‘I didn’t know about that,’ he said. ‘You got poisoned?’
Kate nodded. ‘Me and my friend Sarah. You might know her – DI Gilchrist? Apparently among other things we ate lilies.’
‘Lilies,’ the policeman repeated thoughtfully. ‘Does DI Gilchrist know that?’
‘You do know her?’
‘I work for her.’
‘They were lily bulbs, actually, supplied by this place. I haven’t had a chance to mention it to her yet.’
The policeman held out his hand. ‘I’m Constable Bellamy Heap. DI Gilchrist brought me on to her team a few days ago.’
Kate took his hand. ‘You like working with Sarah?’
‘I do.’
‘We’ve shared a flat on and off.’ Kate saw a look in his eye and let go of his hand. ‘What?’ she said guardedly.
He flushed. ‘Sorry – I think I just realized who perhaps you are.’
‘And who, perhaps, am I?’
He flushed deeper. ‘I think you might be the poor woman who was attacked and defended herself with DI Gilchrist’s volt gun.’ He dropped his hand. ‘That must have been dreadful for you.’
‘Yes, it was.’
She didn’t want to cry but the tears came anyway. He reached into his side pocket and produced a wad of tissues.
‘Crumpled but clean,’ he said, holding them out to her.
She glanced around. Some of the people watching were darting angry glances at Heap, assuming he’d caused the tears.
She turned away and tried to smile. ‘A man with tissues for just such an emergency. How gallant.’
She warmed to Bellamy Heap and his pink cheeks and his kind face. And at the same time she was horribly embarrassed that she’d broken down in front of a stranger watched by a crowd of total strangers.
She was even more embarrassed that she must look a fright. She was no female X-Factor judge, controlling welling tears with a finger placed horizontally under each eye. She couldn’t do emotional without having a make-up crisis. When Kate cried she turned blotchy and her nose ran and she made unattractive noises. Aside from that she was perfect.
She giggled at the thought. Given that she was giving some kind of tearful snort at the same time she heard the strangest sound and that made her giggle more. Heap looked bewildered. OK, so he was just a man after all.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she gasped, suppressing her laugh.
‘Probably not,’ he said. His smile was disarming.
Kate was thinking, Oh, God, Mills and Boon. It made her laugh even louder.
‘The Key of Solomon is probably the most famous grimoire in the world,’ Allcock said. ‘It’s supposed to have been written by King Solomon – the one in the Bible? He wrote it for his son Rehoboam then ordered him to hide the book in his sepulchre when he died. The Babylonians found it during their destruction of his Temple. They couldn’t understand the text until – the story goes – the Angel of the Lord came to their aid.’
‘There seems to be a lot wrong with that story,’ Gilchrist said.
Allcock nodded. ‘That’s the legend. Actually, the Key probably dates from the fourteenth-century Italian Renaissance.’
‘And this famous book of spells was in the Jubilee Library?’
‘One of them was.’
‘You’re losing me again,’ Gilchrist said. ‘He wrote more than one?’
‘He didn’t write any of them,’ Allcock said patiently. ‘As I said, it was probably written in the fourteenth century. During the Italian Renaissance ancient Greek and Roman philosophical and religious documents came from the east after the fall of Constantinople in 1451. Although some date the Key as far back as the Fourth Crusade’s sack of Constantinople in 1204, which led to a similar transmission of knowledge long lost or unknown in the West.’
‘They found the Key and brought it to the West?’
‘No. But there were a lot of other manuscripts dealing with magic. Jewish Kabbalists and Arab alchemists put their own spin on them. One of those men probably created the Key of Solomon.’
‘Kabbalists? Is that like the religion Madonna follows?’
‘Nothing like it. That’s a ridiculous modern distortion of what was a serious – if misguided – search for knowledge through the power of numbers. In this country there are a number of manuscript versions of the Key. This one was probably mid- to late-sixteenth century, in Latin.’
