Archimedes & The Dog
'You sure this is wise?' asked Chardonnay Deluth.
'I know what I'm doing,' said Romeo McGhee.
She glanced at him in the way that she usually did. That looking at him like he was an idiot way that most women in relationships with men quickly perfect.
'Romeo,' she said, 'you never know what you're doing.'
'It's cool, baby,' he said, words just a little incongruous with the meely-mouthed west of Scotland accent.
'The man is going to tear you to shreds,' she said, as they opened the unlocked gate and began walking the short distance up the driveway to the big house.
Bartholomew Ephesian would have loved a huge driveway, snaking its way through trees and past lawns but there just hadn't been the ground available. Certainly not on the west side, with the view out over Bute and Arran, and if there had been space on the east side, why bother when all you had to look at was dull mainland, a large dock and a nuclear power station?
'He can't tear us to shreds,' said McGhee. 'He tears us to shreds, he doesn't get the stupid hand, does he? We have him in our power. We have total dominion over him.'
Chardonnay Deluth gave him another idiot look, then unconsciously began to hang back as they approached the front door. He was the definite salesman here. She had no idea what she was supposed to be, other than the stupid patsy who had allowed herself to be talked into coming along.
McGhee gave her a smile, acknowledging the fact that she was hanging back.
'It's cool, babe,' he said. 'Totally cool.'
***
Bartholomew Ephesian looked down on the bleak waters of the firth. Checked his watch and wondered how Jacobs was getting on with his list of errands. A man he could count on but still the overall responsibility was his, he was the one charged with changing the course of history. And history was what mattered.
The doorbell rang and he turned quickly and suspiciously away from the view. No one ever came to his house in the evening. The night before his destiny, this would be no coincidence and he suddenly wondered if this might be Ping Phat himself.
He rested the whisky glass on the desktop and walked through the house. Visitors were rare and when they came they would be greeted by Jacobs. This was the first time in over three years that Ephesian would actually be answering his own door.
He stopped at the door, breathed deeply, cracked his fingers, settled the nerves and opened up.
He stared at the necks of his visitors. Recognised the man as the son of one of their former members; did not know the woman.
'What?' he asked brusquely.
'We need to talk,' said Romeo McGhee, and presumptuously made a forward move.
Ephesian made a movement to cover more of the doorway, nervousness having been replaced by scorn. McGhee stopped just short of touching him. Ephesian hated people touching him.
'I doubt it,' said Ephesian. 'I'm a busy man, Mr McGhee.'
'Not too busy to see me,' said McGhee.
'On the contrary,' retorted Ephesian, and he took a step back and began to close the door, his annoyance far outweighing any vague curiosity. McGhee automatically stuck his foot forward, crossing the boundary into the house.
Ephesian's head twitched.
'I'm going to count to five, Mr McGhee,' he growled, 'and then I'm calling the police.'
Another twitch, an intake of breath as he controlled his temper.
'One...,' he began.
'I have the hand,' said McGhee quickly, cutting off the drama of the count. 'Jonah Harrison's frozen hand.'
Ephesian was, sure enough, stopped dead in his boots. He eased the door away from McGhee's foot.
'Now I'm beginning to understand why you pitched up at my place the day after my old man croaked.'
Ephesian stared hard at McGhee's chin, let his eyes move on to Chardonnay Deluth and the smirk on her lips. Always funny, she was thinking, to see an over-stuffed balloon like Ephesian get put to the sword. Maybe McGhee wasn't so stupid after all.
'What is it you want?' asked Ephesian.
McGhee hesitated, enjoying the moment. For all the bluster he'd been showing his girlfriend, he'd been walking up the hill to Ephesian's house full of anxiety and completely lacking in confidence. Had surprised himself by being able to balls it out. But now the anxiety had disappeared in smoke and his self-confidence had arrived with an $89billion Senate-approved budget. Time to stop and smell the roses.
Ephesian recognised what he was doing, was happy for McGhee to be so full of himself. Gave him time to think, knew that McGhee's guard would drop as his self-assurance increased.
