The Larmenius Inheritance Read online

  Nicole Stocker was one of the youngest journalists at the Tribunal. Having graduated Edinburgh with a 2:1 in history, her initial aim had been to work as a news reporter, but her decision changed when her dad’s best friend offered her a job at a newspaper in Nottingham. Although she had heard stories about people using contacts to get ahead, in the early days it troubled her; the last thing she wanted was to succeed on contacts alone. She overcompensated with hard work, but after a few months, talent had already taken over. Two years later, a surprise meeting landed her a job at the Tribunal. At first she rejected, choosing loyalty to the man who got her on the ladder. But within two weeks, she left with his blessings.

  The opportunity was too good to turn down.

  She vacated the lift quickly and walked past the gathering employees of the third floor in the direction of a nearby corridor. The location was bustling; the sound of people talking, some shouting, keyboards typing and photocopiers humming now appeared little more than white noise to the young journalist. For the first fortnight she hated it; the hum of idiots in nearby cubicles – mostly male, white shirts, crap ties and rimless glasses, laughing at unheard jokes – was infuriating. Even now there were days when she couldn’t help shake the feeling that she was constantly banging her head against a brick wall. Every day brought new irritation.

  Man, she hated her life.

  She walked quickly through a floor of seemingly endless cubicles and changed direction on reaching a new corridor. She opened a door slowly, well aware that the meeting was underway. A long table was the centrepiece of the room that was otherwise largely unfurnished and lit by natural light entering through two large windows. Ten chairs surrounded the table, three of which were vacant.

  She sat down quickly at the nearest empty seat, doing her best to ignore the judgmental stares from nearby attendees. Sitting next to her was Amanda, a graduate from Leeds, two years her senior and for the last year her best friend and housemate. Amanda smiled mischievously at her as she entered.

  She scanned the rest of the faces: all were male, aged early thirties to late forties. Most of them she recognised: all of whom she hated. Every man eyed her briefly, looks of disapproval evident, before returning their attention to the head of the table.

  The man at the head of the table glanced briefly at Nicole as she entered, but he did so without breaking step. To Nicole it was a deliberate sign at acknowledging her lateness but not her importance. He talked for several minutes, highlighting recent events, before shouting at one of the males for ‘fucking up’ for the last time.

  Stephen Gladstone was the editor of the Tribunal, a man of indeterminate age perhaps anywhere between fifty-five and seventy, with a semi-bald head and a stern face. The majority of his hair was his beard, brown to grey, strangely appropriate for his post. His green eyes, coated by wire-rimmed reading glasses, were alert and seemingly always looking everywhere at once.

  Forty minutes later the meeting ended, and the majority left the room. As the employees departed, Nicole felt Amanda’s soft hand on her shoulder, returning her mind to reality. For the second time that day, the effects of another late night had taken its toll – it wasn’t till she was alone she realised the meeting was over.

  She heard her name being called. ‘Stocker.’

  She turned slowly. Gladstone was standing at the end of the table, now the only other person in the room.

  She forced a smile.

  ‘Nice of you to join us. I must say your contribution to the proceedings was immeasurable.’

  She noticed the sarcasm heighten when he said ‘immeasurable’.

  ‘Look, if this is about me being late, I promise it won’t happen again.’

  Gladstone was unimpressed, his hands on his hips. For the first time she noticed the back of his hands were hairy, ironically hairy. The right hand was partially hidden by a silver watch, surprisingly beneath his pay grade. The fact that he wore it on the wrong wrist annoyed her.

  ‘Nicole, you’ve worked here how long?’

  A rhetorical question. ‘Eleven months.’

  ‘Eleven months. And in that time, I have busted your lateness on how many occasions?’

  Nicole considered the question. ‘I can’t think of any.’

  Gladstone nodded, his forced smile causing his cheeks to puff. ‘Exactly. I don’t care if you sleep all day and kill vampires by night as long as you deliver.’

  The editor of the Tribunal leaned over the table, his attention on his briefcase.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know I’m taking you and that brain-dead twerp Gavin off your current assignment,’ he said. ‘The stupid son of a bitch’ll be cheating on his fourth wife by the time you’ve finished reporting on the third.’

  Nicole smiled awkwardly. It wasn’t totally unexpected.

  She looked at Gladstone keenly. ‘So what’s new?’

  Gladstone continued to rummage through his briefcase, scanning pieces of paper seemingly at random. He removed a small selection of papers and shuffled them on the desk.

  ‘Does the name William Anson mean anything to you?’

  Nicole shrugged. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually. William Anson was a man of high regard; he was Professor of Medieval History at the University of St. Andrews; a graduate of Oxford and Harvard; spent years researching all sorts of topics. He was the author of over thirty books and also an expert on the history of art.’

  ‘Of course, you didn’t have to look any of that up.’

