The Bunting Quest Read online

  Amir had lit the lanterns in the study by the time Bunting had washed the sleep from his intense blue eyes, donned a grey cassock and walked the few paces down the dark corridor. The embers of the previous night’s fire still glowed softly in the hearth.

  The visitor stood with his back to the dying fire. He did, indeed, have a certain princely bearing. His attire was not of Magdeburg, though, nor of the county. In fact, Bunting suspected the man was not of any of the Germanic States. His black hat was tall with a small brim, and a white feather jutted out from a gold, braided band. Golden stars adorned his crimson coat which was lined, Bunting noticed, with ermine. Black pantaloons ballooned above gold-buckled shoes. A white neck frill contrasted starkly with his close-cut beard.

  ‘Thank you, Amir. You may leave us now,’ said Bunting gently, motioning the servant to the door. The Moor backed slowly, head bowed, out of the room.

  The stranger removed his cape with a flourish. Shadows danced on the brick walls as he draped it over one of the wooden chairs. ‘Forgive the late hour of our visit, Padre. We have travelled many days and nights.’

  Italian, Bunting thought. The stranger confirmed this.

  ‘I am Duke Ottavio Farnese di Parma, Gonfaloniere of the Church,’ he introduced himself.

  Not my church, thought Bunting, but said: ‘You are my guest. You are welcome in the Church of St Ulrich and Levin, this house of God. How can I be of service to you? Are you lost in our small town, perhaps, and in need of direction?’

  ‘No, Padre. Our matter is with you.’

  ‘Forgive me. I am but a simple priest, whose daily concerns are with the common folk of this town …’

  ‘Yet your writings say the opposite,’ a voice growled from the far corner of the dark room. Only then did Bunting notice the crumpled figure of an old man, slouched in the shadows. ‘Why would you write these words? These are not the words of a man consumed only by his daily duties to the ignorant and the unworthy.’

  ‘Sir,’ Bunting responded sharply. ‘The ignorant and unworthy, as you so unkindly describe them, are as entitled to the grace of God as any man, however highborn he may be.’

  ‘Even so,’ the voice from the dark continued, ‘your writings are heretical, are they not?’

  ‘Sir, Magdeburg’s conversion to Protestantism was over forty years ago. It defied any attempt to accept Catholicism as the one true belief. This town has been a refuge for the hunted, the persecuted and the displaced. This is not a place where the Inquisition has any standing. You are wrong to think that the methods of the Old Church can prevail here.’

  ‘No, you misunderstand me, Herr Bunting. It is because of your words that I believe we can work together, for the sake of the ignorant and unworthy; to save them from further pain in this world and perpetual punishment in the hereafter.’

  ‘Sir, you have me at a loss,’ he demurred. ‘It is the middle of night and you speak in riddles. Your very Catholic position is apparent and you must know that it is anathema to me. If you know my writings, you know that. Who are you, sir? Why have you come to Magdeburg, to the Church of Saint Ulrich and Levin, and what is your business with me?’

  The old man looked up at Bunting and sighed. ‘Herr Bunting, I am Seniori Ugo Boncompagni, formerly of Bologna, of Trent, of Toledo and now of Rome.’

  The Duke, who had been silent during this exchange, glanced towards his companion and then turned slowly towards Bunting. ‘Padre, you are in the presence of Pope Gregory XIII, Vicar of Christ on Earth and the Supreme Pastor and Teacher of all the Faithful.’

  3

  The motion, combined with the smell of cigarettes and shit, had almost made him vomit behind the hood.

  ‘Billy boy, Billy boy, this is your night,’ his brother kept repeating. His size ten, muck-covered boots kept digging into Billy’s back. ‘Our Grandpa did it, our Pa did it, I did it and tonight, Billy boy, is your night.’

  They had come for him at eight at night, shoved the hessian bag over his head and bundled him below their feet at the back of the car. Four of them: Billy’s brother and three strangers. The rain and the hood muffled the street sounds that would normally identify his Belfast; too many turns and double backs to follow.

