Believe Me!

By Martin R. Jackson

When Ben McVeigh moves to Norfolk to escape the high maintenance memory of Sally Peters he has little idea that the silence of the place will soon be broken in a most unexpected way.
He is contacted by the legal department of a large multinational energy company, "Genélan", with a request to recover a badly damaged Mercedes from an old barn in a village ten miles or so away from his home. Ben is tasked with examining the car and supplying an engineer's report, with secrecy being the order of the day.
But soon, the mystery of the crashed Merc will include the discovery of an old chart and a silver box and the way will be open for Ben McVeigh to embark on an investigation involving sunken islands, the Knights Templar, missing treasure and foreign agents, not to mention the discovery of a new soulmate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781786931474

Book preview

About the Author

Martin R Jackson has spent over twenty years as a consulting automotive engineer working for solicitors, Consumer Protection and the public in general. On numerous occasions he attended Crown Court, Magistrates Court and County Court giving evidence as an expert witness. He was a senior lecturer in automotive studies at West Nottinghamshire College, Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, teaching his subject to Foundation Degree level. He lived in the St. Ann’s area of Nottingham for many years and now lives in North Norfolk with his wife Cynthia and their cat Sir Wilfred Scarlett. Martin graduated with a PG Cert Ed from Nottingham Trent University and holds a Full Technological Certificate in Automobile Engineering. 

Dedication

Edward Jackson

1927 – 2014

Martin R Jackson

Believe Me!

The Lost Treasure of the Templars

Copyright © Martin R Jackson (2017)

The right of Martin R Jackson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is entirely a work of fiction although some of the historical details and characters are factual. Persons and companies named within the contemporary part of the script are wholly fictional and are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons past or living is entirely coincidental. Genélan and Rock-Cake & Roll Café are inventions of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786931450 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786931467 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781786931474 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2017)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my wife Cynthia for her patience, understanding and ability to mash tea; the narrative would have been impossible without. My sister Jane gave much encouragement and must have become bored stiff with reading my early attempts at writing the novel. Also, I must extend a big thank you to the staff at Austin Macauley for deciding to Believe Me and put it into print.

During the early stages I read an article by Caroline McMorran detailing efforts by Historic Scotland to stabilise the ancient ruins of Skelbo Castle which inspired direction within the script. I must also acknowledge that brilliant institution Wikipedia [internet] for guiding me in parts of my research.

Finally, I must acknowledge Sir Wilfred Scarlett who has provided a most comprehensive insight into the cat world.

Foreword

This is a story of Freemasonry, lost treasure and an island inundated by the sea around 1360AD. Although little known today, the island had been a major port on the east coast of England. The narrative involves true historical characters and events surrounding artefacts removed before the island sank.

It describes the efforts of a young engineer to solve the mystery surrounding a serious road accident, and the origin of an ancient parchment found hidden in the wreckage.

Do his efforts reveal the truth behind the lost fortune of the Knights Templar?

It tells of sinister motorbike gangs, foreign agents, and Ben McVeigh’s search for a soulmate…

Contains adult themes and language.

Fact: For over two centuries, a holy order called the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon existed, spreading from the Holy lands across Europe.

Fact: With tax concessions and papal blessings, this order of poor knights became the richest organisation in the world and became known as the Knights Templar.

Fact: King Philip of France borrowed heavily from the poor knights and devalued his currency issuing coinage of lesser value.

Fact: Friday the 13th of October 1307 saw the knights simultaneously arrested by King Philip… he was after negating his debt and seizing their vast fortune.

Fact: After the arrest of the Templars it was found the treasure had disappeared overnight!

Fact: The Templar fleet had fled from La Rochelle immediately before the arrest of Jacques de Molay, Grand Master, and other senior members of the order.

Fact: The whereabouts of the treasure remains a mystery to this day.

Where was the treasure taken to?

Did a mysterious island that had purportedly provoked the vengeance of God upon itself hold the secret?

Did an English knight with a thought-provoking motto leave clues?

