‘Well, I wouldn’t mind.’ Amy had no interest in the manuscript’s literary merit; she just thought it might contain clues to Fitz’s life, and possibly a reason why someone would want to kill him. ‘I mean I don’t normally like pirates, Knights Templar, and all that Boys’ Own stuff, but the treasure… do you really think there is treasure buried somewhere beneath us in the Admiral Byng?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ianthe replied hurriedly. ‘Probably not.’ She handed the proof back. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have lots more copies in the office back in London. ‘Read it if you want to.’
‘Thanks.’
Ianthe grimaced ruefully. ‘Fitz was full of shit, wasn’t he?’
Amy was rather disconcerted. Should one talk like that of the recently deceased? ‘He could certainly tell a yarn,’ she said doubtfully. ‘You saw him that night, didn’t you, Monday? You went up to the Bridge with him, didn’t you?’
Though she hadn’t witnessed their departure from the bar, Amy was convinced that such a meeting must have taken place, and rather reluctantly Ianthe admitted that it had.
‘Did you discuss the book when you went up there with him? I mean, I suppose it was why you came to Crabwell, to talk about the book?’
‘Yes, that was it. He was so interesting,’ Ianthe replied, her comment rather at odds with his being ‘full of shit’. ‘He wanted to add stuff to it, and I had to agree. Between you and me, it would have been rather a bore – the book being in proof and all, but well, anything for Fitz…’ She laughed rather theatrically, and Amy guessed the meeting hadn’t been quite as amicable as Ianthe wanted her to believe.
‘You are going ahead and publishing it then?’ asked Amy, suddenly suspicious.
‘It was… it would be what Fitz wanted…’ Ianthe announced piously ‘It was his life’s work.’
‘It was, was it? I thought it was just a bit of a lark.’
‘Oh, Christ no. He was desperate to see it in print. He thought it would solve all his money problems, and I think it will… would have, I mean. It’s why he agreed to the television programme – to publicise the book.’
‘Hm…’ Amy said. Clearly Ianthe knew nothing about Fitz’s windfall from Greg Jepson. ‘Won’t you have to wait for the OK from his heirs and executors?’
‘I don’t think so. I have a contract. I will have to check with the lawyers, but I have no reason to think it makes a difference. He wrote the book and we are publishing it. That’s all there is to it.’
‘But won’t it be rather expensive to make changes to the book? You said you were going to “edit it” – add stuff.’
‘Not exactly add stuff,’ Ianthe sounded flustered, ‘but I don’t see why you care. It isn’t your problem,’ she added irritably.
‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry.’ But Amy firmly intended to pry. She still couldn’t make sense of Ianthe’s cool reaction to the Admiral’s death – or murder, as she now always thought of it. ‘Horrible about Fitz, though, isn’t it? It has made us all nervy. Until the police find out who actually did it…’
‘Do you think they will?’ Ianthe sounded surprised and rather alarmed.
‘Well yes, I should think so. There aren’t too many of us who had the opportunity and a motive – just those who were in the pub for the relevant few hours.’
‘It could have been a burglar. He might have disturbed a burglar.’
‘On the beach, Ianthe?’
‘No, of course not. He was killed on the beach, wasn’t he? Or at least that’s where his body was found. You don’t think his body was dragged there after his murder?’
‘Of course that’s possible. No doubt it’s the kind of thing the police are checking out.’
‘Well I know someone who could have done it!’ Ianthe was suddenly excited. ‘That creepy politician… always wears a pinstripe suit. What’s his name? Ben said he was seen earlier that day going up the stairs to Fitz’s room.’
Amy wondered whether Ianthe had just plucked a suspect out of the air, in order to deflect any accusation from herself. ‘Willie Sayers? He’s an old friend of Fitz’s. He was, I mean.’
‘Oh no,’ Ianthe said excitedly. ‘They hated each other’s guts.’
‘How do you know?’ Amy inquired, sceptical.
