The Temple Scroll

by D C Macey

  ‘And you think that because?’ said Helen.

  ‘Because, if they knew where to look, they would have wrapped this up, and us too, long ago. They are just as disadvantaged as we are, stuck in the middle of the puzzle. Well no, actually at least we know the names of the churches and that there is another set of clues to find. I guess that puts us ahead -’

  ‘And maybe that’s why we’re still alive. It might be they can’t solve the problem and are hoping we can,’ said Helen.

  ‘You could be right,’ said Sam.

  ‘Sam, run the churches past me again. I want to be sure I have a good handle on them,’ said Francis.

  ‘Well, it’s straight forward, provided we all agree to accept that between Sandi McLellan and you guys there is enough religious knowledge to back up the identifications.’ Sam saw heads nodding agreement.

  ‘So, here we go. We have St Bernard’s, at the centre, it’s the spreading vine or burning bush; reaching out to link the other saints together, its dagger has a number list engraved on the blade. That should determine in what order the other blades should be aligned to create a map from the blade engravings. We have St Bartholomew’s, Xavier’s church and his dagger was numbered seven. Then there is St Michael’s in Garway; that was dagger number eight.’ Sam looked knowingly at Helen. ‘Then you tracked down St Olaf’s in Norway for dagger number five. Four churches, four glass images, four daggers. That works pretty well,’ he watched for Helen’s acknowledgement.

  ‘Then we get into a bit of a grey area. We have two Scottish saints, St Mungo and St Margaret, and it would certainly make sense if they represented two Scottish churches that we have yet to trace. If we take our steer from the records of the family that donated their dagger to the National Museum of Scotland, we know that the museum dagger was originally based in the northeast of the country, out towards Elgin. I’ve made time to check through church records. There is no church in the immediate area that fits the bill.’ He could see faces around the table dropping.

  ‘Hold on, remember we have already found the dagger, number four - we don’t need to find the church. But for interest’s sake, I did a bit more digging and established that long, long ago there was a St Mungo’s church in the area. I would guess that was our link. As for the dunes dagger, number three, I’m guessing it should be housed within a church called St Margaret’s. But think about it, if the dagger was lost on the Fife coast, perhaps on its original journey to establish the church, Orkney maybe, who knows where, it would never have reached its intended destination. There would never have been a church formed to house it or for us to find today.’

  ‘That still leaves three daggers unaccounted for,’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes, dagger numbers one, two and six are still missing. Let’s assume for the moment that the daggers all reached their intended destinations. From the glass window, we have three as yet unallocated saints’ names; these should represent three churches each of which contains a dagger.’

  ‘Sounds easy when you say it quickly,’ said Elaine.

  ‘And let’s not forget one of these three is the source of all the killings. If we get to the wrong one we could be in big trouble,’ said Helen.

  ‘Okay, let’s look at the names. St Boniface, seems he’s big in northern Europe, Germany and such like. St Athanasius, he’s stronger in the south and east. Then we have Mary Magdalene - well she seems pretty ubiquitous: could be anywhere.’

  ‘And that takes us back to the first layer of the riddle - where are these places?’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes it does. And I still don’t have a clue. Not sure where we go from here. Until we can identify what town or district each of the three churches is in, knowing their names is next to useless. They will take forever to find.’

  ‘And that’s still assuming the churches were founded as planned and that they still survive. We know of two that didn’t make it, there’s no saying that all three of these did either,’ said Elaine.

  ‘I know, but let’s try to be positive,’ said Sam.

  ‘So your suggestion is that rather than trying to unpick the message on the blades we should concentrate on finding the blades’ original destinations, and then the local churches through those three unallocated saints’ names,’ said Helen.

  ‘Right, and the information is here just waiting for us to find it, I’m certain. I know we searched the place once before but I think we need to go over everything again. Bear in mind how the glass window carried a hidden message in plain sight; remember how the parish dagger was hidden in plain sight too. This time let’s keep an open mind.’

  ‘We should work quickly. James Curry is determined to have the properties empty and in the hands of the estate agents as soon as he can. Once that happens we won’t have easy access to the manse or the church,’ said Elaine.

  • • •

  The manse was quiet now. The others had gone and Helen sat alone in the study. In front of her, the desk was heaped with piles of papers, records and notes. She had skimmed through them during a previous search but now she carefully scrutinised each page before placing it in one of the storage boxes at her feet. Two filled boxes sat on the floor behind her, several more sat empty, waiting their turn to be filled. This was going to be a long task, necessary though if they were to find any hidden message. Also important, the manse’s contents needed to be packed and ready to move in case her fledgling plans to deal with James Curry’s selling of the property fell through.

  The phone rang and Helen broke off from the search to answer it, pleased to have a break. ‘Helen speaking.’

  ‘Helen, it’s Franz here, Franz Brenner. Thank God I’ve caught you.’

  ‘Franz, what a surprise, why are you calling? I’m visiting you soon. Is there some problem with the arrangements?’

  ‘Helen, you must come, our meeting remains fixed. I look forward to your visit, but that is not why I am calling you now.’

