‘I’m guessing this man was the aforesaid ancestor. Who knows, perhaps he, too, was part of Corte-Real’s navy. If this is true, this man was one of the first to cross the Atlantic.’
‘You think it’s genuine?’
‘It seems reasonable to believe so. Your brother believed the tale to be so.’
Matt raised an eyebrow. The comment caught him off guard. ‘Pity he’s not around for me to ask him.’
Darren looked back awkwardly.
‘Thanks for your help, Darren.’
‘Nice to see you, Matthew.’
Matt offered his hand before retreating from the office and back down the stairs. He continued past Charles Street and headed in the direction of the Royal Mile.
That was the second time that name had come up.
Who the hell was Gabriel de Anson?
Darren Johnson watched from the window as the dark-haired Scot accelerated away up Crichton Street. It had already been a day of surprises.
He returned to his desk and picked up the phone.
15
Matt drove north out of Crichton Street and parked in a multi-storey car park in Canongate. The prestigious Royal Mile was busy as usual. Like most major streets of a European city, it blended the old and the new, the rich and the slightly less rich, and was always abundant in traffic. He continued west past a large row of shops and entered a small café, located just off to the left of the High Street.
Scott was sitting alone at a four-seater table, an empty plate in front of him. Judging by the remains, it had been a full English breakfast.
‘How’d it go?’
Matt sat down opposite and placed the box on the table. ‘Apparently it’s a letter from one Portuguese sailor to another, cataloguing the voyage of one of our ancestors from North Ayrshire to Portugal.’
Scott didn’t know how to react. ‘Meaning what?’
‘I don’t know. Darren only gave me the gist.’
Scott grinned. ‘How is the old bastard?’
‘Still a nerd.’
‘At least some things never change.’
Scott took a sip from his tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. Matt declined the offer of service from the passing waitress, waiting until she was out of earshot before continuing.
‘Interesting find, though,’ he said, vaguely worried about being overheard. ‘Seems whoever these guys were, they possessed something of great importance.’
‘What was it?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ Matt said, his attention on the interior. The location was comfortable and quiet – themselves aside, only two elderly couples were present. ‘He mentioned a pilgrimage to a tomb. Didn’t say much else. Seems strange, though. Whoever this man was, he was clearly a relation of ours. The abbot mentioned the same man the other day.’
Silence fell, which Matt felt was strangely unsettling.
‘You spoken to Nicole?’
Matt shrugged. ‘Not since Kirkheart.’
Scott looked away, his manner slightly evasive.
‘Why? What is it?’
Scott picked up the Tribunal and opened it. ‘You read this?’
‘Not today.’
He swore under his breath. ‘You best be having a wee look.’
Matt received the paper from Scott and began scanning the content. Suddenly his eyes alighted on the headline on page 7:
The Last Templar.
Scottish University Professor assassinated in France.
For several seconds he paused, completely shocked. He scanned the content quickly. He noticed some of the comments were attributed to him and included in speech marks. There was also an accompanying photograph, showing some of his father’s body in the state it was found.
His eyes were open in disbelief.
Below the headline was the name Nicole Stocker.
‘How the hell did she know?’
Scott frowned, watching Matt as he continued to read.
Suddenly he noticed.
There was more to the article than merely his father.
Nicole awoke slowly, her vision blurred. Although it was nearly midday, the room was dark: the thick curtains were drawn and doing their job effectively. Since joining the Tribunal, she had got used to working all hours. In the early weeks the lack of sleep left her feeling frequently uneasy. She knew at the time she could not go on like this forever. At least with the curtains drawn, there was no danger of being awakened by the light.
She rolled onto one side, rubbing her eyes. The telephone was ringing. It was Friday, and she had no plans to work that day.
She picked up the phone and answered with her head still on the pillow. ‘Hello?’
‘How the hell did you know about my dad?’
Though she’d been dazed seconds earlier, the sharpness of the voice registered immediately.
‘Matt?’
A brief pause followed. Then he replied, the exact same words, this time more anxious than before.
‘Matt, what is it?’
Unconsciously she found herself sitting up and touching her hair simultaneously. She heard breathing but no sound.
‘I can’t believe you wrote this, and you didn’t mention a thing. Who told you?’
Nicole hesitated. ‘Matt, please slow down, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t lie to me, you bitch.’
‘Matt.’
‘My father was murdered – even I don’t know who did it, or why. Seriously, where did all this come from?’
‘Matt?’
‘My father was a great man…’
‘Matt, what do you mean?’
‘Oh, and thanks for writing the article on me as well. I always wanted a bonny fanbase.’
‘What?’
‘Have a nice life, bitch.’
The sarcasm stopped instantly. She listened, glued to the spot, to nothing but the dial tone.
Matt hung up the phone and groaned. Scott looked on awkwardly. Around them, various people stared without attempting to be obvious. Each one of them remained silent. Their facial expressions suggested discomfort.
