A Richer Dust Concealed: A gripping historical mystery thriller you won’t be able to put down!

by R P Nathan

  I shook my head

  “He was there during the siege. He was the one that saved Bragadino’s skin.” He gave a throaty and not particularly pleasant chuckle. “I have his journal which gives an account of the siege.”

  My eyes widened. Sarah would love that. “Is it in English?”

  “No, in Italian. But I also have an English translation. An amateur English translation only, you understand. Handwritten in a notebook by a British soldier who was killed in the First World War.”

  “Oh right. And how come you’ve got something like that?”

  “You would have to ask my father or my grandfather a question like that,” he said briskly. “They knew the stories of all the books in the shop but not me. Since I have been here these two have always been together: the journal and the notebook. Are you interested?”

  “They sound great.”

  He sniffed and shrugged. “Fine. Then I go get them.” He returned after only a few moments with a pair of books, laying them carefully on the counter before us. Both were slim volumes, the size of a paperback. The journal was bound in brown leather. He opened it, turning the pages with care, revealing large printed text inside broken up with dates. The book was a hundred or so pages long but at the end, for the last six pages the shape of the text suddenly changed, paragraphs and indents replaced by solid blocks of printing: row after row of equally spaced capital letters.

  “A code,” he said.

  He closed the journal and turned his attention to the other book, black and clothbound. He opened it and we could see it too was set out like a diary, handwritten, the script a perfectly legible copperplate, filling about half the pages on one side only.

  “Now look,” he said and turned the notebook upside down and over and there was more of the same neat script. “This is the translation of Polidoro’s journal.”

  We craned and read the words: This is the journal of Girolamo Polidoro, servant to Count Francesco Bugon of Verona and most loyal subject of Venice. I set these thoughts down so that a record might exist—

  He snapped the notebook shut and placed it on top of the journal.

  “Why’s the end of the journal in code?” I asked.

  “It holds a secret. It tells where a great treasure is hidden.”

  I started to laugh but the sound choked in me almost immediately as I realised he was serious.

  “What kind of code is it?” asked Patrick.

  “You know about codes?”

  “I studied them as part of my maths degree.”

  “I did physics,” I piped up.

  Galbaio ignored me, fixing Patrick with a stare. “If you’ve studied mathematics then perhaps you will be able to break the code.”

  Patrick blinked back at him in surprise. “Perhaps. Has no one broken it already?”

  “Not in four hundred years.”

  “And what’s the treasure?” I asked eagerly.

  “Read the book,” he said patting them both with the palm of his hand. “They will tell you. So you will buy them?”

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Fine. I will wrap them.” He pulled a paper bag from under the counter. “That will be 300,000 Lire.”

  My jaw dropped open and I could feel Patrick staring at me.

  “That’s over a hundred quid,” he hissed. “Did you mean to spend that much?”

  I looked back at him helplessly. All I wanted was to get her a present. Something that she’d like. But a hundred quid? A hundred quid?

  The bookshop owner had paused, the books halfway into the bag. He gave me an icy look. “There is a problem?”

  “No problem.” I was feeling light headed. “They just seem quite expensive.”

  “Expensive? These books are old books. This one is eighty years old and this one is four hundred years old. You understand? Four hundred years and you say it is expensive.” He shook his head in disgust. “And what do you want?” His son had come over and was looking at the books anxiously.

  “These books, Papa. Uncle Lori won’t be very happy if you sell them.”

  “It’s none of his business,” he growled.

  “But he’s been working on them for a long time—”

  “Then maybe it’s time someone else looked at them!” He thumped the counter. “He thinks he can always do what he wants. Running around, causing trouble. Hurting people—”

  “No one’s actually got hurt.”

  “Yet. Yet. It’s just a matter of time. Which will mean trouble for all of us. Well, while he’s playing with fireworks, someone has to keep things going. Keep us from going under. Loredan needs to remember who is in charge.” He turned back to us with a terrifying expression on his face. “So, you want them or you don’t want them?”

  “Yes,” I squeaked, not wanting to catch his eye. “I want them.” I didn’t look at Patrick either. I just pulled out the credit card I carried for emergencies. “It’s fine. I’ll pay with that.”

  “Thank you,” he said suddenly smiling again, taking the card and getting an imprint of it. “Now please sign this slip and this is your receipt and this is mine and here are your books.” And before we knew it we were out on the street again.

  “What was all that about?” said Patrick as we stood blinking at each another.

  “I have no idea.”

  “You know…” His voice was gentle. “You know you’ve just bought an old notebook and a journal you can’t even read for a hundred pounds.”

  “I know, Patrick. You’ve said that already.”

  “Sorry.”

  A strange jittery sensation started fluttering inside me. I didn’t have a lot of money like Julius and Duncan or even Patrick for that matter and the enormity of what I’d done was only just sinking in.

  “Do you think they’re even genuine?”

  I suddenly felt sick. “Come on. Let’s go and find a piazza somewhere and have a drink.”

  ◆◆◆

  It was fully twenty minutes later sitting in a corner of Piazza Navona that we plucked up the courage to look at the books again.

