The Snape Ring E-Book

John Broughton

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Something mysterious and scary is loose in the British Museum, and a rapid solution is needed. Something connects the events to malevolent forces that menaces realm beyond our own... and all mankind.

Only one man has the power to defeat this fearsome threat, so the Ministry of Defence engages psychic investigatorJake Conley to solve the mystery. Soon after, he discovers disturbing connections to the case, including murder.

Can Jake overcome his diabolical adversary and save the day?

Leseprobe

THE SNAPE RING

JAKE CONLEY BOOK 4

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

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.

The Snape ring is dedicated to my grandson, Dylan Broughton

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

The Snape Ring.

Frontispiece: The Snape ring glowing crimson under demonic possession as envisaged by Dawn Burgoyne.

Medieval re-enactor/presenter specialising in period scripts. Visit her on Facebook at dawnburgoynepresents.

1

MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, WHITEHALL, LONDON, MARCH 2021

As instructed, Jake Conley made his way to the northern portico entrance of the Ministry of Defence building at Whitehall. ‘A monument to tiredness’, an eminent architect had called it and as he looked over the two statues of Earth and Water flanking the doorway – familiarly known as ‘the two fat ladies’ to employees, Jake would have empathised with the weariness if his overriding emotion hadn’t been trepidation. He had been dreading the call from the Head of Secret Services, Double-A, since beginning his six-month sabbatical four months ago. A reluctant recruit to the organisation, Jake had come close to premature death on several occasions whilst helping to dismantle Woden’s Brethren, the white supremacist movement, in Yorkshire. The return to his staid life as Development Manager of a theme park in Warwickshire was what he craved but even this was not allowed to him until his year’s leave had been completed.

He had filled his time pursuing his long-term interests in isolated country churches, Old English literature and the Anglo-Saxon period in general. When not thus occupied, he had taken Ms Harrop, the attractive receptionist in this Defence building out to dinner twice and once to the theatre to see a musical in the West End. He smiled at the thought since their relationship was growing more intimate and, therefore, from his point of view, more promising. He had discovered unexpected depths to the pretty Alice. Depths, because she adored subaquatic exploration of the seabed, and whether in tropical climes or the nearby Atlantic, was a matter of indifference to her. He teased her by calling her his ‘little frogperson’ but secretly admired her fortitude and bravery. He listened fascinated and with patience to her explanation of how to obtain one’s sub’s licence and her experiences of archaeological finds off the Isles of Scilly where an entire English fleet had foundered in severe weather in 1707 with the loss of two thousand lives. After the ending of his relationship with Liffi Wyther, he hadn’t imagined anyone else being able to pull at his heartstrings, but Alice was succeeding.

He took a deep breath and entered the austere ambience of the Ministry. The way he felt at that moment, it would take more than Alice’s grace and charm to restore his good humour.

She met his gaze with her usual self-contained professionalism, “Good morning, Mr Conley, to what do we owe this honour?”

He leant over the reception desk in an over-familiar manner careless of the eyes of the muscular security man boring into his back.

“I was hoping you’d tell me that, Alice,” he hissed rather than whispered. “The Big Chief’s called me in. Do you have any idea why?”

“Oh, sure, as if he shares all of his innermost thoughts with me.”

He recoiled at her sarcastic reply and adopted a seemlier more upright pose since not sprawling over her personal space might restore him to her good graces.

“Not even an inkling, Alice?” He tried what he supposed was a winning smile but she dismissed it as wheedling.

“You’d better go on up,” she indicated the lift, “if you want to be punctual.”

He glanced at his watch; she had a point as the minute hand was vertical.

“I’ll catch you afterwards if I survive the meeting. If he doesn’t induce a heart attack.”

She grinned at him and nodded, made sure nobody was observing her before putting two fingers to her lips and blowing him a kiss.

The lift whisked him up two floors and he forced his reluctant feet to approach the door of AA’s office. He formulated ways of telling the awesome superspy that he wanted no part in whatever it was he had excogitated for him. In spite of his negative thoughts and racing heart, he knocked and entered the room.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” the predatory smile in the familiar pinched face hardly quelled his nerves, “how’s life treating you? Is your sabbatical all that you would desire?”

