The
Bunting Quest
STEVEN MARCUSON
Published by Hybrid Publishers
Melbourne Victoria Australia
©2016
This publication is copyright. Apart from any use
as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced
by any process without prior written permission from the publisher.
Requests and inquiries concerning reproduction should be addressed to
the Publisher, Hybrid Publishers,
PO Box 52, Ormond 3204, Australia.
www.hybridpublishers.com.au
First published 2016
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Author: Marcuson, Steven, 1959–, author.
Title: The Bunting Quest / Steven Marcuson.
ISBN: 9781925272154 (paperback)
9781925280456 (eBook)
Subjects: Suspense fiction.
Manuscript maps – Fiction.
Australia – Maps – Fiction.
Australia – Discovery and exploration – Fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
Cover design: Jessica Conboy
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Although some historical names, characters, places, maps and incidents
are real, this is a work of fiction and is the product of the author’s
imagination.
QUEST
/Kwest/
Medieval: an expedition made by
a knight to accomplish a prescribed task
FOLLY
/Fol-ee/
A costly and foolish undertaking having an absurd or
ruinous outcome
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Notes
Prologue
‘If ya knew whit I know, y’d be amaz’d,’ slurred the drunk to no one in particular. Friday night. Belfast. The Union Crown on Springfield Road was crowded as usual. The locals, accustomed to alcohol-induced ramblings, ignored the drunk slumped at the bar. ‘I said,’ the drunk raised his voice, ‘you’d be amazed. AMAZED, ya hear? … Where’s ma drink?’
‘Look, old man it might be time to go home,’ suggested the young barman leaning over the counter.
‘Giy us another Guinness …’ the drunk replied. ‘I said, Jaysus lad, giy us another pint, will ya! Hey, you look like O’Connell’s son.’
‘Careful, old man,’ the barman warned. ‘I’m no Catholic! And you’ll be getting yourself in trouble insulting folk like that.’
‘Ahh, they don’t want me anymore. Bin chucked out … Dumped,’ the drunk complained through another mouthful. ‘A respected monk … now … this!’
‘What’s he doing in here?’ the bar’s manager barked at the bartender. ‘You know we don’t serve Catholics! And definitely no fucking priests!’
‘Sorry, I’ve never seen him before. But didn’t he say monk?’
‘Priest? Monk? I don’t give a fuck! Either way, he’s got to go!’
‘Wadda you mean “go”? I’ve got nowhere to go … Jaysus lad, gis another drink.’ The drunk leaned in closer. ‘Listen, lad, listen, both of you … I’ve a story that’ll amaze you.’
‘Yeh, yeh … but you’ve got to go now. This is a respectable Protestant pub. You’re not welcome here and we don’t want you to get into any trouble.’
‘I can’t tell you the story anyhow. I’m under an oath,’ he said, speaking into his pint.
‘Sure you are … sure you are.’
A man with cold eyes who had been watching from the corner stood up slowly, stubbed out his cigarette and made his way over to the bar. He ordered another drink and then indicated, with a nod, that the bartender and manager should move away.
‘What story do you have, old man?’ He smiled, but there was no warmth. ‘I’m interested in church stories, especially Catholic ones.’ He set the pint in front of the drunk.
‘Ah, you’re a mighty man, ay. It’s a secret though, so youse can’t hear it. If I told you lads, they’d kill me.’
‘That’s no good. Who’d kill you? And why’d they kill you just for telling a little secret?’
The drunk stared at the man through his bleary, bloodshot eyes. For a few seconds he seemed to sober up. ‘Cos that’s what they do, lad. That’s what they do!’
The man’s eyes hardened further as he motioned to the bartender for a phone. When it came, he moved away from the bar and spoke quietly into it for a few minutes, never taking his eyes off his new companion. After hanging up, he returned to the drunk.
‘C’mon, old man, you can’t stay here. I have some friends who’d like to have a word with you.’
‘Na, lad, I’m happy where I am,’ said the drunk, turning away.
With a slow, unobtrusive movement, the man reached out, grabbed the soft fold of fat behind the drunk’s upper left arm and squeezed hard. ‘We’re leaving now!’
‘Jaysus, you’re hurting me,’ said the drunk, forced to his feet by the pressure.
Piercing the gloom and drizzle, the car’s headlights briefly illuminated the driver’s late-night destination. The farmhouse, although only a half-hour drive from the centre of Belfast, was isolated, perched on a hill. It had been chosen with care. Any unwelcome visitors could be seen for miles, driving up the lone road to the house. The man with the cold eyes and two others talked amongst themselves. The drunk sat slumped on a wooden chair, his face bloodied and swollen. His mouth was gagged.
The fourth man who arrived had been invited. His dress sense contrasted with the other three in their t-shirts, jeans and trainers. The fourth man wore crisp, pressed navy-blue chinos, soft leather Italian tasselled shoes, a buttoned-down white shirt with a thin navy stripe, rimless glasses and a schoolboy haircut. He carried a small, hard briefcase in his right hand.
