Chapter Five
NATHAN FIENNES’ funeral took place shortly before noon the following morning, in the presence of his family and scores of friends and colleagues who had come together in shock and grief to mourn his passing. In keeping with Jewish custom, the service was starkly simple and unpretentious, all the more poignant for the weight of ancient tradition that shaped its form. Adam, sitting directly behind the family in the chapel adjoining the burial ground, was struck, as always, by the commonalities that united all men and women of goodwill, especially at a time of loss.
“O Lord, what is man that Thou dost regard him, or the son of man that Thou dost take account of him?” the officiating rabbi read. “Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow. Thou dost sweep men away. They are like a dream, like grass which is renewed in the morning. In the morning it flourishes and grows, but in the evening it fades and withers . . .”
Following along in the service book, caught up in the cadences of ancient ritual, which alternated between Hebrew and English, Adam was yet aware of the physical setting of this farewell and memorial to his departed friend. The chapel itself contained no religious symbol of any faith. Its focus was the plain and unadorned wooden coffin set before the congregation, covered with the pristine wool drapery of a tallit, such as all observant Jews customarily wore at their devotions. This one, Adam knew, had been brought by Lawrence from Jerusalem, in hopes that he might wear it in thanksgiving at his father’s recovery; now it lay in tribute upon his father’s coffin. Nathan’s own tallit would have been lovingly wrapped around his shrouded body before laying it in the coffin, with one of the fringes cut to render it no longer fit for use—for Nathan no longer had need of it.
A single candle burned behind the coffin, but no flowers adorned coffin or chapel, for Jewish custom did not deem this appropriate in a time of sorrow. The men all wore yarmulkes on their heads, as did Adam himself, out of respect for Jewish custom.
“O God, full of compassion,” the rabbi prayed, “Thou Who dwellest on high, grant perfect rest beneath the sheltering wings of Thy presence, among the holy and pure who shine as the brightness of the heavens, unto the soul of Natan, son of Binyamin, who has gone unto eternity, and in whose memory charity is offered. May his repose be in Paradise. May the Lord of Mercy bring him under the cover of His wings forever, and may his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. May the Lord be his possession, and may he rest in peace. Amen.”
Following a brief but moving eulogy and more prayers, Adam was among those who joined Nathan’s sons in shouldering his coffin to bear it out into the cemetery, their halting procession accompanied by the cantor’s solemn recitation of the beautiful and moving ninety-first Psalm.
“He that dwelleth in the shelter of the Most High abideth under the shadow of the Almighty. I say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress; my God in Whom I trust. For He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with His pinions, and under His wings shalt thou take refuge . . . .”
The graveside rites were as bleak as the wind that sighed in off the Yorkshire downs.
“Tzidduk ha’din . . .” The Rock, His work is perfect, for all His ways are judgment: A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, just and right is He . . . The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord . . . May he come to his place in peace.
The coffin was lowered into the earth with simple finality. After that, beginning with Peter and then Lawrence, those wishing to pay their final respects came forward to turn three shovels of earth onto the coffin; the shovel was not passed from one to the next, but left upright in the mound of earth beside the grave. Earlier, briefing Adam on what to expect, Peter had explained that the symbolic gesture expressed the prayer that the tragedy of death not be passed on.
The silence was broken only by the hiss of the shovel being thrust into earth, occasionally ringing against stones, and the thump of falling earth, first hollowly on the wooden coffin and then, as the grave began to fill, the softer, more solid patter of earth on earth. When Adam’s turn came, he made of each of his oblations of earth a prayer as well, drawing on his Celtic heritage for the words of his own silent farewell.
Blessings in the name of the Father of Israel,
Blessings in the name of the Rabbi Jesus,
Blessings of the Spirit Who brooded on the waters—
Thus may you be blessed as you travel on your way . . .
He thrust the shovel into the mound of earth beside the grave with bowed head and stood back, melding into the crowd.
