The Kaiser's Gold

by Bill Kitson

  If anyone could be said to have a premonition into what secrets Rowandale Forest might conceal, I suppose it was only natural that it should be a member of the Latimer family, who had been associated with it for centuries. Nevertheless, I felt a slight frisson even as he spoke, and even now, when I recognize the accuracy of his words, my blood runs cold.

  It isn’t simply the violence of the events that had already occurred, or the tragic outcome of what was still to take place, nor even the terrible evil committed by those responsible. The sins of man, however bad, I can cope with. It is when I am faced with something for which there is no rational explanation; something way beyond my comprehension, that I confess myself beaten.

  We were lucky, in that our journey time meant that we had avoided rush hour, so after passing through Halifax with little in the way of a hold-up, we reached Luddenden well before lunchtime. We walked through the graveyard, keeping two rows of graves between us as we searched for the resting place we were seeking. Towards the upper end of the extensive plot we found what we were looking for. The grave was well kept, and although the lettering of the inscription had been weathered by time and in places was obscured by lichen, we were still able to make out the wording. I stared at it in total dismay. My carefully thought out theory was in pieces, destroyed completely by one simple phrase.

  There could be no possibility of error, no chance that we were looking at the wrong grave. The epitaph was unmistakeable; ‘Cpt Harold Matthews MC, 1882–1921, beloved husband of Frances and devoted father to Deborah’.

  The obituary that Everett Latimer had pinned to his memoir had stated quite categorically that Matthews had left only one child. The accuracy of the newspaper might be called into question, but the inscription negated even that possibility. The fact that Matthews had only a daughter meant that Trevor Matthews could not be his grandson.

  I glanced at the grave alongside Harold’s and saw that it was that of his wife, Frances. And there was further confirmation, if any was needed, in the inscription, ‘loving mother of Deborah’.

  ‘It looks as if you were completely wrong, Adam,’ Brian said quietly.

  I walked away, too disappointed to respond. I’d only gone a few yards when I noticed another, much more recent grave, the stonework on the headstone unmarked by time. I read the message etched into the stone and turned towards Brian, signalling him to join me. I pointed to the inscription. ‘What you said was correct. I was wrong, utterly and completely wrong. Tell me something, though; is it possible to be totally wrong and absolutely right at one and the same time?’

  Not for the first time that day, Brian looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses, but my mind was whirling with the discovery and the connections it brought me. The reason for Trevor Matthews’ curious phraseology; for the solicitor Rhodes’s obstructive behaviour, were all explained by that short message carved in stone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Adam, I don’t follow you.’

  I gestured to the stone. ‘Read that carefully and I’ll explain.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Although we had trouble finding a parking spot, we reached Norman Rhodes’s office well before 3 p.m., the scheduled hour for Brian’s appointment with the solicitor. Despite that, we were kept waiting for fifteen minutes or so. However, as things turned out, that time proved highly informative. Having left her post to inform Rhodes that we had arrived, the receptionist returned to her desk, where one of the lights on the small switchboard was flashing to signal an incoming call. As I examined the prints of Yorkshire scenes that adorned the walls of the waiting area, I listened to her half of the resulting conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the caller, ‘Miss Moore isn’t in the office today.’

  There was a long pause, during which I heard some agitated squawking sounds filtering through her earpiece. The caller, it seemed, was upset at not being able to speak to their advocate. She spoke again, ‘No, Miss Moore won’t be in tomorrow either. Can one of the clerks help you?’

  More distress sounds, following which she said, ‘In that case, I suggest you leave it until after the weekend. No, she isn’t on holiday. Family illness, I believe.’

  She had only just ended the call with the dissatisfied client when the internal phone rang and we were shown into Rhodes’s office.

