The Chaos Code (11 page)

And there was indeed a cupboard to the left of the window. It was actually quite a way to the left of the window, but it must be the one Venture had meant. If this was the right room.

Matt made his way carefully across to it. Dust seemed to swirl up around him, stirred into life by the faint breeze as he passed. And the cupboard was locked.

He knelt in front of it and tugged in vain at the handle. His fingers were black with dust and the knees of his trousers had gone grey. He stood up, tempted to kick the cupboard. But as he stood he saw the glint of metal
on the shelf above it. A small key. Matt tried it in the lock, and was relieved to find it turned easily. The door was stiff and he still had to tug hard at it to get the cupboard open.

But there was no statue inside. At first he thought the cupboard was empty. Annoyed, he reached inside and felt round. His fingers found a wooden box. Maybe the statue was inside a box. Certainly it was heavy enough, Matt thought as he pulled it out and set it down on an empty patch of floor.

The box was plain, dark wood. It was about ten centimetres long and rectangular. The lid opened easily. But there was no statue inside. It looked almost like a CD case – but with just two upright slots. There was a disc inside the box, in one of the two slots. But it was chunkier than a CD, and made of heavy metal.

Matt lifted it out carefully. It was brass, or possibly bronze. Dad had told Matt that you could tell when something was really old, no matter how well preserved it was – you just knew. Matt knew that the disc was old. It was about the same diameter as a CD or DVD, but convex on both sides like a discus. The metal was cold to the touch, and Matt could feel the texture of the embossed symbols raised on the surface of the disc – concentric circles of small carvings. Some looked like pictures, other were little more than raised dots or lines.

There was a stick figure of a man in the centre of one side and a pattern of wavy lines in the centre of the
other. Matt felt the raised symbols with the tip of his index finger. Like Braille, he thought. But whatever it might actually be, it wasn't a stone statue of Robert de Lisle. So he carefully replaced the disc, and put the box back in the cupboard.

He finally found the statue in a cupboard to the left of the window in the next room along the corridor. It was weathered and chipped. There was indeed the remains of an inscription along the base, but part of it had snapped off, and it was in antique French so it meant nothing to Matt. He didn't think it would mean anything to Venture either, but he took the statue to him anyway.

Venture gestured for Matt to leave it on the desk. He didn't look up from his book. Robin was still kicking her legs and now looking through a book, turning brittle yellowed pages far quicker than Matt could believe she was reading it. She raised a hand in a languid wave without looking.

‘Thank you,' Venture said as Matt reached the door.

‘No problem.'

‘In the library,' Venture went on, still without looking up from his book, ‘there is an account of the Siege of Malta. You'll find it in the catalogue on the computer.'

‘You want me to get it?'

Venture put down the book and looked at Matt. ‘No,' he said. ‘I want you to read it. See if it's of any use.'

‘The Siege of Malta.'

‘That's right.'

‘1565,' Robin said from the floor.

‘And what am I looking for?'

‘Well,' Venture said, ‘if we knew that …' He was smiling. ‘The Knights Hospitallers were expelled from Rhodes in 1522 and in 1530 the Emperor Charles V gave them the island of Malta. In May 1565, fewer than six hundred knights held off an Ottoman force of over thirty thousand. One of those knights was Henri Sivel.' He returned his attention to the book. ‘It may be nothing, or it may be another link in the chain.'

Robin had rolled on to her back and was looking up at Matt, hands behind her head. ‘It
is
important,' she said. ‘Sivel went secretly to Constantinople after it fell to the Turks in 1543. Perhaps to try to retrieve the Treasure as he had vowed. If he succeeded …'

‘Then the Treasure would have been in Malta,' Matt said, to show he wasn't daft as much as anything. ‘I'll take a look.'

The book was, mercifully, in English. It was a translation of an older journal and account which might have been in French or Latin. The language was archaic and difficult, but not impossible.

Though it didn't seem to be a lot of use. Matt had the book open on the large, round table in the library. As the evening drew in he found he was leaning closer and closer to make out the faded writing. The library
was well-lit, but however he angled himself and the book he seemed to be reading in his own shadow.

