The Time Element

By K. L. Freeman

1869.Three secret agencies are alerted to discoveries in Colchester,England and Kensington, Minnesota, of pieces of a holy gold relic that is alleged to have amazing powers. Queen Victoria instructs her Secret Field Police to capture the gold before The True Knights of the Golden Circle in America and Al Kimiya from Persia. Whoever finds the gold of the Magi first, can change the world.
Meanwhile, Doctor Richard Warhurst is struggling with guilt over the death of his fiancée Carla, and the awkward relationship he now has with Molly Money. But his life is changed forever when he is drawn in by the Secret Field Police to help find the sacred gold. He is willing to help because even though he has doubts about the gold’s alleged abilities, it might just help him to see Carla again and he is willing to risk anything for that; even his present relationship with Molly. Confused by his feelings for both women, he eventually has to face both and make a choice. In so doing, and unleashing the gold’s powers, he encounters things well beyond his imagination; the supernatural, love...and ultimately redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. L. Freeman
• Release date: Dec 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311894021

K. L. Freeman

I am a keen astronomer, historian, writer and have broadcast on BBC Radio.Also, I am interested in the history of a Roman Centurion called Marcus Favonius Facilis whose tombstone statue appears in Colchester Museum, England.. In fact three of my novels feature something about him; 'The First Gift', 'The Sword of Facilis' and 'The Time Element' (which is also out now in the Kindle books section on Amazon but entitled 'An Element Of Time).I have a Blog at www.differentvue.com where many mysteries involving science and theology are discussed and unlocked, with a bit of humour thrown in.Please visit it and feel welcome to leave comments, add to the discussions or subscribe (free) to receive updates automatically, sometimes with free books.

Book preview

Chapter One

Shoreham-By-Sea, Sussex, England, 1869

Sometimes in the night, just now and then, usually when the moon is full, a ghost of the past whispers to Dr Richard Warhurst about a secret he would rather forget. A secret he thought, like many of us, he had locked away in the mental vault of other troubles and worries he tried not to think about. Night thoughts; not always erased by daylight.

On this particular October evening, the doctor had only just come in from a call and stood fully dressed at the open bedroom window of his cottage thinking. Looking over at the darkened graveyard opposite, the spectre from some years ago filled his mind again. It was a perfect night for reminiscence. The crescent moon scythed through the sparse clouds and a hunting owl uttered a cry. It was a melancholy sound as though calling ghosts from their abodes. Even the moderate wind seemed to murmur to those in their graves as it swept through the leaves and branches of the shrubs and bushes. The taller trees nodded in approval. They never really leave you…the dead.

Warhurst saw the vast hulk of the large twelfth-century church of Saint Mary de Haura as it towered up into the blue-black sky. The Romanesque-Gothic construction dominated the skyline as a reminder of all things long-ago and as though clinging to a distant age when the Church in general could imply power just by the sheer grandeur of its architecture. As a doctor, Warhurst knew many patients for whom the past was never really where it should be but continually in the present. He knew he was falling into that category and tried to clear his mind.

The scream helped. A scream, followed by the sound of footsteps running along the path from the church. In the faint moonlight and light from his cottage, the doctor caught a glimpse of a youth running at full pelt out of the churchyard. It was difficult to discern the figure in the shadows and Warhurst was not able to see the entire cemetery from his house as the church itself blocked some of the view. Whatever caused the boy to scream had obviously been hidden by the building. Warhurst ran downstairs, stepped outside and walked the forty yards or so to the end of the path leading through the churchyard. There was hardly any light but it was evident the boy had disappeared. There was a sense of uneasiness about the place but the doctor figured that hearing someone scream would naturally make anybody edgy.

He frowned as he looked around as best he could. The darkness had magnified his apprehension and anxiety. The gargoyles upon the church tower still stared blindly down in their malevolent way, but were now almost obscured by the nightfall. Stone faces gazing from stone walls over a stone garden, as Warhurst liked to call the graveyard. Deep silhouettes of tombstones mingled with murky outlines of trees and crosses. Yes, he reassured himself; anyone with imagination would feel jumpy.

There had been talk recently in the town about strange sights around this area. If the doctor had been a few minutes earlier he would have seen that even though it was a short cut the boy had not wanted to go down that long path in the forbidding blackness, where anything could be hiding behind a tree or bush. He would have seen that the boy was already nervous with wide and staring eyes. Something in a nearby sycamore tree had caught the young man’s attention. He had looked into the large hole in the gnarled trunk. Suddenly he had cried out in terror. Then he had turned and seen something else. Something he had never experienced in his short life. Although it was a mild evening he had shivered, and a terrible feeling of dread had closed around him. His body had stiffened and his scream had broken the silence. It had echoed on the moist night air through the very stones of the church and against the gravestones and crypts. Suddenly, he had run down the north-west path as though the devil was after him. In fact, that is exactly who he thought pursued him.

