Pinions Of Gold E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

674 AD. Werburgh, great-niece of the Abbess of Ely, travels by night to save the abbey's treasure under a wayside cross in the kingdom of Lindsey.

A cryptic inscription on the back indicates the location of the magnificent gold and garnet treasure. Becoming a family heirloom, the dove resurfaces at different points in history, only to be buried again.

Later in the 1930's, a ghost of a family member appears, sparking off an investigation by psychic investigator Jake Conley, who is called in to solve the mystery. Together with his wife, he sets off on search for the legendary treasure, and a trail of deaths that seems to be following it.

With their lives in danger as they draw ever closer to the archaeological find of the century, can they outwit hired killers and other ruthless individuals in the race to save the treasure for the nation?

Leseprobe

PINIONS OF GOLD — AN ANGLO-SAXON ARCHAEOLOGICAL MYSTERY

JAKE CONLEY BOOK 5

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 by John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Maria Antonietta Valente, with thanks for our constant support and love.

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to Pinions of Gold.

ONE

MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, LONDON, UK

Jake Conley glared at his mobile with venom and a strong temptation to ignore the call. Well aware that it would come sooner or later to disturb his newly-wed bliss, he sighed and accepted the call from his boss, Sir Clive Cochrane. His reluctance was understandable, as previously, this kind of call had led him into situations where he’d been tortured and escaped death by a hair’s breadth. Encounters with demonic forces and supernatural entities had all taken place with Sir Clive, a senior civil servant, sitting in comfort behind his plush desk. Feeling little more than a chess piece in the hands of a superspy, Jake wondered whether he was a knight or a castle or nothing more than a pawn in the mind of AA, his boss. Taking a steadying breath, he answered the phone,

“Good morning, sir. Do you have an assignment for me?”

“As ever, you are direct and to the point, old chap. Why don’t you slip up to London and see what little treat I have in mind?” The false bonhomie snapped and he reverted to the mode Jake knew and feared so much, “My office 10.30 sharp, there’s a good fellow.” Before Jake could acquiesce, his chief added, “Ah, and bring the delightful Mrs Conley to the meeting. I’d be pleased to see my former receptionist again. I take it she’s well?”

“Very well, thank you. Tomorrow then, goodbye.”

The train journey to London into Euston from Warwick was swift but he and Alice spent it in speculation. What did AA want this time? The only ingredients that Jake could promise his wife, in his experience, were danger and mystery with the dosage heavily in favour of the former. Since they were both agents on standby in the pay of the British government, the call was inevitable. But that didn’t mean they should be happy about receiving it.

As ever, Jake’s approach to the Ministry building was characterised by his mixed emotions: trepidation and curiosity. This was the first time he’d shared them with someone else and glancing at Alice out of the tail of his eye, he saw only the latter emotion. Fighting back the desire to warn her to be ready for extreme peril, he remembered that she too was an agent and had survived the trauma of his last case by a hair’s breadth.

Smooth as ever, the lift bore them to the second floor, where the miracle of Sir Clive’s hearing played out once more. It intrigued Jake every time. How could the man hear his knock through the layered surfaces of the padded door? He had never heard ‘come in’ and always entered regardless. Did that account for the inevitable ironical smile that greeted him?

“Ah, my dear fellow and splendid consort. Do be seated.”

There followed the usual pleasantries before Sir Clive, duty done, broached the reason for their convocation. Circumspect as ever, he began, “Strictly speaking, neither of you is obliged to accept this job since it is a non-governmental matter. You will effectively remain on standby even if you do take it on. Should a government case arise, you will be expected to give that absolute priority. We should be quite clear. Do you follow?”

Where, down the labyrinthine corridors of your mind!

Thus, thought Jake but nodded and smiled, understanding the nothing he’d been given so far.

“Good, as a private matter, in recompense, it should not put you in any danger…”

That’ll be the day, crafty old sod.

“…on the other hand, Conley, I suspect this is a matter that’s right up your street, as it were, dear boy, involving as it does an element of the inexplicable. Ghosts and all that stuff, so beloved of your very good self.” He paused and looked from one to the other with a smug expression on his pinched face, eyes as ever unsmiling and hard as slivers of ice.

“Sir?”

“I have an acquaintance, a nonagenarian, a hero in the Second World War. His son, John Robinson, is a barrister and a close friend of mine – a member of my club, in fact.”

He would be.

The long, manicured fingers across the desk from them fiddled with a visiting card, flipping it over and over. “John asked me to find someone who could set his father’s mind at rest regarding a long-standing mystery in the family. The old chappie still lives in Lincolnshire in rather grander circumstances than his forebears, by all accounts. Well, there it is. Jake Conley, psychic investigator, summoned to solve a centuries-old mystery once again.” This he said, with a certain amount of glee, his predatory smile chilled Jake who watched it change into a practised engaging one as his attention switched to Alice. “Now, as to your role, my dear gal, to keep your husband, how shall I put this? Well, he has, let’s say… something of a penchant… for landing himself in trouble. Your job is to baby-sit him.” He sniggered.

