The Lost Crown of the Knights Templar

13 Mysteries in the Mist

At the personal cost of Dr. Hooper and Dr. Victor, Nina took an early flight the next day to London. The two colleagues asked the historian not to disclose any information they had given her, including the reasons for her trip — at least not until they’d ascertained what, or whom, they were dealing with.

Nina was glad of the distraction, because she felt things dwindling unnecessarily between her and Sam since he was apparently refusing to switch on his phone. After receiving numerous notifications of missed calls from him, Nina had tried to call back to make peace. Finding that his number was unavailable left her somewhere between angry and sad, but played bewilderment right down the middle.

Such a small vexation between them was now becoming the foundation for mind games, it appeared, since Sam’s erratic reactions caused her to doubt their closeness. Why would he call her so many times, knowing that she couldn’t answer while traveling? Surely he wouldn’t be childish enough to see her non-responsiveness as a line in the ground, opting for war?

He was more intelligent, more logically minded, than that. But she figured not having his phone on gave her some hint of their crumbling relationship. At least a day or two working in England, away from Sam, would divert her emotions from the inexplicable change in her friend’s demeanor. Nina took a taxi to Upney Lane, but it did not save her from getting her dark locks wet in the persistent drizzle that hazed over the buildings and cars. From the window of the taxi, the entire world looked like a ghost town and pedestrians moving along the pavement looked like lost souls, wandering.

Nina wondered what the two medical examiners could have come upon that merited her attention and expertise, especially the request to be most discreet. What she did not look forward to, however, was seeing cadavers, especially after the medical examiner on the phone had disclosed their cause of death.

I don’t know if I could handle mangled corpses. Not today. That is the very word he used. Mangled. Christ! she thought as her taxi stopped in front of the state of the art public morgue. Through the white misty veil, she could read the name — Nirvana Public Morgue. “Nirvana. That’s a laugh,” she muttered as she passed the driver his fee in a thinly rolled note. “Thank you.” Nina stepped out of the car, hardly able to see a few meters ahead of her. Straining her eyes to watch where she was going, Nina had no idea what her surroundings looked like, save for a barbwire gate fixed with a rusty sign that designated a parking area to her right.

In her fertile imagination, she envisioned the stumbling frames of walking dead people emerging from the mist all about her. Her pace quickened toward the main entrance at the thought. Aye, and you are walking toward the dead people, did you know? she teased herself.

From nowhere a thunderous screech of metal on metal assaulted her ears. It radiated out of white obscurity, crashing through the peaceful environment with a harsh clacking that frightened Nina to near death.

“Jesus Christ!” she squealed in terror, her knees buckling at the terrible sound that seemed to come from all directions. She teetered sideways in her physical reaction to the fright, spraining her ankle between the concrete slab of the walkway and the well-kept lawn adjacent to it. A loud crack affirmed her pain as she fell to the wet grass.

Hands came from the whiteness, grabbing at her and Nina felt her heart explode with fear as dark shapes emerged around her. Mute with terror, she soon realized that it was not a gang of London zombies trying to tear her limb from limb, but staff from the morgue trying to help her up.

“Don’t step on that foot, Miss,” a young man advised as he propped her up against his body. A female assistant was picking up Nina’s travel bag and another man, older and more distinguished, gently took hold of her other arm to alleviate the weight on her ankle.

“I am so sorry, Dr. Gould,” he apologized as they helped Nina inside. “I’m afraid you fell victim to old Eighty-Eight Black, a freight train carrying coal on the line behind the building here. Makes a right racket.” He sighed laboriously, looking at the lawn. “The cement is wet and a bit elevated. Always causes problems for visitors who don’t know the place, and the mist always makes things even worse.”

“It’s alright, doctor,” she groaned. “Doctor Hooper, right?”

“Yes, madam,” he smiled finally, as they helped Nina past an old reception desk and its registers, a cold empty wall with warning signs, hazard rules, and a few pointless old posters rallying against smoking and drugs. “Oh, that is the old reception area,” Dr. Barry Hooper explained. “The new wing is far more agreeable and professional. We only use that entrance for, well,” he smiled sheepishly and lolled his head, “you know, the customers.”

