Mosaic Deceptions

Chapter 3

Chapter 3DorsetThe timing of my next visit to Compton Place was no

coincidence. I had phoned the manager and asked him when Leah Linden might

next be there and as I walked from the car park I caught a glimpse of the

Lindens, mother and daughter, seated on a distant bench. Crossing the lawns,

Mrs Linden noted my approach and stiffened visibly.

“Hello, Mrs Linden. Could I have a word with you, Miss

Linden?”

The daughter started to rise.

“Doctor Clements, whatever you have to say, you can

say in my presence. Leah told me of your insensitive remarks the other day.

Frankly, I was not surprised.”

“Mother, please… Not now,” chided the younger

woman.

Mrs Linden bridled with rage.

“Sit there, while we go and have a nice chat.”

With that we strolled off together.

“God! She’s my mother… but what a pain,” she

muttered. Then to aggravate matters, she took hold of my arm and said

brightly, “So, what is it you want to say to me, Doctor Clements?”

“The other day, Miss Linden…”

“Leah, please.”

“I want to apologise, Leah, for what I said about

Julian Makepeace.”

“You did it to shock me, didn’t you? I’m used to

that. The question is − why?”

“Well… I–”

“You did it for revenge. You saw an opportunity to get

at my mother through me.”

I haven’t blushed for years, but I could feel my face

reddening.

“Err… not exactly. I thought your mother had sent

you to spy… so that she could be the first to tell the news to all the

other residents. But I was wrong. I see that now.”

It was in her eyes – the warmth and the humour I had

glimpsed earlier…

“Apology accepted. Is that why you came here

today?”

“It’s Matthew, Matt… by the way… and at the

moment, I feel pretty foolish.”

Leah Linden laughed loudly.

“Careful, there’ll be a complaint about the

excessive noise,” I said. Then added. “I’m really here to collect all

the things Julian Makepeace left me. I’m an archaeologist, you see… and

the books… it’s what we both loved, the mystery of ancient

writings.”

The manager led me up the wide, carpeted staircase to

Julian’s room. Throwing open the door, the whole aspect had changed. Gone

were the furniture, the bed, his favourite chair, his reading lamp. Along

one wall were ladders, pots and brushes stacked in readiness for the

decorators. The bookcases and the desk were draped in dustsheets. Horne

pulled them back and said over his shoulder, “I’ve had the caretaker

bring up some boxes. Do you want him to help you?”

“No, it’s alright, I can manage.”

“Well… if you’re sure…”

I lingered over the task. Picking up each volume,

checking if there was any inscription. I didn’t notice the time, until

there was a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in!”

I’d expected Horne, with a nervous glance at his watch

and anxiety in his step. The handle turned and Leah Linden peered in.

“Wow, you’ve set yourself a task. Do you want a

hand?”

I glanced at my watch. I’d been in Julian’s room for

over two hours and I’d only sorted through a quarter of the material. I

hesitated before accepting.

“That would be fantastic, thanks. It’ll speed things

up if we put everything into boxes, and I sort through it at home. I got

carried away sitting here, didn’t notice the time.”

For the next hour we boxed-up the papers and books in

silence. On one occasion, I looked up and found her studying me. We smiled

at each other and carried on. It was when we sealed the last box that I

realised I would never get them all in my car.

“I didn’t appreciate the amount of material that

Julian had collected. It looks like I’ll have to make several

trips.”

“Why don’t I take some in my car? You don’t live

far away, do you?”

“I can’t let you do that. You’ve been kind enough

already.”

“Nonsense! I’ve got a Volvo estate. In fact, it

would probably take the lot.”

The caretaker helped me carry them downstairs, and stack

them in Leah’s car. When I’d stowed the remaining half dozen in mine,

she followed me back to Cranborne. In the centre of the village, I turned

off the main road and drove down the narrow lane to the house.

For someone on their own, the property was really too

big. It was a tile-hung, whitewashed cottage in three acres. It had been our

dream home when my wife and I had first bought it. When she left me, I’d

found the time to visit Julian more often but had somewhat neglected the

house.

Leah came through the door with the first box and

stopped.

“What a charming home. I love this room. Is this where

you spend most of your time?”

We were standing in the large sitting room. There was a

cavernous inglenook fireplace at the far end, and the high-beamed ceiling

gave it an airy, light feeling. Something I had not thought about for

years.

“No… most of my time is spent through here.” I led

her to a smaller room used as a study.

