Sword of the Templars

by Paul Christopher

  “Is that the case?” Broadbent said to Peggy coldly.

  She stood up and threaded her arm through Holliday’s. She leaned her cheek on his shoulder affectionately, batting her eyelashes and smiling at the lawyer. “Anything Doc says is just fine by me,” she said. They started to leave the office. Broadbent’s voice stopped them.

  “Colonel Holliday?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “My father’s notes referred to an item that might have been in your uncle’s possession. Part of his collection.”

  “My uncle collected a lot of things,” said Holliday. “Anything that interested him.”

  “The item in question had a special significance to my father.” Broadbent paused for a moment, frowning. “They knew each other, you know,” he said finally. “They were in the same outfit during the war.”

  “Really,” answered Holliday. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what was this object?” Holliday asked. “And why was it significant?”

  “They found it together,” said Broadbent quietly. “In Bavaria. In Germany.”

  “I know where Bavaria is, Mr. Broadbent.”

  “They found it in Obersalzberg. At Berchtesgaden.”

  “Really,” said Holliday. Berchtesgaden was the location of Adolf Hitler’s summer house. Uncle Henry had never mentioned being there, at least not to Holliday. If he remembered correctly Berchtesgaden had been captured by the 3rd Infantry Division.

  “Just what was this object that they found together, your father and my uncle Henry?”

  “A sword, Colonel Holliday. A sword.”

  “What kind of sword?” Holliday asked.

  “I have no idea,” answered Broadbent. “I only know that my father thought it was extremely important.”

  “Important, Mr. Broadbent, or valuable?”

  “Important.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find it,” said Holliday.

  “I’d be happy to purchase it from you at any price you thought appropriate,” said Broadbent.

  “I might not be happy to sell it to you, though,” answered Holliday.

  They left the office and went downstairs to the street. It was early afternoon, the summer sun shining brightly from an almost cloudless sky.

  “You were mean to him,” said Peggy, laughing. It was the first time she’d laughed since Uncle Henry’s funeral two days before. Holliday squeezed her arm in his. Peggy was a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojour nalist, and her work took her around the world and back again. He hadn’t seen her for more than a year this time. He wished their reunion could have come under better circumstances.

  “He deserved it,” said Holliday.

  “What was all that about a sword?” Peggy asked.

  “I have no idea,” answered Holliday, “but I do know that Uncle Henry wasn’t in the Third Infantry Division, and they were the guys that took Berchtesgaden in 1945.”

  “So what now?” Peggy asked.

  “Lunch,” said Holliday. “Something fancy at the White Inn?”

  “Cheeseburgers and fries at Gary’s Diner,” answered Peggy.

  “Even better,” said Holliday.

  4

  As usual the old diner around the corner on Eagle Street was packed with SUNY students, but eventually Peggy and Holliday got a booth next to a window and spent a long lunch hour catching up and going over old times. Apparently Peggy had been on assignment covering the most recent G8 summit being held in Niagara Falls when the call came in about Uncle Henry, which put her only a two-hour drive away from the old man’s deathbed. At least he hadn’t died alone. In that way, at least, she’d been lucky. Before that she’d been in Nepal, and before that she’d been in the new African war zone in the Jwaneng district of Botswana, documenting yet another potential genocide.

  “How’s your love life?” Holliday asked, changing the subject. There had been boyfriends in Peggy’s life since the third grade, and she was notoriously either falling in love or out of it. She had the combination of good looks and flashing, energetic personality that drew men to her like a magnet.

  She shrugged her shoulders absently and speared a French fry with her fork. “A little fling with a guy named Olivier the last time I was in Rwanda but nothing serious since then.”

  “Maybe you should get together with our friend Broadbent the lawyer. He seemed pretty interested.”

  “Ee-uw,” said Peggy in her best Lisa Simpson voice, wrinkling her nose. “Birth control in a pin-striped suit.” She swirled another French fry in a pool of ketchup on the edge of her plate and popped it into her mouth. “I’d rather die first.”

  “Maybe you should start thinking about settling down,” said Holliday.

  “Why?” Peggy asked. “I like things the way they are, at least right now.”

  They spent some time talking about her work and a book she’d been working on about modern photojour nalism and about Holliday’s endless treatise on arms and armor and about the past and the future for both of them. Finally they talked about Henry and the present and what they should do about it.

  “What about the house?” Peggy asked. A waitress came and cleared away their plates and brought them coffee. The diner was clearing out; the students were leaving and the afternoon was fading away. Clouds were sweeping in off Lake Erie, and the sky was turning gray.

  “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” answered Holliday. He suddenly had a frighteningly strong urge for a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked since Amy died. “Sometimes I think I spent the best days of my childhood there.”

