Beyond Price

By Mike O'Donnell

"Treasure! How can I have forgotten? Horan's treasure is priceless. But his daughter Tamar's is…beyond price."

Amy Carlyle and young Professor 'Sherlock' Holmes inherit Horan's Aramaic scrolls and the vivid letters of a young Roman telling of the secret hoard.

Amy's half-brother and the gangster Sykes have their own plans for the buried prize on the shores of the Dead Sea.

The site near Qumran again sees violence and a staggering revelation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Donnell
• Release date: Feb 5, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230575382

Mike O'Donnell

Mike was a slow starter at the writing game. For the first two years of his life he seemed intent on eating and sleeping. Once these skills were mastered he did begin to make his mark, mostly with dirty fingers, lumps of mud and soft crayon. His father was in the RAF (as was his Sergeant Mum during the war) which meant that every so often the family moved on. He was therefore very nearly educated at a lot of schools; two weeks and three days at one lucky establishment. He did eventually learn to wield a pen, but mostly for activities other than writing. As all his forebears, he entered the Armed Forces. Three grandparents in the Army, both parents in the RAF, so he joined the RN. (Historical note: Great uncle George Rowe survived the Titanic and surprisingly he wasn't to blame. He was ex-RN.) The RN was extremely educational. Mike learned how to get blisters on his feet from marching and tabbing across Dartmoor, the Brecon Beacons, and a variety of parade grounds; and on his hands from sawing, chipping and filing cast iron and lumps of steel. He was professionally sick in the Atlantic, the North Sea, and up in the ice during the contretemps with Icelandic fishermen. And, because he was young he wasn't too well in a couple of ports like Hamburg and Amsterdam - water wasn't involved. He left the Navy, tried as many jobs as possible to see what made the world work, and sold a few pathetic stories. After four years servicing the Sultan of Oman's Navy and ten years trying to keep some of the Royal Army of Oman's radio equipment going he had a BA(Hons) and an MBA and sold about fifty stories.

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Writing as Melodie H. Connall

APPEARANCES

BEYOND PRICE

Mike O’Donnell

Published in 2019 by FeedARead Publishing

Copyright © Michael O’Donnell

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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 without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library C.I.P.

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

Chapter One

Amy almost dropped her uncle’s breakfast tray as she entered the study. The Prof was out of bed, his pyjama jacket flapping as he struggled to shift a pile of Nature magazines from the top of a cabinet with his stronger hand. He had only left his bed in the last week to trudge uncertainly the few yards to the bathroom next to the study.

What are you doing? Go back to bed. You’ll have another stroke. The doctor said...

Treasure! I knew I’d forgotten something. Treasure. He raised an unsteady finger towards the image on the large flat-screen television standing on the blanket box. The camera panned over a pile of golden Roman coins as the voice-over announced the discovery of a hoard in East Anglia. A pair of schoolboys had uncovered a leather pouch of coins while they were digging up rotting tree roots. The newsreader seemed delighted to report that the find was worth several hundred thousand pounds. Amy couldn’t imagine how the find related to the Prof.

That’s nothing. Horan’s treasure has something priceless. No, not his. The Prof’s brow crumpled and his eyes squinted as he strove to recall something. It isn’t Horan’s that’s important, although that must be worth a fortune as well. It’s... The Prof’s eyes closed in concentration. Umm...his daughter’s. Daughter...Tamar! That’s it. Tamar. What she was given is beyond price. I finally worked out what it must be.

Amy put down the tray and hurried to her uncle’s side. Dunc. Go slow. You know what the doctor said. Sit down, have a think then I’ll look for you. I’ll find anything you want and I’ll be quicker. She took him by the shoulder and noted how frail he had become. Have some coffee and a bite and tell me about it. There’s no panic, is there?

No, I suppose not. Knowing that ass Livermore, he’d never look in the right place anyway. He never knew that I’d found Horan and Tamar. I’d forgotten all about it. Can you believe that? Forgotten the most important find in Western history. World history! Well, not the find yet, but Horan has all the details. How is it possible to forget?

Amy knew the answer to that. A few days ago he had forgotten the name of the house in which he’d lived all his life. The holes in his mind were expanding and Amy ached for him.

What is it you’re looking for? What treasure? Where?

It’s...damn this fog in my head. The man was talking about treasure. It reminded me. Again he gestured towards the TV.

