Crusader's Gold

THIRTY THREE

“How many secrets of this nature does London hold close to its heart?” Crouch wondered quietly. “You have both Marble Arch and Wellington Arch constructed and designed as entrances to Buckingham Palace and then later moved. Is that a clue? You have the Duke’s original statue placed atop the Wellington Arch, also later moved in favor of the quadriga. You have tunnels built alongside other tunnels and hidden by the simple fact that they’re never spoken of. And by mis-information. What do all these monuments conceal? That old abandoned house up Piccadilly?” He pointed to where they could just see crumbling gates and a huge, decrepit, once-stupendous house left to rot. “Is it really empty or is that a clever façade? Thousands of brass nameplates on buildings up Mount Street and Aldford Street and all over Belgravia, companies that mean nothing to anyone and yet on the street outside sit Maybachs, Rolls Royces and matt-black specials. Secret clubs. How many tunnels are there? Underground stations not in use? Offshoots nobody knows about?”

Alicia was becoming acutely aware of the passage of time. She wondered if Kenzie and Riley might be out there, watching even now. “So what’s the next move?”

“That arch,” Crouch said. “We need to look inside.”

Alicia tailed the group as they studied the inside of the Wellington Arch. Even to her it seemed larger inside than it appeared to be from the exterior. Crouch saw almost immediately that an undisclosed door could easily be secreted inside here, even with the inclusion of a police station. As they walked he pointed out the closed-off areas, giving them such a surreptitious wink that Alicia laughed.

“No Michael,” she said. “That doesn’t look creepy at all.”

Exiting again into the warming day, Crouch spoke as he walked. “Question is,” he said. “Where’s the subterranean entrance and can we get to it?” He re-examined the readout from the vibrometer device.

Alicia scanned the area for hostiles. Russo hovered at her side.

“Wait. I never noticed that before.”

Alicia turned. “What?”

“The direct line of our third tunnel enters Hyde Park, yes?”

Caitlyn jumped in. “Yes!”

“Well.” He traced the line on a map of London. “Then it definitely goes directly underneath there…” He pointed at a remarkable old Bath-stone clad building with high spiked green-painted railings outside. “Apsley House.”

Alicia shook her head, lost in the swamp of information. “And what’s Apsley House?”

“The home of Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington. The very man who beat Napoleon at Waterloo. Also knows as Number One, London. It stands right along our route.”

“It stands alone,” Caitlyn observed, again using her tablet. “The Duke’s house. Surprisingly close to the place where his monument ended up, despite it being isolated on a traffic island and made hard to reach. It’s where Wellesley entertained, strategized and lived for much of his life. It now contains his collection of paintings, porcelain, a magnificent silver centerpiece and…” Caitlyn gasped out a breath. “No.”

Even Alicia looked around. “What?”

“A heroic marble nude of Napoleon himself! Standing three and a half meters high he holds a gilded Nike in his right hand and a staff in his left. It was originally displayed in the Louvre and then around 1815 transported here by the orders of the Duke after victory. The timeline is spot on for the dating of the Congress of Vienna.”

“And it is still there?” Healey asked.

Caitlyn nodded. “One of the house’s main draws.”

“A Napoleon statue in the Duke’s house?” Crouch said wonderingly. “Is that a clue to the Hercules being there too?”

“Oh dear, oh wow.” Caitlyn squealed suddenly. “Remember the final part of the verse?” She reminded them all of the as yet unsolved riddle.

“By the Pillars of Hercules he endures, a part of the soil, hiding among New Arches envisioned, to the victor the spoils,” Crouch recalled. “I guess we still need to find the Pillars of Hercules.”

Alicia scanned the horizon as if expecting to see two great marble columns. Crouch set off in the direction of the spotless-looking old house, but Caitlyn’s voice rooted them all to the spot.

“How about this? Apsley House, built around 1771 stands on the site of an old lodge that belonged to the crown. Immediately before the start of the house’s construction it was occupied by a tavern called Hercules’ Pillars.”

The whole group stared in wonder across at Apsley House.

“That place was once a tavern called Hercules Pillars?” Crouch said.

“Yep. It was immortalized in print in the book A History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding as the location where Squire Western resides when he first journeys up to London.”

“Then the Napoleon statue might be more than the spoils of war,” Crouch said. “Much, much more.”

Caitlyn stared at him, still shellshocked. “You’re thinking X marks the spot?”

Crouch grinned. “What could be better? A naked statue of your nemesis and your country’s vilest enemy, standing in your own home above the greatest treasure he ever owned, that you now possess? It’s pure conquest. The perfect triumph.”

