by Devon De'Ath
Bill leaned over the desk to squint at the screen. “It might be a tag. It’s an odd shape. No symmetry to it. Not like a letter or number. The ends don’t join, either. What made Martha show you this?”
“The gentleman who reported it, claimed to have seen somebody dressed as a monk, slipping out of the ruin at night. He went to check after sunrise. Martha found it weird enough to mention. I’m glad she did.”
Bill nodded. “A robed figure prowling around at night runs close to the mark. Did you tell her what we saw at Hirsig House?”
“No.”
“You said Katie left home. Are you going to fill me in?”
Vicky closed her laptop screen. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Bill descended the stairs. “So that’s why we’re going to Dover then? I figured as much.”
“Martha said they’ve removed the graffiti. But I thought the place warranted further inspection. We might notice something others weren’t looking for.” She collected the cool bag from the kitchen, slipped on a jacket and handbag, then checked for her house keys.
Bill opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. “I’d say it’s a long shot, but we’ve nothing to lose. Can we swing by mine on the way?”
Vicky locked her front door. “Have you forgotten something?”
“Sort of. The insurance company came through on my camera claim. I bought a new SLR and telephoto lens yesterday. I’ve only unpacked and checked them so far, but it’s not in the boot. If we’re surveying that ruin, something better than mobile phone cams might be advisable.”
Vicky followed him down the garden path. “Okay. I sometimes forget you do this for a living.”
Bill smirked. “My jobs usually involve photographing married folk enjoying an extra-marital leg-over; not crossing swords with devil worshippers or whatever the fuck those goons are.” He keyed his plip and unlocked the car. Vicky slid into the front passenger seat, stowing both bags in her footwell.
Bill fired up the engine and made tracks for the seedier side of town.
“I won’t be a minute.” Bill pulled the handbrake up, then got out. The front door of his rented Victorian terrace lay four feet across a dirty, weed-encrusted pavement. An unkempt thoroughfare, way down Maidstone Borough Council’s priority upkeep list. Vicky watched him slip inside, waiting a full twenty seconds until curiosity got the better of her.
Bill returned from the kitchen clutching a Canon camera bag and lens pouch, as Vicky’s head jabbed into the living room from outside. Her eyes widened at the scruffy state of the home’s shabby interior.
“Jesus, Bill. Those burglars did a number on your house, didn’t they?”
Bill stared around the room, curious what she was referring to. “What are you talking about? I finished cleaning the joint before I messaged you last night.”
Vicky gawped. “Oh.” She withdrew her head, attempting to conceal any hint of judgement in her eyes. A crawling sensation on her lower arms suggested the need for a tetanus shot, even looking at Bill’s front room from the pavement.
Bill shut the door and deposited the camera and lens in the boot with his other standby equipment.
Minutes later they cruised along the M20, heading southeast towards Folkestone and round the coast to Dover. On the way, Vicky brought him up to speed on her visit to Martha Tomlinson, and DS Quarry’s speculative questions.
“Martha said the monument lies on the left beside a dead-end fork.” Vicky glanced back over her shoulder at the housing estate they’d passed on Citadel Road.
Bill hunched over his steering wheel. “I don’t see a church anywhere. Are you sure this is the place?”
“Only the flint foundations remain. There. What’s inside that ring of chestnut paling?”
“A pond? I imagine it’s there to stop kids falling in.” He slowed and signalled down the fork.
Vicky lowered the passenger window, then leaned out for a better look. “This is it. Find a place to pull over.”
Bill adopted a faux posh voice. “Yes Ma’am. Would Ma’am like me to serve the caviar at a specific temperature also?”
Vicky thumped his shoulder, then returned to studying the tiny church ruin. “I can see why they don’t have an office. The whole site is about the same size as my kitchen.”
Bill tucked the Skoda away against a grass verge on the no-through road.
