Splintered Icon (15 page)

The next two days were spent in a routine of noon sightings and star measurements, serving the gentlemen at meals, washing their sheets and clothes and looking after the few hens and goats we had on board. It kept me busy day and night and protected me from the attentions of Mr Salter, whose dislike of me now showed itself by nothing more harmful than piercing stares. I wondered if I dared risk an insolent smile or even some remark, knowing that he could not easily touch me, but decided against it. Why torment an angry bear? Some day its cage door might be left open.

Every evening, of course, I shared the berth-hold with Manteo and a score of others, but we were never alone together. More than once I passed him in a corridor, or saw him in the galley. Once, leaning over the rails on deck, I had the strong sensation of being watched. I turned and there was Manteo, squatting cross-legged on the deck like an Indian Buddha, staring at me impassively. I knew that a word from him could hang me. And still, as my fright began to recede, my determination to invade the gentlemen's room increased. The urge to slide open the panel and discover the secret lying behind it became overwhelming. My curiosity was a disease, or a present from the Devil.

I committed this second crime of curiosity on the third day after I had almost been caught for the first one. Four sailors on the pinnace had now died of the plague and three replacements were being sent over from the Tiger. My young friend Michael from Southwark, Hunger, and a man I did not know were being transferred. Instead of rowing over in the longboat, the ship drew alongside, a rope was thrown across, and a harness attached to each man in turn. He then had to pull himself across the gap, hauling arm over arm on the supporting rope. The sea was calm but still the rope tautened and slackened, sometimes hurling a man in the air, sometimes plunging him in the water, to the delight of the watching sailors. The musicians played merry tunes while the transfer was in progress. On the afterdeck the gentlemen were watching the entertainment - the captain, Rowse, Harriot, StClair, Kendall and the others. The time would never be better.

Down ladders: nobody could hang me for that. Along the corridor abaft: still secure. There were no sounds over and above the hundred groanings of the Tiger. Everyone was on deck, watching the entertainment.

I knock, open the door, close it behind me. The panel pushes and slides easily. There are some jars, one with dried green insects - strange! - another with black curled leaves, others with white powders. But it is the black silk, wrapping something, which draws my attention. Its weight surprises me. I unwrap the layers of cloth - already I am shaking and my ears straining for human sounds - and this is what I find.

There are three wooden panels. The central one is about a foot high and nine inches wide. Two other panels are attached to it by wooden hinges so that they may either fold on top of the main panel or open out flat. The central panel contains, sunk into the wood, another piece of wood, a small gnarled rectangle. This central piece of wood is surrounded by a wide border of silver, and scattered through the silver like raisins in a pudding are diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds and yellow stones whose name I do not know.

The left-hand panel, when opened, has a painting set into the wood. It shows a woman with large, cow-like eyes, an unbelievably long, thin nose, a tiny mouth and a pointed chin. Only her face is exposed: her head, hair, ears, neck and body are covered with a dark green shawl. Resting against her chest, and pressing his cheek against hers, is a baby wrapped in a long gown. It has long curly hair and tiny hands and feet. The painting shows halos around the heads of mother and child, and there is writing of a kind which I have never seen before. All this against a blood red background.

On the right-hand panel there is a familiar enough picture: Jesus on the Cross, against a black sun in a stormy sky, women weeping at his feet and men averting their eyes, hands thrown up as if to defend themselves from the sight.

How long I gaze at this marvel I do not know. I wonder where it comes from, who made it, what it signifies. Somehow I feel the pattern, the symmetry, is designed to draw attention to the little rectangle of old wood in the very centre of this strange construction.

The sound of laughter and footsteps on a ladder bring me back to the present and remind me of the danger in which I have placed myself. Hastily, I fold the wood, wrap it in its cloth, put it back in its secret place and slide the panel closed. I am out of the door, along the corridor and up the stairs into the fresh air and the sunshine without, so far as I know, being seen.

CHAPTER 19

Stay awake, I told myself. Stay awake. 'Let's apply some logic to this. What we have is some sort of relic, or secret object. It has to be what Tebbit's murderers are after. Not the gold, not the diamonds, just the wood at the centre of the thing. He's describing a triptych.'

