The Messiah Secret - James Becker [47]
‘The vessel. The first-century pottery jar that the parchment had been sealed inside. We found that – at least we think we did – up in the attic. It was in pieces. Bartholomew broke it when he tried to remove the parchment.’
‘Who found it? And where is it now?’
‘One of our ceramic specialists – Angela Lewis – took it away with her.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Sobbing, Mayhew described Angela and told the man where she lived and worked, and then fell silent. He’d apologise to her when he next saw her, he told himself. For now it was a matter of survival.
‘Did you find anything else?’
Mayhew nodded miserably. ‘Chris Bronson – Angela’s former husband – found a small leather box full of papers, mainly notes Bartholomew had written. Angela said they were expedition records, that kind of thing, and a few bills and receipts.’
‘And she took them away with her?’
‘Yes.’
There was silence as the man stared at Mayhew. ‘Anything else?’ he asked at last.
‘No, nothing to do with Bartholomew’s treasure hunt.’
The man nodded and picked up the scourge again.
‘No more, please,’ Mayhew begged him. ‘No more. I can’t take it.’
The man walked over to the kitchen sink, ran the cold tap and washed away the sticky drying blood from the leather thongs. He dried the scourge carefully on a tea towel and tucked it away in his jacket pocket, then shrugged the garment on to his shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ Mayhew croaked.
The man turned back and looked down at him. ‘You have done your best to help me, I think, and so I shall be merciful.’
He pulled a small bottle from another pocket of his jacket and unscrewed the stopper.
‘What’s that?’ Mayhew asked, his voice trembling with fear.
‘It’s holy water, nothing more.’
The man dabbed a little of the water on to the tip of his right forefinger and traced the sign of a cross on Mayhew’s forehead. Then he replaced the bottle in his pocket and strode back to the table.
He turned to face Mayhew, crossed himself and softly intoned ‘In nomine padre, filii et spiritu sancti.’ Then he picked up the pistol and aimed it at Mayhew’s chest.
‘No, no! Wait! Please wait! I’ll do anything. Don’t kill me. Please.’
The man shook his head. ‘Begging is undignified, and, in any case, I have no option. You’ve seen my face.’
‘No! I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Please! I’ll never tell anyone anything about you. And why didn’t you wear a mask?’
The man shook his head again. ‘I would never hide my face. I believe God’s work should always be done openly.’
‘God’s work?’ Mayhew whispered incredulously, as the man took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
Mayhew’s body shook with the impact of the bullet. He remained upright for a couple of seconds, then slumped forwards lifelessly.
The man walked over, felt for a pulse but found nothing. Then he turned and looked out of the window. His next step was clear. He’d go to London and find the woman who was also hunting for the treasure. His treasure.
24
For a few seconds, Angela stared at the page of text displayed on the computer screen in front of her, then glanced down at the copious notes she’d made on her laptop. She stood up, stretched her arms above her head and rotated her shoulder joints, trying to work the kinks out of her muscles.
She realized she’d been working on the computer for almost four hours without a break – once she got her teeth into any project, she tended to become remarkably single-minded about it. She needed to take a short walk, let her eyes relax for a few minutes and maybe grab a cup of coffee.
Twenty minutes later she sat back at her desk, put down her mug and took another bite of the salad sandwich she’d bought at a delicatessen a few dozen yards down Great Russell Street, across the road from the museum.
She still wasn’t entirely certain, but the references she’d uncovered were beginning to make sense, and a tantalizing hypothesis was starting to take shape. The ‘treasure of the world’ seemed to be almost a code phrase that had echoed through the last two millennia, and appeared to refer to something quite specific.