“Sir!” Jake put as much feeling into the one respectful word as he would have into a familiar Anglo-Saxon expletive. It had effect.

The Head of the Secret Service looked chastened and adopted a mellifluous tone, “Sorry, old man, no offence, but your lady wife’s unquestioned abilities should prove invaluable in helping you untangle this intriguing mystery. Two minds being better than one and all that. I foresee no danger. A meeting is arranged for tomorrow in the village of Tealby in Lincolnshire, a pleasant spot. They say the pub’s haunted—you’ll like it. That by the way, is not the ghost you’ll be dealing with. The appointment is at Robinson Senior’s house. He has a wonderful garden.” He pushed the visiting card across the green-leather-topped desk. “Sir John’s details. Give him a call. I expect he’ll have you picked up at Lincoln Railway Station. I think train is your best option. With the aplomb of a magician pulling a white rabbit out of a top hat, he produced a cardboard envelope from his desk drawer. “Your tickets, first-class, of course. Most efficient, Ms Brewster; she’s your successor in reception, my dear. Tomorrow morning at King’s Cross and thank you for taking on the case.”

Bloody cheek, we haven’t accepted anything—and he knows it.

Outside nearby, perched on a bench overlooking the Thames, Jake let go of Alice’s hand.

“The damned cheek of the blighter. Not only does he foist a personal favour on us, he also insults me into the bargain. A bloody baby-sitter. It’s all right for him, sitting behind his desk, smarmy as you like, whilst I take all the risks.”

“Except, he said this case involves no danger.”

“Ooh, look.” Jake pointed downriver, “There goes another one.”

“What?”

“Can’t you see its wings? A flying pig.”

She clutched his arm, laughing, “You don’t believe him then?”

He shook his head. “I can say that Double-A has never given me a case that didn’t involve violence and death, but apart from that, they’ve been relaxing.”

“Fool! But this one sounds intriguing.”

“There’s nothing in it, just the ramblings of an old man. He’s over ninety, for heaven’s sake.”

Alice frowned and considered, “But his son is one of Her Majesty's Counsel learned in the law. I don’t suppose he’d let the old fellow make a fool of himself.”

Jake stared at a passing tourist sightseeing boat and pondered. Alice, as usual impressed him with her common sense. She was right to point out that Sir John Robinson QC hadn’t arrived at the top of his profession without being in possession of sound judgment.

TWO

TEALBY, WEST LINDSEY, LINCOLNSHIRE. 2021 AD

The Land Rover pitched and righted as it swept through Beck Hill Ford, the road crossing the River Rase at one of the two fords in the village. They drove past the village shop, the Vintage Tea Rooms and the King’s Head, the thatched and reputedly haunted ancient public house, out of the picturesque settlement. Their driver, Sir John, pointed out each of the features as they drove by, with a touch of pride in his home county. Jake, having admired the gentle Wolds scenery, could understand the sentiment. He snapped back to attention at the mention of Lord Tennyson, one of his favourite poets.

The barrister was saying, “…and they demolished the manor in the nineteen sixties, a pity, but it was in a dangerous state of neglect and had to go. Lord Tennyson’s uncle Charles owned it. There are some memorials to the family in our church. It’s largely twelfth-century if you’re interested.” Jake was. Among his hobbies, he enjoyed visiting country churches. He made a mental note.

“Ah, we’re here. The lawyer turned into the drive of an immaculate garden belonging to a splendid detached house of indeterminate style. An eminent architect had designed it in the 1920s, more with blending into the surroundings than with modern creativity in mind. The result was a harmonious, airy, well-lit building that hinted at rural tradition whilst offering every convenience.

The large fireplace with oak lintel, delimited by a stone hearth, dominated the spacious lounge. Sitting in an armchair with a tartan rug over his legs, a white-haired wizened-faced figure looked up with rheumy eyes when his son entered with two newcomers.

“My father, Roy,” Sir John indicated the old man. “Father, this is Mr Conley, the gentleman from London I told you about. He’s come to attempt to get to the bottom of the Covenham mystery.”

Roy Robinson gazed at them, Jake suspected without understanding, when the elderly man wheezed a response, “How I wish he would.”

“My father is ninety-four,” the lawyer said, “But his mind is active. This affair has troubled him as long as I can remember. I don’t want to overtire him, so I’ll relate what happened to him since I’ve heard the tale many times and if I err, he will correct me, won’t you dad?”

