The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3)

by Scott Chapman

  The infantry Captain paused for a moment at the top of the gangway, happy to see the same process taking place smoothly on the sister ship, which was moored just behind. Then, satisfied, he joined the line of soldiers heading upwards into the ship’s superstructure. By the time he reached the bridge, the area was secured with soldiers standing guard over a knot of naval officers roused from their bunks and in various stages of undress.

  The eldest of this group turned furiously towards the Army Captain.

  “What is the meaning of this? How dare you come aboard this ship without my permission!”

  The British soldier replaced his revolver, which he could not remember drawing, in his holster and saluted the naval officer.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Orders from the Admiralty.”

  He handed the naval officer a single sheet of paper, which he read, his hand trembling with fury.

  Whilst the Captain was an officer in the British Army, the naval officer wore the uniform of the Navy of the Ottoman Empire. He, like the rest of his crew, was Turkish and they were in England to take possession of these two battleships, bought and paid for by their government.

  From his office in London, The First Sea Lord, Winston Churchill, had been thinking deeply about these two battleships for some time. Legally, they were the possessions of a neutral power and he had no right to interfere with their delivery.

  However, The First Sea Lord had a far lower concern for the rules of the game than he had a desire to win it. These ships would be a serious threat to Allied interests in the Mediterranean if the Turks were to ally themselves with Germany and the Central Powers, and Churchill was a man who would rather say ‘sorry’ than ‘please’. In his mind, rash actions were excusable, inactivity was unforgivable.

  On board the two ships moored in Newcastle, the skeleton Turkish crew was politely but firmly assembled and escorted ashore. As neutrals, with a perfect right to be in the United Kingdom, their armed guard tried their best to be discreet as they were placed in a sealed railway carriage and sent to London for repatriation. Their commanding officer was, of course, allowed to telegraph his embassy to break the news.

  The Ottoman Empire, particularly the Turkish homeland, erupted in fury. The two ships had been the nation’s pride, partly paid for by public subscriptions which had seen even elderly widows contribute a few coins towards their cost.

  Seeing a perfect opportunity, the Kaiser’s government offered Turkey the use of two German warships which were, in fact, fleeing across the Mediterranean pursued by the Royal Navy and in desperate need of a safe haven. They arrived in Istanbul flying Turkish flags, their crews donning fezzes to show their new-found loyalty to the Ottoman cause, and then taking on board a token presence of Ottoman naval officers. Germany had saved the honor of the Turks. The British Empire had earned its undying hatred.

  The inevitable political domino effect played its course, so that by the time Bastian arrived in Southampton, Turkey was at war with the Allies.

  Bastian Drysdale-Behier had left home with his family relatively secure in a neutral country, but by the time he arrive in England they were trapped in a hostile nation.

  Key

  Sparke was by nature a listener rather than a talker, but he spent a lot of his time around talkers. In discussion with practiced talkers like Marayam Drysdale-Behier, he had developed the habit of listening carefully to any questions that came his way, and never to volunteer information.

  “I understand that your discoveries will bring you a substantial reward from the Scottish Government. I think it is called ‘Treasure Chest’ or something like that?” said Maryam. Sparke was aware that she was simply drawing him into conversation, but saw no harm in being polite.

  “I think the term is ‘Treasure Trove’ and any award comes from the Crown, rather than the government.”

  “But so far that is still outstanding, yes?”

  “It seems like the Crown can move even slower than a government department.”

  “Indeed. Since you paid for your own expenses and have had no reward from anyone so far, it looks as though you are the only person I have heard of who made a discovery worth millions and found yourself out of pocket as a consequence.”

  “Bad planning on my part, I suppose.”

  Giving up on winning Sparke over, Maryam decided to try a more direct approach.

  “Peter, let me explain why I am keen to speak with you. Families tend to have stories they tell about themselves. My family is no different. We have a piece of family folklore I want to look into, and I thought it might be the sort of thing that would be of interest to you.”

  “I really can’t imagine that I can be of any assistance, but my time is yours, this evening.”

  Maryam’s assistant appeared with the coffee and then left as silently as he arrived. Once Sparke was comfortable, Maryam began to relate an outline of her family’s story.

  Her grandfather had been born in what is now Turkey, in a city then called Smyrna. His father, Sebastian Drysdale-Behier, Maryam’s great grandfather, had fought in World War One in the Royal Navy and was the eldest son of a notable trading family which had lived on the coast for generations.

  “Our family had possession of a tract of land in the mountains inland from the city. It contained the site of a medieval shrine, very popular with pilgrims. We know that the land had been under the particular care of the Knights Templar. In fact, there was a battle fought there. You may have heard of it, the Battle of Jacob’s Column.”

  “Sorry, no,” said Spark. “I’m not a historian. Tilly is the person to ask about that sort of thing. Maryam, I am struggling to see how I can be of any help here at all. To be frank, if you believe there is some cave in the hills full of Templar gold, then I am not the person to speak to.”

