by D C Macey
Francis knew that Archie had always viewed it as deadly serious, but John himself had come to think of it as really just a fable; nothing ever seemed to happen, no purpose to it at all. Just old trinkets, except of course there was the trust fund that pumped in a shed load of money every year. That was very real. John liked the money, did a lot of good with it, discreetly of course, but that was John for you.
Francis explained about the Templars. An order of holy knights who were once headquartered at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and whose purpose had included the escort and protection of pilgrims. They became highly trusted and respected throughout Europe, were given lands and established a form of banking that supported commerce across the continent. While always serving God with their swords, they rejected personal wealth. And so, collectively, they became a rich organisation. Above all things, they became a very, very, rich organisation. So rich the Templars could bankroll kings and countries. That made them important, made them enemies and ultimately made them vulnerable.
Anxious to get a handle on current events and suddenly suspecting where the story was leading, Helen tried to ensure Francis did not stray into speculation and rumour. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! Not another silly fable. I’m not playing along with any silly boys’ games of treasure hunts or Grail quests and such nonsense. I’m sorry, tangible facts only or I’m off directly to the police.’ She stood.
Elaine reached up a hand to restrain her as Francis leapt up. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me wrong. This isn’t some fantasy. I tell you, I’ve checked things myself. I couldn’t just take it at face value either, really, it’s history. Well, as far as I could tell some of it checks out anyway. Wait a few more minutes; hear me out. Helen, remember, Archie and John didn’t kill themselves.’ More than anything, his final sentence made her think; she paused for a moment and then sat down again.
Francis quickly resumed his account. He explained how, in 1307, perhaps in an attempt to solve his own problems including a financial crisis, King Philip of France suddenly turned on the Templars. With his puppet Pope, he promoted charges of heresy against all the Templars everywhere. He seized their lands and had many killed, but the problem for Philip was that a small fleet of Templar ships had warning of his purge and just managed to escape from France, carrying away much of the Templars’ treasure and secrets. The problem for the fleet was they had nowhere to go. Having been accused of heresy, they were unwelcome in every Christian country: except one.
The pope had previously excommunicated the Scottish king, Robert the Bruce, in response to his murdering John Comyn on a church altar. This placed all Scotland beyond the reach of the Pope and the rest of the Christian world. The Templars already had lands in Scotland and so it was a natural destination for those fleeing the French king. And one important base in Scotland was nearby, just outside Edinburgh.
Helen interrupted, attempting to short circuit Francis’ story. ‘Yeah, you’re slipping right back to the old myths, that’s Rosslyn, right? Sam and I took a run out to see it a couple of months ago. The chapel’s just beautiful and really amazing inside but -’
Holding up his hand to stop her, Francis shook his head. ‘No, no, not Rosslyn, that came a little later. Though it is a beautiful place, I agree. Back in 1307 the Templars had a base in Scotland in a little village we now call Temple, just a short way from Rosslyn. I’m sure you can work out where the village name comes from.’
Helen interrupted again. ‘Are you trying to tell me this butchery we’re seeing is just about some weird cult, built around old wives’ tales and half-forgotten myths, about a lost treasure that’s probably a complete fiction?’
Elaine glared at her. ‘John Dearly and Archie Buchan didn’t belong to a weird cult. They were good men, honest men, Christians. They served the people and the Church. Men you could trust, who committed their lives to the service of God. And by God, didn’t they show us that in the end?’
Helen fell silent. She could see she had hurt Elaine. She nodded agreement.
‘The problem for the Templars’, Francis continued, ‘was they couldn’t be sure it was safe to store their secrets at Temple. This part of Scotland was a war zone back then, with Scots and English forces ranging back and forth. The skirmishing bands from both sides would have been careful to avoid the Templars on their own patch at Temple, but the knights must have expected that eventually one king or the other would muster enough strength locally to overpower them and seize what was theirs.
