The Bunting Quest

by Steven Marcuson

  The jumble of words and thoughts tumbled out of the boy.

  ‘I see them. I can see the red crosses on their sails. There are so many of them. Ships, ahoy!’

  ‘He must be talking of the Battle of Lepanto,’ whispered Bunting to Jakob. ‘I had no idea.’

  Amir continued: ‘Do not fear, son, our bowmen will rip them to shreds before they reach us, and then they will face the Janissaries. Their cannons roar and rip through us. The drummer boy beats faster for the slaves to row harder into the fray … Screaming, screaming, the smoke, the smell … I see it all from my nest. We are rammed, a horrendous ripping sound, their bow smashes through into the chained rowers and they swarm aboard with swords and axes raised. Piri, Piri my brother. Oh dear Allah, please no! Mother, Mother, help, help my Father. We are sinking! Father looks up at me. I see from his eyes he is pleading for me to stay at the top. The Sultan, our flagship, rams the infidel boat. Who is who, I cannot tell. Allah, Allah, please take me home … I want to go home. Müezzinzade Ali Pasha, our leader is below. I recognise his turban. His blade slices and slices through. We are sinking. Father is flailing in the water. Father! Father! They laugh and push him under with their oars, the Christian slaves, the rowers now freed. I see him sink and struggle. He is gone. They have Müezzinzade Ali Pasha and hold him down on his back. He struggles, his eyes bulging as the infidel takes his knife and slowly cuts through his neck. His life blood spurts over the jeering Christians. They raise his severed head with the turban still on and a cheer echoes over the water. I am in the water. I am drinking the sea.’

  Amir looked up at the men, his eyes wet.

  ‘I felt a yank on my head and was pulled out the water by my hair. A few weeks later I was sold to the Archbishop in the slave sale. Five years have passed.’

  42

  ‘Sorry I had to rush off, Verity, hardly a departmental crisis. It turned out to be a storm in a teacup, as you English would say.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fine, Professor Schroeder. Nick and I are having a lovely time in Magdeburg enjoying the sights,’ replied Verity, fiddling with her phone, trying to locate the loudspeaker.

  Nick stood as close as possible to Verity, listening to their erstwhile travelling companion.

  ‘Did you find out any more interesting facts about our friend Bunting? The plaque and the phial was a complete surprise to me. I had no idea it existed,’ said Schroeder.

  Nick put his first finger to his lips and shook his head, mouthing for Verity not to say anything. Verity stared back at Nick with a look that said: Impossible! I have to say something. ‘We went back to the cathedral, and unbelievably the plaque and phial had been stolen. The police questioned us. I’m surprised they haven’t called you.’

  Nick couldn’t believe Verity’s straight talking.

  ‘What!? Stolen!? No, how could that be? Who would steal it and why? Do you think it could be the bogus policemen or the monks you were telling me about?’

  ‘Yes, that was what we were wondering too.’

  Schroeder, phone in his right hand, stared far out of his office window to the rolling hills in the distance then dropped his eyes to the statue of William IV, that proud upholder of Lutheranism in the square below, before focusing on his immediate surroundings. Jaeger and Billy sat motionless on the other side of the inlaid mahogany Georgian desk. He lifted the phial and plaque from the tooled leather writing top with his left hand and examined it, while continuing to speak. ‘Why on earth would either group go to the trouble of stealing it?’

  ‘Who knows … maybe to check the sand to see where it comes from … what do you think?’

  Nick stared wide-eyed at Verity.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Schroeder. ‘An analysis of the sand may lead to the final resting place of the Holy Words. You are very perceptive. I have to go now, but if you speak to the police again, please give them my number. I will be happy to chat to them anytime. Will I be seeing you again in Gottingen?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, but I am sure our paths will cross some-where in the future. Thank you once again for a most marvellous history tour.’

  ‘My pleasure, Verity, and send my regards to Nick.’

