by Julia Hughes
Beckinson accompanied Crombie to the lift, this time the welcome warmth of the Spring weather the safe topic of conversation.
As the lift doors whispered closed, Beckinson held them back for one last question.
‘You think they’ve recovered the text?’
‘From the burglary you mean?’ Crombie clicked his tongue uncertainly. ‘No idea. Rhyllann Jones told PC Davidson nothing of value had been taken from the house. Both kids are lying. The older kid’s an honest liar though. The younger one … I dunno. He’s upset about gran, devastated by the old man’s death. But.’
Cavan peered at him from above the half moon glasses, his benevolent expression at odds by the sharpness with which he read Crombie's mind.
‘But you think he could have prevented all this?’
Crombie hesitated. Then: ‘Yes. That kid’s got his own agenda.’ He paused again, unwilling to admit it: ‘And it scares the life out of me.’
Riding down alone to the ground floor, on exiting the building he climbed back into the courtesy car, and directed his driver to Dottie Reade's house.
Time to let Wren Prenderson know Crombie was onto him,
Chapter Twelve
Every head in the classroom swivelled as Rhyllann entered. Becky patted the seat next to her, Rhyllann flushed, but before he could make his way over Ben and Andrew mobbed him. Clamouring to know where he’d been, how Wren had broken his foot, and why they’d been driven to school.
‘Well, I can’t really say too much – it’s on-going – but …’ The class quietened as the headmaster stalked into the room, looking as though he’d caught a whiff of rotten eggs.
‘Rhyllann Jones – if I can tear you away for a moment.’
Wren waited in the corridor, swamped in Rhyllann’s out grown jeans and a borrowed shirt and hoodie, he looked about twelve.
‘Hey Annie. You and me are special. We’re having private lessons.’
Mr Robinson sniffed. ‘You certainly are special. Follow me please.’ He flicked at Rhyllann’s hair, frowning. ‘Thought I told you to get this cut?’
Wren snapped. ‘He can’t. It's his religion.’
Robinson’s eyebrows rose, wrinkling his bald scalp. ‘Pray do tell. And what religion would that be?’
‘Pantheism.’
Rhyllann sniggered as Robinson unlocked the naughty kids’ room, his bony fingers white with rage. He’d never heard of it either; from the look on Robinson’s face he couldn’t wait to scurry back to his office to look the word up.
Catching Robinson’s glare, he slumped into a seat, slinging his bag on the desk.
‘I see you know the drill.’
Wren protested shrilly. ‘This isn’t right! Why are we here? We haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘I’ve been asked by a Detective Inspector Crombie to ensure your security at all times. He seemed to infer that my position here as headmaster depended on it.’
Rhyllann groaned. Way to go Crombie, he thought.
‘But …’
‘But nothing. Get your books out, and settle down to work.’
‘I don’t have my books. I don’t have anything.’ Wren sounded sulky.
‘Then I suggest you sit quietly, and contemplate on how much easier all our lives would be if everyone minded their own business, stuck to their own jobs, and let others get on with theirs.’
Robinson swept out the room, having got his own back on Pantheism.
‘Annie … say something Annie.’
Rhyllann refused to answer. Something about this room sapped his will to live. He didn’t even protest when Wren reached over, rummaging in his bag.
‘Sit down Master Wren.’ Wren spun round, head swivelling as he searched for the cameras.
‘This is an infringement of my human rights.’ He stated to the room.
‘Duly noted. Take it up with Detective Inspector Crombie.’
‘At least let us sit in the library – I haven’t done anything. We haven’t done anything. We’ve got a right to an education. You’re just picking on us. It's because we’re Welsh.’
A melody of electronic bleeps sounded. Rhyllann frowned over at Wren, hands busy under the desk while he kept up an non-stop triage against injustice.
‘My mobile!’ he hissed.
Wren made a fierce face at him. Seconds later he passed Rhyllann's crappy old mobile, held together with duct tape, back. With mounting incredulity Rhyllann read the text sent to all contacts in his friends’ folder.
‘You little turd. You’re gonna get me killed.’
Wren jerked his hands upwards. ‘I said they can blame me.’
