The next issue was who they were. What she knew, she knew from the books she’d been given and the articles she’d used for research. She knew that the reliability of these sources of information was questionable, but it was the best she had. The thought stuck in her mind, it was what the Frenchman had said. The author von Gostel was killed within weeks of publication, perhaps even earlier. They had succeeded in dampening its impact, but even they could not remove every copy.
She tried to be disciplined in her thinking. She had read the first two books and that left just one. The third was more modern, written in English by an independent Canadian-born scholar. According to the blurb, the man’s name was Steven Woltz. If the author’s biography was correct, he lived in North Wales, somewhere between Snowdon and Bala Lake. It was possible, bearing in mind the date of the publication, that he could have moved on, or worse, but potentially she had a starting place.
If she was going to find them, he was the only one left.
Less than thirty minutes later, she emerged from the car park, behind the wheel of her 07-reg Citroen. She had showered quickly and made a particular effort to disguise her usual appearance. Her shoulder-length hair was up in a ponytail and placed through the end of a baseball cap. Her eyes were shielded with mirrored sunglasses that suited her face. She chewed gum, anything to take her attention off her plight.
She looked both ways before emerging onto the road and headed west in the direction of Luton. Her aim was to make it to Wales and set up camp in an unfamiliar place. She needed to know she wasn’t being followed.
Hopefully she would be able to make contact with the author. Hopefully she could meet him and the rest would fall into place.
In a darkened room somewhere in Switzerland, the man named Stephane Degen watched the human in front of him. Her frame was noticeably shaken and scarred from when she had put up a fight.
Her mascara was smudged, giving the impression that she had been raped or assaulted. He knew the truth, and the truth was misleading. He took no pleasure.
This was his job.
He leaned in closer to the red-haired girl and carefully removed the tape that covered her mouth. He expected her to speak, but for now she remained silent, barring the sound of laboured breathing. Her eyes told him the words were held back due to fear, fear up until this point she probably never imagined even existed.
He lowered himself to his knee and looked her in the eye.
‘Now then, Miss Hopkinson,’ he said slowly. ‘Tell me about your friend.’
46
Peterhead, Scotland
Sandra parked her car in a near full car park and walked quickly in the direction of a large building. It was approaching 10am, and the weather was wet and windy.
The building was the headquarters of a fisheries company, located in Peterhead, on the North Sea coast. She had learned from a colleague that the “castle ruins” at New Ross had changed ownership only a few times in the past century. The most recent had been a company from Scotland.
All up until now had failed to find anything noteworthy – including the company she planned to visit. As best she could gather, the company had been founded in the 1930s and had remained in the same family since the beginning.
The name was striking. Landry, Anson & Son was a registered trademark whose company was licensed for fisheries and shipping. As far as she was aware, the name Anson was unrelated to William, Matt or Scott. She knew the name was rare but not unique. A striking gable displayed the logo of the company, a towering castle with round turrets that seemingly bore no relevance to their occupation. The idea that the company might own The Cross seemed unlikely, though she knew its motive might not be straightforward. Nova Scotia was well renowned for its fishing potential. Or maybe they were just another firm who used pointless assets and locations as opportunities for tax purposes.
She walked up the steps leading to the entrance, doing her best to avoid the continuous drizzle. She entered through a series of double doors and stopped on reaching the main foyer.
The building was more impressive than she had expected. The four-storey complex that looked from the outside to be a typical shell, in fact, led to a nicely arranged L-shaped foyer with blue carpet, white walls and stairs and elevators to the floors above. Despite the impressive interior, the location incorporated the features she expected: an industrial building with family ties. The luxurious reception area contrasted vividly from the practical décor of the other company buildings – and evidently had prospered through the recession.
She walked in the direction of a large reception desk and caught the glance of an attractive blonde woman.
‘Good morning, may I help you?’ she asked, her accent local.
‘Hi, I’m looking for either Mr. Anson or Mr. Landry, please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, I don’t.’
The receptionist took closer interest. ‘I see. And the nature of your visit?’
‘Strictly private.’ She smiled.
The receptionist watched her, emotion now lacking. Sandra assumed from her stare such requests were probably a rarity.
The receptionist typed something into her keyboard and paused. Seconds later she dialled on the telephone.
‘Mr. Landry, it’s Gillian here.’
Sandra watched as the blonde receptionist spoke with the unseen Mr. Landry at the other end of the phone. For several seconds the receptionist remained silent before replying.
The receptionist ended the call and returned her attention to Sandra. ‘Mr. Landry will see you. Press the button for the second floor and someone will meet you.’
‘Thank you.’
Sandra crossed the floor and climbed a minor staircase, heading inside the open lift. She followed the receptionist’s instructions and pressed for the second.
She left the lift on arrival and came face to face with a sharply dressed man, with a white beard and a semi-bald head.