“I’m enjoying the peaceful nature of it, thank you, sir.”

“Good, good. Not bored then? An active chappie like yourself?”

Jake didn’t trust or like this forced bonhomie, I’d better be careful how I answer this.

“It’s good to catch up on a few of my interests.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” The genial tone changed to one of brisk efficiency more suited to the hard pale-grey eyes that had not wavered in their coldness. “It’s the very reason for my calling you. I have something right up your street, old boy.”

He felt a sudden dryness in his throat and tried not to betray his nervousness by controlling the otherwise involuntary movement of his Adam’s apple.

“Oh yes?” he croaked.

“When were you last in the British Museum, Conley?”

The question caught him off balance. What was AA getting at? Was he checking up on his cultural preparedness?

“A few weeks ago, the last time I was in the city. It must have been at the end of January.”

“When you took Ms Harrop to the Prince of Wales Theatre?”

Jake gazed balefully at him. “Are you having me followed, sir?”

“Good Lord, no! I was there myself that evening. But you know, discretion and all that.”

“Oh, indeed, yes.” I should bloody well hope so! Jake decided to leave it at that but impulsively asked, “Did you enjoy the play?”

“Ha-ha! Very much. One of the funniest I can remember. Now then, as I was saying, about the British Museum?”

“I remember I went earlier in the day on that visit. I was also thinking of calling in there after our meeting today. I might take a couple of snaps of some artefacts from the Saxon period that interest me.”

“Splendid, splendid! You see, I’ve fixed an appointment for you with Catherine Bartlett. She’s the Curator of … let me see,” he glanced at a small black notepad open on the desk in front of him, “ah, yes, her exact title…Curator of the Early Medieval European Insular Collections. I’ve made it for one o’clock, that’s her lunch hour. Here,” he pushed a small white envelope across the plush green leather, “that should make life more pleasant.”

Jake took it and slipped it into his jacket pocket without looking at it, provoking the intended quizzical smile from the Head of Secret Service. “Very well,” he said with equanimity, “I’m sure you’ll have a lot in common with Ms Bartlett, she’s a most competent and admirable lady. I’ll leave it to her to explain her problem over lunch. Your job, Mr Conley is to sort it out for her. As I said earlier, right up your street, in my opinion.”

Jake tried not to show his emotions but he was feeling jubilant inside. No murderous far-right extremists this time, just a tame academic in the British Museum. What danger could be involved?

“Make your way to Room Forty-one on the first floor. The Sir Paul and Lady Ruddock Gallery.”

“I know it well, sir, the Sutton Hoo gallery.”

“Of course, you do. Catherine, er, I mean Ms Bartlett will be expecting you there.”

“Do you know the curator personally, sir?”

“A niece of a close friend of mine, Conley,” the agent said sharply, his eyes impossibly stony.

“I’ll be sure to treat her with the utmost respect.”

“I should expect no less.” Was there menace in his tone? Jake stood and almost tripped over the fringed Persian rug in his haste to take his leave. He heaved at the brass-studded leather-lined door, aware of his slowness in opening the heavy obstacle and sensed the ironical scrutiny at his awkwardness from behind the desk.

He thought it better to check out the new contents of his pocket there, in the corridor, before going down to face Alice, who he would have to disappoint by not sharing the lunch hour with her, as they’d planned. The plain white envelope contained the visiting card of an Italian restaurant in Bury Place, very close to the British museum. There was also a brief note written in immaculately neat handwriting; he would have expected nothing less than immaculate calligraphy from Double-A. He could just imagine those perfectly-manicured fingers manipulating the fountain pen. It read: table for two booked for a quarter past one. All expenses paid. Wine already ordered. Enjoy. AA.