‘Though Bruce eventually proved to be a great Scottish king, he had a reputation for changing horses and having a darker side too, which was why he was excommunicated in the first place. Having seen what King Philip of France had done, the Templars probably feared the temptation of their wealth would eventually be too great. I don’t think the Templars wanted to hold their secrets within reach of any king.’
Francis fell silent for a moment, glanced ruefully into the whisky glass in his hand, sighed, and then continued. ‘Now I’m putting this story together from snippets gathered over a lot of years and a lot of whisky. I don’t have the details, the full story, that was John’s secret. I do know Temple was amongst the Templars’ last secure refuges and it had become vulnerable too. According to John, it was decided to split up the order’s secrets, or rather to create and divide up some sort of message about the location of their secrets and wealth, which had actually been hidden by the fleet that fled France in 1307. John never said what the message was or how the parts of the message were dispersed and hidden across the Christian world, other than they were carried and guarded by the most trusted of knights. Their task was to keep the parts of the message hidden and secure until they were to be recombined to serve the cause, ensuring in the meantime that no one could snatch what remained of the Templars’ power and wealth.
‘So you guys are holding some super-secret treasure message?’ said Helen, still unconvinced and on the edge of leaving.
‘Well, no, not us. We are just supporters of an old and trusted friend. You on the other hand may well hold a part of the message, along with several other unknown holders.’
‘People are dying over this fantasy,’ Helen glanced at Elaine, ‘sorry, but that’s how I feel. And you know, it’s got to stop. We’ve got to put a stop to this nonsense. Right now, before anything else happens.’
Francis and Elaine exchanged worried looks. It was clear that they had not got the message across as they had hoped. ‘We don’t understand what’s happening any more than you do,’ said Francis, trying to placate her. ‘Helen, we don’t know what the killer wants. We just know it is happening and we certainly don’t know how to stop it.’
‘John and Archie were the men with the full story; they might have understood what is going on and how to respond, but they are dead. We’re all in the dark,’ said Elaine.
Helen was unimpressed. ‘You must have some idea of who would do this, or at least what’s triggered it? Listen, John was kind to me, I liked him. He was a good friend to my father. They clearly trusted each other. I love this place. But what you’re telling me is, if I stay, I’m bound into some secret group, every member of which is getting killed over an old wives’ tale? Let me tell you guys, it’s not a big selling point. Why aren’t you telling the police? They should be all over this like a rash. For Heaven’s sake, old Archie’s gone, John’s in the mortuary beside him, who’s next? Come on; let’s level with this policeman, Wallace. He seems a straight guy. Let’s tell him what we know and forget all about this history nonsense. Okay?’
Both Francis and Elaine looked crestfallen, the meeting was not going as hoped and neither could actually offer any good reason that might persuade Helen to stay. Elaine tried again. ‘John was desperate, and he gave you his ring, passed on the trust to your keeping -’
Helen stuck a hand up cutting her short. ‘But he didn’t tell me what it was, did he? I didn’t know I was going to be involved in murder and God knows what else.
‘You know what guys? I’m
finished here. I’m out. One of you can have the ring and be Mr Mysterious. I’m going to speak to Wallace.’
‘But we can’t,’ said Francis. ‘The trust runs in the parish, it’s the tradition.’
Helen stood up. ‘Well not any more.’ Her phone rang and she stopped talking to glance at the display screen then looked up. ‘It’s Sam,’ she said and answered the call, relieved at any opportunity to break if even for just a moment.
‘Hi Sam, things are pretty heavy here right now. What’s up?’
She listened carefully, suddenly looking pale, and sat down again as Sam continued to speak. Her audience could just make out the sound of Sam’s voice across the silent room. They had no idea what he was saying but they could tell it was not good news. Helen promised to join him at once and hung up the call.
She paused in silence for a moment before breaking the news. ‘Sam’s boss and his wife, the MacPhersons, they’re both dead. There was an explosion in their kitchen earlier this evening. Sam doesn’t know any more than that. I said I’d go right round to him now.’