‘Are you looking for me?’ he asked, his accent broadly north.
‘Mr. Landry, I presume?’
He nodded. ‘And you are?’
‘My name is Professor Richards, I’m a fellow of history at the University of Harvard and professor at La Rochelle.’
The man’s smile broadened. ‘That’s some résumé, Professor Richards,’ the man said. ‘Rarely have I met a lassie of such pedigree.’
She smiled, realising the man was genuine. ‘You’re very kind.’
He gestured in the direction of an office a few metres away and entered through the open door. The office was basic. Several photographs lined the walls, mostly historical to the company, accompanied by prints of the area in its heyday and newspaper clippings of past honours. A similar photo of the man’s family was on the desk, surrounded by a telephone and countless pieces of paperwork.
‘Take a seat.’
She sat down and adjusted herself for comfort. The man sat down opposite her, clasping his hands together.
‘I cannot imagine what a humble tradesman like myself can do to help,’ he said. His smile was friendly but also inquisitive. ‘So, what can I do for you, Professor Richards?’
She forced a quick smile. ‘I understand that your company bought the castle ruins in New Ross, Nova Scotia, in 1994.’
She watched his reaction closely. She wondered whether he knew anything of the area’s history.
‘The Cross?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Surely you haven’t come all this way to talk about my ancestors?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh, forgive me, I’m afraid the ruins have become something of a joke in the Landry household. A cousin of mine got all excited, said we were descendents of King Arthur, or one of those fellas.’
She smiled. The response was flippant but potentially noteworthy. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d be very interested if it were true. I’m particularly interested in the medieval period.’
‘If, indeed,’ he said, smiling. ‘I see. And you’re interested in
New Ross, why?’
‘As you’re undoubtedly aware, the so-called castle ruins have been a matter of some speculation since the early seventies. If there was a castle there, it would of course change perception of the area – perhaps even our understanding of history, period.’
A humorous smile had formed across his bearded features. ‘If you say so; I’m just a humble fisherman.’
She looked at him and returned a smile. ‘Many in my profession are sceptical of stories of early crossings of the Atlantic. In recent years, my research has centred on early travellers to America – particularly the Vikings. I’ve heard reports about a ruin at New Ross, perhaps of a stone structure, allegedly a castle. European castles are hardly common in Nova Scotia.’
‘I know little of North America before the revolution.’
‘How about Nova Scotia? You know it well?’
‘Yes, reasonably.’
‘So, presumably you’re aware that the ruins at New Ross have been rumoured to suggest evidence of a pre-Columbus voyage. And that the Vikings had set foot on Greenland and Newfoundland as far back as the 10th century?’
He smiled. ‘As I say, I’m not really an historian.’
‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about New Ross?’
He shrugged. ‘Please continue.’
‘What possessed you to buy the site? Was it just family?’
‘Not at all, primarily it was a business decision. The area is fine for its fishing.’
She put her pen to her mouth and bit her lip. ‘You were never interested in the ruins itself?’
‘Our ownership of The Cross was entirely inconsequential,’ he said, bringing his hands together. He looked at her closely. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
The man moved from side to side in his chair, tilting on its axis. ‘I cannae deny what you’re thinking – the same thought entered the minds of many of my colleagues. We did spend some time looking into the ruins, but never further. We also considered buying Oak Island for a while.’
She smiled, knowing the island was famous for its legends.
‘When we bought the site, we did so for geographical reasons. A mighty fine house sits on the site. Not just the barnyard.’
She returned his smile. ‘Mr. Landry–’
‘Call me Andrew.’
She paused. ‘Very well, Andrew.’
He smiled from behind his hands. Surely he was playing with her.
‘Forgive me, but why buy the ruins if you have no interest in the historical aspects?’
‘Nova Scotia is a strange place in many ways. Over the years, millions of pounds have been invested in locating whatever is buried beneath the Oak Island money pit – if anything is there at all.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘At The Cross we have even less idea what exists. My own belief is that it would take an investment of substantial proportion to launch a serious endeavour – and that would not cover the costs, even if something of significance were to be found.’
She looked at him seriously. ‘So you never bought The Cross to examine its purpose.’
‘A secondary consideration at best, but as I say, our primary consideration was business. Nova Scotia is a prime area for cod fishing. The idea of expanding into the area was a long-term consideration. New Ross was in the right place at the right time.’
The man tilted back on his chair. ‘Forgive me for asking, but…’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m a wee bit surprised that an academic of your calibre would be interested in something so insignificant.’
She considered her response. ‘As I say, I’m interested in the pre-Columbus crossings.’
‘I don’t know who built the ruins, Professor Richards,’ he said, ‘but I can tell you now, whoever it was, I don’t believe them to be medieval.’
Sandra looked at the Scot awkwardly. ‘You sound pretty confident for a non-historian.’
‘The planning is too primitive.’