‘Tell me about the spells.’
Allcock grimaced. ‘The Key gives detailed instructions for preparing and performing acts of magic in rituals using specific materials when the planets are in certain configurations. The first part has conjurations, invocations and curses. The magician uses them to summon and control spirits of the dead and demons. It shows you how to become invisible, make someone love you and find lost or stolen items.’
‘Sounds like we could make use of it now,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Except for the loving you bit.’
‘Part two describes how the exorcist should purify himself, clothe himself and prepare the implements to be used. It also states what animal sacrifices need to be made.’
‘Animal? Or animal and human?’ Gilchrist said.
‘I don’t know the manuscript that well. I believe just animal.’
‘Is it generally known the library has this manuscript?’
Allcock shook his head. ‘Scarcely known at all, I should say.’
Watts had phoned ahead but there was no sign of Avril when he arrived back at the Pearson household. Pearson answered the door himself and shuffled into the living room, assuming Watts would follow.
Watts found Pearson mesmerizing but for all his contradictions rather than his powers of thought. The man’s belief in his own intelligence was staggering at the same time as his self-awareness was non-existent. Had he known how ridiculous he had looked the other day in his stained tracksuit with the tea cosy on his head?
When they were settled, glass of wine beside each of them although it was scarcely eleven, Watts said: ‘Mr Pearson, what is your view of the Templars?’
‘They found some secret that gave them a way to maintain their peak experiences.’
‘It didn’t help them though, did it? Didn’t help all those burned at the stake in France.’
‘Some might argue that they at least got revenge: Philip the Fair and Pope Clement the Fifth both died in agony within months of the slow roasting to death of the Grand Master Jacques de Molay.’
‘And Edward II?’
‘He protected the Templars as best he could. Then he let them all go.’
‘How come you know all this? Have you been investigating them at Saddlescombe?’
Pearson did his teeth-baring act again. ‘You’ve seen the books here. I know everything.’
‘But do you live at Saddlescombe because of the Templar secret concealed here?’
Pearson’s cheeks were bright red when he grinned. ‘What secret?’
‘The secret you were just talking about.’
‘I didn’t say it was located here, nor that it was a physical thing.’
‘Well then, why did kings and prelates make a special point of coming here? Why did Edward II protect them?’
Pearson said nothing.
‘The Templars dug a hundred and fifty feet down through chalk and flint to find water for their well,’ Watts continued. ‘If they had that kind of commitment . . .’
‘You think there are hidden parts of the farm?’ Pearson said. ‘Subterranean parts? Some secret chapel containing some secret thing?’
Watts nodded. ‘I’d bet money on it.’
‘Their secret being what, in your view – the head of Baphomet they worshipped?’
Watts shook his head. ‘No such thing.’
‘You sure? It’s thought the name is a transliteration of Mohamet and that they caught their strange religious beliefs through contact with the Muslim religion in the Holy Land rather than in Provence. Makes sense to me.’
Watts snorted. ‘Ex
cept for one thing: if they were some kind of Muslim sect they’d know that an actual image of Mohammed is a major no-no. So they wouldn’t be worshipping a head. Further – why would they renounce Christ whilst shedding blood fighting for him in the Holy Land? What kind of stupid logic is that?’
‘Then what? What did they worship? What was their secret?’
Watts shook his head. ‘Beats me. I was hoping you could tell me.’
Pearson rubbed his hands. ‘I think the bloodline from Jesus and Mary Magdalene down to the Merovingian kings has already been pretty well covered – and proved to be rubbish, of course. The idea of Mary Magdalene and Jesus as lovers has been around for centuries – since the second and third century AD in certain apocryphal gospels. Louis Martin in his The Gospels Without God at the end of the nineteenth century has Jesus become an atheist and have a son with Mary Magdalene in the south of France. Kazantzakis had a similar notion in The Last Temptation of Christ in the 1950s – you know it? The man who created Zorba the Greek?’