  Schroeder placed the phone back on the receiver. ‘Conrad, take the phial to the laboratory then wait for my call. She suspects, but it makes little difference.’

  Jaeger assented without speaking. His eyes glided onto the West African wood carving on the shelf behind the Master’s desk and it reminded him of the reason he was here and how the Master had shown him the way.

  Jaeger had been only a baby when his parents were murdered. Abrefa had filled him in on his past, explaining that his parents had left London before the outbreak of the Second World War to settle in The Gold Coast, West Africa, where they established a hardware store. His father, a staunch Protestant, joined the local Orange Order along with many of the new immigrants and a surprising number of local Africans.

  He was too young to remember the riots of 1948. However Abrefa had told him the story so often it was as if he witnessed it himself. Abrefa had gone on an errand for his father. When he returned rioters were looting the shopping district. Jaeger’s father had pleaded with the ringleader, Kwame Nkrumah, to call off his men. However, this monster lifted his hands in the air and screamed: ‘Burn the exploiters!’ Abrefa had been knocked unconscious and when he recovered he could see that the store was in flames. He had smashed a back window to gain entry but was too late to save Jaeger’s mother, father and sister but managed to grab him from the burning cot. He had been badly injured but survived.

  Jaeger smiled inwardly as he remembered his step-parents, Abrefa and Samia. They had taken him into their family, a scarred little white baby, and brought him up as one of their own. At fifteen, Abrefa took him to join the Grand Orange Lodge, now completely Africanised after the departure of the Europeans from the country.

  A few years later he met the Master at an Orange Order convention in Durban. The Master knew of him by his reputation: the tall, thin white boy brought up by black Africans. Although only a few years older, the Master had, with his charismatic personality and powerful oratory, impressed on him how President Kwame Nkrumah, a devout Roman Catholic, had manipulated the ignorance of the masses for his own political motives and self-interest. He had been convinced by the Master that the murder of his family could be avenged by removing the cancer that caused it and he had been with him ever since, acquiescing to his commanding political and physical demands. He had been a willing participant and needed little convincing.

  His reminiscing was curtailed by the voice of the Master. ‘And Billy, I think it prudent if you return to Magdeburg and follow our friends. You have a wonderful ability to remain unseen and featureless – there but not there.’

  Billy stood up with Jaeger and nodded deferentially to the Master. All three stretched out their right arms. Jaeger put his hand on top of Billy’s, then Schroeder placed his over the two of them, and Billy fleetingly recalled when he first heard the Master’s foreign accent: rolled and beaten in his initiation ceremony in Belfast all those years ago.

  The three then spoke as one. ‘In whom do we put our trust; in God and us we put our trust.’

  43

  The Bunting book had arrived at the hotel early that morning. Nick and Verity rushed the pages to the World Map, hoping to see some difference between this Antwerp edition and the other editions. However, hard as they looked, it was only the publisher’s address that stood out.

  ‘Maybe there’s a clue in the way the address is written,’ said Verity.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Nick, staring at images of the De Jode maps on his laptop. ‘Look, here is the same address in the same font, in another De Jode map from a few years later, and here is another. I don’t think that’s it.’

  Finally, in exasperation, Nick phoned Winston Thornton to see if his old mentor had any ideas.

  ‘Nick, Nick, Nick,’ said Winston in that annoying condescending way. ‘If t
here’s no difference in the map or the verso, then there is only one other option.’

  ‘Yes, well what’s that?’

  ‘Nick, Nick, Nick, come on, use your young brain.’

  ‘Oh my God, Winston … I can’t stand it … what the fuck are you talking about?!’

  ‘You know … you do give the impression that butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’

  ‘Well, I did learn it all from the legend,’ said Nick, hopefully placating the situation.

  ‘Good boy … that’s better. Now, in my opinion, if there are no discernible differences and you say there has to be a difference, then it is in the paper.’

