by P. W. Child
Chapter S ixteen
Ghent’s medieval center was bustling with tourists. Any worries that Sam had about being recognized were quickly assuaged. In crowds like these, amidst the stag nights, loving couples, and swarms of elderly coach travelers it was easy to become lost.
They wound their way through the twisting streets. The sight of Gravensteen castle struck Sam with a sharp, sudden pang of homesickness. It was smaller than Edinburgh Castle and tucked in amongst the streets rather than sitting proudly above them, but still memories came flooding back. ‘No time for that now,’ he told himself, pushing the melancholy feelings aside. ‘Focus on getting this done. It’s the quickest way home.’
They went past the canal and across the busy square, until they saw the dramatic grey outline of Saint Bavo’s Cathedral standing out against the clear blue sky. Its Gothic architecture and towering belfry dominated the entire area, dwarfing all the buildings surrounding it.
The heavy arched doors stood open, welcoming in the church’s many visitors. Its interior was cool and calming, its serenity only a little tarnished by the throng of people wielding cameras and staring slack-jawed at the array of artistic treasures – Rubens’ St Bavo Entering the Convent at Ghent, Justus van Gent’s Calvary Triptych, Caspar de Crayer’s Martyrdom of Saint Barbara… but of the famous altarpiece there was no sign.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Sam asked. “It hasn’t been moved somewhere else?”
“This is definitely where it’s kept. I remember reading about it; it was the painting Hitler wanted as the centerpiece of his Führermuseum. ” Nina looked around in frustration. “There’s got to be someone we can ask. Stay here. I’ll go and do my German tourist routine.”
She was gone for no more than a minute before returning with an exasperated look on her face. “It’s not here. Not at the moment. The man at the desk said that some of the panels are on loan to an exhibition and the others are gone for conservation and won’t be back for nearly two years. What do we do?”
“Fortunately,” said Purdue, “we do not need to find the painting itself – only the place it ought to occupy. I believe it’s a joke on Mr. Fabian’s part, since the altarpiece is among the most frequently stolen works in the world. Who knows whether it will be there at the time when someone attempts to find it? If we search in the vicinity of the altar, we should still find the reliquary.” He glanced at the thick red rope keeping them at a distance from the altar itself.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said with a smile. “You get in there and find that thing. Come on Nina – we’ll keep the staff busy.”
Near the main entrance two cathedral staff hung around the desk, one seated and one hovering nearby to chat while he kept an eye out for anyone in need of help or reprimand. Sam greeted them warmly as he approached, Nina following hard on his heels and waiting to find out how he wanted to distract them.
“Heeeeeey! Could you guys answer a question for us?” Sam’s choice of a broad American accent surprised no-one more than himself. ‘I sound like Jefferson,’ he thought. ‘Well… it’ll do.’
“Certainly, Sir,” the attendant replied. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young man who could not have looked more bored, although he was making an effort to conceal it. The name badge pinned to his lapel indicated that he was called Niklaas. “That is what we are here for.”
Sam flung an arm round Nina. “Me and my wife here, we’re having a little disagreement about something, aren’t we honey?”
“It’s so stupid…” Nina opted to stick with her German accent, certain that a German and an American would not match any descriptions that may have been circulated of two Scots. “I can hardly believe that we are even troubling you with this, but he will not take my word for it. I am trying to tell him that Saint Baaf and Saint Bartholomew are not one and the same, but he does not believe me. Perhaps you can confirm it for me?”
“Sweetie, how likely do you think it is that they’d give two completely different saints identical names?” Sam felt the muscles in Nina’s shoulder tense under his hand. He could almost hear her teeth grinding. Even knowing that they were both just playing roles to create a diversion, being patronized pushed her buttons hard.
Niklaas gave them a bland smile. “I am sorry, Sir, but the lady is correct. Saint Baaf, whom you can see depicted here by Rubens, is the patron saint of Ghent and indeed of Belgium. He lived in the seventh century, founded an abbey and gave away all his money and possessions. In English his name is pronounced Bavo. Saint Bartholomew, however, was one of Christ’s Apostles and was martyred by crucifixion and – I am not sure how you say the word – removal of the skin.”
Sam grimaced. “That’s kinda grim. But you’re sure they’re not the same guy? Cuz I’m sure I saw somewhere in our guide book that they were…”
“Quite sure, Sir.”
“He says that he’s certain,” Nina said. “Why can’t you just accept that? It’s always the same with you; you simply will not accept that you might be wrong, even when you hear it from someone whose job is to know these things!” As she told Sam off she kept half an eye on Niklaas, whose attention had been captured by something over by the altar. He took a step back, extricating himself from their argument, and made a move in the direction of Purdue’s search. Nina shot out a hand and grabbed Niklaas’ arm. “I am so sorry,” she said. “You really must allow me to apologize for my husband. Foreign travel brings out the worst in him… I ask him again and again to be polite, at least, and to accept that you do know what you’re talking about…”
Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Purdue stepping neatly over the rope and casually sauntering up the aisle. He walked straight past Sam and Nina without making eye contact or giving any sign that his mission had been a success, and disappeared through the doors and onto the street.
