Robert rose to his feet. ‘We cannot allow the Treasure of Solomon to be discovered by outsiders, Father,’ the young monk said. ‘Such things are deadly in the wrong hands.’
The abbot nodded. ‘As yet, they remain safe in the right,’ he said philosophically.
‘Father, if we’re not careful, they will not stay there for long.’
The abbot nodded. ‘No, but for now the time is wrong. Soon, he will know everything. But not yet.’
He looked once more at the darkening sky.
‘His greatest challenge still awaits him.’
23
Nicole typed another query into the search engine and yawned as she pressed the return key. It was over four hours since she had made the decision to forsake a night out with her friends to follow up her leads on the death of Luke Bowden, but by now her grasp of time was nonexistent. The television in the corner of the room was off, and the glow of her desk lamp was the only light. Despite the curtains being drawn, the presence of heavy rain was audible as it battered against the double-glazed window. The only time she noticed it was when the rain stopped, usually only briefly before starting again. Then stopping again. And starting.
Her bedroom was her favourite room in the apartment. It was cosy, painted cream, and had a nice collection of walk-in wardrobes to the right of her bed. When she was alone, she liked working downstairs on her netbook with the TV on in the background, but tonight she stayed in her room. On most nights she and Amanda would stay up till all hours watching films and talking about everything. Though tonight was different.
Her mind was focused.
She rubbed her eyes vigorously before scanning the searches in turn. Much of the content appeared irrelevant, and most of what wasn’t, she had already read at least twice. She hoped that somewhere, somehow, a perfect lead would emerge, offering insight into her situation. She knew William Anson was murdered, Bowden’s was literally confirmed. She knew the truth could be discovered using the autopsy, but her chances of seeing it were zero. Had Gladstone, that arrogant prat, not ruined everything by releasing that article, her article, then she might have had a chance at convincing Matt to share the findings. But that was out of the question. Every time she phoned him, she got the same response.
It was amazing how one person could hold a grudge.
The news on Bowden was inconsistent and erratic. The official word was the man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances, but the rest was still to be disclosed. Instinct told her this was a mess like no other. If both men were murdered, then chances were they were connected: the coincidence was too great.
She had been trying to contact the third author all week without success. After three days she considered sending an email, but every time she thought about it, she decided against it. If the woman had any competence, the first thing she would do was Google her, and the first thing she would see would be that damn article.
Then she would undoubtedly avoid her.
Man, Gladstone was an idiot.
In all likelihood, she assumed the book was not the connection. The Knights of Arcadia were the connection. The Knights of Arcadia, that enigmatic society of accountants, lawyers, businessmen and other professionals pretending they were fighting the infidel. Every now and then her mind would run off at a tangent: she imagined how they would fare fighting, perhaps on horseback. She envisioned the heaviness of the solid armour weighing them down, prohibiting their movement, and causing them to lose balance.
Hardly the Knights of the Round Table.
She concentrated her efforts on uncovering everything she could on the Knights of Arcadia. She read articles in magazines, browsed websites, and even bought three books from Amazon and read them in hours. It seemed the more she found, the less she knew. Who was this society? Were they really just a modern-day overindulgence of a collection of rich men’s egos, or was she missing something?
The door to the room opened, and Amanda entered. She was dressed casually, minus most of her make-up and her hair done up in a ponytail. She carried her laptop in her hand, opened to an internet page, and a newspaper. She placed the laptop down on a clear space on the side of the desk.
‘You might wanna see this.’
Nicole moved across the seat, allowing Amanda to sit down alongside her. She leaned in closer to the screen and began browsing the content.
‘What is it?’
‘I was looking up something earlier today and found this,’ she said, slowly opening the paper. It was a copy of the Sunday Tribunal, the date predating her arrival at the paper by just over a month.
‘What is it?’ Nicole asked as she read. She skimmed the content quickly, her expression still one of confusion. The article was of a London businessman found murdered in Singapore.
‘Lawrence C. Denison,’ Amanda said, leaning in. She adjusted her glasses as she spoke before turning to face Nicole. ‘A fifty-one-year-old father of two, former senior manager at two car manufacturers, including eight years serving as a director on the board at one of them.’
Nicole recognised the name; Gladstone had mentioned that three other members of the Knights of Arcadia had died in recent times. She scanned the content efficiently. As usual, the key points regarding the man’s past: distinguished but not perfect. There was a brief mention of friends and family, with slightly too much pomp on the journalist’s empathy for their loss. On another day she might have centred her attention there, but she felt a sense of purpose. Why was this article relevant?
She continued all the way to the bottom, instantly forgetting what she had already read. ‘Why’s this important?’
Amanda moved the cursor on the laptop and opened up a second article. The document was similar, this time by a different journalist for a newspaper from Germany: date, two days earlier.
Nicole read the article quickly. Most of the content was identical, though the narrative somewhat more precise. Suddenly she noticed something. The prime suspects for the murder were a society called the Order of the Ancient Star.
Nicole put her hand to her mouth, her eyes now on Amanda. ‘How did you find this?’
