The Temple Scroll Read online

  THE TEMPLE SCROLL

  (Book 2 of The Temple series)

  D. C. Macey

  Copyright © 2016 D. C. Macey

  All rights reserved

  Published by Butcher & Cameron

  D.C. Macey asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and names are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Also by D. C. Macey

  The Temple Legacy

  published August 2015

  The Temple Scroll

  published August 2016

  The Temple Covenant

  Published April 2018

  The Temple Deliverance

  Publication late 2018

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1 - MONDAY 5th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 2 - TUESDAY 6th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 3 - WEDNESDAY 7th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 4 - FRIDAY 9th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 5 - SATURDAY 10th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 6 - SUNDAY 11th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 7 - MONDAY 12th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 8 - TUESDAY 13th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 9 - WEDNESDAY 14th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 10 - THURSDAY 15th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 11 - Friday 16th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 12 - MONDAY 19th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 13 - TUESDAY 20th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 14 - WEDNESDAY 21st AUGUST

  CHAPTER 15 - THURSDAY 22nd AUGUST

  CHAPTER 16 - FRIDAY 23rd AUGUST

  CHAPTER 17 - SATURDAY 24th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 18 - MONDAY 26th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 19 - TUESDAY 27th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 20 - WEDNESDAY 28th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 21 - THURSDAY 29th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 22 - FRIDAY 30th AUGUST

  CHAPTER 23 - SATURDAY 31st AUGUST

  CHAPTER 24 - MONDAY 2nd SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 25 - TUESDAY 3rd SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 26 - WEDNESDAY 4th SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 27 - THURSDAY 5th SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 28 - FRIDAY 6th SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 29 - SATURDAY 7th SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 30 - MONDAY 9th SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 31 - TUESDAY 10th SEPTEMBER - MORNING

  CHAPTER 32 - TUESDAY 10th SEPTEMBER - AFTERNOON

  CHAPTER 33 - THURSDAY 12th SEPTEMBER

  ABOUT D. C. MACEY

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  CHAPTER 1 - MONDAY 5th AUGUST

  The little blue and white passenger ferry circled round the island to set up its line of approach to the jetty in the north bay. On board, Sam Cameron braced his legs and gripped the handrail to steady himself as a wave caught under the turning bow. The engine seemed to growl just a little harder as it pushed against the waves, then it eased back to a purr as the captain guided the ferry into the lee of the island and towards the jetty. Two fat grey seals snorted and honked disquiet as they slipped off the rocks and disappeared beneath the water. A great bull seal held his ground, huffing and puffing; he glowered at the approaching ferry, nothing was going to move him until he was ready.

  The engines went astern and the sea churned around the propeller as the captain took the way off the boat, drawing it to a halt exactly at the jetty. A complex and well-practised manoeuvre so skilfully executed it seemed effortless, child’s play.

  As the crew tied the boat up, the captain called through to the passenger lounge. ‘If you want to get off and look around, now’s the time. You’ve got about an hour and a half. Be sure and return to the jetty here for four o’clock. We’ll be back then and won’t be able to wait, the tide will be turning and that’ll be the last pick-up of the day.’ Several elderly tourists sat tight, sticking with the shipboard experience. A little group of tourists lined up behind Sam and they all funnelled down the gangway, off the boat and on to Inchcolm Island.

  Ashore, Sam spotted the rangy figure of a man standing a little way up the path. Each waved an acknowledgement to the other as Sam approached.

  ‘Pete, how you doing?’

  Pete Summers grinned at Sam. ‘Can’t complain, this place keeps me busy,’ he said. They shook hands as the tourists strolled past them.

  ‘What a great place to spend your summers, I’m jealous.’ Sam let his eye scan across the little island. Slim at the middle, broadening out at either end - like a distorted dumbbell. From previous visits, he knew it would take little more than half an hour to stroll right round the shoreline. They stood at the island’s pinch point. Directly behind him was the north bay where the now departing ferry had landed its passengers. In front of him, and no more than twenty paces ahead, was the south side bay. Much more erosion and the two bays would meet, cutting the island in two.

  Pete pointed to the eastern part of the island where his office and workshop were housed in a green coloured building that merged into the scenery. ‘I’ve got something for you to see in there. But come on; let me show you the source first. Based on what I’ve been hearing lately, it’s right up your street these days.’

  Sam nodded and was happy to follow Pete who set off at a quick pace. They headed west across the waspy waist of the island. Directly ahead, Sam could see Inchcolm Abbey. Tourists were wandering amongst the medieval ruins, which stood imposing and solid in their calm isolation; unflinching in the face of a thousand years of history, it was a survivor of wars, invasion and political turmoil.

  Further off, Sam could make out the occasional concrete structure - gun mountings, the evidence of responses to a succession of threats thrown up over the generations: Napoleon, the Kaiser, Hitler. The island and the abbey had come through it all - seen them all off. Beyond it and across the water, he could see the Forth Bridge, iron red and imposing, dwarfing the boats that passed beneath.

