The Sacred Sword. Scott Mariani

      Chapter Seven

      Simeon led the way in the Lotus and Ben followed in the ailing, badly misfiring Land Rover. Simeon had to keep slowing down to let him catch up as they wound their way along the twisty country lanes towards Greater Denton.

      Bertie the mechanic, whose garage was a converted stable block on the edge of the village, was one of those work-hardened little guys who looked as if they’d been twisted and hammered together out of wire and leather. Ben got the impression that the grizzled old mechanic would have done anything for Simeon. No sooner had Ben described Le Crock’s symptoms, than Bertie grabbed a toolbox and plunged his head and shoulders under the scarred green bonnet lid, apparently set on not re-emerging until he’d cured the problem, if it took him all day and night.

      Simeon seemed edgy as he drove fast back towards Little Denton. Rocketing up the long, straight hill a mile before the village, the car almost took off over the crest and went plummeting down the straight and hard into the set of S-bends at the bottom before roaring over the little stone humpbacked bridge, barely wide enough for one and a half cars, that arched across the swollen, fast-moving river.

      Ben could tell his old friend was building up to saying something but having difficulty framing his words. Simeon wet his lips and spoke hesitantly over the engine noise. ‘Ben, there’s something I wanted to … Oh, never mind.’

      ‘What?’

      Simeon let out a long breath. ‘The fact is, it wasn’t completely coincidental. Our turning up at the concert, I mean. In fact, opera’s not my favourite thing at all.’ He paused. ‘The point is, Ben, I knew you’d be there. I saw your name in the paper and I deliberately came to see you, for a reason that I haven’t discussed with Michaela. She doesn’t know anything about this, and I’d like to keep it that way.’

      ‘I understand,’ Ben said, and waited for more.

      ‘I’ve often wondered what you were up to all this time,’ Simeon said. ‘It seemed like you’d vanished without a trace. Now and again Michaela and I tried to look you up, to no avail. Then a few months ago, I found you on the internet and saw what it is you do now. You help people.’

      ‘What I do is very specific,’ Ben said. ‘Le Val is a tactical training facility.’

      ‘For bodyguards? That sort of thing?’

      ‘That sort of thing,’ Ben said. ‘Not exactly.’

      ‘So, when people have a problem – when they’re under threat, or when they feel they might be in danger, there are ways they can protect themselves. Aren’t there? And that’s the kind of line you’re in? Providing advice, or services of a sort … you can tell I don’t know a lot about this stuff.’

      ‘Get to the point, Simeon. What are you trying to say?’

      They were coming into Little Denton. Simeon sighed. ‘I need help, Ben. At least, I think I do. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’m frightened. Not so much for myself, but for Michaela and Jude. If anything happened to them—’

      ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’ Ben said.

      ‘I hardly know where to begin,’ Simeon replied. ‘I’ve been working on something, an important project. Well, actually, it’s more than just important. It’s huge. It’s terrifyingly huge.’ Simeon shook his head, as if bewildered by just how huge it was.

      ‘To do with your book?’ Ben asked.

      Simeon glanced at him in surprise.

      ‘Michaela told me you were working on a new one,’ Ben said. ‘And that you’ve been keeping a lot to yourself. She’s worried about you.’

      Simeon hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, it’s very much the subject of the book. I’ve been working on this day and night for … or should I say, we’ve been working on it. It’s not just me that’s involved.’

      The vicarage gates were coming up on the right. Simeon turned in and rasped the Lotus over the gravel. He pulled up, killed the engine and turned to Ben. ‘Something awful happened recently,’ he said anxiously. ‘Something absolutely dreadful, and completely baffling. I mean, when you know someone so well, or at least think you know them, and then you hear they’ve done something that’s just so totally, so horrifyingly out of character that you just can’t …’

      Ben understood that Simeon was talking about the priest who’d killed himself. ‘Go on.’

      Simeon’s jaw tightened. ‘Two weeks ago …’ he started. But Michaela’s voice from the house interrupted him, and they both turned to see her trotting down the front steps and across the gravel with the landline phone in her hand. ‘Yes, in fact he’s just got back this moment. I’ll pass him to you, archdeacon.’

      ‘Hell and buggery,’ Simeon groaned under his breath, and climbed out of the car to take the phone. To Ben he said, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Then, pressing the phone to his ear, ‘Dr Grant! What a pleasure to hear from you.’

      Michaela took Ben’s arm. ‘Come on. He’ll be on the phone for ever with that one. Come inside. I have something for you.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘It’s a surprise.’

      Inside the warmth of the living room, she signalled to him to wait, then trotted upstairs and returned a moment later holding a small gift-wrapped package tied up with a ribbon. ‘Merry Christmas, Ben.’

      ‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said, taking the package, embarrassed that he hadn’t anything to offer the Arundels in return. ‘Am I allowed to open it?’

      ‘No!’ Michaela said quickly, reaching out abruptly to stop him tearing open the wrapping – then relaxed and smiled. ‘Not now. You have to promise me that you won’t peek until you’re back in France. Then you can open it and think of us.’

      ‘I promise,’ Ben said, wondering what it was. Through the Christmas paper it felt like a small hardback book, not much bigger than a diary.

      ‘Solemnly? You won’t be tempted?’

      ‘Get me a Bible,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll swear on it. Or maybe it is a Bible?’

      ‘No,’ Michaela said softly. ‘It isn’t a Bible.’ Her expression was a strange blend of relief and apprehension. She was quiet for a few moments, then said something about needing to check something upstairs, and disappeared.

      Simeon was still on the phone to the archdeacon. Left to his own devices Ben went to the annexe to put Michaela’s present away safely in his bag, then wandered outside to the woodshed to gather some logs for the living room fire, which he’d noticed was getting low. The firewood was neatly stacked along the shed wall near the door, a heavy log-splitting axe and a small hatchet resting against the chopping block. He hefted a piece of well-seasoned oak onto the block, grabbed the axe, and with a downward swing cracked the log neatly in two. He set the split pieces aside and grabbed another log. His breath billowed in clouds as he worked.

      He felt something nudge his leg, and turned to see what it was. ‘Hey there, Scruffy,’ he said as the dog nuzzled against him, and stroked the coarse fur of his head. The dog wasn’t the prettiest of creatures – the bull neck and alligator snout of a Staffordshire mixed up with the wiry, untameable coat of a Border Terrier – but there was a look of calm intelligence in those wide-set eyes. Criminal or saint: Ben wasn’t too sure which he was.

      ‘You like being a vicar’s dog?’ Ben said.

      Scruffy cocked his head and looked at him curiously, then went off to settle on the floor a few yards away and gnaw contentedly at a piece of wood. If only life could be that simple for humans, Ben thought.

      Going on chopping, Ben heard Simeon’s voice from inside the vicarage, calling up the stairs to Michaela that he had to rush out to attend to a church matter. Moments later,