Through the Arched Window
The Smugglers’ Chapel was deserted. Sunshine filtered through the trees, casting long beams of light onto the grey-stone building. The breeze off the sea carried the cries of seagulls. As it rustled through the trees in the woods, more leaves fell to join the carpet at their feet. Rebecca and Laura entered the cool of the chapel and went through to the chancel. They stared up admiringly at the magnificent stained glass window. Sunlight streamed in through it, playing beautiful coloured beams across the floor and walls of the thirteenth century building.
‘No Reverend Hendricks this morning?’ Rebecca looked around, the faintest hint of relief in her voice. ‘Might make life a bit easier to go poking about, as charming as the old boy is.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘No idea,’ said Rebecca briskly and brightly. ‘What is the window supposed to show? Is there a leaflet anywhere which explains?’
‘I saw some on the way in, hold on.’ Laura disappeared back through the nave to the porch, returning clutching a small book triumphantly.
‘Well done!’ said Rebecca, taking it from her before she could open it, much to Laura’s chagrin. ‘Now, let’s see … window, window … ah!
Stained Glass Window.
The magnificent stained glass window at the southern end of the chancel depicts scenes from the Crusades. The central pane shows Sir Lytton Hobbe, twelfth century Lord of the Manor, who fought in the successful campaign against the Ayyubids and Saladin, which saw the fall of the Saladin Empire in 1193. The seven adjoining panes are scenes of battle. The minor panes around the edge are considered to be mainly decorative.
‘A bit warlike for a church window, isn’t it? Shouldn’t it show religious biblical stuff, saints and the like?’ Laura pursed her lips.
‘Fundamental cornerstone of religious history, the Holy War or Jihad. Our God is better than yours. Kept people fighting for thousands of years … still does. I mean, the Crusaders were Christians, out there, spreading the word. Sort of early Jehovah’s witnesses, except with swords rather than copies of the Watchtower.’
‘Can you see a clue anywhere?’
Rebecca put down the book. The window looked magnificent in the sunshine, the bright light picking out every subtle nuance of colour and contrast. But with regard to any clues left by Jurgen Kraus, nothing was immediately obvious. There was no sign of a signature or writing. ‘Hmmm. If the clue is here, it doesn’t leap out,’ said Rebecca. ‘Maybe we do need old Jimmy Hendrix after all. I bet he knows all about it.’
‘I’m not exactly brilliant at history but even I know the Crusades are nothing to do with Napoleon,’ said Laura.
‘Indeed not. Yes, the Napoleonic thing in Kraus’ message … puzzling.’
‘I bet Rupert would know. He’s such a brainbox.’
‘Swot,’ corrected Rebecca. ‘Maybe, but he’s not here is he?’
‘Men,’ said Laura.
‘Where are they when for that one time in a million you actually do need them?’
‘Busy being somebody else’s inconvenience, Aunt Kitty would say.’
* * *
Hot and perspiring, Drew skidded to a halt on the lane overlooking the old monastery.
It was a fine view of Druid’s Rock and the coast, with the azure blue sea sparkling beyond cliffs.
He had ridden as hard as he could from Tregenna pursuing the red car, pushing the ancient bicycle well beyond its rickety limits. He leaned forward to catch his breath, scanning the area around the monastery for signs of life. Nobody was about. He would proceed cautiously to avoid being discovered. He hid the bike in bushes near the gatehouse by the bridge and had just emerged when a lorry swung round the corner from the direction of the monastery, so quickly that he had to jump up the bank to avoid being knocked down.
He got back to his feet and dusted himself down. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he muttered, watching it disappear down the road. He tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Now why would that lorry be delivering to the monk?’ The truck bore the legend ‘Aerospace and Marine Fuels’.
He kept to the trees. Between the branches he caught sight of the red car, stopped at the gatehouse. Presumably leaving having dropped the old man off, he mused. As he came nearer, he heard voices.
‘Don’t worry, he isn’t going anywhere. Now we have them both, one of them is bound to talk.’ Sky’s tones were unmistakeable.
‘I knew it!’ Drew muttered, triumphantly. ‘I bet that means you have Rupe and Von Krankl banged up somewhere inside. Sky is definitely in on it! I have to get inside and find them.’ He paused, gathering himself to scramble over the wall at the boundary of the monastery’s grounds and try to find a way across the bridge. He was all ready to leap forth when something made him stop. He shook his head and grimaced. ‘I know what she’ll say if I get caught,’ he spoke out loud. He remembered a telephone box back at the crossroads and felt some coins in his pocket. Drew waited until he saw the red car come out of the gates and roar off down the road, before retrieving his bike and heading back up the lane.
* * *
Rebecca’s mobile phone started ringing. Surprised, she took it out and looked at the display. ‘Don’t recognise this number … hello? … Campbell! Where are you? … I see … Right … right decision, blimey! … yes, we’re trying to work out this blasted window – without much success it has to be said. Look, get yourself back here … Okay … bye.’
Rebecca turned to Laura. ‘Our intrepid cyclist. Reckons he’s found Rupert and that’s not all he’s got to tell us, apparently, so he’s on his way here.’