The Carpenter's Chalice: The Michael Turner Historical Mystery Series, #1

By Randall Christen

Michael Turner though that he was involved in a lot of mystery and intrigue when he was an American Naval intelligence officer working for MI5, or better known as the British Secret Service during World War II, but little did he know that once he met Melissa Pembury, it would make those days seem like a quiet New England vacation.
Why? Because Turner and Melissa are about to go off on an adventure that will pit their cunning and ingenuity against some of the most powerful men in post World War II England.
After the suspicious death of her father, Melissa solicits the help of Turner, an American living in London to help her carry out a search for the chalice of Christ, and at the same time solve the murder of her father. William Pembury, a British Archeologist, had traced the chalice through a two thousand year journey whose path started at the Last Supper and led directly to a group of anti-Semitic aristocrats called the Right Club. The British secret society was now plotting to eliminate the Pembury women and unleash the power of the chalice.
Melissa and Turner follow a variety of clues that take them through some of London's most iconic venues until they finally meet with Spencer Davenport to test the power of the sacred chalice. Davenport is the head of the Right Club, an anti-Semitic group of British aristocrats that conspired with the Nazis during World War II and will stop at nothing to harness the chalice's powers. Who will win the chess match that might determine the fate of mankind itself, the college professor and archeologist's daughter, or the Right Club and the Nazis?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randall Christen
• Release date: Jul 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310423062

Randall Christen

Randall Christen had been writing complex professional documents for decades, but once he retired in 2014 it allowed him to pursue his true passion, writing historically based mystery novels. In his first offering, he has combined the research skills he has acquired over the past 25 years with a Creative Writing degree from Wisconsin to create a fascinating Historical Mystery novel, "The Carpenter's Chalice." Driven by the personal need to convince audiences that the Holy Grail is the vessel that Christ drank from at the Last Supper and not Mary Magdalene, he has mined through centuries of historical information to show how the chalice could have logically moved through history from the Last Supper to London, circa 1950. In novel #2 of the Michael Turner trilogy, his main characters Turner and Melissa Pembury continue their cat and mouse game with the book sets main villain, Heinrich Himmler. With the surfacing of the Arc of the Covenant in book 2, the stakes rise to a whole new level as the pair urgently tries to penetrate the walls of the Vatican Archives in search of the Third Key, the one thing that can negate the Arc's power and determine the fate of man. Unnamed book 3,the final offering in the trilogy will be released in 2021.

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The Carpenter’s Chalice | Randall Christen | Published by Randall Christen at Smashwords | Copyright – 2015 Randall Christen | The Carpenter’s Chalice

The Carpenter’s Chalice

Randall Christen

Published by Randall Christen at Smashwords

Copyright – 2015 Randall Christen

The Carpenter’s Chalice

London, England, 1950

William Pembury nervously glanced over his shoulder as he hurriedly moved down a shadowy corridor in the lower-level of the British Museum.  Although he had traversed the passageway hundreds of times in the past, for some reason the distance from his office to the elevator seemed much longer on this occasion.  The damp smell of methylated cleaning spirits that permeated the thick basement air caused a small drop of water to curiously form on his slightly irritated eye as he briskly moved under the corridor’s evenly spaced hanging lights, but he dared not reach to wipe it away at the risk of losing a single step. He finally reached the elevator and forcefully pushed the panel’s illuminated button several times in hopes that the repetitive motion would somehow expedite its arrival, but its faint hum confusingly seemed farther off than before with each compression of the button.  The hallway lights suddenly flickered.  His heartbeat raced as he quickly pivoted and then anxiously shifted his glance up and down the deafeningly quiet hallway.  Nothing.

Where the Hell is that elevator?

