by D C Macey
Though not a recluse, Parsol rarely met his business associates face to face, preferring the anonymity of distance. However, very occasionally, the prize was big enough to lure him away from his chateau. This was most certainly one such occasion.
Cassiter stopped to admire the main stone and the leading guard passed behind him, pausing a little beyond to look intently at the next stone in the memorial arc. The second guard held his position at the rear of the group, seemingly studying the preceding stone. Parsol joined Cassiter at the main stone. Both men looked and spoke towards the memorial, limiting the opportunity for any distant microphone to focus on their voices.
In spite of some very public blips, Parsol was pleased with progress. He had known all along that a dagger, the key dagger, was concealed in this part of Scotland. Now its location was narrowed down to a single place. While it hadn’t yet been found the evidence all pointed in one direction. St Bernard’s. That Cassiter had discovered and recovered two further daggers was a startling bonus. They would be needed in due course, but they were of little value without the key dagger.
Parsol continued his study of the stone as he spoke to Cassiter. ‘We are delighted with the progress. I checked the two daggers you secured and they are entirely authentic.’
‘Well, you don’t think I would waste time faking something, do you?’ Cassiter spoke respectfully to the older man, his client, but without deference. Cassiter was nobody’s man.
‘No, you are always reliable, for me and for others. I do not doubt you, but who knows what criminals and forgers have got up to through the ages?’ Parsol hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘But… I, we, are proposing a change in your contract.’
Cassiter tensed. He liked a deal to be fixed in advance, it was always crucial to have a clear understanding between himself and the client. Any ambiguity or change could lead to disputes, which were very bad for business. He gave a grim and knowing smile to himself: ultimately, changes were more usually bad for the client’s business. ‘I don’t normally expect changes, you know that,’ he said.
Parsol waved a hand in a small calming gesture. ‘You misunderstand. Our need is made more urgent by the public nature of recent events. We are delighted with your results, but now we need more. More quickly. It was always going to happen, once the genie was out of the bottle. Then others could start taking an interest and we can’t kill everyone who gets involved.’ He gave a short chuckle. ‘Or can we?’
Cassiter thought carefully for a moment before answering, his voice flat. ‘Death is an excellent silencer, in the short term. We can contain the spread for now, but eventually the police have to tie together all the deaths, it’s unavoidable. I have taken care to ensure there is no trace back to me and my people, but this is all taking place very close to home. Eventually there will be a slip, it’s human nature. I prefer my people to be active further afield. What exactly is the change you propose?’ he turned his head and for the first time looked at Parsol.
‘Our deal was…’ Parsol turned towards Cassiter, each holding the other’s eye for a long moment before turning back to the monument. ‘Our deal is, at present: your regular retainer fees, all your team’s expenses met without question and a million Euros for delivery of the dagger, the key dagger, and any associated documentation. And, of course, your usual per capita fee for removing any, uhhhh, loose ends that might compromise the plans. I think that’s what we had agreed?’ Parsol gave a little cold smile and tilted his head very slightly.
Cassiter nodded. ‘Yes, so why seek to change it now?’
‘You misunderstand. We have no intention of cutting fees. On the contrary, it has been decided that possession of the artefacts is now of extreme urgency. Matters must be brought to a conclusion immediately. We want to incentivise progress, that’s all. You will be paid a million each for the two daggers already delivered, and now we will pay five million for delivery of the outstanding dagger, plus all the usual allowances, of course. But it must be concluded quickly, before the authorities make the inevitable links and engage properly with your, our, activity,’ he paused for a moment. Then gave the cold smile again as he turned both his open palms towards Cassiter, ‘Well? A good offer, yes? But can you deliver quickly? Time is everything now. Everything!’
Cassiter’s brow furrowed very slightly. ‘We know the church, we know the people. But still, there is no sign of the dagger. If it is there you will have it, but if not -’
‘It is there, for sure. You will get it. I know you, Cassiter. I will be staying in Edinburgh for one week and I want to leave with that dagger in my possession. Are we agreed?’ asked Parsol.