“Even I have to admit,” Alicia said. “There are simply too many coincidences for this not to be significant.”

Crouch plonked himself down on the grass that bounded the Wellington Arch. “This does throw up several rather large flags though,” he admitted. “If we’re correct. Somebody knows what we know. Somebody of importance and in authority. And they’re keeping the Hercules hidden for a reason, probably greed. Why don’t they want it found? Is it still too precious for the masses? If so then I certainly don’t agree with them.”

Alicia watched him take out his cellphone and contact Rolland Sadler, their benefactor. Crouch explained the situation in terse terms and then listened closely to Sadler’s decision.

“I agree. It should be outed. The solicitors can worry about the legalities and the precedents and wrongdoings later. And let’s face facts — the bloody thing might even have moved on.”

Alicia judged Sadler’s reply to be of a doubtful nature. Crouch finished up with a promise. “We’ll find it if it’s there, Rolland. Be assured of that.”

Then he scrutinized his team. “Looks like we’re about to vandalize an English Heritage site. Any objections?”

They paid an entrance fee, Crouch grumbling about the cost and waving away a woman offering headsets. Alicia asked the way to the Adam Staircase.

“Just through the door there.” A bespectacled woman pointed. “And don’t forget to take the stairs to the first floor for the Waterloo Gallery. And the basement.” She pointed ahead.

Crouch knit his brow. “There’s a Waterloo Gallery too?”

“Yes. The Duke collected many paintings of his victories. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a headset? Just one maybe?”

Caitlyn held back a sigh and offered her hand. When the headphones and machine were duly handed over and operations revealed the woman backed away. Alicia led the way to the Adam Staircase and then exclaimed: “Oh my!”

She stared at the enormous marble nude, fascinated. Napoleon appeared to be walking, with a robe of some sort thrown over his upraised left arm, the hand clasping a staff. In his right hand rested a victory standing on an orb, the pose making him appear to be offering the victory to someone.

Russo nudged her. “What do you think?”

“Me? I just wonder how often Napoleon really wore a fig leaf strapped to his bollocks.”

Crouch shook his head despairingly. “Only you, Alicia. Only you.”

“What?”

“In this house? Amongst these works of art and wonder and magnificent sculptures. As I said, only you.”

“You get what you see.” Alicia indicated herself rather than the statue.

“And don’t we know it.”

Russo grunted softly at her side, stifling laughter. Alicia realized she’d been duped. “Ahh, Robster. You’ll pay for that.”

Crouch quickly turned his attention to the surface on which the large statue rested. Flagstones, some cracked, surrounded it. No carpet. No wooden flooring. Caitlyn, listening to the recording, pointed out that the floor actually had to be strengthened to accommodate the weight of the statue. He checked the walls all around it, rapping his knuckles against the surface, but it was all continuous plaster. It was only when he walked around to the rear that his gaze settled on something.

“An air-con unit?” he wondered, pointing out a large, scruffy white box seemingly bolted to the wall.

Alicia came around to look but was immediately taken with Napoleon’s perfect buttocks. “Now that’s an ass,” she said. “If only Kenzie were here. I’d tell her. Maybe even stuff her head between them.”

Crouch winced. “I’d like to get a closer look at that—” He paused as a group of tourists came in and paused to admire the sculpture.

Alicia whispered. “Say the word. I’m sure I can say something that’ll make them move along at a faster pace.”

Crouch held up a hand. “Not necessary. I often find the art of lingering and mulling to be quite successful.”

“Oh yeah.” Alicia moved away. “Me too.”

Crouch walked to the front of the room, taking in the entire picture. The tourist group moved on and then so did another. Several sniggering schoolboys on a school trip clattered by and, as they climbed the winding staircase, tried to reach out and touch the victory. Crouch returned at last, pointing now to Alicia’s left.

“You see the blue unit there? It’s what? A heating unit? A housing? See the black mesh.”

Alicia stared toward the unit he indicated. It was large, affixed to the wall, with a flat top on which stood another carving and a plaque explaining the painting that hung above. “It’s larger than the air-con box,” she said. “Easily big enough to admit a person.”

“Right. But let’s not forget the basement.”

Alicia stood bored as Crouch and Caitlyn dragged them downstairs and examined every inch, every painting and display case that resided at the bottom of Apsley House.

In the end it was easy for Crouch. “You spoke of coincidence.” He rounded on Alicia quite suddenly. “You?”

“All right, calm down, Mikey. I’ll take that one on the chin.”