Yes. They found Roman coins in East Anglia.

No. Not East Anglia. It was the last dig we were on. A while ago. That idiot Livermore was leading it. In...what the devil was the name of the place? He shook his head wildly as if to dislodge the memory.

You were in Israel last time.

Yes. In Israel. Judea. Where was it? His eyes suddenly widened. Fetch Sherlock. He’ll get to the bottom of it. He’s the man. He’ll know what to look for in the papers. I’ve got them for him somewhere. But where? He shook his head again. Get Sherlock.

Sherlock? Who’s he?

Professor Holmes. Everyone calls him Sherlock of course. You met him once or twice. He’s the man. Call him now before I forget my own name. Horan’s treasure. It just slipped my mind.

Calm down. I’ll get him. Where do I find him? You eat your breakfast and I’ll see to it. Is he in your address book? Where is he professor at? What college?

She settled him down back in bed with his tray. He began eating and already Amy could see that his thoughts were slipping into the greyness. His eyes turned to the television reports that had moved on to the sports news. He fell asleep minutes later. Amy switched the television off and put the remote control back on the bedside locker top.

She wondered if she would sleep as peacefully as her uncle if she were surrounded by a roomful of bone fragments, skulls, parchment and long-buried artefacts.

Professor Emeritus Douglas Carlyle had spent most of his seventy-five years digging up objects from sites all over the Middle East and some of them, particularly in the early days, had found their way back to his study. The wood-panelled room resembled the local Leningham museum showcasing the town’s Kentish pre-Roman history. The Prof’s bed had joined the fixtures in the study now the stroke had taken away his ability to climb the stairs.

Amy adjusted the sleeping man’s blanket and smoothed away a lock of his white hair. It had once been as black as her own. Sleep was good. The physical effects of the stroke had been relatively minor but the event seemed to have accelerated the pace of the Prof’s forgetfulness.

It’s a bit like London when I was a lad, he’d said. You won’t remember the smog, Amy but they didn’t call them pea-soupers for nothing. My mind seems to have patches of smog lying in wait for me just when I’m trying to remember something interesting. All I can make out are swirling grey blobs where you can almost see the outline but not quite. Like a scene from an old Hammer horror film. Bloody nuisance. Then there are clear bits when it’s as bright as day again.

The times when the grey banks of deceiving fog rolled in seemed to be slowly increasing. She often came across the Prof standing or sitting with a puzzled look on his face. His life began to resemble a series of film clips shot in various locations but whose connecting storyline had been long forgotten.

Came looking for something but damned if I can think what it was. Not that that’s very surprising but now I’ve even forgotten what room I was heading for.

Her uncle’s stroke and her decision to quit her job in London were timely. The unlooked for pause in her career as executive PA allowed her to move in to Downlands Hall to take care of him. The Carlyle family had lived in the Hall since before Henry VIII had removed the head of his second wife. Now the Prof lurched falteringly through the rooms he had known since childhood but there was no longer a confident familiarity with his ancient home.

The large antique bed had been humped downstairs by four lads the doctor had temporarily recruited from Leningham’s rugby fifteen. The dark mahogany head-board and queen-sized bed matched the polished furniture of the study but left little free space once it had been manhandled into place. A Victorian desk, leather chair and large table occupied the end away from the foot of the bed with room only for a small Persian rug and blanket box between. Bookshelves, cabinets, pictures, maps, labelled dockets and files lined the perimeter from floor to ceiling.  A diamond-paned mullion window looked out over the shrubbery towards the pasture that had once been cropped by two ponies.

Amy smiled at a recollection from her youth when she and her father, Tom Carlyle, the Prof’s brother, had visited. The Prof’s young wife, Anna had come into the study where the two men were engaged in some esoteric archaeological discussion. She had looked round at the piles of magazines, old rocks, bones, pottery shards, charts and microscopes, shaken her head in disbelief or despair at the disorganised chaos and left without stating the reason for visiting her husband. Amy had been happily playing amid the ancient jumble and wondered why her aunt hadn’t stayed to enjoy the fun.