Warhurst looked around for a while and having not discovered anything returned to his cottage. He slumped down in a chair. He had endured a rough day and instinct told him it might not be over. Then the silence enveloped St Mary’s again like dust on a marble floor, bringing quietness and stillness and a feeling of solitude; the silence of death.

Later, about a couple of miles away in Lancing College, footsteps clopped urgently on the flagstones in one of the dark cloisters surrounding the quadrangle. A man hurried along the open stone corridors shielding his lamp from the wind which also caused his black collegiate gown to flap about, casting a strange winged shadow on the wall like a slightly demonic crow. He turned and entered through a door into a dormitory and spoke to another man in clergyman’s clothes.

‘Is there any change?’ asked the man with the lamp.

‘Not for the better, Headmaster,’ the other replied. ‘I believe we should send for Doctor Warhurst.’

The Headmaster frowned and thought. ‘I suppose we must. Be so good as to convey the urgency. We do not want him arriving tomorrow when it might be too late.’

Some minutes later, in an attic room at the top of the school, a chubby hand grasped a pigeon firmly but gently, checked that the small leather pouch containing the message was secured to its leg, and then with a perfunctory blessing as it fluttered in protest, the cleric threw the bird through the open window and up into the night air.

The pigeon’s wings trembled as it struggled to find its bearings against the wind, then it flew swiftly, despite the dark. Caught on another gust, it soared up on the south-westerly wind, over the ridge of the hill upon which the College was built, and turned to cross the River Adur about half a mile down below to the east. Within minutes it had travelled a few miles and entered the loft of the Burrell Hotel in Shoreham, some thirty yards from the station for the recently built London, Brighton & South Coastal Railway line. Although it was labelled a hotel, in truth it was really a large public beer house but the few rooms for hire upstairs enabled the landlord to call it by a grander title.

Fred Carter was in the Public Bar when he heard the loft bell signifying a pigeon had arrived back. He was standing by a tub of water washing dirty glasses and had splashed water over his faded open waistcoat and black workman’s trousers which were secured by a large brown belt. As he stood the glasses upside down on a table to dry, he looked for a cloth to dry his hands. Seeing none to hand, he removed a ragged looking green cravat tied around his neck over his collarless striped shirt, wiped his hands on that and also gave the glasses a quick flick to remove a few drops of water sliding down their outsides.

Being a Tuesday night, business was slow, and the only noise in the bar was the quiet chatter of a few regulars. There was a clever arrangement of flaps, ropes and bells from the loft into the main part of the Pub to announce any pigeon arrival.

‘‘Enry!’ he yelled to his son in his rasping throaty voice, ‘see if there is a message on the bird and bring it down to me.’

The twelve year old stopped cleaning a table, picked up a candle in a holder, lit it, and trudged off silently and wearily. He wanted to go to bed but one of the barmaids had not come in for work, and he had been forced to help his father with mundane jobs until closing time. He tramped up the gloomy staircase, his shadow distorting eerily on the wall, crossed the hall landing, climbed the makeshift ladder to the cages in the loft, noticed the new bird and grasped it with his left hand, turned it belly up and pulled off the little leather pouch with his right hand. As he could not read there was no point in looking at the message closely. He placed the pigeon back in its cage.

Back downstairs he coughed violently from his exertions, handed the small piece of paper to his father and waited impatiently. He guessed what was coming next and he dreaded it. He no longer liked walking through the Shoreham streets at night. There had been ‘instances’. Not just fighting amongst the drunken rival gangs of oyster workers, but other more creepy events. Henry had not actually seen anything, but living in a Pub, he had heard things. People had seen things, or thought they had. There had been talk, and Henry listened to talk. He was a good, but simple soul, with a weak chest, who believed most of what he was told, which was why he was an easy victim for pranksters.

His father had told him often that the stories of ‘instances’ were rubbish and that it was all hysterical gossip due to the new crazes across the country for spiritualism and mesmerism. Nevertheless, Henry thought that he would be the better judge and his father would be wrong. After all, his father did not know that someone important in spiritualism was coming to Shoreham in a few weeks. Well, someone Henry thought was important, anyway. Henry knew because he listened to talk, and although he could not read, he liked to listen, especially when people did not know he was listening. He learned things about places, about people, about secrets.

The Publican looked at his son with concern about the coughing and then read the note out loud; ‘9.05 pm Tuesday. Ask Dr Warhurst to come urgently - very ill boy at the College. Please send one of our birds back to confirm otherwise we will send a messenger in an hour.’

He walked over to a cupboard below the beer taps, glanced at the Grandfather clock opposite, took out a pencil and a fresh piece of paper and printed, ‘I am sending the boy to the Dr’s now. It is 9.15 pm.’

Then as he glanced down at his son, he folded the paper over into quarters, smiled and said, ‘Put your cap on. Guess where you’re going, ‘Enry me lad?’

