by Bill Kitson
At first, when I spotted the man on the horizon I’d assumed him to be a local tribesman. We had been warned to stay clear of them. Most were friendly, but some were hostile. It was only when I brought my field glasses to bear on the figure that I realized my assumption to be incorrect.
I passed the binoculars to my colleague and he agreed we should follow him and see what he was up to in case he was spying on our positions.
We tracked our quarry through the heat of the day. The plain was covered in scrub and undergrowth, sufficiently thick to provide cover. Towards the end of the afternoon, when the power of the sun was beginning to diminish, we reached the foothills of the first of a chain of mountains. The cover was less plentiful here and concealment thus more difficult. Fortunately, the German had paused and appeared to be scrutinising a sheet of paper he had removed from his knapsack.
As we were looking for a place to hide, my companion moved, dislodging a stone that rolled down the slope, clattering loudly against several more before coming to rest. The German turned in our direction, snatching up his rifle as he did so. My colleague and I split up to attack him from both sides.
He died bravely; that German whose name I never discovered. Had I been alone, I am by no means confident that it would be me writing this memoir, nor that the language would be English. As it was, he almost did for my companion before a round from my Martini-Enfield carbine proved decisive.
Having first made sure the German was dead I attended to my colleague’s wound, which fortunately was only to the fleshy part of his upper arm. Painful, but not immediately life-threatening. That done, we examined the contents of the German’s knapsack. I was particularly intrigued by the paper he’d been studying. It turned out to be a hand-drawn map which seemed to be of the immediate vicinity and indicated he was heading for the top of the hill.
In that searing heat the corpse was soon covered with insects; big, fat, obscene, disease-bearing insects. We knew we needed to get away from the scene and began the climb. I looked deeper into the bag which we had brought along with us. The German had also been carrying a small brass plaque, some screws, a screwdriver, and a hand-operated drill. For the life of me I couldn’t work out why he was taking these into the wilderness.
Climbing the hill was far from easy. The surface was littered with scree, small rocks that threatened our footing at almost every stride. The map had a circle drawn on it, which corresponded with the summit we were heading for. Had it not been for that, and my overweening curiosity, we would have abandoned the expedition earlier.
Our slow progress was compounded by the equipment we were carrying. Or, to be more accurate, that I was carrying. We had augmented our own rations of food and water with those of our dead comrades and the German troops. We would not starve or die of thirst as long as I was able to bear the load, for my colleague declared himself unfit to share the burden because of his wound.
It was true that when I changed his dressing, the wound did look very inflamed, but I suspected he was making more of it than necessary. At the time, I dismissed the idea as unworthy. I left him to rest and determined to see if I could find what the German was aiming for.
I was in luck almost immediately. The setting sun was at such an angle that it reflected from a piece of metal. Seeing the glint I looked closer and discovered it to be the blade of a trenching tool, the sort used for digging ditches. The reason for it being discarded was obvious. It had been snapped in two, the jagged edge of the handle lying alongside the broken blade.
I stepped beyond it into a small cluster of bushes. I noticed that several branches had been broken, further evidence of some activity here. Almost at once I saw a flat boulder, about three feet square. Along the edges the earth had been disturbed and there was a small pile of dirt, soil, and rocks to one side. The unmistakeable furrows left by the diggers’ tools were the last piece of evidence showing that I had discovered the German officer’s target. But what lay beneath? There was only one way to find out. I retraced my steps to bring my colleague up to date with my discovery.
He examined the rock, but with his injured arm there was nothing he could do to help. I might not have managed it but for the broken tool. I manoeuvred the blade under the lip of the boulder, and supporting my weight on my companion’s good shoulder, brought my full weight onto the handle. The boulder lifted, then, to my relief, moved sideways several inches. By moving the spade and repeating the process, three more attempts and I had cleared enough space for us to see what was beneath.
There were four wooden boxes. Although they measured no more than about ten inches square and eight inches in height, when I bent to pick one up I could scarcely move it.
The British bayonet has many uses. One of the more obscure ones is to prise the lid off a small crate. However, I soon removed enough of the nails to reveal the contents. By that point, I had a fair idea of what these would be. I was not disappointed. The crate was crammed full of coins.
We each snatched one up and examined it. I turned mine over and saw the image of Kaiser Wilhelm II. The coin I was holding was a twenty mark gold piece. I knew we ought to report this and told him so. Even as I spoke, I did not believe in what I was saying. Nor did my words deceive him.
He thought I was mad to make such a suggestion. We knew we could not take them back with us. They would be far too heavy to carry, even if we were both fit.
When he asked me what I suggested, I thought there was just the faint suggestion of a sneer in his voice.
We retained one coin each and I decided to think about it whilst I put the box back under the stone. I was weary by the time I completed the task, and as we dined on our cold rations, I explained my idea to him. We knew the war would not last for ever. I suggested we wait until it was over, return, and recover the treasure. It might be many years before it was safe to dispose of the coins without too many questions being asked, but once we did so, we would be set for life.
My colleague was concerned that others may know of the site but we agreed that with luck, we might have already killed the only ones who knew of this location; the troops who ambushed us and the officer we had killed. Why else would they be out here in this wilderness?
