by D C Macey
Having washed the coffee mugs she was about to leave when the envelope on the table caught her eye. It was the letter that had clearly been causing John so much anxiety. She threw a look up to the ceiling. ‘Forgive me God, for I am sinning, again,’ and she picked up the letter and quickly scanned it, scowled and read it again. James Curry, the new presbytery clerk who she had heard Elaine muttering about, was proposing to visit next afternoon. Why had it seemed to unsettle John? She would offer to attend that with him too. It seemed he was coming under extra pressure from all sides right now: police in the morning and presbytery in the afternoon.
Glancing at the newspaper article something caught in her mind and she sat to read it carefully. Then she recognised the picture, it was the Moderator, she had met him briefly at the reception the other evening. She thought back to the evening of the reception, remembered the tension between John and the presbytery clerk. She thought of John’s laughing dismissal of her question about trust money, saw the political interest in old trust funds and suddenly wondered if somehow John was being put under pressure. Perhaps things were not as they might be in the parish accounts?
John was clearly a bit shaky and she would support him for the remainder of her term, regardless. She was deeply hurt by his inexplicable rejection, but she had to rise above that. She would continue to do her bit because that was her way, and just as importantly, because she knew her father would expect it of her.
• • •
Sam’s watch was just reaching 10.00 as he strode along Chambers Street. The museum filled much of the south side of the street, part new sympathetic extension, part older sandstone building. Wide steps led up from pavement level. They had guided generations of visitors directly up to the original main entrance and on into the exhibition hall.
Sam ignored the steps, knowing they now served only as a rallying point for visiting tour groups or seating where friends could stop and chat when the sun shone. Just before reaching the steps, he turned and entered the museum through an unremarkable pavement level door. It led into the vaulted entrance hall where he and Helen had drunk coffee the previous afternoon.
He could see a young woman at the near end of the reception counter. She leant one elbow on the counter while chatting across it to the receptionist. At the same time her systematic scanning of those entering the museum made it clear she was waiting for somebody. Her familiarity within the environment marked her out as staff and Sam guessed this was his appointment. She was not dressed as front of house staff: an open white lab coat topped her trainers, jeans and a plain tee shirt. An ID badge clipped over her left breast confirmed Sam’s guess.
Suzie Dignan was at the stage in her career where hoped for promotions and natural enthusiasm had not yet been worn down by the grind and disappointments of working life. She loved her work in the museum, was happy to help her boss, and professionally intrigued by this archaeologist's need to access one of their display cabinet artefacts in such a hurry.
Sam gave no sign of recognition as he walked over, snatching those few seconds of anonymity to consider her. She had scanned him at a distance and moved on to check others amongst the steady trickle of visitors who were entering the museum. The white lab coat was old fashioned, he was prepared to bet nobody else in the building wore one anymore, yet she was still in her twenties. Petite with short brown hair, she was what might be described as plain, not pretty, not unattractive either. A comfortable face. He wondered if she found some kind of refuge behind the traditional white coat.
As he approached, he could see that her eyes sparkled with life. Those eyes turned back to reprise him as he neared. And what had been a slightly concerned expression broke into a warm and welcoming smile. Sam just felt the day improve through her proximity; her smile was like a second sunrise. He noted that the museum receptionist was smiling too. Suzie stepped clear of the reception counter. ‘Sam Cameron?’ she asked.
‘That’s me, and you must be Suzie Dignan, who’s giving up her busy morning for me.’
Suzie shook his hand and nodded. ‘Great to meet you. Come on, we’ll go to my office first. You can tell me what you’re looking for,’ she turned and led him towards a service lift, ‘and I’ll see what I can do to help.’
Sam kept pace with her. ‘It’s really good of you to see me at such short notice. I’m trying to draw together different research strands, it was a couple of my students who pointed out your artefact to me. I just need to review it and decide whether to include it or exclude it from our work.’
‘Oh, how intriguing, it seems so interesting, so mysterious. I can’t wait to hear more. My boss seems to be an old friend of your boss. He said I should help you in any way I can.’ She paused theatrically, gave him a sideways glance and another beam of sunburst smile. ‘Within the law, of course.’
Sam and MacPherson had agreed the previous evening not to mention any possible relationships between the artefacts. In fact, agreed to avoid revealing anything at all about Sam’s pair theory. It would eliminate any risk of leaks before Sam had found the facts. Facts that MacPherson could then exploit to get maximum impact for the story and the department, and for the museum too. Knowing the back-story to the museum’s dagger and mixing in the intrigue of the recent find in the Fife dunes would make a really good summer news story. In the meantime, he was to proceed on a ‘need to know only’ basis; Sam had to stay tight-lipped wherever possible.
The need to hold back information about the dunes dagger meant Sam found the meeting quite difficult. Suzie was bubbling, enthusiastic and clever, a great combination to push at knowledge boundaries, but he had to sit on his own information. Suzie was clearly a trusting soul and did not imagine for a moment that his account was anything less than complete. She had promised him the whole day if necessary. No evening work though, her sister and baby nephew had just come to stay with her for a week or so before they all went off on a week’s holiday together.
