‘Who is she?’ he asked Scott.
‘Who’s who?’
The woman had disappeared. He looked around, hoping to see her.
‘There was a woman.’
‘She fit?’
He looked back, annoyed. ‘She looked familiar.’ He searched again. ‘She’s gone.’
Matt looked again across the reception area, obviously distracted. He watched Catherine walk quickly toward them. Like most, she was dressed in black, though her attitude was slightly more liberated than in recent days. Her blonde hair was done up with a clipper, and she wore bright earrings.
She smiled at them. ‘This looks good.’
Matt nodded, his mouth full. ‘Aye. It is.’
Catherine Anson walked slowly to the end of the table and picked up the last plate. Her attention was distracted, noticeably. The make-up around her eyes was smudged slightly.
‘I’m gonna find Nicole,’ Scott said.
Matt looked over his shoulder. His thoughts of the mystery blonde subsided. Nicole had appeared from nowhere. She was sitting at the second table, two seats on from the nearest mourner. Her black hair, done up in a ponytail, complemented her dark suit. Unlike most, there was no frivolity, no chattiness about her. Her expression was dull, yet more serious than sad. He watched Scott sit down by her, and for the first time he saw her smile. As best he could tell, she was alone.
Matt looked at his aunt and smiled. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes.’
Matt paused. He looked briefly at Nicole and raised his hand. He saw her smile and wave back.
He turned his attention again to his aunt, who smiled at him. It was a warm thoughtful smile, reassuring considering the event.
‘I thought Professor Bowden might have shown,’ he said.
‘Bowden?’
‘Yeah, from St. Andrews.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Oh, Luke,’ she said, her attention on her food. ‘He’s a busy man, always was.’
‘Have you spoken to him recently?’
‘Not recently.’ She looked at her nephew with interest. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, I was just wondering. There was a voicemail from him a few days ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘This one was for Dad, before he died,’ he said, his expression troubled. ‘I don’t know if he even knows what’s happened.’
‘He’ll find out soon enough. Besides, it’s not like it’s been a secret.’
Matt nodded, his attention wandering. He was aware that a few newspapers had made a point of mentioning his “suicide”. He wondered whether Nicole’s motive was the same.
Catherine walked closer to him and touched his cheek. ‘I best be having a chat with a few others.’
Matt watched her as she walked across the room. She headed in the direction of one of his least favourite aunts and took the nearest available seat. He couldn’t help notice the way his aunt changed her attitude as though on cue, an actress forcing herself to adapt to the role and situation.
He looked to his left, slightly more interested than before. The man with the goatee had appeared at the end of the table, his eyes focused on the food in front of him. He picked up a dessert, a scone-like cake with strawberries on it and lined with cream and sugar. The man chewed it thoroughly and swallowed, his face breaking into a smile.
‘Delicious,’ he said, dabbing his mouth with a serviette. ‘I do love strawberries.’
Matt allowed himself a slight grin. ‘I usually prefer these things without fruit.’
The man laughed, a sharp laugh, loud but not inappropriate. He walked toward Matt slowly, his smile maintained.
‘I’m Charles Jura,’ he said, his hand outstretched. He carried a briefcase in the other.
‘Matt Anson.’
Jura gripped Matt’s hand tightly. ‘You know, your father talked about you often,’ he said, still shaking his hand, only now a more flexible shake. ‘I’m sure I’m not the first person here to tell you that.’
Matt laughed, not deliberately. ‘Being honest, I don’t even know who most of these people are.’
Jura laughed again, softer than before. ‘You know, in all my years I don’t think I’ve ever attended a funeral where I knew more than a fifth of the guests.’
Matt nodded, his eye contact firm. He attempted to calculate just how many years that was. The man’s age was difficult to determine from appearances alone. He assumed he was mid-fifties, but he looked good for his age. Any hint of weightiness was hidden by his suit. He noticed that his tie displayed an emblem: it looked like a Star of David, only it was encircled. A red cross was located at the centre, strange for a Star of David. Matt had never seen the logo before.