  The car stopped suddenly and then they were out. Rough hands grabbed him as he stumbled up some steps. He gulped in the cold air, trying to reduce the nausea from the ride.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Tommy, get your brother’s mask off!’

  The light blinded him, but slowly he took in his surroundings: only two men now, one his brother; a bare room, two doors closed.

  Then the questions from the older man that he did not know. ‘Have you been here before, lad? Do you know about the Purple Order of the Loyal Orange Institution? Has anyone talked about this to you before, Billy?’

  Billy glanced at Tommy whose face remained impassive. ‘No, I don’t know anything,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Good lad. Now, before we go on, Billy, you must make a solemn oath to bind you to us as Royal Arch Purple Brethren. Kneel on your right knee, take this Bible in your right hand and read this oath.’

  Tommy placed a simple black-framed hand-written document in front of Billy, on the floor.

  ‘I, Billy Robertson,’ he read, ‘do most voluntarily, solemnly and sincerely declare, I will never reveal the proceedings of my Royal Arch Purple brethren in this Chapter assembled. I will not disclose any matters, unless to a Brother who is known to me, or unless I am authorised to do so by the legal authorities holding a Warrant under the Grand Royal Arch Purple Chapter of Ireland. I am a member of good standing in the Loyal Orange Lodge. I am over eighteen years old and was born in wedlock to Protestant parents. I will do my utmost to maintain the Protestant religion and glorious Constitution of 1688 against all foes, foreign and domestic. I declare never to marry a Papist nor stand sponsor for the child of a Roman Catholic when receiving baptism from a Papist priest, nor allow a Roman Catholic to stand sponsor for my child when being baptised. I will obey, without scruple or reserve, the rules and regulations drawn up by the Grand Royal Arch Purple Chapter of Ireland.’

  ‘Good. Now, is there anything you have said that is false or a pledge there you cannot keep?’

  ‘No,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Do you swear by Almighty God to remain steadfast in your solemn vow, to be a Royal Arch Purple Man, taken under this Warrant held under the jurisdiction of the Grand Royal Arch Purple Chapter of Ireland?’

  Billy looked up at the older man and his brother. Tommy was nodding at him.

  ‘Yes, I swear.’

  Tommy and the older man helped him off the floor and led him through one of the closed doors into another smaller room.

  ‘Now it’s time for the initiation, Billy. Except for your trousers, remove all your clothes,’ the older man ordered.

  Once stripped, Billy had a small piece of purple ribbon tied to his trousers by Tommy, who also made him roll them up to the knees. Tommy replaced the hood over his brother’s head.

  ‘Billy, listen carefully,’ Tommy whispered. ‘I’m your Conductor tonight. I’ll be introducing you to the Chapter. Whatever happens, just take it like a man, like Pa would have.’

  There were three loud knocks and he felt the rush of air as a door was opened. Tommy guided him through with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his arm. He could hear the murmur of men through the stifling hood. A knife or something sharp cut into his chest. Tommy let his grip go and whispered, ‘I’ll see you at the end.’

  Other hands propelled him forwards, some slapping him on the back. Someone fired a gun next to his head and he collapsed, cowering on the floor before being forced to his feet again. His ears ringing, he could just make out words from the Bible being chanted: ‘Thou shall make the Tabernacle with ten curtains of fine twined linen and blue and purple and scarlet …’ the voices droned on. ‘Let the righteous smite me, it shall be a kindness … Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst I withal escape.’

  He could feel his
bare feet being cut by sharp branches. ‘Oh death, where is thy sting?’ He was shoved onto the floor – ‘Oh grave, where is thy victory?’ – and roughly dragged back onto his feet again. Men were hugging him, reassuring him, praising him, their tobacco breath, hot and fetid, in his face.

  Then all went quiet and one man, not from Ireland, spoke. ‘Foot to foot: you shall not be afraid nor ashamed to go a foot or two out of your way to serve a Brother Royal Arch Purple Man, in his time of need. Knee to knee: you shall not bend your knee in prayer, without remembering your Brethren in your prayers. Hand in hand: you will go hand in hand with your Brethren in all just actions. Breast to breast: you will keep and conceal the secrets of the Royal Arch Purple Brethren within your breast.’