‘It was my boss, Barry Featherstone, who told me when we were contemplating publishing a book by Sayers about Mrs Thatcher. Now what was it Barry said…? I know there was a girl mixed up in it. A girl they both wanted and Fitz got, but… Yes, I remember. She was found dead in the Regent’s Canal.’
‘What…?’
‘Yes, you know, Amy. The Regent’s Canal in North London. I believe they both lived around there… I mean ages ago, when they were both young. Barry told me Fitz accused Sayers of murdering her, but he couldn’t prove anything. Barry said Fitz was lucky not to have been sued for slander.’
Though she had serious doubts about the woman’s veracity and thought she was probably just making the story up, Amy was intrigued despite herself. ‘Did they ever find the girl’s killer?’
‘Never.’ Ianthe sounded pleased. ‘There you are. I’ve solved it. Willie Sayers killed Fitz, who… was trying to blackmail him or something. I’d better tell Ben. You know we were… friends at uni,’ she added mischievously, trying to get a rise out of Amy but failing.
‘Ianthe, please be careful what you say. Mr Sayers is a powerful man. You don’t want to have him as an enemy.’
‘Like Fitz did, you mean?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Amy walked home that Saturday afternoon with the bound proof secure in a carrier bag against the fine spray being flung at her from the sea. Her mind was full of confusion. She didn’t believe the story Ianthe had just spun her, it had all come out too pat, almost rehearsed. But why had the publisher bothered to come up with it? Simply to divert suspicion from herself?
Then again there was the strange behaviour of Bob Christie… What was he trying to cover up with his elaborate lies? She made a mental note that she – or perhaps she and Ben – needed to have another meeting with the editor of The Crabwell Clarion.
Entering her cottage, she took off her ancient Barbour and threw it over a seat-back. Then she sat in her armchair, Ianthe’s proof lying heavy on her lap. There was a click and scratching from ivy on a windowpane, and it startled her. She turned and stared at the window. For the first time since she’d lived in Crabwell, she was aware of a vague uneasiness. Unbidden, the picture of poor old Fitz lying in the boat, dead, came to her. Maybe the village wasn’t as benign as it had always seemed.
Crossing the floor, she locked and bolted the front door, and then, resting her back on the old timbers, she stared about her with a swift assessment of her position here in this lonely cottage, unprotected and unsafe while a murderer lurked… somewhere. She had no safety here, that was plain. In fact there had been no point in locking the front door, she didn’t know why she’d bothered. The back door was so rotten that anyone could pull it open by yanking hard, and in any case, all the putty in the windows was perished and falling away. If anybody wanted to break in, they could open a casement without trouble.
Returning to the chair, she stood a moment, staring about her, wondering whether she would ever feel safe again. Then, hoping to set all thoughts of the murder aside for a while, she busied herself opening her log-burner and laying a fresh fire. Setting a match to the paper, she knelt before it and watched the flames licking around the logs.
If she thought about it, she could have been hungry, but she put thoughts of food to one side. She could always get something to eat at the pub later. With the amount she was owed in back pay, she felt entirely justified in eating as well as possible at the pub’s expense.
Rising stiffly, she walked back to the table and stared at the bound proof. It was possible that in these pages there was some explanation for the Admiral’s death. Poor old Fitz! She dashed away the tears that had threatened, and glared at the manuscript. If there was a motive in here, she
would find it.
The Admiral had always made sure that there was plenty of Laphroaig in the pub, and Amy had a bottle secreted in a cupboard. She went and poured a large measure into a tumbler, then took her drink to the table and sat, the book still unopened, considering all that Ianthe had told her.
The bound proof was unsettling. Although Amy would never have confessed to superstition, there was something about the solid mass of paper that made her flesh creep. It was strange to think that the Admiral was dead and that the reason could lie in these pages. She missed the old devil. Poor Fitz! If she could find out what had happened, she would feel happier, as though her employment was itself a debt she must repay.
Good God, hadn’t she already paid enough by working without pay for well over three weeks?
The memory of the money she would probably never see now stung her, and she put the glass down violently enough to spill some drops onto the table. Bloody Fitz!
