The Temple Legacy

by D C Macey

  As they walked towards the parked car, Helen had tried to question Elaine, desperately tried to get some grounding, some foundation on which to build an understanding of the madness that had just happened. Elaine had just waved all her questions aside. Instead she had offered a meeting at the church office at lunchtime, noon. While Helen’s mind had been screaming for answers, it was clear that Elaine was not going to budge.

  Like Helen, Elaine was profoundly moved by John’s death and the nature of his parting. Though Helen needed answers, Elaine was simply not ready or able to give them. Her voice was as gruff as ever, but her eyes showed grief for John and something else, real fear. Quite unexpectedly, surprising herself and the others, Elaine gave Helen a hug. Helen hugged her back, no words or sounds, just the comfort of a lingering physical contact, sharing a point of space together. Helen felt a wetness on her cheek where their tears met and mixed. Tear sisters, bonded forever through shared grief and horror. As they separated, Elaine had stooped, apparently to rub an aching calf muscle and by the time she straightened up the stern exterior had returned. Helen would never refer to the moment, but now knew Elaine for a kinder woman.

  DCI Wallace and Sergeant Brogan silently watched the scene play out from a first floor window in the police station. They saw how Sam carefully shepherded the ladies to his car and guided them in one by one. With unspoken relief, he had jumped into the driver’s seat and headed away from the police station. He would drop Elaine and Grace at their home first, and then get Helen home.

  Wallace wondered about the driver. Another line that needed to be followed up.

  • • •

  Outside, in the pre-dawn darkness the air was cool, but in Helen’s flat it felt cold. She was shivering, sitting at the dining table, a half-empty bottle of wine in front of her and a glass in hand. Sam sat next to her with his arm round her shoulder. He was keeping silent, allowing her time to think. John’s gold signet ring sat on the table in front of them, the gold chain still threaded through it.

  Helen had given Sam a full account of what she had seen at the manse, John’s death and the subsequent police investigations. She told him about John’s insistence that she take his ring and how Elaine had hurriedly warned her to say nothing of the ring to the police. She had kept quiet and was now beginning to question the wisdom of her decision. The ring glistened in the electric light, a thing of beauty that contrasted starkly with the previous morning’s scene. She had scrubbed the chain, removing the blood that had settled between the links. She had felt guilty at washing away part of John but had been unable to look at the chain while it was so brutally stained.

  While working in West Africa she had coped with some horrible scenes and man’s inexplicable lust for blood; she was no stranger to cruelty and brutality. However, somehow this was different. This was a western capital city, supposedly liberal and law abiding. She shivered. The closeness to her, the intimacy of this killing, it was something sharp and the victim a dear friend: just hard to absorb, hard to comprehend what had happened. And what maniac would do such a thing to John? And why?

  Sam stretched his free arm across and refilled her glass. She gave it a little wave in thanks and rocked her head closer to him. His arm around her shoulder pulled her in still closer, lending moral support. There was nothing he could say to make this better for her, for either of them.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ she said for what seemed a hundredth time, ‘is what John was doing with this ring and chain? I mean, look at it! It’s identical to the one you found in the dunes.’ She took another drink, emptying the glass. Sam half-filled it again and before he could pull the bottle back, she bumped the glass firmly against the neck of the bottle, ensuring he topped it up properly.

  ‘It’s a real mystery,’ agreed Sam. Then there’s the other dagger at the museum - I wonder if they have a ring there too.’

  Helen turned to Sam. ‘What if John had a dagger too? Maybe it’s a big kind of a set. You know, three of everything, not two like we were starting to think before. What do you say?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Sam conceded. ‘Based on each artefact we’ve seen so far it’s quite probably a set. But remember, the museum dagger had a numeral IV, so if we are thinking sets, it could well be more than just three parts. We will only know if we can compare all the parts. I’ll have to press MacPherson about getting proper access to the dune dagger and hopefully we’ll get some joy from Suzie at the museum. I’ll ask her about the ring. It may be there’s one in their collection that they have not quite linked together,’ he said, thinking carefully about what they knew as the fingers of his free hand gently drummed on the table. He was trying to make links where he felt there should be some, but the gaps were too big for any of it to make sense. All he knew was that it was becoming quite dangerous to be linked with Helen’s parish. Thankfully, it was the summer holidays now, the students were finished and he could devote more time to keeping an eye on her.

  Neither felt like deep discussion, the grizzly events had temporarily stripped away the inclination and perhaps even the ability to rationalise. Eventually, but not really expecting sleep, they decided bed might be easier than staying up to rework events over and over. There was no relief, time trickled away into the dawn amidst continuing tears and muttered consolations.

  • • •

  Cassiter had finished reporting to Eugene Parsol. It had not been a happy interview. Parsol had been almost frantic with fury; both at the failure to find a dagger in the manse and at the ghoulish reports that were now breaking into the news bulletins. It was such a bizarre killing that reports were spreading like wildfire around the world. Parsol did not care about the minister’s death, but he was concerned that the publicity would obstruct retrieval of the daggers. Cassiter assured him otherwise and that plans to secure the daggers were in hand.

