by D C Macey
Once Helen’s prayer for the Templar was over, they headed back to the camp. She pulled the students’ breakfast together and Sam took a little time to look more closely at the artefacts. He wished he could open the sealed lead box, see what lay inside, but knew his head of department would never forgive him. It would have to wait until MacPherson arrived.
• • •
The air was still cool with its morning bite as MacPherson’s convoy rolled into camp. Then things moved quickly. A large protective awning was spread over the Templar skeleton, and everywhere there was the hustle and bustle of busy people doing important things. As anticipated, Sam’s first year students were brushed aside in the rush of experts. Once the junior students had shown where the site and artefacts were, they found themselves redundant. Only Davy was kept busy, co-opted as the departmental photographer’s assistant.
MacPherson had commandeered one of the camp trestle tables as an examination bench. Now, along with his team he was busy examining the finds, passing comment, seeking confirmation from colleagues and having everything photographed from a variety of angles. Sam and Helen had been allowed to observe, but their position well down the table clearly emphasised that power had shifted, showed where control now lay.
The photographer continued to dodge about as he took a steady string of pictures. Above them, standing on a bench and leaning over the crowd, was Davy. He was holding up a silvered reflector and directing sunlight down on to the artefacts on the table, providing the best possible light for the photos. To MacPherson he was an irritation to be ignored, only tolerated because the photographer insisted that with all the experts jammed around the table, blocking his light and casting shadows, he needed the lad’s help to get quality results.
Having inspected the other artefacts, there only remained the question of what was in the lead box. MacPherson picked it up and inspected it carefully, turning it in his hands, examining the seal. ‘It looks as though this top end has just been wedged on like the tight lid of a biscuit box and sealed with what might have been bees wax,’ he said, to a murmured general agreement. ‘It’s interesting how the engraving on the ring is identical to that on the lead box. This establishes a clear link between the two. We can see there is clear symbolism in the cross with its representations of the Templars and Christianity. Anyone have anything to add before we proceed?’
One of the acolytes spoke up. ‘Looking at all the artefacts and the engraving design, I’d estimate their date as being late thirteenth to early fourteenth century. Certainly well before 1350, and as you observed, it’s definitely a Templar cross.’
Another colleague joined in. ‘Absolutely, and remember the Templars were lost as a force during the early part of the fourteenth century.’
MacPherson beamed at his team. ‘Fair enough, we are all agreed then. Let’s see if this sealed lid will just slip open with a little assistance, shall we?’ He looked around the table, daring anyone to challenge him. Nobody did.
Sam was not happy, believing that the box would be much better opened in the laboratory, but knew it was pointless to object. MacPherson probably had his mind set on future press conferences and the glory of potential ‘action man on location pictures’. No doubt the pictures and story would be used to ‘big up’ the department, maximising exposure in its perpetual hunt for more research funding and bequests. MacPherson had shown himself a real expert in the money field, if somewhat less so in archaeology, and past experience told Sam that MacPherson would not brook any obstruction to his plans.
With a little pressure, MacPherson managed to dislodge the top from the box and it fell onto the table. Everyone craned forward to see what was revealed through the opening. Davy brought his sunlight reflector to bear on the open box beneath him and the reflected sunlight cut through the shadow at the mouth of the lead box, illuminating something that itself shone bright like sunshine. The whole group gasped with excitement and the camera clicked away building a record. Davy was discreetly taking the opportunity offered by his vantage point above the throng to snap off a few pictures on his own phone - his mum and dad would love to see them.
MacPherson turned the box on its side and gently tilted it. Out slid a simple, beautiful, shining dagger. Made of pure silver and having been sealed in its lead box, no oxidation had occurred. It was as perfect as the day it was first placed inside.
This was clearly not a fighting weapon, silver was too soft. But the blade was sharp and MacPherson was very careful not to allow the cutting edges to run across his skin. ‘Beautiful, exquisite!’ he said, holding it out for all to see. ‘Look at the workmanship. Fit for a king.’ There was a ripple of agreement; this was a special thing. He placed it on the table for the photographer to take some detailed shots.
Sam was leaning forward, fascinated and desperate to see what his students had turned up. At the same time, he wondered if MacPherson really ought to have gloves on - to protect the blade, not his hands. He could see it was a perfectly made weapon. The eight-inch silver blade was slim, and only an inch and a half wide for most of its length then quickly narrowing to a stabbing point. Topping the blade, the handle was of identical silver, constructed as a simple post grip, five inches long, an inch wide and perhaps half an inch deep. Protruding from either side of the handle, half an inch above where it met the blade, were silver quillons: little crossbars positioned at the base of the dagger handle to prevent an opponent’s blade from sliding up and slicing into the bearer’s hand. Each quillon was just two inches long, with a half-inch square cross section. The whole dagger formed a single, seamless, shining beauty.