It was quickly clear that Suzie had no prior knowledge of the dagger, so she took him up to the display and Sam’s eyes scanned the cabinet.
‘That’s the one I’d like to see.’ Involuntarily, like a little boy in a sweet shop, he moved to the edge of the display cabinet nearest the dagger and pointed through the glass. ‘That’s the one, please.’
Suzie dealt with the alarm then retrieved the dagger and they both returned to her office. Once she was satisfied Sam had what he wanted she left him to it, going off to start digging out background information on the dagger’s story. It took Sam less than a minute to satisfy himself as to the pairing, and then he took the time to review the design, construction and perfect simplicity of the whole.
He realised there was a difference between the blades after all. The construction and materials were identical and the decorated side of the museum’s dagger did have the ornate Templar cross at the top, close to the hilt. And just like the dunes dagger, the engraved pattern stayed well clear of the cutting edges. However, he felt the swirling line design was somehow different - same style but a different design nonetheless, and right at the tip, it had a different Roman numeral: IV. To make any sense of the difference demanded a comparison between the two blades and that would have to wait for another day.
Suzie returned with some preliminary findings. It seemed the dagger, together with various other items including some family papers and a generous financial bequest, had been left to the museum in the 1920s. The donor, a widow, had been the last in the line of some minor Scottish noble family. Unfortunately, the records and various artefacts seemed to have become spread around different departments over the decades and there was not much information immediately to hand.
Suzie was not content with the story as it stood and felt she could come up with more. The museum would have considered the dagger an interesting though minor artefact, it had not merited much investigation to date; she would sort that out. Sam was more than confident that she would unearth something if allowed to get on with it. Suzie intended to spend
some time digging through their records to trace whatever the museum had on the dagger’s history and on the widow’s family too.
Having walked Sam from the office area, she left him to make his own way out of the museum and rushed back to start her search. She promised to keep him updated with any developments.
Sam decided to wander around the streets for a while, just taking time to savour the thrill of the discovery before heading back to the manse to share the news with Helen.
• • •
Grace was busy cleaning the church. She had an old bath towel and was using it as a giant duster, quickly and efficiently wiping the pews of any debris and clearing away the cobwebs that kept re-forming at this time of year. She moved steadily back and forth across the church, along one pew then forward to the next. After this, she would sweep the wooden floors and here time and labour would be saved too by the use of an exceptionally broad broom.
Grace had the cleaning down to a fine art. She worked in silence, gliding around in her trainers. If she had made a noise she would never have known - personal headphones kept her ears filled with distinctly non-Christian rock music. She was oblivious to everything but the beating music and the pew she was cleaning.
At the head of the aisle stood the communion table - imposing, expansive, stark: no artworks, no elaborate decoration. Behind it, the chancel stretched away, a deep semi-circular space. Set off to the right side was seating for the choir, to the left was the organ and at the deepest point in the chancel was a large cross of blackened wood, unadorned, fixed to the wall.
Above the cross, a great leaded window let light flood in. The mostly plain glass had at its centre a single coloured image of a burning bush; it glowed bright like fire in contrast to its plain neighbours. And spread symmetrically around the outermost edges of the sea of plain glass were eight little islands of coloured glass, each depicting a further religious scene.
Set to the left of the communion table was the great pulpit, and beyond that, the door to the vestry.
Jim Barnett hovered behind the pulpit, trapped. Earlier in the morning, he had seen Helen going into the manse to visit the minister and watched that boyfriend of hers walking off towards the city centre. He had thought he could come to the church undisturbed. Once inside, ostensibly for a quiet moment of contemplation, he had carefully, almost deferentially, walked up the aisle towards the communion table, cautious glances ensuring he was alone in the building. At the front of the church, he slipped to his left. He quickly passed the steps leading up to the great pulpit and came to the vestry door. It was unlocked and he was through it in a flash.
He commenced his search. Cemented to the ground and concealed beneath a little occasional table he found a small safe. He was not equipped to open it today so he moved on. Crossing to the back of the vestry, he made his way through another door that opened into a short corridor. Two doors led off the corridor to the left, the first to an office, the second to a toilet. Beyond, at the end of the corridor was another door, a rear exit: old, wooden, solid and alarmed. Barnett went directly to the office. He was familiar with the layout, having recently attended a meeting there with the minister, several of the elders and one or two other active church members.
He carefully and efficiently searched the office, checked cupboards, files and drawers, lifted rugs, tapped the wooden panelling right round the room while listening out for the hollow sound that would betray a secret compartment. Nothing. The desktop computer had not presented a problem as he had observed the password being used during his previous visit. In fact, the elder logging on had asked for a reminder of the password from the others and they had promptly responded, releasing the password to him in the process. Today he had a flash drive and simply copied all the documents from the computer memory.
There was no sign anywhere of any security normally associated with high value assets. In the filing cabinet, he found the parish insurance policy and photographed it. It made no reference to any special value items, though it did cover the regular things you would expect: communion set of plate, cup and cross; some candlesticks; and one or two other bits and pieces. Their total value would probably not have tempted the average burglar out of bed. There was nothing of interest here.