Raven black, tongue so raw,

The steely deep her wicked claw;

Where sweetest sounds of saintly bell,

Lured the bony flag from hell –

To lawless haven, name so odd;

The isle reviled, so razed by God.

Prologue

At first he was convinced things would be alright; comfortable, relaxed and free from the rowdy hassle of the city. He was almost enjoying the quiet seclusion of North Norfolk, so different from his native Nottingham.

Almost enjoying it, but not entirely...

Something was missing. Although he had formed an excellent relationship with next-door neighbours Jackie and Jonathan Stone, he found that loneliness had sharp teeth and bit hard, particularly when the door of his cottage was shut of an evening.

A prisoner! The explosion of silence – deafening!

The occasional muted bump of a door or muffled laughter from next door only went to remind him of his isolation. Others were having fun, but definitely not him! No female interaction, no hugs, no intimacy – no sex! The only thing available to Ben McVeigh was imagination, or the occasional girlie magazine. And that made him feel guilty, dirty even.

Before finally deciding to move to Norfolk he had been in a steady relationship. She almost became a fixture, his fiancée, but as things worked out, a most embarrassing incident finally put paid to that; embarrassing in one respect, but in reality most fortunate for Ben. It had been a lucky escape from a life hanging on the frail tenterhooks of infidelity. On her part that is. Ben was as sound as a pound.

Sally Peters had been high maintenance. It required more than a few peanuts to rock her cradle, a whole Carter load if truth be known. She had been a butterfly, flitting about with no apparent direction until briefly settling on her latest fad: another point of interest – another conquest – another man of the moment…

Ben had politely concluded she was a free spirit, incapable of monogamy or full commitment. That’s how she was; he knew she couldn’t help it. However, his opinion of her now was not so polite, especially when primordial instinct raised its raging head. He would fantasise about Sally, and the times when they had laid together consumed by animal impulse – the nitty-gritty requirement of existence itself.

The essential but uncontrollable urge of the beastie!

It had been that unfortunate incident with the Hiatt handcuffs that finally convinced him to break their relationship.

Chapter 1

Spring 2007, Norfolk

The appointed rendezvous was the old Norfield Quarry. This had been abandoned over two decades earlier when aggregate abstraction had become unprofitable. Larger, more modern equipment and progressive management had given competitors a serious financial advantage over the small family-run business. Lack of investment, too many family members extracting more from their bank than the terrain finally put paid to the operation. Norfield Aggregates Ltd was no more. The shareholders had long since imposed their lethargy on more profitable endeavours elsewhere.

The lone rider pulled alongside the gates to the disused quarry, cocked his leg over, and dismounted his machine. He pulled the bike onto its stand, removed his gauntlets placing them on the seat; the engine patiently idling, awaiting instructions, rocking rhythmically. Rickety gates secured the entrance, fabricated from old scaffold tubes welded together and in-filled with heavy steel mesh; the sort used to reinforce concrete. The whole lot was in an advanced state of corrosion, any protective coating long gone. A white sign displaying faded red lettering: NO ENTRY, DEEP WATER, hung haphazardly to the left of the structure. A heavy chain in the centre secured the gates together. The rider was a prospect: a prospective candidate, recruit, initiate into a secret biker organisation.

This’s it; looks deserted though…

He pulled the chain through the steel mesh creating a heavy clanking as he gained access to the padlock fastening the chain. A shower of flaking rust fell to the sandy track peppering the stinking-nanny weeds that had sprung up on the otherwise barren ground. As advised, the padlock key was in situ and only required turning to release the mechanism. This done, he pulled the gate open just enough to allow him to push his bike through, then shut it turning the key as instructed, tossing it into a rain-barrel at the side of an old corrugated iron shed to the left of the gateway. The barrel was full to the brim. Plop – The key had gone! He was now inside, his exit blocked!

