The Larmenius Inheritance Page 2

  Matt gazed at the room. Suddenly it was unrecognisable, as though he was seeing it for the first time. The walls, the fridge, the oven, the bin…all of it meaningless.

  He walked toward the sink and splashed water on his face. Almost immediately he heaved and vomited. The sensation hit him quickly. The recurring sickness that engulfed his throat and stomach remained, only now multiplied several times by the news he had received seconds earlier.

  He splashed his face again with cold water, repeating the process three more times.

  Surely this could not be happening.

  Suddenly he stopped. Dazed, he looked to his left, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the kitchen. The sound of loud footfalls was coming from outside the room, accompanied by the noise of bad singing. The sound stopped just outside the door, and a figure appeared before him. The man was white, with dark hair, and possessed a similar swagger to himself: a well-maintained idiot who had tried and failed to stick to the military. Like Matt, he had strong cheekbones, partially coated by thin designer facial hair, blue eyes that were full of life and energy, despite clearly nursing a throbbing hangover. The man was stripped to his underwear and revealed a well-toned body, one Matt had seen hundreds of times before.

  ‘What up, porn star?’ the man said, smiling despite the headache. He turned his attention to Matt’s right eye. His grin widened. ‘What the hell happened to you last night, cousin?’

  Matt looked back, but his stare was distant. He sought to respond but failed. He retrieved the nearby tea towel from the sideboard and rubbed it against his face.

  His cousin held his smile, but after several seconds his joy faded. It was evident from Matt’s expression that all was not well.

  He walked closer. ‘What is it?’

  Matt looked at him but again without reply. A tear fell from his eye.

  This was real.

  ‘Matthew?’

  Matt’s lip wobbled, his eyes reddening. ‘My dad died.’

  2

  Two hours later the mid-sized Peugeot pulled up outside the gates of an isolated country house. The location was gloomy. Up above, the afternoon sun was partially hidden by cloud, obscuring the blue sky.

  Matthew Anson looked without watching as his cousin waited for the large electronic gates to open before driving slowly up the long driveway in the direction of the garage. Like the road, either side was dense in vegetation, effectively shielding much of the house from outsiders. To Matt, the location seemed somehow different to the last time he had seen it. The greenery was much thicker than he remembered, as if it had been neglected. He remembered from his youth how the area was so well looked after.

  Much had changed in eight years.

  His cousin followed the driveway to the left, the sound of tyres becoming louder as the ground changed from mud to gravel. About halfway along, the house came into view. Its design was grand: mid eighteenth century, classical Georgian, something in between a rectory and a manor.

  The house was reputedly one of the finest in Scotland: three storeys, Palladian design, grey stone, supposedly based on a design by the Adams brothers, and set among 200 acres of beautifully designed landscape garden, park, and woodland with over one and a half miles of fishing on the River Doon that ran throughout. A large coat of arms hung across the upper storey while several small crosses at every corner of the roof illustrated the house’s history of ownership by a family of Catholic allegiance.

  Matt got out of the car and walked up the stone steps toward the front door. The sound of the bell rang in his ears, a familiar noise that he never particularly liked. After so many years away, he no longer possessed his own door key.

  He heard the sound of footsteps from within followed by that of a heavy doorknob turning. The door opened with a distinguished creak fitting for a door, and house, of history. In the circumstances he found the sound strangely reassuring.

  A woman appeared: blonde, mid-fifties, her expression unmistakeably forlorn.

  ‘Oh, Matt,’ she said, hugging her nephew.

  His cousin approached the doorway tentatively, unwilling to intrude on the moment. He forced a smile at his mother. Patches of red masked her blue eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Scott,’ she said, her arms out wide.

  Matt entered the house slowly. So many years had passed, yet everything was as he remembered. The creaking of the floorboards, the ticking of the antique grandfather clock, the whiteness of the walls – the familiar surroundings helped create the illusion that nothing had changed. The high oak doors, the sloping floor, the presence of unused fireplaces gave the rooms a feeling of timelessness. In his youth the feeling had bothered him, the original features giving him the constant impression that the past occupants of the house were never far away and that their spirits could manifest themselves at any time.

  Even now the feeling continued to eat away at him.

  He entered the living room, taking off his shoes at the door. He allowed his eyes to wander, reacquainting himself with the room. A photograph of his grandparents on their wedding day hung from the wall in front of him as it had in his youth. There were at least twenty photographs on the walls, mostly of family, and two large paintings belonging to his father’s ancestors in bygone years. A relatively modern HD television was located against the far wall, and the furniture, all new, was set around it. He liked the way the room seemed lighter than it had years earlier.

  His focus returned to the photographs. One in particular caught his eye: it was a family shot, taken about twelve years ago. He was on the far side, aged about thirteen. He was much skinnier then. His brother and father were also present, beaming smiles lining their faces. There was another photo of his brother nearby, dressed in the uniform of the Royal Navy. Two gold stripes marked his uniform, the top with a loop, denoting the rank of lieutenant, while four medals were pinned across the left side of his chest. His expression was hard and neutral.