He ignored the three men, who left the room immediately, closing the front door behind them, and went straight to the drunk. He placed the case on the table next to him.
‘Hello, Brendon,’ the man said affably. ‘They call me the carpenter. I’m sorry to see you like this. Those men, and let me make it quite clear, they are no friends of mine. They appear to have given you a workover, which is shameful.’ He nodded sympathetically.
‘Of course, none of this violence would have been nece
ssary if they’d called me first, Brendon. I work alone. Those thugs will not return until I call them. I can see that you’re scared. I understand that. I would be too, in your position. One minute you’re warm, having a few drinks, minding your own business, then … this.’
The drunk lifted his swollen head and made eye contact with the new man.
‘They say you’re keeping a secret,’ the carpenter said. ‘However, you did tell them that you were a Benedictine Monk and that your name’s Brendon O’Flaherty. Now, I’ve spoken to my people and they tell me that after you completed your studies at Glenstal Abbey, County Limerick, you spent twenty years at the Monastery in Monte Cassino. A lovely part of the world, southern Italy, don’t you think, Brendon. Parli Italiano? … But you’re no Saint, are you Brendon? You’ve been back in Ireland for what? Ten years? And, I’m told, you were defrocked just five months ago. For, how do they say it, “deflowering” an altar boy?’
The drunk began to whimper.
‘No, no, Brendon, it’s okay,’ counselled the carpenter. ‘That’s not why I’m here. That’s not my business. The way a man lives his life is no concern of mine. That’s between him, his conscience and God. But you know what is my business, Brendon?’ The carpenter moved closer to the bound drunk, lowering his voice. ‘Secrets, Brendon. Secrets are my business. They call me when a man is strong and stubborn and will not reveal what they want to know. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Brendon.’ The carpenter stepped back shaking his head sadly. ‘I admire you for holding out. And let me make this absolutely clear, Brendon. I don’t like these men or what they stand for. I would not invite them to my house to meet my wife and family, nor would I socialise with them under any circumstances. They are mere foot soldiers. My … unique … services have been requested by their superiors. It is they who pay me for my expertise. Brendon, it is important to me that you understand that. Do you understand that?’
The drunk nodded dutifully.
‘Brendon, I do not make threats. I simply do what I do and the information is revealed.’ He paused for a second. ‘Yes, it is always revealed.’
The carpenter then opened his hard case and took out a transparent plastic sheet, like a poncho, which he manoeuvred over his head, protecting his whole body down to his shoes.
‘No threats, Brendon, as I said. It’s your call. When you tell me your secret, I will leave. I will pass on the information to my employers and they will pay me. It comes down to that.’
The carpenter then removed a cordless drill from the case and began attaching a thin drill bit. The drunk’s eyes bulged with terror. The carpenter tested the trigger, causing the drill to whir into motion. Then he removed the gag from the drunk’s mouth.
‘Brendon, is it the time to tell me?’
‘They will kill me!’ the former monk pleaded.
‘I know, I know,’ said the carpenter, with genuine sympathy. ‘But, then, these situations are always difficult, aren’t they?’
The carpenter replaced the gag. Then he took the drunk’s right hand in his left and placed it flat, knuckles up, on the table. In one controlled movement, with the drill in his right hand, the carpenter guided the tool straight through the centre of the drunk’s hand, pinning his palm to the wooden surface.
Outside, the three thugs shuffled their feet and smoked, trying to stave off the cold. The carpenter exited, ignoring them once again, and drove off. Less than fifteen minutes had passed between his arrival and departure.
1
Steaming coffee in hand, Nick could hear the distant ring of the gallery telephone as he strolled around the corner onto New Kings Road. ‘Bloody hell,’ he swore under his breath, ‘who would phone this early?’
It could be Frank Constantino. It was afternoon in Sydney, and probably hot and steamy, not like the freezing November here in London.
He smiled back at a teenage girl walking toward him who, by the slightly glazed look in her eye, had mistaken him for the actor David Tennant, currently starring as Dr Who. Nick had to admit there was a passing resemblance. Ever since the resurgence in popularity of the program, he’d had a few such encounters, mostly awkward. He picked up his pace and fumbled for the shop keys.
Holding the edge of the cardboard cup between his teeth, Nick jiggled the keys into the gallery’s door, entered and closed the door behind him, leaving the excited fifteen-year-old ‘fan’ staring at the entrance. The phone was still ringing.
CARTOGRAPHIC WONDERS
EXHIBITION AND SALE
NOV 14 – DEC 12
Great poster, thought Nick. It had been Bronte’s idea to use the Munster map on the poster and invitations. It had worked well. People loved sea monsters in old maps.
A high-pitched whistle welcomed Nick as he stepped through the security beam into the shop proper. He quickly punched the code in, sprinted past the easels and flicked the phone to his ear.
‘Morning, Lawrance Gallery.’
‘Nick Lawrance?’ It was a voice Nick did not recognise.
‘Yes, speaking,’ he said cautiously.
‘Inspector Jaeger, Scotland Yard.’
‘Yes …’ Scotland Yard? Jesus, had someone he knew died?
