by D C Macey
Helen sat and waited. From the white ceiling, a pair of strip lights flooded the room with a crisp white light and a white marbled floor shimmered reflections of the strip lights above. Not a place to come with a hangover, thought Helen. She smiled to herself: something to keep in mind for future visits.
A minute after Franz left, Helen sensed a movement. The hatch cover was silently slipping down and out of sight to reveal a plain metal box. It was around 150 centimetres long, 50 centimetres deep and 50 centimetres high. She sat still, looking at the box, considering what might be inside that was so important. Finally, she stood and crossed to the hatch and carefully tested the weight of the box. It was heavy, very heavy; she could scarcely lift it. How much of that weight was the metal casing and how much was the contents, she could not tell.
In any event, it was too heavy for her. She crossed to the door and pressed the buzzer to summon help. A guard hurried into the room and lifted the box over to the table, then left, closing the door behind him.
Helen gently laid her hands on the box. ‘Well, John Dearly, what have you left for me here? I hope it’s going to help unwind this mess we’re in,’ she let her eyes close for a moment. ‘God rest you.’
Pulling out her key ring, she selected the one she had recently taken from John’s key ring in Edinburgh. It was the only key of his they could not find a use for in church or manse. Then she had spotted a tiny engraving on the shank and inspection through a magnifying glass had revealed the crest of Franz Brenner’s bank. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid. It hinged up and back. Helen let her breath out slowly. There were several packages inside the box, each wrapped in cloth: velvet she thought, reaching out and stroking the old and perfectly smooth material. She could feel hard things beneath.
Looking at the array, for a moment it felt like a birthday. Which to open first? Her eyes focused on the largest package. Long and slim, her heart sank a little; she could guess what it was. Reaching in, she lifted the package and placed it on the table, then unwrapped the velvet cover to reveal what she had guessed, a sword. Perfectly preserved in the controlled environment, she could tell this was the real thing. A Templar sword, and not just any Templar sword; her long past predecessor’s sword. He had been the first in a long line. A line that led through the ages from a preceptory at Temple all the way to her standing here today.
She looked more closely at the weapon. The pommel carried the unmistakable Templar cross, the wire wrapping round the grip was still taut as though fitted only yesterday, waiting for the owner to lift and wield it in battle. Then the cross guard, still bearing the scar where it had once blocked a sliding sword stroke. And finally, she gently slid the scabbard away to reveal the blade. Carefully, her hand stroked its length. It was shining under a fine film of oil that some hand had applied. John Dearly? Archie Buchan perhaps? She would never know now. Perhaps she should refresh it one day. She would speak with Sam about that. He would want to see this anyway.
Midway down the blade, Helen’s hand stopped. She looked more closely at the blade’s edge and shivered. Repeated sharpening and polishing of the blade could not hide the telltale nicks and scratches in the metal. This was a blade that had seem a lot of combat, had tasted blood many times. She let the sword rest on the table, stepped back a little to review it. Had things always been like this? Had death always stalked the task like a shadow? Will it ever end? She slid the blade back into its scabbard and put the sword to one side.
Turning her attention back to the box, she continued her review of the contents. An ancient leather bound ledger, its pages thick and stiff with age. Were the pages even made of paper? Again that was something Sam would consider. The earliest entries were in Latin. Other than some dates, she couldn’t make them out at all. Then, if anything the writing became even more impenetrable - she wondered if this was Lowland Scots - more work for Sam. The chronology of entries indicated it was a record of something. She guessed this was a type of journal.
As the record developed, the scratching quill was replaced by copperplate script, that in turn gave way to the more fluid style of modern writing and these later entries became progressively more legible for her. She saw the final entries had been by John Dearly. The most recent, a simple nothing to report entry dated three years before his death. She traced his messages back through time. Over the years, he had left several other similar messages while his first entry acknowledged a handover from Archie Buchan. Before that, a series of similar entries by Archie, the last of which declared the handing on of the task to John.
She concluded that the handover itself was an oral procedure. There seemed to be nothing in the legible entries that cast any light on their current problems. Perhaps the earlier entries contained something, they seemed far more extensive, but that might just be an older writing style and more formal language. She could not tell. Sam would need to cast his linguist’s eye over the ledger. She toyed with the thought of writing an entry of her own but decided against it and put the ledger aside.
Next, she went to lift out a little wooden chest, it was deceptively heavy, she opted to leave it inside the safe deposit box and just open it in situ. She was staggered to see a neat row of slender gold bars. Each was the length of her middle finger and just a little thicker. She lifted one bar out and saw another layer below; she instinctively knew there would be further rows beneath that. Lifting the bar up to the light she marvelled for a minute and then replaced it, understanding now why the box had seemed so impossibly heavy. Hugely valuable, all this on top of her trust fund. She had no idea of its full value - a lot.
She unwrapped a small box; it contained half a dozen ancient gold coins, each different and each in mint condition. She did not recognise them but assumed they would have had some special significance for whoever established the cache. Beneath the coins were four gold medallions, all equally meaningless to her. Again, she expected Sam would be better able to recognise their meaning, if any, when time allowed.