No friggin turning back now…

The rider donned his gloves, remounted his machine and negotiated the bumpy track leading around a rocky outcrop until he reached a harsh, desolate clearing. The topography was almost extra-terrestrial, the whole area storm-grey in colour, pock-marked by bottomless pits of cobalt blue water. The recruit hoped the intense colour was due to the reflection of the cloudless deep-blue sky, but had concern it might be the result of some toxic mineral leaching in.

An old earth-moving machine lay abandoned and rusting on a flat bed of shingle next to one of the larger watery craters. It bore the only sign of life, a lone black crow standing atop, preening feebly under a raised wing. Trees, bushes and vegetation were noticeably absent.

It looks deserted… No bugger about!

The rider paused at the rim of the largest pit, balancing his motorbike with one booted leg propping the idling machine; his other foot covered the gear selector in preparation. He raised his visor and with gauntleted hand shielded his eyes from the early morning sun. He surveyed the panorama; wisps of haze rose from the dark pool – malevolent phantoms expectant of a sinister happening. The crow took flight.

The prospect was just speculating what vile things lay at the very bottom of the deep water when a low humming noise similar to swarming bees became apparent. Louder, closer, and lower the noise came until fluctuations in the tone revealed individual thumping sounds of high-powered bike engines. Each machine sounded like a jack-hammer echoing around the scarred craters as the riders negotiated the undulated terrain. The engines cut simultaneously at exactly the appointed time – silence, apart from the pathetic throb of the recruit’s bike. He pulled his gauntlet back and nervously looked at his watch.

It’s true then that they’re sticklers for time…

A pack of black leather-clad riders on black motorcycles lined up on the far rim of the crater, arms outstretched clenching ape-hanger bars. Their dark glossy machines and chromium accessories reflected the bright, sunny vista transforming the riders into a string of incandescent cormorants hanging their wings to dry. A rider in the centre of the group stood out from the others. He sat proudly on a gold-plated Harley, the burnished metal blazing in the morning sun – a magnificent alpha on shimmering steed.

He was positioned slightly forward of the others and extended his left arm in a form of salute to the recruit. The biker slowly looked to his right and then to his left. His mirror-style visor remained down, face totally hidden, but as he turned his head, silver SS symbols could be seen either side of his storm-trooper helmet.

Satan’s Soldiers!

A forked woolly beard protruded from below the head-protection gear and moved gently in the light breeze. He lowered his left arm, bending and crossing it across loops of gold chains dangling on his chest. He punched a clenched fist to his heart. All was done with a stiff, orderly movement. The prospective recruit shuddered.

Up shit-creek without a paddle – reckon I’ve backed up the wrong alley here…

Chapter 2

Good grief! What a wonderful welcome home!

Jonathan Stone wrinkled his nose in distaste as he carefully navigated the dead bodies scattered randomly around. He stepped towards his immobile Land Rover where Ben McVeigh stood pointing into the engine compartment.

‘This’s dead as well. Dead as a dodo I’m afraid; all life extinct, mate…’

‘Completely flat then, Ben?’ Jonathan asked as he stroked his goatee beard between thumb and forefinger.

‘No, it’s not flat, you silly bugger – it’s perfectly three-dimensional but discharged, Jonno!’ Ben grinned, attempting to cover his embarrassment with typical devilish charm. He switched off his multi-meter and replaced it in a small bubble-wrap lined compartment of his toolbox. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll stick it on boost charge and we’ll be mobile within the hour; that’s if the alternator’s alright,’ he continued, a more serious look on his face.

Jonathan Stone looked disappointedly at the floor his eyes meeting with the first of four corpses. He was hoping the battery couldn’t be fully charged up until the following day.

Damn it – give us a break, just got off the blessed plane and Bendy’s already at it!

He considered Ben was being too sharp off the mark – surely tomorrow would do? ‘I reckon you didn’t shut the door properly and the interior lamp’s been on all over the holiday period,’ Jonathan replied as he again rubbed his short neatly-trimmed beard and looked questioningly at Ben McVeigh. ‘Can’t we wait until tomorrow?’ He added hopefully, ‘after all, we’ve only just got off the plane!’