‘Ow no,’ groaned the youngster. ‘It ain’t just back up to the loft is it?’

‘Well, you take this there first,’ he waved the folded paper under his son’s nose, ‘send a College bird back, and then it’s round to Doctor Warhurst’s as soon as you like. Then you can get off to bed.’

It was an age of light and an age of darkness. There was great discovery and great repression. There was a short, fat, black dressed queen on the throne of England, and because her husband had died a few years ago it seemed that she and the whole nation were obsessed with death and any life after.

Some saw the Church as a rock in the shifting quicksand of change, and tightened their grip around the throat of any moral lethargy, often choking the purer voices of freedom along with the bad. But some, urged on by spiritualism instances in America, felt drawn to a different, darker regime that they thought was newer and more enlightened, but in truth was older than society itself. The Age of Reason had once more become the era of the supernatural. As Edward Felding, the chaplain at Lancing College had said, one could consider it the new Dark Age.

There was belief and now unbelief, but any uncertainties were tempered by the certainty of Empire and Country. Industrialism was becoming established. Imperialistic contacts provided an unparalleled array of goods in the shops. Challenges abounded everywhere and ethics tried to keep up. Yet, as always, individuals reflected the values of their society. It was, you might say, more or less like any other time.

So it was in this contrasting epoch on a mid-October evening that local G.P. Richard Warhurst received the urgent summons via Henry Carter to drag himself out again, when he really just wanted to lay down and sleep. He saddled his horse and began to ride.

The fingernail moon hung at an angle in the sky, seeming to point the way to the college on the hill. Not that the doctor needed any directions, as he had made this journey many times before, but usually in the daytime. A few cumulus clouds scudded across the pale light from the moon and changed colour from murky grey to white and back to grey again, eclipsing any stars in their path. The air was clear and some of the brilliant winter constellations had risen. Warhurst noted that it was a good night for star gazing, and on nights like this after an exhausting day he queried why he had ever left the discipline of astronomy to be a G.P. He could hardly stay awake in the saddle.

Five minutes later his horse approached the sixteenth century coaching inn, the Red Lion, on his right and further over behind that was the dim profile of the ancient church of St Nicolas. To the left, on the opposite side of the road to the Pub, was the bakery, and in front of him was the hundred and twenty yards long wooden toll bridge spanning the River Adur. Silhouetted on the hill beyond that was the College.

A drunk, obviously too dazed or lazy to make it to the outhouse, was leaning with one arm and urinating against the outside wall of the Pub, but apart from that nobody else was around. The little hut for the toll-keeper was empty. No one came this way much at night.

Here, in Old Shoreham, on the north western edge of the town, there were no street gas lamps yet, so the little amber rectangles of light coming from the inn made a comforting glow in the darkness. Warhurst could hear laughter and raised voices inside. He was tempted; he felt almost weak with hunger, but pushed on. Maybe just a little drink on the way back, he thought. Some good food and a decent brandy…yes, that would be just fine. More than fine in fact, as the Red Lion was very close to the harbour where French vessels often offloaded their liquid cargos, and as the publican had an ‘arrangement’ with certain captains, the inn sold excellent brandies at good prices.

The sound of the hooves changed from dull thumps on the dirt road, to a more pronounced clip clop as they cantered across the bridge’s wooden slats. The wood trembled under the extra weight. Normally the doctor would have used his buggy for this type of visit, in case he needed to remove the patient to hospital, but he knew the college had a carriage if necessary, and the note had expressed urgency. Simmerson, the headmaster, was not someone who exaggerated or panicked easily, so a request to get there quickly meant something dire was happening. In any event, the doctor was too tired to harness the buggy and just saddling the horse saved time. It had been a busy day.

Warhurst stared down about twenty feet into the black waters below, noting the tide was nearly full. At this point in the river it was more the estuary salt water that slapped at the wooden struts. His horse widened his nostrils, smelled the sea water and made a sort of snorting noise, as he did not like crossing the bridge in the dark.

He thought that the horse was spooked by the water but as he stopped he thought he heard the sound of another horse some distance behind him. Perhaps it was that? He turned and looked behind him. It was difficult to see anything in the darkness. He thought he got a glimpse of a rider’s shadow against the backdrop of the light from the inn but maybe it was just a bush. Anyway, what did it matter?

‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ the doctor murmured, stroking the horse’s neck. ‘Just the same bridge you see in the daylight. Easy, boy.’

Downstream to the left a light flickered briefly. Someone is working in the oyster beds, thought Warhurst. He was a very observant man, with a reputation for making shrewd deductions. Something about the way the light appeared and disappeared did not fit right somehow, but he couldn’t be bothered to think any more on that. Perhaps it was just the reflection of the moon on the water. Tiredness was starting to overwhelm him and as he had not had time for supper, his thoughts turned again to the Red Lion, as he knew Mrs Bridle, his housekeeper, would not be awake when he returned. She always went to bed early on weekdays and today had been no exception. She had already retired when he had arrived home. He had forgotten about his hunger after hearing the scream in the churchyard. Now, however, the physical effort in riding forced its return.