Vicky climbed out, leaving her bags behind for now. An inviting information board drew her attention. It rested at a forty-five degree angle beside a compact iron gate in the chestnut paling fence. The panel featured several paragraphs of text and a plan view of the site beneath the title: ‘Welcome to Knights Templar Church.’ Bill joined her as she read aloud, for his benefit and her own:
“The remains of a small early 12th-century church built by the Knights Templar. The order of the Knights Templar was founded in Jerusalem in 1118 to protect pilgrims visiting the Holy Land after the First Crusade. The Order spread rapidly throughout Europe, with its work supported by the many estates donated by wealthy benefactors. In 1128 the order reached England, with this site becoming one of its earliest properties.
Templar churches usually have a circular nave, as here, imitating the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Indications are that this site was abandoned before 1185. The remains were rediscovered by military engineers fortifying Western Heights in the early 19th century.
FOR YOUR SAFETY.
As with most historic sites, there are possible hazards that you should watch out for. Visitors are asked to take special care and make sure that children are carefully supervised. In particular, watch out for uneven and slippery surfaces.”
Bill cleared his throat. “And murderous monks, spray-painting arcane symbols in the dead of night.” He read a warning beneath the site plan:
“Wilful damage to the monument is an offence.
Unauthorised use of metal detectors is prohibited.”
He sniffed. “I guess our robed friend didn’t get the memo about wilful damage. Like that crowd would care, anyway.”
Vicky lifted her eyes across the nave to the stubby chancel. She pointed at the far side. “That must be where they found the graffiti. The symbol was daubed on a straight section of wall in the picture, not a circular one.”
Bill surveyed the tiny monument. “That outline looks like a giant depiction of male genitalia.”
Vicky groaned. “Men. One-track mind, the lot of you.”
Bill ignored the slight. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those nutters from Otterden had a hand in it. Spray painting the foundations of an old church is a bit of a comedown from human sacrifice, though. If they wanted to make a statement, you’d think they’d pick a church that’s still in use. Are you sure we’re not barking up the wrong tree?”
Vicky opened the gate latch, then stepped down into the depression. “I’m not sure of anything right now. Are you?”
“Well I was until I took that job from Philip Stokes. Did I ever tell you his name?”
Vicky turned back. “No, but that’s who committed suicide. I checked with my colleague. Have you heard any more from the police?”
Bill shook his head. “Any day now, no doubt. I’ve kept his answerphone message, in case they want it for the inquest. I’d better fetch the camera and take a few shots of this place. We may need them later.”
“Splendid idea.”
“Shall I grab lunch? It seems like a quiet spot to collect our thoughts. As long as we don’t leave a mess behind.”
“Thanks.”
Bill returned with his camera and the cool bag, to find Vicky bent over examining the far chancel wall. He winked and licked his lips as she straightened and twisted. “You want to be careful doing that. Some helpless man might walk past and fall head over heels in love. Not to mention a cyclist rubber-necking, then suffering a head-on with a car.”
Vicky sneered and took the offered bag of refreshments. “Please don’t keep trying it on, Bill.”
Bill f
ramed a shot of the nave with his new camera, firing the electronic shutter with a beep and simulated mechanical whir. He stood clutching the SLR to his chest for a moment afterwards, face serious. “I’m not. I’m attempting to lighten the mood. Defusing a tense situation with humour. Do you remember what we saw? Okay, I know it’s not the first time for you.” He hesitated. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
Sun stabbed down through the leafy tree canopy, causing Vicky to shield her eyes. “It’s okay. How could I forget?” She sat down on the grass and unzipped the bag. Old wounds from the horrendous events of her childhood had reopened in the brief time since Martha Tomlinson asked her for help. She was eager not to drag it all up again today. “Do you like ham and cheese sandwiches? If not, I made egg and cress too.”
Bill took one of the foil wrapped parcels, then deposited himself on the surrounding grassy bank, camera resting alongside. “Thanks.”
Vicky unwrapped a parcel of her own. “So what’s your story with romance, anyway?”
Bill took a bite of his ham and cheese, speaking with a mouth half full. “Romance? What, me? Nah. A broken kid from a foster home who wound up on the streets? Not bloody likely.”
Vicky fished the thermos of tea and two cups from the bag. “You didn’t stay on the streets. What about afterwards?”