Matt exhaled lengthily. He couldn’t decide what irritated him more. The article on his father was revealing, particularly the photograph. If Stocker was correct, his killing was ritualistic and linked to the demise of the Templars in 1307.
‘I can’t believe she would do that,’ he said, his eyes on the article. He focused on her name and particularly on the head shot. The picture was black and white, her hair was short, possibly clipped or in a ponytail. Her facial expression was neutral but stern, and her head was leaning to one side. Based on the caption, it appeared as though she was smartly dressed, probably wearing a suit. It reminded him of the way she had appeared at the funeral. This was not the girl he remembered.
Nicole failed to move. She felt her heart palpitating in her chest, sending tremors through the duvet. For several seconds she remained rigid, as though completely incapable of movement. Her mind was replaying the conversation in her mind. It made no sense. What on earth was he so angry about?
Nicole shook her head vigorously. For the briefest of moments she considered the possibility that she had imagined the whole thing. Perhaps the conversation never happened; instead it was merely the product of her overly exhausted mind. She hit the pillow with the back of her head and closed her eyes. Opening her eyes, she shook her head again.
Nope! It was real.
She got out of bed and opened the curtains. The sunlight seemed bright on her retinas as they adjusted to the light. Blinking, she hurried in the direction of her desk and took a seat in front of her computer.
She moved the mouse, cutting out the screensaver. She knew from past experience that every article written for the Tribunal was available online by midday. She clicked on the icon for the internet and waited patiently. Although she was cold, she waited for the result to come up before getting dressed. The usual rapid broadband speed seemed to take forever on this occasion, inte
nsifying her apprehension. She had no idea what she expected to see, but knew from Matt’s reaction it couldn’t be good.
She brought up the home page for the Tribunal and immediately began navigating the stories.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Matt looked up and forced a despondent smile. A couple of stray tears fell from his eyes.
It was clear to Scott that Matt was close to the breaking point. Though he had read the article himself and listened carefully to every word Matt had said about Bowden, very little of it made sense. Like Matt, he knew that William Anson had been travelling in La Rochelle and that Luke Bowden was a familiar name, notably co-author of some of his books, but the circumstances were mind-blowing. He was aware, being the man’s nephew, that William Anson had been fairly influential in the Knights of Arcadia, at least from a ceremonial standing, but he doubted that it counted for anything. He’d heard the conspiracy theories linking them with the Templars, but he never believed there was any truth in the matter.
The phone rang. Matt looked at Scott and placed the phone to his ear.
It was Nicole.
‘For the record, they weren’t my exact words. And I never wrote the story on you.’
No response.
‘Matt?’
‘Look, just leave me alone…’
‘Matt, please, I swear–’
Matt hung up the phone and huffed loudly. He punched the table, causing the plate to jump slightly.
Someone had murdered his father, his father’s friend, perhaps others. This was the real story. He hated the press, but he hated Nicole even more.
He cursed himself for trusting her.
Nicole shouted down the phone at the dial tone and hung up. Blinking rapidly, she left her seat and walked quickly to her wardrobe. She put on the same jeans she had worn the day before and banged clothes hangers with fury. She made do with a plain black top and stormed out of her bedroom.
Five minutes later she had left her apartment and was rushing through London in the direction of the Tribunal building.
Matt looked down at the newspaper, its inside sprawled across the table. He picked it up and opened it to the relevant part. A double-page spread covered it.
He looked at the sidebar. There was a second article, accompanied by a photograph. He recognised the man: himself. Twenty-four-year-old lieutenant and descendent of famous British hero kicked out of the navy for hitting a superior.
‘Good picture of you, don’t you think?’
Matt threw the paper to the floor. ‘I can’t believe she wrote that.’
Scott bit his lip. ‘At least it’s true.’
He looked at Scott, not knowing what to say. True enough, he had been court-martialled for punching a lieutenant-commander. He knew the story was not complimentary, nor should it be.
‘I just can’t believe she’d use me like that.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘Actually, I can.’
Scott nodded, his attention on Matt. ‘You okay?’
Matt removed the Portuguese written manuscript from the box and peered aimlessly at the letters. It was useless – he didn’t understand the English stuff from that age, let alone a foreign language. He trusted Johnson enough, both as a man and an academic. He remembered the man’s past friendship with his brother – it seemed like a long time ago.
It’s about time he learned the truth about his family – that was what the note had said. He considered the possibility that an ancestor of his had been described in this letter. The thought was credible enough. It had happened so long ago, it seemed less likely that it had any relevance to the present. Strange thing, time, he had always thought. Perhaps living in a family with ancestry gave him a more unique take on it. Already it seemed like a long time had passed since his visit to see Bowden. No longer could he remember what life was like before his father’s death.
Suddenly life was complicated.
Nicole stormed along the corridor of the fourth floor and opened the door to Gladstone’s office without knocking.
‘Can I borrow you for a second?’
The editor of the Tribunal looked up from above his glasses. A telephone was placed to his right ear, the end inches from his mouth, now wide open. The sound of a voice was audible to Nicole, though she could not hear the person’s exact words. Gladstone was no longer talking.