Only thirty minutes had passed since the pigeon had left the college and the doctor had about three quarters of a mile to go once he was over the bridge. However, the last part was nearly all uphill through a tree lined lane. He clipped the horse’s flanks with his boots. There was a time when he would have made the horse gallop all the way, but at thirty-five years old and although still an energetic man, the doctor’s energy tonight was not quite what it used to be at this end of the day.

‘Come on, Orion, one big effort. Not long now,’ he urged. The horse responded with an increase in pace up the hill.

Lancing College stood on a hill overlooking the nearby town of Shoreham and at night its lights could be seen at sea by homecoming sailors. It had been built with the intention of providing a good education to middle class sons of gentlemen and not just those of the gentry. However, not all the pupils could be described as gentlemen. The College, although fully functioning, was still under construction. It seemed to Robert Simmerson, that it would always be under construction. Still in his late thirties, as headmaster for the last seven years he had introduced many changes, but he knew that he needed to change the somewhat medieval image of the school. The prohibition to his ambition was money. He was accustomed to the sound of sawing wood and stone almost every day as building work continued ceaselessly on the College and particularly the massive new Chapel which was a colossal undertaking. However, the school finances alone could never defray the cost of all the building works.

Therefore, for some considerable years into the future the cost of this work would have to be borne by gifts from wealthy patrons. Patrons like Colvill Merrix, whose son, Thomas, was now laying in a bed in what passed as the school sick bay, and who was shouting incoherently at his attendants. Merrix minor was usually quiet for a fourteen year old, but tonight he seemed to be making up for all that previous calmness by sporadically shaking and crying out and trying to vomit.

Edward Felding, the school chaplain, was endeavouring to calm him while the headmaster stood over them looking concerned. The trio were the only occupants. The two men turned towards the tall, lean figure of Warhurst as he came clumping through the open doorway in his riding boots, unbuttoning his long black frock coat and trying to smooth the creases in his dark blue three piece suit.

‘Richard, thank goodness you’ve arrived. We just don’t know what to do with this poor chap,’ said Felding.

He was a gentle, saintly soul, with a Toby Jug face and a chuckling voice, though at the moment the tenor was one of concern. He was slightly older than the doctor, but apart from being a colleague he was also a close friend, hence his intimate tone. He got up from his chair at the bedside and offered it to his friend. Simmerson, standing in a dark suit with his lecturer’s black gown still over the top of it, nodded an acknowledgement to the doctor and continued to stroke his longish brown beard.

Warhurst smiled reassuringly, threw his stovepipe hat on the bed, and placed his battered brown leather medical bag beside it as he sat down. When not in his role as a doctor, but on digs with his archaeologist father, the bag had often served as a case to carry archaeological samples. His movement betrayed his weariness, and Felding noticed.

‘You look exhausted, Richard. You have not eaten again, have you?’

Warhurst shook his head. ‘I have been at the hospital most of the day. This new type of sickness is devastating our elderly and just outside Shoreham Station the boiler exploded on the 1.0 pm locomotive from Brighton, skewering metal fragments through a few people who needed small operations. Anyway, what has happened here?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Simmerson. He pointed to the boy. ‘Merrix here arrived back at college before supper, babbling and shrieking about apparitions in St Mary’s. He had been sent to our sister school in Church Street on an errand for me some hours ago, and we have not been able to get any sense out of him since. We put him to bed, and he seems to calm down for a little while, then he begins to get agitated again.’

‘So it was this boy I heard,’ said Warhurst softly.

‘You heard him?’ asked the headmaster.

‘Yes. I was looking out of my window thinking about something else when I heard a scream and saw a figure that looked like a boy run down the path through the churchyard. He was gone by the time I got outside. What’s his first name?’

‘Thomas. Thomas Merrix,’ said the chaplain.

The doctor turned to the patient and placed a hand on his forehead. Then he felt the pulse in his wrist, and looked into both eyes. The boy remained perfectly still. Next, he removed his stethoscope from the bag and after unbuttoning the nightshirt placed the bell end on the boy’s bare chest.

After listening for a while, he stood up, moved away from the bed, and whispered in his matter of fact way, ‘He is in a state of shock. His pulse is racing. We need to calm him before questioning him further. I need a glass and some water, please.’

Simmerson nodded at Felding who took that as a command, and after a few minutes he returned with the items. Warhurst took a small bottle from his bag, inserted a glass dropper, squeezed the rubber end to siphon up some of the dark brown substance, and then let fall a few drops into the glass of water. He swilled the liquid around and with his left arm around the boy’s shoulders pulled the now shaking Merrix into a sitting position. With his right hand he held the glass to the boy’s lips. An anxious look crossed the patient’s face, but the doctor smiled confidently and encouraged him. Merrix grimaced at the taste, but once it was drunk he laid back. Then the boy started yelling.

