The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy

by Duncan Simpson

  Carefully unsealing the top of the evidence bag, the professor turned out the coin onto his palm.

  ‘My, my,’ he said with an off-kilter grin, his other hand searching for the large magnifying glass lost in the mess of papers on his desk.

  ‘It looked like an old Jewish shekel to me,’ said Blake.

  Ballard’s enlarged eye blinked through the magnifying glass.

  ‘You are partly right my boy. In fact, it’s a Tyrian shekel to be more precise,’ said Ballard with a serious look.

  Blake watched in silence as the Professor closely examined the coin, rotating the object time and time again under the magnifying glass. Finally the Professor slumped back into his chair. ‘You said it was found at a crime scene?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blake slowly.

  ‘In London?’

  ‘East End.’

  ‘Where precisely?’ pressed Ballard.

  ‘St George-in-the-East; it was found at the scene of a murder.’

  Ballard’s expression urged Blake to elaborate.

  ‘A woman was brutally murdered in the grounds of the church. Her throat was cut down to the spine.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The killer cut a flap near her navel and placed this coin under her skin.’

  ‘You found the coin under her skin?’ Ballard said, backing away in his chair. For a second his eyes snapped shut. ‘Horrible. Absolutely horrible,’ he said finally. ‘Whatever I can do, Vincent.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what the significance of this coin is and why the murderer would do such a thing.’ said Blake as he leaned forward in his chair.

  Ballard pursed his lips and then drew his attention back to the coin.

  ‘Silver Tyrian shekels were minted in the city of Tyre, now in present-day Lebanon. They played a very significant role in Israel during the time of Christ. After the Roman army occupied Israel, they banned the Jews from minting their own currency. In Jerusalem, the Jewish authorities required worshippers in the Temple to pay a tax. The Talmud dictated that the tax could only be paid with a silver coin of high purity. These Tyrian shekels were the only acceptable coins available in Israel at the time that met the requirement of Jewish law. They were ten percent purer than the other Roman coinage.’

  Blake nodded, riveted to every word the Professor was saying.

  ‘And the depictions on the faces?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, there’s the peculiar thing,’ said Ballard as he handed the coin back to Blake. ‘These silver coins presented the Temple authorities with a real problem. On the front is depicted the head of the god Baal, the chief deity of the Phoenicians, something that would have been highly blasphemous to the religious community, on the reverse is depicted an eagle.’

  Blake turned the coin and restudied each face, but this time armed with the knowledge that Ballard had imparted.

  ‘The image of Baal was a graven image and would have violated the First Commandment. Hardly an appropriate coin for the Temple if you think about it. So the Jews had a dilemma, reject the coin and have a meagre treasury, or accept it knowing that it depicted a false God.’

  ‘So they chose to accept the money,’ Blake interjected.

  ‘Precisely, hence the growth of the moneychangers in the Temple courtyards. Worshippers would exchange Roman coinage for the Tyrian shekels so that they could pay the Temple Tax. And business being business, the moneylenders charged top dollar for their services. These were the money changers that Jesus fought with and whose tables he overturned in the bible.’

  Blake leant back in his chair and quoted from the book of Matthew: ‘My house will be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.’

  ‘That’s right, but there is something strange about these coins,’ said Ballard twisting in his chair. ‘If you look on the reverse side …’

  Blake turned the coin in his fingers. ‘The side with the eagle perched on the pyramid?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ confirmed the Professor. ‘Run your finger over the design and tell me what you think.’

  Blake’s nose wrinkled slightly as his fingertips circled the coin’s dull silver surface.

  ‘An indentation?’ said Blake with a furrowing brow.

  Ballard nodded. ‘It’s the pyramid,’ he said. ‘It’s a later addition to the coin. Tyrian shekels always follow the same design: Baal with the eagle on the reverse side. The pyramid, however, is totally out of place. My guess is that it was stamped into the coins at a later date. If you take a closer look, you can see that the eagle motif hasn’t actually been designed with a pyramid in it all.’