“Honey,” Sam said loudly, “I think we’ve taken up enough of this gentleman’s time, don’t you? Come on. If you stand here talking all day we won’t get to see the castle.” He steered her, still protesting, out of the door.
As soon as they were outside Nina turned to him, one arched eyebrow raised in amusement. “American? Really?
“It worked,” Sam shrugged. “Now where’s Purdue?”
“I am here.” Purdue appeared at Sam’s shoulder. They kept walking, Sam and Nina together, Purdue a step behind them so that to the casual observer they looked like they simply happened to be going in the same direction rather than walking together. He quickly configured his tablet to the size of a phone and held it to his ear so that he could talk without appearing to converse with Sam and Nina. “I found what I was looking for,” he said casually. “It was not too difficult, sharp eyes were all that was required. It’s very beautiful; I think you will appreciate it. The design is quite intricate. Now, I believe we are supposed to be meeting at the Museum voor Schone Kunsten? I am on my way.”
He suddenly increased his pace, stepping round Sam to overtake him. As he passed, he slipped a small box into Sam’s jacket pocket. Once he was a little way ahead he slowed his pace again, just enough to remain visible and lead the way. Too curious to resist, Sam waited only a few minutes before taking out the box and examining it.
It was a small rosewood box with a long, rectangular base and a pointed lid. The condition of the wood made it clear that it was not an antique but simply made in the style of a Gothic reliquary. It would not open. The surface was covered in carvings so precise and detailed that Sam was sure they could only have been done with a laser. They showed what looked like a map of central Ghent, with a line marked with arrows winding through it and coming to an end in… a cave?
‘That can’t be right, can it?’ Sam was mystified. ‘A cave? In a city? Why would there be a cave right next to a building that looks like that?’ Sure enough, the illustration showed an elegant building with a tall columned façade, with the letters “S.K.” in curling script above it. As discreetly as he could, he showed it to Nina.
�
�The gallery sounds about right,” she said, handing it back to Sam. “As far as I know S.K. is Schone Kunsten or the Flemish equivalent which is probably very similar.”
“And the cave?”
She shrugged. “Seems a bit weird. But hardly the weirdest thing we’ve seen. I suppose we’ll find out when we get to the museum.”
Chapter Seventeen
“There! That’s it there.” Sam pointed across the road. “Look, it’s the same layout as in the carvings on the box.”
Sure enough, the Citadel Park wrapped itself around the two galleries, the Museum voor Schone Kunsten and the Stedelijk Museum voor Actuele Kunst, and a small pond with a little cave stood behind the former. Three small arches, two stone pillars. It was impossible to tell whether it was man-made, designed to complement the galleries or a naturally occurring outcropping. Even in the cold weather it would usually have been surrounded by tourists looking for a photo opportunity, but now that the blue skies had given way to grey and the rain had begun to pour, it was deserted.
“I think we might just have to accept that we are going to look conspicuous this time,” said Purdue as they picked their way across the wet grass and along the edge of the pond. “We must just hope that the rain will keep people out of the park for long enough for us to find the key.”
Nina turned the reliquary over in her hand. “The arrow definitely ends here,” she said. “There’s nothing beyond this. But there’s also nothing to indicate where in the cave we should look.”
The walls of the cave were coarse and natural-looking. Any hope that they might easily spot an unusually large or prominent rock was quickly dashed. Together they scoured the walls for any sign of the key, or any sign of Addison Fabian’s manipulation.
“There’s nothing here,” Nina sighed, after an hour of intensive searching. “Or if there is, we’re not going to be able to find it by means of the naked eye. Is there anything else we can try? It’s starting to clear up, and I can’t imagine this place is going to stay quiet for long once the rain stops.”
Purdue leaned against the wall and stared at the roof of the cave. “We may need to abandon the search and return after dark. What do you think, Sam?”
“No idea,” Sam said wearily. “Let’s have another look at that box.”
He took the reliquary from Nina and examined it once again, retracing their steps from St Bavo’s through the center of Ghent, from Sint-Pietersplein to the twin galleries. The line certainly led straight from the galleries to the cave…
“Is this significant, do you think?” He held up the box to the light and pointed to a tiny detail. The line that they had followed gave way to a much smaller, much thinner line, barely perceptible against the grain of the dark wood. “I can’t tell whether that’s another, smaller line or just a coincidental scratch, but… does that bit there look like an arrow to you?”
Purdue adjusted his glasses and peered at the reliquary. “It could be… I have an idea.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tablet, unfolding it from the size of a matchbox and stretching it out to cover his palm. His fingers flew across its surface for a few seconds; then he held the tablet over the box, took a picture and zoomed in as close as he could.
The thin line, now that it was blown up to an easily-visible size, grew even thinner, and at such close quarters they could see that the wood grain on the box was not wood grain at all. It was a remarkably accurate depiction of the rocks that surrounded them, carefully rendered in burnt wood. “Remarkably detailed work,” muttered Purdue, scrutinizing it closely. “Now let me see…” He held up the tablet, tapping something on its edges to render its flexible frame transparent, and moved the device over the wall until he found the place where it seemed to blend into the background, the light and shade and depth of the rocks falling into perfect synchronicity. “We have it!” he cried, then handed the tablet to Nina and dug into his pocket again.