Jake grunted, the sound a mixture of satisfaction and irritation. How typical of the man not to trust him with the wine list. How he was he to know that J. Conley Sq. was not a connoisseur of the grape? But, anyway, he was sure to receive splendid treatment and he wouldn’t have to dip into his pocket. Also, Ms Bartlett’s taste in cuisine was sure to be known to the Head of the Secret Service – was there anything he didn’t know? Just one thing bothered Jake as he took the lift down to the ground floor. Why go to the expense and trouble of calling in an outside agent and wining and dining the curator for a problem in the British Museum? What issue could justify it? And why hadn’t Double-A broached it with him? Either he felt it merited little importance or, on the contrary, it was terrifying. Had some international criminal organisation set its sights on the Sutton Hoo treasure and had there been a tipoff? The idea of squaring up to a heist mastermind didn’t appeal. Then again, he was one Englishman who deeply appreciated the beauty and priceless value of the Museum’s Anglo-Saxon artefacts, which were most certainly worth defending, preferably not with his life. The lift came smoothly to a halt. No juddering horror elevator for the Ministry of Defence! He stepped out into the hall and noticed how studied was Alice’s avoidance of looking at the elevator doors. She wanted him to think she was indifferent to his re-appearance and not that she had been waiting breathlessly for him. He smiled at his extensive knowledge of feminine wiles and walked casually over to the desk to deliver his underhand blow – but it wasn’t his fault. He must make her realise that.

“Miss Harrop,” he said formally, “I’m so sorry to inform you that contrary to my hopeful expectations, our esteemed big chief has sequestered me for lunch with a person of his choosing, who is not you. I’m afraid our appointment is put back for another occasion.”

She looked at him levelly and said, “Who then is the fortunate one to have the honour of your company today?”

“Oh, some old stick from the British Museum. A curator, no less. I might at least learn something new about the Anglo-Saxons from the old dear.”

Alice relaxed. What harm was there in Jake lunching with a grey-haired academic? She’d probably have her hair tied up in a bun and be wearing a sloppy hand-knitted cardigan of her manufacture. She told him as much and they laughed before he offered a dinner appointment for the following evening. He decided he’d most likely have to stay in London for this museum problem.

“You book it, Alice. That way it’ll be your choice of cuisine. I have blind faith in your good taste.”

“Even if it’s vegan?”

“You don’t mean that?” he panicked. He wasn’t psychologically ready for anything so radical and demanding.

“Only joking, my carnivorous friend!”

They laughed again and Jake left in a much better mood than when he had entered the building. But then he thought of lunch with a dowdy academic and his smile disappeared. Also, AA had never meant good news for him. Who knew what atrocious peril might await? Might it be the Russian mafia or the equally ferocious ’Ndrangheta? His half-Calabrian mate at university had regaled him with his tales of innocent people being dissolved in acid or served up as a pigs’ dinner. The spring went from his step and he began to trudge towards his appointment with heavy doom-laden steps. Suddenly, he cheered up, maybe the biting March air contributed to making his brain work better. He remembered that at the pagan temple in Yorkshire Liffi had seen his future in a seidhr session, with him appearing to her as an old man. In any case, his speculation had been wild and unjustified, Ms Catherine Bartlett might well have no mafia worries. He sincerely hoped not for both their sakes.

2

THE BRITISH MUSEUM, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON, MARCH 2021

His cross-wired brain had lain dormant during his sabbatical, providing a welcome respite from premonitions, retrocognitions, mind-binding and the other extraordinary powers with which he had been endowed. But as he strode across the Great Court of the museum to mount the stairs to the first floor, the familiar ache between and above his eyes returned. It indicated that his presence was not casual and that AA had chosen the right man for the job. Stepping up the long flight and entering a room that might have interested anyone but him, he passed through oblivious to his surroundings and entered Room 41.

He was immediately struck by the airiness and lightness of the exhibition. The non-reflective glass cases allowed an immediacy, as though there was no obstacle between himself and the large round Saxon shield he was facing. The ache had passed and he drew nearer to admire the helm he knew so well. He never tired of looking at it and, like a little boy, imagined pulling it on his head and charging at a ranked enemy. Lost in reverie, he had a sudden sensation of someone staring. Sheepishly, he looked around to spot a petite woman smiling at him. Fortunate in his deity-enhanced looks, in the past few months Jake had become used to surreptitious or admiring glances from the fair sex. Of course, it flattered him and this woman, in her thirties he guessed, pleased his eye and surprised him by walking across with hand extended.

