The Temple Legacy

by D C Macey

  ‘True. But I guess if Francis is the gatekeeper, we’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s eat,’ said Sam, getting started before the food cooled.

  CHAPTER 17 - TUESDAY 11th JUNE

  MacPherson was sitting in the lounge reading his copy of The Scotsman while waiting for his wife’s summons to eat. Politics, international disasters, even his beloved dagger from the dunes, all had dropped well down the editor’s list of newsworthy stories. Instead, the paper’s front page and several of the succeeding ones were dedicated to a brutal and apparently ritualistic murder in an Edinburgh manse. Police were remaining tight lipped about the event, releasing only what they really had to. In the absence of all the facts, speculation and fear were growing to fill the gaps.

  Once links had been made with the recent murder of a retired minister in Dunbar, the media had shifted its mood into a ghoulish ecstasy and two distinct theories had now formed. One argued that some kind of random satanic serial killer was on the loose, the other that the killer was somebody who held an extreme grudge against the parish where both men had served.

  He was horrified by the story and felt a little concerned that one of his lecturers had a connection to the parish. Though Sam Cameron’s girlfriend had come across as a nice young woman. The whole business was so, so unfortunate, it seemed you couldn’t turn around for suspicious deaths right now. Consoling himself with another sip of Scotch, he wondered what had happened to his evening meal. His wife was always organised and he had expected a call to table before now. He listened carefully - the aroma of her excellent cooking had worked its way to him from the kitchen, but no sounds accompanied it.

  He rose and followed the smell down the hall and into the kitchen. A couple of pots bubbled away on the hob. On the worktop beside the cooker was a steaming casserole, fresh from the oven, but the room seemed empty. He went to turn down the heat under the boiling pans before they could bubble over.

  A sound made him turn, but instead of his wife, he faced Fiona Sharp. A younger woman, petite, encased in a forensic suit, strands of blond hair, it all registered fleetingly in his eye. Before he could say anything, she delivered a sharp blow across his knees using a telescopic police baton - he went down. Instinctively, he gripped his knees. The pain was agonising, worst in his left knee, he knew immediately the cap was split. Between his groans of pain, he started to shout at Fiona Sharp. ‘What the hell do you think you’re -’

  He was forced into silence by a size three shoe, neatly packaged inside a forensic bootee, it fitted snugly across the side of his neck, pressing it flat to the ground. His skull tilted back slightly and his right cheek and lips pouted like a gasping fish.

  ‘Lie still. Shut up,’ Sharp’s higher pitched voice and piercing commands cut through and dominated his own protests. ‘If I press just one bit harder your neck will snap. If you press back against my shoe, your neck will snap. Don’t move.’

  MacPherson was silent and still. His eyes scanned the room, worried for his wife, searching for some hope. There was none. Behind the now closing kitchen door stood a big bear of a man. Like the woman, he was dressed in a forensic suit. Robertson held Sarah tightly; she was silent. MacPherson could see why, her mouth had been stuffed with a cloth, strands of which protruded out from around the edge of a layer of tape that fixed the gag in place. The tape had been wrapped round her head several times ensuring it would not slip and she could not make a sound. Her nose and eyes were not covered, and those frightened eyes stared back at him, hoping for salvation.

  Robertson threw Sarah onto the ground and she broke her fall by landing on her hands and knees. He raised his boot and brought it down on her back, applying more and more pressure, forcing her steadily down and into a prone position. ‘Lie flat. Face down. Legs together. Arms wide apart,’ his shouted orders filled the room and demanded instant response. Frightened and cowed she obeyed at once, while MacPherson watched, immobilised, desperate, and impotent.

  In total control, Robertson knelt and bound Sarah’s legs together with more of the tape. Satisfied with his work he stood. He looked down at her and prodded her rib cage with his boot. Sarah looked up at him from the corner of her eye. ‘You, listen,’ he shouted at her, ‘don’t move your hands or arms or I’ll break them. Do you understand?’ She nodded and lay very still.

  He turned his attention to MacPherson. ‘Legs together,’ he ordered.