The process continued until the grave had been completely filled in, the men taking turns with the serious business of shoveling earth, once the token gestures had been made. Then, after the rabbi had offered another short prayer and led the assembled mourners in recitation of a Psalm, Peter and Lawrence stepped forward to offer Kaddish for their father for the first time—an ancient prayer Adam had learned from Nathan many years ago, and which he now offered in company with those around him, giving somber response to Nathan’s sons.
“Yisgadal v’yiskadash sh’may rabbah,” the two read, “b’olmo d’hu asid l’is-chadosho . . .” Magnified and sanctified be His great name in the world which He will renew, reviving the dead, and raising them to life eternal . . . May He establish His kingdom during your lifetime, and during the life of all the House of Israel, speedily; and let us say, Amen. Let His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity! Blessed, praised, glorified, and exalted; extolled, honored, magnified and lauded, be the name of the Holy one, blessed be He. He is greater than all blessings, hymns, praises and consolations which can be uttered in this world; and let us say, Amen. May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life for us and for all Israel; and let us say, Amen.
“Oseh shalom bimeromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom, alenu v’al Kol yisroel; v’imru amen.”
“Amen, “ the congregation replied, in affirmation of the final exhortation.
When the last prayer had been offered and the last Psalm recited, those present formed a double line through which the family passed, offered comfort by ancient formula: “Ha’makom yenachem et’chem b’toch she’ar avelei Tziyon vi’Yerushalayim.” May the Omnipresent comfort you together with all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
Adam held back a little as the rest started to disperse slowly toward the cars, watching as some of the attendees plucked grass and cast it behind them. Several more paused to set small stones on the grave, bowing their heads in what Lawrence had told him was an Israeli custom, asking forgiveness for any injustice they might have committed against the deceased. Bowing his head, Adam added his own silent promise to Nathan to persevere in the task set before him, even though it seemed overwhelming at present. He had just turned to join the rest, heading toward the car in which he had ridden with several of Nathan’s distant relatives, when Peter Fiennes detached himself from the immediate family, leaving his mother in the care of his brother, and came to fall into step beside Adam.
“Thank you again for being here,” he said quietly. He hesitated slightly, then added, “I didn’t realize you were so familiar with Hebrew ritual. Your accent is almost better than mine.”
“I owe my instruction to your father,” Adam said with a faint smile. “When he and I were both at Cambridge, a close friend of mine was drowned in a boating accident, and I asked your father to teach me to pray Kaddish in Hebrew for him. It’s one of those universal prayers that speaks from the heart of mankind. Nathan always maintained that a common thirst for communion with the Divine was what united all truly spiritual people, whatever their formal religious affiliations might be.”
Peter accepted this tribute with a wan smile. “That sounds like Dad, all right. He was lucky to have you for a friend. If anyone can recover the Seal for him, I know you can. I wish there were more I could do to help, besides just drive you to the airport in a couple of hours.”
“Just pray for our success,” Adam said, “and I mean that quite literally.” He smiled and added, “Actually, there is one, more concrete thing you could do, and that’s to let me take the rest of your father’s notes away with me for further study. It’s beginning to look like we need to speak with Henri Gerard, but we still don’t know exactly what we’re up against. Also, if anything else should turn up in the next few days, or you should think of anything that might have bearing, please let me know.”
“I’ll do that, of course,” Peter agreed. “And do take the notes, by all means. In your hands they may do some good.”
“I devoutly hope so,” Adam said. In his own mind was the thought that if Nathan was to rest easy in his grave, he and McLeod were going to have their work cut out for them.
Back at the Fiennes home afterwards, where many of those present at the funeral had retired to offer their condolences and share a light repast of bagels and coffee, Adam excused himself to go upstairs and pack, then moved into Nathan’s study where, after packing up the rest of Nathan’s notes in a briefcase he found there, he rang McLeod at his office, charging the call to his home number.
“Hullo, Noel,” he said without further preamble. “Any progress on Gerard?”
