The Egyptian smiled. ‘Even the King of France agreed that the man possessed great wisdom.’
‘Enough of this bullshit,’ Mansell said with venom. ‘The trail exists – leading us to our goal. Still, you do nothing.’
‘And what would you do?’ el Tutken asked.
‘I would do whatever it takes.’ His words penetrated. Still staring, he rose to his feet.
Jura eyed him closely. ‘Sit down, Wilfred.’
Mansell turned his gaze toward the grandmaster. For several seconds both men said nothing. Slowly, he lowered himself into his chair.
‘For over four hundred years, the survivors of the Knights Templar in France have known that the Templars of Portugal recovered the treasure of the original Knights, wrongly repossessed by the deserters,’ Jura said. ‘Yet even we, the rightful inheritors of the will of John-Marc Larmenius, are still to know all of the secrets of the past.’
Silence fell. Awkward eyes moved with regularity.
‘We know that the gifts Larmenius inherited were taken to Scotland, we know that what was taken to Scotland was brought to Tomar. The next destination remains unclear. That, gentlemen, is where our efforts must lie,’ the Egyptian said.
Ben Fulda nodded. ‘There is still much that can be learned from the archives at Tomar. Another letter. An itinerary. The Knights of Christ were legendary for their efficiency.’
The Egyptian nodded. ‘Nothing can be left to chance. You must go yourself.’
Jura nodded. ‘I shall pay for it personally.’
30
For several seconds neither spoke. The editor of the Daily Chronicle looked back across the desk with something of a haggard look.
Nicole didn’t need telling twice. There was no doubt in the chief’s expression that the news was genuine.
‘Can I get you a drink? Tea, perhaps?’
Nicole sought to reply but hesitated. Finally she nodded. She watched the editor rise to his feet, walking in the direction of a small sink. He poured hot water into a mug and slowly began to stir it. The mug had a picture of the Smurfs, making her smile.
The higher the position, the more eclectic the tastes.
‘Perhaps you could start at the beginning. What do you mean he disappeared?’
The editor placed two mugs on coasters. ‘I mean, Ms. Stocker, only what I say. Three weeks ago Milton Tomlin went out one lunchtime, claiming to be buying a packet of cigarettes and some lunch. As far as I’m aware, he never returned.’
‘He never returned?’
The editor stirred his drink slowly and tapped the spoon against the rim, clearing the metal of excess liquid. ‘Milton Tomlin was, in many ways, an odd chap,’ he said, holding his mug but without raising it to his lips. ‘Kept himself to himself. Most of his writing was not what you might call…mainstream.’
Nicole held his gaze. “Was an odd chap?” Was this an oral obituary?
‘As you undoubtedly remember, Ms. Stocker, Milton was never a man to hang with the crowds. He was a man of few words and socially awkward.’ He looked up at her. ‘I assume you were aware that he was gay?’
Nicole considered her words. ‘Like you said, he was a man of few words.’
A broad smile vanished as quickly as it came. ‘We’ve tried to contact him many times; I have even visited his apartment twice myself, at least the outside. The man had no wife, no children.’
‘I assume you’ve followed up his next of kin.’
‘We’re not the police, Ms. Stocker. However, yes, the boys in blue have been informed of our concerns.’
‘What have they said?’
Harris shrugged. ‘Sadly, they have been unable to tell us anything concrete,’ his reply now more sympathetic than before. ‘According to one of their men, a man matching Milton’s description was seen entering a car in Dover with two men, possibly under duress, however, such descriptions are rarely accurate. The CID have told us that much.’
A wry grin crossed her lips. Rarely accurate, but that doesn’t stop you printing the stories.
‘I assume you have continued with your attempts to contact him.’
Harris grinned ironically. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Ms. Stocker. I know we editors have reputations as being soulless. It is not untrue to say I like Milton; most people here will say the same thing. They accept him for who he is, warts and all, as the saying goes. There are over one hundred and fifty staff on the payroll here and over one and a half million newspapers line the shelves of every newsagent, supermarket, petrol station from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. It’s obvious that no one man comes before an organisation that size. That is where my priorities have to lie.’
Nicole smiled. The words were blunt but not unsympathetic. ‘Is there anyone else I can speak to?’
‘By all means, but I’m afraid their answers are likely to be no more forthcoming. Any questions you ask are unlikely to be much different from those I’ve already asked myself, or the police, for that matter.’
‘How about family? Friends? You must have some numbers.’
‘If anything, I’d have thought you’d have more success at your own newspaper. Milton was there, after all, for over six years. Or alternatively, you could also try the CID.’
Nicole faked a smile. That would be unwise. ‘I think I’ll stick to my own methods,’ she replied. ‘It’s what I’m paid for.’
‘Well, if you ever fancy a change of circumstances.’
She rose to her feet and offered Harris her hand. ‘I promise I’ll give you a call.’
Nicole walked hastily through the crowds, heading in the direction of Blackfriars. The afternoon air was now uncomfortably stuffy, and hoards of citizens occupied the pavement at record numbers. No matter what time of day, the area always seemed crowded. Maybe one day she would get away from it all, settle down in a quiet village in the countryside or, better yet, a deserted beach.