  It had been very unfortunate that the Johnson girl and that elder had arrived unexpectedly, but in Cassiter’s experience, any man with information would break and spill what he knew under much less pressure than he had applied. Normally such extreme treatments were reserved as punishments, when the answers didn’t really matter, and with ample time to allow bodies to be disposed of afterwards.

  Parsol’s last comment before hanging up the phone was to insist that he would not accept any delays over the other dagger. It must be collected immediately, before it could disappear. He would still be arriving in Edinburgh next week and expected results on his arrival.

  Cassiter was not happy with this close supervision. Principals, with their need for instant results, could often get in the way of his work. Further, there seemed to be an implied threat and Cassiter did not like threats.

  Almost all of Cassiter’s clients failed to recognise that his activities had made him wealthy, very wealthy, and while he lived an invisible life in a world of shadows, he liked his life, didn’t aspire to anything else. These days he worked for the pleasure of the job and a desire to maintain his reputation as the man who does. His exorbitant fees were simply a measure of his success, not the motivation for delivery. He was certainly more powerful and wealthy than many of his clients, though few would ever realise it. He knew Parsol did not fall into that category, but nonetheless he did not appreciate any attempt at threat or intimidation, even when the man making them really could back it up.

  In the meantime, he would secure the dagger that MacPherson was holding.

  Then, as the furore subsided around St Bernard’s he would turn his focus on the woman elder. She was the only person left who could, who must, hold the answer. He had reviewed his recording of the women’s reactions and conversation at Dearly’s side as he died. The elder had clearly implicated herself by pressing the Johnson girl to conceal evidence from the police, though once again, the girl had seemed uninformed, an innocent abroad. But what exactly was it that she had taken from the dying man? It was something small, certainly not what Parsol was after; he’d have noticed something as big as a dagger himself while h
e was in the kitchen. Her body had been in his camera’s line of sight, blocking his view. It was interesting but not crucial today. He’d look into it later.

  Cassiter turned his attention to the dagger that was currently within his reach. The BBC’s recordings had already been purged without incident. If BBC staff did ever look for the pictures, their absence from the archive would seem like a simple human error. Now he had prepared plans for the Fife dunes dagger’s recovery and his team briefing was ready. But before issuing instructions, he wanted to review the Dunbar memorial service pictures again.

  Barnett, his man inside the parish, had been submitting reports rather late for which he would be dealt with later. What concerned him now was that one of the submissions reported chatter that suggested two priests, perhaps Greek or Italian, certainly of some Mediterranean origin, were at the wake. Yet he had no photographs of them, and this was causing him a problem. They had somehow attended the wake and left without making even a ripple. He could not find them anywhere. No hotels, no guesthouses. No CCTV at airport passenger arrivals or anywhere else for that matter. Lack of information was always the biggest danger. Fiona Sharp was good, but she had missed them. Where were they and were they involved? Another loose end to be tied off.

  • • •

  At twelve noon, Sam accompanied Helen through the vestry and into the little corridor beyond. They could hear murmuring voices as they took the few steps to the open office door. The sound stopped as they reached the doorway. Inside were half a dozen church elders. Elaine sat in the minister’s place behind the desk. A scattering of drained tea and coffee cups indicated the meeting had been running for some time. From the expressions on the elders’ faces, it had not been an altogether easy session. Elaine hesitated and then decided not to challenge Sam’s presence. His being there was against convention, but these were not conventional times.

  Bethany and Cathy, the two older ladies who generally made it a point of principle to oppose Elaine’s plans, leapt up as Helen appeared. They had been quick to befriend Helen when she first arrived in Edinburgh and they rushed to her now. Anxiously they enquired after her welfare. Bethany shuffled the chairs to fix Helen a seat between theirs while Cathy poured coffees for Helen and Sam.

  With greetings and lengthy commiserations exchanged, the meeting settled down again. Business resumed, Helen sandwiched between the elderly ladies.

  From her place behind the desk, Elaine brought the meeting to order and briefly recapped the previous day’s events, her words frequently echoed by tuts and sighs of distress from the others. Then she paused. She had not told the others everything that had happened when she and Helen had found John and it could not be put off any longer.

  What Elaine said first was as much for Helen as it was the others, they were all familiar with the parish’s traditionally unorthodox succession arrangements. ‘You all know the choice of a minister is not imposed from outside. It is made inside the parish by the nominating committee who make a recommendation for the congregation to vote on. It’s our job as elders, with advice and support from presbytery, to make sure the committee is convened and goes on to select the right minister for our parish.

  ‘In other parishes that would normally mean a gap between one minister finishing and a new one being selected and appointed. By tradition, and with the good fortune and luxury of our resources, St Bernard’s has always,’ Elaine paused for a moment, looked around the room and then continued, ‘always carefully made selection of a successor minister well before any changeover was called for. The person chosen would have worked for some time as an assistant to the incumbent minister before being called, so one minister can prepare and hand over to the next.’ She paused again and noted the elders were all nodding agreement. While it had never been spelt out to Helen, she had come to realise this in the preceding months. She nodded too.

