The Templar’s Silver Seal

By Brian Crane

‘Will we once again find the light, now darkness has fallen’

The ‘Seal’ is a story set just weeks before the outbreak of WW2 but which has its roots in the historical Holy Crusades of some nine hundred years before. It is a story of one man’s chance encounters in a series of incidents that would not only have a profound effect on him personally but which could have led to serious consequences at a time when the security of this country was at its most vulnerable.

However, within the story is also a journey, albeit over a short period of time of one man in search of his own conscience through the events in his life and their affect on the circumstances that he was to find himself in, a journey that was to have far reaching repercussions for him beyond the limits of this story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664115507

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Copyright © 2021 by Brian Crane.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/29/2021

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CONTENTS

i. When Darkness Falls

ii. Dedication

iii. Preface

THE TEMPLAR’S SILVER SEAL

i. The Man And A Motor Cycle

ii. A Grave At Tel Megiddo.

iii. The Jew And The Jewellers Shop.

iv. The Secrets Of The Seal.

v. The Mercedes Benz Tourer.

vi. Space To Take A Breather

vii. The Man In The Astrakhan Coat.

viii. Diamond In The Dirt.

ix. A Meeting Of Minds

x. Incident At The Old Barn

xi. The End Justifies The Means.

xii. A Face At The Window.

xiii. Dark Clouds Forming.

xiv. The Coming Together Of Interested Parties.

xv. In The Company Of Just One Other.

xvi. It’s The Simple Things That Make Sense.

iv. Epilogue.

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS

When darkness falls

It falls like stone,

And builds a wall before my eyes.

It’s hard to see

Just who we are,

When the past controls our lives.

And more than this

It chills the sun,

And brings the sinner to his knees.

Somehow the pain

That dwells within,

Sadly lingers through the years.

And more than this

It kills all sound

And so silence fills my soul.

Unspoken words

Best left unsaid

Could never say what can’t be told.

And more than this

It clouds my mind,

And puts doubt in all I see.

So many ghosts

Still haunt my nights,

Denying me a dreamless sleep.

And more than this

It feeds my tears,

And leaves me clinging to the floor

Time takes a breath

Then waits to see,

If I can stand when darkness falls

…………

DEDICATION

To Sue.

And to Terry for our shared formative years and dreams.

PREFACE

As with the previous two publications of my grandfather’s stories The Ballad Of Jessie Gray and Betrayal Of The Trinity Knot, I find it necessary to provide a brief introduction to the narrative so that the reader not only appreciated where the stories came from, but also my motives for seeing them into print.

The Templar’s Silver Seal is just one of many stories that my grandfather wrote during his lifetime that remained unpublished, simply because he considered them to have been written as a pleasurable pastime that in some ways provided a document of his life and should not, for various reasons be seen by anyone other than himself. However this story, although having roots in the eleventh century and the Holy Crusades and which then has links in a world on the brink of WW2, is really an account of a series of incidents in his life that gives a far different perspective to the quiet, gentle man that I knew when I was young but only now have come to really appreciate through his writings.

It was after my father’s death, a number of years ago that a small wooden chest of his came into my possession that contained many of his personal and private items. Amongst the items was a large bundle of manuscripts of stories written by my grandfather but previously kept hidden from the family. I have to say that I cannot provide any reason why they had remained locked in that chest all those years since my grandfather’s death other than my father was simply following his father’s wishes.

On opening the chest I was privileged to read the stories and felt that it had been such a travesty that they had not been made available for others to have access to and enjoy. And even though my grandfather’s wishes have been kept all these years, there is one point I must make in the case of The Templar’s Silver Seal and its predecessor Betrayal Of The Trinity Knot. It is that their concealment was more than likely due to my grandfather merely honouring his commitment demanded by the official secrets act and the sensitive nature of the manuscripts contents.

However, once again I have taken it upon myself to publish the following story as I feel that it is time that the facts are clearly identified of the contribution my grandfather made to this country. For I am quite certain that there are many files tucked away and gathering dust somewhere in the vaults of Whitehall documenting what my grandfather and I am certain many other unsung heroes for that matter achieved without any fanfare or recognition being given to them, during or since that very bleak period of our country’s history.

And so I leave you to continue reading in the hope that you may at least get an insight into the time my grandfather was trying to illustrate in his writings, and writings that I am proud to be associated with.

G.S.K

…………

i.

The Man And A Motor Cycle

Like any good story the beginning rarely allows the reader any insight into what the conclusion is likely to be, and as I left my home and printing business in Bristol in the late summer of 1939, nothing could have prepared me for what lay ahead. For what I believed was going to be a pleasant few days in the idyllic surroundings of Exmoor, whilst taking the opportunity to visit my good friend the Reverend Thomas Millican, turned into nothing less than an adventure of classic thriller proportions and which left me and all those involved wondering at what the future truly had in store.