‘The devil… the demon!’

‘Shush, shush,’ soothed the doctor holding the boy’s arms. ‘You’re safe now, Tom. Lay back.’

As he said this he gently pushed Thomas back onto the bed. He seemed to calm down. Then he rose up slightly and pulled Warhurst to him.

‘The Dark, The Dark,’ he whispered and slumped back.

‘It appears he’s worried about the dark. Leave another candle on, please.’

Warhurst stepped away from the bed and turned to Simmerson.

‘The potassium bromide is a sedative and relieves anxiety. It’s normally used for epilepsy treatment, but we also use it as a tranquillizer. It will take twenty minutes or so to work and he may well go to sleep. If he does, let him. I will wait here until he revives a bit or sleeps peaceably.’

‘In that case, Richard, let us get you some food and drink,’ said Felding. I’ll ask matron to sit by the bed.’

‘Thank you, Edward but don’t bother Matron. There is nothing she can do. Was she attending earlier?’

‘Yes, she sat for a while with us but she was feeling a little unwell herself, so we sent her to her room. Food?’

‘Please. I could do with something. I presume the school has brandy, and while I am here I ought to check on its suitability for medicinal purposes.’

He flashed a cheeky smile at both men.

‘That was excellent,’ said the doctor, pushing away the plate that had once displayed a large slice of gravy-rich cold steak and kidney pie with cold boiled potatoes. ‘If the boys have the same quality of food you will have to put the fees up, Robert.’

The three of them were sitting around one of the rectangular tables in the main hall. Warhurst had stretched out his legs so his black riding boots rested on a nearby chair.

Simmerson did not think much of that but just replied, ‘Yes, they eat well enough most of the time. Please do not mention fees to me. I am having a struggle with our founder about that at the moment.’

He was referring to Nathaniel Woodard, whose vision and drive had built not only this college but others in Sussex, including St Saviour’s near St Mary’s church, and which was soon to become Ardingly College.

‘Well, it cannot be the very reasonable fees for my services you are thinking of,’ smiled Warhurst flippantly, ‘so it must be the Chapel, I suppose?’

‘Yes. It is a marvellous project but a terrible drain on our resources and time.’

‘That may be so,’ said Warhurst slowly, ‘but look at it this way. The time you invest now will be magnified by the time taken by people who will appreciate looking at it and using it over the centuries to come. It will be a landmark of achievement and vision, silently watching from the hill; and not just for sailors, but to every traveller through Shoreham. Just like St Mary’s Church.’

The Headmaster looked at Warhurst uncertainly. He never knew whether he was teasing or poking fun at him.

‘Hmm, you may have time to play the philosopher, my dear doctor, but I do not. It’s hard enough trying to teach the boys properly, without all these other distractions.’

There was a pause in the conversation for a while. Simmerson puffed at his pipe, Felding fiddled with the dangling part of his clergyman’s collar by running it through his fingers and the G.P. swilled the brandy around his cut glass goblet.

‘Worried about young Merrix or old Merrix?’ Warhurst suddenly addressed the headmaster with an incisive stare.

‘Both, if I am honest. We simply cannot afford to lose any pupils. Certainly not any like Merrix. You probably realise the father is one of our principal patrons and if he starts to think we are not looking after his son correctly, well…’ he tailed off.

‘Cheer up, Robert. It is not that bad. The boy is a little upset but he’ll recover. Although, I am curious as to what induced such a reaction in him. What made him so scared and run? What’s all this talk of the devil?’

Warhurst stroked his nails over his unbearded but stubbly chin. He liked the sensation. Then he stroked his dark moustache. As he did so he scrutinised his companions. Neither of them spoke.

‘Well, he was saying all kinds of strange things,’ offered the chaplain at last. ‘We can tell you in more detail if you like, but it will not make much sense.’

‘The thing is Richard,’ interrupted Simmerson giving his chaplain a look that indicated silence, ‘this is not the first time Merrix minor has been in trouble. He is always getting into scrapes, and mixing with the wrong types. He’s never been badly hurt or anything so you have never been bothered and we try to be discreet about such matters.’

‘What matters, exactly?’

Simmerson and Felding exchanged glances.

Then with a sigh of resignation the headmaster said, ‘Oh, forget it.’

Then, seemingly changing his mind, Simmerson added, ‘The fact is that the boy Merrix seems to attract and seek out the more weird type of characters in this area.’

‘Weird?’

‘Well that’s the best I can describe them. People who are concerned with things that normal people would have no time for. Anything connected with the supernatural or the occult seems to take his interest immediately. Takes after his father no doubt. He’s a spiritualist, you know. I wish his son would apply as much application to his lessons and homework as he does to associating with riff raff and trying to learn about non-Christian activities. It is no wonder he is babbling on about the devil or something equally daft. We try to curb his enthusiasm for this predilection but we cannot watch over him when he leaves the premises. It’s one of the reasons we suggested to his father that the boy became a boarder even though he only lives a couple of miles away. Strangely enough, his father seemed to relish the idea. Perhaps he had trouble controlling him too.’