  Matt looked at his aunt, now standing beside him. ‘I can’t believe it’s been so long.’

  Catherine Anson forced a smile and put her hand to his shoulder. Matt looked briefly at his father’s sister before walking back toward where he had come from. He headed slowly along the main corridor that ran throughout the house, his eyes taking in the ancient furniture and original architecture. Like the living room, two large portraits were mounted on the left wall, both depicting a somewhat romanticised image of his ancestors during the time of the first Jacobite Rebellion.

  There he stopped, his eyes on the portraits. Eighteen generations of the Anson family were known to have come before him, each leaving their mark on the world for better or worse. Allegedly the Anson name was not without significance in the history of Scotland. He was still to investigate the facts. Silently, the thought of being part of a family of historical importance made him laugh. Maybe in future years he would give the matter more thought. Until now his only concern had been the present, the pitfalls of youth, his father once warned him. His father was never shy to give him advice. Maybe one day he would have a son and the family name would continue.

  He walked along the corridor and started up the stairs. On reaching the top, he stopped. At this point the house was divided by one long corridor leading either to the left or right. Choosing the right, he passed several closed doors, heading toward the north side of the house, the only part that had survived unchanged since the house’s completion. The doors were tall and heavy, each one dating back at least two centuries and prone to a loud prolonged creaking sound on opening. He navigated the corridor slowly, careful to tread lightly. Sixteen years of living in the house had taught him that the sound of footsteps above seemed to magnify when heard from below.

  Matt stopped in front of the penultimate door on the left and opened it slowly. The door creaked but less so than most of the others. The room was elegantly furnished, mostly in the olden style but not without modern ornamentation. An iMac computer stood in the centre of the antique desk. Three shelves of books lined two walls,
each filled with various books and manuscripts, some of which dated back centuries. The books were similar in colour, dark green, bound in the library style and reminiscent in smell of a library.

  All of this had belonged to his father, each book an aid to his life as an academic.

  He sat down on the leather chair behind the desk and looked around his father’s study. The desk was tidy, as usual. A filing pad was closed on the right side, its black cover initialled with gold lettering WMLA, meaning William Matthew Liam Anson.

  The room was as he remembered, the new computer the only exception. Like most of the downstairs, several large paintings hung from the wall, including yet another ancestor from the 18th century. This man’s story he did know. Admiral George Anson: the original owner of the house – the most famous of the Ansons. Like him, the man had been a sailor, though, unlike Matt, this man had been a success.

  He turned away from the painting and searched the desk. The red light located at the base of the telephone stand indicated there were three new voicemail messages. Unlike the other phones in the house, he knew this one served an alternative purpose. Many people employed in high-stress jobs take the luxury of a second phone line – one strictly for business – but in William Anson’s case Matt knew his business was different to most. For over twenty years the man had served as grandmaster of the bizarrely named Knights of Arcadia, a peculiar Masonic like society who kept themselves to themselves. Supposedly that was another family tradition. According to the conspiracy theorists, their members included some of the most authoritative and high-powered in the world: former presidents, CEOs of oil companies, royalty…

  The thought made Matt smile. If that were true, why was his dad grandmaster?

  He navigated the options on the base unit and listened to the first two messages. The voices were male, he guessed mid-fifties, and on closer examination the calls had been made early the previous evening. Considering them nothing of importance, he listened to the third.

  ‘William,’ the voice began. ‘William, it’s Luke…William, please, for the love of God pick up. William…there is no more time. You have to get out of the country. William. Apollo has returned to Arcadia!’

  Matt sat in silence, frozen to the spot. For several seconds he pondered the man’s voice, his last words replaying in his head. He recognised the voice. The caller identified himself as Luke. It belonged to a man named Luke Bowden, a professor of history at the University of St. Andrews – and a colleague of his father. He remembered the man well, it was impossible not to.

  Not only was the man his father’s closest friend, he was also Matt’s godfather.

  He edged closer to the phone. The red light continued to flash, the number 1 shining on the display representing the message he had just listened to. He pressed the play button for a second time.

  It started again, the same voice, at first slow, then noticeably panicked. The man seemed to become progressively louder before ending with abrupt silence. Yet again the final words troubled him, words that were spoken with urgency, words that he had heard before.

  “Apollo has returned to Arcadia!”

  Outside the room he heard other noises, footsteps followed by vague talking. His aunt appeared at the doorway, Scott close behind. She flashed a smile at him. Matt forced a smile back, only his was different, his mind unwilling to linger on the voice message.

  ‘I’m going to make Scott a sandwich. Would you like one?’

  Matt looked at her, his concentration strained. He shook his head and mumbled the word ‘no,’ his tone unconvincing. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Let me know when you are.’

  She forced another smile, and he forced one back. He watched her leave the room. Away from the footsteps, he could hear that she was crying.

  Matt eyed the phone once again, his memory replaying the message he had heard twice before. He navigated the options section and saved the message to memory, deleting it from the display. The flashing light had disappeared, replaced instead by a blank display.

