They continued in silence across the open land, prepared at any moment to dive for the nearest cover or fall flat on their bellies at the first sign of security personnel or vehicles. Twenty minutes later, their progress still unimpeded, it seemed that they would reach the temple unnoticed. Kingston was now trying to envisage what to expect: the stone being raised, no doubt revealing steps descending into some kind of underground chamber. A phantom shiver ran through him. It dredged up long-forgotten memories of Wickersham Priory, in Somerset, and a case he’d helped solve several years ago. That investigation had culminated in a deadly face-off in the catacombs beneath the ruins of a medieval priory in which he and Jamie Gibson, heiress of the estate, had come close to being buried alive. It was one of the most frightening experiences in his life, and he found himself praying that nothing like that would happen in the events about to unfold.
They reached the terraced steps of the Athenian Temple and stood for a moment next to its stone-columned façade, waiting and watching silently for anything that appeared out of place. They then made a visual search of the structure for signs of surveillance or security devices. Finding none, they ascended the steps and walked onto the platform, paved in stone slabs three feet square. Kingston estimated the space to be at least thirty feet wide and twenty deep. At the top of the columns above the square stone abacus, a bas-relief frieze circled the four walls above the architraves that supported the ceiling and roof. Already Kingston could see a problem. If, as the decoded message instructed, the mechanism to raise the floor stone were concealed in the frieze, it would be beyond their reach. It was well over twelve feet above the platform, he estimated. While pondering the dilemma, he took out the tape measure and, with Andrew holding one end, laid it out diagonally across the floor, first in one direction and then the opposite, to establish the center point. He marked the center stone with a small chalk cross. He then pulled out a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his parka. Using his flashlight, carefully shielded by Andrew’s parka, he unfolded it and read the last four lines of the decoded message sotto voce:
“Five north of centre oer column tall
The epilogue is writ upon the wall
Auriga awaits a judgment day
His four spoked wheel points the way”
Kingston checked the compass on his old Swiss Army watch and studied the fluorescent arrow to establish north. Handing the message to Andrew, he counted off the stones as instructed, marking the fifth with another faint chalk cross. The stone was next to one of the rear columns: The instructions seemed accurate. He then looked up at the elaborate frieze and studied the relief scene depicting horsemen preparing for a chariot race. With the flashlight shielded by one hand to dim its light, he scanned the elaborately sculpted images of horses being coaxed into position; young warriors, some wearing body armor, others with crested helmets; ranks of horses, four and five deep, side by side in festive procession. Directly in line with the column’s horizontal center point, his eyes alighted on a chariot manned by a warrior. “Auriga,” he muttered. Fortunately, the four-spoke wheel, approximately a foot in diameter, was low on the frieze, where he could see it more clearly. With a glimmer of light steadied on it, he studied the pictorial details. Though not knowing quite what to expect or search for, he was discouraged to see that it appeared no different from the rest of the frieze’s design. If it was the essential part of the mechanism that raised the stone, revealing whatever was below, it was certainly ingeniously disguised, he thought.
“Do you think that’s it?” Andrew asked.
“It must be. The chariot’s lined up perfectly with the column.”
“How do you propose to reach it?” Andrew asked. “Even if I stand on your shoulders, it looks like we’ll come up short. We should have anticipated this.”
“Sure. We should’ve lugged an eight-foot ladder with us. That would’ve raised an eyebrow or two if we’d been caught, eh?”
Kingston turned off the flashlight and looked around the temple as if hoping for divine intervention, realizing that this setback would be difficult, if not impossible, to resolve. They were in the middle of nowhere, as it were, and the chances of finding something nearby that would help them reach the frieze were next to zero.
“We could always come back,” said Andrew, breaking the long silence.
“No,” said Kingston, tugging on his earlobe. “There has to be an answer.”
“We could bring in a cow to stand on. That might do it.”
“Very funny.”
“Sorry.”
