Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  Faust sat at his desk chair. He sniffed the scotch before taking a sip.

  Vicky and Bill followed suit. Vicky exploded into a fit of coughing. Her eyes watered. “Sorry.”

  A kind smile creased Faust’s lips. ”I’d hazard a guess you’re not a habitual whisky drinker, my dear.”

  Vicky caught her breath. “You’d hazard right.”

  Faust chuckled, put down his glass and folded his hands. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  Bill noticed a small, silver letter opener on the professor’s desk in the shape of a crusader sword. “It’s come to our attention that the word ‘Baphomet’ was linked to these incidents.”

  Faust raised a crooked eyebrow. “Linked how?”

  “A hooded figure committed the offences. He uttered the word on at least one occasion.” Before Faust’s aroused curiosity led to more troublesome questions, Bill fired off one of his own. “Is there any connection between Baphomet and the Templars?”

  Faust sat back in his chair. “Baphomet was an androgynous, multi-faced deity the church accused the Templars of worshipping, while seeking excuses to purge the order.”

  “So the Knights Templar were devil worshippers?”

  “Philip IV of France had them tortured into confessing to that and all manner of offences, from spitting or urinating on the cross to sodomy. Anything to justify executing them. And execute them he did, on Friday, October 13th, 1307. I’m sure you’ve heard that story before.”

  Vicky clasped the tumbler of spirits in her lap. “The origin of Friday 13th as a day of bad luck.”

  Faust stood up to pace the small office. “Bad luck if you were a Poor Knight of the Temple of Solomon, which also operated a wealthy bank for Christendom. There are some in the academic community who believe crimes of such enormity couldn’t be a pure fabrication.”

  Vicky watched him. “But you disagree?”

  Faust paused. “If it happened today in our world of instant, global communications, that might be the case. In 1307 people didn’t know what was happening in the next village, much less the wider world. They relied on the church for every part of life. Believed and did what they were told, lest they face the wrath of God in the world beyond.” He hesitated to stare out the window at his beloved building. “No, I don’t accept men who swore vows of chastity and poverty - devoting themselves to the defence of the Holy Land and Christianity’s most sacred sites - were worshippers of some pagan idol.”

  Bill downed the rest of his scotch in a single gulp. He gasped. “Boy, that hits the spot. So Professor, what about all the stories the Templars survived as a secret society like the Masons? Could our vandal be part of such a group?”

  Faust retrieved his drink from the desk to take another belt. “Nonsense. Those knights who escaped went into exile. Treasure hunters love to speculate about any surviving wealth the French king and a greedy Pope weren’t able to get their grubby hands on. From time to time we catch wild-eyed lunatics hoping to dig up the church floor here, as if they’d unearth a fortune buried beneath. No, I don’t believe the knights who survived abandoned their personal faith, even though the church abandoned them. Anyone who defaces and ejaculates on a Christian site has nothing in common with those devout, militaristic monks. This vandal is delusional. I’d stretch to disturbed, based on what we found this morning.”

  Bill followed the professor’s example, glancing out of the sash window to the church shining in sunlight. “Do you have a list or plan of other UK Templar sites you could let us have, Professor?”

  Faust sat back down to switch on a chunky computer beside his desk. “I can produce a map for you. One with location overlays and accompanying text addresses. Would you like it e-mailed somewhere?”

  Bill and Vicky exchanged an awkward glance. Bill spotted a black, square laser printer shoe-horned into a gap between the computer and one of the rear wall bookcases. “If you could print us a hard copy, that will do fine. Jenny and I will incorporate some of them into our work trip.”

  Faust brought up a GIS map with Templar sites symbolised as crusader crosses. He enabled labelling and collated the addresses into a separate table, before sending the result to his printer. A green light winked on top while two pages - one with the map, the other with a list of addresses - slithered out. He handed both to Bill. “There you go, Mr Keeling. I hope it proves useful.”

  Bill folded and tucked the papers away in his pack. “I’m sure it will.”

  Faust swivelled to replace some heavy tomes he’d removed from the printer before using it.

