapphires. A figure of the Virgin Mary adorned the back of the crown, complementing a further three figures of Christ that represented the monarch’s new role as the head of the Church of England.
Jérôme returned the state crown to its original box and finally began on the fourth. Though only the second largest in size, there was something about this one that made it the most awesome. Even from the outside, Gillian couldn’t shake the feeling she was on the verge of gazing on something of great significance. Of the four boxes, this one was the most elaborate. Ornate figures were etched into every side, an artist’s retelling of the grand procession that had once led to the doors of Westminster Abbey.
Jérôme took extra care in opening the box, showing concern for the outer decoration. As the seconds passed, the wood came free, separating evenly over the floor. Like the other three, the crown had undergone special treatment, and was preserved using an immaculate gold-embroidered shroud that was tucked neatly around every inch. As Jérôme took the shroud in his hand, feeling the cold dense body of the object it protected in his fingers and palms, he stood away, as if suddenly afraid to hold it. Gillian recalled the story Jérôme had told her moments earlier: the family heritage, the lost prestige…the fact that something lost so long ago had actually been found. If the story was true, there was no family connection to the most modern of the crowns, but this one had once adorned the heads of his ancestors.
Jérôme was taking no chances. Driven by reverence or fear, he placed the shroud down on the floor and slowly unwrapped it. After years in its confined space, the shroud had become tight around the edges with evidence of a primitive glue used to ensure the seal was strong.
Slowly it was coming free, unravelling loop by loop before the first hint of metal appeared beneath the folds. As the shroud came free, Gillian noticed what for some reason she had never anticipated. History books had long confirmed an astonishing gap when it came to filling in the missing pieces of the crown’s appearance, but what she saw was instantly recognisable. The body was perfectly circular, perfectly symmetrical. Like the crown of King Alfred, precious stones were set into the body in a consistent pattern of red, white and green that radiated more brightly than anything else in the box. Fleurs-de-lis rose upright from the circumference at twelve identical points, a visual representation of the twelve apostles of Christ and their successors on earth. The main thought that entered Gillian’s mind was how famous it was. It was a sight people witnessed every day, in the heart of London and all over the world. In truth, the crown had never been lost to history. It had been perfectly replicated during the construction of the effigies that marked the tombs of every Plantagenet King of England in their final place of rest at Westminster Abbey.
For the first time that day, Jérôme was speechless. There was a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. His gaze was locked on the diadem, whether mesmerized by its allure or captivated by its sense of antiquity, Gillian sensed it was mostly the latter. The quest for the jewels, even if it was about wealth, had been bettered by one of personal fulfilment.
Something that even the spoils of the lost empire could never hope to match.
Jérôme lowered the crown to the floor, placing its base on the gold-embroidered shroud. François was kneeling alongside him, busily returning the other crowns to the chest. Cooper had barely moved since entering the crypt, sitting, as if glued, to the last step of the stairway, his eyes red with tears. Gillian saw Jérôme glance Cooper’s way before focusing on her and Nat. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eye, accompanied by a smile. Although he said no words, the message was clear. Recognisable worldwide.
Thank you.
A loud bang. Then another. Both from up the stairs. Jérôme was immediately on the move. He sprinted past Gillian and Nat, almost colliding with Cooper as he made his way up the stairs back into the Claypole Chapel.
Alain was the only person who had not entered the crypt. On Jérôme’s instruction, he’d stayed behind to guard the main door. As Jérôme re-entered the heart of the church, Alain emerged into the small light that was shining from one of the halogen lamps and illuminating the south aisle like a series of candles.
Gillian and Nat returned to the chapel. They heard the sound of the door being pulled to, followed by what sounded like impacts against the stonework.
Someone was shooting.
Outside.
40
The second of the gunmen reappeared, ghosting in an anticlockwise direction around the east wall. Edmund noticed him stop briefly before heading toward the north wall, the one part of the church that was completely invisible from the main road.
Edmund hadn’t expected it, but twenty-five years in the forces had taught him, always expect the unexpected. The bald-headed driver was still missing. The movement of light across the main doorway moments earlier suggested he had entered the church.
If so, Goatee was the only person outdoors.
Edmund had made it to the east wall undetected. As Goatee circled the north side of the church, he made the direct dash to the end of the wall, narrowly avoiding a collision with a tombstone. Unlike the south transept that jutted out from the main body of the church, the north wall was completely flat. Judging from the exterior, Edmund speculated there might be a door on this side, which would offer access to either the north side of the nave or the Norman bellcote.
In theory, the bellcote would offer an extensive view of the surroundings.
Goatee had disappeared somewhere around the west wall. Visibility was almost non-existent. There was light outside the churchyard, either a streetlight or a house light from somewhere toward the north. Edmund noticed shadows on the wall of the church, his own, again a by-product of the external light.
Potentially it made him an easy target.
Gunfire.
Edmund’s reactions were instinctive. The bullet came from the west. A quick blaze of light appeared from among the headstones, followed by sparks off nearby stone. Surprisingly he didn’t hear a shot.
The bastards are using silencers.
He came down on his right side. After eight years out of the forces and out of regular training, the impact of his muscular frame on the ground felt like being hit by a moving car. Recovering, he rolled toward the north wall, rising slowly, hands to the stone. He thought he saw a shadow moving between the headstones, but the light wasn’t strong enough to confirm for sure. He needed to move, stay low, concealed. Any mistake could be his last.
He removed the Glock from his pocket and equipped it with a silencer. The bastards had a point; nothing attracts attention in a quiet village like gunfire. He moved, back to the wall, his outstretched arms always dead ahead. Unmistakeably he saw movement, this time in the opposite direction, the headstones that surrounded the entrance.
He fired, the silencer causing a sound like a glorified peashooter. He fired again, then a third time. Presumably missing.
He kept moving until he reached the end of the
north wall. He had two choices, follow the west wall toward the main entrance or head back the way he had come. He went for the former, using nearby headstones as a shield, the silhouettes of their ancient frames showing up in the light.
He moved quickly and ducked behind the nearest one, taking stock of the rest of the field. The church’s heavy walls revealed themselves behind him, the entrance to the nave sticking out before the south transept. He kept moving, following a consistent set of points from the entrance. The door appeared, its thick frame shut, presumably bolted. He edged to his right, moving rapidly from one tombstone to the other, anticipating the next blaze of light. It came, but not from the doorway.
The gunman was behind him.
The noise gave Cliff the fright of his life. The first single sound had been innocuous, but multiple sounds in quick succession were far more threatening.
He was in no doubt he was hearing muffled gunfire.
The sounds had become more frequent, which usually meant only one thing. They were also becoming nearer, almost certainly from inside the churchyard. Shaking, he snapped away at the car with his phone camera, three times for each side before replacing the phone in his pocket. The gunmen’s return was surely imminent. If not imminent, inevitable.
Presumably the car was their only means of escape.
The noise died down. Then started again. A pattern that repeated itself. He stood rooted to the spot, desperate to leave, but frozen with fear. As the sounds went away, he realised his ears were ringing. There was also a smell in the air, not burning but something similar. Amidst the ringing in his ears he thought he heard something else, closer.
Then he realised the sound was coming from the car.
Someone was screaming.
The Cromwell Deception Page 18