‘I first met your father some fifteen years ago,’ he said, his attention divided between Matt and a bowl of crisps. He spoke as he ate, timing his pauses well. ‘We first met in Switzerland. I own a small firm in Zürich. A friend introduced me to your father one night at our lodge. Even to this day, I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone with such a fine knowledge of medieval history, nor a more balanced understanding between classical and modern as your father.’
‘My father certainly loved history,’ Matt agreed. ‘So what line of work are you in, Mr. Jura?’
‘I own a small bank,’ he said. ‘And please, call me Charles.’
Matt considered the man’s answer. The name stuck in his mind. He had been to Zürich three times, including a weekend stay with Scott and two uni mates at the end of his third year.
‘This small bank wouldn’t happen to be Jura AG, would it?’
Jura laughed. ‘You’re very perceptive, Mr. Anson.’
‘As a matter of fact, my father did speak of you from time to time. And Jura AG is hardly what I would call a small bank. In fact, I’ve seen your headquarters. I understand it goes back a long way.’
Jura smiled softly. To Matt it was a proud smile, yet strangely not arrogant. ‘My great-great-great-great-grandfather takes the credit,’ he said. ‘I am merely the custodian. My services to the bank are inconsequential these days.’
Matt nodded, remaining silent. Once again, he gazed across the room with interest. Nicole and Scott were still talking, sitting alone at the second table. His aunt was talking with strangers. Some of the mourners were starting to disperse, saying their goodbyes before departing in the direction of the nearby car park.
‘As a matter of fact, your father had an account with us in Zürich: nothing elaborate, just a standard numbered account, including the facility for a deposit box.’ He removed a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and passed Matt the details. As usual, the account started with three zeros and included a total of ten digits.
‘I received word from your father’s lawyers that its contents were to be passed specifically to you in the event of his passing,’ Jura continued. ‘A rare request, but not unheard of.’ He looked around, as if to check that they were alone. ‘Is there somewhere we can go?’
Matt watched, unsure exactly what was happening. He answered, ‘Sure,’ and walked the banker across the wooden floor, heading in the direction of the area backstage. They continued into a small room, something of a cross between a classroom and an office, that contained a single desk, a blackboard and several stacks of chairs.
Jura closed the door behind him and smiled at Matt.
‘I received instruction from your father’s lawyers that in the event of his death I was to personally give you this, in accordance with the instruction of his will.’ He opened his briefcase on the desk with two distinct clicks.
Matt watched, waiting for the contents. As he did, the strange emblem on the man’s tie once again struck him.
‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Grand Orient?’
‘This?’ Jura shook his head. ‘No. We’re a bit like the Knights of Arcadia – dedicated to understanding the past, particularly our own. Your father was most kind when it came to offering his opinions. I understand you’ve a fine knowledge of the social scie
nces yourself.’
Matt forced a laugh, thinking briefly back to his degree. ‘Not exactly.’
Jura held his smile as he removed the contents and passed them to Matt. It was an A4 sized envelope.
‘I’ll leave you to investigate the details.’ The Swiss smiled and offered his hand for a second time. ‘It was a pleasure, Mr. Anson.’
Matt waited until the man had left before investigating the content.
He was confused. A small key, perhaps fitting a door or a safe, was located within a folded sheet of paper. He opened up the paper and examined the details. There were five groups of digits on it, laid out in sequence. He guessed from the layout it was the combination for a safe – probably the one in his father’s study. He knew it was there, hidden behind other things.
His father had never mentioned what was inside.
Matt placed the contents of the envelope inside his jacket and immediately returned to the hall. As best he could tell, Jura was gone, but most of the guests were still there. Nicole was standing by the buffet.
She walked toward him. ‘Hey, you.’
