The Templar Thief: Peter Sparke book 4

by Scott Chapman

  "Not a chance. I want to do what I want to do and not what other people want. I might buy a boat."

  "A boat? Do you like boats? You never mentioned."

  Sparke thought for a moment. "Not especially, but when you have a zillion quid in the bank, I think it is one of the things you are supposed to do."

  "You could buy a private plane."

  "Or a sports car."

  "Sports car, private plane and yacht, that about it?"

  "Ah, yup, although I don't actually want any of those things."

  "So what do you want?"

  "First of all, I want this pain in my ribs to go away, then I want my nose back working properly, then, well, then the thing is, what I would really like is to be your unpaid, unqualified, not-very-useful assistant," said Sparke, "if you need one, that is."

  "Funny you should say that, ‘cos I actually do have a vacancy at the moment."

  Sparke smiled across the table. "So, what happened in Tuscany after I left?"

  "Interesting stuff actually. There is no trace of our pal Fra Muratore anywhere around Radda that I could find, but Marco turned up a little nugget. Actually, it was his wife who found it."

  "His wife?"

  "Uh huh, she teaches English at the university. They had me round for dinner. I told her that a colleague of mine in St Andrews University found a reference to a Templar post in the area that was not part of any estate or Templar Commandery, and a few days later gave me copies of pages from a book written in the late eighteenth century by a pretty strange English woman, one of the first ever tourist guides to the region."

  "What was strange about her?"

  "Ah, glad you asked. She was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Abingdon, bit of a wild child as far as I can gather, name of Doreen. Fell in love with one of the family coachmen and ran away to Italy. He was inconsiderate enough to die on her almost straight away, but her family had disowned her, so she made her living as an English tutor to some of the posh families in the area. She spent her free time wandering around the countryside and wrote a book about the things she saw. No proper education, so she was completely self-taught."

  "Self-taught? I suppose amateurs do have an interesting perspective sometimes," said Sparke.

  "Sometimes," smiled Tilly. "I have it all in the office. We can take a look if you like. I'd like your thoughts."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Why, are you busy doing something else after dinner?" she said.

  Edinburgh taxi drivers tend not to like taking main roads, and have an aversion to driving slowly, so the ride from the restaurant to Tilly's office was a nightmare for Sparke as he was thrown from side to side in the back of the cab, his ribs under almost constant jarring pressure as they careered through dark, narrow streets. The silence of her office was a relief.

  Tilly let them both in through a side door and they walked through deserted corridors until they reached her office.

  "Here we go, Sherlock," she said, dumping a thin file on her desk. "Have a read through that."

  Sparke opened the dossier and saw several photocopied pages inside. The typeface was archaic and difficult to decipher at first.

  "Found it yet?" asked Tilly as she filled the kettle and started making tea. "It's the bit headed 'Rustic Peculiarities of Ancient Strife and Wars', halfway down the second page."

  "Hmm, got it, I think," said Sparke, and began to read out loud.

  "The landscape is, in every aspect, a trove of ancient fortifications and castles. Every town and hamlet has been ringed by walls to protect it, both from enemies and neighbors. On many hilltops there are to be found small keeps and bastions which served, in those warlike times, as watchtowers against the encroachment of marauders. One of these, and possibly the most picturesque, is known as 'Castello dei monaci' by local people..."

  "That translates as 'The Monks' Castle', by the way," said Tilly.

  "It is little disturbed by the passage of the years, due to its remote location and the difficulty in making an approach to it. It is notable, not only for its state of good preservation, but for its peculiar design, having, within its walls, many small rooms reminding the visitor of nothing more than the monk cells of the great monasteries of England. Unlike other of the fortifications of the region, the building bears no arms or crests of the great Chianti families who long controlled the land surrounding it, but it is very well endowed with simple, but well executed carvings of saints."

  Sparke looked up to take the cup of tea offered by Tilly. "You think this might be the tower your friend found mentioned in the Templar ledgers?"

  "I don't make wild guesses. That's your job. But, if I was making sweeping assumptions, I would point out that it was a very small, fortified building, one that had rooms that looked like monks cells, that it was not marked as being owned by one of the local families, and that it was in a remote area."

  "By ‘remote’, that would imply far from good farming land or big roads, I suppose?"

  "I would suppose that too. We know the Templars were spending money on supporting a post that had no means to support itself in the region around Radda, so I would imagine this might be a good candidate."

  "What makes you think this might be related to your shipwreck and that holy medallion?" said Sparke.

  "I'll tell you why. When I got back from Italy, I wrote all the bits and pieces I knew on a big piece of paper and I thought to myself, 'what would Peter Sparke make of all this', and I decided that there was more reason to think they might be connected than to be sure they were not."

  "That's a terrible thought process."

  "Best I've got, I'm afraid."

  Sparke looked at the photocopies in front of him, and considered his options.

  "I don't suppose," he said, "you could find time for a wee trip back to Tuscany could you?"

  Coast

  "A very moving blessing," said Dimitrios. "Our machine is more famous than any man in Tripoli.”

  Salvatore was stripping ropes and tools from the machine and lifting the stone missiles from the crate that sat on its base.