  Vicky switched her remaining glass of scotch with Bill’s empty. She didn’t wish to offend their host. Bill smiled and drained the remnants. The pair stood up.

  Vicky lifted her pack. “Martha told us about a site in Essex. Cressing Temple?”

  Faust turned back to them and grinned. “One of the oldest Templar sites in the country. Also the oldest timber-framed barns in the world. Cressing Temple has three. You’ll find it on the printout I gave you.”

  Bill shouldered his own pack. “A lot of history, then?”

  Faust went on. “Matilda of Boulogne, the wife of King Stephen, granted the manor of Cressing to the Knights Templar in 1136. A Templar Preceptor led the site, accompanied by two or three knights or sergeants, a chaplain, bailiff and household servants overseeing tenant farmers. Over one hundred and sixty, if memory serves. The manor included a mansion house, bakehouse, brewery, dairy, granary, smithy, gardens, a dovecote, a watermill, and a windmill. A chapel and cemetery also. Cressing Temple's proceeds funded Templar activities in the Holy Land. The order was suppressed in England during the reign of King Edward II. Cressing was handed over to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller in 1309. They preserved the Templar documents and charters with their own records. Henry VIII dissolved the manor in 1540.”

  Bill whistled. “You know your stuff.”

  Faust looked them up and down. “You two don’t dress much like civil servants.”

  Vicky bit her lip. “We’re backpacking from place to place, conducting our report anonymously. We don’t want to give the game away by asking transport staff questions in official outfits. Plus, the government are keen to assess the feasibility of individual, widespread travel in a post-car age. Part of their quest for a greener future. Zero carbon, and all that.”

  Faust opened his office door. “Well, if you can get the Victoria to Brighton line running on-time, I’ll be forever in your debt. Can you see yourselves out? I climb those stairs so many times in the course of a day.”

  Bill shook his hand again. “No problem. Thanks for your help, Professor.”

  They disappeared down the staircase as the office door closed behind them.

  Vicky shook her head while they strolled back along the tree-lined Victoria Embankment. “I almost called you Bill. Do you think he suspected we weren’t all we pretended to be?”

  Bill shrugged. “If he did, I doubt he connected us with Tony Quarry’s murder. I hope he’s not an avid watcher of the news, because we’ve told him we intend to visit other Templar sites.”

  “What choice did we have? So where to now?”

  Bill tapped the jewellery in his jacket pocket again. “First, we’ll exchange this lot for cash. Then I’d suggest a train to Essex.”

  Vicky watched a red London bus drift past. “You think our pilgrim will hit Cressing Temple next?”

  “If he’s moving from site to site, it makes sense. It’s a few days since Strood, but there hasn’t been a sizeable gap between incidents. Should we draw a blank, these places will keep us moving with purpose.” He put on a fake, deep-throated film trailer announcer’s voice. “The pilgrim of Baphomet. COMING soon IN a church near you.” He jerked his right hand once again in the universal gesture of male masturbation.

  Vicky snorted, and they carried on walking.

  10

  The Trail

  “Vicky,” Bill called from a verge on the narrow, unmarked country lane rising between high h
edges at White Notley station in Essex.

  Vicky stepped through a picket fence gate beside an automatic level crossing. The last hurrah of daytime sank behind the tree line. Lights came on inside an old crossing keeper’s cottage opposite. Their splash of illumination distracted Vicky for a second, worrying her any unexpected sound could betray them. She checked both ways, then crossed to where Bill stood waiting.

  It had taken longer than expected to find a dodgy pawnbroker and offload Bill’s merchandise without hassle. Their next stop was a bookshop to buy a handful of Ordnance Survey maps. The pair strolled out with a bag full of 25K Explorer prints covering sites they intended to visit. Two tourists with backpacks purchasing maps didn’t cause anyone to bat an eyelid.