Her aunt hadn’t stayed to enjoy anything. She had died at forty. Her sister-in-law, Amy’s mother, had been more fortunate but she too died before Amy had got to know her. Recent Carlyle women were unlucky and had not been long-lived. Maybe that was why Tom’s second wife had deserted ship a few months after Amy’s half-brother was born. It seemed to have worked because Lizzie Stanton, as she now was, had remarried, shed the unfortunate Carlyle name, and lived on.

Amy cleared away the breakfast things and made out the weekly shopping list before returning to the study and sitting by her uncle’s bedside. She thought about treasure and ‘Sherlock’ Holmes.

Amy? the sleepy voice said softly.

Amy smiled brightly at her uncle. She feared the day when he would not remember her name. Hello, Dunc, had a good sleep? The ‘Dunc’ had come from her baby days when she couldn’t seem to say Uncle Douglas and her attempt had stuck.

Sleep? No idea. I wasn’t awake so I didn’t notice. You can put the... He waved a finger at the flat screen installed on top of the Tudor blanket box at the bed end.

Television?

That’s the beast. The television on. See what’s on the news.

You’ve got the remote control on the locker.

Ah, right. There was a long pause that made Amy’s heart bleed as he worked out that the black thing must be the required item since there was only a glass and water carafe in sight. Once in his hand he clearly recalled how to use it and the newsreader made an appearance.

What would you like for lunch, Dunc? Milky rice with mashed banana. Or yoghurt?

What? Go and wash your mouth out with soap. You’re no Carlyle. I want proper food.

Amy grinned. It was going to be a good day.

She stood in the kitchen as she diced a chicken breast. She cracked open the window allowing the glorious smell of brewing coffee to spread into the garden. She frowned at the grass that needed the attentions of a mower and the flower beds that wanted the application of a rake and hoe. The Prof had been a keen gardener.

It’s the only time I’d go on a dig that Anna appreciated, he used to say. I dreaded finding an old coin or bit of pottery when I turned over the vegetable patch. Your aunt would have sworn that looking for Kentish artefacts was the only reason I did the gardening.

Amy wondered if the budget would run to getting Sam Owen from the village to tidy up the grounds once a week. The Prof had never been short of money but during the previous year almost all the roof timbers of Downlands Hall had to be replaced. Experts in Tudor restoration did not come cheap and ominously they had noticed one or two more architectural falterings.

Stonework along the parapet’ll need looking to shortly, and I don’t like the state of the coping, one of them had said.

Previously the Prof could have easily picked up the financial slack with a lecture tour. His casual but informative style was appreciated in the USA, but those chances had faded along with his flickering memory. Something would have to be done soon. Downlands’ gardens were large enough to turn into a jungle if a few more seasons passed without remedial action. All her life Amy had enjoyed the trees and flowers whenever the Carlyle family gathered at home base. She loved Downlands Hall more than any other place she had seen. When she was young she wished that her father had been the eldest son and inherited the estate but she knew that he had not treasured the old house as much as the Prof did.

After lunch she watched television with the Prof for a while before he again fell asleep. She worried that the news might once more get him agitated and she remembered Sherlock Holmes.

She found Dunc’s thick address book in the desk drawer. It was packed with slips of paper and business cards as well as crammed pages of addresses, crossings out, amendments and additions. It was in alphabetical order but was so full there were redirecting notes to the pages X and Z which had been amended to include names where there was no longer space under the correct initial.

She found the address and telephone number. The address had been amended often as had the number. She remembered Professor Bennet Holmes now. He was very young for a professor but had been a student of her uncle’s before he had taken his doctorate. They met several times when she delivered or picked up her uncle from conferences, lectures or meetings. They had once met at a party at the house. At that time she had been trying to convince the Prof to avoid unhealthy eating and drinking, or smoking so much. His doctor had already warned him to shun moderation and veer towards abstinence and the Prof hated it. She remembered Holmes had made no attempt to influence his mentor’s drinking or smoking. She had appealed to him.

"Miss Carlyle I wouldn’t dare suggest to your uncle what he should do. He’d tell me where I could stick my advice. He’s a mature, intelligent man who has the right to pick and chose his own lifestyle. I’m not sure that an extra couple of years living on milky pap and drinking bottled water is worth giving up the passions of a lifetime for. Or forgoing single malt and a good cigar, come to that. As someone famously said, ‘To keep from dying is not living’.