“No,” he said, excitement making him tremble a little. “No. Look!”

He waved at the final display case placed in the furthest corner of the basement, between two walls, a square container running from floor to ceiling like a shaft.

“It’s all in here. The display. Do you see? A print of Napoleon. The original victory from the hand of the statue upstairs. That one is a fake, so schoolboys can touch it without fear of damage. And here… Napoleon’s death mask. And a print of St Helena, where he died. This is the display, the victory shelf. This is our X, the real triumphal shrine to everything Napoleon lost.”

Caitlyn was on her knees, examining the pieces as closely as she could.

Alicia dropped beside her but concentrated on the floor instead. “Drag marks,” she said. “Faint. It doesn’t happen often but this cabinet comes away from the walls.”

Crouch looked around. The room was otherwise empty, the basement and its several flights seemingly a step too far for most of the visitors. Of course, the majority of the house’s riches were on the first floor.

“Do it,” he said. “This is what we’re here for. This is the end. We already have mercenaries and tyrants up our asses. Might as well have the local cops too. And if this leads to what I think it does… we’ll be walking right on out of here with nothing to fear.”

Alicia and Russo hooked their fingers over the cabinet’s metal frame at the top and bottom. Together, they pulled, gently at first. When nothing happened and a camera-touting tourist wandered in, Healey caught his attention by stumbling over an uneven piece of flooring. The group waited a few minutes and then tried again.

“Steady,” Crouch mouthed. “Steady.”

Gradually, inch by inch, the cabinet moved. It had been designed to be a problematic shift.

“Maybe this isn’t the true entrance at all,” Crouch said. “I can’t see Mr. and Mrs. Dandy Upper-Class Rich Person taking the shaft, can you?”

Alicia grimaced, still pulling hard and wishing she had enough breath left to answer that one. The possibilities were endless, stunning, as attractive as a desert sunset. But then the cabinet pulled free and they were left looking at the perfect square of a black hole that disappeared into the earth underneath Apsley House and London. A waft of age and earth floated up, not entirely unpleasant.

Crouch practically capered to the front. “All right. Bloody hell, I’d give my right arm for a flickering torch.”

Alicia had to grin at his geekish fervor. Russo puffed at her. “I s’pose we could use a rolled-up painting from upstairs,” he dead-panned. “But that might land us in even more bubbling liquid.”

Healey handed out powerful torches from his backpack, giving Crouch an actual lantern flashlight to help lead the way. Alicia descended second, the barrel of her torch held between her teeth and illuminating the rough walls in haphazard fashion. She estimated an easy descent of about ten feet before a tunnel opened out below. Crouch was already turning in place like a dog marking its territory.

“What’s up?” She jumped down to find they were standing at a three-way tunnel junction.

“Just getting my bearings.” He checked his Special Forces watch. “This is the tunnel we found earlier,” he said. “Stretching into Hyde Park.” He pointed. “And then that way to the Wellington Arch.” He motioned. “Everything’s in a straight line as per Paris and the Arc de Triomphe. Everything lines up.”

“So what’s in Hyde Park?” Alicia wondered.

“I don’t know.”

“And that way?” She stood at the entrance to the third tunnel — one they hadn’t found earlier.

“I don’t know, Alicia. That way, the third…” He squinted. “Heads toward Piccadilly.”

“It must run directly above the Victoria Line,” she said. “That’s why it didn’t show up earlier. The vibrometer just picked up the bigger Tube tunnel. Now that’s some clever concealment.”

Crouch nodded slowly as the others climbed down to join them. “An important tunnel.”

“Tube stops are Hyde Park Corner to Green Park to Piccadilly Circus,” Caitlyn said. “What’s up that way?”

“And which way’s the treasure?” Russo rumbled. “ ‘Cause it ain’t gonna take long before someone finds that wide open hole in the floor.”

Crouch grinned. “To my mind there’s only one possible place for the treasure to be,” he breathed, almost overwhelmed. “That way. Right under the monument to one of our greatest ever commanders. Under the Wellington Arch.”

The treasure hunters continued their unremitting search, bowed but not broken by adversity, marching between rough walls of cracked stone, beset by the rumblings of what could only be traffic both above and below, hemmed in by the earth and breathing air that might be filtered down from the arch above or even from the passage that led into Hyde Park, until they came to a passage that no longer looked coarse but instead looked grand and majestic, imposing and splendid. The walls moved away as their path widened out and dim lights appeared above. Something glittered in the darkness ahead.

Something glorious.

Something stunning.

And Michael Crouch fell to his knees in wonder as he approached.

Words were not enough.