  Outside Liverpool Street Station, Bill insisted they catch separate trains to Braintree. Vicky hated splitting up, but she understood his approach. Bill would go first, connecting with a branch line southeast to hop off at the tiny, unmanned station in White Notley. A cursory glance at the maps revealed this would deposit them a short walk from Cressing Temple Barns. The site lay surrounded by fields and high hedges. With a mere handful of habitations in the vicinity, opportunities to slip in and out after dark were legion. Vicky took a walk in the area around Liverpool Street Station, not entering until long after Bill’s train had departed. Anything to disrupt eagle-eyed CCTV investigators seeking a man and woman matching their description on the run together. As long as they could both avoid a stop and search by officers from British Transport Police, risk levels remained low.

  Bill pulled back some branches to form a gap in the hedge behind him. “We can get through here. The lane’s quiet, but not a place to be caught walking after dark.”

  Vicky scrambled through the temporary hole to find herself in the bottom corner of a harp-shaped field. Bill squeezed through behind. He replaced the branches, disguising any signs of disturbance. “Did you have any trouble?”

  Vicky waggled one down-turned palm in a noncommittal gesture. “There were police sniffer dogs when I got off at Braintree.”

  “Wow. I must have missed them by thirty minutes. Did they stop you?”

  “No. I’m thankful I changed into my walking boots at home before we left Kent. If I’d still been wearing those shoes I stepped through the scattered drugs in, that police spaniel would have nailed me.” They trudged northeast across the field towards another hedge. “What if our robed monstrosity doesn’t appear, Bill? How long can we mooch around out here?”

  “If you’re game, we’ll find a place to lie up and watch the site tonight. We’ll spend tomorrow back in Braintree, then come out again after nightfall for another vigil. Beyond that, we should move on. Try another contender from the list.”

  “What if he shows up? We didn’t fare well, last time.”

  Bill scowled. “This time he’s not getting a heads-up on our presence. I intend to rush him before he has time to react.”

  They reached the hedge and located a balding spot to slip through. On their right, an impressive array of solar panels filled three-quarters of the next field.

  Bill pointed to an opening on a track in the northeast corner. “That should come out near the junction of Witham Road and Temple Lane, not far beyond.”

  Vicky dawdled behind. “Bill?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Have you thought this through?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Even if we subdue the robed figure, all we can do is hold onto him until the police arrive. Then we’ll both be arrested on suspicion of murder and drug-related offences, while he gets off with a slap on the wrist for some graffiti. If it even comes to that, knowing how well connected the cult are. We’ll be doing their job for them, unless you intend to beat a confession out of him.”

  Bill kicked some dry clods across the earthy surface. “You’re right. The plan sounded better in my head. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “No. Keep watching, maybe? See if we can uncover more without tipping our hand. My old uni friend, Raven, lives outside Lincoln. We can trust her. By now she’ll have heard what’s going on, if that BBC article was anything to go by.”

  “Will she hide us?”

  Vicky clenched one fist. “I guarantee it. Raven has a photo of the first symbol from Dover. I trust her wisdom over the occult.”

  “The Templar sites Faust listed for us, spread out in that direction. It’s settled, then. We’ll travel from place to place with your friend’s house as a target destination. If our man shows up to do his thing along the way, we’ll log those locations. I hope this Raven is as smart as you believe.”

  The pair squatted in a patch of tall grass and brambles beside a bend on Witham Road. Bright headlights on main beam flashed past, illuminating a junction sign for ‘Silver End’ with a brown heritage symbol and wording for ‘Cressing Temple Barns’ beneath it.

  Vicky turned her face aside to avoid reflecting at the driver. “The entrance should be across that junction. Our map showed a driveway on the right, beyond those few houses.”

  Another car whizzed by in the opposite direction.

  Bill listened for a moment, then hurried across the road. Vicky followed behind in single file. They avoided the driveway itself, tracking parallel behind another tall hedge skirting the site’s north-eastern border. The hedgerows thickened to an accompaniment of trees, through which the pair could make out the edges of a walled, ornamental garden beside the ancient barns. Bill squeezed into a patch of weeds for a better view. Vicky rubbed her opposite upper arms to ward off an evening chill. She crept up behind. “What do you reckon?”

