Holy Grail, Sacred Gold

By Jeremy Akerman

In the first Marc LeBlanc mystery, a sudden death pulls Marc out of his comfortable life in Grand Pre and into a quest involving unexpected allies, unwelcome visitors, mysterious references in documents and on tombstones, and a hunt from one end of Nova Scotia to the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose House Publications
• Release date: Dec 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781998149346

Jeremy Akerman

Jeremy Akerman is an adoptive Nova Scotian who has lived in the province since 1964. In that time he has been an archaeologist, a radio announcer, a politician, a senior civil servant, a newspaper editor and a film actor.He is painter of landscapes and portraits, a singer of Irish folk songs, a lover of wine, and a devotee of history, especially of the British Labour Party.

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Holy Grail, Sacred Gold

© 2023 Jeremy Akerman

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, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The author expressly prohibits any entity from using this publication for purposes of training artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text, including without limitation technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as this publication. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Cover design: Rebekah Wetmore, from a painting by the author

Editor: Andrew Wetmore

ISBN: 978-1-998149-31-5

First edition December, 2023

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2475 Perotte Road

Annapolis County, NS

B0S 1A0

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[e-mail]

We live and work in Mi’kma’ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaw people. This territory is covered by the Treaties of Peace and Friendship which Mi’kmaw and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) people first signed with the British Crown in 1725. The treaties did not deal with surrender of lands and resources but in fact recognized Mi’kmaq and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) title and established the rules for what was to be an ongoing relationship between nations. We are all Treaty people.

Also by Jeremy Akerman

and available from Moose House Publications

Memoir

Outsider

Politics

What Have You Done for Me Lately? - revised edition

Fiction

Black Around the Eyes – revised edition

The Affair at Lime Hill

The Premier’s Daughter

In Search of Dr. Dee

Explosion

To the memory of Chrétien de Troyes,

the man who started it all.

This is a work of fiction. The author has created the characters, conversations, interactions, and events; and any resemblance of any character to any real person, with the exception of historical references and one cameo appearance, is coincidental.

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Acknowledgements

About the author

1

It was 6:30 in the morning when I was awakened by a telephone call from the Halifax Regional Police, informing me that my father had been found dead under mysterious circumstances. A Sergeant Charles Kennedy told me that his body had been discovered near Bayer’s Lake Park and that the back of his head had been caved in.

Not having seen my father since the previous morning, I had not even known that he had left Wolfville, where he lived and worked and from where these days he seldom departed. Nor, when I asked him subsequently, did Gerald, my father’s assistant in the bookstore on Main Street.

Gerald told me he had no idea Dad was out of town, what reason he would have to go to Bayers Lake, and still less idea why he would be the victim of a violent crime. I cannot explain why, but, although Gerald had been with my father for many years and was thoroughly trustworthy, on this occasion I did not entirely believe him.

Sergeant Kennedy asked me if I could go up to Halifax right away, not only to officially identify the body, but also because he thought it might be helpful for me to see the crime scene before it was cleared.

Naturally, I was shocked and saddened by this terrible news and, while my father was well into his seventies and in poor health, I did not expect to lose him this soon. Rather shakily, I washed, shaved and ate a little breakfast before heading out.

As I drove up Highway 101 from Grand Pre—much more slowly than usual—I tried to make sense of it, but could not even begin to comprehend such an unlikely turn of events.

Armed with my BBA from Acadia University, I had accepted an invitation from a former professor to join him at a merchant bank in London, in a lowly position. I had been gone from Wolfville for over fifteen years, during which, as a result of a series of market anomalies, I made a great deal of money. But it was a stressful and time-consuming life and I did not keep in touch with my father as I should have done.

Truth to tell, I did not really know him. I had remembrances of childhood and teen years, but even then he was frequently absent from home, travelling the world. I was never told the reason for these peregrinations and, frankly, had little interest in finding out. My mother died when I was twenty-two, and following what seemed like only a token period of mourning, my father installed Gerald in the shop, and was very soon off on his travels again.

