by David Taylor
“I don’t suppose you clocked our old friend Major Duncan’s demise either?” he asked.
“I thought he died in a bookshop fire?”
“He did. I started it.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. “What’s this all about Michael? What do you want?”
“Money is what I need, enough for a quick trip to Germany and back. I’m onto something big which could really damage the British Establishment – do far more harm than my bombs ever did. Can you believe that?”
He knew what they would think. It was possible, though not apparent. There was more muttering in the Belfast office before Gerry spoke. “I suppose we could find a few thou’ for you but I’d have to know what you are spending it on.”
“No, you don’t,” Kelly replied crisply. “All you need to know is this: the Engineer is back in business and there will be consequences.”
8 JULY 2014
He heard the emergency vehicles approaching and swerved into the Shoreham bus lane. A police car with blue lights flashing and siren blasting swept past him hotly pursued by a wailing ambulance. Some poor soul is in trouble, Freddie thought.
There was a scent of rain in the air when he climbed out of his Mini in the marina car park. Whipped up by a strong southwesterly wind, the sea was gunmetal grey and the tightly packed yachts bobbed up and down in the choppy water. Through a forest of swaying masts he saw two yellow and blue striped Ford Galaxy cars parked on the quayside. To his horror, uniformed officers were on the deck of the Silly Mid On talking to a woman in a red dress, trying to comfort her.
Fearing the worst, Freddie sprinted along the wharf.
Antonia started to cry when she saw him. “I’m awfully sorry,” she sobbed. “You’ve had a wasted journey. Donald is dead.”
As if on cue, a limp body was lifted out of the water with a grappling hook and dumped on the deck like a fisherman’s catch: a bundle of wet clothes dripping onto the police tarpaulin. And staring out of this canvas shroud was Donald Strachan’s bloated, blue-red face. The sight of her partner’s swollen features triggered a further wave of grief. The tears poured down Antonia’s cheeks as she dabbed her eyes with an already sodden tissue.
Freddie felt the blood rush to his head. His arms and legs went slack, and for a second he thought he might faint as he struggled to overcome his morbid fear of drowning. “I-I don’t want to intrude on your sorrow,” he stammered, feeling awkward and out of place.
“Please stay, I could use the company.”
Antonia scrambled for another tissue and began to talk about finding the body. In stilted English she described how the sound of a solid object bumping against the side of the boat had alerted her. Peering over the portside bow she saw something bright floating just beneath the surface. He was face down in the water, his head lower than his buttocks, as if trying to duck discreetly out of sight. His polo shirt had somehow become entangled with the anchor chain.
Freddie put his hand on her shoulder. He knew exactly what she was going through. The sensation of a world spinning in slow motion to which she no longer belonged, lost in space.
A small fragile woman in a black trouser suit introduced herself and offered to get Antonia a cup of tea. Freddie wondered how anyone as delicate as DS Jackie Leftley could ever catch a criminal.
“I’ll do that,” he said firmly. “I’m a friend of the family.”
With a tight smile the police officer left him to it, crossing the deck to talk to a gaunt individual with jutting cheekbones and a goatee beard who was taking blood and skin samples. Having retrieved his thermometer, the tall man peeled off his latex gloves. “The body temperature is the same as the seawater which means he drowned at least six hours ago.”
“How do you know that, sir?” asked a cocky police constable.
The forensic pathologist looked at him disdainfully. “The body cools in seawater twice as quickly as in the air. That means it loses roughly five degrees Fahrenheit per hour and the temperature of the water is sixty five degrees. Work it out for yourself.”
“There is evidence of hypostasis, bruises on the body,” the pathologist towered over DS Leftley. “Our friend wasn’t dead when he hit the water. You see the white froth coming out of his mouth and nostrils? That means he was alive at the moment of submersion. And notice the head wound. It’s still bleeding. Most likely a postmortem injury caused by the buffeting of the body in the water.”
“How can you tell that?” Leftley asked.