  "The Bishop did not pay much attention to you, I noticed," continued Dimitrios, oblivious to the lack of response from Salvatore.

  "They say, in the market… they say that is because it was actually the Bishop himself who made this fire-spitter and that you are only its driver. They say the Bishop is too modest to accept the praise of the people."

  "The men from the Commune will be here tomorrow for the machine. I will leave as soon as they deliver the money," said Salvatore. "I need the food and water here first thing in the morning for the crew to load the boat."

  "Everything is organized."

  "I need you to go and buy me more salt pork for the journey."

  "I can send for it, there is plenty of time."

  "I need you to get it for me today. Can you do that?"

  Dimitrios stared at Salvatore. He had learned in the short time he had known Salvatore that there was no point in discussing his instructions. Dimitrios had gone from being a penniless owner of a boatyard to the man who could make the famous fire-spitting machines. He had been paid very well by Salvatore and he had escaped the need to do almost any work. If Salvatore wanted salt pork, then why not get it for him?

  "Salt pork? How long will your journey take?"

  "Buy me half a carcass," said Salvatore handing him some coins, "and buy yourself a meal. You deserve it."

  Dimitrios knew when he was being kicked out of his own yard. He shrugged, bouncing the coins in his hand. "Perhaps I will talk to the ironworker who made those pieces for our machine, tell him we will be busy. If you don't need me."

  Salvatore nodded and continued to unload stones from the crate.

  The boat was barely bigger than a harbor lighter, like the ones used for unloading larger ships that did not want the expense of wharf fees. It was a three-man boat and Dimitrios had found the crew from some of the many unemployed sailors who were stranded in Tripoli due to the slump i
n trade. Being empty, it had a pile of rocks at each end of the deep hold to provide ballast.

  He had learned a lot about how the machine really worked during his long night in the cathedral, and it took him less than half an hour with the iron lever to drive it over to the boat's edge.

  Alone now, in the yard, Salvatore emptied the last of the stones from the top of the missile crate and pulled apart its false bottom. The wooden box from the tomb looked even more impressive in daylight. It was a work of rare craftsmanship and the wood was of such quality that there was no sign of splitting or distortion, even along the seams.

  With great care, he used the machine to lift the box and lower it into the boat's hold. Then, he took the wooden crate and carried it down to the hold, upending over the box so that it was hidden from view.

  The rest of the day passed with Salvatore loading the boat with loose timbers, stone paving slabs from the yard and, finally, his heavy pack from the shed that had been his home during his stay in the city.

  As the sun dropped towards the horizon, the noise of the streets changed from the normal daytime commercial racket to the more raucous evening chorus of shouting voices and arguments. Camels roared as they bedded down in their pens and wagons creaked as they left the city before the gates closed. There was a dull, endless bleating of sheep, waiting for tomorrow's slaughter.

  Salvatore was cleaning off the machine when the gate of the yard was pushed open and a dozen men strode in with the unmistakable air of people on official business.

  "My apologies," said the Provost wearily as he followed them in, "these men are from the Night Watch and seem to insist that something as simple as walking through a gate requires the same degree of energy as assaulting a fortress."

  Salvatore said nothing, but wiped grease from his hands with a rag.

  "We said tomorrow, didn't we?" said the Provost, his face full of apology. "I hope it is not too great an imposition on you, but I thought that it might be a good idea if we were to conduct our exchange tonight instead."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Since you are so direct, let me repay the compliment by being equally candid. It occurred to me that you might have thought twice about our agreement. After all, the whole city has seen your spitting fire machine and you might have taken a notion to believing that it was worth more money now, than when we first met. Perhaps you may have decided to seek other buyers?"

  Salvatore nodded at the logic, then took a step to the side and waved the Provost towards the machine. "The man who owns this yard, his name is Dimitrios, you met him once, he can cut the timbers and knows those who make the wheeling and ironwork. You must make a deal with him as you see fit. With four or five workmen it should take less than a week to make each machine. Your guards have seen me fire it so they can teach themselves in a day. A child could learn it."

  "Then everything seems completely in order," said the Provost. "You will have no objection if we have the machine now?"

  "Once I have the four thousand."

  "As if I could forget." The Provost clapped his hands and waved towards one of the men who carried a wooden casket, bound with iron hoops. "You can keep the box. A gift from a happy customer."

  Salvatore took the box and carried it to the hold of the ship before opening it, then, happy that all was well, he walked back up the slipway to where the Provost stood waiting.

  "You are leaving immediately?" asked the Provost.

  "Tomorrow. I have some small tasks to carry out before I leave."

  The Provost looked at Salvatore for a long moment. "Travel well, and tread carefully," he said as he left, the men of the Watch hauling the machine out of the yard after him.

  The sentry at the Commandery pulled the door open as soon as he recognized Salvatore. "I will fetch the Commander," he said, before Salvatore could speak.

  The Commander appeared at the gate and walked straight over to the deep shadow where he knew that Salvatore would be standing.

  "For your care," said Salvatore, handing the heavy box of coins to him. Without a word, the Commander took the box into the building, returning an hour later with a document showing the deposit.