  The professor handed Blake the magnifying glass, and a moment later his enlarged eyes were blinking through it at the silver shekel.

  Ballard was right. On closer inspection, Blake could now see that the eagle and pyramid did not make a coherent single design, but instead they formed two individual elements slightly out of line with each other.

  ‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Blake with a streak of a smile darting across his face. His eyes continued to flick over the pyramid motif, its indentation now apparent in the coin’s surface.

  ‘The patina isn’t too different between the eagle and the pyramid though. So the pyramid isn’t a modern addition,’ said the professor.

  ‘I knew I had come to the right place,’ Blake quipped.

  ‘The thing is, my dear boy, I’ve seen this before. Twice in fact.’

  Blake’s smile faltered. He looked up from the magnifying glass and met the professor’s eyes.

  ‘There's another example within this museum’s collection. Bring the magnifying glass. I’ll show you.’

  Chapter 16

  Blake followed the professor through the Qvist gallery on the first floor of the museum to a large oak door at one end. After retrieving a key from his trouser pocket, Ballard unlocked it and flicked the light switch just inside the door. The lights blinked for a moment and then illuminated the small room in a bright white light.

  Ballard offered Blake one of the two chairs parked under a modern-looking table. The room had no windows and almost all available space was taken up by shelving or by some type of specimen cabinet.

  ‘Be a sport and put your coin on here,’ instructed Ballard, his long finger tapping the table top.

  Ballard slid his chair over to one of the specimen cabinets and busied himself with opening and shutting a number of its drawers. ‘The Minories coin, I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.’

  Moments later, he clapped his hands in relief. ‘Got you, you bugger.’ In no time, a second coin had joined Blake’s silver shekel on the table.

  ‘Make sure you don’t mix them up,’ said Ballard. ‘Left hand for the museum’s property, right hand for the police coin, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Blake.

  Without picking them up, it was easy to see that the two metal discs were almost identical. Even the dark patina that burnished their surfaces were of similar hues and consistencies.

  ‘Go on, turn them over,’ said Ballard, handing Blake the magnifying glass. Blake carefully examined both coins. The coin from the museum displayed the same eagle motif as that of the coin extracted from the body of the church murder victim, along with the pyramid design stamped below it.

  Blake returned the coins to the table and straightened out the kink in his back. ‘So, Roland, where did this coin come from?’

  ‘I dug it up,’ Ballard said mischievously.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘During an archaeological excavation at the Minories, in the East End of the city,’ said the professor as he moved his hand vigorously around his chin. ‘The site was being cleared for a brand-new hospital. During the excavations for the foundations, skeletons dating back to the Roman occupation were uncovered. A protection order was raised by the City of London on the site and my team were given a month to survey what we could. For years I was convinced that the area east of the City walls had been of special significance to the Romans. In the final days of the dig, I started to uncover the
outline of some kind of mausoleum. I was so bloody close.’

  ‘A mausoleum?’ Blake’s tone urged him on.

  Ballard passed a hand over his bald head, liberally flecked with liver spots due to years of sun exposure from archaeological digs. He stood up and shuffled past Blake’s chair to the rack of shelving to the right of the door. With a tug, he pulled away the green material covering the large see-through plastic box underneath. A gasp escaped Blake’s lips. Hurriedly, Blake moved the coins as the professor carefully transported the box to the table.

  ‘This is what I managed to excavate during the last moments of the dig,’ said Ballard.

  Blake shifted closer, his eyes transfixed on the magnificent two-foot-high carved stone sculpture sitting in the box. The sculpture depicted a powerful eagle with a writhing snake in its beak.

  ‘4th century AD,’ said Ballard, ‘made of Cotswold limestone. It probably depicts the victory of Roman power over pagan evil. Can you see inside the snake’s mouth?’

  ‘Sharp teeth,’ replied Blake, his breath misting up the side of the box.