“It’s simple really. The head down position of a floating corpse causes passive congestion so that postmortem injuries can bleed which creates diagnostic confusion.”
Overhearing this, Freddie’s mind began to race. What if the head wound had happened earlier, causing the victim to fall in the water? What if it was murder? People around him were dying violent deaths. Perhaps Donald Strachan should be added to that list.
“Would we be right in assuming that the victim fainted before falling overboard,” the police officer inquired.
“No, we cannot be sure of that. The mechanism of death is complex in drowning and until there has been a full autopsy nothing can be ruled out, including foul play.”
Antonia’s involuntary gasp reminded Freddie he had a job to do. He took her into the cabin before going into the galley to put the kettle on. Returning with the tea things, he found her sunk into the settee, as if she had used up her last ounce of energy. Murmuring her thanks, she bent forward to pick up her cup. It was only a slight movement but in a tight dress the consequences were predictable. He couldn’t help but see a pair of shapely calves and felt deeply ashamed. Antonia was in a state of shock and yet he was still aware of her sexuality.
His loneliness hit him like a blow to the stomach. Denied the romantic reassurance of a woman’s presence and the kind of intimacy that went with it, he was floundering; his thoughts vaporizing as he searched the lexicon for the right words of comfort. None were forthcoming.
“How did this happen?” He heard his voice. It sounded weak and empty.
“The policewoman thinks it was Donald’s emphysema. His lungs stopped functioning and he swooned while out on the deck.”
Freddie couldn’t hide his surprise. “I didn’t think it would be so sudden.”
“I didn’t either until it was explained to me. It’s a bit like a car tyre blowing out. The cells responsible for breathing rupture and die leaving the victim without oxygen.”
He looked at her sadly. Donald Strachan had been a cantankerous old bastard but he would miss him. The actor had a sharp analytical mind and immense drive and determination, even if it seemed to be born of a desire to prove everyone else wrong.
She picked up his thought process. “Donald was an infuriating man to live with, full of ego-boosting delusions and yet strangely perceptive. You would have to say he was obsessive but there was something noble about it. He held mistaken beliefs and pursued them fiercely.”
“But he wasn’t mistaken about Francis Bacon, not really.”
Antonia wasn’t listening. “Thwarted ambition, that’s what lay at the heart of it. There were far worse actors than him in London. Donald knew that and it gnawed away at him. He was hollowed out with grievances, acting in real life rather than on the professional stage, creating dramatic scenarios. It affected our relationship. He was often unfaithful.”
Freddie felt like a voyeur as she continued to use him as her father confessor. Sitting on her worn-out sofa, her tea cooling in her lap, she insisted on telling him about a relationship that had degenerated into a performance, something pretended rather than felt. But last night had been different. That’s what she felt compelled to talk about.
The evening had started badly. She had come home from the Shoreham Ladies’ Book Club to find Donald in a bad mood. His ham salad had been tasteless, Tesco had delivered the wrong wine and, to cap it all, there was nothing left on board to sweeten his coffee. She had tried to beg sugar from one of the nearby yachts but going up Gerald
Ashley’s gangplank had been a big mistake. Ashley was a ginger-haired, pot-bellied businessman with a taste for women. He had gone off in search of sugar but returned instead with champagne flutes and a magnum of Veuve Clicquot. His intentions were as clear as his crystal and as soon as he began one of his obviously well-rehearsed boarding manoeuvres Antonia had kicked him in the groin, bringing him to his knees, spilling champagne everywhere. She had returned to the houseboat flushed, sugarless and with wet jeans. When she explained why, Donald had flown into a towering rage. “I am going to teach that blackguard a lesson he’ll never forget,” he spluttered, picking up one of his golf clubs. “That greasy sales executive has gone too far this time.” She had told him to calm down, to think about his blood pressure. This wasn’t the last act of the Scottish play. Yet, as he stood on the deck waving a two iron around like a claymore, she found him irresistible. He was still a handsome man. Donald hadn’t lost his charm, merely mislaid it. Overcome with yearning for their shared past, she had led him to the bedroom where their lovemaking was a reminder of what might have been if he had been less selfish and she had had a more forgiving heart.