  The meeting was stiff and formal; Rhodes was dismissive of my presence until Brian insisted I remain. The arrogance he displayed at our earlier meeting at Linden House had not abated and it was clear from the outset that the solicitor was as suspicious of Brian as we were of him. The first hurdle Brian had to clear was the matter of the stolen driving licence, which had led everyone to believe he had been murdered in Mexico.

  Brian attempted to explain. ‘After I joined the American army I was sent to a training camp in Texas before being posted to Vietnam. We used to go into the local town and that’s where my driving licence went missing. Either that, or one of the Mexican civilian workers on the base must have stolen it.’

  The explanation convinced me, but Rhodes still wasn’t satisfied, the element of sarcasm told me so. ‘It seems curious that your driving licence should be the only item to have been stolen. I would have thought your passport would have been more valuable to a thief if he was thinking of selling it.’

  Brian however, did not flinch and stated, as matter of fact, ‘Passports are taken from you and held in a secure location whenever you are sent to serve overseas. It’s a matter of routine, especially for servicemen who are travelling to a war zone. Identification is carried out via fingerprints and dog tags.’

  Rhodes then spent a long time poring over the documentary evidence Brian had brought to confirm his identity, and eventually, when it seemed as if he had run out of excuses to block his claim, he announced with what appeared to be some reluctance that he was satisfied Brian was who he purported to be. His face took on a smug expression as he announced, ‘However, there is still the question of your father’s will to contend with. There is no bequest to you in it, and as the estate is not entailed, there must be some doubt as to whether you are entitled to any bequest from your father.’

  In answer to Brian’s silent appeal for help, via a pained look he gave me, I spoke for the first time. I reminded Rhodes of the opening clause to Rupert Latimer’s will. ‘That clearly states that if a living relative is found, the will is null and void. You know that, I know that, and Brian Latimer certainly knows that. So let’s have no more shilly-shallying and get on with probate of the estate, which will mean that Brian is the sole beneficiary of all property and monies held by Rupert Latimer at the time of his death.’

  I was quite pleased with the semi-legal terminology I’d used, and it seemed to sway Rhodes into a marginally more cooperative frame of mind. Perhaps it was at that moment he realized he had a potentially wealthy client in his rooms. ‘I agree that it does seem to establish Mr Latimer’s right to the estate and to other assets, which principally comprise a quite sizeable bank balance and a large portfolio of shares.’

  He opened the bulky file in front of him and began sifting through the paperwork until he came to a sheaf held together with a paperclip. He passed these to Brian, a subtle but definite statement of capitulation. ‘This is a list of the shares he held when he died, together with their value at today’s market prices. I have received these quotations from a stockbroker here in Leeds. There is also a photocopy of the bank statements from each of Mr Latimer’s accounts, both in his own name and the Rowandale Hall account. The shares cannot be disposed of, nor can the bank accounts be drawn on until probate has been granted, but I will be happy to advance you any reasonable sums you might need to tide you over. That disbursement would come from our office account and would attract interest as with any loan.’

  Brian thanked him, but declined the offer. There followed a prolonged session of form-filling and form-signing, following which Rhodes promised to do all he could to expedite the granting of probate. ‘If you are not in need of the mo
ney from the bank accounts, it can be used to satisfy the Inland Revenue’s claim against the estate in the form of death duties.’

  Eventually we left, and I was surprised to see that it was already well past 5.30 p.m. Our next task was to do battle with the Leeds city centre traffic. By the time we reached the car and inched out of the parking space it seemed that the whole of the city was gridlocked. The luck that had enabled us to avoid rush hour that morning had well and truly deserted us. I learned much later that a three-vehicle accident on the inner ring road combined with a fuel spillage from an oil tanker had exacerbated the normal problems faced by commuters.

  ‘It’s times like these that make me glad I live out in the wilds, not in a town,’ I remarked.

  ‘If you think this is bad, you ought to try New York or Chicago.’

  ‘I’ve been to both. In fact, I used to work in New York.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  For want of something better to do, as we waited for the traffic to ease, I told Brian a little of my history before I met Eve; and for good measure related the events that had thrown us together.