‘This one I actually found by accident; Gladstone asked me to do an article on the Japan crisis.’
Nicole nodded, her attention on the article. The more she read, the less sense it made. ‘This is unbelievable. Who are the Order of the Ancient Star?’
‘From what I can gather, they’re a bit like the Knights of Arcadia, but more like the Freemasons. A secret society, not just Catholics.’
She nodded, speed reading. ‘This makes no sense, why was this left out?’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ she said, her attention on the computer. She opened a Word file from My Documents. ‘The original Tribunal article.’
Nicole’s eyes lit up. The article was far more revealing. ‘I don’t understand. Why was this not published?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s not an isolated occurrence. Check this out.’
Nicole waited as Amanda left the room, walking in the direction of the lounge. Seconds later she returned with two newspapers. Both were Sunday Tribunal, dated to between nine and thirty months earlier.
‘I was thinking about what you said the other day – about that Luke Bowden and William Anson being in the same organisation. Well, after finding the article on Denison, I decided to do a bit of research. As you said, five men have died in recent years, assuming Bowden was killed in the same way.’
Nicole waited for Amanda to show her. She opened the oldest paper to the fourteenth page and began reading. The article was of an archaeologist in his eighties, this time found dead in Glasgow. A Dr. Graham Bell.
‘Okay.’
Amanda nodded. She clicked again on the mouse and brought up a new Word document. Original article, same journalist.
She read it quickly. Yet again there was a reference to the Order of the Ancient Star.
‘This makes no sense, why does Mills not publish the reference to them?’
She entered another search into the internet. It was obvious that Amanda knew what she was looking for.
The search came up. Two articles about the man, both made reference to the Order of the Ancient Star. One was the same newspaper from Germany, the other Switzerland.
Nicole looked back blankly. She watched Amanda type something into the Tribunal website and waited for the results to come up.
The selection surprised her. ‘But that’s my article.’
‘Yeah, read it.’
‘I know what it says – I wrote it.’
‘Wanna bet?’
Nicole’s concern heightened. She clicked once on the mouse and started reading quickly. She shook her head. ‘What?’
‘Look closely.’
Nicole scanned the content. It was the same article she had written as an obituary of Anson. She read it a second time, then a third. Only then did it hit her. The Knights of Arcadia wasn’t mentioned once.
Nicole put her hand to her mouth. ‘Why is this important?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘This makes no sense, why would Mills block a reference to the Knights of Arcadia? What’s so special?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s one other thing you have to see.’
Amanda bent over and passed Nicole a third copy of the Sunday Tribunal, opened to the seventh page. Another man, this time a doctor, murdered in Switzerland.
‘Another member of the Knights of Arcadia?’
Amanda nodded.
‘Who was the journalist?’
‘Milton Tomlin.’
Nicole nodded, recognising the name. ‘Was his changed too?’
‘I don’t know; I couldn’t find the original.’ She clicked on the laptop. ‘This is the original one of the doctor in Switzerland from a Swiss paper. Look at the photo.’
Nicole looked at the photo. ‘Oh my God.’
Unmistakeably the man had been flayed.
‘Wait, there’s more.’ She inserted another search into the internet. The paper was a local Portuguese newspaper.
‘I can’t read Portuguese.’
‘Basically it says a Dr. Luis Pinco of Tomar was found murdered in a church.’
Nicole scrolled through the article, stopping on seeing a black-and-white photograph with a caption written in the same language. She clicked on the zoom icon and squinted at the picture in front of her. Her jaw dropped.
The picture was low resolution, but the scene was visible. A man in his early seventies was lying down with his arms out wide. He was bleeding in several places, most obviously the upper chest and wrists. A message of some kind was sprayed across his chest.
‘What is that?’
‘It says Beauseant.’
Nicole’s expression was one of horror. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, gasping as though the smell was apparent. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, but I looked up the word: Beauseant was the battle cry of the Knights Templar.’
‘The Templars!’
‘I know, but listen to this: I phoned the journalist who wrote the article for some follow-up questions and get this – the man disappeared three days ago.’
Nicole looked on, her interest heightened. ‘How about the other one at the Tribunal?’
‘Walter Davis, a former BBC reporter.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Dead.’
Nicole’s face was one of disbelief. ‘He was murdered?’
‘Officially a heart attack.’
Suddenly Nicole felt claustrophobic. ‘Oh my God.’ She looked up at Amanda. ‘How about the ones abroad?’
‘Interesting. From what I can tell, two are dead, two still alive. The one in Germany disappeared. Two weeks after the latest article, he was found dead in a disused railway site. One who is still alive worked in Switzerland. He quit his job within weeks of the Gray article being published.’
Nicole’s eyes lit up. ‘You think the others were killed in the same way?’
‘I don’t know for sure, but I did manage to speak to an English-speaking journalist at the Singapore newspaper who put out the Denison story. Though they don’t seem to have mentioned anything about the Order of the Ancient Star, she conceded the man was found in a manner resembling a motorcycle crash.’
She looked back without response.
‘Pound to a penny this also accounts for the rumours regarding Luke Bowden.’
