by D C Macey
THE TEMPLE DELIVERANCE
(Book 4 of The Temple series)
D. C. Macey
Copyright © 2019 D. C. Macey
All rights reserved
Published by Butcher & Cameron
D.C. Macey asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and names are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Books by D. C. Macey
The Temple Legacy
Published August 2015
The Temple Scroll
Published August 2016
The Temple Covenant
Published April 2018
The Temple Deliverance
Published April 2019
CONTENTS
1. Saturday, January 4th
2. Sunday, January 5th
3. Monday, January 6th
4. Tuesday, January 7th
5. Wednesday, January 8th
6. Thursday, January 9th
7. Friday, January 10th
8. Saturday, January 11th
9. Sunday, January 12th
10. Monday, January 13th
11. Wednesday, January 15th
12. Thursday, January 16th
13. Friday, January 17th - a.m.
14. Friday, January 17th - p.m.
15. Saturday, January 18th
16. Monday, January 20th
17. Tuesday, January 21st
18. Wednesday, January 22nd
19. Thursday, January 23rd
20. Friday, January 24th - a.m.
21. Friday, January 24th - p.m.
22. Saturday, January 25th - a.m.
23. Saturday, January 25th - p.m.
24. Saturday, January 25th - evening
25. Sunday, January 26th - a.m.
Author’s Note
About D. C. Macey
Books In The Series
1
Saturday, January 4th
As a senior priest and the personal assistant to Bishop Ignatius, the patriarch’s right hand, Iskinder Anibesa had a clear and comfortable vision of his life and role. He normally felt good about himself and the progress he had made from quite humble beginnings into the higher echelons of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church; it was not so today. Sitting in the front passenger seat of an ageing saloon car, he found himself in unfamiliar circumstances and he was unhappy. He cast nervously about as the car rattled along.
Iskinder glanced towards the driver, his Church’s representative in Malta. The young deacon was clearly delighted to be playing host to such an important man. The deacon’s lean frame hinted at a man who enjoyed sports, perhaps running. His close-cut hair, smooth, clean-shaven features and open demeanour allowed Iskinder to read the junior priest’s attitude, which was at once puzzlement about the reason for this unexpected visit and awe at having to host such an important countryman. Iskinder could offer the young man no plausible explanation so opted to give none, other than it being important Church business.
Returning his attention to the road, he shivered again as the windscreen wipers started sweeping back and forth, clearing spots of rain that were now falling from the overcast sky. He drew his jacket tighter against what he experienced as winter cold. The deacon noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and leant forwards to fumble with buttons on the dashboard.
‘I’ve put the heater on, but I’m not sure it works too well. Maybe not at all. Sorry.’ He threw a slightly sheepish glance towards his passenger.
Iskinder managed to nod his head in acknowledgement while still keeping his chin tucked down against his chest.
‘How long does it take to reach Marsaxlokk?’
‘Not long. Ten minutes more. Especially today - see, there’s no traffic; it hasn’t picked up since the New Year yet. Come Monday, it will be busier.’
‘Come Monday, I expect to be back in Africa. No, come Monday, I pray to be back in Africa.’
The deacon looked suddenly anxious. ‘But you will be here for tomorrow’s service? The congregation is excited at your being here. I am hoping you will take part in the service. We are all hoping—’
‘Yes, yes, I will be pleased to participate in the service. Though, please turn the heating on in the church tonight, otherwise you will have to explain to Bishop Ignatius why his assistant has died of hypothermia while in your care.’
The deacon was placated. They lapsed into silence as the car rushed through the short stretch of countryside that separated the Maltese capital Valletta from their destination. The country road was flanked on either side by nearly continuous runs of shoulder-high yellow-white stone walls. They limited Iskinder’s view to gateway flashes of the winter-green land beyond, where potato crops were taking advantage of the seasonal rainfall. Here and there, thick clusters of prickly pear trees spilled over the boundary walls.
The car crossed a ridge and instantly their restricted outlook vanished, and the scenery opened as the land beyond the ridge sloped gently down towards the sea and the fishing village of Marsaxlokk, its honey-coloured stone buildings clustered against the coastline, ageless and unmoved by sun or sea.
The deacon slowed as they entered the village. The car bumped and rocked its way along an over-patched and worn road that ran between the tightly packed low-rise houses and stores lining the route to the seafront. He drove the car directly onto the broad quayside and there, disregarding the traffic signs, steered an exaggerated arc across the near empty car park to bring the car to a halt outside the tourist information office.
The quayside was devoid of people. Half a dozen cars were parked, scattered at random along its length: perhaps owned by skippers or crew of some of the fishing boats currently moored in the harbour. The only movement came from gulls swooping low to shriek outrage at the car’s arrival, and the fishing boats bobbing as they tugged gently against their ropes. The drops of rain increased to a steady drizzle.
‘We’re here,’ said the deacon, turning expectantly to look his passenger in the eye. ‘What would you like now?’
‘Can you wait here for me?’