  ‘In the paper … in the paper,’ spluttered Nick down the phone. ‘What do you mean in the … of course! I see what you are getting at.’

  ‘You’ve a long way to go before you get to my level, young man,’ said Winston. ‘Go and see Llewellyn the Welshman. He’s in Magdeburg and he’s very good if he’s not drunk or depressed about another relationship breakdown.’ And with that, he hung up.

  They walked the full length of Breiter Weg until they arrived at Hasselbachplatz.

  ‘Are you sure this is the correct address?’ said Verity, looking around at the bars, nightclubs and restaurants. ‘It doesn’t seem the right type of area for a paper conservator.’

  Five roads centred on Hasselbachplatz, the cars merging into a huge anti-clockwise roundabout with four-storey Gründerzeit buildings crowding the perimeter.

  ‘I think these buildings are Gothic revival from the late-nineteenth century,’ said Nick, looking around the Plaza for Liebigstrasse. ‘I have a set of lithographs for sale in the gallery of this style of building. Now, he is meant to be on the corner of Hasselbachplatz and Liebigstrasse.’

  A few minutes later they found the incongruous business, tucked between an upmarket Turkish restaurant and a country and western-style bar.

  ‘I wonder what brought a Welshman to Magdeburg?’ said Nick, staring at the dual language sign above the door: David Llewellyn: Art Conservation Service.

  David Llewellyn was as enigmatic as the location of his business. ‘So, Winston sent you. Did he now? Strange fellow, that Winston.’

  Llewellyn appeared about sixty, completely bald with dangling earrings hanging from both ears. He wore a long-sleeved, frilled white shirt, with a red cravat tucked at the neck. A green velvet waistcoat finished the top half. Completing the ‘pirate look’, as Verity saw it, were the almost knee-length leather boots.

  ‘Here, have a Chivas. Best whisky to come out of Scotland.’ He poured Nick and Verity generous portions and refilled his own glass.

  ‘Now, don’t think I’m “Johnny come lately”. I was here well before this area became trendy. I’m the last one standing. The rest have either died or sold out. It was only last month that Kurt the pervert next door sold his furniture restoration business to the country and western crowd, and six months since the Leibnitz twins closed their antique jewellery store.’

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked Verity, looking around.

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘It’s the only way you can make it work. You eat, sleep, work and shit in the same space. In fact, Winston spent a drunken summer with me here only a couple of years ago, just after his second wife left him and I was in-between “arrangements”. Winston is lucky … he knows the answer to everything … I call him God.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a bit like that,’ said Nick, enjoying the Welshman’s accent and conversation.

  Llewellyn poured himself another full glass and topped up Nick and Verity’s. ‘I came here nearly thirty years ago. It was Winston’s idea after I left Taffy. I was at a loss and needed to get out of London. Winston knew Hans and arranged for me to come and work for that dear man.’

  Verity and Nick were caught by surprise as great sobs suddenly erupted from the Welshman. ‘I loved that man. He taught me everything.’ He recovered quickly. ‘We became lovers and partners in the business, until my dear Hans passed away … almost five years ago. The gay disease …’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Verity sympathetically, setting the Welshman off again.

  ‘Now I am alone … and the neighbourhood has changed forever.’

  After what Nick thought was an appropriate length of time, he brought up the reason for their visit and proffered the Bunting book, opened at the map.

  The Welshman’s demeanour changed immediately. What Verity would have described seconds ago as a self-absorbed narcissist, changed suddenly into a serious and seasoned professional.

  ‘Follow me please.’ Llewellyn placed the Chivas down and walked into a large shed-like room with high ceilings at the rear of the building. ‘We built this add-on years ago.’

  The room was illuminated from high horizontal windows. ‘It’s important to have as much natural light as possible, but not direct sunlight.’ Maps, charts and lithographs lay on all the tables and desks like a blanket of ancient script. Numerous sinks of varying depths adjoined the walls, with shelves above, crowded with bottles and jars of varying sizes and colours. A strong chemical smell pervaded the whole workshop.