  “This has nothing to do with money. My family fled Smyrna in 1922 during the war between Turkey and Greece. It was a very, very bloody period in history. The city was almost destroyed by fire and a large part of the population was slaughtered. When my family escaped they carried a metal strongbox containing a pile of share certificates, details of the family bank accounts in Britain, and a single object that I have never been able to understand.”

  She nodded briefly over Sparke’s shoulder to her assistant who had been standing silently near the door. Immediately he walked over to where the two sat and laid a chipped and battered strongbox on the table in front of Maryam.

  “You see, as far as I am aware, the people who ran our family then were thoroughly practical people. I have never heard of any instance of them doing anything without a good reason. They came from stock that was half Swiss and half Scottish and seemed to be immune from flights of fancy.”

  Sparke, who had been born and bred in Scotland, ignored the implied flattery.

  “I have two questions which our researchers have been unable to answer. The first one is why, although my family escaped the fall of the city, my grandfather’s father and his disabled father chose not to leave, even though they had a perfect opportunity to board the last ship that could possibly have rescued them. They were never seen or heard of again.”

  She opened the box.

  “The second question is why this was one of the few possessions they chose to save.”

  She reached into the box and lifted out an object, a metal key as large as her own hand, and passed it to Sparke. Embossed on the shaft of the key was an emblem that Sparke recognized from drawings he had seen. It showed two knights in armor riding a single horse.

  It was the emblem of the Order of the Knights Templar.

  Navy

  “You, sirs, are the lowest form of life in His Majesty’s Navy. Until you become proper officers, remember that everything and everyone you see has a greater value to the Service than you do. Therefore, if you see something moving, you will salute it as it commands your respect. If it does not move, pick it up. If you cannot pick it up, you will paint it.”

  Being officer cadets, Bas
tian and his classmates were technically senior to their tormentors, so the abuse they received was mixed with impeccable manners. Bastian adapted easily to life in the Royal Navy. A decade spent in British boarding schools had taught him the simple formula of staying invisible to those in authority and excelling at nothing except sport. He kept his head down, played by the rules and, on the whole, enjoyed his time as the lowest form of life in the Royal Navy.

  Towards the end of their training, he and his classmates were waiting anxiously for their postings, which would be decided by how well they had performed during their time as cadets. Endless hours were spent in the cadet barracks discussing their futures.

  “Drysdale Beer, front and center.” The voice echoed through the dormitory building from one of the Petty Officers, none of whom made the slightest attempt to pronounce Bastian’s name correctly. “Commandant’s Office, double time. Now get a shift on, there’s a good gentleman.”

  Bastian ran to the main building of the base where the commandant had his office. So far any cadet who had been summoned to the office had found himself packing his bags for some misdemeanor or other.

  “Officer Cadet Drysdale-Behier, sir,” he said breathlessly to the adjutant officer in the guardroom.

  “You took your bloody time, Drysdale’s Beer,” he said with studied boredom. “I hope we aren’t interrupting your hectic social schedule.”

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir,” said Bastian. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

  “Education Officer’s Room. Off you go. Sharp now.”

  Bastian saluted and pounded up the stairs to report.

  “Don’t run in the bloody corridor,” shouted the officer behind him.

  Bastian marched along the corridor and paused in front of the door of the Education Officer’s office, taking a few seconds to draw breath before knocking on the door.

  “Enter,” said a voice from within.

  Bastian opened the door to see a surprisingly young officer sitting behind the borrowed desk.

  “Take a seat,” he said. “I’m Fellows.”

  The officer had a file open on the desk in front of him.

  “File says you’re fluent in Turkish.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Greek.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “I also see that you have experience of sailing in Turkish coastal waters.”

  “Only a bit of holiday sailing, sir.”

  “Holiday sailing,” repeated Fellows. “Indeed.”

  Fellows peered again at the file.

  “You’re passing out near the top of your class, I see.”

  “Really, sir? I had no idea.”

  “Of course you did. Anyway, I’m afraid you will miss your Passing Out Parade. Not a problem is it, Drysdale-Behier?”

  “No, sir, not a problem at all.”

  “Good, good. Get your things together. We’re leaving for Portsmouth in an hour. Your commission papers will be ready before we go. All right with you?”

  “Of course, sir,” said Bastian.

  “One thing, Lieutenant. No chitchat with your little pals, eh?”

  “No, sir.”

  Neither man cared for idle chatter, and the car journey down was mostly passed in silence. Occasionally, Fellows asked a question about the people who lived along the coast where Bastian had been brought up. Did the Turkish population see themselves as being part of a Turkish nation? How would the Greeks who lived along the coast feel about the war? All seemingly casual and without any agenda. There were, notably, no questions about the Armenian population.

  Bastian explained that in the big cities like Smyrna and Istanbul, the populations coexisted in relative harmony; they lived mainly in separate neighborhoods, but mixed easily in most cases. Smaller towns were not always so calm. Many were either exclusively Turkish or Greek and people tried to keep to their own kind.

  “My father tells me that things have changed a bit over recent years. Greeks have been a little more…,” Bastian struggled for the word, “…assertive about their language and identity.”