  Gladstone looked back with sarcasm. ‘Actually, I met the man several times. Professor Anson was a genius. He was the author of many books, including the very famous Castles in the Sky, a very controversial text exploring the political history of Europe. According to Anson, prior to the modern era, a great empire existed across the Middle East, a utopia of sorts. Further to his theory of the past, Anson claimed mankind’s future lay in complete integration: no barriers to trade, fair tax for the world, universal language, universal currency, no slavery, freedom of every religion and, of course, absolutely no royal families. You’d have to be a complete idiot not to have heard of it. You probably read it yourself before strapping yourself to a gate in protest to the war in Iraq in your fresher year.’

  A bemused expression dominated her face. ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure that never happened.’

  ‘Of course it did – you were just too drunk to remember.’

  ‘Quite probably,’ she said, attempting not to let him get to her. ‘Though for the record, not every girl spends her college days chained to railings. Not every girl grows up wanting to be the next Jane Fonda.’

  Gladstone smiled. ‘Actually, I was thinking more along the lines that you actually do know the author. You went to university with his son. Matthew Anson.’

  The comment caught Nicole off guard. For the first time in four years, her mind thought back to her time at uni.

  ‘You went out with him for a while, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, I did not.’

  ‘You lived together.’

  Nicole’s jaw dropped. ‘Yeah, in halls, along with about a thousand other people.’

  ‘Well, as I always say, uni is the time to experiment.’

  ‘You are unbelievable…oh, and I do know the book. It was Cathedrals in the Sky, not castles.’

  ‘Cathedrals, castles, both complex structures made of stone.’

  ‘They have two completely different purposes.’

  ‘Nicole, please, if you want to stay in this room all day debating the differences between castles and cathedrals, go ahead, but kindly do me the courtesy of waiting until I’ve left the room.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Matt for almost four years.’

  ‘It’s not Matthew Anson I’m interested in. It’s his father.’

  Nicole shrugged. ‘You want me to interview him?’

  Gladstone’s expression changed. ‘That would be incredible. In fact, if you did manage to interview him, I’d qui
te happily put it down on record that Nicole Stocker is the greatest person whoever lived.’

  ‘I’m a journalist, you want me to interview him, I get it.’

  Gladstone shook his head. ‘Actually, it would be true. He died four days ago.’

  She grimaced. ‘Oh…so what do you want?’

  ‘Well, as you already seem to be aware, Professor Anson was an acclaimed author, philosopher and historian. Four days ago he turned up dead in the harbour of La Rochelle, a city on the west coast of France. According to a handful of eyewitnesses, he was seen jumping off one of the harbour towers at just after 9pm. The press are reporting it as suicide – incorrectly.’

  Nicole’s expression changed notably. ‘Oh my God. Poor Matt.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start.’

  Nicole eyed the editor furiously. ‘What happened? What do you mean incorrectly?’

  ‘Most curious. This was taken by an anonymous contributor. Email address unverifiable, location matched that of his death.’

  He passed the sheet to Nicole. Instantly she recoiled in horror.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re disgusting.’

  She heaved as if to vomit. The photograph was of a man, age difficult to determine in the circumstances, probably late fifties. His body was battered, his chest the standout area of harm. But that was not the biggest shock.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Well, as you can see from the man’s lack of skin, he has very brutally been flayed.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Nicole said.

  Gladstone waited, allowing rare sympathy. Admittedly the picture was shocking.

  Nicole looked again. Aside from his body possessing no skin, a strange series of words had been imprinted into his chest.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  ‘You must have some idea. What was he doing in La Rochelle?’

  ‘Research, apparently. Though, it’s not the only possibility.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Ever heard of the Knights Templar?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Professor Anson was an acclaimed historian: much of his work was based on the Middle Ages, though some went back further. Curiously, many of his books were related to the Crusades or Templar lore – and the city of La Rochelle is a prevalent location in their history.’

  He paused briefly.

  ‘It is curious that he should die in a location so intricately interwoven with the order’s past when, according to certain individuals, he was a member of an order that formed from its demise.’

  She looked confused. ‘Care to elaborate?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not much I can say myself. Professor Anson was the grandmaster of a society called the Knights of Arcadia. A strange group based in the Highlands. Supposedly they go back to the 1500s – though some say much earlier.’

  ‘Why do people say he jumped?’

  ‘I told you, there were eyewitnesses.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘A group of English tourists on a stag party.’

  ‘Were they sober?’

  ‘Pissed off their tits.’

  Nicole’s expression hardened. ‘So how do you know they’re reliable?’

  ‘We don’t, and quite clearly they weren’t. But what is clear is that this is the first photograph of the man that’s been released. It was sent to us, strangely to no one else. I’ve made a few inquiries into the matter. Police are refusing to comment. So are the French press as far as I can see. Furthermore, I’m still to see any evidence it’s found its way onto the web, which is particularly strange.’

  He looked at her, now more seriously than before. ‘Can you read the message on his chest?’

  The question was apt. She looked, trying hard. ‘It looks like Temp Desert.’