She had no idea what Tomlin’s address was. Even if she did, she assumed visiting might not be a great idea. Gladstone surely knew, but he wasn’t around. Mills must have known, or at least have it written down somewhere, but based on their last conversation, she guessed he wouldn’t help her.
The more she thought about the situation, the more it bothered her. Still she had failed to track down the third author, now the journalist had disappeared.
Perhaps she would have more luck in Switzerland or Singapore.
Perhaps she could find the original journalists.
From the third storey window, Harris looked interestedly as the journalist with jet-black hair left the building through the main doors and walked in the direction of Blackfriars. She moved with purpose.
He returned to his seat and looked aimlessly at the wall, placing his hand to his chin. He reached for the telephone and dialled quickly. Placing the receiver to his ear, he began to whistle softly.
Across the street from the headquarters of the Chronicle, the young monk named Stuart sipped from his cappuccino. His mobile phone on the table started vibrating.
Replacing his cup, he answered, ‘Hello?’
‘Look to your right, Stuart.’
The young monk followed the instruction, his eyes concentrating on the area of pavement across the road. As usual, Fleet Street was crowded, prohibiting his view.
‘What am I…wait.’ He paused mid-sentence. Were his eyes deceiving him? It was her, the girl from the grandmaster’s funeral.
He removed a ten-pound note from his wallet and threw it on the table. Seconds later he was moving, heading in the direction of Blackfriars.
31
Somewhere in Switzerland
He could have been anywhere in the world. Exactly where here was, however, he was unsure. How long had he been here, he had lost count. Was he even still alive, he couldn’t be sure.
Milton Tomlin’s eyes wandered across the dungeon in front of him. His lungs were bursting, and his arms numb from pain. Red stretch marks had formed beneath his armpits. Blood was sticking to his cloth
es, and his throat was extremely dry.
Was he still alive? Yes, but only just.
He blinked, this time more rapidly. The dark walls that he had seen constantly for over three weeks were still there. In his mind the walls were synonymous with pain. For now pain was all he felt.
Was he still alive? Yes, that much was clear. If he was dead, how could he feel so much pain?
In front of him, the light changed, causing the surroundings to become more visible. Out of the corner of his eye he could see chains of metal, those same chains that had left his feet and, at times, his arms ripped with anguish.
Was he alive? If so, why?
The light in front of him moved as the figure approached. For several seconds he saw nothing but silhouette. Then it changed. It was the face he knew, the face he had come to despise.
The face synonymous with pain.
Tomlin breathed with difficulty. His face tickled, and his nose was overwhelmed by the stench of decay. He had not seen his reflection for over three weeks, but he didn’t need a mirror to see he was bleeding, or that his tattered clothing barely covered a body overcome with exhaustion and bruising.
When the pain went away perhaps death would come.
Mansell approached the journalist slowly. He peered in closely, enough for effect but without touching. Even yards away he could hear the man’s breathing, a soft oozing sound. Experience told him death was not far away.
But not yet.
‘One last return to the world of the living.’
Tomlin looked up. His eyes were tired and bloodshot. Falling debris had infected the whites of his eyes with conjunctivitis that constantly itched and kept his eyes closed without effort.
‘For the love of God, I have nothing you want.’
Mansell removed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. In a strange way, the scent of second-hand smoke was welcome to the journalist. Three weeks had passed since his last.
‘It was Jacques de Molay’s grand ambition to form a nation independent of any monarch,’ Mansell said, blowing smoke away, ‘just like the Hospitallers in Rhodes and the Teutonic Knights in Prussia. Ironic, even in those days people didn’t care for paperwork.’
Tomlin looked back with a languishing expression. Inside, he felt tears, but outside, he felt nothing could happen.
‘The castle above is known only to a select few. It is an honour for any to enter.’
He exhaled smoke, returning his attention to the prisoner. ‘I am going to offer you one last chance,’ he said, emphasis on the final word. ‘Tell me everything you know about the murder of Dr. Gray.’
Tomlin attempted to breathe out, not quite air but not blood either. The sound seemed to gurgle. ‘I know nothing.’
Another blow of smoke. ‘Why do it to yourself?’ he said, pacing in front of him. ‘Do you play me for a fool? I have seen the article myself. What did you learn about the Order of the Ancient Star?’
Tomlin coughed and spluttered. ‘I know only what you see.’
The tip of the cigarette lit up Mansell’s face, distorting his features and bathing them in a fiery light. He believed the prisoner was truthful, but he knew he could not be sure. There was only one way to know for sure.
‘Tell me your source.’
Tomlin raised his eyes as much as his body would let him. For what seemed like years, his body had dangled from the manacles, whereas in reality he knew it was only a few hours. Soon his arms would be released, but his body would remain trapped. How soon was soon?
‘I had only the journalist from Switzerland.’
‘Name?’
His breathing heightened. ‘I don’t remember…’
Mansell walked forward and slapped him hard across the face.
‘Try harder.’