‘I know the Scorsese film.’
Pearson nodded. ‘Statistically speaking, if Jesus and Mary actually existed and did have a child and that child had a child or children and so on down the centuries, by now half the world would be descended from Jesus. So where’s the bloodline then? And if, instead, you had centuries of inbreeding between sons and daughters of a bloodline down the generations, that bloodline would probably have produced an imbecile by now.’
‘Then what do you think the Templar secret was? The Ark of the Covenant?’
‘Can I just clarify?’ Pearson said. ‘You think that whatever the Templar secret was it is presently here at Saddlescombe. What am I then? The Guardian? Have I got it underneath my desk in my study?’
‘Or are you someone searching for it?’
‘Do I look like I’m searching for a secret? Have I dug up half the farm to find it?’
‘The Ark of the Covenant?’
‘Oh, that. Well, sure, I’ve got that. Avril uses it as a bedding box.’ Pearson shook his head. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because I do think whatever the Templar secret is, that secret is the secret of this place – and that is the reason for all these bad goings-on.’
‘Have there been bad goings-on other than the Wicker Man on the beach?’ Pearson said.
Watts gave a brief outline of recent occurrences, Pearson’s eyes fixed on him the whole time.
‘John Dee’s magical equipment and the Key of Solomon both?’ Pearson said.
‘That combination means something to you?’
Pearson was about to respond when Avril came in with a tray.
‘Home-made soup – you’ll try some, Bob?’
Watts stood. ‘Not for me, thanks, Avril. I only popped by.’
‘Made with only natural ingredients,’ she said.
‘Even so. But thank you.’
Avril put the tray in front of her husband.
He looked up at her. ‘I thought you were at the allotment,’ he said.
She patted him on his shoulder. ‘I was but I couldn’t let you starve, could I?’
Pearson ogled her as she left the room. Watts was amused by the man’s lechery. He sat back down. Pearson contemplated the soup. He glanced in the direction of Avril’s departure.
‘The Ark of the Covenant resided at the very heart of Solomon’s Temple,’ he said. ‘It contained the tablets on which God had written the Ten Commandments for Moses. But the Temple was destroyed how many times in the Old Testament? By Assyrian, Babylonian and Roman conquerors with no respect for any religious beliefs other than their own. How could the Ark have survived intact for the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon to uncover it? I simply don’t see it.’
He dipped his spoon in the soup and slurped it into his mouth.
‘Anyway, I thought Indiana Jones took care of the Ark.’ Pearson pointed his spoon at Watts. ‘If the Ark is anywhere it’s not in our coal cellar, it is in Ethiopia. The Queen of Sheba and Solomon were lovers and had a child in Eritrea. That child founded the dynasty that ruled Ethiopia until Haile Selassie was overthrown in 1974. The dynasty survived three thousand years because it had the Ark to prove its lineage.’
Watts watched Pearson take two more spoonfuls of his soup and dunk a hunk of bread into it.
‘Not that anybody has ever been allowed to see it.’
Watts chewed his lip. He had no real interest in any of this Biblical stuff. Pearson leaned forward and massaged his chest then sat back, his mouth open, for a moment.
‘Are you OK?’ Watts said.
‘No,’ Pearson grunted. ‘I’m old. I never know whether it’s indigestion or a heart attack.’
‘Have you had yourself checked out?’
Pearson sat forward again. ‘Of course – despite Avril’s disapproval.’
‘Why does she disapprove?’
Pearson glanced at the door again. Did he think Avril was listening?
‘Avril doesn’t believe in doctors. Didn’t you know she’s a white witch? She relies on the old medicines to cure her.’
‘And do they?’
‘Usually,’ Pearson said, rubbing his chest again.
‘What do the doctors say about your health?’
‘They say that when a heart attack happens I’ll know it’s not indigestion.’ He picked up his spoon and waved it. ‘Old people get sick.’ He took a spoonful of soup. ‘So have you finished asking me foolish questions about the Templars?’
