Nicole shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. He was murdered.’
‘I really don’t know. But don’t you think it’s strange, both of these guys wind up dead within days of one another?’
‘If his body was found recently, then who knows how long it was there for; for all we know, it might even have been the same day.’
Amanda looked at her, her face concerned.
Nicole returned her eye contact. ‘I have to speak to Matt.’
Matt was alone in his father’s study at 1am. His intention had been to return to his apartment, but circumstances changed his mind. His body ached, mentally and physically. Throughout the day he’d felt as if he was in danger of breaking into tears any second: that the floodgates would open and he would not be able to close them. Tonight was not a night to tempt fate.
Sitting at the desk, he studied the manuscript in front of him. He concentrated on the piece that included the diagram. It was obvious from the layout that it represented some form of medieval Christian site, either a monastery, abbey or church, and judging from the markings, written in Latin. The location was surely the one mentioned by Johnson earlier that day.
The location was an enigma. He Googled Kilwinning and discovered that the town was real, and an abbey had existed there during the Middle Ages. Although it was now in ruin, at least one author had speculated of its connections to the Knights of Arcadia. The thought concerned him. Even though he wasn’t completely sure that the two places were the same, or even what the letter was referring to, he knew his father would not have sent it to him if it were not important.
But that was also disturbing. Under normal circumstances, the least he would have expected was some kind of note or acknowledgement. Only two things would stop him from doing so. Either he was short on time or, as he considered what had happened to Professor Bowden, he feared it could fall into the wrong hands.
Either way, he feared the item’s significance.
Replacing the vellum scroll with the diagram on it, Matt walked across the room and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were tired, but he looked better than he had. He smiled at himself reluctantly. Never had he known life to be so bad. He turned his gaze toward the window. It was strange. Familiar surroundings created the illusion that he had never left, but it was only an illusion. In an even stranger way, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time.
He wandered back toward the desk. His mobile phone was ringing. It was Nicole, calling for the umpteenth time. He ignored it, placing his phone to one side. His eyes fell once more over the strange artefacts. Perhaps somewhere in the world millions of things like this might exist: either in museums, personal collections, or even lost in an archive or underground in a vault somewhere. He couldn’t help wonder how much of the world’s history was inaccurate: what secrets were gone forever, their knowledge demolished or lost through forgetfulness or war.
Perhaps there was a point to his father’s book.
The first thing he needed to do was discover their meaning and if they were genuine. He didn’t doubt the latter: he knew his father would not have sent it if there had been any doubt.
He looked at the medallion, the cold metal bracing against his hand. He felt the grooves of the symbol against his palm. Then he looked up at the wall, his eyes focusing on a certain photograph. His father was in it, dressed in full regalia, the same medallion hanging around his neck. Directly in front of him was the Pope.
Tomorrow he would find out, but he assumed there was one person who would know even more. He shuffled through a series of notes on his desk and looked at one particular piece. All day long he had tried to ascertain who had written to his father in the first place.
Only one Sandy fitted the bill. Better yet, he had an address for La Rochelle.
The name was Sandy Richards, a medieval history lecturer. If anyone could shed any light on the pedigree of the relics, it was him. But more importantly, he was the third co-author of his father’s next book.
He knew his father had been in La Rochelle; that much was never in doubt. He knew he had been researching something, but he was unsure what. Perhaps in addition to offering an opinion on the letter, he might find out for sure what happened to his father and Luke Bowden.
The door to the room opened, and Scott entered. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’
He looked at his cousin and smiled. Suddenly a thought came to him.
‘Hey, what do you reckon for a booze-up in La Rochelle?’
Nicole waited until the voicemail cut in and hung up in frustration. She had already left over ten voice messages on Matt’s mobile, and she knew there was no point in one more.
Her mind was spinning. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts refused to crystallise. She’d always known her editor was capable of completely revamping her words and ideas, but on this occasion the impact troubled her.
It was not only the fact that she had hurt her former friend, it was the words she had heard – not just the words but also the tone of his voice. Despite the hurt, she could tell that there was certainty in his voice, at least as far as he was aware. She understood Gladstone’s point that someone might say something to startle, but the reality was already enough to worry her.
She adjusted her seat at her computer and read the article about Bowden on the Mail website, this time slower than before. She had browsed several other websites since her return, but each one was just a regurgitation of the Mail – most just an exact copy. She was particularly enthralled by the lack of detail given. Two years ago she would probably have turned a blind eye or missed it altogether, but after eleven months in London, she was learning to read the signs.
The lack of details given to the circumstances was itself a clue.
She had spent most of the afternoon and evening surfing the net or speaking on the phone. She had gathered from one of her contacts that Bowden was assumed to have been murdered, but that was where the trail went cold. She had assumed as much from the start, particularly after listening to Matt’s rant about her article. There had to be a connection; at least she had to investigate the possibility.