Kingston raised a pointed finger. “Wait a moment. You may be on to something.”
Andrew simply frowned, obviously deciding to remain silent after the last rebuke.
“The last herd of cattle we passed, the ones lying under the trees. If I’m not mistaken, there was an old trough alongside the fence.”
Andrew nodded. “There was.”
“About six feet long, as I recall.”
“Longer, maybe.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Fifteen minutes later, muscles and backs aching, they were back at the temple carrying a mud-spattered galvanized trough, square on both ends and about six feet long. It weighed a ton, but they’d managed by lugging it short distances at a time.
Kingston thought it best not to mention it to Andrew, but he was starting to wonder why everything so far had happened so easily, without even the slightest indication that they might have been spotted or were being tracked. Dragging a cattle trough a couple of hundred yards across open land had been a huge risk, even in the dark—close to comedic, when he thought about it. Maybe he’d misjudged the sophistication of Sturminster’s security systems. Too late to worry about that now, he knew. They had to keep going.
They stood the trough on end and pushed it up against the column directly below the frieze where the chariot wheel was located. Taller by at least five inches, Kingston insisted that he should climb up and activate the mechanism, if indeed it still functioned after two hundred–plus years—another possible setback he hadn’t considered until now.
Andrew wiped the algae and mud off his hands on his trouser legs and positioned himself, feet spread, back pressed against the trough, hands clasped in front of him to form a step on which to raise Kingston as high as possible. Neither had tried anything like it before, though they seemed to know instinctively how it was done. The only concern now was Kingston’s weight and whether Andrew, who was on the slight side, had the strength to lift him high enough to enable him to clamber onto the top of the trough.
The first attempt failed because Andrew’s hands were clasped the wrong way. Kingston had trouble gripping the trough’s slippery surface, fell and stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. On the second attempt, with a grunting and puffing Andrew supporting him, Kingston finally managed to get sufficient traction on the slick surface of the metal to haul his body to the top of the trough, where he stood upright. With one arm partly circling the column to maintain his balance, he reached up to the frieze. Andrew watched from below, fingers crossed, making sure that the trough was stable.
“Here goes,” said Kingston. He placed his right hand, fingers spread wide, on the chariot wheel and pushed.
THIRTY-TWO
Kingston waited for half a minute. Nothing happened. All was silent save for the occasional rustle of leaves from the beech trees whose lower branches brushed against the temple roof.
“Any joy up there?” Andrew asked in a stage whisper.
“No. When I press the wheel, nothing happens.”
“Press harder.”
“I have.”
“It’s probably stuck after all these years. Try thumping it with the heel of your hand.”
After several vigorous thumps, Kingston gave up. “Still nothing. Any other bright ideas?”
“Let me think.”
A half minute of silence passed before Kingston spoke again. “Maybe you should come up and try—I doubt you’ll be able
to reach it, though.”
“Try one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a wheel, right?”
“Of course it’s a wheel.”
“Then try turning it.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
Kingston placed his spread fingers against the wheel of the chariot, on the four spokes evenly spaced around the hub, applied pressure, and turned counterclockwise. To his astonishment and relief, the wheel moved. He heard a series of muffled clicks from somewhere inside the wall. More sounds followed—grindings, scrapings, and knockings, as if some gigantic primitive clock mechanism had been activated. He looked down, eyes fixed on one of the stones below, about ten feet away. The thin ribbon of mortar around its edges was starting to crumble as it inched slowly upward. It continued to rise, as if lifted by an invisible hand, leaving a thin layer of powdery dust on the surface of the surrounding stones. Kingston half slithered and half jumped off the trough, and landed near Andrew, who appeared mesmerized by what was happening.
They looked at each other briefly, nothing more. Words seemed superfluous as they waited for the mechanism to complete its job. A minute later all movement and noise stopped, and the temple fell silent again. They moved closer to examine the result. The thick slab of stone now appeared suspended in air, its base three inches above the surface of the floor. A foul, musty odor wafted from the hole, making them cover their mouths and noses. On closer inspection they could see that the stone was supported in one corner by a thick metal rod.