  Elaine resumed. ‘Keeping to our parish’s tradition was always going to be difficult. We all know administration and control of church affairs has become tighter with every passing year. Clearly, I wasn’t involved when John took over from Archie, God rest them both, so I don’t know how the Kirk Session handled the business then. It was a different world, no computer records and people did things face to face. I’ve been struggling for a while to work out how to comply with Church rules and still organise things our way. Things have got even harder since James Curry has been appointed as presbytery clerk. He’s made clear he’s not going to allow us to deviate from the rulebook. Although now John’s gone, there can’t be a period of overlap for handing over the parish reins anyway.

  ‘We have no choice but to follow the rulebook now and that should please James. He and the presbytery will provide the approved support and oversight, helping us to form a nominations committee to select a new minister.’ Elaine stopped and looked around the group.

  ‘Elaine, what about our traditions though? Don’t they count for anything?’ asked Bethany. Cathy nodded support for the question and the others around the room joined in.

  ‘Not as far as James Curry and the rulebook are concerned. His view is simple. Whatever happened here in the past should stay in the past. Whatever old boys’ network allowed our tradition to continue is gone, it’s finished. We’ll comply with the rules or I don’t know what will happen.’ She looked around, gauging the responses.

  The older ladies had been appointed elders around the time that Archie had handed on to John so many years before. As well as any, they understood the importance of continuity in the parish and had seen it function smoothly in the past. Elaine could sense their resentment and confusion as they glared at her; it was clear that the two older ladies considered that Elaine was failing in her role.

  Elaine wanted to put their minds at rest and resumed her explanation. ‘We will follow the rules, that’s for sure. I don’t want anyone from the outside pointing a finger at us.’

  ‘But the continuity is already broken,’ objected Bethany. ‘What are we to do about that? The knowledge is gone.’

  ‘They are two different issues,’ replied Elaine. ‘Listen, I think we can follow the rules and still maintain our traditions.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Cathy.

  ‘Yes, how?’ echoed Bethany. ‘I think it’s all over now. It all died with John.’

  A muttered chorus of resigned agreement ran round the group. Helen began to feel edgy. The raw emotion of yesterday’s events demanded answers and this conversation was revealing nothing. She wanted to know what was going on, this was all a mystery to her. She was just waiting to get some sense from the meeting. Nothing she had heard yet cast any light on events.

  Elaine cut in over the fading dissenters. ‘Like I said, separate issues. We will comply with the church rules and the presbytery clerk will have no grounds to complain about our attitude, alright?’ Elaine could be very fierce when she started laying down the law and the rest of the group shifted and nodded an unhappy acquiescence.

  ‘We will follow the rules, we will be seen to follow the rules, but you know what? I am pretty confident that a shortage of potential ministers, and letting it be known on the grapevine how pleased the congregation is with one person in particular, should ensure we get who we want without any lengthy contest being necessary.’

  ‘Alright, so we can follow the rules and get who we want, but that doesn’t alter the fact we have broken the tradition, the new minister will not have been introduced as has always been,’ said Bethany.

  ‘And who would we choose now? Who do we want?’ asked Cathy.

  Elaine nodded an acknowledgement while holding up a hand, the open palm pushing gently towards Cathy, signing she should hold on a little longer. Then she threw Helen an apologetic look. ‘Of course, because John did not plan to leave us, we had no succession plan in place. It’s no secret around this room that I was not happy with John giving you a year’s placement as an assistant when we should have been focusing on selecting his long-term replacement. John would have been retired in two o
r three years and we were running out of time.’ Again, a round of nods seemed to support Elaine.

  Then a flash of resistance came from one of the elderly ladies sitting beside Helen. ‘I never understood what was wrong with Helen anyway. I can’t think what you have against her,’ said Cathy, her hand rested on Helen’s arm and squeezed it as she spoke.

  Elaine nodded in the old lady’s direction. ‘Thank you, Cathy. I acknowledge your support for Helen, yours too, Bethany,’ she nodded her head towards the second elderly lady who was maintaining a firm grip on Helen’s other arm. Cathy smiled back at Elaine while leaning her shoulder very gently in against Helen’s upper arm in a signal of support.

  Elaine continued, finally letting her gaze return to Helen. ‘I admit I spoke against Helen being appointed as assistant, and for what it’s worth I think John eventually came to agree with me. He had finally accepted the ideal candidate would come from here, would be able to appreciate the history, and would have the strength and motivation to keep our traditions.’ In spite of her gruff ways, it was clearly not easy for Elaine to expose her personal views and she had to pause again for a moment to collect her thoughts.

  Helen had never considered herself a candidate and was slightly surprised to realise that some at St Bernard’s had even been thinking about her as a possible successor minister one day. She really just wanted to know what was going on and took the opportunity to interrupt. ‘Where is this meeting going? It’s all very well liking me, or not, but I want to understand what’s happening. You know what? I don’t care who you give the job to, but I do want to know what got John Dearly killed yesterday.’

  The elders looked down, away, anywhere to avoid her eye. They all turned expectantly back to Elaine who was weighing up how far she could go in explaining the situation in a single sitting.