The Messiah Secret - James Becker [65]
‘Do you speak English?’ he asked, as he half-dragged, half-carried, the man out to the road.
‘Yes,’ he gasped. ‘My legs—’
‘You were burnt,’ Bronson said flatly, ‘and your clothes are soaked with petrol. Somebody tried to kill you, and they very nearly succeeded. Is there anyone else in the house?’
‘No. Nobody.’
‘Chris!’ Angela cried, running over to him. ‘Oh, thank God you’re alive!’ The smell of petrol was strong. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so,’ he said, leaning the man against the side of the car. ‘Did you call the fire people?’
Angela nodded, and pointed across the road, where an Egyptian couple stood outside the house watching the fire. ‘I got them to call,’ she said.
Bronson turned back to the man. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.
Suleiman nodded, shakily. ‘Yes. Thank you,’ he said. ‘I owe you my life.’
‘I take it you are Suleiman al-Sahid?’ Angela said. ‘You look terrible. Why don’t you sit down here on the kerb, so we can take a look at your leg.’
Al-Sahid obediently sat down, and Bronson rolled up his trouser leg, the material badly singed. The burn ran most of the way up his shin, but Bronson had obviously killed the flames before there was any serious tissue damage.
‘That’s not too bad,’ Bronson said, and turned his attention to Al-Sahid’s head injuries. ‘You’ve got a split lip and you took a punch on the nose, by the looks of it, and that’s a nasty bump on your forehead, but I don’t think there’s any lasting damage. Head and face injuries always bleed a lot and look worse than they really are.’
A sudden roar from the house caught their attention. The roof had just caved in and, even if the fire brigade appeared immediately, it looked to Bronson as if the house was going to be a total loss.
Al-Sahid stared at the doomed building.
‘I grew up there,’ he said, a catch in his voice, ‘and it was my father’s house before me. He and my mother died in there.’
‘And today you nearly joined them,’ Bronson said softly. ‘What happened?’
‘Was the fire anything to do with a priest?’ Angela asked.
Suleiman’s head snapped round. ‘How did you know that?’ he demanded.
‘I know about the priest,’ Angela said simply, ‘because he tried to kill me as well, back in Britain.’
Suleiman shivered. ‘He looked like a priest, and he was smiling and friendly until he got inside the house. But his eyes – I’ll never forget his black eyes. But who are you?’
‘Chris here is a British police officer, and I’m a kind of archaeologist. We got involved with the Wendell-Carfax family by accident, and we’re trying to follow the clues Bartholomew left. You knew about his expeditions out here, I suppose?’
Suleiman nodded. ‘My father was Bartholomew’s gang master.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘You probably won’t thank me for saying this, but you’re almost certainly wasting your time. My father tried to persuade Bartholomew to give up his expeditions, to stop wasting his money, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He remained convinced that the treasure was almost within his grasp, and that he’d find it on the very next expedition, or on the one after that.’
They all turned as two fire engines announced their noisy presence and headed straight towards them. A crowd was starting to gather, people staring at the burning building.
‘The paintings?’ Bronson asked.
Suleiman nodded. ‘My father agreed to store them here for Bartholomew. He told my father that the clues to the location of the treasure were hidden in the paintings. I actually looked for hidden compartments, where he might have tucked away a copy of that old parchment, but I never found anything, so I’ve always wondered if they were just another one of Bartholomew’s eccentricities. But they were all that priest was interested in.’
‘Did he take them?’
‘I’ve no idea. We were in the dining room when he attacked me. I tried fighting back, but it was no use. Finally, he slammed my head into the side of the table and I blacked out. I assume he did take them.’
‘If he didn’t,’ Bronson said, looking at the house, ‘they’re totally destroyed now.’
‘What treasure