  The speaker, or Master, as Billy later found his correct title to be, forced Billy’s left hand painfully behind his back. ‘Repeat after me, Billy: I testify that I will be as true and faithful behind a Royal Arch Purple Man’s back as I would before his face. I will allow no plots nor plans to be laid out about him without giving him due and timely warning of all approaching danger as far as in my power, so that, on one hand, he can move forward to meet it, or on the other hand, step aside to avoid it.’

  Billy repeated the words, his voice shaking with pain and fear. The Master then commanded him to kneel on what Billy thought was a box and repeat another solemn oath. ‘With my knees upon this coffin, my toes extended over the earth, I testify that I am duly prepared to suffer death before I would divulge anything I have received or am about to receive.’

  At these words the assembly shouted as one: ‘In whom do you put your trust?’

  Before he could answer, he was violently shoved into a blanket, arms pinned to his side and rolled tight.

  ‘In whom do you put your trust?’

  Then, the kicking. Unrelenting blows to his face and defenceless torso.

  ‘In whom do you put your trust, Billy? In God and us you put your trust,’ were the last words he remembered before vomiting, and blackness ended all thoughts.

  4

  It was going to be a big day. The exhibition was due to open at six in the evening and Nick had no doubt that some of his major clients would be arriving early.

  The security beam beeped again as Bronte staggered through the front door, her face red and her arms weighed down with a large cardboard box. ‘No, don’t worry Nick, you just sit there, mate,’ she gasped sarcastically in her broad Aussie accent. ‘Let me make the five trips back to the car by myself. I’m only parked a hundred miles away!’

  Bronte dropped the box onto the framing table. ‘Sorry, Bronts, I’ve just had this bloody policeman on the line wanting to speak to me.’

  ‘Well, I hope you told him to piss off, Nick, we’ve got absolutely no time today. Tell him to phone back in a couple of days. Now, how about jumping into your Tardis and bringing in all the gear from my car?’

  Nick gave Bronte a withering smile in response to her Dr Who reference. ‘He’s coming around in twenty minutes, actually. Said it was important.’

  It took time for them both to shuttle the glasses, white linen tablecloths and champagne coolers from Bronte’s double-parked Renault back to the gallery. So much time that, halfway back on the last journey, Nick saw a tall, very thin man walk up the two steps into the open gallery.

  No way was that twenty minutes! Nick thought. It was a standing joke that it took London Police two hours to turn up for a murder.

  Bronte had seen the man as well. ‘You go see your policeman friend and I’ll park the car and bring in the last box,’ she shouted over the noise of the traffic. Nick covered the short distance as quickly as he could and bounded up the steps and into the gallery.

  The inspector, if that’s who it was, had his elongated back to Nick and was staring intensely at the maps on the right-hand wall. Although he was a big man, Nick noticed that his dark suit hung loosely. ‘Inspector Jaeger?’ he asked.

  The tall man turned slowly and Nick gasped inwardly at his fire-scarred face. He hoped nothing had shown outwardly. In contrast to his ravaged face, the inspector’s short grey hair stood stiff and sharp. ‘Your maps are truly special, Mister Lawrance,’ the man said with the hint of an accent and offered his hand. ‘Inspector Conrad Jaeger. I did not expect to see such treasures, other than in a museum.’ A gesture took in the wall.

  They shook hands, Nick surprised at the limpness and dampness of the big man’s grip. ‘Well, Inspector, as you can see, we’re opening a major exhibition this evening and, well, we are in a bit of a rush.’ Nick gave an apologetic smile.

  ‘The maps interest me, Mister Lawrance,’ continued the inspector as if Nick had not spoken. ‘Especially the Buntings. Tell me about the Bunting maps.’

  There it was again, the hint of an accent. Where from? Zimbabwe perhaps? ‘Heinrich Bunting, Inspector? Why him?’

  ‘You have heard about the theft of the Charles Garner Collection from Sotheby’s in Amsterdam?’