She allowed herself a wry smile. ‘In your opinion, who was it?’
He shrugged. ‘In my opinion, you’re looking back even farther in time.’
She stared at him intently. Interesting for a humble fisherman. ‘You mean like natives?’
‘Someone of that capability. Whoever constructed the castle at The Cross, as it’s stupidly called, did not intend for it to be used as a permanent site. At best it was a tool shed.’
Sandra nodded, continuing to watch him. First he knew nothing, now he knew everything.
‘Mr. Landry.’
‘Andrew.’
She smiled. ‘Andrew.’
‘Now, if you call me by my first name, I think it’s only fair I know yours.’
Another smile. ‘Sandra.’
‘Beautiful name.’
‘Thank you.’
He looked at her and smiled. What else did she know?
‘Would you mind if I were to have a look myself at The Cross? Would you allow me to do some work?’
‘I myself have no objection, Sandra, but it’s no longer my decision. We sold it years ago.’
The answer could not have been more irritating. ‘May I ask who to?’
‘You can ask, but sadly, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Surely, you could find out.’
‘All I remember is that it was to a consortium. I think the head was a businessman from the Lowlands.’
She bit her lip. Defeat was staring her in the face. ‘You don’t remember who?’
‘Sorry, I really don’t remember. I’m sure the owner is registered somewhere. The house is probably registered under the company. The company name was Larmenius Corp. I’m afraid I know nothing of their activities since.’
Larmenius? Surely that was a clue. She forced a nod and smiled.
The pair shook hands. ‘Nice meeting you, Mr. Landry.’
‘Nice meeting you, Sandra.’
Sandra walked quickly out through the entrance and unlocked her car from a distance. She reversed from the parking bay and turned, heading in the direction of the exit. It was nearly 11am, and the roads were quiet.
She was now aware that at least one more link was formed in The Cross ownership conundrum. She had never known such secrecy regarding a small ruin before.
But the meeting had been useful, despite the man’s obvious tendency to lie.
Still, one pressing problem remained.
The owner of The Cross remained elusive.
Landry waited until Sandra had entered the lift before heading away, this time along the far corridor.
The door to the far room was open. The office was of a similar design to his own and finely decorated. A man of fine features was sitting behind the desk, smartly dressed despite the informality of the day.
‘Niven, we need to have a wee chat.’
47
Headquarters of the Knights of Arcadia
The four men dressed in robes walked slowly along the centre aisle of the church before changing direction on reaching the altar. It was early morning, and the church was deserted except for them. It would be over an hour before any arrivals were due.
They walked in single file, the pace dictated by the man at the front. The grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia had walked the same walk many times, but never before had he led the way. Today was different.
Each man was dressed in similar attire. The three following all wore black robes that were marked with a white cross at the centre. The grandmaster, dressed in white, had a red cross rather than white. Traditionally this was the way, dating back to their heyday. The black and white was a sign of a Templar sergeant, the lower class who made up the majority of the order. To the Knights of Arcadia, they were the seneschals, always three, one of whom must be ecclesiastical. In previous centuries, the status of the chaplain was separate still, but since the 15th century, the rules had changed. The focus was no longer fighting and war.
Abbot Winter led the three in the direction of a narrow s
taircase that descended in a circular pattern, leading to a closed door. On the other side a narrow passageway, lit only by dim wall lights, led to a circular room that was enclosed and devoid of natural light.
A large table was located in the centre of the room, reminiscent of an altar. A white cloth covered the table, marked with the red cross of the order. This was the headquarters of the Knights of Arcadia, an organisation that had been formed by necessity and survived by purpose. They were the most important of the four, the only four permitted to learn every piece of knowledge. In antiquity they were called the Keepers of the Light.
And so they remained.
The grandmaster led them in making the sign of the cross, and each of the men settled into their seats.
‘As customary of our Rule, let us begin by offering our best intentions for each of our former grandmasters.’
The three seneschals all bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Each man wore no headwear, as usual in these meetings.
The grandmaster closed his eyes and began praying aloud. He took special care to ensure the obligation was carried out perfectly. He had heard it said by others many times before, and he knew the words by heart.
The prayer ended, and the grandmaster raised his head. For several seconds he studied the faces of the three, their features picked out by the wall lights. Anyone seeing the chamber for the first time would see an enclosed stone hideaway, in keeping with a crypt, only circular, and, aside from electricity, at least four hundred years out of date. This was the location that had always served.
The vision was strange to him, having spent so many years in the seat to his left. His concentration was strained on multiple levels. It was not only the light that affected his focus. Recent events were troubling.
‘For over three thousand years, various Keepers of the Light have been assigned the task of protecting the secrets of the Lord,’ Winter said quietly. ‘The influence of our enemies is rising. It is perhaps not unjust to say that our society is facing its largest crisis in over a century.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 32