Stones of Fire

43

‘… at which time Galen of Godmersham succumbed to the Black Death, the great plague of 1348.’

With his pointer Marshall Mendolson underlined the last line of the third quatrain. He had given in and begun deciphering the verses. These guys were a tough crowd, the older dude with the buzz cut the scariest of them all. He wanted the goods, no two ways about it. Marshall doubted the guy even knew his name. Earlier he had overheard one of his steroid-enhanced bodyguards refer to him as ‘the lil Harvard prick’.

‘And the fourth quatrain, what of it?’ his benefactor pressed, making no attempt to hide his impatience.

Marshall struck a thoughtful pose, doing a fair imitation of one of his favourite Harvard professors. ‘Hmm… good question.’ And one he had no intention of truthfully answering.

Did these Neanderthals really think they could outsmart a Harvard graduate?

It had taken only a cursory reading of Galen’s verses for him to figure out that the arca in the third quatrain was an oblique reference to the Ark of the Covenant. Not the medieval chest the head dude had hired him to find. These guys wanted him to hunt down the Ark of the Covenant so they could cash in on it, his cut being a paltry seventy thousand dollars. After he paid off his student loans, there wouldn’t be enough left for a Happy Meal at McDonald’s.

Yeah, well, think again.

Jesus. The freaking Ark of the Covenant. According to the Bible, the Ark could raze fortified cities, part seas and kick some serious ass. And if you believed that, he had some mountain property in Florida to sell you. Although you didn’t have to be a Bible thumper to know that the Ark of the Covenant was a treasure of immeasurable worth. As in more money than he could ever count.

Hello, Tahiti and a life of indolent leisure surrounded by bare-breasted island beauties.

Given that his mother had once sued the Fairfax County school board over the ‘one nation under God’ phrase in the pledge of allegiance — the ground-swell of religious fervour nearly swallowing Adele Mendolson whole — his finding the Ark of the Covenant would be ironic, to say the least.

This one’s for you, Mother.

‘The “goos” reference in the fourth quatrain is pretty straightforward,’ he answered after a long drawn-out pause, figuring some straight talk in order, every good lie cloaked in the truth.

‘You’re talking about the goose that laid the golden egg, right?’ This from the brawny bruiser named Boyd, the man straddling an expensive Sheraton chair like a lap dancer straddling a paying crotch.

‘Very good, Sir Rambo. Go to the head of the class.’ A measured half-beat later, he mockingly exclaimed, ‘Not!’ At that moment he wanted nothing more than to smash the muscled behemoth’s face into the floorboards. As had been done to him by countless bullies in years gone by.

Knowing he could go only so far, he switched gears, once more the erudite Harvard grad. ‘In the medieval lexicon, the goose represented vigilance. And given the fact that Galen composed his quatrains just prior to his death, it specifically means vigilance in death.’

Liking the sound of that, Marshall smiled, having just figured out how he could outmanoeuvre his benefactor. ‘Line two of the last quatrain is simply a “Woe is me” commentary on the plague,’ he continued, barely able to suppress an excited grin. ‘That takes us to line three, which is an offhand reference to Saint —’

‘I want to know where Galen hid his chest,’ the older dude hissed, his eyes narrowing as he stared him down.

‘Well, now, that is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?’ Or a thousand times that amount.

It was all he could do not to break into song. Like the bearded Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. Except he really would be a rich man. No if about it.

Stepping over to his laptop, Marshall clicked several keys, projecting the next slide — a page from a nearly-seven-hundred-year-old document — onto the wall. ‘From the Feet of Fines record I discovered that Galen donated a hefty number of golden objects to —’ he snatched his handwritten notes from the table ‘— St Lawrence the Martyr church in Godmersham. That being the “holy blissful martir” of the fourth quatrain. Like most medieval men, Galen no doubt believed that he could buy his way into heaven.’ Or bribe his way into heaven, depending on your point of view. ‘Put it all together and my guess is that Galen, quite literally, took the arca to his grave.’

The older dude chewed on that for a few seconds. Then, obviously an anal sort who liked to verify the facts, he said, ‘Are you saying that the gold chest is buried in Galen of Godmersham’s tomb at St Lawrence the Martyr church?’

‘Yup. That’s as good a hypothesis as any.’ Seeing a flash of annoyance on his benefactor’s face, he hastily added, ‘It was the custom of the time to wrap a corpse in linen, that being the “veyl bitwixen worlds tweye”. Aka the veil between two worlds.’

Marshall inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Although crafted on the fly, the lie had the ring of truth about it. Actually, when the Ark had been housed in Solomon’s Temple, inside the Holy of Holies, a veil had been hung in front of it to keep it hidden, the “veyl” in Galen’s last quatrain referring to the Ark not a medieval death shroud.

While the quatrains provided scant clues, he figured the Ark was really hidden inside the church under a statue of the martyred St Lawrence. Or maybe behind a plaque or wall carving. Which is why he intended to steer the old dude and his three big bad bears away from the church itself, focusing instead on the adjacent cemetery. Then, once his benefactor had given up the search, he would return on the sly to St Lawrence the Martyr and lay claim to the prize.

A drum roll, please…

‘Galen of Godmersham’s tomb — you’re completely certain of this?’

‘Certain enough,’ he retorted, not liking the way he was being hauled over the coals.

A man clearly accustomed to giving orders, the older dude brusquely gestured to the paper-laden table. ‘Pack it up. We leave in ten minutes.’