‘More likely it allowed Merrix senior to spend more time on his own activities,’ said Edward, ‘whatever they may be.’

‘Do I detect a meaning behind that, Edward?’ said Richard, lifting his chin.

Simmerson gave the chaplain a look that seemed to imply caution.

‘I don’t know, Richard. We hear lots of things about Colvill Merrix and there is a slight air of mystery about him. He came over from America a few years ago and it is difficult to know what his real business is or was. He certainly has a guinea or two but how he made them is not known. He doesn’t seem to work at all now but he has lots of interests so he says. The man will talk to you a lot but tells you nothing.’

‘Just like our friend here,’ said the Headmaster nodding towards Richard.

The doctor made a slight smile which somehow confirmed Simmerson’s analysis.

‘Anyway Doctor, talk to the boy later. You might get some intelligent answers then. I suppose it might help your diagnosis and treatment. We know we can rely on your prudence in these situations.’

Warhurst stood up and walked to the door. ‘That is my cue to see how the patient is doing. I’ll be back soon. It may be best if I talk to him alone, assuming he has calmed down and is awake.’

Some minutes later, he reappeared. His face was creased with concern.

‘Well, is he any calmer now?’ asked Simmerson.

‘Oh yes, Headmaster, he is a lot calmer now.’

‘Good. He was raving about all sorts of things, wasn’t he?’

‘Not anymore he’s not.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s dead!’

Warhurst puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

‘I just cannot understand it.’

Chapter Two

Three months earlier, William Gladstone’s Office , London 1869

‘But surely, Prime Minister, it is impossible? We do not even know if such an object exists, let alone find it. How can we?’ said Gerald Forbes, Head of Queen Victoria’s Secret Field Police.

It was a new unit set up to deal with cases out of the public eye but in the National interest. He had taken this job as he thought that it might provide a change from the usual dross of assignments that had crossed his former office desk in the Metropolitan Police Service. Now and then, he anticipated, there would be something that would stand out; something really interesting that would capture his whole attention and be worth his considerable skill, time and energy. Was this it, or another mundane waste of his time?

Gladstone stood up and then bent forward and with a stern expression pointed his pen towards the Commander.

‘It is not impossible. The document found at the recent Colchester archaeological dig is considered by experts to be genuine. It shows that this gold, once given to the infant Christ by the Magi, does exist and is buried here, somewhere in England. Ever since the Queen heard about it from an indiscretion by a Cabinet Minister she seems obsessed with finding out about this ancient artefact’s powers. It doesn’t help that John Brown her servant, so called, has fuelled her interest with claims it will help her contact her dead husband. She has ordered the search personally and it’s given her an interest. A woman whose stubbornness can nearly bring down the government in the first weeks of her reign is not likely to give up on something she desperately wants. If it shakes her out of the dreadful lethargy since Albert died then it will help her and the nation. We need her to be seen again as a governing leader not a continually mourning widow. Anti-royalists are murmuring about Republicanism. Look, we are falling behind in espionage and wars are looming. Other secret organisations like The Dark and The True Knights of The Golden Circle are now sniffing around the discovery even though the damned thing is meant to be a secret. We cannot let it fall into foreign hands. If even a fraction of this artefact’s properties are true, the whole balance of power in the world could be shifted. You may harness all the resources of your new agency. Find it, Forbes, and find it fast…it just might help save the empire.’

Later that day Forbes went to his headquarters which consisted of four rented rooms above a tailor’s shop. One room was for reception and another, much larger room was used as a general office for his agents. The third room was a lavatory and sink unit and the fourth was his own personal office. The headquarters were not modern or well decorated but plain and functional as intended. In fact, unless the rooms were drawn to your attention you would hardly notice their existence. In other words, the building was perfect for its use as the very first headquarters of the Secret Field Police.

By 1866, secret service agencies had been springing up from various spy networks in Europe. Military Intelligence had advised Her Majesty’s government that it was imperative England had its own secret service in addition to the spying departments from the Foreign Office. Gladstone, the Prime Minister at that period had recognised this need too and instigated the formation of such an organisation.

So, for the last three years a rudimentary secret agency had been working from above the tailor’s shop on tasks of which the Foreign Office and ordinary police often had no knowledge. Business had been slow at first but today they had received a very special commission.

When he arrived there were two men in black business suits sat drinking tea in the general office.

He knew exactly to whom he would entrust this new task.

‘I have a new job for you,’ he said to his second in command, Rufus Carrington.

‘We have been asked by Queen Victoria personally to undertake an assignment of the highest importance. We must locate the gold of the Magi.’