‘Hey,’ he replied, forcing a smile.
‘I saw you leave with the guy with the beard. Was he a relative or something?’
‘Something like that.’
She smiled. ‘Quite some family you have here.’
Matt shook his head. ‘I don’t really know who half these people are.’
She laughed, her focus on him, his on the other mourners.
‘I swear, I think it’s some sort of conspiracy: people who nobody knows just appear whenever there’s a funeral.’
She laughed, harder than before. ‘I’ll have to check that one out; maybe I could write an article on it.’
She touched his arm, her eyes looking him over. To Matt it was as though embracing a former girlfriend.
‘It’s great to see you,’ he said. ‘You look…’
Nicole smiled, patting her hair. Vague elements of a fringe flanked her forehead. ‘Thanks, you too.’
Another awkward silence. For the first time Matt studied her appearance. She was not the girl he remembered. Replacing the Edinburgh Uni hoody and casual sweats that she always seemed to wear except for nights out, the designer suit and ponytail gave her a noticeable edge. She was beautiful but somehow less appealing than before. He’d never thought of her as a career woman.
Equally, he wasn’t the person she remembered. The beard was similar, but it looked better than before. The even spread of stubble gave him a more rugged look, replacing the somehow innocent sprawl of a man-boy in his late teens/early twenties. He was stronger than he used to be. In the past, she’d viewed his scrawny figure as one of his more likeable traits. The navy image was far more threatening.
‘So I hear you got a job with the Tribunal.’ He gave her the thumbs up.
She smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s not exactly what I expected.’
‘Well, I’ve never really been much of a reader. Perhaps I’ll start.’
‘Well, that’s the biggest compliment I’ve had yet. I don’t remember seeing you read a thing the whole time I was at Edinburgh. Except for the menu. And the drinks prices.’
She laughed, more than him. Matt watched her, his attention on her eyes. Not the girl he remembered.
She fiddled with her hair. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced.’
‘Not at all.’
‘I was speaking with my editor at the Tribunal yesterday, he was wondering about doing an obituary for your dad, perhaps for the Sunday edition.’
‘Okay. Great.’
‘Perhaps we might also do an article about him one weekday. Our editor doesn’t like to plan too far ahead as news changes so rapidly.’
Matt nodded.
‘Maybe you could tell me about him later?’
‘Sure.’
The brown-haired man with the moustache pulled up in a poorly lit car park and turned off the engine. The car park adjoined a service station located just off one of the motorways, a little over forty miles from Glasgow.
The location was largely deserted, frequented by less than a dozen vehicles. Their owners, mostly couples en route elsewhere, sat eating or drinking in the nearby restaurant. A car wash was located less than fifty metres along the road, adjoining a petrol station that partially hid the car park designated for lorries. The location was quiet, very quiet, particularly for a Tuesday, the peace disturbed only by a regular humming sound from the traffic.
A quick flash of light originated from across the car park. An unlit BMW was parked over thirty yards away, partially hidden from the restaurant by a large bush. Its tinted windscreen created the illusion that the car was deserted, but the brown-haired man knew better.
He got out of the car and walked to where he’d seen the light. He opened the passenger’s side door without breaking step and got into the front seat.
Charles Jura sat in the driver’s seat. He made no sound or sign of welcome. Instead, his gaze continued to centre on the car park ahead.
Wilfred Mansell looked at him but remained silent. The man behind the wheel was the grandmaster of the Order of the Ancient Star, its origins known only to a select few.
He was among the select.
The grandmaster Charles Jura lit a cigarette and inhaled. ‘Did you notice the windows?’
Mansell’s expression did not alter. ‘The artistry was incredible.’
Jura nodded. ‘This much of the story we have always known to be validated,’ he said. ‘The story is older than time itself. It is told in the mouths of people from every nation from here to Saudi Arabia. It is passed down from father to son, generation to generation.’
‘For me, its discovery has taken far too long.’