The very slightest dip of Cassiter’s head showed an understanding had been reached. Without further exchange, the pair parted and continued their separate ways around the monument.
On the way back to his office, Cassiter stopped off at the art exhibition. The clarity and focus that an artist visits on a masterpiece was exactly what he brought to his own work. As he wandered impassively through the exhibition he revelled inside at the common bond of creativity and professionalism he shared with the great artists.
CHAPTER 21 - MONDAY 17th JUNE
Helen, Sam, Francis and Elaine had gathered at the manse. All were sickened at the loss of so many innocent lives. Knowing they might have done more, not knowing what more might have been. Now they sat ranged around the study desk, a worried group. Francis looking a little defensive, Elaine as impenetrable as ever, Helen desperate for answers and Sam increasingly worried over the disappearance of Suzie Dignan.
Suzie had not returned his calls before the weekend and he had already checked to establish that she was not at work in the museum this morning. According to a very cautious telephonist, she was unavailable, away on a week’s holiday. However, Sam had also spoken with a colleague who split his working time between the university and museum. It seems the corridors were awash with rumours about a staff member having gone missing along with some artefacts that were in her charge.
They could just make out a vacuum cleaner buzzing on the upper landing. Grace had started to give the manse a thorough clean, a final goodbye to John. The mechanical sound ended as she switched to using a hand duster.
Helen was sat behind the desk, arms resting in front of her, hands wrapped around her coffee mug. She pulled them all to order. ‘Right guys, I don’t understand the back story that you were trying to explain the other evening, but I… We,’ she spun a hand out to include Sam, ‘we are kind of floundering. We’ve had attacks, murders, robberies, the manse bugged, the police all over us, a girl’s gone missing from her work, and hey, who knows what else?’ Her arms rose up from the desk, pointed to Francis and Elaine. ‘You guys have to put it on the level now or Sam and I take this whole shifty mess to the law.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Francis spoke with a resigned tone.
‘And what’s to stop us?’ There was an edge to Helen’s voice that none of them had heard before.
‘Because they won’t believe you. At best they’ll think you’re mad, at worst, guilty,’ said Francis.
‘Come on, you can do better than that. There’s evidence, I don’t buy we’d be in the frame,’ said Helen.
‘Well, the police have made no arrests. It’s clear they have no real idea who they are looking for. They will be under real pressure to show some progress. There’s no evidence because the people involved are clearly professionals,’ Francis turned to Elaine, appealing for support.
‘Aye, in fact the only thing that links all the crimes together is us, our little group,’ Elaine spoke in a slow deliberate tone.
‘What? That’s rubbish,’ Sam was outraged at the suggestion.
Francis cut back in. ‘Rubbish it might be, but Elaine’s right. Oh, I know the link to Archie Buchan’s death in Dunbar is a bit tenuous, but even there I’m sure the police could easily build something out of the parish connection, and if not the police the media could for sure. For just about everything else we hav
e direct links, contacts, proximity, relationships, the works.’ For a long moment, Francis stared hard into Helen’s eyes, then turned to Sam and continued. ‘Once they run out of bogymen, we’re bound to be considered.’
‘But there’s nothing of substance. No case against us could ever stand up to any sort of scrutiny,’ said Sam.
‘Yes, but perhaps more importantly, once you put your head over the parapet you become a media target. How many times have we seen innocents pilloried by the tabloids because the papers need someone, anyone, to rage at in the headlines? They’ll worry about the truth later. You’d do nicely as a story just now. You just have to open your eyes and you can see them all around. The press are on the prowl, desperate for an angle: something, anything to feed the story. Don’t make yourselves, don’t make us all, the story, please. Once the media starts and momentum builds the police will get dragged along too,’ said Francis.
Helen and Sam were shocked; this was not how they had envisaged the discussion panning out.