‘Say that again, please, sir, I am not sure I heard you correctly. You do mean the actual gold given to the infant Jesus by the Magi, the Wise Men, as described in the Bible?’

‘Yes, Carrington,’ said the older man with mock patience. ‘I do.’

‘Alright. Er, then what would you like me to do this afternoon?’

His sarcasm was wasted on his superior.

‘This is not a matter for levity, Carrington, and is something very important to Her Majesty. It is top secret and neither of you must discuss this with nobody except me or someone verified by me. Do you understand? Nobody,’ he said with emphasis, ‘not even our other operatives yet. Apart from Her Majesty and the Prime Minister, only a certain Cabinet minister and his Private Secretary know of our involvement.’

Forbes went to the area set aside for making drinks and felt the kettle.

‘It’s just boiled,’ said the third man in the room. He was a big, muscular man who was probably in his forties but looked younger with an ageless type of quality. ‘Shall I make it for you? You look like you need a sit down.’

‘Thank you, Messenga.’

Forbes sat down in the one armchair in the room and waited for Michael Messenga to bring him his drink. Then he leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs and holding the saucer on his green waist-coated chest, lifted the cup and took a sip of his green Ceylonese tea. He stared at the pensive Carrington and waited.

‘Well,’ he enquired, after a minute’s silence. ‘Let’s have it. Start your interrogation of me, although my knowledge is limited on this subject.’

He knew from experience that his subordinate would have been considering this information and would now ask only those relevant questions he needed to fill in the blanks. Rufus Carrington was twenty five years old and a man of quick wit and uptake. He had been an honours student at Cambridge and a good athlete. Both aspects had been important in his recruitment. He was also the nephew of the Cabinet minister referred to earlier.

‘I’m guessing that something has been found relating to this gold,’ suggested Carrington, ‘otherwise there would be no point in starting a hunt from scratch?’

‘Correct.’

‘So, it must be a recent event. The archaeological dig at Colchester?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have only sketchy knowledge about the dig. How did the Queen come to learn about this gold, sir?

‘Ah, well. Some students from the university were doing a routine excavation and found a statue tombstone of a Roman soldier called Marcus Favonius Facilis. It had been buried for hundreds of years but was very well preserved and near it was found a sealed Roman clay jar containing an ancient document written by this centurion. Professor Ernest Warhurst was called in to translate this document as he is an eminent man in his field and an expert on ancient history of this period. It so happens that Professor Warhurst approached your uncle privately and discussed the implications of what the document contained. He had immediately realised what was at stake if the writings were true. The document was an account of how the gold was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea. As you know, Her Majesty has an affinity with Christmas since her beloved Albert celebrated it so much and the Magi’s gold came up in discussion when your uncle was attending the Queen on another matter. She mentioned she wanted to grow her own Christmas trees as a tribute to Albert. So, he casually mentioned this discovery to her and she seized on it in a flash.’

‘Why?’ interrupted Carrington. ‘Does she think the finding of the gold will help convert the godless or prove the story of the Wise Men to be true? As exciting as the find sounds there must have been something even more stimulating in the document.’

‘Oh, there was, believe me.’

‘Are you going to share it with me?’

Forbes paused reflectively. ‘I suppose you might as well know it all, though you may have trouble believing it. I know I have. Apparently, Professor Warhurst is convinced that the document is genuine and that it gives clues to where the gold may be found today. But this is the scary bit, according to this document and long-established legend, the gold is said to possess powers. It can alter the perception of time.’

Carrington looked at Messenga who merely raised his shoulders and pursed his lips as though saying, ‘Don’t ask me.’

‘The perception of time? What does that mean? You surely do not mean time travel?’ gasped Carrington incredulously.

‘Who knows? That’s what is recorded in the writing. Some form of time bending rather than actual time travel. And that’s not all. It seems that there are other properties as far as can be made out. Legend says that the gold has the power to enable you to correct decisions in the past. You have a chance to redeem your mistakes as it were. Warhurst is sure that the account says the gold helped to override someone’s death by this time bending. I know, I know, it seems absurd and nonsense to me but all parties involved are sure the document is no forgery or trick. Whether the content is accurate is another matter.’

‘Well, at least that now explains the Queen’s interest,’ said Carrington. ‘I lay you odds that she wants to contact or resurrect her husband.’

Forbes looked astonished at the young man’s conclusion. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Simple. She has mourned Albert for so many years now and never truly got over his death. You know how interested she has been in spiritualism and the paranormal since then. She clearly sees a chance for bringing him back. I really believe that she would cling to any hope, any prospect of doing that; no matter how slim.’

‘I agree. Although I have to say that the whole thing sounds completely ludicrous, but do not repeat that. We have our mission, we must comply. You know how stubborn the Queen can be. Anyway, whether the gold has special powers or not, it would be incredible just to find it.’

