The Furness Secret

by Mark Williams

  He was currently engaged in what he regarded as a battle for the very existence of the Roman Catholic Church as he knew it. And if that were not enough he had taken up the cause of freeing the Native Americans from slavery. He did not need the additional burden of resolving legends from the past.

  Whilst pondering the matter, he turned the fragile pages of an ancient leather book. Laid out in front of him on the table were a series of letters, each of which he had read in painstaking detail. Eventually Pope Paul seemed to have made up his mind.

  “We have great pressures on the Church at present. Ancient intrigues must wait. We will let this issue rest as it is. Let the new priest in the position know nothing of this matter. If God wills it, the secret will be revealed when it is time.”

  With that Paul III pushed the leather book and the file of correspondence concerning the Abbey across the desk to his adviser. It was taken from the papal office and stored deep within the Vatican archives.

  January 2nd 2011 – Dalton

  Miss Davenport was waiting for them again. This time there was no car park, and she was standing outside the square building, jangling a large bunch of keys in her hand. As she spotted Tom and Charles making their way slowly up the hill towards her, she allowed herself a little smile.

  “Here we are again. Let’s hope with a little more success.”

  Charles gave an embarrassed smirk.

  “Another long shot I’m afraid.”

  Tom’s leg was aching badly. The cold snap over the last few weeks was definitely affecting the injury. It was making him more than a little irritable. His despondent mood was compounded by his daughter’s desperate condition. He’d almost not joined Charles today. He was pretty sure this was another proverbial wild goose chase.

  There was a small stone staircase leading up the outside wall to an arched doorway. A sturdy wooden door barred the way, but Miss Davenport had the key and had them inside in a few seconds.

  “What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

  In actual fact, Charles didn’t know. The inside of the room had obviously been renovated many times since it had been built. So what exactly was he expecting?

  Feeling a complete idiot he resorted to walking round tapping the walls. Tom shook his head in disbelief. With what he hoped was a heavy sense of irony he joined in, limping round the room striking the foot of the wall with his walking stick.

  Charles was thinking these walls must have been examined a thousand times. But a dull thud from the far corner disturbed his thoughts. Maybe they hadn’t been tapped at just above floor level. He turned to Miss Davenport, and pointed to where Tom’s stick had made the strange noise.

  “I appreciate it will do the fabric of the building no good. But could we do a little investigation in that area?”

  The woman shook her head in resignation. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought.

  “You’ve one hour!”

  Charles turned and started to rush outside to his car. Behind him Miss Davenport’s voice could still be heard, floating over his shoulder.

  “And you’ll pay for it to be put back as you found it!”

  Well under an hour later, Charles removed his head from the gap he’d made in the wall. Miss Davenport and Tom looked at him in amazement. His face was ghostly, white as a sheet. He opened his mouth but the words were strangled.

  “It’s here. It’s really here!”

  Late Summer 70 A.D. – Jerusalem – The Tunnel

  The situation that Judas found himself in was desperate. A sense of foreboding pervaded the city. The population was in a melancholy stupor. From the tiny houses of the Old City, to the grandest rooms in the Temple, the lugubrious feeling was palpable. It was exacerbated by the pestilential stench that cloaked the streets.

  There had been no fresh food for weeks now. And limited supplies of water. Corpses of the poorest citizens littered the streets. Even the wealthy inhabitants of the Upper City and Temple wore pinched, drawn expressions. The preacher didn’t need much to sustain him, but at his age, the lack of food was a drain on his health. He felt that the end was near.

  The previous evening he had heard a tale from one of the pilgrims that convinced him this was the case. The story was of a woman called Mary from Bethezub, who had become besieged with the rest of them, together with her young son. She had come on pilgrimage, but was from a wealthy family.

  The Jerusalem guards, had sold food to her at extortionate prices, until all her riches had been exhausted. Driven by unaccustomed hunger, she had gone mad one day. Taking her infant son, who was still being breastfed, she killed him, sliced him up and roasted him on the fire. She ate half and covered the rest with a cloth.

  The guards, when they next came to visit her, smelt the cooked meat and demanded to know the source of the food. Once she took the cloth off, they guessed the true horror of her revolting secret, and recoiled from the house, gagging. The story was all round the city and was contributing to the pervading mood of desperation.

  On the Thursday morning Judas decided on one last attempt to talk to the scholars. With a great effort, he carefully picked up the small earthenware pot and made his way to the Temple Mount. Climbing the stairs once more, he was spotted by the priest to whom he had repeatedly appealed. The white-cloaked man let out a resigned sigh at his approach. The priest was about to launch into his usual rejection speech, when events took a different course.

  Over the wall, both men heard a loud whoosh, and turning, saw a host of what looked like flaming comets filling the sky. The missiles shot over the wall and landed in a scattered pattern, covering the courtyard. A cursory glance told Judas that they were arrows, attached to straw that had been set alight. There was an abundance of flammable material where they landed, and within seconds the whole place was ablaze. Screams pierced the air.

  “Fire! Fire! Quick run, save yourselves!”