Aunt Jane came to see how he was doing, and seeing the problem she brought him one of the candelabra that Matt had seen the previous evening. Mephistopheles Smith was coming to visit Venture tomorrow morning, she told Matt. He nodded and thanked her and went back to tracing his finger down a list of the 592 knights who had defended Malta. The paper seemed even more yellow than before in the flickering light of the candles.

She watched him for a few moments, then Aunt Jane told Matt she'd get some tea ready and see him at home soon. He nodded, only half aware of what she had said. He had found Henri Sivel – a mention, no more. A name on a list. But he was there all right.

But that was where it seemed to end. There was no other mention of Sivel. No mention of a treasure. Even the Siege, Matt was disappointed to learn, wasn't quiet what he had expected. Yes, there had only been those 592 knights. But they had the help of a few thousand locals defending their island. And while the Ottoman force was indeed close to 40,000 strong, that was less than half the number the Sultan had sent to take Rhodes. The Knights Hospitallers were in the twilight of their time even though, Matt knew from his Internet reading, they remained in charge on Malta for another two hundred years and more. They had fought off the attack, kept the enemy at bay until reinforcements arrived from Sicily.
But their days were numbered. And reading the tired, almost clinical account of events, Matt sensed that they had themselves known that.

A shadow fell across the page he was reading. A hand closed on Matt's shoulder. He gave a cry of surprise and jumped out of his chair, twisting and turning sharply to throw off the sudden grip.

‘Hey, you're jumpy,' Robin said. She held her hands up as if in surrender. ‘I just came to see how you're getting on.'

‘Sorry.' Matt sat down again, and Robin pulled up a chair to sit beside him at the table.

The candlelight flickered on her face and danced in her deep blue eyes. ‘Any luck?'

‘A mention of Sivel. Nothing much else though.'

‘Don't worry,' she said. ‘We'll find it. And your father.' She put her hand on his shoulder, then pulled it quickly away again. ‘Sorry.'

Matt smiled. His heart was still racing. ‘That's OK. You startled me before. Like you said, I'm a bit jumpy.'

‘Because of your dad.'

‘Yeah. And because …' Should he tell her? ‘Because of something that happened when I went home, to Dad's house.'

‘Oh?'

‘Probably nothing. Just imagination.'

‘Tell me.'

He was afraid she'd laugh at him. But she sounded
sincere and Matt was feeling more and more that he could trust the girl. Weird, yes. But friendly and helping him find Dad. Her deep eyes seemed to draw him in still further. So he told her.

‘I went into Dad's study. When I first got to the house. I heard him in there. At least, I think I thought I did. I don't remember much. I must have fallen, slipped, and banged my head. Or fainted. And maybe it was a dream.'

‘What?'

‘I thought someone had been there. Going through Dad's stuff.'

‘Who was it, did you recognise them?'

He shook his head. ‘I didn't
see
anyone. Well, just a vague figure out the back. Watching the house, I thought. I can't be sure.' He shuddered as he remembered. ‘But someone hit me, or smothered me. Put their hand over my mouth. That's why I was jumpy.'

She put her hand on his shoulder again, and this time she kept it there. ‘I'm not surprised.'

‘It was a rough hand. Not really like a hand at all, the texture I mean. Gritty and sharp.'

As he spoke, Matt was staring at the candle flames. Three tiny yellow shapes, dancing and flickering. They seemed to be leaning towards him, as if anxious to hear what he was saying, or to see what he had been reading. The shadows lengthened across the pages of the book as the flames moved.

‘It felt like sandpaper,' Matt said.

He heard Robin gasp. Felt her hand whipped away from his shoulder. With a sudden movement, she stood up, leaned forward, and blew out the candles. Thin trails of black smoke curled up from the dead wicks.

Her voice was a fearful, trembling whisper. ‘You shouldn't have lit the candles,' she said.

At dinner, Aunt Jane alternated between saying nothing and talking non-stop. Nerves, Matt guessed. He felt the same. He wanted to talk about things – about Dad, and Atticus Harper and the Treasure of St John. But he had very little to say. Neither of them ate much and Matt cleared away plates of half-eaten lasagne.