Mopping the spilled whisky with her handkerchief, she set her jaw. He was gone now.
With a swift resolution, she pulled the proof to her. Ianthe hadn’t been totally convincing about her own belief in the book, and there was something about the woman that had set Amy’s nerves on edge. She flicked through the pages idly while she once again reviewed her talk with the editor. Ianthe had been so – what? Desperate? She was certainly eager to convince Amy that there was real merit in this book, as though it could be an important addition to the history of the Templars or something. Amy had doubts about that. She had once read The Da Vinci Code, and it had convinced her early on that the success of the book was due to the astonishing ability of the majority of the population to believe any twaddle that reinforced their own prejudices. The Templars had been just a band of soldiers, surely.
She returned to the first page and began to read.
There was quite a bit of introductory material, a list of Templar Masters in England, maps of Templar sites, and then a short history of the Knights Templar, which told her that they were a group of warrior monks who took the same vows as the Benedictines – in effect, warrior pilgrims. They were the real ‘Church Militant’, she thought with a grin.
‘In their huge circular churches, designed to emulate the great Temple of Solomon, after which their Order was named, the knights would kneel to take their vows. They would swear by the one true God to be faithful to Him, to remain chaste, to donate all their worldly wealth to the Order, and to be obedient to their Grand Master, and to him alone.’
Amy winced and turned more pages. The writing didn’t improve. There were more pages of introduction, then the next chapter told of the history of a place in Suffolk. It was Dunwich, not far from Crabwell where, she learned, the Templars had a large farm and storage warehouses. Amy shrugged. Dunwich, she read, ‘once was a large maritime port, into which flowed much commerce from Holland. But not only simple trade goods were brought into England from Holland. No, there were other items that were brought in, as well. Some sinister.’
It was enough to make a bar manager sigh, throw the book aside and pour another drink. She groaned, but forced herself to read on. Another page, then two or three were skimmed, until she paused, her brow drawing into a frown as she read:
And so the thief returned to his ancient haunts, determined to retain for himself those profits which should by rights have been returned to their rightful owners. But this man was no ‘perfect, gentle knight’ like Chaucer’s ideal. He was the Devil himself.
She smiled at the overblown language, and could not help reading the paragraph following.
When the townspeople heard of his dark deeds, they instantly called for his arrest. But Gilbert FitzSimon was no coward. He refused to bend the knee to a rabble of raucous peasants. ‘Away, churls!’ he roared in his clear, deep voice. ‘Think ye to challenge a noble knight?’
Amy frowned and turned back the pages until she came to the beginning of the passage, reading the whole section with more care.
There was one there who was so notable for the foulness of his acts, that even in the masses of the Templars, his name became synonymous with evil. Indeed, for centuries after his death and the end of his Order, his acts of blasphemy and heresy became part of folklore. The grizzly truth…
Amy sniggered at that: she wouldn’t want to use someone with Ianthe’s spelling skills as an editor.
… was that this foul mercenary was so steeped in crime that even a holy and honourable Order like the Templars could do little to mitigate them.
Gilbert FitzSimon became a Templar Knight for a short period in 1278.
Amy stopped reading as a new thought came to her. FitzSimon? Gilbert FitzSimon? And then Ianthe had spoken of ‘Sir Gilbert Fyzeman’, the Templar Treasurer, friend of Richard the Lionheart. Amy knew that consistent spelling didn’t feature much in the Middle Ages. Was it possible that Gilbert FitzSimon and Sir Gilbert Fyzeman were one and the same person? But a quick check with Wikipedia told her they couldn’t be. Richard I had died in 1199. There was no way that his friend could have become a Templar in 1278. The names were interesting, though. Was it possible that there was a family line from Sir Gilbert Fyzeman, through Sir Gilbert FitzSimon to Geoffrey Horatio Fitzsimmons…? Well, it was a thought.
She returned to her reading.
