a fortune searching for something that wasn’t there.” Unquote. That’s what you said. So how do you know it wasn’t there?’
‘Well, I don’t
‘So educate me. Give me your reasons.’
Mayhew paused, trying desperately to think clearly amid the waves of panic and fear that were threatening to overwhelm him.
‘There are two reasons,’ he said finally. ‘First, the fragment of Persian text probably dated from the first century AD, and it’s likely that in the next two thousand years somebody would have stumbled across this so-called treasure – if it ever existed – and recovered it.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘From everything I’ve read, Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax had no real idea of where to look. He might not even have been searching in the right country. The only clue to the location was the “valley of the flowers”, and I suspect that that would have been a fairly common-place name in many cultures around that time. Unless, of course, the remainder of the fragment Bartholomew found contained some other information that we don’t have.’
‘You mean what’s printed in that guidebook isn’t the whole translation?’
‘No.’ Mayhew struggled briefly against his restraints. It was no good – he was held fast. ‘If you read the section, you can see that what’s contained is only the part of the text that Bartholomew showed to Oliver. He must have kept the rest of it hidden somewhere. Oliver spent quite a lot of his time in later life looking for the original, and that’s the reason for all the damaged walls in the house. He was certain there was a hidden passage or panel somewhere that held the Persian parchment.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s well established that Bartholomew did find a piece of parchment, and that it subsequently vanished. But whether it’s hidden somewhere here in the house or locked away in a bank safety deposit box we know nothing about, or even got destroyed in the last eighty-odd years, is another matter entirely.’
The man tightened the grip on the scourge. ‘Give me your best guess.’
‘I think it’s probably hidden here somewhere. Bartholomew was planning another expedition when he died, apparently, and he would have wanted the entire text available to him. He might have thought that there were still clues hidden in it, and he would probably have studied the text regularly.’
‘If it was parchment, handling it all the time wouldn’t have been such a sharp idea, though, would it?’
Mayhew took a breath that sounded – even to him – like a sob. ‘But if he sealed the parchment in a plastic bag or mounted it between a couple of sheets of glass, and kept it away from moisture and sunlight, it would have lasted quite well. And he would also have made a copy of the text and kept that to hand. And I still think he would have kept it here, somewhere. It wouldn’t have been convenient to keep it in a bank, and it was a very precious and important relic for Bartholomew.’ Mayhew sighed. ‘But I’ve no idea where you’d start looking.’
‘That’s not bad,’ the man said, looking at Mayhew keenly. ‘Oliver told me the parchment did fall apart, several years ago. He also told me his father made a copy of the text before that happened.’
‘Oliver Wendell-Carfax told
The man nodded, a slight smile playing over his lips. Then he picked up the whip and walked across to the chair Mayhew was sitting in. This time he stepped behind the chair. The wooden back was tall and reached almost up to Mayhew’s neck.
‘Bend forward,’ he ordered, ‘or I’ll whip you twice.’
Mayhew muttered something inaudible, then bent forward, his whole body trembling in anticipation of the agony to come.
Instantly, the man swung the scourge down, opening up a line of new wounds on his prisoner’s back.
Mayhew screamed again, as the man lashed his back a second time.
‘You said you’d only hit me once,’ Mayhew protested, between sobs of pain.
‘I make the rules,’ the man said simply, sitting down again, his voice still calm and controlled. ‘Now I need to know what else you found here. You’ve had all week to explore this place. What did you discover?’
Mayhew shook his head, the pain of the lashes across his chest and back still clouding his mind. ‘We didn’t—’ he began, but the stranger again picked up the whip.
‘Wait, wait,’ Mayhew stammered desperately. ‘We did find something. It wasn’t much, but—’
‘I’ll be the judge of its value. Just tell me what it was.’
‘The vessel. The first-century pottery jar that the parchment had been sealed inside. We found that – at least we think we did – up in the attic. It was in pieces. Bartholomew broke it when he tried to remove the parchment.’
‘Who found it? And where is it now?’
‘One of our ceramic specialists – Angela Lewis – took it away with her.’
‘Tell me about her.’
Sobbing, Mayhew described Angela and told the man where she lived and worked, and then fell silent. He’d apologise to her when he next saw her, he told himself. For now it was a matter of survival.
‘Did you find anything else?’
Mayhew nodded miserably. ‘Chris Bronson – Angela’s former husband – found a small leather box full of papers, mainly notes Bartholomew had written. Angela said they were expedition records, that kind of thing, and a few bills and receipts.’
‘And she took them away with her?’
‘Yes.’
There was silence as the man stared at Mayhew. ‘Anything else?’ he asked at last.
‘No, nothing to do with Bartholomew’s treasure hunt.’
The man nodded and picked up the scourge again.
‘No more, please,’ Mayhew begged him. ‘No more. I can’t take it.’
The man walked over to the kitchen sink, ran the cold tap and washed away the sticky drying blood from the leather thongs. He dried the scourge carefully on a tea towel and tucked it away in his jacket pocket, then shrugged the garment on to his shoulders.
‘Thank you,’ Mayhew croaked.
The man turned back and looked down at him. ‘You have done your best to help me, I think, and so I shall be merciful.’
He pulled a small bottle from another pocket of his jacket and unscrewed the stopper.
‘What’s that?’ Mayhew asked, his voice trembling with fear.
‘It’s holy water, nothing more.’
The man dabbed a little of the water on to the tip of his right forefinger and traced the sign of a cross on Mayhew’s forehead. Then he replaced the bottle in his pocket and strode back to the table.
He turned to face Mayhew, crossed himself and softly intoned ‘
‘No, no! Wait! Please wait! I’ll do anything. Don’t kill me. Please.’
The man shook his head. ‘Begging is undignified, and, in any case, I have no option. You’ve seen my face.’
‘No! I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Please! I’ll never tell anyone anything about you. And why didn’t you wear a mask?’
The man shook his head again. ‘I would never hide my face. I believe God’s work should always be done openly.’
‘God’s work?’ Mayhew whispered incredulously, as the man took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
Mayhew’s body shook with the impact of the bullet. He remained upright for a couple of seconds, then slumped forwards lifelessly.
The man walked over, felt for a pulse but found nothing. Then he turned and looked out of the window. His next step was clear. He’d go to London and find the woman who was also hunting for the treasure. His treasure.
