The Chrysalid Conspiracy (62 page)

Being pragmatic, he recognised the possibility of failure in this venture and adopted a secondary plan to reduce Melkins’ theory to a mere curiosity, and even destroy it completely. If he and Francine couldn’t have it, then no one would.

He resolved to move slowly, keeping each necessary ‘incident’ isolated to prevent any possibility of detection, and set about his task. The first thing was to pull in some loose ends. He’d hired some outside ‘experts’ to put the frighteners on Dr Metcalf. She was intimidated into denying her own work and, by withdrawing her support for Melkins, destroyed his credibility. It was unfortunate that she had died, but the up side was that it prevented her from recanting her decision at a later date, he reasoned.

Contacting his associates in the Xandai Industries, a huge global group of companies who had, through bribery and corruption (talents he admired), gained an influential foothold in any and all construction projects in the world, he had outlined a plan that would show them a profit and eventually isolate the Tetherington estate. It would take several years, but he had the time to wait.

The attempt to get his hands on the Jaxson Codex ended in miserable failure, for which the ‘specialists’ he had called in had paid the ultimate price. Their plan had been to stop the car and rob the Jaxsons of everything, even their clothes.

They had done their research and made their plans, but somebody got there before them. The car was a wreck and, as they approached, another car had sped off as the Jaxson’s car burst into flames. They couldn’t get near it and, seeing what they thought was a woman’s dead body on the verge, they’d left.

He’d known they’d been telling the truth. They’d been rewarded with a full-blown exorcism ceremony, to ensure they couldn’t possibly be lying, and their bodies currently resided under the flagstone floor of Tetherington Church crypt.

Knowing that there was somebody else out there had brought him up short. Was it an ally or an enemy? An advantage or a disadvantage? He’d had no idea.

He’d decided to pull in his horns and watch and wait. To collect information, collate and analyse, and build up a more complete picture of his enemy. In the meantime, he would strengthen his empire.

Over the next few years he’d done just that. His file on Chimera personnel expanded. A young girl in Ireland may, or may not, become involved later. Jaxson’s widow had retired from science and he had ordered no further action. But he kept an eye on her and her daughter, who seemed to be coming more prominent as time went on. Old George Lacey had been a problem. How can someone not exist? Andrew’s best people could find no trace of a past life beyond his arrival at Tetherington. Thank goodness he’d died just recently.

The two old dears at the animal sanctuary were in it, but he couldn’t see how, yet. There were others, with different degrees of importance. Not the least was Alyson Collins, who was able to work so closely with Melkins and yet not reveal her Chimera connections. This had prompted him to place the young Miss Dempsey at the professor’s school to keep an eye on things. Through her efforts his children were allowed to attend once a week for music lessons, which gave him a limited access.

Then, of course, there was the good Dr Barrenborn; The best people money could buy (and that’s usually the best people) had been unable to find a shred of evidence that she had existed before she bought Tetherington Hall some twenty-five years ago.

Amazingly, she had a vast fortune buried in the financial markets of the world’s economy, which continued to supply her with more than she could possibly spend. He had fallen foul of her many ‘foundations’ where, against an impressive array of legal and security experts his devious practices had been unsuccessful. Bribes or intimidation sometimes worked, but she was a tough nut to crack.

Having surrounded herself with great minds from all branches of science, she had created a forum at her estate. A meeting place where ideas could be freely exchanged and research was compared, rather than concealed. She had, over the last few years, brought together, and funded, a large group of devoted and tenacious scientific minds, including some amateurs, and many students, and concentrated all their disciplines onto one subject. That damned Jaxson Codex!

Apparently, the translation had continued after Dr Jaxson’s death, and most of the now advanced research was being collated at the Hall itself.

He knew he was powerful enough to destroy Chimera, but Francine had insisted that he must wait until the translation was finished, and was in their possession. Things had quietened down for a while and he continued to gather data. His suspicions of the Jaxson widow had been aroused by the recent knowledge that she was the ‘Lucy’ of the Lucy Lacey Foundation, one of Chimera’s prime organisations, which he had been unable to penetrate. He’d established a friendly rapport with her in the hope that it might prove to be useful.