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Jonno – it’s best to get it sorted straight away – strike while the iron’s hot eh!’ He turned his back and rolled his eyes embarrassed that he was the skilled motor engineer and it was he who had made the blunder; he should have known ruddy-well better!

‘Anyway the driveway looks like a blessed abattoir!’ Jonathan said changing the subject, pointing at the line of dead furry creatures. ‘I suppose Sir Wilfred’s been on the prowl again then, Ben!’

‘…Yeah; clever isn’t he! In any case, it’s not as though I don’t feed him, he eats like a bloody lion!’ He looked down the drive and observed a mole, two short-tailed voles and a field mouse; all dead. Sir Wilfred Scarlett was Ben McVeigh’s pet Maine Coon ginger Tom, a gentle giant but the most dreadful nemesis to anything small and furry.

‘Resident rodents must really appreciate him hanging around eh, Ben!’ Jonathan exclaimed sarcastically.

‘As welcome as a slug at a vegan picnic, Jonno, I reckon. Anyroad up, at least we don’t get overrun with vermin,’ he continued. ‘He’s just a bit over-enthusiastic in the liquidation of anything fluffy or feathered!’ Ben mocked a face of horror. He looked towards the cat that had taken up an advantageous position on a garden bench. His huge candyfloss tail swept slowly back and forth in anticipation as he stared into the flowerbed a short distance away.

Jonathan and his wife Jackie had been away on a late-spring break. Ben had chauffeured them to the airport in their Land Rover so they didn’t have to leave it there parked up. They all knew the vehicle wasn’t what you might call thief-proof and that any kid above the age of three could have had it away in minutes. So they had decided that was that; it was best taken back to April Cottage for the seven days or so they were to be away. April Cottage was where Jonathan Stone and his wife Jackie lived, next-door-neighbours to Abednego Ben McVeigh who lived at Spring Cottage in Hogsthorpe, North Norfolk.

Why Abednego?

Ben cursed the choice. Unfortunately, his father, a devotee of pugilism, had named him after a distant relative who had been an infamous Nottinghamshire prize-fighter nicknamed Bendigo a corruption of Abednego. Ben hated the name his father had lumbered him with; he insisted on being called Ben but was acutely aware people called him Bendy behind his back. He hated it.

Ben had been in a mad panic; the Land Rover failed to start when he was supposed to pick the Stone’s up. He resorted to rushing to the airport in his Austin Healey 3,000 sports car. Jackie had to sit cramped in the occasional seats at the rear which she said was a far worse experience than riding in their Land Rover and that was like riding a bucking-bronco at the best of times. The heavy steering and rigid beam axles seemed to insist on finding every lump or irregularity in the road. And nowadays there were plenty.

However, the old utility Rover did have a major plus on its side. With the time-honoured four-wheel drive, low ratio gears and sturdy chassis, it was ideal for towing and that was the reason Abednego McVeigh wanted Jonathan Stone’s help; or more to the point, the help of his Land Rover. Previous experience had already labelled Jonno as an arty-farty – the smallest practical task a major problem.

Ben had been contacted by the legal department of a large multinational energy company called Genélan with a request to recover a badly damaged Mercedes from an old barn in a village about ten miles or so away. The guy on the phone said it was as mangled as a scrapper’s cube and would want trailering.

One of Genélan’s senior directors had been involved in the accident and was hospitalised with serious injuries. The guy continued to say they were eager to get the car from the barn ASAP; there was no time to lose. Instructions were to take it to a secure facility in Norwich the following day where he was to examine it and supply an engineer’s report. The company had demanded utmost confidentiality and on no account should he allow other parties to touch it. Secrecy was the order of the day.

A plump ignition key along with a bright and shiny one for a Yale latch had been delivered to Bendy by motorcycle courier. Typewritten directions were enclosed.