“Mr Conley? Cathy Bartlett, delighted to meet you.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. Was he hearing a-right? Wasn’t she too young to hold such an important position? Where was the grey-haired, dowdy figure he’d feared? This was indeed a pleasant revelation. Her hazel eyes twinkled with amusement, “Welcome to my realm. I recognised you at once from your picture in the paper and on the back of your novel. I read it; you know. King Aldfrith: I love anything to do with the Anglo-Saxon period.

“Well, I’m sure we have a lot in common and to talk about Ms Bartlett…”

“Please, call me Cathy.”

“OK, Cathy, I’ve taken the liberty of booking a table for two. I hope you like Italian food?”

Her face lit up, “My favourite. Uncle Clive said you’d probably be taking me for a working lunch. How very civilised!”

Jake felt smug, Clive, is it?

“We should slip along, then. Tempus fugit!”

Not to be outdone, she replied, “fugit inreparabile tempus,” citing Virgil’s entire phrase, Jake did a rapid silent translation ‘it escapes, irretrievable time.’

Impressed, as they exited the building, he discovered she’d been to the small restaurant for a staff dinner two years before and appreciated the food and the ambience. Trust Clive to get it right! I must find out his surname. If he knew AA’s identity, he could do some background research. It would make him feel less insecure when dealing with the big chief.

They were greeted at the door by a distinctly Italian-looking man wearing a white shirt and black bow-tie. “Meester Conley, sì signore. Table for two. I reserved this one by the window if it pleases la signorina. It did. “My name is Fabio and I’ll be looking after you. He flashed a charming smile at the curator, ignoring Jake. “An aperitivo, perhaps. I have a nice cheeled prosecco.

“That’d be lovely,” she replied for both.

Following the aperitif, the antipasti were exquisite and the chilled Verdicchio an excellent accompaniment. He was amazed at the appetite in one with such a slender figure, but with the relaxing effects of the alcohol accompanying the pasta the secret came to light. It was a Cirò rosé.

“I’m always pleased when my escort chooses the wine, especially when he knows what he’s doing.”

He smiled enigmatically as was the case because he didn’t! Well done Clive. Sir Clive, I’ll bet.

She studied the label. “It’s Calabrian, you know. That region was part of the Magna Graecia and this vine is among the oldest in the world. Did you know that in the early Olympic Games the winners were awarded Cirò wine, not gold medals?”

An unpleasant association with the wine’s region and his earlier thoughts occurred to him but showing no outward sign, he paused from winding spaghetti and shovelling it into his mouth, “I’m not feeling athletic at the moment.”

“Fortunately,” she smiled, “I did my usual fifty-minute run this morning; don’t you work out, Jake?”

He thought of telling her he’d flown to Scotland last month as a peregrine falcon, but, how could he? It defied belief. He limited himself to, “Not as much as I’d like. Too busy!”

“Yes, I know about your anti-fracking campaign and Uncle Clive hinted a little at your classified work. Are you a spy, Mr Conley?”

“I would be if Sir Clive had his way. Ah she isn’t betraying any emotion when I knight him, so he is a ‘Sir’. But you know, I’m rather a regular guy. Mmm, this dish is exquisite, isn’t it? What’s bottarga, by the way? Forgive my ignorance.”

She smiled, pleased at his sincerity. She glanced at the menu, spaghetti with pesto of lemon zest, pistachio and bottarga. “It’s tuna roe, Jake.”

“Ah, fish eggs; nonetheless, delicious.”

“They are. But you’re not.”

“Excuse me, not what?”

“Just a regular guy as you claim to be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Apart from this first half-hour in your company? There’s what Uncle Clive told me.”

