The priest nodded.
‘Can you verify that the tomb was on board?’ Sandra asked.
‘We can verify that, yes. Assuming it is the same voyage.’
She watched the priest as he shuffled through papers, searching for the one she wanted. He adjusted his glasses and looked inquisitively at the documents before him. There was more than one inventory-type list.
Finally, he found what she wanted. Sandra opened her handbag. She was pleased to see someone had taken the liberty of putting her glasses there after the attack.
She read the document quickly.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking at Jura. ‘The item of the same description is definitely present.’
Matt looked confused. ‘How can you be so sure it’s the same voyage?’
Jura’s face indicated uncertainty. Richards, however, was adamant.
‘History recalls that Gaspar Corte-Real went missing on a voyage in around 1501. Miguel is known to have disappeared a year later. Back then, voyages were expected to take several months if not years. Even if there was another voyage, it still doesn’t account for the fact that Gaspar Corte-Real was never seen again.’
Matt nodded. Either way, it was something to follow.
‘Pity he didn’t go into detail. Twenty days north is still pretty vague. You don’t even know where this land claim was.’
She pursed her lips. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I do.’
The priest’s study was located on the top floor, and like most of the rooms in the house, the appearance was dated. A relatively modern desktop PC was one of the few hi-tech devices in a room that otherwise could have passed for decades if not a century earlier.
The priest moved the mouse and clicked on the internet before vacating the area for Sandra. The academic waited patiently for the browser to come up before typing letters into the search engine. The results didn’t come up immediately. On this occasion the delay was welcome. Inside, her breathing had heightened. She needed to gather her thoughts.
The results section was helpful. She clicked on the second result, and the website loaded quickly. A large photograph was one of the standout features, surrounded by text, all of which was written in English.
She smiled. The symbols she saw, though blurred and less clear than the penmanship of the now lost letter, were at least recognisable.
Days earlier she would have dismissed the possibility as implausible.
Matt leaned in closer to the screen. ‘Dighton Rock?’
She turned and nodded. ‘The Dighton Rock, or the Dighton Stone, was discovered in the Taunton River in Berkley, Massachusetts, in New England. Unlike most of its type, this one can be validated to have existed at least as long ago as when the colonists arrived.’
Jura looked at the screen, clearly perplexed. ‘You’re sure these were the symbols?’
She hesitated. ‘The drawings on the letter were more clear-cut, at least in their outlines.’ Her mind wandered back to her experience in the sacristy. She clicked again on the mouse and brought up a new search.
The priest watched with interest and nodded. ‘Suggestion linking the Knights of Christ with the rock is not altogether unique, Professor Richards.’
She nodded. ‘In 1918, a professor from Brown named Edmund Delabarre claimed to have accurately interpreted the inscriptions as being made by Miguel Corte-Real in 1511.’
Matt examined the picture with interest. It showed a man pointing at the stone, which was stated as being 5 feet by 9.5 by 11 and appeared orange. The symbol of the Knights of Christ, the crudely inscribed name Miguel Corte-Real and the date 1511 were all highlighted by the editor of the image.
‘You’re sure this is what you saw?’ Jura asked.
‘Positive.’
The priest nodded and smiled. ‘Proof of the find would not be unwelcome to many Portuguese historians.’
‘Nor Swiss,’ Jura said with a smile.
Matt was unconvinced. The markings were hardly clear-cut. ‘Where is the rock?’
‘In the same place, pretty much,’ she replied. ‘A small museum is built around the stone. I’ve seen it myself, more than once.’
Jura looked on thoughtfully. It was clear that he desired to see the location for himself.
Matt looked out the window. The late evening sun was setting, engulfing the church in shadow. He couldn’t help wonder what other secrets lay hidden beneath that vault, still to be discovered.
A peculiar ringing noise filled the room. All eyes turned to Jura as the Swiss removed his mobile phone from his pocket.
‘Excuse me, won’t you.’
All three watched as Jura left the room, answering on reaching the corridor. The man from Portugal also left.
Matt waited till they were alone, pushing the door to.
‘I’ve seen those symbols before,’ Matt said.
Sandra turned to face him. ‘You recognise the picture?’
He shook his head. ‘No. There’s an exact replica in my father’s garden.’
38
Nicole Stocker was back in England by nine the next evening. The meeting with the French journalist had proven surprisingly worthwhile, and since leaving his apartment, she had found herself taken with the possibility that his writings may have been more than conjecture. She spent the two-hour flight reading through his book and continued to do so in the taxi.
Belroc’s content surprised her. Despite not being immune to the predictable flight of fancy and a susceptibility to basing his findings on detailed mathematical calculations, particularly assertions that the locations of many key structures were related by so-called Sacred Geometry, it did at least have a solid grounding in history. If the author was correct, at least three Templar offshoots had been created in the 14th century and hundreds more since the Declaration of Independence.
But it was the early ones that interested her.