For the first time Tomlin’s face let him down. The faintest appearance of tears materialised, bringing with it yellow goo and crust formed around the eyelids.
‘I swear I don’t know.’
Mansell threw his cigarette to the floor. ‘This is your last chance. Tell me and I shall put you out of your misery.’
Tomlin summoned his remaining strength. He looked at the man from Tyre, his red eyes misted with blurriness. ‘Jerome Belroc.’
Mansell looked at the man intently. It was evident that he was at his end.
At last he had a result.
‘Your body is broken,’ he said without emotion, ‘nothing can prevent its slide into paradise.’
Tomlin looked at him for the final time as the man tightened the metal around his wrists. He pulled the arms as far as they would go, stopping when he heard a snapping sound. The sound was familiar. The crucified victim would always start with the dislocation of the ligaments.
Mansell stood back and examined him. He ripped his shirt as far as it would go and turned away. He returned seconds later holding a spear. It was at least five feet in length and evidently centuries old.
‘It is told that before he died, a merciful soldier pierced the side of the prophet as a mark of mercy for his pain.’
Mansell lined the spear up just below the ribcage, aimed upwards toward the heart.
‘I grant you the same mercy.’
He looked at Milton with serious eyes.
‘Remember me, when you enter his kingdom.’
Milton looked at the man from Lebanon face on. He felt the immediate anguish of the spear penetrate his side. Then came a hard choking sensation followed by an awkward floating feeling as he realised he had lost track of his senses.
It was over.
Robert knocked on the door of the chapel and entered on invitation. As usual, the abbot was the only occupant, though on this occasion he was not kneeling. Instead, the new grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia was sitting in a middle pew, three rows from the front. A large yellow cushion was placed at the point where the small of his back came into contact with the arch of the seat. In days gone by, he would have suffered no comfort, but at eighty-two he was starting to feel the pace.
Robert waited by the door, his eyes surveying the chapel he had seen many times before.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Father.’
‘You never need worry about that, Robert,’ he said, a kind smile crossing his face. ‘And you don’t have to call me father when the others are not around.’
‘And what would you have me call you?’
‘In the past, Uncle Thomas or even Uncle Tom was not uncommon.’
Robert nodded. The abbot watched as the young monk took a seat nearby.
‘My father’s name was also Robert. I never knew for sure, but I always felt quite certain that your father took such things into account when naming you.’
The young monk smiled. ‘You loved my father, didn’t you?’
‘As I do all my family,’ he said, his voice soft.
The young monk nodded in acknowledgement. The words made him feel better. ‘I know he loved you, perhaps more so than his own father.’
‘Your father was an unfortunate man in many ways. Always living in the shadow of our ancestors. A position few would envy.’
‘You managed well enough.’
‘Ah, but I was the youngest – and from the female line. I was never meant for the burden of the firstborn. You know that yourself better than most.’
The young monk’s eyes wandered, taking in the chapel’s decoration. His focus landed on the stained-glass windows displaying the four original Keepers of the Light. Even he was unsure of all the secrets of the order.
‘Uncle, I received word today from Brother Stuart in London. It seems he received a phone call from Brother Harris. It appears the news of the disappearance of Milton Tomlin is not restricted to the Chronicle.’
The abbot bowed his head in contemplation. ‘Ah, yes, poor Mr. Tomlin. I have long prayed for him these many nights.’
‘As have I, Uncle. It seems a young girl, a journalist working at the Tribunal, visited Mr. Harris. Her appearance there seems odd. Stuart confirmed the
same girl was recently seen at the grandmaster’s funeral.’
The abbot smiled. ‘I recall young Matthew took quite a shine to the young lady.’
Robert grinned. ‘I saw it too, Uncle.’ He looked once more at the stained-glass windows. ‘I miss him. Not just him.’
The abbot patted his great-nephew on the back. ‘We all have our crosses to bear; the good Lord makes sure of that. Your own path in life was not to be easy. But your patience and devotion do you credit. The decision was one your father made with great pain. But I believe the light is drawing closer, and the tunnel will soon reach its end.’
Robert looked the abbot in the eye. He could see that there was sincerity in his look.
‘The girl is in great danger. As is my brother.’
The severity of the statement needed no clarification. If he had been a younger man, then perhaps he would have responded to the matter himself.
‘Do you want me to follow her?’
The abbot shook his head. ‘No,’ he said confidently. ‘Brother Stuart must continue with his surveillance. Your place is to watch over your brother.’
Alone in Mills’ office, Nicole waited for the fax to come through in its entirety.
She had learned from the journalist in Asia that the body of Lawrence C. Denison had also been plagued with strange markings, some of which could have been words written in English or French. Despite the body’s horrific state, the signs were there.
The fax came through quickly. The original police reports were there, written in Malay, with pen written notes in English added by the journalist more recently.
But most importantly, she included the photograph. Similar to the doctor in Switzerland, the man was semi-naked and had deep cuts to the wrists and below the heart. The words written across the chest were less obvious than the previous ones she’d seen, but to her mind, the connection was clear.
She looked at the photograph and grimaced.
May God have mercy.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 21