Still, he argued with me. Citing that the war was not yet over and we may also be killed. As he spoke, I noticed him staring at me, an odd expression on his face. It was then I realized he had used his right hand, the injured one, to pick up the coin. I was beginning to entertain some very unpleasant suspicions about my companion.
It was decided we should each have a copy of the map and when we returned home we should write an account of what happened. Then, even if we were unable to return, our children might retrieve it. We should be careful with names, having already committed one crime. Petty theft is a minor offence but what we were planning was altogether different. If we left a statement that was in effect a confession it could be highly incriminating.
Although I cannot pretend to great insight into the way men’s minds work, that night, once I was sure he was asleep, my suspicion of his intentions led me to take some basic precautions. We had been thrown together not by any great affection, or the desire for each other’s company, but by the ambush and the adventure that followed it. The next morning we set off back to our encampment on the other side of the plain.
We were somewhere close to halfway across the plain and I was about to call a halt when I hear an unmistakeable sound behind me. I turned to see my companion staring in dismay at the rifle he was pointing in my direction. I smiled, but I felt less than humorously inclined. I was right; the lure of the gold had proved too much for him. I had mentioned serious crimes to him last night. There is none more serious than murder. That was why I had taken his bayonet and removed the rounds from his rifle and his revolver whilst he slept.
He thought I was going to kill him but from thereon, I made him walk in front. We made it back safely to the camp and soon afterwards we were posted to different theatres of war.
Given
what had happened, I have decided to revoke my earlier plan not to name my companion. I will inform him of my decision before we set out to retrieve the treasure. That is the only way I can ensure my survival. If he knows his name is in my journal he will think twice before acting rashly.
His name is Harold Matthews.’
As he’d read the name aloud, Brian looked up and saw the astonishment on the faces of his listeners. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Does that name mean something?’
I was struck by the irony that the person most affected by the scheme to buy and exploit the estate was the only one to be ignorant of the man potentially behind the plot.
‘Matthews is the name of the detestable creep who threatened Babs that day you showed up at Linden House,’ Eve explained. ‘He was the one driving the BMW.’
‘I didn’t take much notice of him,’ Brian admitted, ‘I was too busy sorting out the other two.’
Any doubts we had regarding the perpetrator of the crimes and the attempt to wrest the estate from its rightful owner were resolved when he showed us a cutting from the obituary column of an old newspaper, the Halifax Courier, dated Wednesday, September 28th 1921 which he continued to read aloud.
‘Matthews, Harold, MC.
The death has been announced of Capt. Harold Matthews, late of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Having served with distinction during his secondment to the Royal West African Frontier Force, during which he saw action against the enemy in Kamerun, Captain Matthews rejoined his regiment in France, where he effected the rescue of three of his men who were trapped in no-man’s-land, pinned down by artillery and sniper fire. It was for this act of unselfish bravery that he was awarded the Military Cross. Although he received no direct wounds during the action, he was exposed to a large quantity of poison gas which contributed to his untimely death.
Mr Matthews was born in Halifax on February 4th 1882, and prior to the war worked as a trainee yarn salesman. He married Frances Allen, of Slaithwaite in 1913. The couple had one child. Captain Matthews volunteered as an enlisted man at the outbreak of hostilities, rising through the ranks until he was commissioned.
He died at his home in Luddendenfoot on 24th September 1921. The funeral will be held at St Mary’s Church on Monday 3rd October at 2.30 p.m., followed by interment at the Luddenden Public Cemetery.’
Beneath this Everett Latimer had written:
‘Post Scriptum. 1921.
After reading about the fate of Matthews, any qualms I had about revealing his name are eased. It can bring little comfort to his widow and child to know that he became a hero, but perhaps in time it will dull the pain of his passing.
His death, like mine, will take us beyond the scope of human censure, and we need only fear divine retribution. For I too am dying. My return to retrieve the treasure, using my status as an officer in the British Army, enabled me to travel with my precious cargo, unchallenged, but there my luck ran out. The expedition caused me to contract the tropical disease that will bring about my demise. There is no cure for what ails me. I have composed a riddle for those who follow me. My wife has been entrusted with the conundrum, and a hint as to what it refers, which she will repeat to my son when he is old enough to understand its significance. I do so in the hope that he will solve it and retrieve the treasure. If he does so, he must also judge whether in so doing it will be safe to dispose of what I must suppose the authorities will consider as stolen goods. I will leave it for the finder to decide whether to share the good fortune with the family of Matthews. If my son, or whoever searches for the treasure, hopes for reward, they should remember these words before they begin their quest. Without first solving this riddle, they will stand little chance of success.
Look for the bell that never rings,
Close by the maiden who seldom sings.
Search for the wealth that lies within
Resting with those who are free from sin.’
If our first evening at Rowandale Hall had resulted in a late night; our second was even later. The memoir and the revelation that the gold existed beyond the realms of family legend would have ensured that. However, even the excitement generated by that knowledge was all but surpassed by the sobering knowledge of the identity and fate of Everett Latimer’s companion in their adventure.