  ‘Templi Desertore,’ he clarified.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid,’ he said seriously, ‘though the reference to Templi in La Rochelle is particularly curious.’

  For the third time in as many minutes, he turned away from Nicole and retrieved another piece of paper from his briefcase.

  ‘Murder by flaying is not common, but there have been similar instances in the past.’ He passed the sheets to Nicole. ‘Three individuals. All found dead within the last three years. None well known; none widely publicised among our friends.’

  The comment intrigued her. ‘Other papers refused to publish it?’

  ‘Let’s just say, a couple of years ago one reported on something similar and went missing.’

  She returned her focus to the paper. She was not one to be easily intimidated. ‘Any connection?’

  ‘Yes, only one: all were believed to have been members of this order.’

  ‘You think this stems to something in the order?’

  ‘In truth, we don’t know, but that’s the second death of this type in the past four months. If there is something in it, it would be an interesting piece to find out.’

  She nodded. Not to mention the number of readers it would attract. ‘I’ll give Matt a call.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Find out all you can about Mr. Anson and his activities,’ he said, shuffling through his briefcase, looking for something specific. ‘First things first, we’ll be including an obituary in the Sunday supplement. You’ll be doing that,’ he said, passing her several sheets of paper. They were inkjet printed and stapled at the top left corner. ‘This should get you started with the obituary.’

  Nicole read it quickly. ‘You printed his Wikipedia entry?’

  ‘Look, it’s just for starters. No one reads these things anyway.’

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Tomorrow. It’s taking place in a small village in the Highlands. A nice little holiday for you.’

  She smiled wretchedly. ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s where the order is located. It’s a ceremonial thing. Apparently all of its grandmasters are buried in the same place.’

  Nicole nodded, slightly surprised. ‘Did you get that off Wikipedia?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, the funeral details are listed on Matthew Anson’s cousin’s Facebook profile.’

  ‘Did you print that out too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He passed her the details, which she scanned quickly. She recognised him immediately. Scott Anson, a twenty-six-year-old former naval man, just like his cousin. Nice guy, she remembered, but a complete fool.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Don’t go into detail of your purpose,’ Gladstone said. ‘The Knights of Arcadia are a strange society. They don’t care much for the media.’

  Nicole nodded, hardly blaming them. ‘Fine. I’m just the friend of the son of the deceased paying my respects.’

  ‘That would be splendid.’

  The abbot sat alone in the darkened chapel, his eyes focused on the nearest window. The image in the glass was of a Scottish knight of French ancestry who had previously served in the Crusades. According to legend, this man was the second grandmaster of the original order. The man was bearded, as always, standing with his palms out before him receiving a human skull, which he would, in turn, raise to his lips. The abbot knew the true significance of the image but most did not, even most members of the order. It was at times like this he found it most meaningful.

  His eyes started to wander. The faintest hint of moonlight penetrated the windows on the opposite side. The light seemed to refract through one particular window, beaming down strongly on the area surrounding the altar. The tombs of various former grandmasters were placed throughout. Historically the monastery had been built on land owned by the same family, and many of its number had been grandmasters.

  Even today, the same family still had connections.

  The far wall contained a new feature. Beginning at the far left corner, paintings of each former grandmaster since 1480 lined the walls, running from left to right. He had seen something similar in the Basilica of St. P
aul in Rome, depicting every pontiff from the foundation of the Church. There were twenty-three images, one more than the day before.

  The abbot focused on the face of his nephew. His face suggested calm and tranquillity, particularly around the eyes. It was the way he remembered him. Still, the sight made his eyes water.

  The area to the right was empty. In the past it was customary for a new grandmaster to be elected within two days of the death of the last one, but that had now been relaxed. Instead, proceedings were more in keeping with the Papal Conclave where fifteen days of mourning would be observed following the funeral of the Pope.

  Soon another grandmaster would need electing. A new face on the wall would in time emerge.

  4

  St. Bernard’s Abbey, Kirkheart, headquarters of the Knights of Arcadia, somewhere in the Highlands of Scotland, the next day

  Matthew Anson watched in silence as the eight pallbearers unloaded the coffin containing the body of his late father from the hearse. Normal practice dictated six would carry the coffin, but this was hardly a regular occurrence. All eight were dressed in their full regalia, white mantles with a red cross in the centre and black berets on their heads.

  He sat quietly on the end of a wall. Like most in attendance, he wore a suit, black shoes and tie and had made an extra effort with his hair.

  He felt uncomfortable. It was over a year since he had last worn his suit, and the jacket was at least one size too small. He thought back to when he bought it; then, the opposite had been true. The unspectacular material had felt heavy on the arms, stretching over his hands when he lowered them. He never enjoyed wearing suits, but he hated funerals even more. It was strange, somehow still not real. The presence of the motorcar confirmed it was the modern day, but all else seemed distant, as if he had slipped back in time.