Amy took a dislike to Professor Bennet ‘Sherlock’ Holmes from that moment on. Now she wondered if it would help to call him at all. What could he do for Dunc that she couldn’t? Holmes may be a ‘Doctor’ but his expertise had nothing to do with the living. He was an expert on ancient, long-dead things. Would he know about Dunc’s ‘treasure’ or the man Horab that he kept mentioning? No, not Horab, Horan. She was as bad as the Prof, she had better write down what he had said so she could remember when she began to search for details. One thing was sure. If there was any treasure to be had then Downlands Hall was just the place that needed it. A bucket full of Roman coins like that East Anglia find would solve all their financial problems and maybe pay to put the old house and garden back in order before everything crumbled round their ears.

She began searching through the recent papers on her uncle’s desk. The names Horan and his daughter, Tamar, meant nothing to her. Not that she had known many of her uncle’s friends. He had moved in a world totally alien to hers. At least until she had returned to Downlands Hall six months ago.

It did not take Amy long to realise that she did not have the first idea of what she should be looking for as she went through the Prof’s papers searching for references to Horan or Tamar, or mention of ‘treasure’. It didn’t help that file after file of documents were in languages she couldn’t even name let alone read. Professor Bennet Holmes might at least know what Dunc was raving about and point her in the right direction. And she knew that waiting would not improve Dunc’s ability to recall vital details. Amy put off calling ‘Sherlock’ Holmes until she had made a note of all that Dunc had said. She reached for the battered address book.

Professor Holmes, you won’t remember me but I’m Professor Carlyle’s niece. I’m...

Of course I remember. Amy, isn’t it? You got angry when I was pompous about watching what Duncan drank. I’m sorry. You were absolutely right. A friend’s welfare should be borne in mind even if comment merits a punch in the jaw. How is the old man?

Not at all good I’m afraid. When did you last see him?

Oh, a good while ago. I’ve been out of the country for the best part of a year. I did drop him a postcard or two but otherwise I’ve been a bit lax. What’s the problem?

Professor Holmes, he asked if you could come and pay a visit. He needs help researching something.

Put him on then and we’ll have a natter about it. As it happens I’ve got some time in hand. I finished my last lecture at college this week.

He’s in bed at present. Could you come down for a few days?

In bed? Is he ill?

Umm...he’s had a minor stroke. Not deadly serious but...well it would be better if...

A stroke. I’ll be right down. Is Doctor Herron still looking out for him?

Yes. He’s the family doctor. She wondered how he knew.

I’ll give him a call. And tell Duncan I’m on my way. I’ll drive down. It shouldn’t take too long if the M20 isn’t clogged.

She went to tell Dunc that Sherlock was going to pay a visit. He’d need to be Sherlock to find any treasure clues in this lot, she thought looking round the crammed study.

Sherlock’s coming? Oh, that’ll be good. Wonder what he wants. Haven’t seen him since...well, must be quite a time mustn’t it?

It’s about the treasure, Dunc.

Treasure. Yes, now that rings a bell. Feel I ought to have done something about that. Remind me will you?

Amy looked at the notebook where she’d jotted what she could remember. It was about someone called Horan and his daughter. You didn’t say who he is.

Didn’t I? I’ve probably got it all written down somewhere. Don’t recall the details off the top of my head.

What do you recall, Dunc? Just to get me started.

She could see the strain on his face as he strove to dredge up the memories. It was painful to watch and Amy put a hand on his arm. It’s okay. Don’t bother for the minute. It’ll come back and it’s probably better when Dr Holmes has arrived and we can hear it together. Save me having to tell him.

Yes. Absolutely. Don’t want to have to go over everything two or three times do we? I’ll have a quick nap now before I get up. Don’t want young Sherlock finding me in bed. He’d take the piss no end. Always was a cheeky blighter.

Amy had expected Bennet Holmes to drive up in something sporty and open-topped. She pictured him wearing a university scarf and flat cap although certainly not a deer-stalker. From what she remembered he looked the active sporty type. He arrived in a nearly new dark blue Volkswagen Golf and wore no hat at all.

She met him at the front door after hearing the car in the drive. I had envisaged an MG or old-fashioned Bentley for some reason. Seemed more fitting for an Oxford don.

The MG was about ten years ago. And it was older than me at the time. Bit of a pain to be honest. This thing never lets you down and practically parks itself. Gives you a video view of goings-on, and beeps so even I can get it into a normal space without pranging the wings.