And so I say to you Robbie Burns, you certainly knew what you were writing when you coined the phrase ‘the best laid schemes o’ mice and men, gang aft agley,’ for I can cynically confirm that on this occasion my best laid plans did most certainly ‘go awry’.

…………

July 1939.

It had been my intention, after an early Friday morning start, to motor lazily down the coast road out of Bristol, passing through Minehead and Porlock and Countisbury and from there onto Lynmouth and to arrive at the White Horse Inn at Barbrook in the late afternoon. This was a journey that I had come to know and appreciate so much over the years and which at this particular time of late summer should be as enjoyable as a journey could be, with all the visual splendour of the Exmoor coastline as a travelling companion.

However, that was yesterday and I have just arrived at my destination, a day late after spending an unscheduled stopover at the Royal Oak Hotel in Porlock. This had been caused when steam had begun to emanate in clouds from underneath the bonnet of my five week old, fresh from the showroom, Morris Ten Series 3 saloon car whilst attempting to negotiate the infamous long steep climb out of Porlock. Fortunately, a passing bakers van had seen my plight and had given me a lift back into the town where a local garage was able to facilitate a tow and then arrange to repair the burst radiator hose. All the same, it had meant a frustrating days delay, kicking my heels before I could continue my journey this morning.

But now I was sitting in my car with the broad, cream painted cob and stone walls and thatched roof of the seventeenth century White Horse coaching inn just across the road from me. Sitting and quietly absorbing the tranquil beauty of this so familiar feature of Exmoor and remembering so vividly special instances whilst sitting in this self same parking area, with that homely pile directly opposite but with my late wife Jessie by my side.

Was it really seven years ago since she had died, it certainly did not seem to be that long and for a few moments I mulled heavily on just how I had managed to cope with that gap of seven years in my life without her. But somehow time has the annoying habit of smudging over the reality of deeply emotional events and I suppose it is in some way to protect the individual concerned. Even so there was never a day that had gone by without my thoughts, at some point or other coming to dwell on my Jessie and the importance she had brought into my life.

And yet, it was when I was confronted by some place or instance of significance, like our times together here at the White Horse that the truly overwhelming need to see her, to hear her and even to touch her once again became so profound and at the same time acutely unsettling for me. And as my thoughts deepened even more I was almost able to sense her next to me as a wayward breeze crept through the open window of my car to taunt me with the briefest tinge of lavender and with it the remembrance of the perfume she favoured to wear.

I was so enraptured within my thoughts that I hardly noticed a small, but very tired looking, Bedford twelve hundred weight van pull up a few yards away from me, its blue flaking paintwork revealing patches of brown rust. From somewhere, the name Wilf Billings suddenly leapt into my head, and with it came the recollection of a stubble faced, wily looking individual in black smudged jacket and trousers, a clear indication of his occupation of chimney sweep and general odd job man, who it was said, tended to shun away from close company and live alone in some isolated cottage or other.

My mind was still absorbed with this conjured up picture when, from the corner of my eye I caught sight of the man himself as he skulked from around the side of his van, the smouldering remnant of a roll up cigarette clinging to his bottom lip. Then with a shifty look in my direction from between his squinting eyes, he proceeded to shuffle off across the road before vanishing into the gloom provided by the thatched porch entrance of the White Horse.

Like many of the local populace, Wilf derived a living from being handy at many trades and sweeping chimneys being just one. But people had need of that service and so he was kept busy enough to earn a living. Even so on the few occasions I had come across the slight of build, rather shifty Mr Billings, it had always left me with an uneasy feeling about the encounter.

It was then that the murmur of voices finally brought me out of my thoughts and directed my gaze across the road to the entrance of the White Horse. Two figures had appeared and instantly took my attention, one being easily recognisable as the landlord George with his hairless dome head, enormous bush moustache and vast rotund figure. But the other, who stood with his back towards me, was a tall, broad figure in a police officer’s uniform.

Sensing that some kind of trouble had befallen the good, affable landlord I quickly stepped out of my car and made my way across the road.

At my approach the police officer turned to face me and without any hesitation a broad smile creased his face as a big hand shot out to be shaken in friendship.

Mr Kempe sir! the police officer declared enthusiastically with that now so recognisable Welsh inflection in his voice. Oh this is a surprise……and a very welcome one I must say.

Constable Morgan! I replied slightly taken aback, but then I corrected myself as I noticed three white stripes on his uniform’s arm. I’m sorry….I mean Sergeant Morgan….congratulations are in order I see!

Thank you Mr Kempe….Though I must admit that it had a goodly deal to do with that little escapade you involved me in last year, he said with pride in his voice.

All of a sudden the memories hurtled back into my mind of the ‘little escapade’ that the Sergeant was referring to and which I have detailed in a narrative I broadly titled ‘The Trinity Knot.’

And Sergeant Dawson…..I trust he’s alright, I asked.

Oh he’s fine….But the job was getting to much for him….what with his wife not being in the best of health, he replied. So he retired to help his brother in law Bill Oakley….at the harbour chandlers in Lynmouth.