He finally abandoned his nerve-racking wait and rapidly attacked the concrete staircase that wound its way up to the museum’s main floor.  His heart pounded like a drummer’s cadence as he labored to keep his weathered, sixty-four-year-old body steadily moving up the shadowy staircase, breaking stride only momentarily to take a quick precautionary peek over his shoulder.  As he painstakingly climbed the seemingly endless string of steps, his aching knees reminded him of the toll that his body was now being forced to pay, most likely levied over his thirty plus years of kneeling in archeological excavation sites.  Just as he reached the first-floor landing, the sound of a lower-level door being slammed echoed like a giant Tibetan gong through the concrete structure, causing the shaken archeologist to quickly jerk his body around and anxiously search the cavernous staircase.  Nothing?  The lights of the stairwell suddenly went dark.  Pembury’s hand trembled as he reached out and expeditiously pushed the door to the main level aside, and then he paused momentarily to stare down the long narrow corridor that led to the employee’s entrance in hopes of spotting a familiar face.

The hallway was vacant, abnormally quiet.  The nervous archeologist tentatively entered the vacated hallway and his eyes widened as they locked onto the exit sign that quietly blinked above the employee’s entrance and marked the route to a hasty escape.  He once again forced his ancient legs to stride beyond their normal capability as he traversed the hallway and rapidly closed in on the coveted rear exit.  Curiously, his eyebrow wrinkled as he nervously wondered why the guard’s station had been left unattended, which was clearly a breach of the strictly adhered to museum protocol.  The sound of evenly paced footsteps suddenly echoed from the stairwell, causing him to pause for a second and turn an ear back down the deserted hallway.  The sound now confusingly disappeared. Panic suddenly engulfed the normally stoic archeologist as he quickly turned and pushed through the metal doors and stepped into the frigid London evening.

The colossal museum’s exterior lights caused him to squint ever so slightly as he stood on the top step and frantically searched the parking lot across Montague Street for his sedan, and then a small smile curled his lip as he spotted it patiently awaiting his arrival. Pembury’s lungs burned and his breathing began to labor as he swiftly descended the granite steps that led to the crosswalk.

Damn, he quietly muttered as he reached the street and found his progression abruptly halted by the moderate amount of evening traffic that was steadily flowing through the intersection’s glowing green traffic light.  An unexpected gust of northern wind prompted him to nervously turn back toward the brightly illuminated museum and reexamine the grounds.  After failing to detect any activity around the employee’s entrance, he cautiously allowed himself the luxury of taking a moment to lift his white cap and wipe the beads of sweat from his rapidly moistening brow.

Pembury’s weathered hand trembled uncontrollably as he reached into the coat pocket of his tweed blazer and withdrew the pack of cigarettes that had been partially crushed during the hasty departure from his office.  He was not normally the nervous type, but the events over the past few days had taken their toll.

Ever since he began his research on the wealthy London socialite Spencer Davenport, he felt as if someone was secretly hiding in the shadows and watching his every movement.  The combination of the strange ticking sounds he heard whenever he picked up the phone and the suspicious automobiles that he frequently spotted parked along his street had him walking on eggshells.

Finally, he grinned softly as he noticed the streetlight turn red, allowing him to resume his trek across the damp street to his awaiting automobile.  He briskly struck the match head against the box as he walked onto the crosswalk and then without warning, he heard the screeching sound of accelerating tires and the roar of an engine as a speeding black sedan slid around the corner and hit the unsuspecting archeologist with full force, sending him flying to the unforgiving pavement.  Pembury’s lifeless body awkwardly came to rest on the cold London street as the unidentified sedan momentarily struggled to gain control and then quickly disappeared into the pitch-black London night.  Beside the archeologist’s lifeless hand, the matchstick slowly smoldered.

2

One week after Pembury’s death.

Seven o’clock could not have come sooner for Turner as he watched the event’s organizer close the London Developmental Studies Conference.  Had he known that Harry Wittingham was also invited to the panel discussion, he probably would have given the organizing committee a resounding No Thanks.  Even though Whittingham was well respected in the field of human studies, he had a reputation of imposing his radical views on his lesser vocal colleagues.  Yes, Turner knew this all too well because he was afforded the privilege of teaching under The Great Professor Wittingham.  It was shortly after the war, almost five years ago when Michael Turner, then a thirty-seven-year-old operative on loan to MI5 decided to resign his post as a United States Naval Officer to pursue a life of academia at Oxford University as a sociology professor.