  Matt picked up his dad’s pen and removed the lid. The pen was familiar, a fountain pen, black cased and, like the pad, also initialled. He remembered it well – he had bought it himself, a present for his dad’s fiftieth. He held it for several seconds before replacing the lid.

  Then for the first time since his childhood, Matt Anson cried.

  Tyre, Lebanon

  It was approaching ten minutes to three when the man named Wilfred Mansell sat down in a chair on the balcony of his luxury apartment, a warm cup of coffee in his hand and a copy of three separate newspapers on the nearby table. The chair felt uncomfortable at first; he was used to luxury, but he was pleasantly relaxed and in no mood to worry. The sky was cloudless, and the sun glistened beautifully off the clear blue sea that surrounded the harbour. For late May the sun was no surprise, and countless boats were taking advantage of the great weather.

  He sipped from his hot drink and began to scan the papers. For the second day in a row, the news was dominated by the story of a recent murder in New York. He remembered the press reaction after 9/11, and this wasn’t far different: another attack on the US. Bastards! The usual suspects were blamed, the real culprits missed; he was pleased to see the press were performing to their usual standard.

  Page eleven was interesting. Another murder, another time, another place. William Anson, famed academic, found dead two days ago in La Rochelle, in France. This was big news, but it hardly got a mention. Just a half-page spread. No one seemed to have identified a connection.

  He removed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He exhaled immediately and gazed at the accompanying photograph of Anson in the company of his two sons. The photograph was old, at least a decade out of date. He gazed intently at the second son and grinned smugly.

  What needed to be done had been done.

  La Rochelle

  The suited gentleman led the way along a wide corridor. Although it was only 7pm, the location was already deserted and would remain so for the remainder of the evening.

  Following just behind, a smartly dressed woman with long, blonde hair walked quickly, keeping pace. The sound of her heels reverberated off the hard surface. In the dim light, her shadow moved at angles as it followed then preceded her, unsettling her already disturbed frame of mind.

  The gentleman stopped in front of the double doors and politely held them open for her. She paused before entering, taking the time to control her breathing. The next room was largely bare: a tiled floor, not dissimilar to one found in a public swimming pool, vaguely matched four white walls, one of which contained several small doors, like that of a cupboard. Should she not have known where she was, perhaps the location could be mistaken for storage.

  But she was well aware that she was in a morgue.

  The suited man continued without a word in the direction of one of the doors and opened it forcefully. A heavy gust of wind followed as cold air escaped from the fridge, passing almost immediately.

  Tentatively she approached and looked down at the body. Although it had been less than two days since she had last seen him, his appearance was non-comparable. The warm smile, the look of noble distinction, his strong pose, all gone.

  But it was not the image of death that struck her. Almost immediately her attention fell on the man’s chest. The scars were no ordinary marks; nor did she expect otherwise.

  Her worst fears were confirmed.

  She looked briefly at the suited man and again at the man she knew so well. She placed her hand to her right eye, brushing away a tear, and then took the man’s hand. She held it gently, as if its exposure to cold and warmth might leave it fragile.

  ‘Where are his belongings?’

  The suited man walked to the other side of the room and retrieved a large box. ‘This was found near the site where he was said to have fallen. As is my understanding, he had nothing else.’

  She nodded, aware he was naked when he fell. No cl
othes could possibly go back on after that.

  She took the only item, a heavy-looking chain or medallion. To the average onlooker its significance was impossible to ascertain.

  She looked at it and slowly placed it into her pocket.

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’

  3

  London

  The main office of the English newspaper, the Tribunal, was located in the London borough of Tower Hamlets to the east of the city. Prior to 2003, the second-oldest tabloid newspaper in England had been one of many major newspapers based in a four-storey building on Fleet Street that had been built for the new company in the early 1860s. Over the next one hundred and twenty years, over twenty thousand journalists and seventeen editors had written, published and distributed its stories that by the 1970s were reaching every corner of the globe. Yet by the early 1980s a series of lawsuits, inaccuracies and bad editors left the paper’s popularity waning. Depleted and in a downward spiral, the company was purchased by a Middle Eastern billionaire on the eve of the millennium, and within three years the firm had moved out of central London and into brand-new headquarters north of the river. The old guard was ousted, and a new generation of journalists had revived its fortunes. In just over ten years, its modest print run of 400,000 a day now circulated in volumes in excess of one and three-quarter of a million copies, making it the third most read newspaper in England.

  At just before 9am, a sharply dressed woman walked swiftly through the revolving doors of the HQ building and swiped her key card on entering the lift. She had shoulder-length, jet-black hair that was today done up in a ponytail and sunglasses over her head. On first impression, a random passer-by would probably mistake her for late twenties, but on closer inspection, she was probably slightly younger, perhaps twenty-five. She had bright blue eyes, thin lips coated red, and a facial expression that suggested she was seriously annoyed. She carried a brown leather briefcase in her right hand while sipping intermittently from a takeaway mochaccino with her left. She glanced quickly at her watch. The meeting would have been underway for nearly thirty minutes.