Forbes sipped his tea again and Carrington appeared deep in thought. Eventually, he said, ’I suppose it is reasonable to think that the gold is still in existence. I mean, as an element gold is never intentionally destroyed, is it? It may sometimes be changed from one form to another but nobody throws it away or obliterates it, do they?’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. If the gold existed in the first place then logically it must be somewhere today, either buried beneath the ground or concealed in some secret place. Makes you wonder just who has owned it through the years and whether it became lost or deliberately hidden.’

‘Umm,’ said Carrington pensively. ‘You know, there is something else that needs considering. I wonder what form the gold took. After all, the Bible just says that the Magi brought gold, frankincense and myrrh to the stable where Jesus was born. It does not reveal the exact nature of the gift. It might have been gold coin, gold nuggets or a gold object such as a plate, vase or drinking cup.’

‘Ah, I should have told you about that. It was remiss of me,’ interrupted Forbes. ‘According to Professor Warhurst the document states that the object is now a cup of some sort but originally it had been a bowl. It became damaged and then repaired by making it into a goblet. All the details are in the account by this centurion, Marcus Facilis. I think that our first point of call should be the Professor so we can get a full translation of the tale and see exactly what is known and what is not, and how much credence we can give the story anyway. However, we must be careful. I understand that we are not alone in seeking this object.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Something of this archaeological importance cannot be entirely kept secret. Of course, we have our friendly newspaper editors who are paid handsome retainers not to publish anything we do not want them to… in the national interest etc. You know the sort of thing.’

Carrington nodded. Since joining the organisation he had become acquainted with many things that he had never even considered were a reality. He now knew just how devious governments, not to mention sovereigns, could be. It was common practice throughout Europe in this period to have ‘tame’ editors on secret payrolls.

‘All the same, a few details leaked out probably from the others on the dig and maybe even Warhurst himself before he realised the significance of the find,’ continued Forbes. ‘I don’t think anyone actually knows the finer details of the information in the document but there are a few covert societies who have an interest in this sort of thing and would have been alerted at the smallest hint of something special being discovered.’

‘Like whom?’ queried Carrington.

‘Well, Al-Kimiya for one. They are part of an ancient society who traditionally follow the teachings of Zoroaster. They are a sort of latter day Zoroastrians but should not be confused with the Zoroastrians who practice a similar religion today, mostly in India and Iran, or Greater Persia as it used to be known. Al-Kimiya followers are charged with keeping the quest for the Magi’s Gold alive down the centuries and becoming like the Magi of old. You see the Magi mentioned in the Bible were from Persepolis in Persia and were like scientists in their day. They were scientific alchemists and explorers of the supernatural and different from the Magi of Babylon who were nothing more than tricksters and conjurors. It’s from where we get the word magic.’

‘Yes, I know,’ smiled Carrington at the thought that his superior believed he was telling him something new. ‘I am also guessing that the name Al-Kimiya is the root from which we get the word alchemy?’

‘It could be. In Arabic it roughly translates as ‘the art of transformation’ although some scholars I’ve spoken to indicate that the Arabs may have borrowed the word Kemia from Kemetian for the study of blackness. Either way, as the organisation is also known as the Ancient Order of the Dark both could be right. In England they are often referred to simply as The Dark.’

‘You certainly seem to have done some homework, sir. The Dark, eh? That does sound a bit sinister.’

‘Anyway, Al-Kimiya consider the gold of the nativity to be stolen from them. Their tradition states that one of the biblical magi took a sacred gold vessel once owned by Abraham and altered it by alchemy and sacred ritual so that it had special powers. In the Bible, God told Abraham that those who treated him well would be blessed by God and those who cursed Abraham would themselves be cursed. Apparently this gold had the same propensity and was the gold given to the holy child. Ever since then Al-Kimiya have been trying to get it back. They continue to try to locate it today and because of the legend of Joseph of Arimathea coming to England have quite a few active members based here. From what my sources tell me Al-Kimiya were alerted when the digging at Colchester revealed the history of Marcus Facilis who accompanied Arimathea. They are a really secret society, not many have even heard of them, but can be quite ruthless in their methods which is why we must be very careful how we approach this undertaking.’

‘Are we watching them?’

‘Yes, we are monitoring them a little but it’s hard to separate truth from fiction with them. They are always looking out for new archaeological treasures that may be connected with the Bible. They are a somewhat over-zealous religious group and often see new events as a trigger to the end of the world. Something they actually look forward to.’

‘Look forward? Why?’

‘Because they think that this world is becoming evil and believe that they. as what they call true believers, will all go to heaven immediately without dying when the Apocalypse comes while the rest of us are duly punished here on Earth for our wrongdoings.’

‘Charming. Actually, the word apocalypse in the Greek means lifting of the veil and not the end of the world as commonly stated.’

Forbes looked at Carrington with pursed lips. He was not a man who appreciated correction.

‘Really? How interesting,’ he said, although his face