‘Look at it this way, it’s only eleven o’clock; why don’t you have a bite to eat and get your head down for a bit? You’ve got all afternoon and I’ll boost-charge the battery and go pick up the trailer; we can shoot off around tea-time – what say you, Jonno?’

‘Well, err…’ Jonathan threw a plastic yawn. Let him know I’m knackered.

Ben sidled up and attempted to charm him with his impish grin. ‘You can have a nice lay-in tomorrow eh – you and Jackie eh!’ He winked at her and nudged him with his elbow.

Jonathan glanced over at Jackie hoping she could cut him loose from the situation. She smiled and said, ‘you did say you’d help him if the occasion ever popped up Jonathan, and I do need you to put that new rubber seal on the washing machine door tomorrow before I do the washing.’ She waited with baited breath for a favourable response.

That was Ben’s queue.

‘Yeah, I’ll tell you what, if it helps, I’ll stick the new seal on for you whilst you have a lay-in, you know, with Jackie – and err – things...’ Ben raised his eyebrows, widdled them and winked at her. ‘I’ll bring you a lovely cuppa in bed…’

Jacky looked on hopefully. That’s more like it – Bendy to the rescue!

Jacky was quite aware that although being an accomplished artist, Jonathan Stone was as far away from being kinaesthetic as Mozambique was to Mars. The washing machine job would end up a week-long cock-up, probably displacing the local water table by umpteen thousand gallons. Just like when he had attempted to hang one of his paintings on the wall a couple of months back. After relocating a half- hundredweight of plaster from the wall to the new carpet, the nail successfully found the electrical lighting circuit. The cottage remained in darkness for a week or more! The electrician had said he would be there on Tuesday, but as things go in Norfolk, which Tuesday of the year still remains a mystery. It was left to Ben to sort it out. The whole episode had been a monumental disaster!

Jackie folded her arms and tilted her head forcing a reply. Come on, Jonathan – say okay, please – please – please…!

He made indistinct um and argh noises like an old machine groaning into action as he reluctantly considered Ben’s plan. He thought that after all, Ben had assured him the recovery job was straightforward: locate the place; use the electric winch to drag the car onto the trailer and bring it back, locking it in the double garage behind the cottages overnight. Jonathan chewed it over… It’d certainly be a bonus if Ben could sort the washing machine out first thing.

Knowing full well he himself was cack-handed at such things he replied, ‘Well I suppose it’s a no-brainer really – after all the washer would most likely carry on leaking if I did it, boy!’ To Ben and Jackie’s relief he reluctantly gave in. ‘Okay then – make it coffee, no sugar, not too early – and no peeking… KNOCK,’ he added stretching his neck as though he had granted a huge favour.

Jackie smiled.

They were not to know that the job would be impossible. Like all perfectly laid plans, there was always at least one small chink to allow the bug-monkey in.

Chapter 3

They had found the barn alright and even the shiny Yale key sent by courier had fitted the new bronze sneck-latch. It was known as the Tin Barn, not because it was made of corrugated metal sheets but because it used to be used as a fruit canning factory sometime around the Second World-War period. The local villagers of Saxmorgen had known it as that ever since. The barn was ancient and constructed of flint stone and Norfolk red clay bricks, the old pan-tiled roof supported by a complicated maze of oak timbers.

The barn was situated on the outskirts of the tiny village and was almost hidden by field maple and bushes of briar. There were no streetlights and natural light was fading fast. A pair of huge wooden doors with heavy iron hinges fronted on to the narrow roadway; inset in the large doors was a smaller one for pedestrian access. Ben assumed the bigger doors would be bolted somehow from the inside; he would have to undo them to drag the damaged Mercedes out. The electric winch on the trailer would do that once the main doors were open. The smaller door carried a newly-installed Yale lock which he fumbled with as Jonathan Stone shakily held a powerful rechargeable flashlight. The beam swung about blitz fashion.

‘Hold the torch steady there, Jonno, we’re not bloody aircraft spotting! Having a job seeing what I’m doing here!’