A wooden box next - around the size of a jewellery box that a woman might keep on her dressing table. Highly polished, all sides worked by an intricate marquetry pattern. She studied it carefully, thinking it odd since the pattern of repeating imagery was more typical of Islamic art. It seemed out of place amongst the Templar relics and there seemed no way of opening it. Stumped, Helen put it aside. Sam was going to be busy.
She turned her attention to another package that rested at the bottom of the box. Again, it felt heavy as she lifted it out and placed it on the table. Unwinding the velvet wrapper, she stopped, puzzled. The artefact seemed to be of little obvious application. It was a thick sheet of almost clear glass, square shaped and set within a gold frame. The glass was undecorated, quite plain, with a single strand of gold thread embedded inside it; the strand traced a random pattern like a child’s crayon scribble across the glass. The gold thread presented no hint as to its meaning or purpose, yet the effort involved in creating the piece, in embedding the gold, would have been significant. It must have a purpose but she just could not begin to imagine what.
Then Helen looked more closely at what she had at first taken to be an imperfection in the glass; suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose and she gave an involuntary shiver of recognition. Lifting the glass plate for a closer look, she fished inside the collar of her top and pulled out the signet ring on its heavy gold chain. Putting the glass and ring close together, she studied them carefully.
There was no doubt in her mind, embedded in the glass, perhaps three quarters of the distance along the length of the gold thread was a tiny ruby. It was identical to the one set in her signet ring. It could not be a coincidence, but what did it mean? Of all the treasures, this was the only one that seemed to have a direct link of any sort to her and their current situation. What did it signify?
She turned the glass over, carefully considered both faces. Then focused on the gold frame, it was set tight to the
glass’ edge, all around. The gold framing encroached over the glass’ surface forming an even lip of gold, just like a picture frame - a uniform four centimetres in width all around the glass. Set within three sides of the gold edging were slender strips of blue stone, she guessed lapis lazuli; the blue stone was positioned close to the outer edges of the frame, as distant from the glass as possible. The fourth side was plain.
She set the gold frame carefully on the table with the plain gold surface of the fourth side furthest away from her. The steady electric light picked out markings she had missed on first inspection, very lightly made, but clear. On the right hand side of the frame, positioned so close to the lapis it was hardly visible was a tiny cross, a Templar cross.
On the side nearest to her she realised the lapis was not straight edged, instead it arced inwards towards the glass and then out again. Near the apex of the arc was a faint ridging line marked into the gold frame: an etched zigzag across the gold, from lapis to glass, almost imperceptible, possibly even a casting flaw.
Turning the glass over, she looked at the frame beneath. The gold was plain with no marks or signs. But like the rest, it had been finished to the highest standard. Along two opposing sides of the base were a series of nine or ten evenly spaced crenulations - forming little feet to support the underside of the gold frame, each crenulation identical and perhaps a centimetre deep. She put the plate back on the table, stooping to peer more carefully, and was impressed to see that each crenulation rested perfectly on the tabletop. The crenulations formed a host of little feet to keep the glass tray level and each foot rested perfectly flat.
Taking her smartphone from her pocket, Helen took photos of the object from several different angles. The ruby told her this was significant today and Sam would need to review it as soon as possible. As she packed each item back into the bank box, she took more pictures so Sam could have a better feel for the contents. When there was an opportunity, he would need to come and spend some time here to understand exactly what they had.
Finally, with a slightly wistful glance inside the box she closed the lid and locked the strongbox. She pressed the buzzer to summon the guard who moved her box back into the hatch and left. She wondered what to do next, but no action was required. The weight of the box triggered a sequence and the hatch’s sliding front panel rose to seal off the strongbox from the room. Helen headed for the door, for a brief meeting with Franz and then the airport. She needed to get back to Edinburgh as soon as possible.
• • •
Sam steered the hire car into one of the empty parking bays and eased to a halt. He turned to Elaine who sat in the seat beside him. ‘All set?’ he said.
Francis and Grace were already getting out of the rear passenger doors.
‘Come on, Mum,’ said Grace, stepping forward to open the front passenger door. She leant an arm down to help her mother out. They had spent the previous day in the hospital visiting Xavier and Angelo, and the environment was becoming quite familiar. It was clear that neither priest was going anywhere in a hurry.
Angelo was still being maintained in an induced coma while his head injuries and brain swelling subsided. Though he had seemed quite unaware of his visitors, they would all spend some time with him again today, hoping that his subconscious might recognise their presence.
Xavier remained very weak. He drifted in and out of consciousness and could scarcely lift his hand off the bed. But at least when he was awake, his eyes had followed the visitors, flitting from one to the other as each spoke. At the moment, it was easier to be confident in the older priest’s recovery.
Before they returned to their hotel the previous evening, Sam had held a long conversation with the doctors. They were quietly hopeful that, given time, both priests might make it.