  After graduating and a period of sometimes challenging military service, Sam had opted for an academic career. On the other hand, his friend Pete had always been a bit of a loner and favoured the practical world. People skills had never been Pete’s strong point. Eventually he’d worked his way into his perfect job. Summers on the island: thinking, digging, conserving. Winters in the Historic Scotland Workshops at the Granton Depot in Edinburgh: researching, analysing and preparing for the next digging season.

  There were a couple of seasonal staff based on the island too, really only there to help and support the visitors. Pete didn’t bother anyone and nobody bothered him.

  ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’ said Sam. They were weaving through the ruin now. The faded gold and grey shaded stone construction was impressive but Sam had visited several times over the years. Right now, he wanted to know what his friend thought so important.

  ‘This way,’ said Pete, ‘nearly there.’ He led Sam across the site, weaving between walls, under archways and amongst a succession of stone-floored spaces. Some parts now lay open to the sky, where the roofing had long since collapsed.

  Pete stopped abruptly and pointed down to a weathered slab of stone. Sam saw his knowing smile but was none the wiser.

  ‘It’s a slab,’ said Sam. He looked around and saw several similar candidates within stepping distance.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Pete. ‘But not just any slab. This one’s for you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sam, ‘why?’ He knew Pete was not the strongest communicator but he was well grounded. Whatever reason Pete had called him out here for, it would be solid.

  ‘It’s a grave slab,’ said Pete. ‘Though some of these stones have been moved around, maybe a bit of grave robbing in centuries past, we’ll never know. What I do know is there is nothing under the stones; I had them up three or four ye
ars ago. But interesting for you, this particular area is predominantly fourteenth century. Very old. And back then, burial slabs like this were used for only the most important of people.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘So what have you found?’ The fourteenth century had been occupying a lot of his thoughts this summer. Ever since his discovery of a Templar dagger in the Fife sand dunes had dragged him and his friends into a web of murderous events. Thankfully, the threat had passed once the police had caught the gang concerned.

  Pete waved his arm round embracing a whole collection of slabs. ‘These slabs are all so worn, if they were ever engraved, the messages seemed lost to time long ago.’ He crouched down beside the slab and stroked it, then glanced up at Sam. ‘You know what I’m like, I need to know and don’t like to give up. I thought I could just about make something out here, just didn’t know what it was. See, here.’ He traced his hand across the stone.

  Sam looked carefully. If there was anything at all, it seemed like mottling, little more than natural variation in the stone. He knelt down. ‘What is it, Pete? I can’t see anything.’ Sam’s hand followed the route Pete’s had traced across the stone. He felt nothing.

  Pete laughed and stood up. ‘At first, I was like you. Didn’t consider there was anything there to see. But the more I dwelt on it the more I began to wonder. There are several stones like this. Here and there, just the slightest hint of a blemish, shades of something, perhaps. So I did what I do best. Thought about it, worried over it and then stewed on it for a while longer. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I had a piece of kit shipped over from the Granton Depot. A portable scanner. It’s a step up from the raking light source technique we used before. I just knew there was something inscribed there. A gut feeling, you know? So with this scanner, I’ve imaged the slab’s surface and you’re going to love it. Let’s go see.’ He stood and nodded towards his workshop base at the eastern end of the island.

  Sam knew there was no point in pressing Pete. His friend would reveal the answers when he was ready, that was just how he was. The pair walked off towards the workshop.

  Perhaps it was the tranquillity of the little island, perhaps the permanence of the buildings, whatever, Sam relaxed, couldn’t help it. So close to nature and the unmoving stones of the ancient buildings, it was just peaceful. Heavenly. Helen was returning from the States tomorrow. He was sure she would like to visit here once she’d had a chance to settle back in.

  Sam did not notice the tourist wandering through the building after them; didn’t see him meandering across the floors, looking here, looking there. As if by chance the tourist stopped where Sam had stood, looked down at the stone slab, thought carefully then took its picture from several angles. Then the man headed east, making for the little gift shop set beside the staff workshop.

  • • •

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Pete.

  Sam looked at the computer screen. He gave a nod and stroked his chin. He had to agree the scanner had done a good job. ‘What a great piece of kit you’ve got here, Pete.’

  ‘I know. To be fair, it’s really just refining a well-established process: recording the shadow patterns generated when a light source is shone across an ancient stone surface. It’s hard to appreciate just how sensitive the scanner is, until you see the results. But it works on the standard assumption: long worn away engravings still leave miniscule edges and depressions, imperceptible to the naked eye, but shine a bright light from exactly the right direction and those edges cast tiny shadows; shadows that can be recorded and seen - revealing the eroded message.’

  ‘Right. I think this is interesting, though in isolation it makes no sense,’ said Sam. A little niggle of worry started to rise; something that had faded during recent weeks came creeping back.

  His finger ran across the screen, tracing out the familiar shape of a Templar cross. This was not just any engraving of a Templar cross; it was a perfect likeness of the cross that was engraved on the dunes dagger they had unearthed earlier in the summer. This was their Templar cross.

  ‘There is no record of any Templar involvement here. There should be no such artefacts,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s what we thought, but what do you make of this?’ Pete reached across to the screen and swiped, dragging the image off screen, replacing it with a second scan.