Francis and Elaine both leapt up. ‘For God’s sake, be careful,’ said Francis.
‘Aye, they were involved with the things found up in Fife,’ said Elaine.
Helen paused for half a moment to consider the suggested link then shook her head. ‘No, don’t start building any more conspiracy theories. It was a domestic gas explosion. Just an awful accident.
‘You know, we were there for a meal just last week, she was such a nice person, him too.’ Helen picked up her light summer jacket.
Francis hurried to help her put it on while still trying to persuade her to take care. ‘It would do no harm to take precautions -’
Helen cut in. ‘That’s enough, both of you,’ silencing them while shrugging off Francis’ attempts to help her jacket on. She treated them to a schoolteacher’s waving finger and a parting volley. ‘And I haven’t finished with this whole mystery business yet, don’t think I have. It’s just going to have to wait. We’ll speak tomorrow and I want us all to go to that detective together, right?’ and she was gone.
CHAPTER 18 - WEDNESDAY 12th JUNE
Helen sat alone in the manse study. The warm morning sun was blazing through the window, but it could not take the chill she felt out of the air. Through the study’s open door she could see across the hallway to the kitchen door, closed now and sealed with police tape; the room beyond held frozen in time pending completion of the forensic investigation. She was unsure whether or not she felt grateful to DCI Wallace for having authorised her access this morning. She had needed into the manse so she could gather what was required to deal with urgent parish tasks, but the atmosphere was horrible, still, cold. She did know she was grateful for the policeman guarding the front door; she did not particularly want to be alone in the manse right now.
A commotion at the front door pulled her thoughts into the present. She could hear a familiar voice arguing with the policeman. It took a moment for recognition to filter through to her consciousness and then she hurried towards the noise.
Julie, the student from the dig in Fife, was trying to get past the policeman; he was big, she was small, no contest. But she was ably holding her own in the verbal exchanges as Helen joined the policeman on the step. After some pressing and assurances from Helen, he relented and allowed Julie in, on a promise that his superiors would never know.
They stood together in the study, and without a word, Julie stretched out her arms and embraced Helen. The bleak atmosphere that had filled the study lifted slightly as they shared care for one another.
Julie leant back and looked at Helen. ‘Davy and I are so sorry about what happened to the minister. It’s sick, it really is.’
They separated and Helen gave a despairing shrug and waved her towards a chair. ‘I know, it’s so horrible, but I don’t really want to talk about it, I can’t talk about it,’ said Helen. She sat back in the chair behind the desk, looking a little lost and waved a hand in the direction of the policeman at the front door. ‘I don’t think I’m even meant to talk about it.’ She shrugged again, half raised her hands, open palmed, and let them fall back in a gesture of helplessness.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. We just wanted you to know we are all thinking about you. The whole class sends their love. Most of them have gone home for the summer now, but everyone’s been sending messages, so I’ve come for them all. We’re so sorry and everyone’s thinking of you. It must be awful with your family so far away. Though at least you have Sam here.’
Helen nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve got Sam here and he’s a big help.’
Julie tried to manoeuvre away from talking about John Dearly, but her subconscious would not let her leave the subject of death altogether. ‘The city seems to be going mad now, killings everywhere. Did you hear about the MacPhersons? You know, our department head, him from the dig?’
Helen gave a slightly weary nod. She knew all about the MacPhersons. Last evening Sam had been visited by the police who were trying to piece together what had happened and thought he might be able to provide an academic angle. It seemed the police were becoming regular visitors now. Last she’d heard they were working on the theory it was probably a robbery gone wrong, very wrong, and that the thieves were after something of great value, something from the university perhaps. Could Sam help them identify what it might be?