'First of all,' said McGhee, 'I would appreciate it if you would invite myself and my good lady here into your house and have your man attend to us. I think a single malt would suit me just fine. Chardonnay, what can the man get you?'
Ephesian turned his eyes on her, the gaze staring right through the centre of her face. Mind turning, already formulating how he would deal with them.
'I'm not sure,' said Chardonnay, warming with every second to her boyfriend.
For Ephesian, however, nothing had really changed. Two minutes earlier he'd been in a position of needing to extract the package from Ruth Harrison. Now he was needing to extract it from Romeo McGhee.
'Come in,' said Ephesian, looking directly at Chardonnay Deluth's nose, 'and we'll see what we can do for you.'
***
Igor sat on a green bench across the lawn from George Street, looking out at the dark sea. Coat wrapped tightly around himself, but still feeling the cold. Needed to be inside but didn't yet want to go back to the small room that had been his home for five years. Old and worn green carpet, wallpaper of a rich maroon, faded to an unattractive brown, battered lampshades, a frayed rug, and a small television in the corner, which was perfect for watching It's A Wonderful Life and Mrs Miniver, but hopeless for Independence Day and The Return of the King.
There was something in the air, something more than the smell of the sea and the wind which worked its way through the islands from the Atlantic. The town was about to change in some strange way which he could not foresee. But suddenly things seemed to be happening, in a place where months and years could go by with barely any incident of note.
Maybe it was time to leave, something he had thought before, even in less troubled times. But for him, it hardly seemed an option. He was accepted here, the people were used to him, he had his job, however mundane. To go someplace else, would be to walk into a new town and start all over again, people staring and muttering and judging and talking about him, not behind his back but right there in front of him. The way that the people of this town had not done for a long time. He at least appreciated that, no matter how low the regard in which he was held by many of the townsfolk.
'You look lonely.'
He didn't turn immediately. Recognised the voice. Gently Ferguson, barwoman at the Kendall.
He finally looked at her and shrugged in his uncomfortable way.
'Arf,' he said. It's all relative, he thought. A person sitting on their own looking out at the sea need not be lonely; he had never once in his life been in a large crowd of people and not been lonely. Maybe I exude loneliness.
'I hear you,' said Gently Ferguson. 'I can stand in the bar every night and feel that I'm the loneliest person on the planet.'
Igor turned towards her. Felt aware of his hump. She looked out to sea, felt his eyes on her, although it was different to all those evenings in the bar when she was aware of the eyes of men.
'Sometimes I think it's impossible to be lonely when you're surrounded by nature,' she said. 'You don't need people to feel part of...,' and she hesitated, then indicated the sea and the rocks and the islands in the bay and said, 'this.'
Igor followed her gaze back out to the water, felt her shiver next to him.
'It's cold,' she said.
'Arf,' said Igor.
'I know,' she replied, 'I need to get inside.'
Igor didn'
t want her to go yet. When she goes, he thought, I'll be lonely, where I wasn't two minutes ago. Such is the way of the poet.
'You shouldn't sit out in this,' she said, and then, still without looking at him asked, 'would you like to come back for a cup of tea?'
Igor stared at the pale profile in the chill night air.
'Arf,' he said.
She smiled, turned and embraced him with a look.
'Lovely,' she said. 'Let's go.'
Æs Triplex
Jacobs turned the key in the lock, opened the large wooden door and stepped into the small cathedral porch, closing the door behind him. Paused for a second, enjoying the still darkness. Checked his watch. Wasn't sure what Roosevelt would be doing but no need to trouble him with this. It wasn't as if Ephesian didn't possess a key to every lock on the island.
He opened the inner door and walked through to the nave. He let his eyes become adjusted to the dark, enjoying the stillness. Took a few steps into the nave, his footsteps sounding clear and sharp, unlike the dull pads of the ghost of Jonah Harrison. Then the thought of the ghost had him looking over his shoulder into dark corners, before the pragmatist in him was able to dismiss it.