What happened to the Templars was no great mystery. According to the Frenchman, the order in Portugal changed its name and was largely secularised, whereas others formed new orders in Scotland or Switzerland. On reading, she realised just how little she knew about the subject. She was aware that most of the stories told that they made their way across the Atlantic pre-Columbus, but the academic community usually met such suggestions with scepticism.
Strange, then, that people like Graham Bell, William Anson and Luke Bowden would be members of these societies.
Whatever the significance of the modern-day Knights of Arcadia and Order of the Ancient Star, she assumed no book could tell her everything. Nevertheless, the book was enough to prove a turning point. Clearly murder of the Templi Desertores was no one-off. According to Belroc, there were at least seventy recorded murders of that type in the last two centuries, none of which were successfully tried in court. Interestingly, the author was less shy about voicing his opinion. The Templars still existed, and the feud between the survivors and deserters also still existed: all for one supreme agenda.
To reclaim what the original order lost.
By the time she had returned home, she was tired and slightly disorientated. Her ears felt uneasy from the usual popping sensation that always seemed to happen to her on flights. On leaving the terminal, she entered the nearest taxi. Under normal circumstances, she might have chosen the bus or have left her car in the medium-stay car park on departure, but on this occasion the choice had been straightforward. Working for the Tribunal was a bitch on the travelling, so it was only reasonable that expenses were paid. She smiled to herself as she watched the streets of London pass by in a wisp of colour. Payback Daniel Mills.
She exited the cab outside the main door and offered the driver a slightly generous tip. She climbed the stairs and opened the door with the key. The deserted apartment that greeted her was a little unnerving. The lights to the hallway were on, as was the light in the kitchen.
‘Amanda?’
She placed her suitcase down by the wall and walked slowly into the living room. The room was well lit
, and the television was on, but no one was watching it. The Sky News logo was present in the corner of the screen, accompanied by the coloured ticker providing up-to-date news. The clock at the bottom right of the screen said it was just after ten, slightly misleading after four days in different time zones.
She left the room and followed the corridor in the direction of the bedrooms. She called out again and heard no reply.
The feeling unsettled her further. Throughout the flight, she had failed to shake the feeling that someone was following her, but she realised that the assumption was probably misleading.
The story of murders by unseen forces had started to affect her.
She heard something, this time different than before. She called out again. Behind a closed door, she heard the sound of shower water from inside the nearby bathroom.
She exhaled in relief.
She returned to the entrance hall and took her suitcase all the way to her bedroom. The slightly open curtains illuminated the unlit bedroom that looked strange in the poor light.
She switched on the light. The familiar room was unchanged. A leather revolving armchair that was usually covered with clothes was empty, tucked away close to her rarely switched off computer.
On the opposite side of the room, the door to her ensuite shower room was slightly ajar. The room was a godsend. Had the flat not come with two bathrooms, life with Amanda was bound to have been messy.
She entered the room and immediately turned on the tap. She splashed water against her face several times.
Over the sound of running water, she heard footsteps.
She called out, ‘Hey.’
Her call went unanswered. She turned off the tap and walked away from the sink, rubbing the towel gently against her skin before placing it down on the rack.
She called again. Still no answer.
She re-entered the bedroom and walked slowly in the direction of the door.
She paused. A large sheet of paper was present on the bed – she had missed it the first time. The paper was folded once and included writing.
She read it, alarmed.
Going out with Clive
See you later
Love A
XX
Nicole dropped the paper and placed her hand to her mouth as a reflex. The sound of footsteps in the nearby corridor continued. The sound suggested they were heading in the direction of the kitchen.
She froze. She picked up her mobile phone from inside her handbag and contemplated making a call.
The noise had disappeared.
She started pressing digits and paused. The overwhelming feeling of not being alone was replaced by one of strange bravery.
She turned and examined the room. A large baseball bat was sticking out from under her bed. Her mother always kept one under the bed just in case. It had been a useful habit, though until now unnecessary.
She picked it up and opened the door fully. She peered out into the corridor and saw nothing obviously wrong. The sight of nothingness, though unsurprising, in many ways disturbed her still. Her father had taught her that the only thing people fear is the unknown. She had gone through life believing that the way to alleviate fear is to expose it: only then can the true ineffectiveness be uncovered.
She moved quickly, attempting to tread where the noise would not be heard. The quiet was disturbing. On reflection, she realised that the noise of the shower had stopped.
She looked along the corridor. The door to Amanda’s bedroom was slightly ajar.
She peered inside. It was empty.
Next, she tried the bathroom. The misty fragrance of recent hot water filled the air, the steam restricting her vision. The mirrors were covered in condensation, partially fading in certain corners and forming a wet drip that fell down to the floor.
The room was deserted.
She left quickly and headed once more in the direction of the kitchen. On reaching the lounge, she stopped. The curtains in the corner of the room were partly open and moving as if a steady breeze was trapped behind them.
She stopped, frozen with fear. It was obvious from the movement that the windows behind were open. Had they always been open? She struggled to remember.
She moved forward quickly and opened the curtain. The windows were wide open. The air felt bracing on her face. It seemed a long time since she had last experienced its brisk chill whereas the reality was less than ten minutes had passed.