The car was performing well, even though it was now eight years old. There were only 92 Bugatti Veyron Grand Sport Vitesses made, but the engineering by Wolfgang Schreiber was so superb that the car was not only the fastest roadster in the world, reaching an average top speed of 408.84 km/h, but was also impressively reliable. As one would expect, the asking price for these precision vehicles was enormous so, despite my success in the markets, I had to settle for getting mine second-hand from an Arabian sheik. In any event, the waiting list for new Bugattis is endless and, unless you have the many millions for the one-only versions, you could be old and grey by the time you acquired one.

I had never had any problem with mine, other than the cost and bother of shipping it from Europe and the astronomical insurance fees. It has to be admitted, however, that there are few opportunities in Nova Scotia for the exhilaration obtained from taking it from 0 to 96 kph in 2.5 seconds.

I had some difficulty finding the crime scene, but eventually discovered that it was in scrubland off Chain Lake Drive. I managed to park the car and then scrambled over the rough ground to where I could see police vehicles and yellow tape.

Seeing my approach, a middle aged man came to meet me. Mr. LeBlanc?

Yes. Sergeant Kennedy?

That’s me. Before we go in, I should warn you. It’s not a pretty sight, especially since the blood has congealed. And I must ask you only to tread where I tell you.

Okay. Agreed.

Kennedy was a heavy-set, red-haired man in his late forties. I felt he was thorough and professional, if somewhat pedantic. He moved slowly, but gave the impression that, when necessary, he might be able to spring into action.

I followed him through tall grass, which rasped against our trousers, and small spruce trees to a rise where there were the remains of some kind of building with what looked like rooms. The drystone, slate walls were standing several feet above ground and the site was generally overrun with weeds and spruce.

Father was lying, face down by one of the walls. His stiff, grey, lifeless body did not even look like him, and if I had encountered it anywhere else I might not have recognized him.

A constable partially turned his head towards me. Is this your father, Mr. LeBlanc?

Yes, it is.

"You understand you’ll have to come downtown to do an official identification?’’

Yes, I do.

Mr. LeBlanc, can you tell us why your father would be in such a place as this late at night?

No, I don’t even know what this place is.

The sergeant and constable exchanged knowing glances.

Apparently not, Mr. LeBlanc. Did your father know?

I have no idea what he knew and what he didn’t know.

No need to be flippant, sir. This is a murder investigation.

Murder?

He didn’t do this to himself. And it sure doesn’t look like an accident.

I guess not, I said lamely.

‘The question is, sir, why was he digging along the wall?"

Digging?

Yes, please keep up, sir. Collins, show Mr. LeBlanc the hand.

The constable pulled my father’s right arm from under his body. He was clutching a large trowel.

Oh. I didn’t see that, I’m sorry.

Well, now you do, Kennedy said, his voice betraying a certain lack of respect.

Yes. Was he digging?

If you take two steps forward—mind, only two—you can see that someone, and we think it must have been him, was digging, apparently trying to get at the foundations.

Yes I see it now. It looks like he was digging but didn’t get very far before he was attacked.

Leave the detective work to us, please, sir, said Kennedy. If you had let me finish, I would have told you that the earth is loose for almost half a metre, suggesting that he had dug down quite a way and that the hole had then been refilled.

Yes, I understand.

I’m glad you do, sir. Perhaps you could tell us why?

Why what? I was starting to get annoyed by Kennedy’s patronizing manner.

Why was he digging! Kenney barked.

I don’t know. I have no clue why he was here, what he was digging for, or who killed him, and I do not appreciate being interrogated like a suspect!

Alright, alright. No need to get excited. Perhaps if you follow my car downtown we can get a formal statement and an identification. Collins, arrange for Mr. LeBlanc’s father to be taken to the examiner's office immediately.

We wandered back through the scrub to the road.

That your car, sir? Kenney asked in awe.

Yes, it is.

Wow! What a beauty! 2014, is she?

2015. One of the last to be made.

That must have set you back a few bucks.

Yes it did. More than a few.

You’re a lucky man, he said, …about the car, I meant. Of course, I don’t mean about your dad.

No, of course not.

Look, I am sorry if I was a little rough on you back there, but I get a little frustrated sometimes.’

I understand, I said, wondering if I was getting the ‘bad cop-good cop’ routine from a single officer. Sergeant, I noticed you and your constable exchanging glances back there when we were talking about that place. Do you mind telling me why?