Although his job working with MI5’s B5B unit during the war was rewarding, Turner felt that it had reached its completion when World War II ended, and the sociology job at Oxford appeared to be the perfect match for his skill set.  After all, what better training could be had than working for British Intelligence’s B5B sector during the war tracking Nazi supporters and anti-Semitic groups in England with tendencies so erratic that they would make even the most skilled psychoanalyst scratch his head?

Turner thrived in the world of academia after leaving B5B, but it did not take him long to realize that working for Whittingham was more painful than rewarding.  From day one, Whittingham was like a prickly thorn in his Italian leather shoes.  Any theory that he proposed that did not fit precisely into his supervisor’s vision of typical human behavior was hastily chastised, then disregarded.  After a year of beating his proverbial head against the wall he knew that if he was going to make a career out of sociology, he had to exit Oxford University and Harry Whittingham as quickly as possible.

That is when the job at Southampton University miraculously appeared.  Turner knew that he would at least have a free reign in the classroom at Southampton even though the pay and prestige were not up to Oxford’s standards.  True to form, after three and a half years there he had finally gained the confidence he felt he needed to not only formulate his own theories, but to defend them as well.

He resolutely weaved his way through the small clusters of attendees on his way to the room’s exit, and then he took a deep breath as he pushed through the door and onto the bustling London sidewalk.  A small shiver reverberated through his body as the cool air of early April filled his lungs, causing him to wonder if an overcoat would have been more appropriate for this brisk spring evening.  His stride lengthened as he hurried to beat the traffic light on Regent Street, and then unexpectedly, a hand grasped his right arm from behind and instantly startled him.  He swiftly turned to see who had accosted him, and then his eyes curiously widened as he found himself inches away from an attractive young woman.

Mr. Turner?  The woman nervously inquired.

Turner stood mesmerized by the young woman’s beauty, causing his words to stick awkwardly in his throat as he attempted to smoothly deliver his response.  Yes, may I help you?

Mister Turner, my name is Melissa Pembury, she said, certain that the name would not be recognized by her new acquaintance.  I have been sent here by my mother, Ann Pembury.  She begged me to find you tonight and convince you to return with me to our home so that she can talk to you.

He took a second to consider his next set of words, which he hoped would be smoother than his first.

I am sorry Miss Pembury, but I am certain that I have never met your mother.  Perhaps it is another one of my colleagues that she is looking for?

Melissa nervously fidgeted.  I realize that this appears to be an extremely strange request, but I assure you that my mother was very specific when she instructed me to find you.  Her voice reflected her desperation.  Please allow me to explain.  My father died as the result of a hit and run accident just one week ago and my mother feels that it was not an accident and was connected to one of the projects he was working on.  When she started going through my father’s desk after his death, she noticed your name in his scheduling book.  It also had tonight’s date circled, along with the words conference / Regency Quarters Hotel.  Believe me Mister Turner, my mother feels very strongly that there was a good reason he wanted to meet you at the conference tonight.

Turner’s forehead creased.  I am still a little confused.  Why does your mother think I might be connected to your father or his death?

Mister Turner, my mother feels that the men that probably killed my father may be associated with some of the men that B5B was investigating during World War II for supporting the Nazis.  Based on some of your writings, she feels that if anyone can help her it is you.  She also told me to tell you that if you agree to meet her, the story she will tell you tonight will be one of the most intriguing stories you may ever hear.

B5B.  His mind drifted back ten years to the start of World War II when Roosevelt was lending resources to the British to help them counter the Nazis while he was building sentiment in the U.S. to enter the war.  Everyone knew about the ships that were heading across the ocean, but few knew about the specialists who were moving in that direction as well.  Turner had put his Master’s Degree in Sociology to work for the Navy in Washington when Rear Admiral Kurtz offered his services to MI5 in London to help the Brits understand and track the anti-Semitic groups that were popping up like weeds all around England.  Kurtz felt that one of the biggest dangers that might hurt a combined British, U.S. counteroffensive would be if classified information and strategies were leaking across the channel.  Turner became one of B5B’s top analysts in London as he tried to figure out if these groups were actually dangerous, or just outspoken about their anti-Semitic views.  His methodical brain became quite adept at understanding how all the Nazi sympathizers and anti-Semitic groups worked, and how they might cause the joint Allied Forces problems in the future.  He decided to remain in London and pursue a career behind the teacher’s podium after the war ended, and although he had shed his stripes, any good spy theory was sure to perk his interest.