This time he produced a small, narrow screwdriver, barely thicker than a hypodermic needle, and slipped its blade into a tiny crevice in the rock. That was all it took to wriggle one of the stones out of place, revealing at last the key hidden behind it.
It was a surprisingly chunky key, considering the size of the reliquary. Small but compact and heavy, made of wrought iron with an ornately twisted bow. Sam had imagined something slighter, more elegant and filigree, but he realized that this was probably just the romantic in him. ‘If you’re going to leave a key sitting in a cave for who knows how long, I suppose it’s got to be sturdy,’ he thought. ‘No sense in making something that looks like it belongs in a fantasy novel if it can’t survive the elements.’
Purdue took the key and slotted it into the lock. The lid of the reliquary sprang open, revealing a small scroll inside. He unrolled it carefully. “Well,” he said, passing it to Nina when he had finished reading it, “I think we had best go and collect our belongings. It looks like we have another move ahead of us.”
Chapter Eighteen
Nina had eaten her fill, stuffing herself more than usual. She recalled having these intense hunger spikes sometimes before a nerve wrecking lecture or meetings with financiers when she was still infuriated by Professor Matlock on a daily basis at the University. Today had been one of those days, however this time she had no legitimate reason to feel this way. The soothing warmth of the coffee washing down her throat was just what she needed.
Now north northwest to find your destiny -
A bridge, one end of which is in the sea.
You’ll hear the sweet carillon ringing clear,
You’ll see the wide and quiet world from here.
The sloping handwriting that stretched across the scroll was elegant and sweeping, almost calligraphic. Someone had put a lot of work into cultivating that handwriting, Sam could tell. ‘But then,’ he thought, ‘what would you expect from someone who takes the trouble to build this entire mad treasure hunt for the benefit of people he’ll never meet?’
Sam helped himself to a generous portion of Flemish rabbit stew from the serving bowl on the sideboard and cut himself a large slice of fresh brown bread to go with it before returning to join Nina and Purdue at the long refectory table. With another mystery trip imminent, he thought it best to fit in a decent meal while he could. The memories of living on lentils in the desert and freeze-dried macaroni and cheese in the tundra were still fresh enough to make him appreciate good food when it came his way.
“A bridge that’s got one end in the sea doesn’t sound like a lot of use,” he remarked, his mouth half-full.
“It’s Bruges,” said Nina. “At least I’m pretty sure it is. The name comes from the word for bridge – in Dutch, I think, but it’s the same in several languages. If you follow the canals up from Bruges you eventually get to Zeebrugge, which is basically Bruges-On-Sea. The North Sea, to be exact. And it’s more or less north-west from here.”
“It fits the other clues, too.” Purdue tore off a small piece of bread and rolled it into a pill before eating it. “The carillon in the belfry in Bruges is world famous – I believe the city is among the last to retain a permanent carillonneur, and the height of the structure would appear to lend itself to the final clue.”
“It’s that easy?” Sam was unconvinced. “So what, we just get on a train to Bruges, climb the belfry and that’s it? That step is done?”
“Apparently,” said Purdue, smiling slightly. “I do understand your disbelief, Sam. It seems a little too easy. But should we look for complications where perhaps, just for once, none exist?”
“I suppose not,” Sam shrugged. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as possible. I’ve sent a message to Matteus, and he has dispatched someone to arrange our travel and accommodation. Within the next couple of hours, we shall be on our way. And if everything goes according to plan, we should not have to do this again. Our days of safe houses should soon be at an end.”
Nina laughed, a little bitterly. “I’ll believe that when it happens.”
*
With a couple of hours to kill before their departure and nothing to pack since he had yet to unpack from the last move, Sam decided to use the time to write. He pulled the dog-eared notebook from his backpack and climbed out onto the fire escape to look over the work he had done so far.
To his surprise, Sam found himself a little bit sad to be leaving Ghent so soon. The room was not exactly luxurious, but he liked the tranquility of the place. Being three floors up, looking down over the weeds and long grass, having a smoke in the cold air and watching the sun set was quite calming, he felt. It would have been a good place to write.
‘Well, can’t be helped,’ he thought. ‘We’ll just have to see what Bruges brings. Let’s hope there’ll be separate rooms there, at least.’
He settled down and stared at the page, considering whether to press on and write the story of how Patricia had worked her way into Charles Whitsun’s circles or whether to make a proper outline. Sam’s tendency to write freely, with no more than a couple of bullet points as a plan, had always driven Trish crazy. She had been a meticulous planner, both in her work and in life.
Sam remembered the times when they had challenged each other to swap styles. Trish had taken hours to write a single short article, her thoughts constantly escaping for her as she attempted to work without her notes. Sam, on the other hand, had charged straight through the note-making stage and then found that words deserted him the moment he tried to write the full article. It had already taken shape and come to life in his head, so what was left to write? Every time they had sworn to accept the experiment as a wash-out and never repeat it, yet every so often they found themselves attempting it again, determined that this time they would prove that they could work differently.