  …e Be…

  Ex Deo natus est

  Vir pugnator

  Filius Lindum

  Sam took a moment to review the inscription. It was such a rare find, pretty well unique. ‘This is tremendous. Both the cross and inscription are definitely from the same slab?’

  ‘No doubt, look, I can shrink the images, and you’ll see the juxtaposition of cross and text. Problem is they have weathered slightly differently. Each section needs a different angled light source to show at its best. So I have to capture the engraving as two separate scans, otherwise one or other part of the image is scarcely visible. I’ll merge the two images into one when I get time.’

  ‘Why would it have weathered differently? It’s the same stone.’

  Pete gave a shrug. ‘Can’t be sure. My guess is moss or lichens grew on different parts of the stone at different times or perhaps the stone was partly covered for a time, maybe when the original roof came down.’

  ‘Or natural variation in the stone, even?’ said Sam.

  ‘Could be that too. What I do know for certain is we have a Templar grave marker and an inscription. Neither of which should be here, and knowing your interests, I thought you were the man to speak with first. What do you think?’

  Sam translated the text, reading it aloud in English. ‘The top line is hard to read, the beginning and end are lost completely; I don’t have any idea what it says. The rest is clearer though. This line reads, Child of God. Then, Man of war or perhaps it means warrior. Finally, at the bottom, Son of Lincoln.’

  Pete nodded. ‘That’s about where I got to. A warrior’s epitaph that’s for sure. But this is an abbey, a place of peace. It’s just the wrong place; why it’s here is beyond me. And what does it represent? The Templars are your baby, Sam, what do you think?’

  Sam would have to work up an answer. Could this be another strand of the Templar mystery he had been grappling with all summer? It was certainly contemporary with their previous finds, and the cross was a perfect likeness. The niggle of worry grew - then he gave himself a shake, there was nothing to be concerned about. The police had broken the gang who had hunted them earlier in the summer and their leader was in custody. Perhaps this gravestone would be a clue to help him solve the riddle of the Templar daggers.

  • • •

  Her last day at home in the States had Helen Johnson sat snug behind the desk in her father’s study. She pulled her eyes away from the window and a scene that had been the backdrop to all her early life. She didn’t need to look to see it; she knew it so well, it was always with her. Outside the window, the neat and ordered houses of her hometown filled the foreground. Beyond were gently rising hills, thoroughly greened with a blanket of trees.

  The harmony of the tranquil scene was broken only by a gash in the trees, creating space for pylons that carried the power lines down into the town - and even this harshness carried the comfort of familiarity. Idly, she watched a solitary car as it progressed up the road that ran parallel to the power lines - up hill, out of town. It disappeared over the brow of the hill and the scene lapsed back into stillness. Tuning out the road and pylons, she could focus on the surrounding untouched green, the natural America. She liked to tell herself it looked just how the land had looked before her ancestors came.

  Her parents were out for the morning, some church business, leaving her free to catch up on her own affairs. Turning her attention to her phone, she began to scan her messages. They all seemed routine, nothing that couldn’t wait until she went home tomorrow. Helen stopped herself. Wasn’t this home anymore? Edinburgh really had grown on her. She thought of Sam and smiled, then laughed to herself. Well, a
s they say - absence makes the heart grow fonder. She’d see him tomorrow, looked forward to it.

  More than a month’s break, spent here with her parents, had restored her, normalised her again - jaunts out, visiting family and friends, keeping busy doing nothing. And now it was time to go back. The gang who had threatened them and caused so much suffering was gone, its leader locked away. Peace had returned. Peace and a treasure hunt to solve. This time Edinburgh was going to be exciting for all the right reasons.

  An email caught her attention; she did not recognise the sender’s name. Having scanned it quickly she stopped and made herself start again, this time reading it very carefully. The author’s first language was not English, but a closer reading made his meaning clear enough. Helen’s spine tingled with excitement, a little fear, mistrust, a bit of everything. The author seemed to be offering a gift horse, or perhaps he was a Greek bearing gifts? She didn’t reply straight away, needed to think.

  A little while later, she referred back to the email, checked the phone number it gave and called it without any hesitation. The call took a moment to link through, then a continent away it started to ring - at least the number wasn’t a hoax. After several rings, the phone was answered but nobody spoke.

  ‘Hello,’ said Helen. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Silence. It seemed to stretch for a long time.

  ‘Hello, this is Helen Johnson, you emailed me earlier. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Helen Johnson. You got my message, that’s great,’ a young man’s voice, sounding at once cautious and relieved.

  ‘You must be Erling then,’ she said, struggling for the right pronunciation.

  ‘Ja, oh, yes, I mean yes. I’ll stick to English for you. That’s probably best, yes?’

  ‘I guess so, if you don’t mind. Norwegian is not my strong suit. In fact I don’t understand it at all.’

  ‘English it is then and thanks for calling me. When I contacted your church’s email address, I didn’t know if it would reach you or not.’

  ‘It’s fine. One of the elders forwarded your email to me. I’m intrigued by your message; do tell me more about yourself, about your find.’