Brian continued to study the obituary. ‘Where is this place, Luddendenfoot? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Somewhere west of Halifax, I believe, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’
‘I have to say I’m rather surprised,’ Eve looked across at me as she spoke. ‘What do you think, Adam? I didn’t have Trevor Matthews down as a cold-blooded killer. I certainly wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him where business is concerned, but I wouldn’t have thought using a knife to achieve his purpose was his style.’
‘Perhaps we were too keen to view the murders of Armstrong and Veronica Matthews as part of a bigger plot rather than what they actually were. Maybe Matthews was more upset by his wife’s infidelity than he admitted, and the motive for the murders was the oldest one of all–jealousy.’
‘That doesn’t explain Lewis’s murder,’ Eve pointed out.
‘That’s true, but perhaps they were unconnected, except that it gave Matthews the idea, and the chance to throw suspicion on someone else.’
Brian saw that I was looking at him, and misread my thoughts. ‘Hey, don’t you start, Adam. I’ve had enough with that Ogden character accusing me of everything since the Jack the Ripper killings. I’ll have you know that I haven’t killed anyone for years and years, and that was several thousand miles away.’
Listening to Brian, I remembered a question that had been puzzling me for a long time. ‘That reminds me: if you were held prisoner for all that time, how come you got your Ka-Bar back?’
Brian grimaced. ‘The one you saw wasn’t mine. I suppose it is now, but it wasn’t the one I was issued with, if you follow me. You could say I inherited it, but in not very pleasant circumstances.’ He hesitated, as if the memory was too uncomfortable to recount, but then continued, ‘During the time I was on the run, after my escape, I had to move by night and hide during the day. That made progress extremely slow, especially as I had to scavenge for food along the way. One of the places where I hid was a burned-out village. At first I thought the Yanks had done it with napalm. I later found out that the VC had torched it, killing all the inhabitants as a reprisal because they’d given food and shelter to some American soldiers. I discovered the bodies of two of the Americans in the shell of one of the huts. They had both been machine-gunned. I removed the knives from their bodies, but the guns they were carrying were useless. The heat had caused the round in the breach to explode.’
We returned to the main topic of interest; the new puzzle that Everett Latimer had set for us. ‘Read that rhyme again, Brian,’ Barbara urged. ‘Let’s see if it makes any more sense.’
‘Look for the bell that never rings,
Close by the maiden who seldom sings.
Search for the wealth that lies within
Resting with those who are free from sin.’
There was a long silence as we struggled to find the meaning behind the cryptic rhyme. Barbara was the first to admit defeat. ‘The problem I have with that–’ she waved her hand at the paper Brian was still clutching, ‘–is that although I recognize all the words, when they’re put together and read out I can’t make head nor tail of them. He might as well have written them in Mandarin or Ancient Greek.’
We continued to try for the meaning, but without making any progress whatsoever. In retrospect, Eve or I should have stood a better chance of recognizing one of the pieces of the puzzle than the others, but when we gave up for the night we were no closer to deciphering the rhyme than when we first heard it.
Meanwhile, we were confronted with another problem, the question of Everett Latimer’s companion in that long-forgotten adventure and the consequences at the present time. It was Eve who brought the subject up ag
ain. ‘Before we go to Inspector Hardy with accusations left, right, and centre, shouldn’t we make certain we’ve got our facts straight?’
‘I’m not with you,’ Brian admitted.
‘Well, for one thing, Matthews is a fairly common name. Who’s to say that the man who tried to acquire the estate is related to the soldier your grandfather mentioned? I read something last summer about a village cricket team where all eleven players had the same surname, even though only three of them were related to one another. I know it might seem to be a huge coincidence, but such things do happen, and I think we’d be sensible to make sure first.’
‘You’ve got a point, Evie, a very good point. The only snag I see is how to find out if Matthews is descended from the man who served with Brian’s grandfather. Normally we’d be able to ask Hardy or someone like him to use their official capacity to enquire for us, but we can’t do that in these circumstances. The first question they’d ask is why we wanted to know, and that could take a bit of explaining. I’m not certain how the law stands with regard to a theft that took place sixty years ago, but I think it’s better not to take the risk.’
The glum silence that followed my words of caution signalled the end of the evening. I’m not certain whether that was due to the fact that we had no idea how to get round the problem, or simply because the wine bottles were empty.
I lay in bed listening to Eve breathing gently as she slept, I was unable to settle; the revelations from the memoir turning over restlessly in my brain. Even with the passage of time, the most poignant image that remained with me is one that I formed of the ex-soldier, his own body racked by a disease for which there was no cure, reading that obituary of his former colleague. How bitterly ironic he must have considered it that both of them should have been so close to untold wealth, only to have it snatched from them.
How cruel was the fate that delivered this obituary to Brian’s grandfather when he was himself so close to death. I wondered if he had been seated at the desk in the room where he composed the clues to the treasure, when he read of the death of his companion in that great adventure. Even as he hid those clues, did he wonder if their secret would ever be revealed, or if it would die with him and the treasure lie undiscovered for all eternity.