“Shall I put the box in this corner?”

Apologising, I hastily took it out of her arms.

“Cup of tea?”

“Well, I haven’t got long…” she smiled “But,

that would be welcome.”

I put the kettle on and, with Leah’s help, emptied

both vehicles.

“What will you do with all the books? It will take

quite a while to sift through them all.”

“I’ll probably move them into one of the spare rooms

and catalogue them when I have the time. There’s no hurry, I can do it

over the next few months.”

“Won’t your wife object to that?”

It prompted a wry smile. “She would have done if she

were here. We were divorced a year ago.”

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s alright… do you – what about you?

Married?”

“No… nobody… we split up months ago.”

She looked away sadly.

“Tell me, Leah, why does your mother dislike me so

much?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, she thinks you’re a heathen, bent on mischief,

and that Reverend Makepeace was making a serious error in befriending

you.”

“How could she possibly think that?”

“Apparently, on one occasion when they were sitting

talking, my mother mentioned that you often raised your voice. The Reverend

said, presumably in jest, that’s what you’d expect of a perfidious

non-believer – his very words, according to my mother. After that, she gave

you a wide berth.”

So that was it – Mrs Linden thought me a damnable

heathen. Julian would have enjoyed that immensely.

*

The next day I made a start. The first task was to empty

all the boxes, review the subjects covered by the books and separate them

into broad categories. By lunchtime, the room was strewn with seven large

piles. Thirsty from breathing the dust-laden air, I wandered down to the

Fleur de Lys in the village for a pub lunch.

In the afternoon, I set to with no greater enthusiasm.

By the evening, two of the piles had been split into twelve stacks. By then

I was ready to pack it in.

The next day followed the same routine, and the next.

There were one or two phone calls, but unfortunately, nothing of consequence

to draw me away. In the evening I went to visit friends in Ferndown and,

getting home late, went straight to bed. The following morning I was

awakened by the doorbell. According to the bedside clock it was nine-fifteen

– I’d overslept. When I opened the door, bleary-eyed, Leah Linden was

standing on the step.

“Oh! You didn’t get my message?”

“Sorry… what message?”

“I think I may have left my bracelet here and as I’m

on my way to Blandford Forum, where I work, I thought I’d drop

in…”

“Oh, come in… and take a look. I’m just about to

make some coffee. Would you like some?”

“Matt, I’d love to, but I’m running late already

I’m afraid.”

She went into the spare room and looked around;

virtually every square inch of the carpet was covered by books and

boxes.

“What do you do in Blandford?”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” she said, as she wandered

around the room peering into corners.

“Why don’t you call in on your way back? I’ll have

a good look round.”

“Would you mind? I’m particularly fond of that

bracelet,” she straightened up and turned towards me.

“No problem. I’ll see you later.” She turned to go

and I found myself asking, “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

“Mmm – I’d like that.”

After she’d gone, I toyed with the idea of taking her

out to dinner. Then changed my mind and went into Wimborne to shop. In the

afternoon, I moved the books into the hall, pile by pile, and searched the

room thoroughly. By the time I’d finished, it seemed very likely Leah had

lost the bracelet elsewhere. Reluctantly, I stopped to prepare the meal.

I’m not much of a cook, but Leah seemed to enjoy my

carefully chosen offering of a Caesar salad followed by guinea fowl in a

wine sauce. She’d quickly overcome the disappointment of not finding the

bracelet, and was sitting on a sofa while I made coffee.

“How’s your mother?” I called from the

kitchen.

“Irascible,” she declared. “She now believes

Daniel Horne is an agnostic as well.”

“What gave her that idea?” I asked, putting the tray

on the coffee table.

“His assistant told her that he’d received a letter

from the British Humanist Association. Actually, it was one of their

circulars, but my mother always looks for ‘reds under the beds’. She

invariably sees the worst in people.”

I laughed. “Good day otherwise?”

Her face took on a serious expression. “Several

difficult patients. One in particular is causing me concern; she might be

suicidal.” She turned to me. “Thanks for searching for my bracelet. Now

let me help you put all the books back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I can do that

tomorrow.”

Finishing her coffee, she jumped up, and on her way out

the room, said. “Come on, let’s do it now. It won’t take long with two

of us.”

It still occupied the best part of an hour. Once again,

dust was everywhere, irritating our throats, prompting the occasional cough.

“What’s in the boxes on the desk?” asked Leah.