‘Yes. You sent “blame me” on my mobile. Everyone’s gonna think it was me!’ Not to mention using up all his credits.
‘Whoops!’ Wren rocked with suppressed laughter, Rhyllann clenched his fists.
‘You bastard!’ he hissed. At that moment the fire alarm sounded – clamouring throughout the building. Wren grabbed his elbow crutch.
‘C’mon Annie – I think the quickest way out is through that window.’
Snatching up his bag, Rhyllann followed, murderous thoughts rampaging through his head.
They shuffled through excited throngs of chattering kids towards the school gate. This was just stupid. They’d never make it – outside the school grounds they’d stick out like sore thumbs Rhyllann thought, spotting WPC Hewes darting from group to group.
Rhyllann chewed his bottom lip, thinking he could bluff his way out of this, pretend the fire alarm text was a joke which someone had taken seriously. Then the stork like Robinson appeared on the school steps. He could put up with Hewes’s sarcasm and Robinson’s scorn; but not both. Not today.
Dragging Wren with him, he strode away from the gate. WPC Hewes had seen them! She was headed this way! Oh hell, at worst they’d be thrown back in the naughty room.
‘Nothing to do with us – someone playing a silly joke …’ The lie died on his lips. Ignoring him, WPC Hewes broke into a trot, tilting her head to speak into her radio, passing them blindly.
Wren pulled at his arm. ‘Quick! We can crawl through that hedge – into that back garden.’ Rhyllann scanned the playground again – no one looked in their direction. He squeezed after Wren praying there was no-one in the house.
A narrow passage connected the rear garden to the front. Unbolting the wooden side gate, Rhyllann peered out cautiously. Half the neighbourhood crowded onto the pavement to watch as three massive fire engines roared up to the school, sirens howling, lights blazing. Some residents had kids at the school, they hurried to the gate, straining for a closer look. There was no sign of the policewoman, or any teachers, and the street would never be busier.
‘C’mon. Now or never. Just carry the crutch – hang on to my bag.’
Wren nodded. With an odd lurching motion they moved unnoticed away from the crowd, Rhyllann trying to ignore the persistent little voice in his head telling him to turn back: Turn back and face the music before it was too late.
Chapter Thirteen
They hobbled along the small parade of shops, trying to look inconspicuous; at least they weren’t in school uniform. Rhyllann felt panic setting in, any moment he expected a hand to clamp down on his shoulder. He couldn’t shake off the feeling they were being followed. He kept his eyes downcast, certain everyone was looking at them. He hadn’t meant to make a bolt for it, not without getting a lot more from Wren. Wren had forced his hand. In fact, he seemed to be in charge now. Rhyllann didn’t like it.
‘You and me brawd, are going have a long chat. Soon.’
Wren nodded, his face drawn and pale. Rhyllann paused, trying to picture the best place to hide – the shopping mall – gran’s house – or … Wren plucked at his sleeve.
‘Annie, round here.’ On the corner of an alley leading to the carpark was a building society. Above it, the offices where Aunt Sarah once worked. Blinds covered all the windows, the offices had been empty for months, the building society closed for years.
<
br /> ‘We can’t break in …’
Wren swiped at him, tugging him into the alley where the office entrance was located.
‘Quiet. Let me think.’ His fingers tapped the security panel as he spoke. Shaking his head, lips moving silently, he tried another number, then another. An electronic buzz sounded, and the door swung open, giving access to a small brown carpeted entrance hall. Six paces away, a wide staircase climbed two flights to the offices above, and safety.
‘They change the code, but just rotate the sequences!’ Wren explained.
‘You never forget a pretty number do you?’ Rhyllann teased, grateful to get off the streets. Hanging onto the banister, Wren hopped up the stairs, pushing through double swing doors into the main office. As little kids, they’d often called in after school, doing homework in the room which doubled as a kitchen for the office workers, waiting for aunt Sarah to accompany them home. Most of Mr Green’s “girls” were grandmothers; he and Wren had been treated like princelings.
Now Rhyllann drifted through the open plan office feeling a sense of relief tingled with sadness for its forlorn deserted state. Desks and chairs had been shoved to one side, the huge photocopier remained in place. Some of the stuff dated from the eighties, probably too heavy to shift down the stairs. From the kitchen he heard cupboards banging and went to see what Wren was up to.