Well I’m glad he’s well, I said with some relief in my tone.

Oh yes Mr Kempe sir….he’s doing fine now, the Sergeant responded. And so the three stripes came to me!

Well I’m pleased for you….Sergeant! I said. But what are you doing here….I hope my good friend George has been behaving himself.

I glanced across towards the large imposing figure of the landlord and could imagine, rather than actually see the beaming smile that was hidden behind that daunting bush of a moustache.

Oh….no….George is of no interest to me Mr Kempe, the Sergeant said smiling. No….it’s just that we’ve been having some trouble on this patch of late….and George has been able to help me with a few details.

I somehow detected that a certain reticence had developed in the Sergeant’s manner and so I deliberately changed the subject.

I….I should’ve been here yesterday, I said as I turned towards the landlord. I’m sorry if it’s inconvenienced you George….but I hope you got my message?

Yes….I got the message Mr Kempe sir, George answered, with a certain deference in his voice. Amy said you’d telephoned about your car breaking down….But that’s no trouble….your room be ready for you as usual.

Thank you! I replied.

Are you here for a holiday Mr Kempe? the Sergeant enquired

Just for a few days, I confirmed, to visit the Reverend Thomas.

Well….he’ll be glad to see you I’m thinking sir, the Sergeant said firmly.

Why’s that? I asked equally sharply.

Don’t you worry about the Reverend, Mr Kempe….he’s fine, was the rather hurried response by the Sergeant as if he had detected the concern that must have appeared in my expression. But he’s had some bits and pieces taken from his church I’m afraid.

Oh no! I exclaimed, for I was more than aware how precious Saint Michaels Church was to my friend and this information did give me something of a jolt.

Anyway! the Sergeant said at length. I must be getting back to the station.

Can I give you a lift? I asked.

That’s kind of you, the Sergeant smiled. But they’ve given me my own transport now….Still two wheels……but motorised!

With that he pointed towards a rather dubious and well used motor cycle with the name Sunbeam emblazoned on the petrol tank and which was precariously propped up against the stone water trough.

Not exactly the Flying Squad you see on the pictures, he laughed. But it saves me legs and gets me about!

And with something of an impish grin adorning his face, he pulled a pair of goggles up to his eyes from under his chin and clambered aboard the somewhat jaded looking machine and after a couple of thwarted attempts to start, the engine finally coughed and spluttered into life. Then with a cheery wave and a cloud of exhaust smoke in his wake, Sergeant Morgan thundered noisily away in the direction of Lynton.

You must be tired after your drive Mr Kempe sir? George remarked, as we watched the motor cycle disappear round a bend in the road and leaving behind it a haze of grey smoke.

Yes! I sighed. It’s been a couple of very tiring days.

Anyway, he added, you’re room be ready and waitin’…..as I dare say you be wantin’ to have a wash and such before you eat!

Thank you George…..that’s a very good idea, I replied as the landlord turned away to bustle back down through the arched doorway.

And so, after retrieving my bags from my car and with George’s good advice still ringing in my ears, I somewhat wearily made my way up the flight of old but solid oak stairs and along the oak panelled landing of the White Horse to the door of the room that held so many memories for me. It never changed, there was always something so comforting for me every time I crossed over the threshold of that little sanctuary that Jessie and I had discovered on our honeymoon some twenty years before.

However, for some strange reason on this occasion my thought patterns were having the unfortunate effect of erupting into the creeping menace of my dormant bereavement that usually hits me whilst driving home after a taxing day at my business. For it is then, that I really miss my Jessie and her endearing warmth and welcoming smile, which would always be waiting for me at my homecoming. Instead, all that is there to greet me now is the deep rooted emptiness in my life that has been my unwanted companion from the moment of her passing.

But that haunting sense of a lonely void was happening again, here and now, and was being goaded along by the tormenting fact that she had been so cruelly taken from me, a mere thirteen years after our wedding day in1919. It was this one burning thought alone which seemed to symbolise the whole extent of the continuing sense of grief that was always there, lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness.

Nevertheless, with this heavy mantel of sadness now beginning to weigh on me, I found it necessary to summon up the extremes of my self control to banish my demons and shrug off the all enveloping dark cloud and in exchange to breathe in deeply with a feeling of gratitude that I could, for the few days that I was to spend at the White Horse, relive and reminisce that which was so good about our time together and look on it as a blessing that I can hold in my heart.

And with that pleasant notion blossoming in my mind, I gave a gratifying sigh and went about settling in and step by step I was able to lift my spirits above the cavern of despair that was just waiting to swallow me up and which would then contrive to dominate me over the coming days.

So it was, that with a determined approach fixed firmly in my mind, a little over two hours later and following a soaking bath, a clean shirt and then a large plate of the establishments famous cottage pie and trimmings, plus a mindless browsing of the Daily Sketch I was justly able to confirm to my inner being that the simple personal period of self indulgence that I had allowed myself had certainly done the trick.

The visible signs of this positive approach must have been very apparent, for my ever