  ‘I can’t, my knee’s broken,’ said MacPherson. His hand was clasped over his left knee. He could feel the huge swelling, and the slightest movement sent pain surging through his body like a shock wave, which crashed abruptly against the immovable size three pressed into his neck.

  The big bear did it for him. MacPherson screamed at the pain, as his kneecap finally separated into two and the various parts of that most complex of joints ground and grated. He passed out. By the time he regained consciousness his legs were bound with tape and his hands taped behind his back. The pain in his leg was almost overwhelming, but strangely, he found some tiny comfort now the shoe was off his neck. Looking along the floor he could see his wife, still lying flat. He could see little tears of fear glistening and reflecting the kitchen’s electric lights as they ran down her nose and one after another dripped onto the floor tiles.

  Robertson and Fiona Sharp were seated at the kitchen table. They had helped themselves to food from the casserole and were enjoying it. He took a second helping, grunted in appreciation and offered the serving spoon to her.

  Sharp held up her hands in protest. ‘No, no, I’ve had my fill, thanks. But you take some more. It’s good, isn’t it? Pity to see it go to waste.’

  As the big man continued to eat she looked down at MacPherson, looked into his pained and angry eyes. ‘You okay down there? Good. You’ll just have to wait ‘til we’re ready. All right? Won’t be long now. Your wife’s a great cook by the way, saved me having to bother with anything else tonight, thanks.’ Fiona Sharp wondered if there was a container anywhere handy, she wouldn’t mind taking a doggy bag away with her.

  ‘What do you want?’ said MacPherson. In spite of his pain and confusion, he tried to sound reasonable, conciliatory. ‘We have money, and valuables, just take them. You don’t need to hurt us any more. Why are you doing this to us? Please, just take our things and go.’

  Sharp looked across the table to Robertson, they laughed. She looked back at MacPherson. ‘We don’t want your money, professor. We’re just professionals doing our job, that’s all.’ She tilted her head to one side, then over to the other side as though she were playfully communicating with a little child. ‘That’s all,’ she smiled sweetly, tilting her head again. ‘That’s all.’

  MacPherson did not understand and the look of confusion on his face made her smile again. She leant forward slightly and in a mock conspiratorial voice whispered at him. ‘It’s nothing personal. We’ve got a job to do and you’re the job, that’s all there is to it. Nothing else.’ Sitting up straight again she nodded and smiled at him. ‘Now are you going to be a good boy and do as I say?’

  Anger swelled up in MacPherson and he swore at her, the madwoman would not get any help from him. He quickly regretted his response. She stood up and walked across to Sarah, placing her feet firmly on his wife’s left arm, pinning it to the floor. Meanwhile, the big man had picked up one of the pans that had continued to boil on the stove. He walked across the room and put his boot on Sarah’s right elbow fixing it tight to the floor. Then, slowly, slowly, he emptied the pan of boiling water over her right hand.

  Sarah’s mouth was full of cloth, she could not vocalise, yet MacPherson could hear a long despairing squeal that seemed to first whistle through her nose and then to pulse directly through her taught neck as her vocal cords stretched and contorted in an attempt to express the agony and distress her body was experiencing. She buckled and convulsed as the water continued to pour. MacPherson’s mad, angry cries of protest were simply ignored until the pot was empty. Sharp and Robertson stepped away, leaving Sarah to cu
rl into a whimpering protective foetal ball, carefully encircling her right hand, an untouchable bloated balloon. The pan was tossed aside.

  MacPherson glared up at them. ‘What in God’s name are you doing this for?’ he bellowed.

  The big man stooped and shouted directly into MacPherson’s face. ‘Shut up. Shut up or she gets the other pan. Do you want that? Hey? Hey? Do you want that? On her face next? Do you want that?’

  Across the floor MacPherson could just make out Sarah quivering in renewed terror at the threat of more boiling water, quickly he averted his eyes and shook his head in submission, seeking to placate the madman.