Sam glared across the desk. ‘No, I can’t accept this. We’ve done nothing wrong, what could the police charge us with?’
Francis looked at him, arched his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Think about it, you tell me. In fact, the more you think about it, the more involved you seem. As I say, the media are not going to worry about proof. Right now, they have readers desperate for information. The press will have you guilty and hung long before the police can confirm your innocence.’
‘You should listen to Francis, listen carefully,’ said Elaine.
Francis continued. ‘Who was the last person to see John Dearly alive? Helen and Elaine were there when he died. The police didn’t see anyone jumping out of the kitchen window, did they? No. Who’s filling in John’s job? Helen. Who was at the MacPhersons’ home for a meal the week they died? Helen and Sam. Who worked for MacPherson? He was Sam’s boss.’
Francis gave a theatrical shrug and then continued. ‘None of it’s evidence worth a penny in court, but the tabloids aren’t in court, they just need villains today, it’s their oxygen. And what would make a more sensational headline than a female minister involved in bumping off her predecessors?’
While the others argued, Helen had been thinking. It was dawning on her that preposterous as Francis’ suggestion was, it just might make sense to a policeman looking in from the outside while being pressed to show some progress, any progress. ‘All right guys, let’s not get bogged down in a who looks most guilty contest. Given time, we know the police will sort out right from wrong; in the meantime, Sam and I need to know what’s happening now. Let’s just say we agree not to walk right out of here and over to St Leonard’s Police Station. Let’s say we don’t hand over John’s ring and chain; then you have to tell us what’s happening. Is anyone else in danger? What’s triggered all this? What happens next?’
Sam added his burning question too. ‘And what about Suzie? Is she in danger?’
Francis shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Where to begin?’ he mused, looking from Sam to Helen and back again. ‘I don’t know the poor girl or her role, but if she does have any involvement in this… Maybe she is, well… I’m sorry, but maybe she is in need of our prayers. May God protect her.’
Sam growled across the table. ‘No. No,’ his head bowed, shaking in angry despair. He banged his fist onto the desk. ‘I should never have given her the number here.’
Helen stretched out a hand and squeezed his arm. ‘We don’t know anything for sure. She might just be away for the week as she said. Right now, you must have hope.’
Sam looked up at her, grateful for her moral support but completely unconvinced. ‘You think?’
Having made a start, Francis did not want to surrender the initiative again. ‘Don’t blame yourself for this, Sam’, he said. ‘Phone message or none, I think if she could give them access to something they wanted then they would have found her sooner or later, with the same end result.’
Helen needed to get an explanation. ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ taking a breath she continued, speaking slowly, forming each word carefully, and emphasising each with a pointing finger jabbing in Francis’ direction. ‘Francis, tell us what’s going on. Now.’ She sat up straight, picking up her coffee mug in both hands, taking a sip, all the while holding Francis with her gaze. ‘We’re waiting.’
They sat in silence as Francis tried to explain, attempting to finish off his history lesson of that earlier evening, the night the MacPhersons had died, which now seemed such a long time ago. Helen felt tired, drained, battered by the deaths, but she forced herself to stay completely focused.
He told again of the Templar ships, fleeing just ahead of the king’s attack. The ships were thought to have been laden with the Templars’ treasure and banking assets and perhaps with more spiritual treasures too. Eventually they arrived, one by one, slipping into the Firth of Forth, making for the only really secure sanctuary left to them in Europe: Scotland. And ultimately, to the village of Temple. The understanding is that when the ships arrived they had no treasure on board, but they did carry many knights, perhaps the final mustering of a significant Templar fighting force.
Francis continued, explaining that it was unclear exactly what happened to the fighting force or the treasure. It seems likely that a group of Templar Knights served with Robert the Bruce in his war against Edward of England. Perhaps it was some sort of payment in kind. Bruce needed fighting men and the Templars needed sanctuary: a marriage made in Scotland. It seems the only loser was Edward when his army was destroyed by the Scots at Bannockburn.