  ‘Oh. What’s new?’ she said.

  ‘There has been an…’ his voice trailed off for a moment, as though a carefully rehearsed speech was being revised during its delivery. ‘I’m afraid, there has been an incident.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Helen. ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘The worst, in so many ways.’

  The call had not lasted long. News of the loss of the Norwegian dagger was disturbing but ultimately not a disaster; she had given Sam a photographic record of the blade’s engraving. Franz had been very concerned at the breach of banking security; she had reassured him she understood some things were beyond even his control. However, news of the death of Oskar and his family was shocking for her and, she could tell, for Franz too. Oskar had been so kind and helpful.

  Helen shivered as the image of the man flitted through her mind. She saw him again, shepherding her into his office, surrendering his chair and fussing around to ensure coffee and cakes were served. She steeled herself. Yet more innocents had been dragged beneath the millstone of this evil. It had to be stopped.

  Franz told her the police’s initial theory attributed it to a domestic breakdown, murder and suicide by a highflier who cracked under the strain. She knew otherwise and hated that the poor man’s reputation was being questioned. Franz had parted with an assurance that he intended to alert the police to the loss of their asset and the altogether more sinister possibilities they should consider around Oskar’s death.

  As Helen hung up the call, the front door bell rang. She really did not want to speak to anyone but it persisted and eventually she answered the door.

  DCI Wallace stood alone; he nodded to her as she opened the door and then he stepped forward, scarcely giving her a chance to invite him in.

  ‘Do you have a few minutes please?’ He kept walking into the hall as he spoke.

  ‘Come in, why don’t you?’ said Helen, still holding the front door while looking back into the hall.

  ‘Thanks, where are we? In here?’ he pointed at the open study door and walked in.

 
; ‘Go ahead, don’t mind me,’ said Helen, following behind. She was puzzled by the policeman’s behaviour; it was not like him to be so pushy. But she was not ready for a confrontation, still processing the information that Franz had just given her. She took her seat behind the desk and waved her hand towards an empty visitor chair. ‘You may as well have a seat while you’re here.’ She did not offer any refreshments.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Wallace. He sat, pulling the chair close to the desk. ‘Now we have to speak.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me, detective. What’s bothering you? Oh and where’s Detective Sergeant Brogan? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without him.’ Her attempt at light chat fell flat.

  ‘I deliberately left him behind. Wanted to speak with you off the record.’

  Helen smiled at him, trying to hide the tension that had gripped her following Franz’s news. She did not think the detective was fooled.

  ‘Helen, I’ve been visiting New College, do you know it? Up on the Mound.’

  ‘Of course, I am with the Church of Scotland. What took you up there?’ She was on safe ground so far but was unsure of where the detective was leading the conversation.

  ‘You haven’t seen the news then?’ he asked, almost casually.

  ‘No, the past twenty-four hours have been pretty hectic,’ she said, sweeping her arm around to encompass the piles of papers and packing boxes.

  ‘I see, and what’s going on here? Are you moving out?’

  Helen sighed. ‘Not through choice. The presbytery is restructuring the Church’s footprint in the city; well I think that’s how he described it. But it amounts to shutting us down.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  ‘James Curry. He’s the presbytery clerk and St Bernard’s is in his sights.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought a clerk could influence the Church’s work.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the job title. That man has a very big stick. When he decides to wave it everyone runs for cover.’

  Wallace could understand if the Church needed to rationalise it would make sense to lose St Bernard’s. After all, it did seem to have become a magnet for violence and killing - not the best type of publicity. He made a mental note to have Brogan speak to Curry, just in case there were any other influencing factors.

  ‘When were you last at New College?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Probably not since the last General Assembly, back in May. I certainly attended a meeting then.’

  ‘I see, and tell me, what about your friend Sam Cameron? Does he ever visit there?’

  Helen knew that something was wrong. Something must have happened at New College. ‘Yes,’ she said more cautiously, ‘he was there earlier in the week.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Problem for me is, shortly after his visit somebody was killed there.’

  ‘What? Who? Where? At New College?’ Helen leant forward. ‘What happened?’

  Wallace noted both her sudden change of attitude from apparent despondency to livewire and the look of open shock on her face. He knew in his bones this latest murder was linked to the church and university killings of earlier in the year, and somehow back to the manse too. He could also tell the news was a complete surprise to her. Whatever her involvement, it was not murder.

  He pressed Helen, tried to coax something, anything from her. She had composed herself again and he was being met by a stonewall of concerned unknowing. After a little while, he became frustrated.

  ‘Look, I’ve handed in my resignation, I’m retiring. In a few weeks, I’ll be finished. And right now, I’m ignoring every rule in the budget book. I’ve been told not to engage with this case but I’ve detailed members of my team to watch our original suspect because we know he’s our man. I’ve got his people watched and his office too. I’m doing it because I know there is something going down. Something bad and I know you and your friends are caught up in it. By the time my bosses see the work sheets, I’ll be on pension and there’s nothing they can do about the overspend. But when I’ve gone, your protection will stop dead. So we need to sort this double quick.’ DCI Wallace stood and paced to the window. He rested a hand on the frame and leaned close to the glass, peered out.