  Who hasn’t? thought Nick. The American collector’s sale of his lifetime collection of maps had not only been advertised in all the antique map trade publications, but had also made the television and the papers, and so had the theft of part of the collection before the auction. ‘Of course, Inspector,’ said Nick. ‘It was the most important rare map and chart sale of the last five years!’

  ‘It seems that the thieves were interested in only one cartographer. Yes, Herr Bunting. And, since you are the specialist in his work, my colleagues at Interpol have requested that I obtain your expert advice.’

  ‘I don’t know what I could give,’ Nick said honestly. ‘I know something of Bunting, but I’m hardly a specialist and have no idea why his maps might have been singled out. They were nice maps, of course, but not of the same quality as the rest of Garner’s collection.’

  The inspector stared intensely at Nick. ‘But, Mister Lawrance, they were, as you say “singled out”. There must be a reason.’

  Bronte’s clumsy entrance with the last box broke the inspector’s stare. ‘Everything all right? Anyone died?’ she asked glibly, with a special questioning glance at Nick.

  ‘It’s to do with the robbery at Sotheby’s in Amsterdam,’ replied Nick. ‘The inspector wants to know if we can shed some light on it. Though I’m beginning to suspect he may really want me to admit to carrying out the deed myself, perhaps by scaling down a rope from the ceiling, eh, Inspector?’

  ‘No, Mister Lawrance, the heist was rather something simpler. The thieves used a viewing day to swap the original maps with facsimile copies. In fact, they probably hid the maps down their trousers.’

  ‘Oh, I imagine our Dutch friends at Sotheby’s will be changing their security company then,’ Nick observed sarcastically. He had taken an odd dislike to Conrad Jaeger already.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, the swap was not discovered until the auction was well underway two days later,’ continued the inspector, ignoring Nick’s tone.

  ‘What about security cameras? There are cameras up the length and breadth of De Boelelaan Street,’ offered Nick.

  ‘Ahh, you know that area well, Mister Lawrance,’ probed the inspector.

  ‘As well as anyone else in my line of work. However, I can assure you, I had nothing to do with the robbery.’

  ‘As would a truly guilty man.’ Jaeger nodded as if pegging a score. ‘But we digress. Tell me more about Herr Bunting. What makes his maps so special?’

  ‘Nick,’ interjected Bronte, ‘if you’re going to give one of your history lectures right now, I guess I’ll have to finalise the price lists. But perhaps you could hang the last few maps while you’re enlightening the inspector?’ Nick knew she had a suspicion about men only being able to do one thing at a time.

  ‘Sure, Bronts, will do,’ Nick said, moving to pick up a map for hanging. ‘Well, Inspector … Heinrich Bunting was born in Hanover, Germany, in 1545. We don’t know much about his early life, but we know he was a Protestant theologian. He published the Itinerarium Sacra
e Scripturae in Magdeburg in 1581.’ Jaeger nodded dutifully. ‘In layman’s terms it was a book about the Prophets, Holy Patriarchs and Judges. It was also about Jesus and the Apostles on their journeys in the Old and New Testaments. It described the different towns and places they visited and the number of miles they stood from Jerusalem. It’s not a terribly riveting read, filled with mundane facts and figures mostly – accounts of weights, monies and measurements mentioned in the scriptures. He was a very thorough man, Inspector. A bit like you I imagine?’

  Nick searched for the small brass tacks used for attaching the mounted maps to the display walls, and continued. ‘The book was filled with maps too. Most are of the Holy Land, pretty accurate for the period. However, there are four maps that stand out, four that we dealers value the most.’

  The inspector started to write in a small diary-sized notepad. ‘Why four?’ he asked. ‘And, why so “valued”, as you put it, Mister Lawrance?’

  ‘Good questions, Inspector. As I’ve said, certainly not because of their accuracy. In fact, three of these maps are of pure fantasy. One has the world in the form of a clover leaf, another with Europe as a robed female figure, and the other depicts Asia as Pegasus, the mythical winged horse.’

  ‘And the fourth map?’

  ‘That would be Bunting’s World Map. It’s basic, Inspector, a crude depiction of the known world of the late sixteenth century, glaring errors and all.’

  The inspector turned a page in his notebook and continued to write. ‘Errors?’