Turner found himself apprehensive about answering Melissa’s request to jumping back into the covert world of B5B, but the fact that she was a very attractive woman made her invitation almost impossible to decline.  As if the rose-colored dress she was wearing was not enticing enough, he also had to deal with her captivating smile.

Turner smiled softly.  Well Miss Pembury, since your request has definitely aroused my curiosity, I would love to meet your mother and hearing her story.

Melissa displayed the look of sheer relief as she gently squeezed his arm and rewarded him with another captivating smile.

3

Turner quickly realized that Melissa’s perfectly sculpted legs were impeding his ability to keep his car on the road as he diligently steered it toward the Pembury residence.  Even when he was able to resist glancing at her gorgeous legs, he found himself mesmerized by her shimmering black hair as the beams of light seeped through the side window and highlighted it.

Turner was always the deductive player of the B5B team, and during the war he had a habit of continually running every scenario through his head as if it were a complex algebraic equation.  He had yet to meet with Melissa’s mother, but the idea that some of his old adversaries might still be alive and well in London was not sitting well with him as he pushed his 1947 Singer Nine Roadster down the darkened roadway.

Melissa nervously guided him through the side streets of London, which eventually led them to a small, rustic looking row house in the old neighborhood of Finsbury.  After opening her door, his pulse hastened as he reached for Melissa’s outstretched arm, knowing that this would be his first opportunity to touch her slender, perfectly manicured hand.  He smoothly lifted her from the passenger’s seat as a gentle breeze moved through her glimmering hair and unexpectedly taunting him one final time.  His mind began to race as Melissa stretched her long, finely toned leg toward the pavement, and then he tightly squeezed his eye lids together and briskly shook his head after guiltily catching himself stealing one final glance of the perfectly contoured body that hid beneath her clinging rose-colored dress.

What am I doing? He thought.

Melissa and Turner took their final strides onto the porch, and then the front door magically swung open as Ann Pembury’s smiling face welcomed the pair into the rustic little house.

Ann had been a teacher most of her life, and during Melissa’s youth she shouldered most of the child rearing responsibilities while her husband was frequently traveling the world on his far-off archeological adventures. Melissa’s fascination with the great masters had steered her directly to Imperial College and the study of Fine Art, but shortly after achieving her degree war broke out on the European continent.  She hastily volunteered to work at a local hospital in London during the war, but once the armistice was declared she jumped right back into the art community and eventually landed a job as a curator at London’s prestigious Whitechapel Gallery.

It is a pleasure to finally meet you Mister Turner, Melissa’s mother said with the tone of both enthusiasm and relief.  I prayed that my daughter could convince you to come.  I do not know who else I could have turned too had you not accepted our invitation.

Turner’s eyes slowly toured the Pembury residence.  It was nicely appointed, although he quickly realized that Mr. Pembury probably had not left a fortune to his surviving spouse and daughter.  Suddenly, his B5B mind started to whirl.

Why is the living room being lit by only one underpowered lamp, and why are all the shades tightly drawn? He thought.

I am pleased to meet you Mrs. Pembury.  Frankly, I was a little surprised when your daughter approached me after the symposium.  Even after I told her that I was quite certain that I had never met your husband she insisted we meet.

Ann’s eyes desperately locked onto him.  Please Mr. Turner, all I ask is that you hear me out and decide for yourself if my story has merit.  When I finish, you are free to leave if you do not find it creditable or feel that it would be unwise to get involved.

Turner’s eyes softened.  I believe that you and your daughter are very genuine people, and yes, I would be honored to hear your story.

Ann exhaled deeply.  Please take a seat Mr. Turner.  May I offer you a cup of warm tea?

Thank you, Mrs. Pembury.  I would very much like that.

Melissa moved a little closer to Turner and then lowered herself onto the textured plaid cushion beside him as Ann walked to the kitchen to prepare the tea.  He threw her a glancing grin, hoping that she would not detect his high level of nervousness.