  “You know it doesn’t really seem that old,” said Patrick of the brown leather bound journal. “Certainly not four hundred years anyway. Sorry—”

  “It’s OK,” I said resignedly. “Somehow it seemed older in the shop.”

  “I think it was the bookseller’s patter.”

  “Yeah, all that stuff about some other guy wanting it,” I said glumly. “He really suckered me in.”

  “We could always go and ask for your money back.”

  I thought of the bookseller again and it made me shiver. “No way.” I held up the clothbound notebook. “Well this one seems reasonably old anyway.” I opened it. Handwritten inside the front cover was: The diary of Henry Arthur Shaeffer. On the facing page the diary started immediately.

  3 January 1915

  My darling Anna

  At the beginning of this new year, I have resolved to keep a diary for I fear I will go mad otherwise from the lack of practised thought and intelligent conversation. If but once a day, a week or even a month I set down my thoughts to you then I can imagine them examined by your trained mind, my words and deeds questioned and quizzed as though you were before me. And once I have returned to you, you will be able to read this diary and gauge that I have indeed missed you, and that I wish with my whole heart to have you and Frances beside me once again.

  I know you have received my letters and am glad to have received yours. But as you know all mine are read first by the wonderful Captain Hargreaves and, estimable man that he is, I feel that there is no need to make his blood pound stronger by committing my innermost thoughts for his perusal. No, better I keep these thoughts, and my views on the war – which has left me frustratingly uninvolved so far – and my views on him and, most of all, my deepest thoughts for you, a secret between you and me.

  When I do finally see you again (and Colonel Roberts has told me that I will be back with you for June at the latest) I will be a
ble to present this journal to you in person and you can catalogue and order my thoughts to your heart’s content, abstract them to nothing, and reduce my meanderings to but one drop of sense, that drop being my intense desire for you and my eternal love for Frances.

  “It’s quite personal isn’t it,” I said disappointed. “Why don’t we take a look at the translation instead.” I turned to the back of the book.

  This is the journal of Girolamo Polidoro, servant to Count Francesco Bugon of Verona and most loyal subject of the Republic of Venice. I set these thoughts down so that a record might exist of these dark days in Famagusta and so that should the same fate befall us here as in Nicosia then others might know of all that the murderous Turk hath wrought against the followers of Christ in this fair city. And should the fight go against us and we are laid waste then it will be known that we fought with our hands and our hearts and, if God will allow, these dishonours that are sure to be heaped upon us may one day be avenged one thousand times one thousand fold.

  14 September 1570

  A Greek peasant arrived this morning sent by the Turks from Nicosia bearing news to our Captain General Marc’Antonio Bragadino, and carrying the head of Nicolo Dandolo in a basin. His arrival and tidings had a disquieting effect upon the populace in Famagusta. Aware that the news was abroad, the Captain General and Captain of the Militia, Astorre Baglione, walked through the town and made a show of consulting with all the fighting men and captains to raise heart. Of the Captain General many good things are said by my lord and master Count Bugon who has spoken with him several times in the past weeks and considers him to have an able brain and a cool nerve. My lord had criticised Dandolo, who had been invested with the defence of Nicosia, as a weak man and not suitable for such a task and though it is not right to speak ill of the fallen, I believe his conduct exhibited many deficiencies.

  The loss of Nicosia and twenty thousand Christian souls causes a great sadness to fall upon me. But it does not bring me fear for the defences of Famagusta are stronger than at Nicosia and our position on the sea will enable reinforcements and supplies to arrive more easily. But our great strength will lie in the organisation of our leaders and the bravery of those within the walls of the city, which is second to none.

  “Well that’s more interesting isn’t it,” I said breathing a sigh of relief. “Let’s read for just another ten minutes and then head back. The girls’ll be dropping by soon.”

  My master Count Bugon told me that we should be needing two horses that very evening...

  Chapter 3

  When we got back to the room the shutters had been opened but Julius and Duncan were still lying undressed in bed, propped up against their pillows, smoking and chatting.

  “Hi guys,” said Duncan cheerily. “Where’d you go?”

  “Over to Piazza Navona,” I said casually.

  “Any good?” He gave a huge yawn and dropped his cigarette butt into the empty Coke can by his bed.

  “Yeah. You should check it out.”

  “Is it on the agenda Julio?”

  “Maybe this evening. I think we should head off to the Forum this afternoon. What have you got there?”

  Patrick and I exchanged an excited smile.

  “A couple of books I picked up. This one’s a notebook written by a soldier who died in the First World War. And this is a journal from the sixteenth century.”

  Julius eyes widened. “Let me see that.”

  I handed it to him carefully. “It’s an account of the siege of Famagusta by Girolamo Polidoro. Sarah was talking about it last night. It’s amazing. It begins with the hiding of a gold cross and then the end contains the exact location but it’s in code—”

  “Let’s have a look at the notebook,” said Duncan. I gave it to him and shot a triumphant glance at Patrick as the two of them pored over the books.

  “How much did you pay for this?” asked Julius eventually.

  “About a hundred quid.”

  He looked up at me in awe.

  “Why?” My heart was racing. “Do you think it’s worth a lot more than that?”

  “More?” He started laughing. “No not more. This is toilet paper.”