Nina had to smile. “Aye, I understand, Dr. Hooper. I must be the only live one that ever came through it — and I do not intend to stay for the prize accommodations, I’ll have you know.” The staff on duty were relieved that the visiting expert had a sense of humor, dark and unapologetic as their own. With a chuckle, they ushered Nina into Dr. Barry and Dr. Victor’s office, setting her down in Dr. Barry’s posh leather chair.

“Put some ice on that, Liam,” he ordered one of the dieners, pointing at Nina’s ankle after he helped her remove her boot.

“That sounds vaguely disturbing,” Nina remarked, “you know, considering where we are and all.”

Barry snickered, shaking his head. “I just hope this injury is not so bad that we’ll have to cart you off to King George or Barking Hospital,” he said, wincing at the slightly swollen joint of the visitor. He caught Nina’s eyes combing the steel tables in the main room curiously. He lowered the volume of his voice considerably before clarifying, “Oh, the men I asked you to have a look at are not in there, Dr. Gould. Since the markings on them are all identical, I suppose you only need to see one of them.”

“Oh God, yes,” she agreed instantly.

“We are keeping them,” he looked around first, checking if there was anyone within earshot, “somewhere else.”

Nine nodded in acknowledgement and answered in a similarly secretive tone, “And that is because you reckon there is something… special… about them?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he affirmed sincerely. “You see, in the Muslim tradition, these deceased men would have been collected by their families so fast it would make your head spin. They choose to deal with burial rites and such personally, you see?”

“Aye,” she answered.

“But they have been here for the better part of a work week and still — nothing,” he informed Nina, looking properly suspicious of it. “Why? Their fingerprints yielded nothing, apart from one-name entries in what appears to be a confidential file at Home Office. The fact that nobody claimed them tells us we are dealing with something illegal, you know, in a national security kind of way?”

“Sounds like it,” Nina agreed. “Show me the symbol you referred to when we last spoke, Doctor. I just hope I can identify it.”

She placed her laptop on his desk, and put her bag on the other chair. Her foot pulsed with pain and frigidity, but Nina wanted to sate her curiosity and if it came to something insignificant, she would be only too happy to go home as soon as possible.

“Will you be able to step on that foot?” he asked.

“Here, Dr. Gould,” the female assistant said as she passed Nina two painkillers and whipped out a compress like it was a party favor. “I trust you have a high pain threshold?”

Nina rolled her eyes and sighed as she popped the pills. “Aye, I do, but not quite as high as the folks that shack up here in your establishment, so please love, be gentle.”

Amongst a cackle of joint amusement and laughter from the staff, the girl applied the ice pack to Nina’s ankle with care. The historian cringed and pursed her lips tightly, as she did with her eyes. She tried not to cry out, stifling the screech inside her throat and prohibiting its exit from her lips. Her hands clutched at the chair.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Gould,” the girl apologized contritely. “Only a few more seconds. Dr. Hooper, I think it is sprained, but at least it’s not broken.”

A few minutes later the painkillers had kicked in and Nina admitted that she was feeling doped enough to get on an embalming table for a striptease. Dr. Hooper and his shift staff enjoyed her company and her banter, so it was no surprise that the whole affair of the historian’s accident-prone visit soon developed into a bit of a social gathering.

When Dr. Victor arrived, he was quickly introduced and updated on the earlier happenings. With a piece of cheese bagel still lodged in the side of his mouth, he shook Nina’s hand before storing the small morsel in his cheek to speak. “Lovely to meet you, Dr. Gould. You came highly recommended.”

“Oh, that is good to hear,” she answered modestly, refraining from mentioning that, to be nominated by some lady in an archival office was hardly worthy of ego. “I think the medication Anya over there gave me will keep the pain at bay long enough to see the marking on the man you are… keeping.”

“Yes, yes, please,” Dr. Glen Victor invited, holding out his hand for Nina to support most of her weight. “Come, Barry!” he cried to his colleague, and he cast a stern eye on the day shift interns. “You lot, hold the fort until we get back, alright?”