The senior Robinson chuckled and raised a hand, heavy with blue veins and dark liver-coloured spots. Everyone took this to mean assent, so Sir John pulled three chairs close to the fire, threw another oak log on to add to the others. They settled down to listen.

Sir John began. “His story begins in December 1934 in a village called Covenham St. Mary, beyond Binbrook towards the coast, when he was seven. Father was playing with a tin car and pushing it across the carpet in the living room. He was a sensitive child, and though my grandparents were strict, he enjoyed plenty of affection. His mother, red in the face, came out of the kitchen with a basket full of washing from the wringer. Roy hated washing day because the kitchen was so full of steam from the copper boiler and his mum was so busy that she couldn’t give him any attention. It was worse in winter, of course, with damp, steaming washing on the clothes horse in front of the fire.

“My grandmother told him: Roy, don’t go into the kitchen. I don’t want you anywhere near that boiler, do you hear? I’m just going to peg the washing out, it’s a lovely drying day.”

My father had no intention of going into the kitchen; he imagined he was Frank Clement with a 4.5 litre Bentley winning the Le Mans race at more than 100 miles an hour…it was just at the moment of his triumph, as he crossed the winning line and took the chequered flag that he felt a strange chill penetrate to his bones…”

At this point in the account, the old man by the fire heaved a wheezing sigh that made Jake and Alice stare at him. They both noticed the strange expression and faraway look in his pale grey eyes. Neither of them doubted that he too was following the story with the same attention as they were. Sir John continued, “…It was a sunny day and up to that instant a draught through the open door cooled the room of the steam from the kitchen. But my father felt a different sensation, numbing and disturbing. He looked up and saw an old woman with a big book in her lap sitting in a rocking chair by the hearth. She had lank, white hair around a wrinkled face. Father felt no fear. It was right. The old woman somehow belonged there. She smiled at him as his teeth began to chatter and he wrapped his arms across his chest to warm up. The woman didn’t speak. Instead she raised her right hand and pointed to the stairs. Then she waved him in that direction with the back of her hand. Father stood up and hesitated, still staring into the gentle, reassuring face of the old woman. Smiling, she repeated the gesture and he walked to the stairs, dividing the living room from the kitchen of Rose Cottage. Like an automaton, with no free will, he began to climb the stairs. On the fourth stair he stopped rooted to the spot. He still felt numb and seemed unable to control his body. His head, as if moved by another, turned to face over his left shoulder, until his nose almost touched the wall of the stairs. He didn’t know why he was staring at the wall or for how long.”

“The old lady must have been a ghost,” Jake murmured and as if he could read his mind, the veteran, who was studying his face, nodded in confirmation.

Sir John also looked at Jake and reassured that his guest was following the tale, went on,

“He felt warm again and he turned around and jumped down to the floor. He checked and found his mother still in the garden pegging a linen sheet. Then he skipped back into the living room and found that there was no old woman and no rocking chair. As only a seven-year-old can, he put them both out of his mind at once and concentrated on receiving his cup for winning the Le Mans race.

When his mother came back in, he didn’t tell her about the old woman. But what had happened in those few minutes stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Arthur, my grandfather, and his wife Rebecca had moved to Rose Cottage in Covenham St. Mary in the summer of 1933 because they were poor. Arthur was self-employed as a painter and decorator and he kept his paint, brushes and stepladders in a handcart. This he attached to his bicycle, since most of his work was in nearby villages or thirteen miles away in the town of Cleethorpes, which they’d left because they couldn’t afford the rent on the houses there. One of his clients mentioned that there was a small cottage that had been empty for a hundred and thirty years in Covenham St. Mary, a village with a population of 270. All the cottage needed was some repairs and a coat of paint. It was available for next to nothing because nobody wanted to live there.

Granddad Arthur laughed off the idea that the cottage was haunted. In fact, he wasn’t even interested in hearing about what he called the whys and wherefores of the case. Enrolled in the Lincoln Regiment at 16, sent home as too young, joined up at 17 when there were less scruples, wounded twice in the Great War, won the Military Medal twice and made King’s Corporal, Arthur wasn’t going to be bothered about any ghost nonsense; he’d seen enough carnage to last several lifetimes, but he’d never seen the ghost of a fallen comrade. Ghosts didn’t exist as far as he was concerned…”

Sir John excused himself to get a drink, “Need to wet the whistle, old chap. Will you join me… and you, Mrs Conley?” Alice declined, but Jake, on spotting the bottle of Aberfeldy single malt, surrendered to one of his weaknesses. The smooth liquor with a hint of smoke, drunk beside the fire, was the perfect accompaniment to a ghost story in Jake’s opinion.

Dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, Sir John, addressing Alice, continued after an apology for the interlude, “…Rose Cottage was suitable for Arthur’s small family, with its two rooms downstairs and the bathroom and bedroom upstairs. Now that a second child was on the way grandmother worried that there might be a problem. Already Roy’s bed was in the corner of their bedroom, but Arthur had made the cottage very attractive at very little cost. The baby was due in three months, in March, and they’d have to manage. Arthur and Becky were very much in love and that made the difference.

It was a crisp December afternoon and Arthur biked the last few yards to Rose Cottage at around twenty-past twelve. He had a job at Utterby about two and a half miles away and he’d come home for lunch. Arthur was grateful when he was close enough to home to have a cooked meal instead of the packed lunch Becky made him when he was further away. He leant his bicycle against the fence and strode through the gate and up the path to his door.

“I’m home, Bubs.” he called, using his pet name for her, because her curls made him think of bubbles. The stairs faced the door and in two bounds he was already mounting them, “I’ll just wash my hands.” He savoured the delicious aroma from the kitchen. About to turn into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, granddad stopped and the smile vanished. The bedroom door was open and what he saw made him rush downstairs red in the face to the roots of his ginger hair.

“Rebecca!” he barked in the tone of his old company sergeant—and he never called her that unless he was furious. She looked up from stirring the gravy with a sweet smile. She was used to his temper bursting as quick as a spring shower.

“What have you done upstairs, woman? Did you move all the furniture?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

Arthur’s face became plum red, “Are you crazy? In your state? You’re six months gone; you could lose the baby like that. Why didn’t you ask me if you wanted the furniture moving?”

Becky moved the gravy to a cold plate on the range and put her arms around her husband. She kissed his burning cheek. “Well, be honest, Arthur, if I’d asked you, you’d have said no, wouldn’t you? Besides, I don’t know why, but it was just something I had to do, like it was a feeling stronger than me.” She squeezed him tight and gave him another kiss. Becky could feel the tension leave him and he pressed his lips against hers.

“Well, don’t have any more of these feelings. Do you hear me? Do you know how much that wardrobe weighs?”

“Oh, come on grumpy, no harm’s done, get those hands washed and sit down at table. I’ve made shepherd’s pie. Roy will be home from school in a minute and he’ll need the bathroom.” At the thought of Roy, she sighed and hoped that her little boy hadn’t suffered any bullying today at the Elementary School. It drew from the villages of Fotherby, Utterby and Little Grimsby as well as from the twin village of Covenham St. Bartholomew. Children were often cruel and they teased Roy because of his sensitivity, he was different from them. It was a constant worry.

Arthur’s mind was troubled too, but for another reason. As he biked back to work that afternoon he pondered over his wife’s strange behaviour. What on earth had possessed her to move the heavy bedroom furniture around in her condition?”

At the same time Becky murmured, “How could I tell him the truth? He’d think me out of my mind.” She sat down in the armchair next to the hearth and reflected on the morning’s strange events. Roy was at school and Arthur was at work and she decided to have a break from housework with a cup of tea.” Sir John looked at his father as if for confirmation that his facts were correct. The old man waved him on. Hesitating for a moment as if he’d lost the thread, he said, “Ah, yes …she carried it into the living room and that was when she saw an old woman with a black book in her lap seated in a rocking chair by the hearth. Becky felt a chill run up and down her spine. The fine hairs on her arm stood on end and she was rooted to the spot unable to move, while the air around her felt cold.”

As for Jake, a familiar dull ache between his eyebrows told him that the tale had psychic importance to him. He rubbed his temples and the old man grinned a toothless smile. Struggling to latch on to the story again, he heard Sir John say, “…Grandma knew at once that this was the old woman who was said to haunt the house, but like Arthur she’d dismissed talk of ghosts as nonsense. Yet she wasn’t afraid. There was something kind about the old woman’s wrinkly face and its gentle smile. But there was something else in her expression, Becky thought, what was it, concern?”

“As she thought this, the old woman pointed towards the ceiling. Becky’s eyes followed the finger upwards. It was in that instant that her head filled with the urgent need to move the bedroom furniture around. When she looked back the old woman had disappeared and in the place of the rocking chair was Becky’s familiar armchair. With notable courage, Becky sat down there with her cup of tea. She hadn’t imagined the old woman, she knew that —and another thing, the room was warm again. Becky sipped her tea. “So, I’ve seen the ghost,” she thought. She knew that there were people in Covenham who’d believe her, more than once she’d heard the tragic tale of the old woman’s death recounted in awed tones by one or other of the villagers; she knew equally well that Arthur would tease her if she uttered even one word about a ghost. When she finished her tea, Becky went into the bedroom. After an hour’s exertion, the layout of the bedroom was different, she’d even managed to shift the heavy wardrobe. She couldn’t explain why, but she knew this task was urgent. Why it was so pressing, she had no idea.”