  “Interesting. You must tell that to The Boss,” said Fellows, before lapsing back into silence.

  The Boss, as Fellows called him, was at his desk when they arrived just after nine o’clock in the evening. They found him in his office with his feet on the desk, absorbed in a newspaper crossword. The end of his pencil had been chewed to a pulp.

  “You’re here, Fellows. Good, good. Did you find your Turk all right?” said The Boss.

  “Got him here, sir. Drysdale-Behier. Chaps call him ‘Drysdale’s Beer’, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about brewing, as far as I can tell.”

  The Boss gestured Bastian towards a chair. “Take a seat, would you.” He glanced at him like a dealer assessing livestock. “Seems very fresh, Fellows,” he said, looking at Bastian, but talking to Fellows. “Very fresh. Date of your commission, Mr. Drysdale-Behier?”

  “About 4.45 this afternoon,” said Fellows. The Boss snorted and looked at Bastian’s personnel file.

  “Excellent marks in Signals, I see,” he said. “You can read Morse code in Turkish?”

  “Never tried, sir, but I can’t imagine why it would be a problem.”

  “Good, good,” said The Boss. “Fellows, who do we have in the Hut onboard Queen Elizabeth?”

  “That would be Clapham, sir.”

  “Hmm, Clapham. Rank?”

  “Clapham is a Sub Lieutenant, sir.”

  The Boss thought for a moment.

  “Tell you what, Fellows, send a note over to Fleet and have our Mr. Drysdale-Behier here bumped up a notch. Save any bother with our Mr. Clapham. Tell them our chap here has volunteered for special duties.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Fellows.

  It took Bastian a few moments to realize that he had begun the day as a cadet, been commissioned as an officer in late afternoon and was about to be promoted to full Lieutenant before bed-time. The Boss looked carefully at Bastian.

  “You do wish to volunteer for special duties, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “But you’re not going to ask what those are?”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me when I need to know, sir,” said Bastian.

  The Boss beamed. “Good, good, Lieutenant Drysdale-Behier. Good indeed. You’ll fit in well.”

  An offer

  Sparke looked at the heavy key in his hand. He was reluctant to be drawn into a discussion with Maryam about it, or any other part of her story. His intention was to listen politely, commit to nothing and be just constructive enough to make sure that Tilly’s research project was not put at risk.

  Maryam apparently felt that she had talked enough and that it was time for Sparke to earn his luxury trip to Istanbul, so she allowed the silence to sit between them. Sparke hefted the key, turning it over slowly in his hand and eventually felt obliged, as a guest, to break the silence.

  “How did this key come to you? I mean to you, personally,” he said.

  “My grandfather gave it to me, shortly before he died. It had been in his possession since being given to him by his own father, Sebastian, at the dockside of Smyrna during the evacuation. He was only a toddler at the time, but he always swore that he remembered the event.”

  “Is there any chance that he could have imagined the event later? I mean, how confident are you that he got this directly from his father?”

  “I suppose that there is no direct evidence apart from my grandfather’s memory, but it was a clear memory,” said Maryam. “He was standing at the dockside with the rest of the family waiting to be evacuated onto a British warship. His father, Sebastian, tied it around my grandfather’s wrist with a piece of bootlace. He tied it too tightly. It was so tight that my grandfather told me he wanted to cry with the pain. Of course, he was barely a toddler, but the story was repeated by other members of the family.”

  “I’m sure his memory was fine. Are there any other connections between your fam
ily and the Templars which you are aware of?”

  “There is the land around Jacob’s Column, of course, but that only came to the family in Sebastian’s father’s time.”

  “And the connection is that the land contained a shrine, this Jacob’s Column, which was protected by the Templars?” said Sparke.

  “We understand there were a number of sites with Templar connections, but I would leave all that as conjecture until Professor Pink has done her research.”

  Sparke noticed that Maryam had a habit common among people with power of using the words ‘we’ and ‘I’ interchangeably.

  “Assuming there were Templar related sites on the land your family owned, it is reasonable to expect that various artefacts may have survived,” said Sparke. “Without a lock, a key is a fairly useless item.” Sparke paused, wanting to find the right words for a delicate topic. “You say that when the men of the family disappeared it was in the middle of a war. Surely, the most probable answers are that this key is just a piece of everyday Templar life that survived the years because nobody else wanted it, and that your family members were lost in the fighting.”

  “Don’t you feel that is a lazy supposition?” Maryam had no issue when it came to pushing people to defend their positions, as any senior executive in her firm would testify.

  “It’s the most probable one,” answer Sparke, more sharply than he intended. “Things tend to be quite mundane in real life, and the option which requires the least amount of imagination usually has the highest chance of being accurate.”

  “I wonder how that thinking could have led you to your discovery of the Templar Vault,” said Maryam.

  “It was exactly the same thinking, really. I knew from Professor Pink that a significant amount of Templar artefacts had never been found, so it was a case of working out the least unlikely plan the Templars might have had to preserve them.”