The grandmaster of the Order of the Ancient Star exhaled smoke.
Mansell’s expression strengthened. ‘The Knights of Arcadia is dying. Its creation was nothing but a blasphemy. The Knights Templar may be dead, but its legacy will last throughout the ages. Forever untainted by corrupt hands. They are the true Keepers of the Light.’
He paused.
‘Did you see the boy?’
‘Yes,’ Jura replied. ‘He is ignorant of his own past.’
‘The boy is nothing but a lost sheep.’
The grandmaster smiled. ‘It was written in the good book that the master would rejoice more for the finding of a lost sheep than the safety of all the others.’
He threw his cigarette out of the window.
‘Soon the secrets of his father will become known to him – I’ve seen that much with my own eyes.’
Mansell allowed himself a smile. ‘If he is as intelligent as you hope, he will come looking for you.’
The man with the goatee nodded. ‘And that will be a day for rejoicing.’
6
The hall was deserted by five. The last of the acquaintances, friends and distant family had departed, returning to their hotels in preparation for flights home the next day or beginning the long, arduous car journeys. It was strange. The hall, frequented by over four hundred people less than an hour earlier, now felt very cold and lonely, the sound of echoing feet audible in the stillness.
He had done it, thought Matt. The ordeal that had begun five days ago was over. What needed to be done was done.
The manager of the hall appeared at the end of the proceedings, offering his condolences before enquiring about whether the service was satisfactory. The formalities had already been taken care of. They finished their conversation, and the event drew to a close. The hall was locked, and everyone departed.
He walked slowly along the nearest road. Until now Matt had not appreciated just how lonely the setting was – a series of country lanes flanked by fields and woodland. The scenery was vast, stretching as far as the eye could see. A large stone wall bordered the footpath of the main road, jagged from years of exposure to the weather. Every now and then the wall would open and offer access to a footpath or a gate leading to a farm, di
sappearing beyond the hills.
The light was fading quickly. To Matt, the entire landscape was dark, almost as though the countryside dwelled in the shadow of a mountain. Yet as far as he could see there were none – or least not within close distance. The sky, abundant in cloud, was grey but not black, its intermittent gaps penetrated by thin sunlight that struggled to break through completely. There was a chill in the wind, but no rain, nor would there be.
The gloom was perpetual.
Matt followed the road until fate led him back to the monastery. It had not been his intention to return. The direct route along the main road had been quick and easy, whereas the walk had been lonely and long. Taking a path through a field of sheep, he entered the chapel where his father had recently been laid to rest and took a seat in the front pew.
It was strange. The chapel was light and airy, but it sure felt different to earlier that day. While over eighty others, most dressed in ancient regalia, accompanied the earlier visit, barely all able to fit inside, he was alone.
Directly in front of him, the newest of the tombs commanded his attention. Nearby there were other graves: some around the altar, others lining the walls of the chapel. He looked at each tomb in turn. Unsurprisingly their designs were much the same. According to tradition, the names of the men were never mentioned on the slab, only a small engraving on the verge. Instead, the symbol of the order was the chief characteristic. It was a sign of priority.
No man was greater than the order they served.
He looked around at the interior. The chapel was deserted, illuminated primarily by natural light. The sensation was strange. From inside, the landscape seemed darker than it had done during his walk. Earlier that day the opposite had been true. The windows that seemed to magnify the light earlier now did the same to the darkness.
The stained-glass windows on the right side caught his eye, the second in particular. While each of the four was related to the order, this image he understood was of the famous abbot Bernard of Clairvaux, patron of the monastery: a man of extreme piety who had connections to both the Knights Templar and the Cistercians. Even to an outsider, Cistercian and Templar symbolism was prevalent throughout the monastery, though more so in this particular chapel than any other. In many ways, that had surprised him. The chapel was more modern, perhaps 17th century, whereas the monastery itself dated back to 1152.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 5