It was about this time that Denise Dempsey reported that Professor Melkins was resurrecting his discredited manuscript in secret. Andrew was set for the short ‘permanent’ solution but Francine had explained that the man could prove very useful. His knowledge of the subject could be the key to success if things came down to the wire.

It had been easy for Denise Dempsey to photo-copy the professor’s work as it progressed. She was fortunate enough not to have any interest in the man’s personal opinions or to her, heretical theories, and was spared his continuous diatribe of complaints while just searching for salient facts.

Her derisory reports shocked the vicar as the information she gave him began to make a strange kind of sense and he was forced to rethink his whole understanding of the problem.

Thinking back, he was appalled at his own lack of insight. The things he had missed, which were now quite obvious. The importance of Jaxson’s daughter, for instance. The arrival of that innocuous little man George, who had turned out to be the ‘Lacey’ half of the foundation, and seemed to have been Dr Barrenborn’s counterpart in the practical world. And now the arrival of Rayn Mgee and her mother, herself an enigma, and very dangerous in his opinion. Her appearance at the flower shop that day had been a revelation when he’d realised just who she was, and the importance of her daughter. It had suddenly linked up many threads in his original prognosis.

Francine’s praise for his ‘brilliance’ was reward enough in itself, and he had added her name to his copious offshore bank accounts.

***

The trouble began when that article appeared in an obscure science magazine. It wasn’t the full story, and most of it was wrong, but it contained enough to perhaps alert the enquiring mind. The author, a Robert Metcalf, son of Dr Mary Metcalf, had discovered his mother’s research papers in his attic. Being a freelance journalist, he had spotted an opportunity and, drawing on his experience, together with an eye for a little profit, had seriously plagiarised her work. Calling it
‘The Pharaoh’s Tree of Life’
, he had described the principles of the codex and organic medicine, attributing it to ancient Egypt. He claimed the possibility that Rameses the First, Second and Third were one and the same person, and kept alive by what is now called ‘alternative medicines’. The fact that he hadn’t seen this coming was not what had worried him. It was that he had no plan to cope with this eventuality. There had been no time to prod the dinosaurs of the scientific community into action and a discrediting campaign would also take too long.

His solution was quick and simple. Robert Metcalf became the victim of a fatal accident, but not before he was investigated for that good old standby: drugs.

The good vicar had arranged for the journalistic world to ruin the man’s past reputation by revelations of plagiarism, an over-active imagination, fanciful tosh and outright lies. All his and his mother’s notes were found and destroyed by Galileo’s faithful followers and the crisis was reduced very quickly to a minor annoyance.

He’d then turned his attention to finding Melkin’s original manuscript. Denise having destroyed her copies before their importance was recognised. The man’s death had been unfortunate and unforeseen. The Vicar knew this staunch closet atheist too well, so he’d gone for the gloves-off approach.

As he’d approached the headmaster’s office that Monday morning, having had Miss Dempsey keep a close eye on the whereabouts of Miss Collins, he’d heard footsteps on the outer corridor and slipped into the utility room to hide. Trying to hear through the connecting door was difficult. He could hear the voices – Melkins’ and a pupil – but had been unable to make out the words.

Eventually the pupil had left and he’d made his way through the connecting door and confronted his victim. The look of abject fear on Melkins’ face had given him that delicious feeling of power.

The Headmaster had grabbed a magazine from his desk and waved it at his adversary. It was that damned magazine which contained Robert Metcalf’s article.

“You can’t stop me this time, West,” he’d said, in a hoarse, trembling voice. “Somebody else knows. It’s out in public, you’ve lost.”

The vicar had given his oily smile and replied, coolly. “Oh, that. Don’t worry; the article by Dr Metcalf’s son has already been withdrawn, with an apology from the editor. Currently he’s under investigation for drugs and fraud. Probably some sort of illegal sexual perversions as well. In fact, anything we can think up. There are always plenty of witnesses. Oh, did I mention? The investigation is posthumous.”