Listening to this story, Freddie wondered whether this was what love was really about - forgiving your partner’s faults for moments of true happiness. Perhaps there was still hope for him and Sam.
“I woke up this morning and he wasn’t in the bed. I thought he’d gone for the newspaper …” Antonia had come to a choking stop.
Searching for something to say he mentioned the book he had borrowed.
“It’s no use to me,” she replied. “Keep it. And while you are here, why don’t we see whether there is anything else you might like.” She crossed the floor and pulled back the thin curtain separating the cabin from the mess that was Strachan’s study.
Freddie conducted a swift inventory. A cheap three drawer desk made of imitation maple with an old desktop PC and printer perched on it. A black swivel chair propped against a steel filing cabinet with sliding drawers and a linoleum floor littered with papers, charts and old leather bound volumes full of yellow stickers.
“Donald liked it this way,” she said defensively. “He liked to see himself as a private investigator, what the Americans call a ‘gumshoe’. The Shakespeare authorship was a mystery, a whodunit he had to solve. At first, nothing made much sense, but the gradual discovery of evidence, the joining up of apparently disconnected dots, meant the case started to come together. Or at least in his mind it did. I never believed it would amount to much. I still don’t.”
They worked methodically on hands and knees, sorting through the clutter in a rising cloud of dust. Freddie sneezed loudly, disturbing some loose papers on the floor that had been covering a dark blue desk diary. Antonia picked it up and began to read. Her brow darkened in anger.
“I’ve never seen this before and no wonder. He mentions the trollop he picked up at the Royal Horticultural Show. Here, you take a look.”
“No thanks,” he said. He didn’t want to know any more about Strachan’s sex life.
“Not that, silly,” Antonia gave him a slight smile. “It’s the last entry you should see. It’s written to you personally. The man was in awe of you.”
Sunday 6 July 2014
For Dr Brett’s attention
I had another emphysema attack yesterday. It was worse than before. Antonia was at her wretched zumba class. I used the hospital respirator and things calmed down after a while. In case anything happens to me, I want you to know about a little discovery of mine.
A couple of weeks ago I represented our proposed publisher, Jack Van Horn, at a book auction in London. The American media tycoon wanted to acquire a draft copy of Bacon’s ‘Cogitata et Visa’ which the author had amended in his own handwriting. With dollars to burn I won the bidding and set about reading my purchase. What intrigued me was a section devoted to the ‘visible representation of nature’ (i.e. drama) that was later omitted from the printed version. In the draft text Bacon said he would be keeping this work to himself until ‘the treatise intended for the people should be published.’
One has to assume that this most secretive of men had had second thoughts about declaring his intention. I can’t help wondering whether this so-called treatise was some kind of personal statement in which Bacon explained the role he had played in the writing of the Shakespeare plays. I need hardly tell you how valuable such a testimony would be.
What we have to decide is whether to hunt for this codex. I am gripped by the conviction that we should do so, particularly as I have a good idea of its possible hiding place. From the start of our quest we have been examining the relationship between two like-minded noblemen with Rosicrucian leanings. And there’s another hint in Bacon’s will when he talks about leaving ‘his name to the next ages, and to foreign nations.’ Doesn’t that tell you where to look? I’m not saying more than this. Not even in my own diary.
11 JULY 2014
The early morning sunshine was already baking Wolfenbuttel’s pavements as he crossed the Leibnizstrasse. Ahead of him, little eddies of dust were lifting off the tarmac. Freddie’s heart was pumping with excitement. With its huge collection of medieval books and manuscripts, the Herzog August Bibliothek was one of Europe’s finest libraries.
