13
Jacky wasn’t sure if he was being had.
“African labourers couldn’t have built such a series of traps. They even today still beat modern machines and -“
“- and those slaves were just hammering the nails they were told. It was my forefather who created the Money Pit; every device in it was envisioned by his mind.” Marcellus paused, but only for breath: he was too eager to tell his story to allow himself to be upset by Jacky’s insult. “Lawrence had a son, Charles, whom he passed his knowledge onto as a child. Just a father telling nightly stories to his boy. But they were remembered. Charles had three children, each of whom heard the tale, and only one of whom, Catherine, had children of her own to hear the story. A number of generations later there was born myself and my brother, Joshua. Joshua turned me into the last of the Marcellus family lineage in 1971 when as a twenty-one year-old fitness addict his heart gave out during a training session. In 1989 I had a son of my own. I am forty-five and single and there is scant chance of further children.”
Jacky soaked all this up, and Marcellus waited for him to do so. He seemed sad at the memories.
He continued. “I was told the story by my father, but it seemed he enjoyed a good cliff-hanger, because he left out the most vital parts.”
Another pause. Jacky formulated a question: “Is he planning to tell you?”
“He’s dead, so I don’t believe there’s much chance of that. He was a vile man who, it seemed, preferred to take his secrets to the grave. I was not given his diary until a few months ago during his will reading.” Marcellus smiled. “I gave all the money he bequeathed me to charity. I have enough of my own. If he’s up there watching me, he would have hated that. That is why I enjoyed it.”
“Does this diary not contain everything you need to know?”
“My family has been one filled with careful men. What each man wrote in his diary was simply the stuff they didn’t care to remember. The blanks were filled in by Lawrence to his son, Charles, who told it to his daughter, Catherine, and so on. Until the story came to Marcus, my father, who it now seems did not love me enough to confide in me.” Marcellus looked sorry suddenly, as if he might any second burst into tears. The package is waiting for you. I will telephone you tomorrow for an update. Goodbye and good luck.”
The video feed was terminated, leaving Jacky staring at the e-mail message. The town crier was gone.
Just then the front doorbell chimed throughout the house.
14
It was a motorcyclist at the door, carrying a parcel. He said nothing, required no signature for delivery, and left on a bike that no despatch rider would be allowed to ride. Marcellus’s man.
Finch handed the package to Jacky, who took it straight into the living room and tore it open. There was a mobile phone, an old notebook, like a diary, another notepad, much newer, and a typed letter signed by Theodore Marcellus. He scanned the letter. It simply explained the package. The phone was so Marcellus could contact him; he should keep it on his person at all times. The old diary had belonged to Lawrence Marcellus, Theodore’s tomb hunting ancestor; the newer notepad had belonged to Marcus Marcellus, Theo’s father, who had become the latest family member to unsuccessfully hunt Mudammiq’s tomb and who, in death, had passed his findings onto his son.
There was nothing else in the package, no contact numbers for specialists he might need to talk with, no proposed places to visit, no clues of any other sort. There was just the pair of journals, whose contents would influence his investigation. He decided to read the older one first. He yelled for Finch to grab him a pot of tea and flipped the diary open.
15
Nova Scotia, Canada
Halifax.
The technology inside Marcellus’ private jet, a Citation VII, wasn’t so advanced that it could counter turbulence. The seats were deep and soft, the surround sound system on the sixty-inch television almost making Jacky feel as if the zombies in the Resident Evil video game were actually right behind him, but the rising warm air smacking the light aircraft from below jolted the plane about enough to cause discomfort to a degree that he was glad when they landed at Halifax International Airport.
He thanked the pilot, who apologised for the turbulence, and exited the plane, which taxied in a semi-circle and flew off into the sunny sky. He knew he would never again see the man who had flown him here and felt a strange sensation. Funny how people can come into your life for the briefest moments and then go. He shrugged the feeling away and made for the terminal.
As he strolled across the tarmac, he looked up at the windows of the airport terminal, seeing faces pressed against the glass, staring out. They were watching the departure or arrival of planes taking or bringing loved ones, but suddenly he felt like an insect under scrutiny, sure they were all wondering who he was, certain he must be rich and famous to own his own jet.
The car was waiting, as promised. A sleek black BMW.
The young woman who stuck her head out of the sunroof was pale with black hair swept back into a tiny pony-tail, just enough of it to capture in the elastic band. Jacky’s first thought was that she was a vampire on a day off, if vampires wore jeans and T-shirts on their days off.
“Jacky, Jacky, Jacky. I'll burn the photo Mr. Marcellus gave me, it doesn't do you justice.” Her accent was Irish, just like Marcellus’.
Jacky sighed inwardly. Another hot-blooded young woman who fancied herself almost as much as she did men. Saturday night in the pub, he adored such creatures. When he was at work, however, he didn't. “And you must be Leo. Strange name.” If she said it was due to her lion-like libido, he promised himself, he was going to turn and leave right now, even if it meant swimming back to England.
Instead of that, she simply said. “My star sign. Perhaps mum couldn’t think of anything else. Anyhows, in ye jump, and we’ll get you to a hotel.”
Satisfied with this response, Jacky climbed into the back seat.
“Sit up front, babe. Less distance to fly if we crash.”
Jacky suppressed a smirk. “No thanks. I’ll have more time to adopt crash position flying from here.”
“Ah, a scientist. Okay, Dr. Jacky. Seatbelt on and we’re away. I’ll give you a brief tour guide while we’re driving. Been here only two days but seen it all already. Cool joint. If you get bored of the guide anytime, just kiss the back of my neck and silence will descend. ‘Kay?”
Perhaps that swim would have been better, Jacky thought as the car pulled away.