The headmaster seemed to shrink into his chair, his face grey with defeat. The expression on his face told the Vicar that this was the outcome he’d been expecting. Andrew gave himself a smug self-satisfying pat on the back

“You can’t do this again. For the love of God, it’s not human,” the professor had pleaded.

“That’s the problem, professor.” The vicar had smiled as he replied. “I am human, and it is for the love of God.”

Melkins had slumped further down in his seat and the Vicar had pressed his advantage. “You’ve been very naughty, re-writing your book after being warned not to.” He’d spoken to him as if he were a disobedient child. “I want it. You had better give it to me.”

“I can’t,” mumbled the broken man. “It’s not here.”

“Then I strongly suggest you retrieve it. I’ll be back to collect it. You know the consequences if you fail me, don’t you?” He had left the question hanging and went back into the utility room. He was back within the hour, after checking his children were practising for his Halloween concert. The scene he had been faced with had actually frightened him. A bottle of vodka lay on the floor; the transparent liquid looked like blood against the red carpet. The Headmaster was raving incoherently, his great fists balled as if to strike out. At sight of the Vicar he’d picked up the heavy table and smashed the stained glass window. Shards of painted glass, lead stripping and plastic flowers fell outwards, as did the Professor. The suicide dive of a man beyond the edge.

Realising he’d pushed too hard he’d cursed himself. Glancing through the window frame he saw the Jaxson girl and her friend and he wondered. When he heard footsteps rushing down the corridor he’d slipped back into the utility room and waited. When the screams of anguish started, he’d slipped in behind them and joined in the melee of disbelief and shock, trying to calm the onlookers with his presence.

The opportunity to link his children with the Jaxson girl had been too good to miss. He was pleased that he had done, because he now knew that Lucy Jaxson’s daughter had the book.

He trusted his own two girls because he had total confidence in his power over them. He still had to keep an eye on Claire, though. He’d not been able to break her spirit as yet, but he would. She was like her mother. His idea to ease the restrictions on their free time had resulted in a subtle change of their private conversations which he took great pains to ‘over hear’.

Cautiously, so as not to tip his hand yet, he’d had the flower shop discreetly searched by experts, who had left no trace of intrusion. However, the search proved fruitless. They’d been unaware of the ‘priest hole’; Amelia’s most secret of places, behind the huge old fireplace in the old tap room.

He’d revised plan B by contacting his Xandai cooperation associates, only to find that everything had been on hold for some time because of the death of old Josh, the ninety-year-old president and main shareholder.

His eldest had taken over and was, to everyone’s horror, an honest man, and was concerned more with the reputation of his father’s company than he was with huge profits.

The Vicar had promised to take care of things in return for acceptance of his plans, and the board had willingly agreed. The eldest son soon became the deceased eldest son, due to a freak skiing accident, and the younger son was installed as president. He, being the type of man more interested in spending money to support his extravagant lifestyle, was encouraged to run riot with company funds without realising it was illegal.

His plan was to let a subsidiary of Xandai build the industrial estate at Grabsum Moore, to be fed by new reservoirs at the High Lakes valley above Tetherington. The Water Meadows housing estate, another Xandai subsidiary company, would fill in and block off the only run-off for floodwater. Then, after the ‘designer’ dams had been built on the three lakes, the vast body of the combined water in the High Lakes valley would flood the countryside.

The topography indicated the village would be inundated leaving the Hall isolated, where a crack team of search and recovery experts would be free to operate in the confusion, and find the codex.

Xandai had their ‘patsy’ all wrapped and ready for sacrifice, bribes and intimidation were all in place with the authorities, and with everything back on track, the board would be able to carry out their long-awaited coup. Everyone would be happy, and he and Francine would own the world. It all tasted so good.

And there it is, he thought, as he picked up the letter on his desk, the viper at the breast. It was a communiqué from no less than Rome, via Canterbury, demanding – yes, demanding! – a more robust approach to this problem in order to expedite an early resolution. He could hardly believe it. Fifteen years work, and all he needed was another six months. Could someone have possibly deduced his plan to obtain the Jaxson Codex?