‘Maybe the Templars took something else from the Temple,’ Watts said. ‘What about the Key of Solomon?’
‘Well, it can’t have been here if it has been in the library, can it?’
‘The original.’
Pearson shook his head. ‘They stashed the original book of rituals, written in Solomon’s own fair hand, down the well here? I’ve got news for you, Watts. The Key of Solomon was not written by Solomon because Solomon didn’t exist.’
Watts frowned. ‘He’s in the Bible and the Qu’ran.’
‘That may be so. But there is absolutely no other evidence for his existence. He is meant to have left a legacy of major buildings, including his Temple, but there are no archaeological remains of any of them. The odd archaeological finds that have been linked to him probably came a century later in the Omride period. This period was polytheistic so the Bible glosses over it.’
‘If the Temple didn’t exist how are all these conquerors pulling it down?’ Watts said. ‘We know the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, captured Jerusalem and destroyed the city and the Temple.’
‘We don’t know anything. The Bible is not a reliable historical source. There is no archaeological evidence although, I admit, the most likely place for the site of the Temple – Temple Mount – can’t be properly explored archaeologically because of Muslim sensitivities.’
Pearson put his spoon down and moved his plate away. ‘But from my perspective it’s irrelevant. Leave that to the Freemasons. Don’t you find it curious, by the way, that most Masons wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a trowel?’
‘Why irrelevant?’
‘Because if you only half-listened to me the other day you will know that my life’s work has been to explore the perfectibility of man – or some men – by accessing the potential within them and within their brains. And whilst I accept the probability that certain rituals can access hidden parts of the mind, I do not accept that angels or demons, gods or devils are going to show us the way. If the Templars’ secret was hidden knowledge, I’m interested. Treasure wouldn’t go amiss either. But if their secret was some way to raise the Devil through the so-called Key of Solomon – I’ll pass on that, thanks.’
With an effort Pearson lifted his tray and put it on his side table.
‘Now it’s time for my postprandial nap. Go and pester Avril. She’ll like that. She certainly liked it when your father pestered her.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Gilchrist had arranged to meet Ruther
ford after his Saturday service at St Michael’s, although her mind was on a lot of other things.
She got the time of the service wrong. When she went into St Michael’s, Rutherford was still going full throttle. His glasses were halfway down his nose and he was peering at the congregation over them. Gilchrist stood at the back.
Rutherford pushed his spectacles up his nose and looked at the papers on his pulpit.
‘In his beautiful and tragic essay “God’s Lonely Man”, novelist Thomas Wolfe stated that: “The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence.”’ He paused, presumably to let the quote sink in. ‘Wolfe goes on: “When we examine the moments, acts, and statements of all kinds of people we find that they are all suffering from the same thing.”’
He took off his spectacles.
‘The final cause of their complaint is loneliness.’
He looked around the church. He didn’t seem to notice Gilchrist.
‘I think we can all find an echo in our own lives for those sentiments. But there is, of course, one vast omission in Wolfe’s thesis.’
He looked up to the soaring arched ceiling. ‘I speak of God’s cure for that loneliness.’
That was when Gilchrist stepped back into the foyer and started fiddling with her phone.
Watts found Avril in the kitchen.
‘Not too late for soup, Bob.’
‘Honestly, no,’ he said. He was finding it odd that she was acting so normally after her curious behaviour the other day. He looked at the vegetables and plants lying across the table. Saw the flowers.
‘Those the lilies you cook with?’
‘Calla lilies. Yes. They’re poisonous.’
‘All parts of them?’
She nodded. ‘They contain calcium oxalate, as do rhubarb leaves. But unlike rhubarb, with the lily it makes the whole plant toxic. You haven’t ingested them raw, have you?’
He shook his head.
‘Good.’
‘So why are they in your kitchen?’
‘I cook with them.’
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