  “We can observe the barns and garden from here. If matey boy doesn’t show by midnight, there’s space enough to erect the tent out of sight. Then we’ll take alternate watches so we both get a little sleep. It wouldn’t do to get discovered here after sunup.”

  The sound of a car engine at low revs turned into the driveway. No lights pierced the darkness, but it crawled along the rough concrete and gravel track towards them, stopping halfway.

  Bill strained his eyes against the encroaching night. “It can’t be one of the homeowners. They’d have parked near the entrance.”

  “Security?” An all too familiar rushing of blood throbbed in Vicky’s ears.

  “I hope not. Let’s sit still and watch.”

  “Look.” Vicky blurted the instruction, almost toppling forward onto her hands and knees.

  A bent shape darted from one barn, along the wall of the ornamental garden.

  Bill pushed on half a step. “He’s going for the nearest structure.”

  Vicky grabbed his arm. “Bill, if he realises we’re here, the cult will shop us to the police.”

  “You’re right. We’ll lose any advantage if they learn our whereabouts. How about his vehicle?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  Bill pulled the palm-sized camera out of his bag. “This isn’t much use in low light, but its tiny flash is bright. Enough to snap the registration while he’s spraying and well… spraying.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always.” Bill crept back along the other side of the hedge until he caught audible metallic ‘tinks’ from a cooling exhaust pipe on the other side. There was nowhere to climb through, so he tracked further to the driveway entrance at Temple Lane. Hunched down and cautious, Bill made a steady approach to the rear of the vehicle. Saliva thickened in his throat. The car appeared unoccupied by any accomplice; a silver, two-seater Mercedes SLK. Bill opened his lens protector to frame a shot of the registration plate.

  Back at the barns, Vicky decided she couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Hugging the adjoining hedge, she snuck into the ornamental garden, using its walls and an array of trimmed box topiary for cover.

  The robed figure crouched before one of the ancient barns. Clouds drifted past the moon, making observation unreliable. Vicky surmised he must have already painted his symbol, because both hood and shoulders bobbed and jostled in the final throes of
his bizarre ritual.

  Vicky caught one lingering grunt of “Baphomet.”

  Bill fired the camera. Its auto flash kicked in with a dazzling pulse. He didn’t stop to check the image, praying the vehicle’s driver hadn’t noticed the light. As he rounded the driveway entrance to dart back along the other side of the hedge, a front door on the lodge closest to the driveway swung open. A stocky, male silhouette lumbered outside, swinging a torch beam around. The Mercedes engine fired up, its reversing lights following in an instant. The pilgrim must have returned to his vehicle in silence. Bill wondered how close he’d come to being discovered. That figure with the torch jumped aside in time to avoid the speeding Mercedes. He fell backwards to the ground with a grunt. The car swung out in reverse onto the road, then roared forward up Temple Lane.

  Bill reached the spot he’d left Vicky, to find it empty. Where can she have gone? He dashed from cover to the nearest barn. There he met his companion exiting the ornamental garden. Vicky shone her pocket torch across one side of the barn. The same red painted symbol and human discharge defaced it.

  Another torch beam bounced along the driveway in their direction.

  Bill hurried behind Vicky. “We’ve got to go. My flash disturbed a warden or someone. This guy’s car almost flattened him.” Bill waved at the painted mess. “The warden must be coming to check on the barns.”

  They scrambled through the far hedge, then followed its course away from the site as fast as they dared. Each step caused them to peer back, anxious of the slightest noise or obvious movement.

  Vicky panted for breath from exertion and fear. “That’s Essex done. Four out of four sites. But why?”

  Bill rested. “I’d love to know.”

  “Did your picture come out okay?”

  “I haven’t checked.” Bill rummaged around for the camera, then illuminated its screen. The yellow rear license plate of the Mercedes appeared, blurred and grainy, but readable. “Not too bad. There’s sod all we can do with it, though. That’s a job for the police. The ones who aren’t bent or in bed with these scumbags.”