It’s known as ‘the mystery walls’, said Kennedy.

Mystery walls?

Yes. Because nobody knows what they are, who built them, or when they were built.

Somebody must know, I said.

The archaeologists have been here and it is a protected monument, but nobody knows anything about it, except….

Except…?

Except your father. And he’s dead.

2

First, we went to the office of the Medical Examiner on University Avenue. As soon as I had parked the car, about a dozen students swarmed around it, all making noises of appreciation. While Kennedy was parking his vehicle I answered the students’ questions about the power of the engine, the car’s top speed and, of course, the cost.

This frequently happens wherever I go as, I imagine, it does to owners of Rolls Royces and Ferraris. It is one of the prices one has to pay for owning an extraordinary and expensive piece of machinery.

Kennedy came loping down the street as the spectators cleared and went to their classes. When we entered the ME’s office we found that my father’s body had not yet arrived, but was expected momentarily. Kennedy went off in search of coffee while I wandered around, looking at wall charts and information posters about cardiac arrest and hematomas.

Kennedy came back, cursing about the dispensing machine he had found, and handed me a cup. Damn machine! Only had tea. I hope that’s alright?

It wasn’t, because I despise tea. However, I didn’t say so to Kennedy and meekly took the cup. It was utterly foul: black and intolerably bitter.

Eventually, the ambulance arrived and we were called in, where I made the official identification. The Medical Examiner then did an autopsy, which revealed little which had not already been obvious. He had suffered a blunt force trauma involving contusions, abrasions, and lacerations, but not any fractures of the skull. Death would have been almost instantaneous.

There’s just one small thing, said the examiner.

What’s that, Doctor? Kennedy asked.

Look at the cut on the left ear. Did he wear an earring, Mr. LeBlanc?

He did sometimes. I never liked it. He said it was for ‘special occasions.’

It would seem he thought this was one of those special occasions, said the doctor. It was unceremoniously torn out of his ear.

Did you notice anything special about the earring? Kennedy asked.

There was some kind of symbol or insignia, but I never saw it close up.

Ah. Well, doctor, we need trouble you no longer. Many thanks.

Outside, Kennedy wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

I hate those post-mortems. Always make my stomach queasy. Will you follow me again now to Gottingen Street? I am sorry this is taking so much time.

That’s alright. It has to be done.

Quite right. I like a positive attitude, said Kennedy as he went to get his car.

~

Now then, make yourself comfortable, Mr. LeBlanc, said Sergeant Kennedy. This shouldn’t take too long. It’s a formality we have to go through.

He settled his ample posterior on the hard chair and nodded to a female constable who would be taking notes at the end of the table. You are not under oath, and you have not been charged with anything. This is a statement you are making of your own free will?

Yes, I said.

Your name is Marc Phillip LeBlanc of Grand Pre, Nova Scotia and you are the son of the deceased, Paul Leonard LeBlanc of Pleasant Street, Wolfville, Nova Scotia?

Yes, that’s correct.

Are you an only child and the presumed beneficiary of the will of the late Mr. LeBlanc?

I’m not sure.

What do you mean, you’re not sure? Either you are or you aren’t.

I might have an older brother Lawrence somewhere.

Somewhere?

Larry took off right after my mother died and we—that is, my father and I—have never heard from him since.

I see. When was that, Mr. LeBlanc?

That would have been 2005, I think.

Was that the result of a family disagreement?

No, he just left…

…and never came back.

Yes.

Very strange, said Kennedy, making it sound sinister.

I have not had a chance to look at my father’s will. I don’t know when he made it, so I’ve no idea who the beneficiary or beneficiaries might be.

But you will let us know what the will says?

Yes, of course.

Do you know if your father was in any money trouble?

Not as far as I’m aware.

And can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?

No. Absolutely nobody. Although I didn’t know that much about him or his business. I have been away for a long time and have only been back here about a year.

So you said, sir.

When?

What?

When did I say this to you before? You never asked me the question until now.

Umm. You’re quite right, sir, I apologize.

That’s okay.

And you have no idea why he was where he was found?

No. None at all. Nor why he was digging something up.

Did we establish that he was digging something up?

Yes, I thought we did. If he wasn’t digging something up, what was he doing?

"He could have been burying something,