Zola was stretched out on a couch, using a cushion as a pillow. I'd have had to be made of stone not to notice her figure. That trim stomach. Those breasts. 'What's a triptych?'

'The thing he's describing. It's an icon. A religious relic.'

'Okay, Harry, but so what? All you're giving me are words.'

'An icon being carried on a secret expedition by Catholic conspirators. There has to be a religious purpose to it.'

'With you so far, Harry. Would you like to go for a walk?'

'I'd much rather go to bed.'

'But we can go for a walk together.'

We both laughed.

I carried on. 'What religious purpose? They're trying to destroy the expedition, and if we believe your story about seventy-seven degrees west, they were trying to establish a Protestant colony and a new calendar. But look at the date - 1585. Look at the beautiful coincidence with the attempt to overthrow Queen Elizabeth in 1586, when the colonists were supposed to be setting up home.'

'You're talking about the Babington plot? The one where Mary Queen of Scots got her head chopped off?'

I sipped at my coffee; it was half-cold. 'I think there's a connection. There was a plot for a Spanish invasion of England once Elizabeth had been assassinated.'

'Keep the meter running, Harry. Tell me how that connects with the sacred relic'

'I think it's a piece of wood from the Cross of Christ.'

Zola blinked nervously, sat up and gave me an intense stare.

Interesting eyes. Dark, intelligent. Eyes that look into your soul. 'What are you saying, Harry?'

'If a relic from Christ or the Virgin Mary was touched by a monarch it would authenticate that monarch's divine right to rule.'

Zola spoke carefully. 'So far so good. That's a matter of historical record.'

'Okay. Now, say that wood had been kissed by Mary Queen of Scots, and transported to seventy-seven west.'

Zola gave me a cautious nod.

I continued, 'Now say the Babington plot had worked. Say there was a punch-up between Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth, with Spanish troops invading England. Then Mary's right to North America would have been authenticated by the kissing of the Cross. It would have been a tremendous boost to the Catholic cause. And once Mary was safely on the throne, the Catholics would have had control of the magic longitude both north and south. Dee's calendar couldn't have been introduced by the Protestants. It even left Rome the option of introducing Dee's calendar and claiming the credit. Game, set and match to the true religion. The Protestant heresy would suffer a catastrophic blow, and might eventually collapse.'

'That's a nice theory, Harry. It's very neat, just like mine. But I have another one. I think maybe the knock on the head has done something to you. There's only one problem with it. To get your theory to work you need a piece of genuine wood from the Cross. Now how in hell's bells do you get hold of that?'

'The Crusaders had it, or believed they had. They called it the True Cross.'

'Harry, this is the twenty-first century. Stuff like that is just legend.'

'I know.'

Zola was looking straight at me. She stared at me for a moment, tilting her head to one side, and then spoke coolly. 'I respect you, Harry, I really do. The trouble is, you see yourself as some sort of superior creature, with idiots like me having to be coaxed up to your level of thinking. You're sitting there assuming I'm going to laugh you out of court.'

'You're right, Zola. I assume that an imaginative idea is beyond your grasp.'

'In fact, your theory explains a great deal. For example, it explains why people are prepared to commit murder to get hold of it. Think of the commercial value of a genuine piece of wood from the Cross. Think what a museum would pay for it. Think of the kudos of owning it.'

'Okay. But to test my theory, it looks as if we need to get hold of an expert on religious relics.'

Zola didn't blink. 'I know someone.'

'And if there's anything in my story there has to be some connection between Marmaduke StClair and the Tebbit family, a connection going back at least to the Crusades. All of a sudden we need to know the Tebbit family history.'

'Where do we get hold of that?'

'Debbie, of course. My teenage maneater.'

CHAPTER 20

'Debbie?'

'Harry!' She sounded as if she had been crying. She also sounded pathetically pleased to hear from me.

'I know this is a bad time to call. Any time is a bad time to call right now.'