Nicole stood rigidly, her face red with anger. Gladstone eyed her seriously. He could tell from her face that there was no apology.
‘Daniel, can I call you back? Thanks.’ He hung up the phone, his focus on Nicole. ‘Well, if it isn’t my star girl.’
She held the article in front of him – emphasis on the headline. ‘You really think a college professor was murdered because the Crusades are still ongoing?’
He paused for a moment. ‘I admit, it seems far-fetched, but the evidence is incredible. Don’t forget, Stocker, this isn’t just a one-off.’
Nicole bit her lip.
‘And please don’t interrupt in future when I’m on the phone.’
‘It was only Mills.’
‘That’s your boss.’
She folded her arms and huffed loudly, blowing her fringe away from her face. ‘What you said about Matthew Anson is unfair and you know it.’
‘Oh, wake up, Stocker. This isn’t your little village bulletin, this is national press.’
‘He told me he got a discharge for fighting. I never wrote that. How did you know?’
‘We have over six eyewitnesses who claim that they saw William Anson falling from the harbour tower. We have documentary proof that his family come from a long line of Arcadian knights. We have hearsay that the order stems back to the Crusades, and we also have this…’
Nicole’s jaw dropped. He was holding her voice recorder.
‘You stole it!’
‘Stole? It’s fifty feet from your desk. I don’t want to keep it.’
‘You had no right to use that.’
‘Let’s get one thing straight, Stocker, you might not realise it now, but I’ve just given your career the biggest shot in the arm you could have hoped for. I read your article: it wasn’t news, it was horse manure.’
Gladstone placed his fingers against the phone and tapped it repeatedly. ‘All day long I’ve been inundated. People ringing. Who’s Nicole Stocker? What a great article…this is the first bit of praise you’ve received since you’ve been here. Do you really want me to phone them back to tell them it wasn’t you?’
Nicole bit her lip. She looked at him: his wiry frame was arched backward slightly and his shoulders up as if frozen in a shrug.
‘Matt Anson rang me; he wasn’t happy.’
‘Of course he isn’t, little boy can’t cope with the truth. It’s public knowledge anyway.’
Nicole shook her head. ‘Anson seemed surprised about his father. Seemed adamant he knew nothing about this.’
‘So what? Lots of families have secrets.’
Nicole stormed from the room.
Gladstone jumped to his feet. ‘You can run if you like, but that doesn’t change the facts. You’ve learned a harsh lesson. Don’t tell me, I’ve heard it all before. You came here with big ambitions, illusions of how you were going to change the world.’
Nicole hated the way he gestured as he spoke. Every passing second enraged her.
He approached her. ‘You’ve got two choices, Stocker, face it or get out. There’s a million out there like you. You’ll never have another chance like this.’
She blew her hair away from her face and then did so with her hand.
‘Four Knights of Arcadia members have been found dead in recent times – the circumstances identical. I suggest you find out the real truth.’
She looked at him, finally interested.
‘Find out for me that I’m wrong – or find out for yourself that I’m right.’
Nicole turned away, heading towards the lift at the end of the corridor. Her face was still red, but less so than before. She shook her head as she walked. As
she passed her desk, Amanda saw her.
She removed her glasses and rose to her feet. ‘What’s up, isn’t this your day off?’
Nicole continued to walk. ‘I forgot this,’ she replied, holding up her voice recorder in her right hand. ‘Plus I had a little business to attend to.’
Amanda looked back, slightly confused. ‘Hey, congrats on your article, people have been asking for you all morning.’
She smiled ironically. Now they liked her. ‘Gladstone wrote most of it.’
Amanda struggled to keep up. ‘What?’
‘Maybe William Anson was murdered as part of an ancient feud, but there’s no way to prove it. Sadly, everyone here is only interested in selling papers. And Matt Anson didn’t deserve his own name trashed.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
Nicole shrugged. ‘No, but judging from my phone conversation with Matt, it’s not exactly an obvious choice.’
Amanda kept pace. ‘That’s really weird ’cause I was looking on the Mail website; it turns out the guy he co-wrote all his stuff with was also found dead.’
Nicole stopped in her tracks. ‘Who?’
‘Bowden, I think his name was.’
‘Luke Bowden?’
Amanda nodded.
‘Luke Bowden is dead?’
‘That’s what the Mail are saying.’
‘Show me.’
Nicole followed Amanda back to her desk. Amanda took a seat and replaced her glasses. They were horn-rimmed, and suited her face. Occasionally some of her male colleagues would comment on them, usually asking her if she wanted to be their secretary. Usually she’d smile and say she was unwilling to take the pay cut. Nicole never understood how she survived without taking insult.
Amanda tapped her keyboard and quickly clicked the mouse. Nicole leaned on the side of her chair, reading over her shoulder.
‘Right there.’
Nicole leaned in and scanned the article. It was clear that details were sketchy.
‘Seems the police are refusing to comment on the exact details.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 11