He was about to collect the greatest, most sought-after artefact of the last two thousand years. This was no time to be afraid of the likes of Jonah Harrison, even if Fatman was dead.
He stopped at the font, which stood in the bottom corner, opposite the door. The instructions had come from Lawton, the one who had finally been able to crack the code. That it had been Lawton who had achieved the momentous breakthrough was of the utmost regret to Ephesian and Jacobs but at least he had proved to be as pliable as Ephesian had required him to be.
They had concentrated so much of their searching on the more elaborately decorated chancel, rather than the naïve and simplistic nave. It had seemed obvious since the search had begun in 1976 that this was where the object of glory would have been hidden. The chancel with its beautifully enriched walls of encaustic tiles, the wonderfully painted and raftered ceiling, the Bishop's Chair, the beautiful stone screen separating it from the nave.
Or if the original members of the Prieure had been intent on the chancel as cover, distracting from the more obscure hiding place, surely they would have chosen the small ante-chapel, with the organ and the small stained glass windows. I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God. Or the original Chapter House, now the Lady Chapel, tucked away at the back.
Even when they had allowed themselves to search the nave, somehow the font had seemed too obvious and had not drawn them in. The three-part painting in the middle of the nave, the worship of the lamb, that had interested them. As had the painting above the pulpit, a dying Christ on the ground below the cross, supported by two chubby little cupids, the desperate Mary imploring the Lord at his side. They seemed to hold some clues, as the font never did. The font, beautifully carved and craving attention, seemed to deny secrecy.
Not that it had never been subjected to investigation but when it had, it had not yielded any answers.
Jacobs shivered again, glanced once more over his shoulder. He had been in the cathedral many times, he had searched for the answer possibly more than any of the twelve. Yet had his examinations of the font ever been more than rudimentary?
He shook the shiver away. Back in the real world, back to doing what had to be done. It was Lawton who had discovered the answer, it was Lawton and Ephesian who had come to the cathedral to establish that he was right and to, at last, uncover the Holy Grail itself. They had left it in the cathedral, however, intent on collecting it on the evening of the ceremony. The presence of the two Italians had forced Jacobs down here to collect the Grail earlier than anticipated.
He ran his hands over the body of the font. Eight sided, on every second side a carving of one of the apostles. St Luke, the bull; St Mark, the lion; St John, the eagle; St Matthew, the man. Many who had looked at it had thought it peculiar and many were those who had pressed and prodded and shoved and tinkered. The carvings had seemed solid, however, none had really believed that this would be the way in.
Jacobs was aware of the sound of his breathing in the cold stillness. He took the torch from his pocket and looked over the carvings.
The clue had been in an innocent section of Virginibus Puerisque, by a former Grand Master of the Prieure de Millport, Robert Louis Stevenson. Æs Triplex. Triple brass, a strong defence. No clues within the text, just the nature of the piece and the title and the well known association between the author and the society. When it had occurred to Lawton it had been instinctive and had easily fallen into place.
Doing as instructed, Jacobs placed the torch in his mouth, shone the light on the font, reached round the sides and pressed the wings of John and Mark, and with his knee, pushed at the wings of Luke. In the still darkness he heard the small click in the inner workings of the font. His heart quickened.
He walked round to the other side, to the carving of St Matthew, a man amongst three beasts. Even now it still wasn't evident, but Lawton and Ephesian had worked it out eventually so Jacobs knew what to do. He pressed down on St Matthew's head and then, with a sudden small jerk and a grinding of stone, the carving moved out of the body of the font, revealing the hidden drawer.
Jacobs, throat dry, hands shaking, shone the torch into the little niche which had opened up before him.
It was empty.
He stuck his hand in, felt around the tiny space.
'Shit,' he muttered. 'Shit!' Nothing.
The lights came on behind him.
Jacobs turned, the shock of the interruption showing, heart beating wildly. An instant, however, and he had himself under control. Closed the drawer and walked forward.