Alice stared at Jake, who was tense and pale. She knew him well enough by now to see that this tale was having a profound effect on him. Could it be that AA had hit upon something that his old public-school mate had told him and thought it worthy of Jake’s attentions? She wondered where all this was leading.

“Father came back from school at half-past four,” Sir John continued, “At a quarter-past five Arthur was back home and sniffing the air at the door. “I reckon there’s a storm brewing, Bubs, the air’s far too still.”

“Put the wood in the hole, Arthur,” she said, using one of his own favourite expressions for shutting the door, “you’re letting all the heat out of the room.”

The evening passed much as usual. Roy was asleep by eight o’clock and Becky and Arthur went up to bed around half-past ten. What a gale was blowing! The rain lashed against the sash windows. These were draughty old windows Becky thought as she snuggled down even further under the eiderdown. She worried that Roy wouldn’t be warm enough and then thought that if she put any more bedding on him, she’d crush him. Anyway, he had an earthenware hot water bottle in with him. She relaxed, cuddled up to her husband and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Meanwhile, the storm got worse. About one o’clock Becky woke with a start. The wind was howling like a tortured beast in a steel-fanged trap. She gasped as the gale flung something against the rattling window, maybe the branch of a tree.

Thank goodness it didn’t break the glass.

Lightning flashedoverhead and lit up the curtains that rose and fell in the draught, like arms raised in anguish. Tense, Grandma lay listening to the small skeleton of the cottage groan and creak under its skin of plaster, while the sounds of water sluicing from the drainpipes and the rain driven against the panes were drowned by the roar of thunder that woke even the deep-sleeping Arthur. Just then the old mortar on the chimney gave way. Like bombardment on the Western Front, there was a deafening crash as the whole stack broke loose and crashed through the tiled roof and through the bedroom ceiling in a cloud of dust and debris. Even in her terrified state Becky realised:

It’s come down where our bed would have been if I hadn’t moved it.

Roy woke with his heart pounding fit to burst and his face white with dust. Tears washed two flesh-coloured lines down the dust mask as he howled for his mother, but Becky screamed as her contractions began and that morning Roy had a little brother, Kenneth, born three months before his time.”

Sir John stood, crossed over to the dresser and poured himself another whisky. Without a word, he waved the bottle at Jake.

“Don’t mind if I do. Thank you.” When the barrister settled back into his armchair, Jake told him, “You know, that’s a fascinating story and whilst I believe that your father,” he glanced at the old man, whose head had dropped onto his chest and whose breathing was deep and regular, “saw a ghost, it could be argued that his mother had a premonition. But given the circumstances, I feel sure the ghost saved the family that night.”

“By Jove, father has told that story to many people, believe me, but I must say, you are the first that’s sounded so convinced.” He gave Jake a warm smile and added, “Clive told me you were the chappie to get to the bottom of our mystery and I believe he’s right.”

“I’ve had more than a little experience of the supernatural, Sir John, and I feel sure that the ghost was trying to tell your father by gestures that —”

“Yes! Oh sorry to interrupt. My enthusiasm, I’m afraid it gets the better of me. You were going to say that there was something in the stair wall, I think.”

“I was. Is that what your father believes?”

“It is.”

“Has neither of you been back to find out? I presume the cottage is still standing?”

“Yes, but abandoned for years. The villagers won’t go near it. Many still think it’s haunted even in this day and age. I imagine it would cost a pretty penny to restore the place and with it being small, pokey by today’s standards, who would take it on? Father never did go back, but he’s often wondered whether there was something in the wall. Now he’s very old, I believe it’s become an obsession to unveil the mystery. And, frankly, I’m far too busy.”

“It’s fascinating. I think you’d better tell me how to find Rose Cottage and anything you think might help an investigation, Sir John.”

“Well…”

By the time he’d finished and arranged for them to sleep in his guest room, plus granting them the loan of his Land Rover, both Jake and Alice were happy to retire to discuss what they had heard. The plan was to go to Covenham St. Mary the next morning.

THREE

COVENHAM, LINCOLNSHIRE, 2021 AD

What were Roy Robinson’s exact words: four steps? Jake climbed to the fourth and stopped. What was he expecting, some kind of odd feeling? Disappointed, he felt nothing, apart from disgust at the damp mustiness of the stale air and a dull ache beginning to his forehead. He faced left and began to tap the dirty white plaster of the stair wall with the butt of his knife, working downwards. It was solid, but after about eighteen inches, he heard a hollow sound. His heart beat faster. Had he imagined it? He tried the same spot again. There was no doubt at all. There was hollowness behind the plaster. Heart pounding fast, he opened the knife and dug in the blade, loosening small pieces of plaster. A whole chunk fell on to the worn and holey stair carpet, revealing a cavity in the wall. It was about four inches deep and contained a small box. It was dirty, white and square. He used his forefinger and thumb to ease it out. Curious, he held it up, turning his wrist to study it.