He watched his fellow pedestrians hurrying to work in their neat German town and tried to rationalize his feelings. A treatise intended for the people. With these words, Freddie’s world had shifted on its axis. Instead of decrypted messages, literary speculations and long lists of coincidences, there was now the possibility of solid evidence, a personal statement from the pen of Francis Bacon. What he would give to possess it. He had to admit, of course, that the chances of tracking down such a document, even if it existed, were virtually non-existent. The trail must have gone cold centuries ago. It was absurd to think otherwise.
So what, he told himself, crazy ideas aren’t always as crazy as they might appear to be and, in truth, he had nothing better to do with his time now that the college year was over. Besides which, a call from the dead deserved to be taken seriously. Strachan may have carried a large chip on his shoulder and been obsessive, but his instincts were sound. He reckoned Bacon had sent his treatise to one of his fellow Rosicrucians, Duke August of Brunswick-Luneburg. Who better to look after such a document and decide when the time was ripe for its publication? Where better to bury a book than in the biggest library in Europe? Bacon had talked at length about the ‘durable part of memory’, his writings, going overseas.
When he told Simon what he planned to do, his flat mate had laughed in his face. “To think I chained myself to the Master’s railings on your behalf and, look at you, you’re as mad as a hatter. Only crazy conspiracy theorists look for needles in haystacks!” “You’re probably right,” he’d admitted. “But it’s a pretty amazing haystack.”
At the end of the street Freddie had a choice to make. A signpost pointed in three different directions, each indicating a part of the library campus. The right turn led to an imposing building which had the graceful proportions of a Florentine palazzo. The flight of steps in front of the main entrance was swarming with casually dressed grammar school children taking part in a library project. As if in revolt against German neatness and efficiency, most of the boys had long unkempt hair and sported garish T-shirts and leather jackets while the girls wore lipstick, camisole tops and mini-skirts. In one way, however, they conformed to the national stereotype, standing courteously aside to let older people enter the building.
It came as a shock therefore when someone barged into Freddie, doubling him up in pain. “Schauen Sie, wohin Sie gehen!” a muscular German in blue overalls muttered as he ran down the steps. A winded Freddie limped to the information desk to display his credentials and be escorted to the Assistant Director’s office.
Its occupant was a bespectacled middle-aged woman with severely cut brown hair and a dark blue suit sitting behind a huge walnut desk but when Heike Mittler stood up to shake his hand h
e realized she was far from ordinary. In high heels she was as tall as he was and her smile radiated intelligence.
“Dr Brett, a pleasure to meet you,” she said in faultless English. “I know the Director would have liked to greet you. Unfortunately, Professor Kaufmann is on an archaeological dig in Pylos.”
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. As I said on the phone, I am researching the relationship between Duke August and our English philosopher Francis Bacon and hope to find fresh evidence of this in your library.”
The Assistant Director invited him to sit down. She spoke English with a precise accuracy. “Don’t raise your hopes too high. We have almost a million books here, 135,000 of which date back to Duke August. So there’s a lot to get through. You do appreciate that, Dr Brett?”
Dr Brett appreciated it. He gave her his lopsided grin. “I know it’s a long shot but new historical evidence does surface from time to time.”
“There was a recent case, I believe, in your National Archives when a historian unearthed a coroner’s jury report into the death of Leicester’s wife.”
“That’s right. It had been misfiled. Things turn up in the most surprising places. Bacon’s Abecedarium Naturae went undetected for four hundred years in the French Bibliotheque Nationale.”
Heike Mittler stared at him over the top of her steel spectacles and leaned forward, her leather chair creaking as she did so. “What do you hope to find here?”
It was a question he couldn’t evade. Not if he wanted this brisk woman’s cooperation. “How much do you know about Duke August’s political and religious beliefs?” he asked.
“August was a learned man who inherited Wolfenbuttel during the Thirty Years War. He brought a huge collection of books with him. He may also have been the head of a Rosicrucian organization called the Societas Christiana but the evidence is sketchy.”
“That’s what I’m exploring,” he said. “It’s a tangled tale.”