  Salvatore accepted it with a nod and disappeared into the growing shadows of the city.

  ***

  The Bishop had endured a long and tiring day. From the blessing of the war machine at dawn, it had been one endless succession of duties and heavy responsibilities. That filthy machine was gone, and with it, that hideous man. A man who was a heartless blackmailer, a maker of war machines and, the Bishop suspected, possibly a Templar. But now he was gone. The Provost had promised that the man would be leaving Tripoli immediately.

  With a full heart and a clear conscience, the Bishop laid his head down on his pillow and fell into the thoughtless sleep of the just.

  He did not hear a sound as the shadow moved against the wall and crossed the room. He slept soundly as the shadow reached across the bed and lifted a pillow, and he was already halfway to death when he realized he was being suffocated.

  Hills

  "Is there a single hill in Tuscany that has not had a castle on it at some point in time, do you think?"

  "Interesting question," said Tilly, then furrowed her brow. "Actually, it's not an interesting question, why does it matter?"

  "Actually," said Sparke patiently, "it is an interesting question, and it would be a very interesting answer. There's hills round here every few miles, half of them look like they have ruins on the top and any one of them could be the one that Old Doreen the Wild Child talks about in her book."

  "Lots of hills, plenty of old castles, good ration of sunshine. Nice here, isn't it?" Tilly said, squinting through the car window in the morning sun.

  "Hmm, yup, about all these hills."

  "What we need, is a plan," said Tilly, nodding.

  "You're telling me, that you, professional archeologist and superstar television historian, don't have a plan?" said Sparke.

  "Now that I think about it, is a plan really what we need, do you think? You’re a spoilt zillionaire and I am on holiday so, having no plan might be a good plan from where I sit. Trawl around the hilltops and see what we can see."

  "I've got a plan," said Sparke.

  "You amaze me, Peter. You have a plan?"

  "You want to hear it, or do you want to spend more time mocking me?"

  "We're only fifteen minutes from Radda, so how about we stick to the mockery till we get there, then talk about your plan over a coffee?"

  "Let's save the devastating sense of humor for the coffee, and talk plans for five minutes. Here's the baseline: Both the Templar archives and your old pal Doreen say there was a possible location near Radda which might have been a Templar property. The image of the local saint chappy, Fra Muratore, was found in the shipwreck off the Scottish coast, which had Templar coins on board, so it could be that there is a link to the discovery we made in the Vault and this area. Good so far?"

  "I think I am keeping up."

  "Finding any evidence of a link between Templar activity in this area and the Vault in Scotland would be interesting,” said Sparke.

  "More than interesting. So far we have nothing at all that links the discoveries in Scotland to the outside Templar organization, but it would be a bit weird to find a link in a backwater like this."

  "This is just where you would find a link, if there is any," said Sparke. "Whoever organized the project to transport all those items from the Templar archives and treasury probably didn't want to stroll in and out of the front door. Mind you, this is all just pie in the sky unless we can find some evidence."

  "But you have a plan for that, right?"

  "I do, as a matter of fact. Look, we have to turn left here."

  Tilly swerved the rental car around the corner and onto a dirt track. Clouds of pale yellow dust were raised behind her as the car bounced on the rough surface.

  "Oops," said Tilly, "bit on the fast side. Do your ribs still hurt?"

  "On
ly when I laugh, or drive at high speed over a dirt track. There should be a sign soon... There it is, see? Turn here."

  Tilly took this corner with a great deal more caution than the last one, and drove carefully up the long drive before parking in front of a building made of golden stone, surrounded by cypress trees.

  "Bloody hell," said Tilly.

  "It's bigger than it looked on the website," said Sparke. "There's three bedrooms and a few lounges and whatnot."

  They climbed out of the car and were suddenly plunged into the silence of the Italian countryside. The only noise they could hear was the sound of the steady breeze rustling through the trees above. A footstep crunched on the gravel behind them.

  "Mr. Sparkes?"

  "Sparke, Peter Sparke."

  "It is a pleasure to welcome you. There are other friends joining you?"

  "No, just us thanks."

  "You will find, in the kitchen, some parcels. We were not expecting anything." He looked slightly pained at having unexpected events occur. Guests might have problems with the air conditioning, or break some crockery, but they did not have large parcels delivered.

  "They were not supposed to arrive till next week, sorry to have been an inconvenience."

  The owner smiled at the apology. "Please, if you need anything at all, you have our cell phone number."

  Sparke and Tilly thanked the owner, faces crunched up against the sun, and walked into the cool shade of the villa.

  "You pick whatever room you want, I'm fine with anything," said Sparke. "I need to go see these parcels."

  "Or you could make us some coffee while I get the bags. I'm guessing you are not up to heaving your luggage upstairs yet."

  "Coffee and parcels, both in the kitchen."

  Tilly opened the trunk of the car and heaved the bags out, their small wheels bumping across the rough stony ground.

  It took Tilly half an hour to choose her room and unpack.

  "Coffee," shouted Sparke up the stairs.

  The kitchen was half the size of Tilly's flat back in Edinburgh. The building may have been built in the eighteenth century, but the kitchen was very much from the twenty-first.