‘Look – cup-a-soups; half a jar of coffee; a tin of Quality Street! And they’ve left the kettle!’ Water gushed as Wren filled it, thrilled with his finds. ‘The ‘letric’s still on too!’ He crooned.
‘Allow that!’ Rhyllann mocked. ‘There’s a MacDonald’s up the road.’ He swung himself up on the worktop counter, the wad of notes burning a hole in his pocket. The comfy sofas had been left behind too. They could camp here for days, living off take-aways until gran was out of hospital. Or Crombie managed to catch up with Stern and his pathetic gang. Maybe get a couple of sleeping bags, or a duvet from the local shops, it would be almost home from home.
‘So brains. What next?’
’Pen and paper. Take notes!’ Now they were safe, Wren had recovered his brightness.
It seemed Rhyllann had to do the leg work. Collect the text, then visit the library for more information on John and his lost treasure.
‘The diary is only across the road there – I can get that. I’ll change the entrance code at the same time.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll change it back again when we leave.’
Rhyllann spoke slowly. ‘No, not that. This precious diary. It’s where?’
‘It’s waiting over the road. “Mail boxes are us.” Mike posted it to his own box number.’
Rhyllann loved it. ‘Jokes man!’ He said.
‘OK. We’ll go over there together, then back here. You change the code. Tell me the new number. Then research at the library. That ok?’
It sounded like the script from "Shaun of the Dead".
‘Kill dad, get mum, rescue Liz …’ Rhyllann chanted, following Wren as he levered himself down the stairs.
Rhyllann shifted his weight from one leg to another, under the shop-guy’s blatantly curious stare. He started upright, relieved when Wren emerged from the storeroom, a bulging A4 jiffy envelope tucked under his arm.
‘My granddad’s.’ Rhyllann babbled. ‘His war memoirs. I think they’ve been rejected by every publisher in the country now!’ With that he rushed to open the door for Wren, then headed towards the library armed with the new key code and a new confidence now that school was officially out.
*
Research complete, Rhyllann strode back to Green’s old offices, clutching a sheaf of papers. He found Wren asleep on the kitchen floor, surrounded by sweet wrappers, a mug-a-soup congealing in the sink. Slumping on one of the armless sofas next to him, Rhyllann began reading through the printouts obtained from the library.
For all John’s faults as a king, the man adored his children. All thirteen of them. Which as one historian pointed out made it unlikely he had murdered his own nephew. Rhyllann grimaced and read on. John arranged good marriages for his children, another sign that he wasn’t too despised by fellow kings. One of his illegitimate daughters had married Llwellynn, Prince of Wales. It seemed she frequently travelled into England as her husband’s representative. The last recorded meeting took place in 1216, the year of John’s death. The year he lost his treasure. Rhyllann’s eyebrows rose. Beside him, Wren stirred. Slumping to the floor beside him, Rhyllann handed over his material. Wren perused it sleepily, then sat bolt upright.
‘Ohmigod! Annie!’ Throwing his arms around Rhyllann, hugging him so tightly ribs crackled in complaint.
‘It’s true! It’s all true. Means, motive, opportunity!’
It is true, Rhyllann thought. My geeky little cousin. The lost treasure of the Plantagents. With a rush of pleasure he remembered Wren talking nonsense about flying schools and private planes. Wriggling free he asked.
‘I thought you’d already checked all this out?’
‘I did. It just seems so long ago.’ Wren answered, rummaging around him.
‘This what you’re looking for?’ Rhyllann asked, pulling the slim leather bound book from under Wren. He flicked through the pages. Writing to just one side. The ink faded, the pages yellowed. The words almost indecipherable.
‘You geeky little sod – how on earth did you manage to make anything out?’
Wren shrugged. ‘Once you get used to the handwriting and syntax, it all follows. Welsh hasn’t changed that much.’
‘This paper feels strange, like velvet.’ Rhyllann ran his fingers to and fro, stroking the lushness like a cat’s fur.
‘Hmm. Probably vellum. Or something like that.’ Wren said, looking preoccupied. ‘Annie – d’you think that photocopier still works?’