‘Didn't your father give you any idea where he was going?' Aunt Jane asked Matt, for the third time.

‘I told you, I haven't spoken to him. Apart from the weird message he left me on that website. He's more likely to tell you what he's up to than me or Mum.'

Aunt Jane's expression suggested she didn't think this was really the case. But she didn't say so.

‘Anyway,' Matt went on, ‘wherever he was, he's not there now. Harper told us that.'

‘
Mr
Harper,' Aunt Jane corrected him.

Matt sighed. ‘Whatever. He'd done some work from home, I think.' He tried to look on the bright side. ‘If we
find the Treasure first, maybe they'll just let him go, whoever these people are. Or if they find the Treasure, they won't need Dad any more so they'll let him go anyway.' Not that Matt was convincing even himself. ‘Do you think?' he added, doubtful.

‘Let's hope so.'

‘About all we can do,' Matt said glumly. ‘Apart from help
Mr
Venture and Robin follow Dad's trail through documents and files.'

Aunt Jane looked at Matt sadly. ‘Leave that to them,' she said.

‘But I might be able to help. I can sort out the computers and organise the data for them.'

She turned away, so he couldn't see her face. ‘I told you – I don't want you involved,' she said.

Matt went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder, remembering the warmth and sympathy of Robin's similar gesture. Jane turned round, and he saw how sad she looked. He kept his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently to reassure her that he wasn't cross or angry. He was sad, like her. ‘It's my dad,' he told her. ‘I may not see him much. I may not really understand him or listen to him, not all the time. But it's
Dad
. I've got to help.'

She put her hand over his. ‘I know. He's an infuriating, stubborn idiot with no common sense and no idea how any of us feel about him. But he's my brother and I love him, and so do you.' She sighed. ‘And you're right, we have to help all we can.' She turned away, and he only
just caught her last words. ‘Whatever the cost,' she said quietly.

Matt thought he'd never get to sleep. He finished the book he'd borrowed from Aunt Jane, then he lay with light out listening to the wind howling round the cottage. There was going to be a storm. He thought about Robin closing the door and windows in Venture's study, about her anger and fear at the candles – what was that about? But before he could reach any sort of conclusion he had drifted into sleep. He woke with the wind still clawing at the windows and the curtains glowing with the early morning sun.

He told Aunt Jane at breakfast about the candles. But she had no more idea about Robin's reaction than Matt did himself. ‘Julius asked me to remove the carafe of water from his reading room,' she said. ‘He always keeps water there. Perhaps they're just feeling the stress. Like we are.' She looked like she hadn't slept at all.

Further discussion was cut short by the sound of a car from outside. In fact, it was two cars, and four motorbikes. Matt and Aunt Jane watched through the kitchen window as the convoy of vehicles swept up the drive to the manor house. Two enormous black limousines flanked by outriders in bulky yellow reflective jackets.

‘Mephistopheles Smith,' Jane said. ‘This will be his idea of travelling discreetly.'

‘At least it isn't a helicopter,' Matt said.

• • •

The business of running Venture's affairs had to go on. He was patron of several charities, was invited to give lectures and talks, write papers, review journal articles, meet with the great and the good – or at least, the famous. Aunt Jane handled all these commitments and more. She managed his diary, organised his schedule, arranged his meals … So once again, despite the urgency of the quest for the Treasure of St John, Matt would be left to his own devices.

They walked up to the manor house together, struggling against the wind that seemed determined to drive them back, away from the house.

‘They say that if the leaves start to fall this early, then we're in for a cold autumn and winter,' Aunt Jane said as they reached the shelter of the porch. ‘But then, they always say that.'

Matt did not answer. He was looking at the cars and motorbikes parked outside. Stony-faced motorcyclists, still wearing their helmets, stood almost to attention beside their bikes. He imagined that similarly serious drivers were at the steering wheels of the two cars. But the windows were tinted, so you couldn't see in. Matt assumed they could see out, guessed they were watching him every inch of the way to the porch.