Helen felt an odd sense of familiarity. Even though she had clearly never seen the dagger before, she somehow knew it, but could not place how or where. She dismissed the thought as fanciful, putting it to the back of her mind.
The dagger was perfectly constructed and appeared completely plain, without a mark or sign on it. The group fell silent for a moment, even the camera stopped clicking. Then MacPherson reached across the table and turned the blade over for photographs of the back. This instantly produced another round of exclamations from those at the table.
This side of the handle and quillons were as plain as the other, but the blade itself was very delicately engraved. At the top, close against the handle was the ornate Templar cross, just as on both the lead box and signet ring. Beneath it was a pattern of straight and curving lines: some solitary, others woven together, pulling apart and then converging again in an almost psychedelic pattern. None of the lines ever reached the cutting edges, which were left clear, plain and sharp. Set apart from the rest of the engraving and tight against the blade’s point was the Roman numeral III. This was an altogether perplexing artefact. The delicate and so purposefully engraved pattern on the blade had no apparent meaning or symbolism; while the dagger itself was of delightful construction, it had no obvious practical use. An artefact whose use or purpose was a mystery, an artefact that demanded careful study. MacPherson and his team had that under control.
A little while later, somebody, probably MacPherson, suggested that as there was nothing more for the first year students to do they should set off as soon as possible, leaving the seniors to get on with the job. The students grumbled quietly amongst themselves, but knew there was little point in challenging MacPherson. He granted them a brief opportunity to view the blade and they were elated by the beauty of the find, but subdued too as they were effectively being pushed off site. It just seemed so unfair and it had taken the shine off the whole trip.
Sam engaged the minibus gears. With a ragged and slightly ironic cheer from the students, it slowly pulled out onto the track and they set off for home. With a clear road they would make Edinburgh before lunchtime. Behind them, the work on the dig continued and nobody waved them off. Probably nobody even noticed they had gone.
Sam and Helen tried to talk on the road south, but the loud music coming from the rear of the minibus restricted them to simple sentences. They agreed to mee
t that evening to go out for a meal to round off their unusual, exciting and ultimately a little frustrating trip.
• • •
John Dearly moved away from the communion table and walked slowly down the aisle towards the church doors. The Dunbar church minister matched him step for step as they proceeded past the packed pews of his church. The sun was nearly at its zenith as they stepped outside and turned together to greet and console the departing congregation. Archie’s body had not yet been released for burial but in response to a groundswell of emotions, and to mark his life, the pair had agreed to hold a modest remembrance service. It had grown beyond anything they had envisaged.
The media were gathered across the road. Reporters, photographers, radio and TV camera crews, drawn like sharks to blood in the water: hunting, determined to service the public’s ghoulish fascination in this incomprehensible mix of savage killing and church innocence. In the absence of any police progress, speculation was rife and the media was in a feeding frenzy.
It took a little while for everyone to funnel out of the church, but finally the last of the people had left. Getting about their business, heading back to work or calling into the church hall next door to seal their celebration of Archie’s life, to reminisce and share some refreshments. By prior agreement, the Dunbar minister stepped across the road to give a short public statement. The media pack rippled and swirled as he approached.
Alone now, John stood quietly at the church doorway, oblivious to the flashing lights and screeching questions on the other side of the road. He needed a quiet moment.
What had happened to his old friend was awful. He hoped it was the act of a madman, one who the police would catch quickly so local people could sleep a little easier. Yet he knew Elaine was less optimistic; she felt there might be a link with the church. Felt that he, they, should be taking action to protect themselves.
But what action? He was just the minister of a parish. What did he know about protection? Perhaps it was nothing anyway and he certainly could not think why this would blow up now of all times. He put the thought to one side. There was no threat, nothing to worry about.
He looked up and along the road towards the church hall, saw Elaine standing outside its doors, around her a cluster of their parishioners, all waiting patiently for him. Some were casting concerned looks in his direction, not wanting to go into the hall without him. John gave a wan smile and waved in their direction, acknowledging them and waving them into the hall. Reluctant but dutiful, the group allowed themselves to be herded inside under Elaine’s guidance. She threw another concerned glance in his direction and was herself waved inside.
Finally alone with his thoughts, John allowed his right hand to lightly stroke the stone of the doorway, letting his palm rest gently on the cool upright. Pressing harder he felt his pulse beat against the stone, hoping that somehow the contact would link his thoughts and prayers with Archie’s one more time. An observer would attribute his stance to just a steadying hand. After a final rueful glance up towards the church, he turned and walked to join the others in the church hall.
Across the street, the Dunbar minister was drawing his statement to an end. In a few moments the media would disperse to file their reports and pictures, and then move on to whatever their next brief might be.