“A bit—for all it’s worth,” McLeod said without enthusiasm. “The address and telephone number we found for him are good, but Gerard isn’t there. To make a long story short, he’s supposedly gone off to Cyprus on a four-week camping holiday.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Yes, I thought so,” McLeod agreed sourly. “According to my friend Treville, our boy purchased a round-trip air ticket to Nicosia and picked it up from the travel agent’s on Monday of last week. He paid for it with a credit card. His bank records show that he drew a substantial amount of money from his standing account the selfsame day.”
“How substantial?”
“Nearly ten thousand pounds—more than he’d need for any camping holiday,” McLeod replied. “But Gerard is known to be a collector of antiquities. It could be argued that he simply wanted to have sufficient cash on hand, in case he ran across any irresistible finds while on holiday. Treville’s men are still trying to find out if he bought any camping gear recently, but again it could be argued that he already had what he needed in the way of kit. So you be the judge.”
“If it’s a cover story, it’s a reasonably useful one,” Adam allowed. “I wouldn’t fancy having to track down the whereabouts of a camper on the move. Has anyone verified that Gerard actually made the trip?”
“Treville had Interpol check it out,” McLeod said, “and they checked with the Cypriot authorities. Both the airline and the passport-control people show in their records that on Wednesday the eleventh, a Monsieur Henri Gerard got on the plane in Paris and got off again in Cyprus. But you and I both know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. With enough cash and a forged passport, our boy could have bought another ticket out to London within hours of his arrival on Cypriot soil, and departed thence without anyone in Nicosia being the wiser.”
“So much for that lead, then,” Adam replied. “What next?”
“Oh, I’m not finished,” McLeod said. “Bearing in mind what Peter Fiennes said about Gerard being something of a nutter, I asked Treville if he’d get somebody to look into Gerard’s psychological background. He made the inquiries himself, and it turns out that our boy has a history of emotional instability. His colleagues in French antiquarian circles say that Gerard’s interest in the Knights Templar amounts to something of an obsession; he’s fanatically convinced that all the charges laid against them were true, and has set himself to prove as much. He bases this assertion on the belief that he is, in fact, the present -day incarnation of a medieval French nobleman who lived to witness those events.”
“Very interesting,” Adam murmured. “Very interesting, indeed. If there’s more to this assertion than mere romantic fantasy, it could explain a great deal. I’d be curious to know whether or not he has a psychic past. If his interest in Nathan’s Seal dates back to a previous lifetime, we may be dealing with someone far more dangerous than a mere eccentric.”
“That was my thought too,” McLeod replied. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any more insights about the Seal itself? What it was for, and so on?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. I had an interesting dream that I’ll tell you about when I get back. Meanwhile, I think it might be safest if we proceed on the assumption that Gerard is actually here on British soil. At very least, I’d like to know what he tells the York Police about his movements two days ago, if they can turn him up. Have you relayed your information to the authorities here in York?”
“All the conventional information, yes. And Treville is faxing me a photo later on. What do you want to do about the other?”
“Just sit tight until I get home,” Adam replied. “Did you send those printouts to the house?”
“Yes, Donald’s just gotten back. I took the liberty of having him deliver the packet to Peregrine, with instructions to read it, if he had a chance, and see what kinds of cold impressions he might get. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. I should have thought of that myself. I have the feeling we’re going to need him on this, before it goes much farther.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Anything else? I ought to head downstairs and be sociable for a little while before Peter runs me to the airport.”
“No. Talk to you when you get home.”
* * *
The Edinburgh flight out of Leeds left at 5:50. This time, as well as his overnight bag, Adam had a leather briefcase crammed full of Nathan’s research notes. He arrived to find no Humphrey waiting at the gate, but as he came out of the terminal building, he spotted his silver-blue Range Rover standing by at the curb with Humphrey at the wheel.
“I’m afraid I misjudged the traffic, sir,” Humphrey said, as he alighted to open the back so Adam could toss in his meagre luggage. “I would have met you at the gate as I usually do, but I only just got here.”
“Not to worry, Humphrey. Let’s swing by police headquarters so I can pick up the Jag.”
“Very good, sir.”