  It was like he’d hit me.

  “This isn’t four hundred years old, you geek. It isn’t even a hundred years old. Can’t you tell anything? The leather’s almost brand new and there are no printer’s marks or anything.”

  “Who are you to say? You’re no expert—”

  “No I’m not. The only expert is the guy who took a hundred pounds off you for this fake. He must have seen you coming.”

  “You don’t know anything.” But even to me my voice sounded weak and uncertain.

  Duncan let out a sudden guffaw. “Ha ha! It’s fucking porn man. Listen to this.” He put on an upper class English accent and read from the notebook:

  ...I said yes we would make love, but perhaps just once, starting with a kiss and an embrace, undressing, feeling your gentle touch on my skin, which is like electricity to me, and then falling together, caressing, and moving, slowly at first—

  “Give me that!” I snatched the book from him. He rolled on his bed consumed with hilarity.

  “The boys bought old bad porn!”

  “Don’t forget your sixteenth century manuscript,” Julius sneered and threw the journal at me so that the pages caught the air and splayed out. “Expert.”

  I bit my lip in fury.

  “It’s a shame,” said Duncan sitting up again, tears of laughter rolling down his face. “It’s a shame the girls aren’t coming by. They’d wet their cute little panties at this. Hey no offence Patrick.”

  Patrick was staring at him and I was staring at Patrick, anger and bewilderment swirling together inside me.

  “What do you mean, they’re not coming by?” I said.

  “You know. Like: not – coming – by.”

  “But they were going to drop in on the way to the station.” My chest tightened. Each breath and word was suddenly an ordeal. “They were coming at lunchtime.”

  “Sure, but they’re not now. They rang and told us about an hour ago. They’ve taken an earlier train.” He shrugged; then a slow smile spread over his face. “Hey Patrick. Why didn’t you let on how hot your cousin’s little friend was? Were you saving her for yourself?”

  Patrick was taken by surprise. “No.”

  “You sly dog.”

  “She certainly was very pretty,” said Julius coolly.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, my face screwed up in frustration.

  “Understand what?” Julius arched an eyebrow.

  “Why would they want to catch an earlier train?”

  “How should I know?”

  “But didn’t they say anything when they rang? Didn’t they leave a message?”

  “Not for you dude,” said Duncan. “They did tell us to say goodbye to Patrick though.”

  “Did they mention about meeting up in Paris?” Patrick looked hopeful.

  Duncan and Julius exchanged a quick glance. “No, actually,” said Julius. “Paris wasn’t mentioned. They said we might meet up again in London or something… When we get back.”

  “But that’s ages away.” Patrick made a face.

  “Hey,” said Duncan. “Look on the plus side: it’s not like you really stood a chance with Maya anyway.” He smiled. He was being reassuring. Kind even. “Because she was wanting her Uncle Dunc.”

  “Patrick was getting on with her just as well as you were!”

  “Yeah, sure he was,” said Duncan indulgently. He chuckled to himself. “And what about you Julio? You and Sarah made quite an item.”

  “They did not!”

  “Dude, they were seriously digging each other. There was massive chemistry between them.”

  “I’ve got to say we did get on very well.” Julius sat straight up against the wall, his arms crossed over his pale torso, evidently savouring the memory. “And Patrick, you said she’s always had a soft spot for me.”


  I froze.

  “Well...” He looked over at me guiltily. “I’m not sure.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Julius said smugly. “She was certainly interested last night. She practically snogged me when we said goodbye.”

  “She couldn’t have!”

  “John,” he said, blinking at me superciliously. “I think I know when a girl’s got her tongue in my mouth.”

  “But we’d have seen it if she snogged you—”

  “I pretty much saw it,” said Duncan nodding.

  “But… she can’t have.”

  “Why not?” said Julius frowning.

  “Because she’d already got off with me!”

  “Hey!” said Duncan sounding impressed.

  “She did not.”

  “She did what?” Patrick’s eyes widened. “You and Julius.”

  “I’m sorry Pat. I was going to tell you.”

  “What do you mean: got off with her?” said Julius.

  “None of your business.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Hang on—”

  “Look,” said Duncan to me. “I heard Sarah on the phone this morning and she was hot for Julius.”

  “She couldn’t have been.” My head was swirling. “I know what happened.”

  “Evidently not,” smiled Julius. “And in any case I talked to her last so I think I’m in the best position to judge.”

  Suddenly I’d had enough. “Fine. Whatever. I’m sick of listening to your crap. I’m out of here.”

  “What do you mean?” said Patrick. He looked utterly spun out.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick, but it’s just not working.”

  “I agree,” yawned Julius. “I’ve been thinking that for a while. Duncan and I had been planning to go our separate way as well.”

  “You had?” said Patrick.

  “Don’t worry, Pat,” I said scowling at Julius. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Sorry,” said Julius. “But you understand. I just don’t think we can keep up the pretence any longer.” He swung his legs round and sat up on the edge of his bed in his boxer shorts. Scratched a surprisingly hairy leg. “We should get up now,” he said to Duncan. “I’m starving.”

  Patrick and I watched them in shell-shocked silence as they dressed.