“It must pivot on the rod,” said Kingston, grasping the stone in his large hands.
“Ingenious,” Andrew said admiringly.
Kingston pulled on the stone and it swiveled effortlessly, perfectly balanced on the rod. He brought it to rest clear of its original position. They moved in closer and saw a primitive wooden ladder attached to the wall of the three-foot-square opening—beyond that, pitch-black. Kneeling, Andrew turned on his Maglite and pointed it into the hole. All they could see below was a dirt floor. They looked at each other momentarily, as if to say You go first, then, without a word, Kingston bent down, gripped the rails, stepped gingerly onto the second rung of the ladder, testing its sturdiness, and glanced at Andrew before descending. “Here goes,” he said. His foot was on the next rung, supporting most of his weight, when suddenly it slipped. Immediately he knew why, cursing his stupidity. Mud from the cow pasture had wedged between the heel and sole of his shoes. He should have scraped it off. Gripping the rails with all his might, he dangled, his other foot searching for the rung. He managed to get a toe on it and found his footing.
“For Christ’s sake, be careful,” Andrew said, keeping his voice down.
Kingston glanced up at Andrew. “I’m okay.”
The words had barely left his mouth when an ominous crack and sound of wood splintering echoed in the space below. Andrew watched, helpless, as Kingston fell backward into the dark of the hole.
Andrew was already climbing down the ladder. “Are you all right? I’m coming down there,” he said.
“A bit shaken up. My ankle doesn’t feel good, though.”
Using the edge of the rungs, close to the rails, Andrew made his way carefully down and turned on his flashlight. Kingston was lying on his side by the wall, a few feet away, gripping his ankle.
“Bugger!” he said, looking up at Andrew.
Andrew knelt beside him, knowing there was little he could do other than to help alleviate the pain and make Kingston as comfortable as possible while he went to get help. “All we can do right now is to try and stabilize it and help reduce the swelling,” he said. “And don’t try to take you shoe off. That’ll make it worse.” He unzipped his parka, took off his scarf, and wrapped it tightly around Kingston’s ankle, cinching it as best he could. “That should help a bit,” he said, standing. “Just stay put, and don’t try to stand or move around. We’ll get you in a more comfortable position, then I’m going to the house to get help.”
Kingston nodded, knowing that Andrew was right. The pain was starting to set in, and he guessed that his ankle was badly sprained or even fractured. With Kingston propped against the wall with Andrew’s jacket as a pillow, Andrew ascended the ladder, leaving Kingston alone.
“Hang in there, and whatever you do, don’t try anything dumb,” he said at the top. “The cavalry’s on its way.”
For a minute or so, not wanting to use up the flashlight batteries, Kingston sat in the semidarkness of the hole, only meager starlight coming from the opening above. He now wished that it were a moonlit night. He flicked on the flashlight and shone it around. He was in a rectangular room, roughly twelve by fifteen feet, with old brick walls and a crudely plastered ceiling. Despite his pain, a hollow sensation was welling in his gut, a surge of mounting disappointment. The room was empty.
He turned the flashlight off. It doesn’t make sense, he thought. Why go to all the ridiculous trouble of keeping it such a guarded secret—the elaborate mechanism, those complicated codes? It must have been built to conceal something. It was like Howard Carter finding an empty pyramid. The obvious explanation was that it had once held a cache of some kind that had been emptied long ago. After all, the temple was built in the mid 1700s. The more he thought about it, though, the more convinced he was that he and Andrew were the first to discover the vault since it had been built. He remembered when they’d watched, spellbound, as the stone had risen, disturbing the dust of centuries, the fetid stench that had filled the air. Until proved otherwise, he would cling to that opinion.