  Llewellyn took some clean white gloves from a wooden box on one of the tables and gestured for the book to be handed to him. He first examined the binding. Then, mumbling more to himself than to either Nick or Verity, ‘Mmm, original full vellum binding over boards with clasps and extensive blind tooling, bevelled with wide squares. I can see the outline of double-sewing stations, most likely flax cord under the vellum along the spine.’ He looked up. ‘Where did you say this book was published?’

  ‘Well,’ said Verity, ‘we believe it was published here in Magdeburg in 1581. It has been in the collection of the Bodleian Library, Oxford for hundreds of years.’

  ‘Mmm, maybe the pages were; however, this binding is definitely original and typical of late-sixteenth century Antwerpus.’

  ‘Are you saying Antwerp?’ asked Nick abruptly.

  Llewellyn turned the book over in his gloved hands. ‘This binding was more than likely done in the Plantin workshop. However, other publishers in Antwerp would also have utilised this method or used the same binder.’

  Verity and Nick could hardly contain their excitement. ‘What about the map?’ asked Verity.

  Llewellyn carefully wedged the book, open at the World Map, in a glass and plastic contraption with a computer screen above. He fiddled with some switches. The book was now bathed in a sharp white light. From above the glass, Verity and Nick could see the World Map magnified on the screen a number of times over.

  ‘Original copper-plate engraved map with publisher’s address C. de Jode 10 Twaalfmaandenstraat Antwerpus 1581. Well, that confirms my view about the binding,’ said the Welshman.

  ‘Have a look at the other maps,’ said Verity.

  Llewellyn examined the numerous maps throughout the book and finally returned to the World Map. ‘I see what you are saying. This map appears to be different to the rest. I can see by the paper quality that it was made from the best linen rags, while the others are of a far lesser, greyer quality. As you probably know, in this period most paper was still being made from rags, soaked and flattened then hung to dry. So there was plenty of variation possible and often by design. It also has a straight cut and not the deckle edges of all the other pages.’

  ‘So maybe all the original 1581 content was created and published in Magdeburg apart from the World Map, which was added later to some editions,’ said Nick.

  ‘And with bindings also made in Antwerp. Yes, makes sense.’ added Verity.

  ‘Now, if you require more information, I have to be invasive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Verity.

  ‘Well, if there are some unusual qualities or secrets hidden in the paper, then one method of revealing them is by heating the paper.’ As he was speaking, he opened a drawer and lifted out a hair dryer.

  ‘You mean, like a secret message that spies use?’ said Nick.

  ‘Yes – spies, prisoners, illici
t lovers, really anybody in days gone by who wanted to hide the true message of their correspondence. Royalty and heads of state used it all the time.’

  He switched on the dryer. ‘This should do the trick if the person used a solution of milk, lime or lemon juice or even urine.’ Llewellyn gently wafted the warm air back and forward over the map.

  All eyes stared at the paper, willing it to reveal its four-hundred-year-old secrets. However, after about sixty seconds, Llewellyn switched off the dryer.

  ‘Is that it then?’ asked Nick. ‘There are no secrets hidden in this map?’

  Llewellyn spoke carefully, knowing what he was going to say next may be problematic. ‘Look, there is probably a good reason why the map is of a superior paper quality and different to the rest of the publication that has nothing to do with secret messages, but we can be a bit more radical and add chemicals to the paper.’

  ‘Will it damage the paper?’ inquired Verity, looking anxious.

  ‘Yes, it will, by loosening the rag fibres it may cause a stain to the image.’

  ‘I think we should do it,’ said Nick.

  ‘Well, it’s easy for you to say that, you’re not responsible for it. Let me think for a second.’

  ‘If it helps, Verity,’ said Llewellyn, ‘I can remove any staining that occurs and the damage to the paper will not be obvious to anybody who is not an expert in paper conservation.’