Pranging?

Yes, well. Granddad was in the RAF and he always used words like wizard, prang and jollop. I was probably the only kid in our school who spoke like a Spitfire pilot and looked like road kill with zits.

Amy didn’t mention that he looked much more like the Spitfire pilot and certainly didn’t have any zits. He could only be half-a-dozen years older than her at most.

How’s the Prof? I spoke with Doc Herron. He said he would have called about Duncan but I was in Oman at the time.

You know the doctor?

Oh yes. I was born here in Leningham. Didn’t you know? He delivered me.

Small world. You don’t live here though?

No we left when I was about ten. That was one reason I got the Prof as tutor in the beginning. I found out he was from here and I thought I might get favourable treatment if he knew I was a townie.

Did you?

No. No chance. Probably worked the other way and he expected more.

Amy led Holmes into the study and if he was surprised to see the vast bed in such an unusual location he didn’t show it. The Prof was asleep.

Don’t wake him, Holmes said, thinking how frail and insubstantial his former tutor looked in a bed which could happily have accommodated three more occupants, or four if they were the Prof’s current size. I always see him in my mind as he was when I was an undergraduate. I keep forgetting he was over sixty even then. He kept his voice low as if in deference rather than fear of waking the Prof. He was always fit though. What happened?

The stroke. It wasn’t massive but his memory went rapidly downhill.

Yes. Doc Herron said he’d been getting more and more forgetful before that happened. Enough to be worried about. Duncan wouldn’t take it seriously and refused the testing. Said he was too busy. What was he working on? Holmes looked round the study.

I don’t know. When I first came he was getting over the attack. The concern then was exercises and therapy to improve his coordination and generally getting him healthy again. He’s pretty much been convalescent since. Certainly not working on anything as far as I know. I did burrow through some of the stuff on his desk but most of it I couldn’t even read.

What area of research was he talking about?

That’s it, I don’t know. He got very excited. So agitated it was worrying. Got out of bed and was diving through folders. She told Sherlock about the news report and the Prof’s reaction to the treasure trove find. It wasn’t just the fact that this Horan had stuff worth a fortune, but Dunc also said his daughter had something which was beyond price. He said he knew where to find it. I told him I’d give a hand but I have no idea where to look and wouldn’t even know what to look for. He said you could help.

Maybe. Beyond price? Intriguing. Were those his words?

Amy nodded. He didn’t even seem to think that the thousands of pounds they mentioned on the news for the Roman coin find compared with what Horan had.

You’re sure Horan was a person and not a place?

Yes I purposely made a note in case I forgot. And his daughter is called Tamar.

Odd names. Not local that’s for sure although I did know a Kentish farmer called Horsa when I was a kid. Did you look in his journal?

Journal?

Yes. The Prof always kept a daily journal when he was working. Put down everything.

Amy indicated the whole room with a sweep of her arm. It’s probably here then.

Not on his desk? He always used a Moleskine notebook. The black French job. About the size of a small computer tablet.

Oh, I saw a lot of those somewhere. She paused, frowning in concentration. Pity Dean isn’t here. He was the one who sorted the Prof’s stuff out for him. Put it all in order. He used the laptop. Dunc always wrote things down. Dean typed up his letters and suchlike on his laptop.

Dean?

Yes. My brother. Well, half-brother actually. Was Dunc’s secretary and general gofer. Bit of a black sheep. Prof caught him pilfering and chucked him out on his ear a few weeks before he had the stroke. Long story, but you should have seen the mess this place was before Dean sorted it out.

I think I remember. I came here a couple of times. First visit I thought it was the box room for all his gash kit or the place he chucked old papers for recycling.

Amy nodded. You saw it on a good day then. I loved it when I was a child. I wasn’t allowed to even drop a sock on the floor of my bedroom and here Dunc lived and worked in a landfill tip.

A row of black Moleskine notebooks occupied the top shelf in a glass cabinet. They had clearly been arranged in order of the years they had been written. Some were seriously battered and stained, full of field notes and sketches.

Amy looked at the long row and dreaded the thought of having to pore through every page in search of the names Horan and Tamar. The Prof’s spidery writing was hard on the eye and harder when smeared by hands fresh from scraping ancient mud.

Holmes ran his finger along the line after he checked the dates on the first pages. "This is the last