Garden of Secrets Past

THIRTY-ONE


Shortly after eleven the next night, a red Mini Cooper, with Andrew at the wheel and with lights off, backed into a rutted lane off one of the roads bordering Sturminster and parked a dozen yards in, up against a wooden farm gate. Kingston and Andrew, both dressed in dark clothing, got out and closed the doors quietly. As far as the moon was concerned, they had lucked out. It had just entered its new phase and the night was about as dark as it could get.

Since ten thirty, after dinner at a pub some fifteen miles away, they’d been driving around the public perimeter roads encircling the estate looking for a suitable place to park off the road, in a concealed spot, as close as possible to the estimated location of the Athenian Temple. Earlier, Kingston had studied a Google Earth view of the house and park on the Internet and had printed out a single map that showed the three private roads crossing the estate, each leading to the house. As Andrew had surmised, all three entrances were closed, blocked by wrought-iron gates at least thirty feet wide and half as tall. A brief examination had revealed CCTV cameras mounted high on both sides. As expected, no service roads were marked. Fortunately, the map showed the location of the eight monuments and, though not to scale, it seemed that the Athenian Temple was about three-quarters of a mile in from the road and, as luck would have it, was the closest of all the monuments.

They had decided earlier, but only after Kingston had employed every single weapon in his arsenal of verbal skills, logical thinking, and powers of persuasion, that their first foray would be considered exploratory. Andrew had agreed to Kingston’s caveat that if, by luck, they encountered no difficulties and managed to reach the temple undetected, they would keep going and attempt to uncover the temple’s secret. Additionally, Andrew had stipulated that he would agree to take part in what he called “this madcap adventure” only if it involved no physical risks, that they didn’t push their luck, and that, if confronted with a situation where even the slightest chance of being accosted or apprehended seemed likely, they would beat a hasty retreat.

After a brief confab and waiting silently for at least fifteen minutes, to determine if there were patrols of any kind in their section of the perimeter—there were none—they embarked on phase two of their mission: to walk briskly across the open parkland to the Athenian Temple. Equipped with just a builder’s tape measure, a stick of chalk, a flashlight each, and no tools except Kingston’s trusty Swiss Army knife, they set off into the dark and the unknown.

Well clear of the park’s roads, the land was easy to traverse, even at night. Occasionally they passed small herds of cows—some with wickedly long horns—that grazed the grassy slopes and hollows where spreading canopies of ancient oak, beech, and chestnut trees shaded them from the heat of the daytime sun. Reaching the crest of a knoll, they saw sprinkles of light in the distance. “That’s the house,” said Kingston, whispering, unnecessarily. From all appearances thus far, it was doubtful that a living soul knew of their presence. “My guess is that we’ve come about half the way, so according to the map, we should head slightly to the left.” He pointed the way.

They continued in silence across the open land, prepared at any moment to dive for the nearest cover or fall flat on their bellies at the first sign of security personnel or vehicles. Twenty minutes later, their progress still unimpeded, it seemed that they would reach the temple unnoticed. Kingston was now trying to envisage what to expect: the stone being raised, no doubt revealing steps descending into some kind of underground chamber. A phantom shiver ran through him. It dredged up long-forgotten memories of Wickersham Priory, in Somerset, and a case he’d helped solve several years ago. That investigation had culminated in a deadly face-off in the catacombs beneath the ruins of a medieval priory in which he and Jamie Gibson, heiress of the estate, had come close to being buried alive. It was one of the most frightening experiences in his life, and he found himself praying that nothing like that would happen in the events about to unfold.

They reached the terraced steps of the Athenian Temple and stood for a moment next to its stone-columned façade, waiting and watching silently for anything that appeared out of place. They then made a visual search of the structure for signs of surveillance or security devices. Finding none, they ascended the steps and walked onto the platform, paved in stone slabs three feet square. Kingston estimated the space to be at least thirty feet wide and twenty deep. At the top of the columns above the square stone abacus, a bas-relief frieze circled the four walls above the architraves that supported the ceiling and roof. Already Kingston could see a problem. If, as the decoded message instructed, the mechanism to raise the floor stone were concealed in the frieze, it would be beyond their reach. It was well over twelve feet above the platform, he estimated. While pondering the dilemma, he took out the tape measure and, with Andrew holding one end, laid it out diagonally across the floor, first in one direction and then the opposite, to establish the center point. He marked the center stone with a small chalk cross. He then pulled out a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his parka. Using his flashlight, carefully shielded by Andrew’s parka, he unfolded it and read the last four lines of the decoded message sotto voce:

“Five north of centre oer column tall

The epilogue is writ upon the wall

Auriga awaits a judgment day

His four spoked wheel points the way”

Kingston checked the compass on his old Swiss Army watch and studied the fluorescent arrow to establish north. Handing the message to Andrew, he counted off the stones as instructed, marking the fifth with another faint chalk cross. The stone was next to one of the rear columns: The instructions seemed accurate. He then looked up at the elaborate frieze and studied the relief scene depicting horsemen preparing for a chariot race. With the flashlight shielded by one hand to dim its light, he scanned the elaborately sculpted images of horses being coaxed into position; young warriors, some wearing body armor, others with crested helmets; ranks of horses, four and five deep, side by side in festive procession. Directly in line with the column’s horizontal center point, his eyes alighted on a chariot manned by a warrior. “Auriga,” he muttered. Fortunately, the four-spoke wheel, approximately a foot in diameter, was low on the frieze, where he could see it more clearly. With a glimmer of light steadied on it, he studied the pictorial details. Though not knowing quite what to expect or search for, he was discouraged to see that it appeared no different from the rest of the frieze’s design. If it was the essential part of the mechanism that raised the stone, revealing whatever was below, it was certainly ingeniously disguised, he thought.

“Do you think that’s it?” Andrew asked.

“It must be. The chariot’s lined up perfectly with the column.”

“How do you propose to reach it?” Andrew asked. “Even if I stand on your shoulders, it looks like we’ll come up short. We should have anticipated this.”

“Sure. We should’ve lugged an eight-foot ladder with us. That would’ve raised an eyebrow or two if we’d been caught, eh?”

Kingston turned off the flashlight and looked around the temple as if hoping for divine intervention, realizing that this setback would be difficult, if not impossible, to resolve. They were in the middle of nowhere, as it were, and the chances of finding something nearby that would help them reach the frieze were next to zero.

“We could always come back,” said Andrew, breaking the long silence.

“No,” said Kingston, tugging on his earlobe. “There has to be an answer.”

“We could bring in a cow to stand on. That might do it.”

“Very funny.”

“Sorry.”

Kingston raised a pointed finger. “Wait a moment. You may be on to something.”

Andrew simply frowned, obviously deciding to remain silent after the last rebuke.

“The last herd of cattle we passed, the ones lying under the trees. If I’m not mistaken, there was an old trough alongside the fence.”

Andrew nodded. “There was.”

“About six feet long, as I recall.”

“Longer, maybe.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Fifteen minutes later, muscles and backs aching, they were back at the temple carrying a mud-spattered galvanized trough, square on both ends and about six feet long. It weighed a ton, but they’d managed by lugging it short distances at a time.

Kingston thought it best not to mention it to Andrew, but he was starting to wonder why everything so far had happened so easily, without even the slightest indication that they might have been spotted or were being tracked. Dragging a cattle trough a couple of hundred yards across open land had been a huge risk, even in the dark—close to comedic, when he thought about it. Maybe he’d misjudged the sophistication of Sturminster’s security systems. Too late to worry about that now, he knew. They had to keep going.

They stood the trough on end and pushed it up against the column directly below the frieze where the chariot wheel was located. Taller by at least five inches, Kingston insisted that he should climb up and activate the mechanism, if indeed it still functioned after two hundred–plus years—another possible setback he hadn’t considered until now.

Andrew wiped the algae and mud off his hands on his trouser legs and positioned himself, feet spread, back pressed against the trough, hands clasped in front of him to form a step on which to raise Kingston as high as possible. Neither had tried anything like it before, though they seemed to know instinctively how it was done. The only concern now was Kingston’s weight and whether Andrew, who was on the slight side, had the strength to lift him high enough to enable him to clamber onto the top of the trough.

The first attempt failed because Andrew’s hands were clasped the wrong way. Kingston had trouble gripping the trough’s slippery surface, fell and stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. On the second attempt, with a grunting and puffing Andrew supporting him, Kingston finally managed to get sufficient traction on the slick surface of the metal to haul his body to the top of the trough, where he stood upright. With one arm partly circling the column to maintain his balance, he reached up to the frieze. Andrew watched from below, fingers crossed, making sure that the trough was stable.

“Here goes,” said Kingston. He placed his right hand, fingers spread wide, on the chariot wheel and pushed.