Jim Barnett called it a day and left the office exactly as he had found it. He returned to the vestry, but just as he was stepping back out into the church nave, he saw a moving shadow thrown across the far wall. He stopped dead and watched, then carefully edged round the pulpit to see who was there. It was the elder’s daughter, Grace. He was trapped.
‘Grace. Grace!’ Helen stood inside the entrance to the church, calling Grace’s name. She had really come for a little quiet time before Sam got back from the museum, needing to think over her future before telling Sam that she was not able to stay on in Edinburgh. But as soon as she had seen Grace, she experienced a sudden overwhelming need to speak to a friend. ‘Grace!’ she called again, then realised the girl had her headphones on. Deciding that John would not really want her shouting in his church, and thinking that God was probably not that keen either, she walked towards Grace who caught sight of her and straightened up with a grin.
‘Helen, how are you?’ she said, pulling the headphones from her ears, then, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Fancy seeing you here, what are you doing in a place like this?’
Helen began to feel better almost at once. ‘Heaven knows. Oh, you know, they probably-’
‘-Do.’ Grace finished Helen’s sentence and they both laughed. ‘Come on, you look like you need a drink. Let’s see where John hides his communion wine.’ She abandoned the bath towel duster and linked arms with Helen as they set off towards the vestry.
‘Or tea would do,’ suggested Helen.
‘Okay, tea. We’ll have the kettle boiling in no time. So tell me, why the long face?’
Jim Barnett slipped back into the vestry and retraced his steps across the room and out into the little corridor behind. He knew the kettle was in the office so slipped beyond it to the toilet and closed the door just as the two women entered the corridor. He glanced at the sink and hoped the kettle had water in it.
A half-full kettle provided all the water they needed. Helen and Grace settled down over a cup of tea and talked through Helen’s news. Grace was deeply disappointed that Helen had to go. She had been getting used to having a female ally around the place. On the other hand, Helen could always come back and visit for holidays and she could visit Helen in America, go to Disney World and stuff.
Eventually their talk wandered onto Helen’s trip to Fife, how they found the dead Templar and all about his ring and dagger.
Suddenly a body appeared in the doorway. Elaine McPhee stood holding the bath towel duster. ‘Grace, will the church clean itself?’ She looked at Helen and gave her a polite nod. ‘It’s yourself, I see.’
Grace stood up. ‘We’ve just taken a break and Helen had news to share. Did you know she’s not able to stay on when her year’s up?’
Elaine could be grumpy and uncompromising, sometimes to the point of harshness, but she was not given to lying, and certainly not to her daughter. She tried to avoid answering the question and turned to Helen. ‘I’ve just been speaking with John. He confirmed you won’t be staying on, I hope wherever you go you’ll find a place you can call home.’
Helen noticed Elaine had not answered the question. ‘I’m sure I will, but I’ll be sad to go. And you know this place was starting to feel like it could have been home.’
‘Aye, well, I’m sure it’s for the best in the end. I know you’ll not find John stinting in your praise if you need a reference.’
Helen smiled acknowledgement at her, but references were the last thing on her mind. She could never understand why the elder was always slightly frosty with her. She knew it was nothing to do with her being a woman. She had seen Elaine mixing with enough women clerics to know that it was not a theological problem for her.
‘Did you hear about the skeleton Helen
found in the dunes, Mum?’ asked Grace. ‘He had a gold signet ring and a silver dagger.’
‘Yes, John told me, though it doesn’t sound like anything that should be of concern to us. Just let’s pray somebody gives the man a Christian burial at long last.’ It was clear from her tone that she wanted the issue closed.
Helen did not let it rest. ‘I did say a few words over the bones before they were moved.’
‘Well, God bless you for that,’ said Elaine, with a sincerity that warmed Helen a little and confused her too.
Helen smiled and nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps we’ll have a proper little service for him when the archaeologists are finished. Maybe we could even bury his remains here. They really deserve to rest in consecrated ground somewhere,’ she said.
‘You know I think you might be right. I’m sure John would favour that idea too - you should put it to him,’ said Elaine.
There was a sudden knock on the doorframe directly behind Elaine. Startled, she turned as they all looked through the doorway to see Jim Barnett.
‘Oh, where did you come from?’ asked Elaine. Her voice expressed a degree of surprise that did not register in her craggy features as she gave Jim Barnett a slight welcoming nod.
Barnett responded with a rueful grin. ‘Hi everyone. Sorry if I made you jump, Elaine. I think I left a notepad after the meeting the other night and came back to look for it. I heard voices so came straight through. Don’t suppose anyone saw it or handed it in?’
Barnett had taken his chance to slip from the toilet and glide to the open office door. Once there, those inside would never be able to tell from what direction he had come. And having overheard the whole conversation he was satisfied that Helen and Grace knew nothing of any interest to Cassiter. As for McPhee, she was still just that grumpy old git who could only be improved by a good kicking. Barnett would be prepared to help out with that if the opportunity presented itself.