  ‘The symbolism here is very unusual. A snake displaying sharp teeth represents ultimate evil. The only other Roman example of this eagle and serpent composition was found in Iraq in 1937. It’s now in the Cincinnati Art Museum in the US. It was found adorning an impressive mausoleum that was later obliterated during the Gulf War. My guess is that this piece was part of a similar mausoleum. Our ground-penetrating radar surveys of the area had revealed the presence of a substantial structure around it.’

  ‘It’s a haunting sculpture,’ said Blake his face brimming with curiosity. He shifted on his elbow while he took in the beautiful workmanship. ‘Couldn’t you get a temporary stop to the building?’

  Ballard raised his brow sceptically.

  ‘Bloody developers. They’re all the same. I applied for three extensions to the dig, but I was rejected every time. You know the scene. Unless you have the right connections, it doesn’t matter what you do. Doesn’t matter if the bastards drive a bulldozer through something that hasn’t seen the light of day in two millennia. It’s all to do with money.’ He scowled and his focus returned to the coins sitting to the side of the box. ‘The Tyrian shekel I found at the site was directly underneath this sculpture. They almost came out of the ground at the same time.’

  Blake sat back in his chair, and his upper lip disappeared under his bottom lip in contemplation. He looked at the eagle and then at Ballard, studying the broken veins across the academic’s cheeks. After a little pause, his hand squeezed the armrest of his seat.

  ‘You mentioned you had seen two Tyrian shekels before? Is the other one here too?’ asked Blake.

  ‘No,’ replied Ballard. ‘It’s in the crime museum of Scotland Yard.’

  Blake’s mouth drew down in surprise. ‘Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Of course, that’s where all the evidence is kept for the Jack the Ripper murders.’

  Chapter 17

  A wedge of hair seesawed down to the ground like a falling feather. Another snip and a new tuft glided downwards and landed on Enoch Hart’s right foot. He kicked it away and discarded the kitchen scissors onto the hotel bed. With a twist of the tap, steaming hot water cascaded into the white porcelain sink. Soon the outline of his face in the mirror disappeared in the steam. After ripping open a packet of disposable razors with his teeth, he dropped one into the sink of turbulent water. At first, the razor was caught under the pummelling stream from the tap, but it then shot out around the circumference of the basin like a small boat escaping from a storm.

  Hart wiped the bathroom mirror free from steam and looked at his naked form. Would he be able to fulfil his mission? He smeared large dollops of white shaving foam across his head. Plucking the razor out of the water, he scraped it across his scalp. At first, the blade snagged small tufts of hair left by the scissors, but soon clear tracts of smooth skin became visible. After a while, Hart ducked his head into the sink and looked back at his handiwork.

  He was a soldier and the war had just begun.

  Chapter 18

  Blake looked at the grainy image of his face printed on the Scotland Yard security badge around his neck. He was told by DCI Milton that visits to this museum were by invitation only and reserved for police officers, lawyers and other specialists in the field of crime. He guessed he fell into the latter camp. The white striations across his image caused by the defective printer at the reception area gave the impression that he was fading into the background; a pixelated apparition of a man. As he turned the badge in his hand, his eyes locked onto something that wasn’t fading: the dark band of discolouration surrounding his left index finger, a birthmark he shared with his father. It was strange, but he could have sworn that it was becoming more pronounced.

  His attention was brought back into the moment by the arrival of the museum’s curator. He was a small man, wearing an out-of-date suit whose pockets gleamed with a dark shine.

  ‘Dr Blake, I presume,’ he said in a friendly manner. ‘Welcome to the Black Museum.’

  Blake had heard the museum’s grisly nickname the night before during his daily status call with Milton. His eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the display case full of hangman’s ropes. He swallowed loudly and his throat clicked. The curator followed Blake’s line of sight, over his shoulder.

  ‘Ahhh, the nooses. We hold an impressive display of ropes here at the museum,’ the man said. ‘The one on the far left was the one used to execute convicted murderer George Platts in 1847. We also have the ropes used to perform the last executions in Britain on 13 August 1964 of two criminals who bludgeoned a man to death to steal just £10.’ Blake acknowledged the information with a reserved nod.