Now, in the sunshine, the hospital seemed a less ominous place. Yes, it was still the same mass of concrete and glass that typified modern hospitals almost everywhere, but it was warm and sun kissed and the smells of the sea and the mountains combined to diminish the city’s diesel fumes to just the faintest of background hints. All four visitors were returning to the wards in a more positive frame of mind.
They entered the hospital and took the lift up to the floor where Xavier and Angelo were accommodated. Angelo was in the intensive care unit at the north end of the corridor, his condition constantly monitored by a team of ICU staff. Towards the south end of the long corridor was a nurses’ station, well placed to service a short row of individual private rooms that ran beyond the station to the end of the corridor. Xavier was in the most distant room.
The group stepped out of the lift and Sam instinctively glanced left and right, reviewing the environment before they split up. The broad corridor was full of bustle and busy staff dressed for the part, darting here and there. He noted a man in weathered grey and brown clothes propped against the wall immediately outside ICU. Turning to look in the other direction, he could see two more men in similar attire sitting quietly on a bench just beyond the nurses’ station.
Out of place within the environment, the men did not bother the staff and the staff were careful not to look too closely at them. Sam smiled: similarly clad men had occupied the same positions during their visit the previous day. Xavier’s parishioners were leaving nothing to chance now.
Elaine and Francis headed towards ICU and Angelo; Sam and Grace made for Xavier’s private room. Pausing at the nurses’ station, Sam asked how Xavier was doing and listened attentively to the nurse’s reply while Grace focused on Xavier’s parishioner guards.
Sam saw Grace give one guard a discreet wave and smile - saw the warm response, yet noted with approval that the young guard made no attempt to move from his place beside his older companion. Sam had also seen the young man before, somewhere; he gave the lad a friendly nod of recognition. The young man nodded back at him.
Sam placed the face - he was one of the guards Xavier has sent to Edinburgh, to guard Helen and the manse earlier in the year, when things had first gone so very wrong. Grace would have met him then.
As Sam continued to speak at the nurses’ station, another nurse walked past, greeting the people at the station with a polite ‘Buongiorno,’ which Sam and the station nurses responded to. Grace received a friendly smile and she smiled back. The guards’ appreciative eyes followed the stunningly attractive nurse’s progress along the corridor.
She entered Xavier’s room, closed the door and slid shut the little vanity curtain, preserving Xavier’s modesty as she did whatever was required.
The nurse let her hand fall from the closed curtain and turned to survey the little room. Nice and airy, the tinted window combined with a window blind to let in some light while deflecting the heat of the sun.
She looked at the bed and smiled to herself. Xavier was dozing, still weak and unable to move. Stirring, he opened his eyes to greet his visitor and she saw the little spark in his eyes. His eyes flicked to the door, saw the window curtain was closed. They were alone.
‘I see you are bearing up well,’ said Collette. Her Italian accent very formal, she was clearly not local. She knew Xavier knew. Stepping confidently across the room to his bedside she pulled a syringe out of her uniform pocket, held it up, jabbing it into a little drug bottle held in her other hand. She drew the dose down into the syringe and put the empty drug bottle back into her pocket.
Xavier shook his head and mumbled an objection, his fingers repeatedly clenched and opened in frustration as the nurse leant over him. She stroked his cheeks gently with the back of her hand. ‘You recognise me, don’t you?’
Xavier nodded. He tried to turn away as she leant forward but her right hand gripped tight to his jaw holding it fast as she closed in. She kissed his lips hard. Eventually she pulled back a fraction, allowing her tongue to trace a wet path up his cheek and slowly lick across his now closed eyelids.
‘I’ve always wanted to kiss a priest,’ she whispered, ‘wondered what you tasted like. Now I know.’ She pulled back just
a little further. Her left hand set the full syringe down on the bed and she moved to force his eyelids open so she could look in his eyes. ‘Are you defiled now priest? Feel humiliated before your God?’ She smiled a sweetly sick smile then released his eyelids. Xavier’s eyes glared at her. She straightened up and retrieved the syringe.
Collette pushed the syringe needle into the meds port of the hanging drip bottle that fed fluid into Xavier’s arm; she emptied the syringe into the fluid and withdrew the needle. Then she turned back to the bed and looked into Xavier’s eyes. ‘You were lucky in the church old man. I couldn’t press the knife deep enough into you. But now it’s done properly. You have time to say a few prayers but no one will save you. I’m going to visit your young assistant now. He’s in a coma you know, I’m afraid he will never wake up. He’s going to get some of what I’ve given you.’
She carefully slipped the now empty syringe into her pocket, leant forward again, and whispered. ‘You’re my first priest, you know? And now it’s just as your British friends would say, you wait all day for a bus and two come at once! Sleep tight now.’ She closed in on Xavier’s face and once again worked her tongue extravagantly across his cheek, ending with a determined kiss. She straightened, looked back into the sad, furious eyes of the old priest, smiled contentedly and turned away.