“Julian’s correspondence and personal

documents.”

Then the thought struck me.

“I haven’t looked at those. I wonder if the bracelet

could have dropped into one of them?”

I began pulling out the letters, forms and papers that

had been gathered up and dropped into three cartons.

And there it was: several links of a chain poking out

from under the bottom flap of the second box we opened. I quickly pulled the

box apart and the bracelet dropped out, accompanied by a number of sheets of

paper.

“Matt, that’s fantastic! Thank you so much for

finding it.”

It was an attractive bracelet; a silver chain supporting

square-cut stones.

“That’s an eye-catching piece.”

“Actually, it’s magnetic. A couple of years ago, I

fractured my wrist and someone suggested it would help recovery, ease any

twinges.”

“Does it work?”

“Yes, it does. Or I think it does… which is

virtually the same thing.”

She looked across at me. “Right… I must be going.

Thanks for a lovely evening.”

She eased up her sleeve and was slipping the bracelet

over her wrist when she hesitated, and picked up one of the pages that had

fluttered out of the box.

“This is interesting…” she said, examining the

paper.

“Can you read it?”

“Yes… it’s in Farsi.”

“Where did you learn?”

“In Iran. My parents were both missionaries until they

were thrown out during the Islamic Revolution in 1979. I was seven at the

time and children pick up languages easily when they’re young.”

“Really? When did you come back to England?”

“My mother and I came back after a few years but my

father felt that he still had much to do, and crossed the border into

northern Iraq to be among the Christian communities in Kurdistan.”

Suddenly, I felt ashamed of my dislike for Mrs Linden.

Having to bring up a child on her own all those years couldn’t have been

easy.

“I might have judged your mother a little harshly,”

I said.

Leah smiled. “I doubt it. In Iran we enjoyed an easy

lifestyle, servants looking after our every need. When we came back, we

lived with my aunt who spent more time with me than my own mother. She even

paid for my education.”

Leah picked up another document from the box.

“Now this is a language I don’t recognise,” she

said, passing it over. I looked at it for a moment.

“It’s modern-day Aramaic, or more precisely Barzani

neo-Aramaic; the language spoken principally by the Jews in

Kurdistan.”

“Can you understand it?”

I was silent for a minute or so.

“It looks like a list of the major prophets,” I

murmured.

Suddenly, my mind went back to the moment Julian first

spoke of them. How he’d been convinced of the possibility of another great

spiritual leader and his desire to meet him.

“Matt?”

“Sorry… I was thinking of what Julian talked about

when we last met, and what he wanted me to do for him.” I then recounted

the whole story. “And you know what’s really sad? I was going to tell

him that I’d changed my mind. I’d decided to go with him to Kurdistan so

he could meet this prophet face to face.”

“That is sad. But you can’t blame yourself. He ended

his own life. We may never know the reason why.”

“If he actually did commit suicide.”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about the conversation with Daniel Horne and

his reservations.

“He thinks someone else stowed the papers away?”

Leah murmured. “That they were searching for something?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I’m just thinking about the box in which we

found my bracelet. Were those sheets deliberately tucked under the bottom

flap? We wouldn’t have discovered them if it hadn’t been for my

bracelet. Who would think of looking there? It was the perfect hiding

place.”

She retrieved the box and turned it bottom up.

“I picked up the scattered sheets of paper. In all,

there were eleven items written by someone clearly close to Julian. We

assembled them in date order, and began studying them more carefully. My

grasp of Neo-Aramaic was hazy, however, we found an English/Aramaic

dictionary in the collection and using it as a reference guide we began to

work out the substance of the letters.

How they were sent from Iraq and passed the scrutiny of

the authorities we could only guess. The first letter was in the form of a

greeting and was a renewal of past exchanges of religious theory. The second

made reference to the list of prophets.

“Fascinating… whoever wrote this third letter was

also convinced of the arrival of a prophet to complete the 500 year cycle:

one who would herald the second millennia with new religious ideals.”

The fourth letter was short but, in its way, the most

dramatic.

“This is a bold statement. It declares the writer is

certain the timeline is about to be fulfilled. The moment is nigh… and

he’s identified the prophet by name. He’s called

‘Bal’Ashtu’.”

I paused, and looked up at Leah. “Perhaps Daniel Horne

was right. Someone did search Julian’s room looking for these letters…

and perhaps they killed him to keep the matter quiet.”