  He listened with interest, and after I finished, thought for a while before saying, ‘You never know what life is going to throw at you next, do you? I certainly didn’t expect to end up in the American army or be sent to Vietnam, or finish up as a prisoner of war. In fact, I had no clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life.’

  ‘It’s turned out all right in the end,’ I pointed out.

  Someday, I might learn to stop making such rash predictions.

  We had arranged to be back at Linden House in time for dinner, but the delay getting clear of Leeds had thrown our plans into disarray. In addition to that, a glance at my fuel gauge told me I’d have to fill up before we reached home, or anywhere near it. ‘I’m going to need petrol soon, so if we stop at a filling station with a public phone handy you could ring Barbara and tell her we’re going to be late.’

  We found what we were looking for close to the outer ring road. As we approached the petrol station, Brian pointed out a red phone box close by. ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t been vandalized,’ I muttered.

  I had just finished paying for the fuel and was consulting the evening paper I’d bought in the shop when Brian returned. I looked up and noticed the puzzled frown on his face. ‘Something wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s no reply. They should be back from Catterick by now, surely? It isn’t that long a journey.’

  ‘They’re probably still celebrating.’ I handed him the paper and pointed to the stop press column on the side of the back page, which displayed the racing results from that afternoon. Blenheim Boy had won the hurdle race by ten lengths. Moreover, at a price of 8/1, the hundred pounds I’d given Eve to back the horse would give them ample funds with which to mark the success in suitable fashion.

  ‘Wow, that’s great news! Babs will be over the moon. It isn’t going to get us our dinner, though. Let’s hope they’re in a fit state to cook by the time we get back. Or at least, let’s hope they’ve got home.’

  With no reason to hurry, I took the drive back to Rowandale at a leisurely pace, so it was almost 8 p.m. when I pulled into the drive at Linden House. As I swung into the yard, the headlights picked out the squat, functional shape of the horsebox parked alongside Barbara’s own car, but one glance towards the house showed us that something was amiss. No lights were showing, either upstairs or down. Brian and I exchanged puzzled glances. ‘Perhaps they’re down at the stables attending to the horses,’ he suggested.

  I gently inched the car forward until we could see down the yard, but as we peered towards the stable block, we could see that it too was unlit. ‘Where the devil are they?’ I muttered. ‘They can’t be legless already, surely?’

  ‘Even if they were, they would have put some lights on before passing out. No, there’s something wrong.’

  We got out of the car, concerned, but not alarmed. We set off towards the house, but Brian stopped me, putting one hand on my arm. ‘Listen!’

  The sound was like someone in boots marching to and fro. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think it’s coming from across there.’ He pointed towards the horse box.

  We moved forward, and sure enough, the sound got louder as we approached the vehicle. ‘It’s Blenheim Boy,’ I exclaimed, ‘he’s still inside.’

  Brian hurried to turn on the yard lights before he unlatched the tailgate. As we lowered it we could see the hero of the afternoon, whose temper was obviously not improved by being cooped up for so long. ‘We’ll have to get him out; we can’t leave him in here.’

  My mind was full of increasing concern as to what had happened to the girls. For the moment, however, the gelding demanded my constant attention. After Brian untied the halter that was securing the horse, I led the Boy down the ramp. It was the first, and hopefully the last time I’d ever been in charge of such a valuable racehorse. I began to realize the power these seemingly fragile animals commanded, and as I struggled to control him my respect for the stable lads to whom this was an everyday occurrence increased beyond measure.

  The horse was fractious, tossing his head and moving skittishly to one side and then the other as he fought against my feeble attempts to control him. ‘Steady, Boy,’ I told him in desperation, ‘we’ll soon have you back in your box and eating your evening meal. You’ve earned it, by all accounts. Just settle down and follow me, there’s a good fellow.’