  Everyone was racing to leave the Gentiles Court and head into the Inner Temple. The priest readied himself to run. But he caught sight of the face of Judas who had been trying for an audience for so long. The expression on his face was confusion rather than fear. He looked lost and alone. The priest shouted to him.

  “Old man, this is no place for you. Come, we must get out of here. Follow me directly!”

  He bustled away. The old preacher, with his pot still grasped leech like in his hands, duly stumbled after him. As they reached the gate out of the court, the two religious men could hear terrible screams filling the air behind them. They heralded the arrival of Titus’ well-trained legions, inside the Temple itself. Time was clearly of the essence. The two men hurried through the Court of the Women and the Court of the Men, and up the stairs into the Temple proper.

  The priest, with Judas still in tow, eventually reached the sanctum of the Inner Temple. The Jewish priests were standing, clustered around a trapdoor in the floor. A constant stream of people were throwing themselves through, desperate to find the safety of the tunnel system beneath.

  “Quick! To the tunnels!”

  The preacher thrust the old man towards the opening in the floor.

  “But….”

  This was no time for procrastination and a quick hard shove in his back, propelled the old man forward. He found himself carried along through the gap by the press of the despairing crowd. Stumbling down a set of steps that had been crudely fashioned into the rock, he emerged into a cramped low tunnel.

  The sloping space was crammed with people, all intent on getting down the narrow corridor and out into the comparative safety of the city streets. They were trying anything to get away from the brutal charge of the Roman attackers. Judas found that he was crushed into an alcove in the tunnel side.

  He was sweating heavily. His clothes were drenched and his eyes stinging and watering. But the vase was still firmly held. Bony fingers clasped shut around the sides. The crowd passing his alcove had become a stampede. He wasn’t sure he could even get out into the
stream of people. And he had a horrible sense, that if he did, his precious cargo would be smashed beneath the panicking feet.

  Resting his back on the cave wall in despair, he felt his head start to sink back. Turning, a noticeable dent could be seen in the clay behind him. Placing the vase on the floor, he used his fingers to claw at the dirt. Within minutes he had created a hole that was of sufficient size to take his pot.

  Picking it up, he placed the container gently in the recess and quickly covered it with the excavated dirt. He used the cloth of his sleeve to smooth over the hiding place. It was still fairly obvious, even to an untrained eye that something was buried in the wall. But it would have to do.

  Task completed, Judas stood up and shook himself down. He took a deep breath and plunged into the torrent of fleeing citizens. Almost immediately, he lost his footing and sank beneath the crowd. His body was crushed mercilessly beneath the feet of the thundering herd. As his life slipped away, his spirit returned to the light.

  January 15th 2011 – Back with the Consultant

  The doctor had been correct. The treatment had been far from nice. Eve had needed a combination of radiotherapy and weekly chemotherapy. She never seemed to be out of the Oncology unit at the local General Hospital. And now they were back in the consultant’s office. The little girl had been for another scan and the results were on the desk in front of them. One glance at the consultant told Chloe all she needed to know.

  “I’m sorry. There’s no real change. The treatment doesn’t seem to be making any difference.”

  “But there must be something. It’s on TV all the time. New treatments, drugs, something, anything……”

  Chloe’s voice trailed off despairingly. The consultant took off her glasses and placed them on top of Eve’s file. She rubbed her eyes and her temples, then sighed. She never got used to this part of the job. Her voice was quiet, not much above a whisper.

  “There really is no point going any further. Your little girl has suffered enough. Please, go home and take care of her while she’s with you. I’ll arrange for the nurses’ visits.”

  Chloe gasped. Her body slumped forward and her head disappeared into her hands. A disturbing keening rose from her throat and the young man closed his arms around her in a forlorn attempt at comfort.

  Somehow they managed to remove themselves from the office at the hospital. And Tom still had enough about him to call a taxi.

  Her dad could tell immediately from the young couple’s faces that the prognosis was not good. They slumped together on the sofa, pale complexions and blank eyes.

  Tom’s phone rang and he answered. Chloe couldn’t hear who was speaking on the other end and to be honest, just didn’t care. But Tom listened for a few minutes. Then he turned to Chloe and her dad.

  “Look, just give me a few minutes. It’s that old history dude on the phone. I just need to go and see him for a few minutes. I won’t even be an hour. Then we can have a talk about what we are going to do.”

  Chloe hardly registered what he’d said. She was staring at her baby daughter lying prostrate on the sofa. Eve’s breathing was weak just like the rest of her. Something stirred within the young woman and a feeling approaching rage started to course through her veins. There just had to be more treatment than was available at the arse end of nowhere, where they lived. Crossing to the kitchen table, Chloe opened up the laptop.

  January 15th 2011 – Back at Charles’s House

  The last two weeks had been like a whirlwind for Charles and Miss Davenport. They’d contacted the British Museum and a full team of archaeologists had been dispatched from London. Careful excavation work had begun immediately.

  The delicate process had started of pulling objects from the cavity beneath the walls and cataloguing them. It was already clear though, that this was a find of monumental importance. Never mind decades, this was the most important find for centuries.