In the darker recesses of her mind, she reminded herself that she had been praised, at least verbally. Nevertheless, she considered quitting. Tribunal regulations informed any journalist that a minimum of ninety days notice was mandatory, half of which was to be taken as gardening leave, and during which time the employee could not take on any other work with a rival paper. That was the point: no chance of stealing employer details or secrets. Ninety days, she thought to herself. Who did they think they were, the Pentagon?
In truth, she knew it would pass. Gladstone was right, the best thing she could do was prove it either way. The fact that the circumstances were unclear was itself a sign. She had to find out for sure why William Anson had been murdered. Then she had to find out what she could about Luke Bowden.
She knew Anson was writing a book. She knew Bowden was a co-author.
She knew from Matt there was a third co-author in the mix.
There was only one place to start.
She had to find out who the third author was.
16
Tomar, Portugal
The Portuguese historian sprinted through the vaults of the Church of Santa Maria do Olival and came crashing down just before the steps. The jagged stone was uneven beneath his feet, causing him to lose his footing as he ran.
Pain shot through his left ankle. His foot had buckled as he tried to turn, catching in a void between the slabs.
The pain he felt was agony. He crawled forward, looking for the first step. Regaining his feet was possible, but time was no longer on his side.
The footsteps behind him had quietened; the pace of their movement confirmed his attacker was no longer running.
He heard a voice coming from behind him. ‘There is no use trying to escape, Doctor,’ the man said, closing in. The man removed the hood from his head, revealing a face of Swiss features,
his identity unrecognisable. ‘It is a long way to the exit.’
The historian grimaced, his attention mixed between his assailant and the pain. He lay on his back, his eyes facing the attacker, all the while still sliding slowly toward the first step. It was twenty steps to the top, a small side chapel adjoining the main church.
The man from Switzerland drew a gun and pointed it at the historian. The man’s eyes were resolute.
‘The time for games is over,’ he said, moving ever closer. ‘Please, Dr. Pinco. The archives.’
The man from Portugal stuttered terribly. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The Swiss was unimpressed. ‘Please, do not lie. The discovery of the vaults is known to even the most foolish.’
Pinco continued to hesitate. The recent find had not been made known in the press. He knew the wider world would have had an interest, but the scope was too great. He knew there were secrets, but even he was still to understand the connection.
He looked in fear at the man before him. His eyebrows were dark and close to joining in the centre. ‘Please, you must understand. The secrets of the Knights of Christ have lain dormant for so long. I can show you only what I know.’
The Swiss knelt down, his eyes focused on Pinco’s. His eyes were blue, very blue, even more so against the backdrop of his rugged brown hair.
‘The time has come for the rightful possessors to reclaim what was taken from them long ago. Please, Dr. Pinco. Do not waste your life.’ He rose to his feet. ‘The letter. If you please.’
The Portuguese struggled for breath. He raised himself another step, the feel of the stone painful against his back. Then he stopped, once again reminded of the presence of the man’s firearm.
‘The letter.’
Pinco looked up, his eyes the only part of his body unflinching. His lip wobbled, and his hands shook. Sweat poured down from his black hair, covering his masculine forehead.
‘The letter,’ he asked one more time.
The historian groaned in pain. ‘The path can only be found by the truly worthy. You can never win.’
Gripped by frustration, the Swiss raised his firearm and shot the historian twice in the face. Blood splattered, marking the walls, dripping quickly onto the ground below.
Now alone, the Swiss walked quickly away from the steps, continuing into the heart of the vault. For the first time that night he saw it with his own eyes. Though the tomb was now empty, the evidence was all he needed to see.
He cursed himself for shooting the historian.
His recklessness had potentially lost one of the most powerful secrets known to man.
17
La Rochelle, two days later
Matthew Anson walked confidently past the harbour, showing no sense of distaste for the site where his father had last been seen alive. He had avoided the temptation to visit the towers the night before, but on this occasion passing the harbour was a geographical necessity.
The last two days had been hectic. He’d booked flights to La Rochelle for himself and Scott on his credit card and then a twin room at the first hotel he found on the internet, a stone’s throw from the harbour towers. The cost was irrelevant: even if he failed to track down the third co-author, he convinced himself he needed the break. He heard from his aunt that his father’s will had come through: the formalities as expected. In all honesty, he was never aware exactly how much his father had been worth; any family wealth had been lost centuries ago. He never liked to bother his father about that sort of thing. He assumed it was a few million, perhaps even less after taxes, but even if it was billions, he never imagined himself living the glamorous lifestyle.
Matt walked slowly, evading the oncoming crowd. He held a carrier bag in his right hand. Inside it was a box. It was the same one he had received four nights earlier and carried the same contents.
Alongside him was Scott, whose company for once he appreciated. He realised he was on unknown ground. He knew in reality that the person he intended to see might be completely in the dark about the fate of Bowden and his father. He was sure no one named Sandy Richards had been at the funeral. Though chances were Sandy was aware of the newspaper articles, Matt also braced himself to pass on the bad news.