“Yes, about Sir Clive…oh my goodness! Do you ever have these moments?”

“Sorry?”

“A total blank. When things escape your mind and no matter how hard you try, you can’t grasp something.”

She laid her fork on her plate and gazed at him. “It sometimes happens: to everyone, I think. Why? What is it you’ve forgotten?”

“Sir Clive. I see him all the time and his surname’s gone.”

“Cochrane?”

“Good heavens! How can a name like that slip my mind? It must be your charming presence distracting me!”

“Now, you’re the charming one!”

He didn’t press the matter; he’d got what he wanted. “About Sir Clive Cochrane. What’s he up to Cathy? I mean, I can only thank him for arranging this meeting but he didn’t mention the underlying purpose.”

She looked musingly, “So that’s why you haven’t said anything. I thought it was just you being the supercool agent. Sangfroid and all that!”

“Would you like to enlighten me?”

Fabio appeared, sniffing a cork and holding a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino Riserva 1981, silently displaying professional approval of the wine selection by his somewhat Latin body language.

Bravo, Mr Cochrane! That beauty must cost £300. With a flourish, their waiter poured a drop into his glass for approval, which was eagerly given. I’m glad I’m not picking up this tab.

“My goodness, you know your wines, Jake.”

“I did the Chianti trail a few years ago and this is perhaps their flagship label.”

“Near Siena, isn’t it?”

He had barely completed his enthusiastic account of wine tasting sessions in Tuscan castles with graphic descriptions of the rolling hills covered with neat, well-tended rows of vines when Fabio arrived with shin of wild boar and told them solemnly: “Signori, roasted ve-ery slowly in red wine with cloves and served with fresh cranberry sauce. Jake wondered what he would have to do for Ms Bartlett to discount this sumptuous meal. He would soon find out.

She waited until Fabio had retreated out of earshot and gazed at Jake, who had been studying her oval face, straight nose and full lips. Her shoulder-length light-brown hair turned charmingly to blonde at its extremity and with its switch from left to right, set off her regular features. It was better if Alice thought of the curator as an elderly frump. Nothing could be further from reality; he found her rather more than pleasing.

“I told you Room Forty-one was my realm, Jake, but it might have been more accurate to say ‘my baby’. When I took over, it was a gloomy, dingy place. Not at all what you see today. The fact is, people need educating about the early medieval period. They still call them the Dark Ages and that’s a misnomer if ever there was one. I don’t need to convince you of all people, but just think of the jewellery,” she sipped at her wine appreciatively, licking her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue. “The gallery as it was conceived did everything to reinforce the impression of darkness. I’ve recreated it aiming at a light, airy space with the Sutton Hoo treasures in the centre like the sun and everything else gravitating around them. Wandering around the floor, people should be able to relate the connection of other areas to sixth-century East Anglia and easily insert them in a time frame.”

“I think you’ve been very successful, but how is any of this problematical?”

She looked anxious for the first time. “It isn’t, but a few months ago, about last September, I think, strange things began to happen.”

“What kind of things?”

“At first just affecting the staff of Room Forty-one. They complained of headaches and nausea. Some managed to get themselves transferred to other areas of the museum. At least two left the British Museum completely to change their jobs, furnishing no satisfactory explanation for the change. Their replacements seem afraid of something but when I press them, they don’t want to talk about it except in the vaguest terms.”

“What do they say?”

“Odd things, like the room is haunted. Absolute stuff and nonsense!” She looked indignantly at him as if it were his fault. “And then there’s the fact of the display case.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s occurred twice, so far and I can’t explain it. There are security films, of course, but they’re weird too.”

“Tell me,” he was intrigued.

“A cabinet was damaged in the night, about a month ago. You know, it would take an incredible amount of force to break that reinforced nonreflective glass. It costs a fortune and we had to replace the pane and not once because it happened again a week ago. That’s when I contacted Uncle Clive since there’s no explanation and the CCTV only makes it more mysterious.”

“How come?”