Mr. Turner, she said in a slow and subtle tone.  I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your coming here and listening to my mother.  She has been scared to death since my father was killed and is extremely worried that something might also happen to us.  Even tonight I felt as if I was being followed when I went to find you at the conference.

Turner’s forehead wrinkled.  Why do you think that someone would want to follow you or your mother?

Since my father’s death, a lot of strange things have been happening around here.  The phone would often ring and no one would speak on the other end, and it seems like every time we ventured out there were people watching us.  There were even several people present at the cemetery that we had never seen before.  When we approached them to see how they knew my father, they turned and quickly left before we could talk to them.

Turner began to understand why Melissa and her mother appeared to be so unsettled as he watched Melissa’s perfectly formed lower lip quiver ever so slightly.

Turner’s voice softened.  Tell me how your father died.

It was one week ago.  Father had returned from an archeological dig in Damascus only a few months earlier and since his return he was spending most of his time doing research for his latest project.  He never really discussed it with me other than one time when he mentioned it may turn out to be one of his most important projects.  Last Friday night as he was leaving the British Museum, an unidentified motorist hit my father as he crossed the street.  Witnesses said that the car came out of nowhere and then sped off after it hit him.  When the police informed my mother of the details, she felt that it was no accident and was convinced it was connected to the research that he was working on.

Ann returned to the room with three porcelain cups of warm tea on a silver serving tray and placed it on the oak coffee table.

Mr. Turner, I believe that my daughter has told you that my husband recently died under suspicious circumstances?

She did, Turner noted with a nod.

Ann settled into the armchair across from the sofa as Melissa and Turner each grabbed a cup of tea.

After my husband returned from his archeological dig in Damascus, he insisted we sit down and discuss the implications of what he had discovered there. He felt that if his hunch was correct, it might become very dangerous for us if the people connected to his research discovered that he was snooping around.  I could clearly sense the concern in his voice at the time, which was a huge departure from the past when William would often brashly boast about the danger and intrigue associated with his projects.

Ann removed the cup of tea from the saucer and took a sip.

Are you familiar with the Holy Chalice Mister Turner? Ann asked, confident that the question would summon an obvious response.

Turner shrugged.  I assume that you are referring to the chalice that Christ drank from at the Last Supper?

My husband’s work in the field of archeology for the past thirty-five years as an expert on Mid-Eastern Civilizations was only a means to a different end Mr. Turner.  As he traveled the world searching historically relevant excavation sites for artifacts, he always hoped that there would be one clue unearthed in those God forsaken places that might lead him closer to finding the final resting place of the chalice.

Turner tilted an eyebrow as the mention of the Holy Chalice instantly spurred a touch of skepticism in his highly structured military mind.

Ann’s eyes narrowed.  The story I am about to tell you is the same one that he told me when he returned from Damascus, and I am certain that the secret he was about to unravel was so important that someone had my husband killed to protect it.  I am also certain that if there is anyone who can bring my husband’s work to completion it is you Mister Turner.  If you will allow me to continue, I would like to tell you the story that my husband told me before his death and then let you decide for yourself if you are interested in helping us.

Turner softly smiled.  Well, since you went to all this trouble to get me here, the least I can do is listen.  Please continue Mrs. Pembury.

My husband had worked on several archeologically relevant sites in Jerusalem in 1937 in search of artifacts that might move him closer to the whereabouts of the Chalice of Christ.  One day, while searching in a newly discovered area beneath an old Roman stockade he stumbled upon a hidden tunnel leading to an underground chamber.  William said that as he cautiously crept through the cobweb infested passageway, minimally illuminated by the flickering light of his torch, he got the eerie feeling that every inch he progressed was being carefully monitored by an ethereal entity.  He finally reached the end of the intriguing tunnel where he found a set of glyph symbols that signified that the tunnel was at some point in time visited by a Roman of the aristocratic class.  William’s team laboriously slid aside the stone cover that protected the contents of the chamber’s ancient crypt, and much to his jubilation their search produced a set of parchment writings containing the official seal of a Roman governor.  The scrolls were in Majuscule Cursive, which William knew was the most common form of handwriting used by Roman citizens around the First Century B.C. He eagerly began the translation of the ancient scrolls and was surprised to discover that they were the memoirs of Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor of Judea who had delivered the mandate that Christ’s punishment would be death on the cross.  William spent the next few weeks dissecting Pilate’s memoirs, casting him deeper and deeper into the mind of the complex magistrate.  As it turned out, the official decision that Pilate took sentencing Christ to die on the cross would not end his ties to the contentious prophet.  Pilate’s writings detailed both the decision-making process that eventually put Jesus on the cross and the events that followed in the days after his crucifixion.