Nicole returned her attention to the original photograph in the Swiss paper. The expression of anguish on the man’s face was visible. ‘This makes no sense. Who are they?’
‘I don’t know. But whoever it is clearly has enough sway to stop the full details from being published.’
Nicole nodded, her eyes transfixed.
‘And whoever they are, I wouldn’t want to be the one crossing them.’
A series of shudders passed through Nicole’s body, the sensation replicating an onslaught of continuous electric shocks. The merciless treatment was unlike anything she had ever seen.
Whoever the Knights of Arcadia and the Order of the Ancient Star were, they were both very much alive.
Matt walked the pathway that dissected the lawn before moving off in the direction of the first monument.
Its location was isolated, lying at the end of the first stretch of hedging, minus any topiary. In many ways it was the part of the garden that seemed the most remote, uncared for.
He walked slowly toward it, careful not to dirty himself on the mud or hurt himself on the brambles. He stopped in front of the monument and immediately removed a photographic print from his pocket. No question: it matched what he saw at Kilwinning. The ruined archway to the right, the remains of the tomb – it was as if he was looking at the way the abbey at Kilwinning was, or at least the way it had once been. No longer was the altar there, nor the large object in the centre. As he guessed, a large tomb had been situated there, buried above ground, rather like those of former bishops, kings, knights, et cetera in a cathedral.
He walked slowly around the replica tomb, his attention now on the sides. Aside from the usual features, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. There was no name, no other features. As he reached the west side, he saw the sculpture of a monk kneeling at the base.
He looked at the monk. The man was semi-bald, robed and again looked nothing out of the ordinary. The facts at least tallied; he was aware from Sandra that the monastery had initially served the Tironensian Benedictines. He doubted a Benedictine monastery would have any relevance to the Cistercians or the Templars, but the Knights of Arcadia evidence was clear.
He had seen that much himself.
He moved on to the second-nearest monument. The garden was located to the west, catching the rays of the setting sun over the mountains. The second monument was located south-southwest: a straightforward walk to Matt’s left.
The walk took two minutes. Like the first, it was made of stone; unlike the first, it did not seem to be a crypt. Instead, it was a replica of a temple, perhaps something out of ancient Greece, Rome, or even the Old Testament. A large symbol was engraved into the roof. He had seen it before. Contained within a circle, he saw what appeared to be a Star of David, though, unlike most, there were six dots placed equally on the outside of every part of the star and a cross dissecting it. Strange, he thought.
The symbol had a habit of reappearing.
He eyed the monument in detail before returning to the first. Like before, he circled the tomb, his eyes on the monk.
As he continued to focus on the monk, he noticed something unexpected. Like most, he carried a pendant around his neck, but this was no ordinary crucifix. Like the second monument, the monk was wearing the exact same symbol.
Matt’s concentration hardened. What was the secret?
Was the evidence pointing out that the monk was a Jew?
He looked to his right, startled by the sudden appearance of someone n
ew. Sandra had appeared, walking quickly. She spent several minutes looking at the first monument, then the second. Her eyes failed to hide her excitement.
She compared the first to Matt’s photograph. ‘I think I see what you mean.’ She turned to face him. ‘Who created them?’
He shook his head. ‘They were commissioned by the brother of George Anson.’
‘The sailor?’
Matt nodded. ‘They’ve been here since the 1760s. No one knows the artist.’
Matt smiled awkwardly, his attention on Sandra. ‘What does this symbol mean?’
She lowered herself to one knee. ‘I’ve never seen it before. It looks like the Seal of Solomon juxtaposed with a Templar cross.’
Matt nodded, biting his lip. ‘Who was he?’
‘Who? Solomon?’
Matt nodded.
‘Solomon was the son of King David. Chosen by the God of Israel to rule over his chosen people.’
She rose to her feet. She could tell by his expression that he was concerned. ‘What is it?’
‘At my father’s funeral I saw a man with that logo on his suit. He was a banker. He gave me the number to my father’s safe. Later that night, it was broken into.’
Sandra’s eyes displayed her concern. ‘Who was he?’
Matt shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But I think I need to pay him a visit to find out.’
The London headquarters of the Order of the Ancient Star was located in one of the finer areas of London and stood within sight of St. James’s Palace. Originally the building had dated back to the late 15th century, though the present one was unmistakeably Georgian. The fine white façade served as a tranquil and ostentatious prelude to the building and activities within. Even from the outside, wealth was guaranteed.
Inside, the architecture and furnishings were ornately masculine, as was the membership list. A fine dining room was located just off the foyer that also served as the reception for the third and fourth floors, accommodating over eighty ensuite bedrooms. A lengthy corridor led to a series of unused conference rooms and also to a two-acre garden.
But hidden within this gem was a less obvious room. A series of armchairs, matching the descriptions given by Jules Verne, were placed in no particular order in a large sitting room facing the east wing. In the summertime, a member could sit for hours looking out onto the fountain and whiling the time away reading newspapers or having a chat with an acquaintance before the roaring fire.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 16