  ‘But you are here for our most infamous collection.’ With that, the man excused himself and disappeared into a side room before reappearing several moments later with a cardboard box file.

  ‘Would you like to join me here at the examination bench?’ The curator pulled a chair out from under the table with his foot. Blake walked across the room over to the table, and as he approached, he could make out the lettering on the yellowing label attached to the front of the box file.

  Jack the Ripper

  Annie Chapman

  Blake sat next to the curator and listened intently.

  ‘Between August and November 1888, five brutal murders took place in a one-square-mile area of Whitechapel in London. All the victims were prostitutes, and all except one were horrifically mutilated.’ Almost reverently, the curator eased open the box file. ‘Jack the Ripper may be the most infamous killer in all of British crime history. The Ripper’s murders have gripped the world’s attention for over a century, but the identity and motivations of the world’s most notorious serial killer still remain a mystery.’

  Blake took a deep intake of breath. ‘I understand DCI Milton briefed you that I am particularly interested in the facts surrounding the murder of the second of the Ripper’s victims, Annie Chapman.’

  ‘Ah yes, poor Annie Chapman,’ said the curator. ‘Chapman’s body was discovered early on the morning of 8 September 1888. Her body had been terribly mutilated, her throat cut savagely.’ From the box, the curator handed Blake a copy of a black and white autopsy photograph of Chapman’s body. Although the photograph had been taken with an early camera, the image clearly portrayed something of the true horror of Chapman’s murder. Blake cringed at the photograph.

  ‘The incision reached right around the neck and was applied with such force that the blade nicked the neck bone. Her throat was cut from left to right, and she was also disembowelled, her intestines thrown over her shoulders,’ explained the curator.

  ‘Very pleasant,’ Blake murmured. As an officer in British Military Intelligence, Blake had seen his fair share of grisly sights, but the details of the Ripper murders were sadistic and almost beyond comprehension. He respectfully placed the photograph back onto the table and then asked the question he had wanted to ask from t
he moment he had heard of the Ripper connection from Professor Ballard at the Hunterian Museum. He cleared his throat. ‘I understand that Scotland Yard is in possession of a number of coins found at the foot of Chapman’s body.’

  ‘You are absolutely correct. Full marks, Dr Blake. A small stack of three coins, including two farthings and a coin of foreign mintage, were found at the foot of Chapman’s body.’ The curator shuffled his chair closer to the box and peered inside. Silently, he picked through several brown cardboard files before extracting a small manila envelope. He opened it, and three brown coins dropped into his palm. One by one he transferred them from his hand onto the table. ‘Be my guest,’ he offered, sliding the shiny elbow of his jacket from the table.

  Two of the coins shared identical dimensions and markings. Blake gave them a cursory examination. The small copper farthings were common currency in the reign of Queen Victoria, and the front face of each coin depicted the head of the monarch. Similarly, the reverse sides were identical, with Britannia, the female personification of Britain, sitting guarding the island nation with a lighthouse in the background.

  The third coin was much larger. The face of Baal stared up to him from the Tyrian shekel, daring Blake to turn it over. With a slightly trembling hand, he reached down and felt the cold metal against his fingertips. He inhaled for a moment and then turned the coin over in his hand. Even with Professor Ballard’s prior commentary, Blake could feel a spike of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. The coin had the same eagle and pyramid design as the other Tyrian shekels from the St George’s murder scene and the Hunterian Museum. He brought the coin close to his face and angled it towards the bright light coming from a close-by mirrored display case of murder weapons. Although Blake didn’t have a magnifying glass, he could clearly see the pyramid motif stamped into the silver.

  He slumped back into his chair, his mind racing. Three seemingly identical coins forged in the city of Tyre two thousand years ago, all found in the East End of London, and two taken from horrific murder scenes. What the hell was the connection? Blake could feel the gears of his mind slipping out of control, unable to connect to anything solid.