A key scraped in the lock of the cottage door. What the devil! This place had stood empty for generations. The sound of dull footsteps stirred him into action. Jake spun on his heel and jumped down into the kitchen.

“Hey!”

He lingered enough to glimpse the massive silhouette of a man wearing what seemed to be a chauffer’s uniform, a peaked cap on his bull-necked head. Jake plunged the box into his trouser pocket. The feeble light penetrating the filthy windowpanes was enough to make out the man reaching inside his jacket. He pulled out a pistol. With athletic skill he didn’t know he possessed Jake dived through the open sash window where he had forced his entry. A shot rang out. It must have disturbed the whole of the sleepy village. He hit the ground outside and rolled with practiced ease, but he felt a searing pain high on his right arm. The bastard’s shot me! Fear added extra speed to his limbs, so before the man got to the window, he was through a hole in the hedge bordering the small rear garden of Rose Cottage and his legs were pumping across the uneven ground. His disjointed thoughts, trying to make sense of what had happened were overwhelmed by strident warnings to save himself. Thrusting all distractions aside for the moment, he ran for dear life along the edge of a wheat field where a gate gave onto the road in front of the cottage.

He dashed into the road and waved his arms at the Land Rover. He was relieved to find that his arm moved freely enough, a flesh wound, nothing worse than a throbbing pain, but the sleeve of his T-shirt was soaked and rivulets of blood ran to his wrist.

Tyres screeched and he pulled open the passenger door. At the same time, he glanced back at Rose Cottage. There was a grey Mercedes parked outside with smoked glass windows. As soon as he spotted Jake in the road, the brute in a chauffeur’s uniform slammed the cottage door and ran down the garden path towards the Mercedes. That was enough for Jake, who jumped into the car and exclaimed to his wife,

“Drive like Hell if you don’t want to be shot at!”

She went through the gears at unholy speed and Jake, incredulous, watched the indicator pass 85 mph on the bends out of the village. Far too fast and more by good luck than driving skill, in his opinion, Alice swung the Land Rover into a country lane. He realised with a start that this was the first time he’d been a passenger with his wife driving. The hawthorn hedges were a blur of green along the narrow winding lane. Had this woman never heard of tractors and Land Rovers? Mightn’t one appear to create a metal wall for them to die against? Compared to that, a bullet in the back of the head seemed an attractive option.

She braked next to an iron gate where a crushed chalk track led across a field to a barn.

“Don’t just sit there, open the gate.”

Isn’t slow beautiful? he thought while she inched the vehicle behind the barn and cut the engine.

Jake leaned back and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe what had happened to him.

“I think we lost them. Hey! You’re bleeding. Let me take a look.”

She leant across, her blouse revealing the fullness of her breasts. Jake dragged his gaze away, I’m a lucky guy, and his eyes met the concern in hers. For her part, she tried not to show her admiration of the muscular arm under inspection. He’d been working out in the gym to get into shape for the awaited call from Sir Clive.

He pulled up the sleeve, his nose almost touching the wound, “Ach, it’s only a scratch.” He wasn’t going to let her know how scared he was.

This is crazy. Someone’s taken a pop at me. Why? And me, I’m more interested in my pretty wife’s body. What an idiot!

“It’ll need cleaning up as soon as possible, but I don’t fancy moving from here just yet.”

They tried to understand what on earth was going on.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Alice said, “we heard Roy’s story and the next day visit the long-abandoned cottage and just by chance someone turns up and takes a shot at you?”

“Whoever it is must have had us under surveillance. I’m beginning to think Sir John knows more than he’s letting on. I’m going to have it out with him.”

Alice frowned, “Do you mean he called on Double-A for help because he was in trouble over this cottage business? And if so, what can it be about? You don’t go shooting at people because there’s a ghost in a cottage.”

“No,” Jake murmured, distracted, he was thinking about the little white box in his pocket. Maybe that would tell them something, but it could wait until they got home. Instead, he said, “Whatever this is about, we can forget our impression that it wouldn’t be dangerous. I had a lucky escape. It’s always a risk when Sir Clive is involved.

Back on the main road, they kept a wary eye open but there was no sign of the Mercedes and Jake found the drive back far more comfortable than the previous breakneck journey, except for his troubled thoughts.

FOUR

The Mercedes parked in a lay-by outside the market town of Louth. The man with the designer glasses pressed a button and the tinted panel separating him from his driver slid down.

“Victor, you are the most confounded idiot. What do you keep in that overripe pumpkin that passes for a head? Whatever it is, it isn’t a brain.”