Bill’s chewing seemed to become exaggerated while he pondered her question. “My job isn’t conducive to homemaking. I’m also not in thrall to all the ‘stuff’ people are supposed to want. I figure those factors limit my options for an affective life. Since I don’t want to change, I’ll stay content and fly solo. No sense getting involved, then regretting it later. Why mess up my life and someone else’s?”
Vicky poured tea into a plastic cup and passed it across. “So I’m safe then?”
Bill grinned, raising the cup to her in a ‘cheers’ gesture. “Yeah. Not that I don’t appreciate a world class beauty when I see one.”
Vicky flushed. “Thank you.”
Bill flicked his head in the chancel wall's direction. “Did you find anything?”
“No. You were right, it was a long shot.”
Bill lifted another sarnie. “All the same, I’ll take a few more pictures. Who knows where this will lead?”
Vicky’s mobile phone rang. She lifted the screen. “It’s Martha. Could Katie have been home?” She connected the call. “Martha, hi. How are-” A burble of hurried speech cut her off. “What time? I see. Did they leave another mark? Oh. Okay, thanks for letting me know.” She hung up.
Bill raised one eyebrow, eliciting a hurried response from his companion.
“She said a night watchman at Temple Manor, disturbed someone dressed as a monk. Around midnight. The figure ran off, leaving no marks behind.”
Bill ploughed into his sandwich. “I’ll bet he was going to get artistic, before the guard interrupted him. Temple Manor? Sounds like another Templar place.”
“It is. Bigger than this. A solid structure with more to see.”
“If this nocturnal vandal has anything to do with the cult, why attack Templar ruins? I’m no historian, but weren’t they Christian knights?” He coughed in realisation. “Oh. I guess I answered my own question. If that lot are devil worshippers, it makes sense.”
Vicky sipped her tea. “Can it be that simple? There must be a deeper meaning.”
Bill got up. “If the monk - or whatever it was - got disturbed, I’d wager this won't satisfy them.”
“You think they’ll try again?”
Bill powered up the camera to record a few more location images. “Does Martha have enough clout to allow us in there at night?”
“She’s site manager. I don’t see why not. Are you hoping to catch them in the act?”
“We can handle one person, as long as they don’t bring the rest of their mob along for support. It’s doubtless some lonely, crackpot fruit loop. But we could rule this out of our research, if so.”
Vicky packed the bag and zipped it up. “When do you want to go?”
“I wouldn’t think they’ll hang about. Tonight. Unless you have other plans?”
Vicky pulled out her phone again. “I’ll call Martha.”
* * *
Vicky finished a light supper, then spent quality time napping on the sofa. Chuckles curled up beside her, purring with contentment. Bill had arranged to pick her up at 11:00 p.m. A certain girlish excitement tingled in her limbs. Something about going on the offensive with a stakeout, infused Vicky with fresh hope. She’d already laid out discreet but warm clothing, suitable for hours crouched in bushes surrounding a draughty, medieval structure. At ten-thirty, the alarm she’d set on her phone woke her from bizarre dreams. Illogical yet connected via surreal threads, her subconscious mind concocted imagery from all the input of recent events. Chuckles flicked his tail about in lazy arcs as Vicky clambered off the sofa and went upstairs to change. She tugged on a pair of thick, old jeans, followed by a tight-fitting pullover to complement several other layers of insulation. Emma Lambert always taught her you could remove layers to cool down if needed. Better to take too many than too few. She descended the stairs and retrieved the re-filled thermos from the kitchen. Chances were she and Bill would be glad of it before the night was over. Back in her front room, Vicky started to close the curtains. Something drew her attention across the quiet, suburban road. Standing beneath the street lamp, a girl with long hair dyed grey and purple, gazed at her with empty eyes set in a heart-shaped head.