'Not at all.' She sounded genuine. I wondered if she was rattling around in the big mausoleum on her own, or whether it was still stuffed with grieving relatives, or whether Uncle Robert had decided to esconce himself there and take over her affairs.

'It's about the journal. I think we may be on to something.'

'On to something?'

'I'm not sure, yet, but there's something in it needs chasing up. Look, Debbie, I would appreciate some help.'

I could practically feel her curiosity buzzing down the line. 'Of course. What can I do?'

I took a deep breath. 'I need to know something about your family history.'

'You mean, like what my grandfather did, stuff like that?'

'No, Debbie, I want to know about your family as far back as it goes. I mean, right back to the beginning.'

'Wow! We go back a very long way, Harry.' There was a hesitation, and then suddenly she adopted a cool, businesslike tone, as if she was speaking to the butcher: 'I'll ring you back—'

A male voice on the end of the line: 'Is that Blake?'

Uncle Robert. The tone had been harsh before, but this time it had an extra edge to it.

'Speaking,' I said, my stomach sinking.

'I will say this once again, Mr Blake. You are to have no further communication with my niece. If you do, you will hear from my lawyers. Have you understood that?'

Zola was standing at the end of the hall with coffee cup in hand and eyebrows raised. I jabbed a finger urgently towards the kitchen. It took her a second, but then she padded quickly through. I heard a faint click as she raised the kitchen receiver.

'Mr Tebbit, I'm a free citizen in a free country and I'll talk to anyone I damn well please.'

I guessed that Tebbit, like his brother, wasn't used to being contradicted. At any rate, he could hardly control the anger in his voice. 'You, sir, are working some sort of scam. Your sole interest in my niece is to extract as much money from her as you can. You are also in possession of a journal which belongs to our family. I want it delivered to me by registered post within twenty-four hours. If it is not, I will take action to have it returned and hold you responsible for the legal costs. Apart from the return of the journal, you are to have no further contact with this family.'

*  *  *

'Do you want some brandy in that?' Zola was nodding at my coffee cup. She had her feet up on the kitchen table and was teetering dangerously back, balancing a chair on two legs. I don't usually feel intimidated, but the unexpected confrontation had left me a little shaky. 'Are you going to do what he says? Stop any more contact with Debbie?'

'Are you serious?' I said. 'Stuff that.' Spoken with more bravado than I felt.

Zola frowned. 'Has it occurred to you that Uncle Robert seems remarkably keen to get his hands on Ogilvie's journal? And to keep you from looking into it?'

I sipped at the coffee. 'You bet it has. But what good would it do him? Would he recognise Elizabethan shorthand if it punched him on the nose?'

'Don't be stupid, Harry. He'd just hire his own expert. And he knows his own family history. If there's something in there, he could beat you to it.'

'Maybe depriving Debbie of something which is rightfully hers,' I speculated. 'By the way, where do your parents keep their brandy?'

I telephoned Janice later that afternoon and asked her nicely to look after the shop on her own for the next couple of weeks.

'There's a message,' she said, a little mischief in her voice. 'It came in a fax.' She read:'
"You can't phone me at home with Uncle Robert prowling around. Where can I reach you? Debbie."
Who's Debbie?'

'We're just good friends,' I explained. I gave Janice Zola's number and told her to give it to Debbie in confidence next time she phoned. Now all I had to do was wait. The phone rang at 7 o'clock, just when I was thinking it was time I treated Zola to a dinner out. I gave her time to pick up the kitchen extension before I lifted it up.

'Harry?'

'Debbie, hi.'

'I'm in the study.' She was speaking quietly. 'I can't find my mobile phone. I'll bet Uncle Robert has taken it away. He's been hanging around all day. I feel like I'm the Prisoner of Zenda or something.'

'Can you be overheard, Debbie? Are there extension phones?'

'Yes, in one of the upstairs bedrooms. But Uncle Robert's playing snooker with one of his cronies.'

'You mean the house is empty?'

'No, Harry, he's in the snooker room. It's overhead.'

'It doesn't sound safe.' Unconsciously, I was beginning to whisper myself.