‘Yes, of course. There are parking restrictions, but nobody is here to enforce them today.’ The deacon looked about and shrugged. Then he stretched back into the rear seats and rummaged on the floor, retrieving an umbrella. ‘You’ll need this.’ He handed it to Iskinder. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Thank you and no. Please just wait here. I have no idea how long I’ll be.’ Iskinder got out of the car, clutching his briefcase. He struggled for a moment to unfurl the umbrella then hurried to the entrance of the tourist information office. There, he stopped to shelter and raise the umbrella before glancing about.
From the comfort of the car, the deacon continued to watch, puzzled and slightly worried at the senior churchman’s furtive behaviour. Then, for the first time since he had collected Father Iskinder Anibesa from Valletta airport, he saw the worry lines ease from his charge’s face. He saw the briefcase-holding hand rise, struggling to greet somebody.
Looking in the direction of Iskinder’s wave, the deacon’s eyes traced across the car park, over the quayside road and came to a halt where a solitary man sat at a café table. An awning stretched out over the pavement to cover a cluster of tables - today, protecting them from rain, though on any other three hundred days of the year, the awning would be fending off the sun.
• • •
Placing her lunch plate into the dishwasher, Helen straightened up, took her coffee and crossed to the kitchen window. She wondered how Sam was getting
on and half envied him the warmth of Malta.
It had been freezing when she saw him off from Edinburgh Airport the day before. Almost as soon as his flight left, the wind started to get up. It kept building, growing through the night into what Elaine told her was the fiercest winter storm she could remember.
During the morning, the wind had begun to ease back. The trees and bushes that shielded the view of the stone wall at the bottom of the manse garden had stopped their frantic bending and straining. Now, just the top boughs waved back and forth in harmony with the easing of the wind. Above, the sky was filled with dark glowering clouds that had rolled in from the east. A movement in the garden caught her eye. A snowflake. Then another and another. Then, as if some big net in the sky had been opened to release its haul, the snow came.
Helen hurried to the kitchen door and opened it. The cold air washed past her, and she stood still, listening, watching. Her first Edinburgh snow. The distant sounds of the city were gone. For the first time since she had moved to Edinburgh, everything was truly silent - muted by the great muffler of falling snow. She looked up and could see nothing but falling flakes. In front of her, they were already settling on the lawn. She loved the snow and smiled broadly. Stepping back into the kitchen, she appreciated again the building’s solidity and the tranquil refuge it now offered after the months of fear and horror that had followed her arrival in a new country, a new home.
It had all started on a high when her father had arranged an assistant minister’s post for her with his old friend, John Dearly, the minister of St Bernard’s. It hadn’t been plain sailing. Elaine, the parish’s senior elder had not taken to her at first, but subsequent events had drawn them close together, as they had with Elaine’s daughter Grace - now a student but still very much part of life at the manse.
Sam, Helen’s archaeologist boyfriend - former soldier, brilliant linguist and all-round catch - had also come into her life. But in just a matter of weeks over the past summer, her idyllic life had begun to shatter. The brutal murder of old Archie Buchan, the long-retired former minister of St Bernard’s, had coincided with the discovery of ancient Templar artefacts. More violent deaths had followed, coming ever closer to home, even to this very kitchen, where her mentor, John Dearly, had been savagely dispatched - the catalyst for her to assume the leadership role within the parish.
Her new position had brought with it a signet ring, a symbol of her position and responsibilities, and unexpected revelations of a secret inheritance in the form of a trust fund, even a Swiss bank account in which her predecessors - John Dearly, Archie Buchan and others before them - had hidden their secrets. Much knowledge but, for Helen, little understanding.
With unexpected wealth had come unabating violence - the relentless pursuit by the mysterious Cassiter and his followers who seemed to know more than even Sam about the Templar artefacts now in her possession. No matter where she and Sam went, the Templar legacy followed them doggedly, even to the heart of Africa, the grinding heat and dust of which were a world away from the Scottish winter now insistently making its presence felt in the manse garden.
The phone rang. Helen was jolted out of her thoughts and hurried through to the study. She didn’t recognise the displayed number.
‘Hello, Helen Johnson speaking.’
‘Ah, good. Miss Johnson, hello. It’s Alan Ralston here.’
‘Yes, how can I help you?’ The name was vaguely familiar, but Helen couldn’t quite place it.
‘Miss Johnson, we’ve not met. I’m phoning for my father, Billy Ralston, your tenant out at Temple.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry, Alan; I knew I should know the name but couldn’t place it. I’ve just not had the chance to come out and visit your father at the farm since I inherited it.’
‘Don’t you worry about that. The land will be here whenever you’re ready, and I’m thinking summer is the time to see it at its best.’
‘Okay, though I was just as keen to have a look around the woodland, next to the farm, that you look after for St Bernard’s. How is your father? What can I do for you?’
‘Well, that’s the problem, Miss Johnson. Yon storm, it was a wild one, brought down some trees in the wood during the night. Half a dozen at least. Big old boys.’
‘Wouldn’t you expect to lose the odd tree in a storm?’
‘Aye, but this is a cluster, came down together. My father went up to have a look this morning just to make sure, and he didn’t come back for his lunch.’