Turner’s early skepticism of the Pembury’s concerns began to sway ever so slightly as the intensity in Ann’s voice slowly began to draw him in like a moth to an iridescent flame.

4

Jerusalem, A.D. 33

Jerusalem had become a very dangerous place for the Disciples of Christ in the days shortly after the crucifixion of their holy prophet as the Roman Legion was rounding up the remaining followers who failed to leave Jerusalem after being identified by the temple priests.  One such follower was a freed slave from Palestine named Jacob who had followed Jesus to the temple and watched him unabashedly challenge the high priests’ authority.  Unexpectedly, the betrayal and crucifixion of Christ forced him to find safe harbor in the home of a recent convert, but a Roman sweep of that section of the city forced Jacob to return to the harsh streets of Jerusalem and hide within its citizenry.

Jacob was eventually captured after being identified by a Jewish merchant named Joshua as he moved through the city’s marketplace in search of food, and a short time later he stood before Pilate. Jacob emphatically denied the allegations but the witnesses who had implicated him had little trouble convincing the magistrate that the allegations were indeed undeniable. Pilate was unmoved as he disinterestedly ruled that Jacob was guilty of crimes against the Roman Republic and sentenced him to die on the cross.

Jacob suddenly found himself alone, hopeless, and brutally detained in a dark, rat-infested Jerusalem dungeon where he began to deeply question his own commitment to the self-proclaimed savior.  After all, the streets of Jerusalem were overflowing with snake charmers and magicians who preyed upon people whose lost souls were desperately searching to be saved.  Jacob finally convinced himself that it would best serve his interests to barter with Pilate as opposed to ending up on a cross with other recent converts who had nothing of value to trade.  That is when Jacob decided that if Pilate would spare his life, he would offer him a symbol of immense value.

Jacob was finally brought before the magistrate where he confessed to Pilate that he had indeed been present when Jesus and the disciples broke bread and drank wine the night that the temple guards arrested him.  He explained that after the last supper of the prophet he was assigned the task of safeguarding the Chalice of Christ, which was a simple bronze chalice with the sign of a fish on it that Peter felt symbolized the prophet’s ideology.  Jacob fulfilled his obligation after Christ was captured by hiding the chalice in a location that would be impossible for anyone to detect, and then he quietly disappeared into the treacherous shadows of Jerusalem.

Pilate silently pondered the freed slave’s offer.  He now knew that the prophet’s chalice was made of bronze, not gold, which greatly reduced its value. On the other hand, his possession of the chalice would deny the remaining dissidents access to an inspiring religious symbol.  Pilate told Jacob that he would spare his life and allow him to discretely leave the city if he could produce the chalice.  Jacob eagerly delivered the religious symbol to Pilate to consummate the loathsome accord and as promised he was abruptly cast back onto the harsh streets of Jerusalem.

Jacob’s life suddenly fell into a downward spiral after the word got out that he had bartered the chalice to Pilate.  The surrender of the simple bronze cup with the sign of the fish on it was viewed as an unforgivable betrayal by the entire Christian community and made him less than a leper amongst his own people.  Finally, Jacob’s internal discord caused him to draw a cold blade across his throat to end his suffering.

Pilate slowly moved the Chalice of Christ closer to his eyes and then he stared deeply at it.  He unhurriedly rubbed his palms together, causing the goblet to slowly rotate clockwise, and then counterclockwise.  His eyes intently watched the chalice rotate until they inexplicably locked onto the hand carved fish that graced its