  “Me, too,” said Peggy. Holliday could see tears welling in the corners of her eyes and could hear them beginning to clog in her throat. “He gave me my first camera, you know,” she continued. She blinked the tears away at least for the moment. “It was a Kodak Baby Brownie from the forties. I think he picked it up when he was in England. I used to take pictures of bugs and things down by the creek. I got so frustrated that what I saw in the viewfinder was never what showed up in the pictures; then Grandpa Henry explained it to me. I was the only kid in grade three who knew what parallax was.”

  “He taught me the same lesson, except it was about trout fishing and the Cattaraugus Indians,” Holliday said with a laugh. “The fish wasn’t quite where you thought it was even when you could see it in the water.” He shook his head sadly. “There was a time in my life when I thought Uncle Henry knew everything worth knowing. I still think that way sometimes.”

  “I’m going to miss him so much,” whispered Peggy.

  “Me, too,” said Holliday. “But that’s not answering your question about the house, is it?”

  “No,” the young woman agreed.

  “Maybe it’s time we confronted the inevitable,” sighed Holliday.

  “Maybe you’re right,” answered Peggy.

  Twenty-six Hart Street was like a Walt Disney version of a haunted house, complete with a spooky turret and a widow’s walk with a wrought iron railing on the flat peak of the steeply sloping mansard roof. The house was set back on the property, enclosed by a low brick wall and surrounded by plantings of ancient elms, birch and gnarled black walnut trees, their limbs goitered and twisted like the arthritic crones found in fairy tales. Nobody had cut the grass in a while.

  A sloping gravel path led down between the trees to the bank of Canadaway Creek, the burbling shallow stream hidden behind the long drooping branches of a dozen weeping willows, the far bank much higher than the near one and dense with undergrowth. Approaching the tottering Shingle Style Queen Anne monstrosity at the end of the street was like the opening pages of one of C. S. Lewis’s Narnia tales; there was a sense that entering the house might take you anywhere and not necessarily to places you’d like to go, a vaguely sinister call to adventure.

  John Holliday and Peggy Blackstock went up five worn wooden steps to the covered piazza-style front porch. Holliday brought out the fat bunch of keys the lawyer had grudgingly handed over and tried them one at a time. Finally he found one that fit into the old Yale lock and turned it. He grasped the faceted crystal doorknob and opened the door. Holliday
stepped inside, Peggy close behind him.

  Instantly they were assailed by a cloying, familiar scent. “He’s riding high,” said Holliday.

  Peggy smiled. “He has P.A.”

  “Pipe Appeal and Prince Albert,” they said together, finishing the old advertisement that Uncle Henry would quote every time he took his ancient briar out of his jacket pocket, polishing the bowl against the satin fabric of the waistcoat he always wore before clamping the smelly pipe between his teeth, smoke fuming up and staining his white mustache a permanent nicotine yellow.

  In the center of the wide hall a stairway spiraled up to the second floor. To their left was the library; to the right was the old-fashioned parlor. Behind the stairway was the dining room with its imposing fireplace, and at the end of the hall were the pantry and the kitchen. A glass-enclosed conservatory had been added at the rear of the house, and for many years Henry had bred roses there.

  The floors throughout were heavily varnished pine, covered with a collection of worn Persian carpets and runners of every age and description. The walls were wainscoted in black walnut, with plain plaster above, painted white once but faded to a neutral beige after so much time. The furniture was all dark late-Victorian with heavy, deep brown velvet drapes to match. Small landscapes in plain gold frames lined the walls in the hallway, each with its own brass-sconced light. Against the wall opposite an old elephant’s foot coatrack and umbrella stand was a giant longcase grandfather clock, the brass face enclosed in an oak case inlaid with mahogany and satinwood. It ticked heavily, the steady sound echoing a little, making the empty silence in the rest of the house even more oppressive.

  “It sure feels empty,” whispered Peggy sadly.

  “Yeah,” agreed Holliday. “It sure does.”

  They did a quick tour of the house. Every horizontal surface was covered with knickknacks and collectibles: shelves full of antique bottles, tables covered with stacks of old magazines, collections of minerals and fossils in glass-fronted display cases. A mantelpiece filled with ships in bottles, some of the bottles so old the glass was clouding.

  There were four bedrooms on the second floor, a bathroom with a separate water closet, stairs leading up to the widow’s walk and the turret room. Everything was equally cluttered. Located conveniently beside the toilet was a stack of Life magazines dating back to the 1930s. Once upon a time the turret room had been a children’s play area, but now it was only a repository for broken furniture awaiting repairs that would never come and old luggage and boxes that would have been stored in the attic or garage of most houses.