FitzSimon served under a contract of only five years, so that he could learn, it was said, how to honourably serve his lord and master. But his service was marked by his dishonourable acts. When at last he was sent to the Holy Land, he was said to have avoided battle when the opportunity presented itself, and was found guilty of raping the wife of a Christian merchant. In disgrace, he was sent back to England. However, the next part of his story shows how violent and dishonest this disreputable man truly was. On the ship home, he learned of a treasure chest. That treasure had been collected by the Templars and was being sent in order to help pay for more soldiers and weapons to protect the Holy Land.
Only a few short years later, the last Christian bastion and stronghold on the shores of the Holy Land was to fall, and her ramparts were thrown bodily down. Who can say, but that this disaster was not largely due to the terrible man who now disembarked upon English soil once more? His very feet polluted the ground he touched.
For Gilbert FitzSimon was the thief and robber who broke into the great hall of the Templars at Dunwich and stole their treasure, taking it for himself.
Amy shrugged. No, it was just a coincidence that the man had a surname so similar to that of the Admiral and to Richard I’s treasurer. ‘Fitz’ meant something, she was sure: that the man was ‘son of…’ or was it ‘bastard son of’ Simon…? She would have to look that up. She read on.
According to new documents discovered while researching this book, FitzSimon returned to his manor near Crabwell in Suffolk after his journeys. He had an argument with his father that was overheard by the servants and soon spread all around the village. He was heard to declare that he cared nothing for the Templars, nor even the good name of his family. When his father saw that he was unrepentant, he told his son to leave his house and never return. It is said that Gilbert FitzSimon immediately rode away into the night.
But he rode to a dark moorland. There, he prayed to a terrible figure, a representation of the Devil himself. He swore that he would give up his soul, for he had little use for it. In exchange, he demanded help to steal the Templar gold. That same night he met with certain outlaws, and with their help, he stormed into the Templar preceptory and took all the gold, slaying the Captain of the Templars and three knights. And he slew all but one of the outlaws who had been his accomplices in his dastardly deed.
Not that this atrocious act would serve to provide him with a happy or long life. When he is tempted, the Devil has a way of acquiring much more than his contracts state. Although Sir Gilbert took the Templar gold, he soon learned that there was nowhere he could go with it. With his dying breath, the Templar Captain at Dunwich had called a curse down upon him, saying that he would find no love,
no comfort, no peace, and no joy while he possessed the gold. And nor did he. Gilbert FitzSimon was destined to wander, forever seeking the peace his soul craved. It is said that even now he wanders the coast near to the Templar farm at Dunwich, seeking sympathy, or perhaps forgiveness. He buried the gold, and there it remains, somewhere, near to his old home at Crabwell. But woe betide the poor treasure-seeker or adventurer who finds it, for that gold is assuredly cursed. Any man who finds it will soon discover that the Templar’s curse is still in force.
Amy pulled a face. Curses, superstitions, all nonsense. Then the wind rattled the window and she almost dropped the book in alarm.
Gold, however… that could explain much. For all the nonsense that this story evidently was, if someone thought the Admiral had found a hoard of gold somewhere, that would be an incentive to kill. Greed was always a good motive, wasn’t it? And someone who was gullible might think that because the Admiral shared a similar surname, he might have some kind of clue as to where the gold was buried. There were idiots around who could believe that kind of thing. It wouldn’t matter that the silly old fool had made up a story to sell to a publisher.
If he had. Could there be something to the story?
She frowned again, then looked at the back of the proof to see if there was a bibliography or some other reference to the document on which it was based. After all, if Ianthe expected people to set any credence by what was written, there would have to be some kind of evidence to back up the tale. If there was a medieval manuscript, where was it?
All she could find was a footnote in an appendix.
The history of Gilbert FitzSimon has been extensively researched by the author. Although for many years the story of his theft has been held as a myth, certain documents have recently been discovered that shed a new light on the old legend of the Devil-worshipping renegade Templar. These documents have been stored securely against the day that the hoard is rediscovered and their veracity can be confirmed. The author expects to be able to surprise the world very soon with a valuable find of such significance that the world of medieval studies will be astonished.
The Sinking Admiral Page 15