Of the remaining Templar Knights, some stayed at Temple and eventually moved on or just faded into history. Most of the story is in the public domain and anyone could piece it together given time and desire. But there was more: other knights had been sent away, dispersed on a mission. All Francis knew was they carried parts of a message. What that was, he did not know. The story lay in John Dearly’s keeping and he had guarded it closely.
But once, long ago, John had let something slip in the midst of a particularly heavy whisky evening; then immediately regretted it and made Francis swear half a dozen oaths to keep his secret. Whatever it was had been hidden in a set of daggers. In some way, the blades were meant to be a message to the whereabouts of something very important, maybe the lost Templar treasures. John had never said what, nor did he ever talk about who had the daggers. Perhaps he did not know and had certainly never shown Francis one.
John had said the daggers were dispersed across Europe, protected, hidden, waiting for a time when they would be reunited to somehow reveal the Templars’ secret message and restore their position. Helen had sensed the direction of the story and was almost unsurprised when Francis went on to reveal that John, and Archie before him, had occupied a place of trust, passed on from one carefully selected and recruited minister to the next: quiet, discreet, a line unnoticed and unbroken over time. And now, finally, there was Helen, unbriefed, facing a threat that none of them could quantify or identify, protecting something unknown, whose whereabouts and purpose were equally unknown.
Helen and Sam had to take Francis’ account at face value. It was incomplete, riddled with holes, an incredible story that even a fortnight ago they might have dismissed as delusional ramblings. But the artefacts, the trail of death and pain that was weaving through their lives and coming inexorably closer by the day, it all needed an explanation and this was the only one on the table. And incredible or not, there was no doubt the daggers existed.
Sam again raised the idea Helen had in the long ruminating hours after John’s killing; perhaps John had a dagger too? It would be consistent, whatever the true purpose. In any event, it seemed clear that people were dying because of them.
Then there was Xavier, continued Francis, the Sardinian priest who was even now preparing to travel back to Edinburgh. The origins of his connection remained unclear to Francis, but the man had maintained a close relationship with Archie and John. He might
have at least some of the answers that died with John Dearly. Francis also trusted Xavier implicitly, and it seemed trusted friends were in short supply right now. He urged Helen to speak with Xavier before making any decisions; perhaps he could shed more light for her.
When Francis had finished there was a long silence, finally broken by Helen. She sighed. The daggers, the killings, the church, could it be true? ‘Wow. Wow. Wow,’ she said slowly, then looked at Sam. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘the history bits might just about fit together. I could follow that, no problem. And I can, I will, check it out in more detail. But do we believe the story? Is there a more credible explanation? Is there any other explanation?’
Helen fixed him with a telling stare. ‘I think we need to walk and we need to talk. What do you say?’
Sam picked up her lead. ‘You’re right. I need some fresh air after that lot. Something to eat, too, suddenly I’m hungry.’
Helen promptly stood up. ‘Great. Let’s go now,’ she said. Turning to Francis, she continued. ‘We will need to talk more, a lot more. Can you spare some time later? Or maybe tomorrow? I’ll call you, but I really want to talk with Sam alone now.’
Francis and Elaine were both uneasy, unsure if enough had been said, unsure what else could be said. Francis shook Sam’s hand rather solemnly and then turned to Helen. ‘You know, Helen, John was my dearest friend. We have been sharing and helping each other for over thirty years. At the end, he chose you to carry on his tradition. If you stay, I will do my best to support you. No matter what.’
Helen stepped towards the old priest and hugged him. ‘I know you will, and thank you Francis, this is hard for everyone. I’m just struggling to understand. I don’t want to let you all down, let John down either. But I need facts, need to understand what this is all about.’ Sensing Elaine had experienced enough hugging in recent days; Helen just gently rested her hand on Elaine’s upper arm and pressed a little. Then, with a shrug and an apologetic, almost plaintive look, she left. Sam at her side.