Surfacing from her thoughts, Helen realised that Julie was babbling now. Trying to avoid further mention of the Dearly murder at all costs she had latched on to the MacPherson case as an escape route. ‘It's so weird. The latest on the news is that they were after some valuables, but what is worth enough to kill two people for?’ - Then she hesitated, annoyed with herself. She should have given some thought to what she was going to say before arriving. Perhaps she should make her excuses and leave?
Helen was pleased with Julie’s company, happy with the presence of another friendly human in what right now felt a dark place, but she wanted the girl to be quiet. Julie was clearly a kind-hearted soul, but probably just too young to appreciate the weight of the situation, the depth of the emotional trough she had stepped into. Suddenly, however, Helen latched onto a key phrase from Julie’s continuing babble:
‘… and the news was saying they think the killers may have been a gang stealing to order - after some ancient artefacts like the ones we all found in Fife, you know, the gold signet ring, the dagger -’
‘What? What are you talking about? Where did you hear that? Tell me again. How do you know that’s what they were after?’ Helen’s voice was suddenly very focused, she was right back in the day.
Startled at Helen’s dramatic change of tone, Julie quickly expanded the story. ‘The radio was just speculating, reporting a rumour. That was all. Though Davy had reckoned it might be right, the ring and dagger were probably worth a fortune to a specialist collector. And you know what? Davy had been speaking with a post-grad student who is working on campus over the summer. Apparently there is no trace of the photographs and records of the dagger at the university any more, somebody has wiped the lot away, so it doesn’t exist,’ Julie paused for dramatic effect.
She gave Helen an earnest look and continued to explain. ‘Davy says the thieves think stealing all the photographs of the dagger makes it unidentifiable now, hides its provenance. Probably stole it to order, and now there is no photographic record it ever existed at all. Got clean away.’
Helen felt a growing knot forming in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps Francis and Elaine were right. It was already clear the MacPherson fire had not been an accident. Was it just coincidence or were they really murdered for the dunes dagger? And was that because some fanatical private collector wanted it or was it because it was part of a Templar set? If so, what did it signify? And now the dunes dagger was lost completely. She had not given Francis and Elaine a chance to explain properly the previous night, but clearly, if even a fraction of their story stood up, then losing the dagger could not be
good.
Julie continued. ‘They think they’ve wiped the record, but Davy has pictures of it too. He took them with his phone while helping the photographer at the dig site,’ Julie was proud of Davy’s ingenuity and gave Helen a smile while pausing to allow space for Helen to recognise Davy’s accomplishment.
Helen was electrified. ‘He has pictures? Where? Where are they?’
A little surprised by the urgency in Helen’s tone, Julie explained that they were still on his phone and that he’d just left for Oban. He'd gone home for a few days. Helen could get copies of the pictures when he got back to Edinburgh.
Francis’ words of caution from the evening before finally resurfaced and for the first time frightening links tried to join in her mind. Was she being stupid? Perhaps, but in the morbid cold of the manse study the possible risks of involvement suddenly seemed very real. Urgently, almost frantically, Helen told Julie to warn Davy to tell nobody else about the pictures until he got back to Edinburgh. Then she and Sam would meet him. Holding them might be dangerous, he shouldn’t open the pictures, transmit them, shouldn’t even think about them. Shouldn’t let anyone know he’s got them.
Helen gripped Julie’s forearm, compelling her to make eye contact. ‘Tell him to keep quiet, just in case.’ Helen let go of Julie’s arm as she nodded a slightly puzzled agreement. ‘And Julie, you too, hey? Let’s just sit on this ourselves until Davy gets back, say nothing to anyone, okay?’
As Julie nodded further agreement, Helen bundled her out of the manse as quickly as she could. On the way out, they passed the police forensics team going in to do a final inspection of the kitchen. Helen pointed Julie in the direction of her student flat and then set off alone to link up with Elaine at the church. There was no point in trying to call Sam yet; he was away with some of the university’s sub-aqua club, wreck diving in the Firth of Forth. He had taken a day out to clear his mind after the fire at the MacPhersons’ home, an event that had now become altogether more sinister.