They were home by a little after seven. After putting the Jaguar away and dropping off Nathan’s briefcase in the library, Adam went upstairs for a quick shower while Humphrey took himself off to the kitchen to prepare a quick evening meal. Twenty minutes later, refreshed and relaxed in a clean white shirt and grey slacks under his quilted blue dressing gown, he was heading back down to the library to sort through the mail on his desk before eating.
Most of the mail was not urgent, but one item, in particular, caught his attention—a formal invitation printed on stiff cream card stock, with the shield of the present-day Order of the Temple of Jerusalem emblazoned at its head. He gazed at it for several seconds, absently running a thumb over the raised engraving, then picked up the telephone at his elbow and tapped in the number printed below the line that read, RSVP Chev. Stuart MacRae. He knew MacRae through their mutual interest in restoring castles. MacRae lived in a partially restored castle farther to the east, near Glenrothes, and had been giving Adam ongoing advice on the restoration of Templemor. He was also an expert on Templar history.
“Hello, Stuart, this is Adam Sinclair,” Adam said, when the hearty bass voice of MacRae himself answered the phone. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”
“Not at all!” came MacRae’s genial reply. “I was hoping I’d hear from you soon. Did you receive your invitation to the investiture?”
“I did, indeed,” Adam said. “Forgive me for not getting back to you sooner, but I was called away unexpectedly on Monday, and I’ve only just gotten back. I’ll try to make it on Saturday, but a lot depends on how things have gone at the hospital while I was away. I haven’t even checked in yet. I’m not sure I want to know.”
A hearty chuckle erupted from MacRae’s end of the line. “I can appreciate that,” he replied. “But don’t worry about us. Come if you can—and if you can’t, then send your good wishes. I still keep hoping that, since you’re restoring a Templar castle, we’ll eventually be able to persuade you to join the Order.”
“Well, I’m honored that you keep asking, but I already have too many claims on my time,” Adam replied easily. “However, you may certainly count me as a friend of the Order. And I hope to affirm that friendship in person on Saturday.”
“Well, so do I.”
“In the meantime, I’m calling because I’ve got something of a mystery on my hands,” Adam went on. • ‘It has to do with Templar history, and I’m hoping you may be able to give me some information.”
“Ah, well, then,” MacRae said. “That’s something I do know something about. What did you want to know?”
“I need a connection,” Adam said, choosing his next words to be carefully neutral. “Have you ever heard tell of any dangerous Templar secret connected with Dundee?”
“I assume you mean Bonnie Dundee, not the town,” came MacRae’s prompt reply, making the human connection immediately, as Adam had not. “You know, of course, that he was Grand Prior of Scotland at the time of his death?”
“Indeed?” Adam said, jotting down G.P. Scotland on the back of an envelope. “Tell me more.”
MacRae gave a knowing chuckle, obviously delighted at the chance to confide his knowledge to a receptive and appreciative listener.
“Well, some of this might be considered crypto-history by more conventional scholarship, but there’s a strong tradition that when Grahame of Claverhouse fell at Killiecrankie, he was wearing a Templar cross around his neck. What became of the cross after the battle isn’t certain, but it’s mentioned as being in the possession of a French priest named Dom Calmet some years later. I’d guess that he got it from David Grahame, Dundee’s younger brother. I’d give a lot to know where it finally ended up,” he finished, rather wistfully. “That’s the sort of thing that really ought to be in the custody of the Templars of Scotland.”
Adam was silent a moment, his mind racing. MacRae’s disclosures had thrown a whole new light on the investigation.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” MacRae asked.
“No, you’ve given me ample food for thought just now,” Adam said. “But tell me, where might I find out more about this Claverhouse/Templar connection?”
“Well, if you’ve been following the books by Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh—I’m sure you’re familiar with their The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, with Henry Lincoln—they talk about a lot of this in a book called The Temple and the Lodge. It came out a couple of years ago.”
Adam’s gaze had already shifted upward to scan the bookshelf on his right, and he stood to tip down a book in a black dust jacket, with the square and compass of Freemasonry between the red of its title and the white lettering of the authors’ names on the spine.