  ‘Now I’ve got another murder on my books. For me, there is too much coincidence. The Church, the university, a dead body and your friend passing through.’ He turned, looked back at Helen still sitting at her desk. ‘I know there’s something going on. Know you and Sam aren’t killers, but you are involved. Please, for your sakes and the families of those who have been killed, let me help you.’

  Helen stared hard at the detective. She desperately wanted to tell him but knew knowledge was the danger. The man didn’t deserve to be put at risk. If she told him everything he would end up on the to die list too. What could she do? After a long moment, she stretched out her arm, waving DCI Wallace back to his seat. He complied.

  ‘This is an impossible situation, detective. I don’t know what to tell you.’

  ‘Try the truth.’

  Helen shrugged. ‘The truth? If only it were that simple.’

  ‘In the end, it is.’

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At New College, did she suffer?’

  ‘Tell me, Helen, if you haven’t heard the news, how did you know it was a woman that had been killed?’

  ‘I… I assumed, that’s all. Thought you meant it was Sandi McLellan, the lady Sam visited.’

  ‘Why would I have meant that?’

  Helen was sick of games. Just minutes before, she had learnt that a lovely young man and his family had been slaughtered. Now she was being pressed by a good man who would simply make himself another victim. ‘Oh stop it detective. If I tell you anything, you will become a target too. Was Sandi killed?’

  ‘No. It was a cleaner,’ he said.

  Helen felt a moment of relief, the killing was not connected; it vanished in just a moment as DCI Wallace continued. ‘Though Sandi McLellan has reported that her workroom was rifled that evening. Some notes and papers stolen.’

  Helen leant forward. ‘You must protect her. She will be a target for certain.’

  Wallace could sense the conviction in Helen’s voice; it was clear she was not playing a game. Whatever the threat, she believed it was real. Wallace believed it too.

  Helen decided to take the plunge. She had to if it could get Sandi McLellan some protection. Too many innocents had died already. ‘You said your visit today is off the record. Do you really mean that?’

  He nodded.

  Helen pulled open the desk’s top drawer and pulled out a book. She put it on the table in front of her. It was a bible. Resting her hand on it, she looked straight into Wallace’s eyes. ‘I swear what I will tell you now is true. I swear that if you raise it outside this room I will deny every word. If anyone ever discovers that you know, you will be in danger and I fear your family will be too - there are no boundaries. I’m telling you only so you can protect Sandi McLellan before they get to her, and they will try, I’m sure. Now you swear to keep it secret.’ She slid the bible across the desk.

  Wallace hesitated. ‘I can’t do that. I would be hamstringing myself at work. You know I can’t. I’m an officer of the law.’

  Unflinching, Helen looked at him. ‘Then I can’t tell you anything, I’m afraid. Nothing at all. You’ll have to leave now.’ She stood.

  Wallace looked up at Helen; she saw he was torn.

  ‘I don’t understand what you meant about my family,’ he said.

  Helen told him the story of a Norwegian banker and his young family, dead without ever knowing the reason why - killed simply because he had unwittingly had contact with something, without ever knowing its significance.

  Wallace stopped her. Made a call, it only took a couple of minutes to get confirmation of the deaths.

  Then he knew she was not making up a threat. It was real.

  Putting his phone away, he reached a decisi
on. He needed to know. He placed his hand on the bible and joined eye contact with Helen. ‘If I am to help, even a little bit, I need to know. But I need to keep my family safe too; nobody will ever know what you tell me. Unless you incriminate yourself. If you’re a killer, no oath will stop me bringing you to justice.’

  Helen smiled at him. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less of you. Don’t worry; there are no killers in this room. But I will have to tell Sam that you know. We are hand in glove on this.’

  Finally, with a deep breath, DCI Wallace accepted Helen’s terms and she pressed her hand on top of his. He repeated her words, parroting the oath she dictated and she listened intently. Then, content, she sat back in her chair. Wallace leant back too. She could see in his expression that a sense of anticipation was pulsing through him.

  They talked for a long time. She told him a lot of what had happened. The history, the links with the Templar hoard. The theories they had formed about the killings and who was responsible. Highlighted the things they didn’t know. And very deliberately missed some key bits - she avoided mentioning the tunnel, and withheld the information about their presence when the two men had been shot dead earlier in the year. She accepted that her presence at the killings and subsequently keeping quiet about it was withholding information from a murder investigation on a scale that even a retiring policeman couldn’t sit on.

  DCI Wallace had remained silent as she talked, just nodding. Finally, story over, she looked into his eyes, searching for a response.

  ‘Well, I believe you. But only because I’ve seen this whole mess unfold over the past months and because I know that none of our own theories even begins to fit and I can see that what you have told me does - incredible but it fits. I also know that if I walk into the station with this story I’ll be picking up my pension a good bit earlier than I expected.’

  Helen nodded an acknowledgement. Wallace could not see it but he had lifted a weight off her shoulders. A maverick minister, yes, but honest and law-abiding she certainly strived to be. Having told the policeman, she felt better inside, more like herself.