For no reason, he shone the flashlight hastily over the space once more. He thought he saw a movement in the opening above. He fixed the light on it and left it there for a moment. He must have been wrong, he concluded, turning off the Maglite, returning to his thoughts.
He was trying to calculate how long it would take Andrew to reach the house and return with help. He would likely be intercepted by security when he got close to the house. That would speed things up, thought Kingston. He started to wonder how long it had been since Andrew had left. He mouthed the thought to himself. “Must be at least—”
His words were suspended in air. The muffled thud of a silencer was unmistakable. The bullet struck Kingston in his upper chest, slamming him hard against the wall. The flashlight rolled away out of reach. In seconds another shot followed. It passed over Kingston’s head and thudded into the soft brick wall above him.
Lying on his side on the dirt, he placed a grimy hand inside his parka against his right chest just below the shoulder. It was wet with blood. Trembling with the shock and excruciating pain, the realization that someone was trying to kill or maim him brought on a wave of nausea. He tried to turn, to look up to see who was there or what might happen next, but he couldn’t. He stared up at the wall waiting, in dread. Then he saw it. One of the bricks a few feet above him was fractured and part of the surface shattered by the impact of the second bullet. He caught a tiny glint of steel, guessing it was the edge of the bullet that was still embedded in the soft mortar. Underneath the muddy ocher of the bricks, he saw yet a different color.
Gold.
THIRTY-THREE
Kingston huddled in the corner of the dark room, his hands pressed hard against his chest. Despite the gnawing pain, he couldn’t block the chilling thought of what must surely follow. He had no idea of time—were minutes passing, or seconds? He thought he heard voices in the eerie silence but couldn’t be sure. He wanted to look up but couldn’t move and could barely open his eyes or focus them. His mind loosed its moorings, castigating itself as though already detached, summing up a life that was about to end.
What a fool you’ve been, Lawrence Alastair Kingston—stubborn, conceited, and, yes, even reckless. You wouldn’t listen to Amanda’s and Andrew’s warnings, would you? And now look where it’s got you. I only hope Andrew hasn’t been shot too. I’d have never forgiven you for that. I know what you’re thinking, though: So far, you’re the onl
y one who’s suffered but you’ve achieved your goal, solving the mystery of Sturminster—or, at least, believe you have. But was it worth it? I can only hope so, because it looks like—
He jolted himself from his delirium, wondering how much blood he was losing. Feeling more and more light-headed, he guessed it must be plenty. All he could do now was keep pressure on the wound and pray. He was past wondering who had shot him and why he hadn’t finished the job. The next shot—if it came—would certainly be lethal.
Merciful even.
He stared up at the opening—a black square specked with stars—determined to keep his heavy-lidded eyes open and not drift away again.
More time passed. How much, he had no idea.
Voices.
Were they real?
Yes. No, wait—
He must be imagining them.
He looked through filmy eyes at the opening again. Someone was descending the ladder; others followed, carrying a stretcher.
A face loomed close to his. It was Andrew, he was certain. “Hang on, Lawrence. We’re getting you out of here,” he said in Kingston’s ear.
Kingston reached out to Andrew; he had to tell him, before the others discovered it. He found Andrew’s arm and held it for a moment, gaining strength from the simple act. The other men, three or four of them, gathered nearby, talking quietly among themselves, a stretcher off to one side. One of the men approached and kneeled beside him. It took him a moment to realize that it was Simon Crawford, Sturminster’s dapper manager. It was the casual clothes, he realized. Over a black turtleneck, his Barbour jacket had seen better days. “We’re getting you to a hospital,” he said. “Your friend’ll be with you. You’re going to be fine.”
With Andrew at his side, he was lifted onto the stretcher, a blanket laid over him, then strapped down. Crawford went up the ladder first, then called down orders. As Kingston was lifted, he tugged on Andrew’s arm, dragging him alongside the stretcher. “It’s all right, Lawrence,” Andrew comforted. “It won’t be long now.”
EG05 - Garden of Secrets Past Page 26