Resentful eyes fought to mask a glower with an effort at subservience. The chauffeur assessed his employer’s mood. Victor Dogaru owed much to David Briggs QC, a suave, London divorce barrister. Briggs had taken him, an illegal immigrant, from the streets of the English capital, sorted his papers and given him a well-paid job. Of course, he hadn’t given Victor the idea that he was legal, preferring to let him think that his residence in England was done by favours. In that way, he ensured the Romanian’s insecurity, gratitude and servile obedience: considerable assets in an ex-Olympic wrestler who prided himself on intimidating strength.

The caustic tone continued, “Didn’t it occur to what passes for a brain under that cap that you can’t use firearms in a Lincolnshire village? My God, man, I have a reputation based on years of hard work. One moment of idiocy could leave it in tatters. Thank heavens it was only one shot and not a very good one at that.”

Victor was sweating under his peaked cap, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off his employer’s face. He studied the eyes in his mirror; they were as cold as adjacent ice floes. There was a hint of something submerged, something dangerous, something the Romanian didn’t want to surface. Victor’s mean mouth, with hard, cruel sensuous lips compressed even more. Briggs was a generous boss, but not given to supporting fools. Victor sought a means of appeasement.

“Sorry, boss, but he had a white box in his hand and he hid it as soon as he saw me. It must have been important. I only wanted to stop him, not to kill him.” Gratified, Victor watched Briggs’s expression change. Now he had his complete attention.

“A white box?”

Victor described the hole in the wall and how the box had been hidden there, the crumbs of plaster fresh on the stair carpet and the surprising agility of the intruder.

“I want that box,” Briggs murmured more to himself.

“If we find that Land Rover…”

“We, Victor, we…don’t you think you’ve done enough damage for one day? You can’t even catch a bicycle, let alone a Land Rover, not even with a 6.2 litre V8 Mercedes. No,” he said, “I’ll set a professional on the woman driver’s case. Your job is to get me back to London without any further unpleasantness if that’s not beyond you.”

The partition slid up before Victor could reply. David Briggs opened the fridge door and poured himself a good measure of thirty-year-old Lagavulin, ironically, Jake Conley’s favourite tipple, added ice, then with a sigh sank back in his seat.

All’s well that ends well. And despite appearances things had gone better than expected. The mysterious white box would never have come to light without the unexpected intruder. Tracing the Land Rover shouldn’t be too difficult for a professional. No, all told, a satisfactory day. As for a gunshot, Victor wasn’t to know that in Lincolnshire gunshots were the order of the day. Briggs smirked; small detail, the targets were wood pigeons or crows, not young men. He’d have to sort out the trigger-happy Romanian though. Briggs swirled his whisky around the tinkling ice cubes and murmured: “I want that box, whatever the cost.”

FIVE

LOUTH, LINCOLNSHIRE 2021 AD

The conversation with Sir John Robinson was short and inconclusive. Jake and Alice were convinced that the barrister was telling the truth when he reacted with amazement to the events in Rose cottage. This only deepened the mystery, however, since having ruled out coincidence and established Sir John’s extraneity meant there was another sinister motive for the attack on Jake. This being the case, he decided that for the moment, he would make no mention of the white box as it might place those who knew about it in danger.

He decided to take temporary lodgings in Louth because Tealby was a little awkward for Covenham, which seemed to be the focal point of the mystery.

“Hang on to the Land Rover, dear boy, it’s no use to me in London—not a vehicle suitable for the city centre. I have to get back to Gray’s Inn Square. Goodness knows what’s awaiting me in Chambers. You have my card. Please keep me informed of developments.”

They said their farewells and drove over to the small market town of Louth, dominated by the third highest steeple in England. An obliging estate agent found them pleasant and economical accommodation on Aswell Street. The flat, rented by a music teacher, who was in Wales for three months, was central, had a parking space and was convenient for the roads out of town.

The discovery of the old bone box buried in the stair wall of Rose Cottage was mysterious in every way. How had it got there? And what was the meaning of the contents of the box? In the flat yesterday he prised the lid off and found a piece of paper yellowed with age. It was furled and tied with a tiny strip of ribbon. The neat early-copperplate handwriting made him think that it was very old. Jake flattened it on the table and read it whilst the dull ache between his eyebrows returned to tell him that he was involved with something supernatural. When he overcame the sensation, the words came into focus:

Though ye have lien among the pots, yet shall ye be as the wings

of a dove covered with silver, and her feathers with yellow gold.

He mumbled the words to himself and they struck him as Biblical. Maybe it was a quotation of some sort. He looked around the room, Alice was twirling her dyed blonde hair while studying a cookery magazine – only she could convert a hobby into haute cuisine. He loved her for the precision she brought to everything she did. Her attitude was top chefs can do it, so why can’t I? Satisfied that she wouldn’t take any notice of him, he drifted over to the computer and typed Bible, wings of a dove into the search engineand had a hit. The verse was from a psalm: Psalm 68:13 in the King James’s Authorized Version of the Bible. He read the whole psalm, but the context of these two lines left him no wiser. Clicking back to desktop, he rolled up the tiny scroll and put it back in his pocket. It was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t achieved anything today. He rubbed the wound in his upper arm over the bandage under his shirt—nothing more than an aching soreness.