“Is that Katie?” Vicky stood still, clutching a curtain in each hand. A white Ford Transit van spluttered along the road. Burning oil rose in billowing clouds from its rattling exhaust pipe. Once it passed and the white, vaporous emissions dissipated, the figure beneath the street lamp had vanished. Vicky tugged the curtains shut, then hurried to her front door. She unhooked a windproof parka from the coat rack and pulled on some sturdy shoes. Fresh headlights swept along the road, coming to a halt outside. She opened the door to find Bill waiting in his Skoda. Chuckles rubbed against her legs in the hallway. Vicky crouched to make a fuss of him. “You be good and guard the house, Mister. This time it’s me who’s going out at night.”
“I see you came prepared.” Bill tapped the thermos as Vicky slid onto the front passenger seat.
She tugged at the seatbelt. “It’s my contribution, since I don’t own any spy kit.”
Bill pulled away from the kerb. “I’m only bringing the camera and a torch. Nothing unusual or secret about them.” He smirked. “And that ejector seat you’re sitting in hasn’t fired since our separate escapes from Otterden. I need to re-load the Stinger missiles too.”
“Ha ha.” Vicky reached into her coat to pull out a set of keys. “I dropped by Martha’s this afternoon. She’s given their security guy at Temple Manor the night off.”
“She handed you the keys?”
“For the gate and the undercroft. When security disturbed that robed figure, it was attempting to force the undercroft door. Martha said there’s nothing in there except some vaulted architecture holding up the rest of the structure. The principal living area is accessed from an exterior staircase. It’s a ‘First-Floor Hall.’ Knights and other important visitors stayed upstairs.”
“So why attempt to break into what is effectively an above-ground cellar, if you can’t access the house from there?”
Vicky pressed her head back into the seat rest. “I’ve been pondering that all afternoon. What if they only wanted a quiet place to daub their emblem? Could there be more to this sinister vandalism than spraying paint?”
“You mean like a ritual element? That makes sense. Why try the door, though? They built them to withstand punishment in those days. Aren’t there any windows at that level?”
“Martha said they’re lancets. Like arrow slits that widen to square headers inside. Unless our artist can turn to vapour and squeeze through tight spaces, that wasn’t an option.”
“So it’s Rochester we’re off to?”
“
Strood. Other side of the Medway.”
“Right you are.” Bill turned off towards Burham. “I don’t remember any medieval manors at Strood.”
“It’s in the middle of an industrial estate, now. The railway line and Castle View Moorings lay behind it. There’s nowhere to park. We should find a quiet spot nearby, then walk the last stretch.”
Bill changed gears. “Even were that not the case, we don’t want to advertise our presence. Better to park out of sight, a short distance away. Was this place owned by some lord? What’s the story?”
“Martha gave me a little background. It was a subsidiary farm of a preceptory. That’s a monastery under the control of one of the militaristic holy orders.”
“In this case, the Templars.”
“Quite. The building has been added to over hundreds of years. Martha said it must have enjoyed an amazing view of Rochester Castle across the river, during its heyday. Now the railway embankment impedes any such spectacle. It’s Grade I listed.”
Bill crossed the River Medway at Peter’s Bridge, turning north towards Cuxton where the broadening, winding river once again drew closer to the road and railway line. “A Grade I listed medieval manor in the middle of a Medway industrial estate? Ouch, what a fate. I bet the original occupants would be glad they didn’t live forever, if they could see it now.”
Vicky looked out of her window.
A few minutes later they turned into the industrial estate.
Vicky leaned over the dashboard. “It’s on Knight Road. That way.”
Bill slowed their pace as a green wire fence came near on one side. Its short frontage hemmed in a site flanked on three others by thick, overhanging deciduous trees. Behind another bouffant tree in the middle of a lawn area, the roof line of an old building could be traced. It hung in a halo of light pollution illuminating the sky from Rochester, across the water.
Vicky pointed. “That’s it.”
Bill stole a backward glance across his shoulder, noting ugly but functional light engineering buildings laying siege to an almost forgotten piece of England’s history. “Wow. It really is in the middle of an industrial estate. Okay, we’ll find a quiet spot to deposit the car. Somewhere an over-zealous night watchman won't report it to the law. I’d rather not pay impound release fees, on top of everything else.”