  Sharp pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and placed it facing MacPherson. She sat down and then leant forward placing her elbows on her knees and resting her chin on her cupped hands. She looked at him and thought for a moment before speaking. ‘You see, prof', it’s like I said, we’re professionals, and we do what needs to be done to achieve our goal. That’s our job and we’re good at it. You can help us do our job or you can be awkward and make my friend here very angry, but I don’t think you want to be awkward, do you?’

  MacPherson shook his head. ‘Whatever you want, just say. Anything, anything at all, but don’t hurt my wife again. Please.’ He was in agony with his broken knee but he had forced the pain from his conscious concern as he worried over his wife. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. Just leave her now. I beg you, don’t hurt her anymore.’

  Sitting up straight, Sharp stretched out a foot to tickle his ribs gently. ‘There’s a good boy. You see it’s easy isn’t it? You do as you’re told and no more suffering, okay?’

  MacPherson nodded and lay in silence, waiting for instructions.

  Sharp cast a triumphant look towards Robertson who was out of MacPherson’s sight. Then she looked back at her prisoner. ‘Where’s the blade?’ she asked.

  MacPherson looked at her blankly. ‘What? What blade? What do you mean?’ He was silenced by a trim little shoe cracking into his mouth. He gasped, jerking his head back and blood ran from his mouth onto the floor.

  Sharp shouted at him. ‘When I want you to ask me a question, I’ll tell you. Until then, just answer mine. Now where is that old dagger you found?’

  Realisation suddenly dawned on MacPherson. ‘Oh God! This, all this is for that old trinket. Why? What can it be worth to do all this?’ Sharp jerked her head and Robertson picked up the second pan of boiling water, he started towards Sarah.

  MacPherson caught the movement in the corner of his eye and called out. ‘No. No, wait. I can help you, please no more for her, please. Please, just leave her now, I beg you.’ Robertson stopped halfway across the room and looked towards Sharp.

  ‘That’s better. You’re learning, professor, we’re back on track again,’ she said, giving an approving nod and Robertson returned the pan to the hob.

  In less than ten minutes, they had what they wanted. Tucked away at the back of a cupboard in the master bedroom was a combination safe. They took the dagger, ring and chain from it. From the desk in MacPherson’s study, they gathered all the official university photographs and the memory stick with the original picture files. Sharp loaded her gibberish virus to MacPherson’s personal computer, set it running and left it to do its wipeout task. Mission accomplished. Almost.

  The pair returned to the kitchen where MacPherson lay, sullen, angry, confused. Sarah was exactly where she had been left, the only signs of life a constant and quiet shivering accompanied by a low whimpering. Sharp looked down at MacPherson. ‘Well, I think we’re about done here, unless there’s anything else you want to tell us?’ MacPherson was silent and Sharp laughed. ‘No? Oh well, time to go then.’

  While she spoke, Robertson had been playing around with the cooker. He had switched off the burning hobs and set the oven to auto ignite in five minutes. Meanwhile, the main gas pipe was severed, allowing gas to flood into the kitchen. He nodded to her and they walked calmly out of the kitchen. As he passed Sarah, the big man emptied the second pan of boiling water across her back. She arched and writhed in distress. MacPherson roared in rage and Robertson looked back, smirked and closed the kitchen door behind them.

  In the hall, he dragged an occasional chair across to the kitchen door and wedged it under the handle. Even if Sarah could crawl to the door through the renewed pain, she would never be able to open it.

  Just inside the front door, the pair paused and removed their forensic suits. Sharp opened her rucksack and stuffed the suits on top of the stolen artefacts and a container of stew she had bagged. They stepped outside, their shoes scrunching the pebbles as they strolled down the drive. Then they were out on to the quiet residential road and blended into nowhere before the neighbourhood was shattered by the sound of a gas explosion ripping the MacPherson’s kitchen to pieces.

  • • •

  Francis Kegan’s living room was a cluttered patchwork of furniture that had accumulated over many years, nothing quite matching and everything just slightly threadbare. The priest seemed to have jammed furniture in everywhere. Helen sat in a worn though comfortable armchair. A glass of wine in her hand and a little bowl of mixed nuts within arm’s reach. She was ready to hear whatever Francis and Elaine had to say.