“Yes, I have a copy right here,” Adam said, trapping the receiver between shoulder and ear as he sat and flipped back to the book’s index. “Thanks, Stuart. This may be exactly what I needed.”
“Glad to be of service,” MacRae replied. “Do you think you might let me in on what you’re up to?”
“Just a bit of research,” Adam said neutrally. “It may not come to anything. I’m thinking of writing an article,” he added, to allay any further undue curiosity.
“Ah, well, then. Let me know if I can help you with anything else.”
“I certainly will.”
With a final word of thanks and the hope that they would, indeed, see one another on Saturday, Adam rang off, already settling back to devour the material on John Grahame of Claverhouse. He had skimmed through the entire volume when it first came out, but then he had focused on later sections having to do with his own family’s Sinclair connections with the founding of Freemasonry in Scotland, and their role in the building of Rosslyn Chapel, south of Edinburgh. Now, while he ate the light supper Humphrey brought him on a tray, he read the pertinent sections on Claverhouse’s Templar connections.
When he had finished both, he pushed his tray aside and went back to his bookshelves to look for something more specific on the life and times of Bonnie Dundee. Of all the books on his shelves dealing with various aspects of Scottish history, only one was a detailed biography of Dundee. Adam pulled it from its place and went over to his favorite chair by the fireside to have a read of it, grateful for the fire Humphrey had started while he ate.
The book was an old one, as witnessed by the fact that the bookplate on the inside bore the name of Adam’s father. The date of publication was 1937. Making himself a mental note to obtain something more recent, Adam checked the index for any reference to Templars—there were none—then set himself to reading the account of Dundee’s last battle and its aftermath. He was just finishing it when the telephone rang, so he let Humphrey answer it in another room—though he was not surprised when Humphrey buzzed it through. Holding his place with a finger between the pages, Adam went over to the desk and answered.
“It’s Mr. Lovat on the line, sir,” Humphrey said.
“Thank you, Humphrey. Put him through, please.”
He sat as a series of clicks told of the call being transferred.
“Hello, Peregrine,” he said, turning back to the frontispiece of his book—a faded black-and-white photo of a portrait of a handsome young Cavalier. “I was just about to ring you. Did Donald Cochrane drop by this afternoon, with some computer printouts from Noel?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” came the light, cheerful voice. “It’s fascinating stuff. Makes me want to start painting portraits of John Grahame of Claverhouse. But what’s all this business about a stolen seal?”
“It’s a long story,” Adam said. “If you’d like to run that material up to the house, I’ll tell you all about it. The matter’s likely to require your services anyway, probably sooner rather than later, so I might as well bring you up to speed.”
“Super!” Peregrine replied. “I’ll be right up. I assume this is apt to take a while?”
”I’m afraid so,” Adam replied. “Did you have other plans for the evening?”
“Not at all. I was just confirming that it’ll be worth my while to bring along a suitable libation. I finished that portrait of Janet Fraser over the weekend, and Sir Matthew gave me a bottle of hundred-year-old port that’s just begging to be sampled. Julia doesn’t care for it, and it’s far too nice to drink alone.”
“Hundred-year-old port?” Adam said with an appreciative chuckle. “Would you like me to send Humphrey down in the Bentley to collect you and it? I shouldn’t want to even think of it being jostled or disturbed.”
Peregrine laughed. “It’s well packed in straw, but I promise I’ll drive very slowly. Anything else you need?”
“As a matter of fact, there is one thing you could bring,” Adam said, glancing again at the book in his lap. “Have a look at your art books and see if you have any of the Dundee portraits. I’ve got one here, but it’s the Melville one, done when he was in his early twenties. A charming portrait, but I’m looking for a later one, that will show him more the way he would have looked about the time of his death.”
“You’d want the Glamis Portrait, then,” Peregrine said. “That’s the one you usually see. I’m sure I’ve got a print of it around here somewhere. I’ll see what else I can find. See you in fifteen or twenty minutes.”