Sat in the front passenger seat of an unmarked police car was a slightly chubby middle-aged man, his face more wrinkled than his age warranted. He was smartly dressed in a plain suit and tie, with short sandy hair that in a certain light verged on ginger. Detective Chief Inspector Robert Wallace was watching everything; he had been at the back of the church during the remembrance service and slipped out quickly as it ended to get in his photographer’s car. In the driver’s seat sat Stephens, the police photographer. Under DCI Wallace’s watchful direction, he busily snapped everything that moved. They had pictures of everyone who had attended the service or hovered in the street outside.
DCI Wallace was not sure what his next move would be; they had exhausted all the usual channels without success. He could not admit to it publicly, but right now he was treading water while reviewing and revising his investigation strategy from the bottom up. In the meantime, as far as the world was concerned, the investigation continued apace. He swung the passenger door open, gripped the roof edge and uttered a low unintelligible growl as he pulled himself up and out of the car. He leant down, poking his head back through the door and told the photographer to get himself back to Edinburgh when he was finished. Wallace wanted a quick wander round the church hall before heading back to Edinburgh himself.
Stephens nodded an acknowledgement, but before driving back to Edinburgh he allowed himself a minute’s fun snapping the media - he could see several of his pals in the scrum.
Amongst the photographers was a petite, blonde female, constantly jostled by the larger men around her but always managing to end up at the front, best placed to get the cleanest pictures. Fiona Sharp had continued snapping away until the last of the mourners had departed, and then for appearances’ sake took some shots of the Dunbar minister as he delivered his statement.
She dispersed with the rest of the media pack, jumped into her saloon car and quickly started to scan the digital photographs. She had no doubts about the picture quality; top end equipment and years of practice ensured a reliable outcome. However, now the shoot was over, her professional interest demanded she scan the material. While taking the pictures she had not concerned herself with who was framed in the viewfinder, she just took the pictures, lots and lots of them. She would now invest some time in doing a detailed review, working out who attended out of duty, who was there for friendship or love, and who was there for business - assessing the pecking order to establish who the really important people were. For those who could read the pictures, it was a bonanza of information to be exploited to the full.
After scanning through the pictures, she started the car and pulled calmly away. Her departure did not even register with the remaining journalists who were themselves packing up and leaving. She headed back to Edinburgh to prepare a comprehensive folder for delivery to her boss: Cassiter.
• • •
The church hall was thronged with people. A mixed bag of church officials had come over from Edinburgh and now they stood all clustered together in the middle of the hall; probably as interested in being seen to be there as in grieving for a man some did not even know. To one side gathered concerned local residents and active members of the local church, all those people Archie had got to know in the years since he had retired to their town. People who were fretting over his fate and what might happen next if the madman was not caught. The parishioners from Edinburgh rallied together as though for protection while to the side of the hall a small group of his oldest and closest friends naturally gravitated towards one another.
No family had attended. Archie was the last of his generation; there were a couple of nephews and a niece somewhere. The boys had gone to Australia long ago and even the exchange of Christmas cards had finally petered out. The niece had gone to live in England, a fresh start after her marriage had ended. Archie had not seen her since christening her daughter, who would be nearly grown up now. No doubt the solicitor would find making contact easy enough when it eventually came to distributing the estate.
The local minister, freed from his media duties, had returned to his element and now buzzed between the groups encouraging them to mix, to share stories and remember the man. Slowly, duty now seen to be done, some of the church officials were gravitating towards the exit, heading away to deal with the day’s work.
John had been circulating around the hall and found himself being drawn slowly towards the refreshments. Nothing fancy, but plates full of sandwiches, platters heaped with mini steak pies and beside them trays of little sausage rolls and an assortment of savoury snacks. Beyond, he could make out rows of individual trifles and cakes, held in reserve, awaiting the signal of some unseen marshal. He smiled to himself. This sp
read would satisfy any reasonable person’s expectations. Wine and sherry were available alongside the ever-popular hot tea. Archie was getting a good send off.
Hopefully, it would provide some closure for people worrying over events and give the media an end point to close the story on. Hopefully too, it would then allow Archie to rest and the living some space to grieve.
John spotted a familiar face ahead of him. Doing a little grazing at the food table was Francis Kegan, an old friend and ally in the perpetual struggle to keep the Church relevant in a modern world. He was the parish priest of Our Lady of Lourdes Roman Catholic Church in Edinburgh. Their overlapping parish boundaries meant they pretty well served the same community, but there was no rivalry. They were both investing time and life into combating the same problems. Working together was a more productive process than competing, and a thirty-year friendship had grown from that.
Francis turned and caught John’s eye. He tilted his head a little to one side and groaned. ‘Oh. This is a bad business, John. What could possess someone to be so cruel? I just don’t understand.’ The pair had met up almost every other evening since Archie’s death. Asking the same questions again and again. They had finished off more than one bottle of Scotch while trying to reconcile events, trying to come to terms with what had happened. Why did their old friend and mentor die? They had toasted him aplenty. Neither could rationalise events yet. In private the pair were both grief stricken, though in the public eye they presented more stoic faces to provide support for others who also struggled.