‘I see. What’s happened?’
‘I went up myself a wee while back, to try to find him. It’s odd, very odd; I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Well, Alan, what’s happened?’
‘The downed trees have cut a swathe through the wood as they fell, opened a great jumbled clearing right in the middle of it. Like a bombsite. Their roots have come up and weakened the ground. My father must have stepped on some turf and gone right through, nothing underneath.’
‘Oh, no! How is he?’
‘Oh, he’ll live. Broken arm, maybe a twisted ankle too. I’ve got him out and back here to the farm. He’s sitting quietly, just waiting for the ambulance to get here.’
‘Well, thank God.’
‘Aye, for sure. I thought he’d maybe fallen into some old mine workings opened by the tree fall. Half the county is riddled with old tunnels, some of them can run out a good distance from the original shaft. Up to a mile and more. Many of the tunnels were never reported by the miners; they just burrowed where they wanted. Above ground, nobody could see what they were up to.’
‘Sounds as though he was lucky. Is there anything I can do?’
‘The thing is, it was no mine workings, Miss Johnson. It looks like an old chamber. I mean very, very old. You know, it’s odd. My family has worked the land for umpteen generations and nobody has ever talked of old buildings there. I’ve always thought it was pristine ancient woodland - that’s why we always worked so hard to preserve it. You know our tenancy agreement requires that.’
Helen knew. She knew too that the woodland was exactly where she and Sam wanted to investigate; they were both certain it was somehow linked to her Templar inheritance. To date, they had been thwarted by government regulations, unable to hunt around the area because it had protected status as a site of special scientific interest.
‘Miss Johnson, I’m thinking you’ll want to come out and see, but my father’s worried. The trees coming down was an act of God, you know. We’ve always looked after the woodland; you can’t think this was a breach of our tenancy terms—’
‘Alan, stop worrying and put your father’s mind at rest. I understand; the storm was blowing hard here too. I’ve seen the tenancy reports. Year after year, he, your whole family, have always done a good job. Tell him if anyone knows all about acts of God, it’s me! Now get Billy off to hospital. Phone me later to let me know how he is and if there is anything I can do to help. Then we can arrange a time for me to visit sometime tomorrow. And, Alan …’
‘Yes, Miss Johnson?’
‘From now on, please just call me Helen, okay?’
‘Yes Miss … Helen.’
Helen hung up the phone and paced back to the kitchen. She stopped at the window and looked out at the snow that now completely covered the lawn and continued to fall, even heavier than before. She cast an eye up into the snow-filled sky.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Unable to stop herself, she punched the air. ‘Yes! Yes, yes, yes!’
• • •
The grand dining room fell into silence, and thirty-one seated men watched an electric-powered wheelchair hum its occupant through the open doorway and make its way to the vacant place at the head of the table. Eugene Parsol had arrived.
He paused for a moment then lifted a glass from the table and took a slow sip. His eyes closed and his cheeks drew in slightly as he savoured the vintage. He didn’t need to look to know what was before him; it was an image he had seen repeated every year since he
had succeeded his father, an image his father would have seen every year before that, and had been witnessed by his antecedents far back into earlier, and now long forgotten, generations. Fifteen affluent but soberly dressed men sat in line on either side of the table and, at the foot, was his son, his depute and heir, Eugene Parsol Jr. Occupying the chair immediately to his right was Cassiter. There was no sound; they were all still, waiting for his address.
‘Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. I appreciate that bringing our annual gathering forward has disrupted many of your plans for the New Year’s celebrations, and I thank you and your partners for attending at such short notice.’ Parsol paused, allowing time for a dutiful murmuring of acknowledgement to run round the table.
He banged his glass down on the table and, instantly, silence returned.
‘I have weighed all your words and thought long on what to do …’ His gaze travelled down one side of the table and back up the other - contact, nod, proceed; contact, nod, proceed … Everyone was acknowledged. ‘To be clear, last year was a disaster.’ He looked down at his wheelchair and slapped his hands on the armrests. ‘I have suffered personally, we had to lose good men, our enemies have prospered and the Templar treasury was found and snatched from our grasp.’ His calm voice did not betray anything of the scale of loss incurred.
‘And yet … and yet, none of those setbacks will matter when we take the real hoard. The coin and gold bars found on Crete are as nothing to the Templars’ greatest secret. We know we are a single step from it, and we will have it. Now!’ His voice rose in an assertive crescendo as he banged a fist on the table. The guests rose and cheered, shaking clenched fists in the air.
The moment passed, and as the men settled down again, waiting staff hurried round and refreshed glasses. When the staff retired, Parsol raised his hand to command silence. Again, all present waited for his words.
‘The things we don’t know, we will act now to discover. What were Johnson and her friend Cameron really doing in Africa? Why were they so friendly with the Ethiopian bishop? Why haven’t they moved to retrieve the hoard? Perhaps, they still do not know they hold the key, the knowledge. No matter, we will stand ready, and as they unpick the puzzle, we will move to collect what is rightfully ours.’