  A few years ago, in his spare time, Charles had done a little searching for treasure, using a metal detector. And given his personality, he had researched the law in this area, in case of any find. He knew that prior to a new law passed in 1996, that their find would have been classified as treasure trove. Because it had been buried with the intention of later retrieval.

  But now, any find, no matter how it was lost or buried, became the crown’s property. However, once the artefacts had been sent to a museum, a reward would be due to the finder. In this case it had to be huge. Charles was extremely pleased for the young soldier, for he viewed the find as Tom’s, even though he himself had done a lot of the investigation.

  The previous week Charles had written to the coroner, confirming the find and giving Tom’s name. Giving the nature of the discovery, he was expecting some sort of reaction. But he had been surprised to find the British Museum and the Ministry for Culture straight on the phone. He had even received a congratulatory letter from the Minister herself. Offering any assistance that may be required to get through the administrative process.

  He was anxious now to convey the good news to Tom. He just hoped he could find the right words of explanation. Aware that sometimes he could be a trifle long winded and rambling. He reached for the phone and got straight through. Tom seemed distracted but agreed to come and see him briefly. He was there within thirty minutes.

  “Come in, come in.”

  The little historian bustled Tom through the door and ushered him into the front room. He was beaming, a smile etched across his face. There was a lot of official looking correspondence spread over the table. Charles gathered it all together, sat down and turned to Tom with a more serious expression.

  “Now, where to begin.”

  Tom was still full of anxiety from the meeting with the consultant and just wanted him to get on with it. His impatience showed in his tone.

  “Well….”

  “Yes of course. You want to find out what’s happening. Right. Well, as you know, I wrote immediately after our discovery to the coroner.”

  The historian was in his element and launched into a long explanation of what had gone on in the last two weeks. Tom’s mind was constantly wandering and he only caught a few words. Treasure Act 1996, treasure trove, property of the crown, unfortunate. Tom forced his mind to snap back to the issue.

  “So you’re saying if we’d found this lot twenty years ago it would be ours? But now it belongs to the crown. That’s what the coroner said right? So there’s no money coming our way?”

  Tom couldn’t say he was surprised. He wasn’t expecting anything much. People like him never won the lottery.

  “No, No. Not at all. There’s a reward for any treasure taken into a museum, which this will be. We’ve only taken out a small part of what’s there. And we’re already talking millions. Not that you’ll necessarily get as much as that. Especially not straightaway. We’ll need to get you someone to represent you. To negotiate on your behalf. Of course it will probably take years to resolve.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  He had other things to worry about. Leaving Charles’s house he walked down to the bus stop on the corner. But he needed to clear his head, so he decided to go into the town centre to Chloe’s on foot.

  When he knocked on the door, her dad opened it quickly.

  “Come on in son. I’m glad to see you. Chloe’s in a right state. She’s not well. Neither of them are.”

  Tom entered with a heavy heart. Eve was lying flat on the sofa. She had lost an enormous amount of weight. Her curly hair had gone. Eyes were sunk deep into black-rimmed sockets. She was dying.

  Chloe was sat next to her, typing furiously into the laptop. She looked up as he walked in, masked in desperation.

  “I’ve found something that may be a help. Look!”

  The laptop was thrust at him. Her dad spoke to her in a quiet soothing tone, trying to calm her down.

  “I’ve told you love. There’
s no way we can get that treatment for her. You’ve seen how much that family spent, and there’s probably all sorts of hoops to jump through. Where are we going to get that sort of money, in a few days? It’s just not feasible.”

  “We can contact the paper. Fund raise. Write to the MP….”

  Her voice trailed off. In her heart she knew as well as her father that it wasn’t possible. But she had to cling to anything that would give her some hope. Looking up, Chloe wondered where Tom had gone. She needed to talk to him, and share the thoughts that were threatening to overwhelm her.

  He had gone into the kitchen and closed the door for a little privacy. Tom found a crazy thought was scratching away in his mind. The phrase clutching at straws came to mind. But nevertheless he was going to try. His phone was taken out and Charles located in the contact book.

  Tom had parcelled off his time with the historian into a separate place in his life. It had to an extent, taken his mind off his stricken daughter. But now was the time to try any avenue. He explained to the older man all that had happened to his little girl over the last three months. And what Chloe was after. Charles listened intently. He was shocked by what the young soldier had been going through. And he hadn’t even breathed a word of it.

  Tom talked non-stop for ten minutes, unburdening himself. Eventually he stopped. Charles had tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he realised the seriousness of the young girl’s condition. The phone went silent for a few seconds. Then came the sound of the older man’s voice.

  “I’m so sorry lad. Leave it with me.”

  Tom returned to the front room. Chloe was sobbing quietly at one end of the sofa. She had her daughter’s head cradled gently in her lap. Tom sat on the edge, beside her, and placed his arm round her shoulder. Her dad was slumped in a chair in the corner. And there they stayed. Each wrapped in their own cloak of despair.