She searched the area closely. Despite being on the fifth floor, the presence of the nearby building was too close for comfort. The flat roof of the next building was unsurprisingly uninhabited, though the presence of a fire exit offered the possibility of an escape.
Was she imagining things? Had the pressure of the last few days got to her?
She breathed in deeply, allowing fresh air to fill her lungs. Logic told her she was overreacting, but her senses refused to allow the possibility to rest.
What had happened to the journalists at the Tribunal? What had happened to Gladstone? Why did Mills never want her to follow these things up? Had Milton Tomlin disappeared for knowing too much?
The revelations in Belroc’s book were surely beyond coincidence. Whoever the Order of the Ancient Star really were, their existence was not without blemish. Men had been killed. Perhaps still.
She closed the curtain and turned away from the window. A presence startled her.
‘Nicky.’
She screamed, though not loudly. Directly in front of her was Amanda. She was dressed in a white dressing gown and had her hair done up in a towelled bun.
Nicole let out a deep breath. ‘Oh my God, you scared me half to death.’
Amanda grinned, an expression only she could do.
‘Why was the window open?’
‘Because, I just had a shower, I was going to open all of them.’
Nicole breathed out again, this time for longer.
Amanda looked back with concern. ‘Is everything okay?’
Nicole bit her lip, fearing her sanity. She knew the situation was getting the better of her.
‘Yeah, I just saw the note on my bed and got a little freaked.’
Amanda put her hand to her mouth. ‘Being honest, I forgot I put it there.’
Nicole nodded. No surprises.
‘How was Malta?’
She forced a smile. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’
The cop pushed the button for the apartment on the fourth floor and waited for a response. He had heard a report from a distress call that the sound of vague shouting had been heard from within the apartment.
He waited for over a minute for a response that for now was not forthcoming. The information the officer had was that the apartment belonged to a Mr. Belroc, thirty-nine, born in Paris, unmarried, working as a freelance journalist, writer and author. His records confirmed that he had rented the property for over a year and, other than this call, the man did not have a history of trouble with the authorities.
He pressed the button for the fourth time and again received no answer. It was written in his notes that the call had been placed by one of his neighbours, a married mother of three whose address corresponded to the building. He pressed the number for her apartment and this time received a response.
The voice was a woman’s. ‘Hello?’
‘Are you the woman who called about 409?’
A hesitant pause. ‘Yes.’
‘Could you buzz me in, please, I’m getting no response.’
The sound of a buzz informed him the door had unlocked. He pushed it open and took the stairs to the fourth floor. He stopped in front of 409 and knocked politely. After several seconds without response, he did the same again, this time louder.
The door eased open. The lock was purposely down. It was impossible to do so without pushing the button on the latch.
He was completely unprepared for the sight that awaited him.
A man matching the journalist’s age and background was lying across the couch.
His wrists had been cut, and his torso was peppered with blood. The man’s face, hands and neck were red, peculiarly so. The blood seemed to form words of some kind, but that was impossible.
The policeman stepped closer to the body and came close to vomiting. The smell was unbearable, and the sight gruesome.
The man had been there for at least a day.
What struck him the most was the expression of fear that would be permanently etched across the man’s stone-dead features.
39
The next morning Nicole returned to work, insignificantly jaded from her travelling. Predictably, Mills had ordered another early morning meeting about nothing in particular that culminated in her being given a special new task.
The day had been infuriating. At just after 3pm Nicole was standing, surrounded by boxes, in a cluttered storage room on the third floor. She had been through less than a tenth of what Mills wanted done, and based on early indications, she would be here for the best part of a week. Her initial reaction was that Mills had given her the assignment to be a deliberate jerk, but after five hours in the humid, dusty room, she figured he just wanted her out of the way.
On the plus side, the assignment had at least given her a chance to think. An open copy of the book by von Gostel was on a nearby cabinet. At first she had read it intermittently, but as the boredom grew, she concentrated intently.
The book by von Gostel differed from the one by the Frenchman. While Belroc’s was written mainly as a first person investigation into secret connections, codes and symbolism that she had no way of knowing how to validate, the book by the historian was more as she would have expected. It was a chronology-based history that began with the Crusades, Templars and finally the trail of specific individuals from France into Switzerland.
The author’s conclusions were set out with more clarity than most. If correct, the Templars had found an item of religious significance during the Crusades, unknown but with connections to the First Temple of Solomon, that was intrinsic to the order’s later importance – particularly the reasons for their excommunication. Of considerable interest was his suggestion that the Knights of Arcadia was formed on the orders of the last grandmaster and entrusted its secrets by a new grandmaster, Larmenius. Whatever the object was, it was taken to Scotland where it stayed until 1499 when a member of the order in Portugal took it. The last few days had taught her that the Knights of Christ was the least mysterious of the Templar orders, but potentially the most talented. If they had really crossed the Atlantic, and goodness knows what else, chances were the earlier Templars had done the same thing.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 27