  Strange as it may seem, the nonsense I was spouting seemed to calm him, and he ambled contentedly after me, entering the loose box that Brian had opened in advance. Soon, he was munching contentedly from the hayrack and we set off back towards the house. ‘What shall we do now? I don’t have a key.’

  I remembered Eve putting the spare set Barbara had lent her in the glove compartment of the Range Rover. ‘I have.’

  We walked to the back door, only to find that the key wasn’t needed. My alarm went into overdrive when we found the house was unlocked; memories of the grim discovery at Armstrong’s cottage were still fresh in my mind. I tried to banish these images but without success.

  We entered the house, cautiously, aware that danger could be lurking. Brian switched the light on; the kitchen was empty. At first sight, it looked exactly as we had left it that morning, but then I noticed three items on the table that hadn’t been there earlier. One was an unopened bottle of champagne, the second, a small silver cup on a plinth. These were obviously the spoils won by Blenheim Boy that afternoon. Alongside these was a sheet of paper bearing only one word scrawled in what looked like felt-tipped pen. The word was ‘Latimer’.

  Brian snatched it up and turned it over. I saw more writing on the reverse. ‘What does it say?’ I asked.

  He read the message aloud. It was short, stark and chilling. ‘“You have something of mine. Now I have something of yours. If you want it back wait there for instructions. No police or they die”.’

  I stared at him and I guess the horror on his face reflected my own. I swallowed a couple of times, and even when I spoke I barely recognized my own voice. ‘What can we do?’

  Brian shook his head, still in denial at the shocking message in front of him. After a moment or two he said. ‘Nothing. We can’t do anything. We have to wait.’

  He didn’t add ‘and pray’, he didn’t need to.

  We waited – although it was well past dinnertime, all thought of food had long since deserted me. The oppressive silence was broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.

  The phone rang, startling me. Brian put his hand on mine, steadying my nerves. That didn’t work. He crossed the room and lifted the receiver. I could hear Brian’s half of the conversation; it was clear that he was being given instructions. ‘Yes, I think I know. I found out recently, but I can’t take you to it tonight.’ He paused to listen. It was obvious he was listening to threats.

  ‘No, it isn’t a trick. The place where the gold is can only
be accessed during daylight; unless you want a broken neck.’ Brian’s expression implied he would happily break the neck or arms, or even legs of the person at the other end of the phone. ‘It’s deep in the forest, in a very tricky place to get to.’

  I was to reflect later that it wasn’t only me who seemed to have the gift of prophecy. Brian listened again; before saying, ‘Very well, eight o’clock in the morning. I promise you; there will be no police. Just one more thing, if you harm them in any way I will kill you very slowly and extremely painfully. Do I make myself clear?’

  How much of Brian’s threat got through to the kidnappers, I’m not sure, because even from across the room I could hear the dialling tone before he had stopped speaking. He slammed the phone down. ‘We have to wait here until morning when they phone with instructions.’

  ‘Are the girls OK?’

  His face was grim as he replied. ‘They’re alive. You heard me ask for proof that they had them. They made them squeal to show me.’

  ‘What next? I can’t wait here doing nothing.’

  ‘You won’t have to, but neither can we go off charging around in blind panic. We need to think and plan our every move. Luckily they’ve given us time to do that.’

  ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Let’s review the situation.’

  We sat down at the kitchen table and as Brian began his appraisal of how things stood it was clear that his military training had merely accentuated a natural talent for leadership. I wondered what rank he had held in the American forces. I felt rather like a recruit being instructed in the art of guerrilla warfare by an experienced officer.

  ‘The first, and by far the worst problem we have is that we don’t know where they are holding the girls. However, thinking of what must have happened here today, they can’t be that far away.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Blenheim Boy’s race was at three this afternoon. After that the jockey would have to weigh in; then there would be the presentation of the cup, before they took him back to his box. He would need time to cool off, then they would have to load him and drive back. I can’t see them getting back here much before six o’clock, can you?’