  Only one of the bedrooms had been occupied, the smallest, which had its own fireplace. Like everywhere else in the house it didn’t look as though anyone had dusted in decades, and soot from the fireplace and smoke from Henry’s inevitable pipe had made the window that looked out over the rear yard and the creek almost opaque.

  “Never the greatest housekeeper, was he?” Peggy commented. She fluffed up the down-filled pillow and smoothed out the pale blue chenille comforter on the big four-poster bed that took up most of the room, her fingers running sadly across the old fabric.

  “No,” murmured Holliday. They made their way downstairs again, going through to the kitchen. The furniture here was Early American—a pine table in the middle of the room with four plain matching chairs, ladder-backed with woven rush seats. The cupboards were painted wood inset with pale blue Delft tiles. The floor was gray-green linoleum.

  The old Kelvinator refrigerator was filled with bits and pieces of past meals—a dried-out piece of steak badly wrapped in wax paper, a chunk of orange-colored cheese, an open half-used can of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken soup, some limp celery; an enormous jar of Cheez Whiz squatted on one of the racks.

  “Uncle Henry’s secret vice,” said Holliday. “Cheez Whiz on toasted Wonder Bread.”

  “Grandpa Henry once wrote an article for Smithsonian magazine about Edwin Traisman,” said Peggy. “I did the photo research and layout for him.”

  “Who?”

  “Edwin Traisman. A Latvian from Wisconsin. The guy who invented Cheez Whiz.”

  “Figures he’d be from Wisconsin,” said Holliday.

  “Turns out he also invented the McDonald’s French fry,” continued Peggy. “He was ninety-one when he died.”

  “Guess he kept away from his own creations,” grunted Holliday. They went through the pantry and into the dining room. The darkly paneled room was dominated by an enormous display cabinet that took up one entire wall from floor to ceiling. The glass-fronted cabinet was filled with tier upon tier of stuffed birds and animals, from a tiny sparrow to an enormous horned owl, from a glass-eyed chipmunk forever climbing an amputated length of tree limb to a snarling bobcat riding a papier-mâché and chicken wire boulder. The rest of the room was filled with a long, highly polished dining room table flanked by eight high-backed chairs upholstered in blue morocco leather. There was an ornate morini bowl of wax fruit as a centerpiece that was as dusty as everything else in the house.

  “It always made me nervous eating in here,” said Peggy. “All those glass eyes watching me.”

  “He bought the whole thing from a small-town natural history museum that was closing its doors,” said Holliday. “He was never into birds or animals really. He told me he’d picked it up at an auction for next to nothing. It was the bargain that attracted him.”

  “Was he working on anything?” Peggy asked. “I’ve been out of touch.”

  “Me, too,” said Holliday. “I hadn’t talked to him in quite a while. The last time we spoke he’d just come back from some sort of research jaunt to Oxford. I think it was just an excuse to see some of his old friends from before the war. That was more than a year ago. I really don’t know what he was up to. He always had some sort of project going.”

  They moved into the library. It was a magnificent room, the walls lined with arch-topped fruitwood bookcases, the spaces in between hung with fantastic oil paintings of medieval battle scenes done by long-forgotten artists. There was a wrought iron chandelier hanging from the dark oak coffered ceiling, and the floor was covered with a gigantic tree of life-pattern Persian carpet done in shades of rose and deep blue.

  There was a functional desk set at an angle in one corner, several comfortable old fan-backed club chairs upholstered in faded velvet that had once been red but that had worn down through the years to a faded pink, a small couch, and Henry’s personal chair, a giant green leather monstrosity that looked as though it had been spirited out of a nineteenth-century English men’s club. There was a conveniently placed pole lamp with a fringed shade and a side table at the chair’s right hand, just the perfect size for a book and a late-night tipple of sherry, or perhaps a small tumbler of Henry’s favorite single malt.

  The chair stood just beyond the hearth of the plain, practical fireplace. Above the fireplace was a signed mezzotint by the apocalyptic British artist John Martin, showing the fall of Babylon in desperate, murderous detail, complete with a tiny Assyrian priest being scorched by bolts of divine lightning descending from boiling, wrathful thunderheads above the ancient temple. There was a quotation in Italian printed within the frame. Holliday quoted it from memory; it had been Uncle Henry’s credo:

  “Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra

  traffito da un raggio di sole:

  ed č subito sera.”

  “Which means?” Peggy asked.

  “Every one of us stands alone on the heart of the

  earth,

  Transfixed by a beam of sun;

  And suddenly it is evening.”

  “Easy for you to say,” quipped Peggy.

  “It’s from a poem called ‘It Is Now Evening’ by Salvatore Quasimodo.”