Lost in thought, visibly nervous, they continued across the harbour, changing direction on reaching the Rue du Palais. It was approaching 10:30am on Sunday, and the city was crowded. Matt scanned the sights, unsure exactly where he was heading. He followed the road for over a hundred yards and came to a stop, close to the cathedral. An elegant yellow building rose to a height of five storeys, separating two that were coloured brown. The name of the building was written in French, the words difficult to pronounce. He checked the spelling against the address written on a sheet of paper and moved slowly towards the centre of the building. The entrance was glassed, identifying an elegant foyer more like a hotel than a block of apartments. The building was 17th century in origin, formerly a house that had been converted to apartments in the late ’80s. The façade suggested wealth, comfortable wealth. Unlike Bowden’s bachelor pad, there was a hint of arrogance about the place. Had the lure of the building not caught the eyes of the city’s wealthy professionals, it could quite easily have been turned into a museum.
They stopped outside the door. The glass was slightly tinted, cleverly allowing surveillance of the outside from within but restricting intrusion from the outside.
He looked to the right of the door, identifying an intercom for every individual apartment. The list of names confirmed an S. Richards lived there, his apartment on the fifth floor – also the penthouse.
Matt placed his hand to his stubble. At least they had found the right place.
A silhouette was moving on the inside, following which the door opened. An elderly French woman, perhaps mid-seventies, was leaving. Matt caught the door, ignoring her patronising glance. He entered slowly, holding the door for Scott. They eyed each other uncomfortably. Leading the way, Matt walked slowly across the smart atrium and continued without being bothered to the lift.
The panels were confusing.
‘I have no idea what this even means.’
‘Press all of them.’
Matt nodded. They stopped on the third floor and then again on the fourth. They exited quickly on the fifth, escaping before the doors closed again.
The fifth floor was a lengthy corridor, perhaps one hundred yards in total, furnished with white walls, red carpet and high ceilings. Four chandeliers hung from the ceiling that was rough textured and in keeping with the original design. A heavy fragrance of lemon pervaded the long hall, overpowering at first but pleasant on acclimatisation.
They continued along the corridor, following the sequence. Apartment eight was one from the end. Matt experienced déjà vu – it reminded him of the door to Bowden’s study. The door was brown, numbered but otherwise undecorated, and the lack of decoration made it stand out. The apartment opposite was approached by a green welcome sign while two others were flanked by flora. By contrast, apartment 8 was remote and less homey.
At least the door was closed.
Bracing himself, Matt knocked, loudly but politely. He breathed in deeply, taking the time to straighten his jacket. Within seconds he heard the sound of movement from within.
The door opened.
What he saw surprised him. The opening door revealed a blonde woman, sharp featured, perhaps late-forties but able to pass for a few years less. Her hair was shoulder length, hiding pearl earrings and the back of what appeared to be a necklace or a chain hidden beneath a blue jumper. Her brown eyes radiated concentration.
Evidently, this wasn’t what she was expecting. Under normal circumstances, the sight of two former navy men in their mid-twenties might have been intimidating. But on this occasion, her expression confirmed the opposite. She was smiling, a secretive smile.
Matt hesitated, unsure what to say.
He had seen the woman before.
Recently.
/> She walked forward, her attention on Matt.
‘I don’t believe it. You’re Matthew Anson.’
18
Sandra Richards’ apartment was one of ten located on the fifth floor of what had once been a residence of a local noble. Inside, the high-ceilinged living room was airy and ornately feminine. Leather couches and wooden floors dominated, while five tall windows offered views overlooking the harbour, including the towers. Chandeliers, similar to those in the corridor, hung from the ceiling that was painted yellow and matched the walls. Art and artefacts, mostly of medieval Europe, lined the room, mixed with modern bookcases hoarding what appeared to be thousands of books. The room opened at the westernmost point to a large kitchen, two bedrooms and a luxury bathroom.
Sandra Richards offered Matt and Scott seats at the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. Matt sat down slowly. He placed the carrier bag with the box down on the floor, afraid of knocking anything over. The ambience of the apartment, in contrast to the visual splendour, was uncomfortable. Despite being so close to the city centre and the main road, the apartment was quiet, eerily so. Having lived most of his life in a house of historical pedigree, he expected the occasional squeaky floorboard or noise from nearby. The sound of shuffling from the kitchen broadcast through the open door was the only disturbance.
In the absence of his host, he surveyed the location in detail. Quiet suited the furniture. Though it was modern, the oakwood floor and table intensified the historical flavour. The artwork was mainly impressionism, providing the room with a French feel, particularly Monet.
Scott smiled at the pictures. ‘The woman sure loves daffodils.’
Matt laughed, keeping the sound low. Moments later Sandra returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray of everything from tea, coffee, biscuits and chocolate. She saw Scott rise to his feet and smiled. Matt could tell she respected his politeness.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 12