‘Have you got a few minutes, Mr Lawrance? We’re rather in need of your expert help.’
‘What type of help, Inspector?’ said Nick, trying to place the accent. Dutch? South African?
‘It’s in regard to maps, Mr Lawrance. I was led to believe that’s your speciality. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Inspector, it is.’ It no longer surprised Nick to be called a ‘specialist’. For over twenty years he had been buying and selling antique maps, first from a stall in the Portobello Market, then from a dingy first-floor shop in Hammersmith. The business had moved to its present location in Fulham ten years ago.
‘Will you be available in twenty minutes? I’ll come to you.’ ‘Yes, twenty minutes will be fine,’ said Nick, hiding his irritation. Fan-bloody-tastic! You come in an hour early to catch up, clear your head and then this. What was it his grandmother said? ‘So you want to make God laugh? Make some plans.’ Something like that.
Nick put the phone down. His eyes roamed the gallery, checking each spotlight and making a mental note to replace the blown ones. There was something about the early morning light, the quiet and the maps that intrigued him, even after all this time. The golden age of Dutch map making covered the display walls. They were all represented here: Ortelius, Mercator, Blaeu, Hondius, Jansson. All the greats. Ever since he could remember, Nick had had a fascination with maps and charts. He could clearly remember long afternoons lying on the carpet at his grandmother’s cottage, poring over Boys Own Adventure annuals: Shipwrecks, Cannibals, Lost Cities and, most importantly, Treasure Maps.
It hadn’t been a difficult decision to buy his first map as a fourteen-year-old, even though it used up all the savings from his paper round. Two pounds – a princely sum as far as Nick was concerned. It was a small Joseph Moxon county map of Oxfordshire, depicting Grandma Lawrance’s village of Witney – church spire and all.
So buying it had been easy, almost natural. The difficult decision had been to sell it a few minutes later, albeit for a nice profit. Nick had just paid Mr Berelowitz, handing the money to the old man over piles of ancient dusty books and manuscripts, when a stocky red-necked bull-faced man who had also been fossicking throughout the shop, called him over.
‘Let’s have a look at it, son,’ the stranger urged. ‘I’m interested in maps of Oxford.’
Nick reluctantly pulled the map from its brown paper bag and handed it over while glancing at Mr Berelowitz for reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, son, I’ve known Winston for years,’ said the old antiquarian.
The red-faced man held the map in both hands, using his thumbs and first fingers. His eyes roamed the paper, squinting at the inscriptions. He turned the map over and inspected the back, then turned it over again. ‘I’ll give you four quid for it, son,’ he said matter-of-factly.
This was double
what Nick had paid for it.
‘Winston, leave the boy alone,’ chuckled Mr Berelowitz. ‘It’s his first map, after all. We all remember our first, eh?’
‘He’s got to learn sometime, Saul.’ The man turned to Nick. ‘Well, son, it’s up to you. Is it a deal?’
Nick hesitated. Winston was looking him straight in the eye, not saying a further word, a bargaining technique Nick was going to see a lot of in the future, and learn from. But right then … the pressure!
‘Uh, I’m not sure.’ He stuttered.
Winston continued to stare.
‘I … I suppose so,’ Nick managed at last.
‘Good boy!’ The man reached inside his tweed jacket and pulled out a roll of money. ‘Here,’ he said, handing Nick four worn pound notes. Then he turned to Berelowitz. ‘Well Saul, now he’s made his first deal. Anyhow, I should be going. I’m off to Sotheby’s on Friday. You want me to bid on anything for you?’
‘No thanks, Winston. I can‘t afford their prices, especially with your commission added on!’
The two friends shared a laugh and the red-faced man turned to leave; then as an after-thought, he turned back to Nick. ‘Hey, son, you have a pretty good eye for a kid. Come and see me if you ever find anything else interesting. Saul will tell you where to find me.’
2
‘Master, master wake up!’ the Moor boy pleaded. ‘Master, there’s a prince here to see you!’
Heinrich Bunting pulled himself out of a dream; a dream about angels and kings and death. ‘Amir, what is it? Is it still night?’
‘It is a prince, master! He is waiting for you,’ urged the boy, his dark eyes flashing in the candlelight.
Bunting sighed, rolled off his straw mattress and knelt beside the bed. He turned towards his servant. ‘Amir, tell the visitor that I will be with him shortly.’
When the young Moor had gone, Bunting brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head, causing his thin blond hair to tumble over his fine features.
‘Lord, I thank you for delivering me through the darkness,’ he intoned. ‘If it be your will Lord, I beseech you to give me the strength and wisdom to serve you in truth. Amen.’
Finishing his prayer and rising to his feet, the tall young priest recovered his senses from being woken from a deep sleep. A prince? What was Amir talking about? His daily visitors might include an occasional landowner or shopkeeper, but usually just local town workers and peasants … and never at night! The aristocracy and richer inhabitants of Magdeburg tended to frequent the Cathedral of Saint Catherine and ignore his less auspicious church. He had accepted his predicament. His humiliation. So why would a prince be visiting this place in the middle of the night?
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