'Father Roosevelt, I looked for you,' he said calmly.
'How did you get in here, Mr Jacobs?' asked Roosevelt.
'I had something to collect for Mr Ephesian,' answered Jacobs, ignoring the question.
'You won't find it,' said Roosevelt calmly.
'Why not?' asked Jacobs, not bothering with any pretence as to why he might have been there. Roosevelt was part of the brotherhood; he knew what was required from this place.
'Because it has already been removed,' said Roosevelt.
'What do you mean?' demanded Jacobs. 'By whom?'
'Mr Lawton,' said Roosevelt. 'He came about an hour ago and informed me that he had to collect the article for Mr Ephesian. In light of that, perhaps you would like to explain your actions.'
'Let's get this straight,' said Jacobs, with no intention of explaining anything. 'Lawton came here, he told you that Mr Ephesian had sent him, he removed the artefact and left?'
'Mr Jacobs, I'm not sure I appreciate your manner.'
'Did you see him take it from the font? Did you see him?'
Roosevelt hesitated but he was intimidated by Jacobs, as were most people on the island.
'He allowed me to open the hidden drawer,' said Roosevelt. 'I held the Grail of Christ in my hands, I touched the very cup that held the wine and the blood of Jesus, I felt the...'
'Whatever,' said Jacobs. 'But you gave this to Lawton and he left saying he was going to give it to Mr Ephesian? That's it?'
'Yes,' said Roosevelt. 'That's it.'
Jacobs looked at his watch. It could be that Lawton had taken the chalice round to Ephesian's house but he knew he wouldn't have. Ephesian, as Grand Master of the Brotherhood, had given Lawton a direct order not to remove the Grail from the cathedral.
Jacobs had been sent out to collect two items and he would be returning with neither. Ephesian would be unhappy but he needed to speak to him before making a move on Lawton. He must return, give Ephesian the facts, and take further instruction.
He pushed past Roosevelt and walked quickly from the cathedral.
Archie Gemmill
The Holy Grail. The cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, the same cup in which Joseph of Arimathea caught Christ's blood. Taken by Joseph to France and then to England. Th
e object of the great quests by King Arthur's knights. Or perhaps the Grail is something more intangible, a more ethereal concept. There are those who say the Grail is the bloodline of Christ himself, that it was not just the goblet that was taken by Joseph to France, but the very family of Christ. His wife, Mary Magdelene, and who knows how many offspring? This theory has Jesus not as the son of God but as the descendant of the kings of Israel, with the secret protected by knights and societies through the ages, waiting to explode the myth of Christ's divinity and to restore his descendants onto the throne of, well, who knows exactly? Maybe Israel, maybe a united Europe, maybe any old dodgy African republic they can get hold of.
The Grail, by these standards, is not a single item but a mass of documentation and artefacts and people. And yet, for all the museum of articles that make up the existence of the Grail, there is still at the heart of it, the small wooden cup. As seen in Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade.
And, whatever the truth of the nature of the Grail, the small wooden cup at its centre was exactly what had been hidden for one hundred and fifty years in the small compartment in the Cathedral of the Isles in Millport. It had been moved and then placed in the middle of the heavy mahogany table in Augustus Lawton's dining room. However the cup was no longer there; it had been stolen from Lawton, shortly after he himself had taken it from the Cathedral of the Isles.
Lawton had devoted years to the search and when, just a week earlier, he had made the breakthrough, it had been the defining moment of his life. A sense of duty had foolishly made him report his triumph to Ephesian, something which he'd quickly regretted. He had wrestled for a few days with the instruction not to remove the Grail but finally he had found the desire too great, the need to bring his life's work to fruition too pressing and he had visited the cathedral and taken the Grail back to his home.
Which was where he now remained, even though the Grail itself had been removed. He had not relinquished it lightly but eventually the blows which had rained down on his head had overcome him. He had collapsed, and his attacker had lain down the implement, a large brass sculpture of Archie Gemmill's goal against Holland in the 1978 World Cup Finals.
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 123