  Francis was sitting opposite her, settled in what was obviously his own favourite chair, which had seen even more wear than hers. Forming a link between the two chairs was a broad sofa where Elaine sat. All three looked frayed, John’s death too close. A raw wound that left each on edge and reluctant to open up too far, in case once out their emotions ran unchecked.

  After the initial pleasantries, Francis re-emphasised what should have been obvious to everyone in the district. While he was a Roman Catholic and John a Presbyterian protestant, they were, had been, the closest of friends. They had worked together for thirty years or more and had finished off more bottles of Scotch than he liked to think about. He stressed that Helen needed to understand everything that happened here was rooted in the past. A past from before the Church split. A time when one God had only one Church.

  Helen interrupted him; she had not come for a history lesson. She wanted the facts. Francis promised to get to the point, but he and Elaine needed to paint the background first. It was what John Dearly would have done himself had he lived. Helen allowed him to continue.

  Francis fixed Helen with a slightly cautious stare. ‘You already know the parish is old, very old,’ he watched for her acknowledgement. Helen nodded. She had read the church histories as soon as her father had told her of the offer of an assistant’s post. Francis continued. ‘That’s not so remarkable in itself; there will be scores of other churches that can make a similar claim of ancient roots.

  ‘In some respects, the fourteenth century, when your Fife Templar was alive, was just like today. Greedy people and power brokers mixing religion and politics to find advantage, trying to exploit good to build strength for themselves. It seems as though it’s always been like that,’ Francis paused and took a mouthful of Scotch. ‘It probably always will be.

  ‘I think Elaine has already explained about the parish’s quirky recruitment process?’ he looked from one woman to the other and both nodded agreement.

  ‘So, in John’s parish the Church rules are followed just like everywhere else, but with a local variation. Here, the elders chose John as their minister, as you would expect, but under the guidance of Archie, the then incumbent. Just as Archie had been chosen a generation before with help from the then incumbent, and so on, back as far as you like. And now they will choose you, with an input from John,’ Francis paused and turned to Elaine for verification.

  ‘That’s right, it’s how we’ve always done it,’ Elaine confirmed.

  Francis resumed his account. ‘So, you see, John and Archie both belonged to an old tradition and now you are drawn into that tradition too. They were specially selected and entrusted with something in the parish, something more, some extra responsibility beyond the pastoral. Once they had taken on the
commitment they were obliged to sustain it. And I… We,’ Francis swept his hand round to include Elaine, who nodded in agreement as he continued, ‘we supported them, first Archie and then John. We supported them because they were our friends and we cared for them. It’s your responsibility now and we’ll help you too.’

  ‘But what is it, Francis? You’ve told me zilch. I need to know what it’s all about if I’m going to take it on board,’ Helen was anxious to have the facts, the information she needed to reach any decision. In spite of telling Elaine she would like to stay, there were questions that needed to be answered first.

  Francis threw a worried glance at Elaine and drained his glass. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we go’, and pouring himself yet another drink from the bottle at his side he started to explain. ‘What I tell you now I learnt from John during more than thirty years of trust and friendship. I’m telling you because he can’t. Sadly, I can’t tell you everything because I don’t know the whole story.

  ‘First, you have John’s ring, it’s a fourteenth century signet ring.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Sam looked at it for me. And it seems identical to the one we found in the dunes up in Fife.’

  Francis nodded. ‘I think they are identical in almost every way. I think they are part of a set.’

  ‘That’s what Sam thought too, but come on, this is starting to get a bit weird for me,’ Helen did not understand at all.

  The evening slipped by as Francis told his story. He explained how during one of their whisky nights of many years before, John had told him in confidence how the parish was even older than many realised. There were some documents tracing its origins all the way back to the independence wars with England, to the time of the Templars. Though it was just a regular church, of course, nothing to do with the Templars; or so Francis had thought at first. But John, and Archie before him, had kept something secret, some sort of parish history, some task to do, and it was all a bit vague.