“Just going out for a coffee.”

He would have added “are you coming?” but he wanted to be alone to think and to get some fresh air for that matter.

He turned into Little Butcher Lane and entered a coffee bar. The owners were a pleasant couple, she made fabulous cakes and he did the best filtered coffee for miles around, to hear his immodest claim. Jake gave his order and reflected. Sometimes he felt that he wasn’t born clever enough. He was lucky with his physique: that’s why he was such a good mover, but he simply couldn’t see how a bit of paper about dove wings could be important enough to make someone attempt murder. Absent-mindedly, he touched the scroll in his pocket and the air in front of his yes and the smiling proprietor began to ripple. By now, he knew what it meant – retrocognition. When he came back to consciousness, he found himself in the Lincolnshire countryside on a damp day, but where and when? He could forget about his coffee unless he could drink it when he got back because time had no relevance in retrocognition. He cursed his cross-wired brain. If only he hadn’t been distracted years ago when he walked in front of a Jeep—and changed his life forever.

LINCOLNSHIRE, 11 OCTOBER 1643

Sir John Briggs felt the wild heartbeat of his horse as he reined in on Kenwick Top. He had put nineteen miles between himself and the debacle of Winceby. His heart, too, thumped as he stared behind him. Two riders appeared in the distance: parliamentary cavalrymen and the main chasing pack still nowhere in sight. Well, if he had to be the fox, then so be it. Slyness would be his game; he’d go to ground. Sir John turned into the drizzle-laden wind and, knowing this place well, plunged through a gap in the hedge, heedless of the thorns. It was a well-chosen place and not far from where Jake was hiding, unseen, watching him. Blessing his providential nature, the cavalier loaded his pistols with the last of his powder and balls he’d preserved. He soothed his horse with gentle words, for silence was his only hope of surprise. The minutes passed, then his pursuers came over the hill. Jake peered through the branches at them and understood:

My God, he’s going to shoot. This is the Civil War.

Sir John took aim and waited until the first rider, just ahead of his fellow, was almost level with him. He squeezed the trigger, causing the second horse to rear at the report, throwing his rider, taken by surprise. His fall was terrible. At a glance, Sir John knew his second ball would serve no purpose. The unnatural angle of the soldier’s head showed his neck was broken. The other lay on his back staring at the sky, blood staining his teeth, a hole in the jerkin where the ball had entered.

So, the fox ran on, downhill to the lair he knew so well. Jake watched the killer ride off, calmed the horse of a fallen rider, hauled himself on its back and followed the disappearing rider at a distance. Sir John dismounted before he reached Covenham St. Bartholomew: the village, where he was squire. He led the bay to a gate in a field and slapped him across the rump. The horse skittered off toward the woods and Sir John grimaced. God willing, the Roundheads would find the horse but not the fox. Jake did the same thing and, careful not to betray his presence, shadowed the royalist.

Again, the fugitive thrust through the hedge and slithered along a sheep track, hidden from the road, all the way to the rear of the Vicarage. Jake trailed him with great caution, he had seen what the desperate man was capable of. Ears alert to the sound of hooves, the cavalier heard only the familiar noises of the countryside. Sir John walked round to the front of the house, looked up the road to make sure there were no horsemen and hammered on the door.

“All the fiends of Hell are at my door!” A tall, stooped figure dressed in the black of his calling dragged open the door. “Why, Sir John, in Heaven’s name—”

Never had the sight of the reverend figure been so welcome to the squire’s eyes,

“Thomas, my dear friend, let be all thy imprecations of Heaven and Hell. There’s no time to spare. I’m straight from Winceby with the King’s cause lost hereabouts. Soon the whole county will be in rebel hands and Cromwell’s hounds are hard on my heels. Find me a safe haven my friend, for pity’s sake.” Jake, hidden in the darkness by the walls of the building, heard everything through the sash window of the kitchen.

“Ay, well, not here, else they will find thee in a trice.” He reached inside the doorframe, his hand reappearing with a ten-inch long iron key. “Come, let’s away to the church. There’s the place to keep thee safe, but tell me as we walk, what of this news?” In the silence of the surroundings, Jake, keeping low and following within earshot, could hear every word.

Anguish etched the squire’s face.

“Our Will has gone to…” his voice faltered, “…a better world. He took a ball full in the chest our first charge.” Thomas waited, respecting Sir John’s grief at the loss of his only son.