‘Sorry, Ben, wish I’d put a warmer jacket on – reckon it’s getting a bit chilly now the sun’s gone down.’ He clenched his coat collar tighter with his free hand.

‘Nesh old so-and-so aren’t you, mate!’

‘Either that or somebody’s just walked over my grave, boy!’

The new lock worked easily, the small inset door swung inwards. A smell of fuel and other mechanical substances met them instantly.

‘Black hole of Calcutta in here, m’duck…’ Ben stumbled over the raised threshold.

They both entered the total darkness of the barn, Jonathan swinging the beam of his flashlight illuminating a labyrinth of oak roof timbers above, whilst Ben felt along the dank fusty wall for a light switch.

‘Give us some light here, Jonno, the switch will be on the wall not the ruddy roof,’ Ben said in a whisper as though they were raiding the larder in the dead of night. He casually stood back and accidentally trod on Jonathan’s foot.

‘Ouch! – Watch out, that’s my blessed foot if you don’t mind!’ he exclaimed in a vexed whisper. The beam lurched about haphazardly as the heavy flashlight nosedived for the stone floor terminating in an echoing clatter. The light went out. They simultaneously ducked to retrieve the torch and clashed heads in the process. A fox shrieked in the distance as though observing a comedy show.

‘Bloody Nora!’ exclaimed Ben, ‘my ruddy bonce.’

‘Mine as well – reckon I can see stars!’

Having retrieved the flashlight Ben stood up slowly, rubbing his forehead vigorously with the other hand.

‘Stars are about all you’ll see now, the filament’s bust I think.’

Jonathan went quiet and leaned against the wall taking the weight off his sore foot. He stroked his head gently with the flat of his hand; the pain in his head apparently lessened by the trauma to his foot.

Ben swapped the flashlight over to his left hand and operated the switch whilst rapidly slapping the body of the lamp. It flickered a little and went out. ‘There you go – I knew I was right. The bloody filament in the bulb’s definitely blown, Jonno, damn it!’ The bug-monkey must feel triumphant – bet the beggar’s pissing himself laughing!

Jonathan had now found his voice. ‘Can’t see a ruddy hand in front of me – let’s see if the torch on my mobile will give us enough light.’ He held his phone out in front of him but the total blackness of the huge barn seemed to suck all energy from the tiny beam. ‘Hopeless; no good at all, Ben – what do we do now?’

‘I’ll sort it. We’ll unhitch the trailer and drive the Land Rover up to the door – the headlights should give us enough light to see by. Then we’ll be able to find the light-switch, that’s if the lights actually work of course. If not, we should at least be able to locate the securing bolts to the main doors.’

Ben opened the small door wide to let in the quickly fading twilight of the outside. They both manhandled the heavy trailer from the back of the vehicle and Jonathan drove it up to the inset doorway, headlamps full on. The engine was left running; they couldn’t risk more trouble with the battery.

In the shadows at the side of the barn near the doorway, they found an old electrical switchboard with a rusty isolator switch. Ben, not trusting the safety of the electrical installation used the plastic body of the flashlight to operate the lever of the switch. To his surprise it moved easily with a metallic clunk and the whole of the barn became illuminated with a weak murky glow accompanied by a pronounced low-pitched humming noise. A rat scampered across the floor.

‘You say this used to be a fruit and veg canning factory then, Ben? Bit mucky with the spiders and all that don’t you think, boy?’ He wafted his arm above his head like a mad musical director as he fought dust-laden cobwebs.

‘Canning factory…? Yeah that was long ago – nowt like a bit of protein, eh. Reckon they needed as much as they could get in them days. Bit of meat in the veg – meat and potato fly if you like!

‘Errr…’ Jonathan shivered distaste.

‘Anyroad, apart from that you can go and switch your lights and engine off now; pointless wasting fuel, Jonno.’

Jonathan slipped back out the door and returned within a few seconds, ‘well I guess that must be the Merc then, Ben.’ He nodded towards the