Rhyllann wrinkled his brow. ‘Dunno. If it's got paper in it. Probably. Why?’
‘It might be an idea to make a copy of this. There’s only about thirty pages. Then I can make notes as I go – you know – if anything seems important.’
Rhyllann studied him. Wren's nose was back in the book, eyes scanning as he turned pages rapidly.
Rhyllann rubbed at his face wearily. ‘I thought this was too good to be true. She doesn’t say where she stashed the treasure does she?’
This earned him a rueful look.
‘She meant this book for her brother, Henry. Or his heirs, the future kings of England. There must be a hidden message in this text.’ Wren speculated. ‘See – if this had fallen into the wrong hands –even her priest could have taken it for the church. She had to be obtuse.’
Rhyllann mulled this over. ‘Obtuse. So – does she give any hints about the treasure?’ He asked, trying not to sound sarcastic. Wren patted the book.
‘Reading this, I’ve learned a lot about Joanie.’ He flicked at the notes taken from the net. ‘She represented her husband at her father’s court. Both were crafty old warriors. John entrusted her with the royal regalia. She was smart Annie. Real smart.’
Rhyllann could practically hear his mind ticking over.
‘And?’
‘And I’d bet money this isn’t the only clue she left. There’s probably been others, maybe lost forever, maybe locked away, maybe even laying in someone’s attic.’
Rhyllann handled the book again, stroking the covers with a sense of wonderment. This could so easily have been overlooked. Would have been, if Wren didn’t hang with old man Stern.
‘So what next?’ he asked.
‘Photo-copy the book. I’m gonna read through again, I’m missing something.’
Rhyllann felt cheated. There should be a beautifully drawn treasure map, with a large X marking the spot.
‘Your princess wasn’t that clever. She let Llwellynn catch her with another man!’ He said spitefully.
Wren stared. ‘What!’
‘Read it yourself! There – see! Llwellynn hung him, and exiled her.’
Wren grabbed the print out from him, and read, o
pen mouthed.
‘Cornwall – he banished her to Cornwall. But he took her back. Forgave her. Annie – do you think …’
That was Wren’s trouble; he thought too much.
‘Whatever. I’ll photocopy your book, then I’m gonna get something to eat.’
*
Waiting for the photocopier to warm up, Rhyllann examined the book again. According to Wren it had been written by a scribe, the equivalent of a business person dictating to a typist. Although Wren claimed it was handwritten, the letters were so perfectly formed they seemed printed. As the machine spat copies out Rhyllann tried and failed to make sense of them. No wonder most people were illiterate in the Middle Ages. His attention was drawn back to the little animals which embellished the initial letter every fifth page or so. The scribe had given them fine detail, foxes winked slyly, snakes slithered and lions snarled. Thankfully there were only thirty pages. Rhyllann shuffled them all together neatly and turned only to collide with Wren who was staring at him as though he’d grown an extra head.
‘Excuse me!’ He said when Wren continued to stare.
‘Say it again.’ Wren slurred, eyes glittering feverishly.
Rhyllann thrust the photocopies at him as he pushed past.
‘I said excuse me.’
Wren dragged him back, fanning out the papers on top of the photocopier, stabbing at each miniature picture.
‘Fox! Hedgehog! Viper! Lion!’ He squealed, pointing to each in turn.
Rhyllann played along, not realising that only moments ago he’d been unconsciously naming the animals himself.
‘Yes. Moo moo. Woof woof.’
Wren clasped a hand to his forehead. ‘It couldn’t be that simple. Could it? It couldn’t be that easy!’ He traced the air with one hand, eyes fixed in the distance. His gaze refocused as he began thinking outloud.
‘Annie – we need the Latin names for these animals. I’ll make a list – you run back to the library.’ His fingers drummed the pages as his mind continued to tick over. ‘I don’t think it’ll be quite that simple either. We still need the keyword.’ His voice trailed off. Once again he clutched Rhyllann’s sleeve. ‘I think we’ve found it. Look.’ Rhyllann wondered what he was looking for. Then words jumped out at him from the margins. What appeared to be an elaborate frame on each page in a mosaic design morphed into letters when Wren held a blank page over the bottom half of the frieze.