“Because on both occasions, the film of the room goes haywire as if there had been massive electrical interference. We lost the image for about thirty minutes on both occasions. The next morning, we found the glass cracked but not opened and nothing missing. The circumstances have just made the staff edgier and more reluctant to stay in our room. I don’t know what to do.”

“And you say the same cabinet was attacked on the second occasion?”

“Yes,” she said gulping this time, not sipping, at her wine.

“What is there of importance inside?”

“Obviously, for me, everything in there is of importance. There are some outstanding artefacts, but honestly, I can’t think of one that might attract a thief more than others. All the pieces in that unit are jewellery, brooches, bracelets, rings and so forth.”

“I see. Also, it’s clear, Cathy, we’re not dealing with an ordinary thief here.”

“Not you too, Jake! Surely, you don’t agree with my windy staff that it’s a ghost? Uncle Clive told me that you’d had dealings in Yorkshire with the supernatural. I’m not a believer in that kind of thing.”

“In that case, if you reject the concept of ghosts or other inexplicable entities, you must think that you’re dealing with very sophisticated thieves. First of all, the security out of hours of the British Museum is practically impenetrable; secondly, they would have to be invisible. But if I’m going to help, I can’t afford to dismiss anything out of hand. I’ll need to inspect the cabinet for myself. What time do you close the room?”

“To the public? At half-past five.”

“By the way, did you take photographs of the damage?”

“Yes, I did.” She groped in her handbag and took out an iPhone X. As briskly as she did everything, she produced a photograph of the damaged cabinet. “That was the first attempt, just over a month ago, at the end of January. The glass showed crazed cracks spreading from a chipped depression. You know, that glass is bulletproof among its other attributes.”

“Was the blow struck near the lock?”

“Not in the old-fashioned sense of the term,” she said, “There’s an overall sealing system. It’s quite advanced. But if you wanted to get into the cabinet, that’s where you’d strike. Although–”

“Yes?”

She flicked to another photograph, “Last week the blow was delivered to the opposite side.”

“Strange.”

“Isn’t it?” She looked worried and nibbled at a knuckle.

“Look, I think I’d better come up to Room Forty-one at half-past five and see for myself.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to do anything?”

“If I can’t, I don’t know who can.”

She gave him a grateful look but she could not help that it was tinged with doubt.

3

THE BRITISH MUSEUM, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON, MARCH 2021

Faith in his psychic abilities encouraged Jake as he stepped up to Room 41. The strange ethereal atmosphere of the British Museum when emptied of visitors struck him. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the floor to the cabinet Cathy had indicated earlier. The dizziness associated with his synaesthesia overwhelmed him and he swayed on his feet. No surer sign than this vertiginous feeling could alert him that he was in the presence of the supernatural.

He had learned to quell the debilitating strength of the sensation with experience, thus he steadied himself to search for and identify the problematical artefact. His eyes roamed over various Anglo-Saxon brooches, clasps and bracelets but were always drawn back to a particular ring. As he focussed on the gold band with an onyx set in a decorated hoop, the customary throbbing dull ache to his forehead warned him that this was the object he sought. As the pounding in his brow eased, his eyes widened in surprise. There was a figure incised in the semi-precious stone and now, suddenly, a crimson glow delineated the form of a man and his features. The ardent visage glared balefully at him and the hair at the nape of his neck stood up as he sensed the evil directed at him. The malevolence in the contorted face nearly rocked him off his feet and became too much to bear so he turned away and hurried to find Cathy Bartlett.

Sensitive, she was quick to spot his unease.

“Jake, what is it? Have you found the cause of our problem?”

Did he detect a note of scepticism underlying the hope?

“I-I don’t know, but I believe it’s a ring the thieves were after.”

“Which ring?”

“The one from the ship burial on Snape Common.”

“The Snape Ring? It is a remarkable piece.”

“It has a figure incised into the stone a-and as I looked at it, it began to glow and the face glowered at me in the most hateful way. I know it’s impossible, but–”

“It isn’t, you know. The glaring face was probably your imagination, but the luminescence, that’s another matter. Come with me and I’ll explain.”