The Royal Stones of Eden (Royal Secrecies Book 1) (11 page)

Uncle Willie gasped between his words, and pain poured out through his squinting eyes. “It was—it was…”—Uncle Willie collapsed, and his body relaxed for the last time. Uncle Willie was dead, and blood covered Peter’s hands.

He grabbed his uncle by the chest to retrieve any last words, but Uncle Willie had no more words to say. Peter shook nervously because he saw that he had blood on his clothes as well as his face. He had instinctively touched his face and wiped rare tears from his eyes.

Peter felt sorry for himself, but he felt more loneliness than grief. He had just lost a friend, and friends were a rare commodity for him. In just a matter of a few days, he had lost his father as well as his mother’s dearest friend and brother. His world was suddenly smaller, and Peter felt the agonizing pain of age and experience.

Peter studied the amount of blood on him and decided to go to the bathroom and clean up. He did not want to call the authorities until he was completely clean.

He wondered where the neighbors were during this tragedy. If they were home, did they not hear the shots? He found out later that the neighbors were on holiday. They were out of town for the entire week.

After he prepared himself, both mentally and physically, Peter reluctantly contacted the police. But he did one thing before they arrived. Peter went to Uncle Willie’s study. He spotted the window seat where he used to play with his toys as a child. His mum used to take him to Uncle Willie’s place frequently as part of a holiday adventure.

He opened the window seat and rummaged through its contents. At the bottom of a group of stuffed animals and various toys, there was the item that Willie spoke about in his final words. It was Uncle Willie’s diary.

He opened the diary and fanned through it quickly. The book contained little more than mundane pieces of information about going to market, observations of weather conditions, and general complaints about aches and pains in the body. However, at the back of the diary, there was a taped key.

Peter knew about Uncle Willie’s lock box in his desk. He remembered Uncle Willie used to open it and show its contents to his mum. He also remembered that after they finished with it Uncle Willie would always lock the box up. This was aggravating to an already annoyed and overly curious child. He wanted many times to view its contents, but he was forbidden to do so. Today he would finally see what was inside the box, he thought.

Peter went to the desk and opened a side drawer. He grabbed the mysterious tin box and unlocked it, just before he heard a loud knock at the front door. The police arrived earlier than he thought they would. He temporarily ignored the knocks on the door and grabbed a book that was inside the box. Other than the book, the box was empty.

The book had a title in handwritten writing. The title of the book was
The Malkuth Stones of Gan Eden.
He quickly placed it in his inside jacket pocket and placed the box back in the drawer. The police waited impatiently for him and knocked again before a begrudging Peter rushed to the front door to answer their annoying taps.

The constable and his sergeant—in addition to a coroner that arrived later—stayed for what seemed like several hours. They drilled Peter with tiresome questions such as his reason for his visit and how he knew the victim. Finally, the police decided to quarantine the house for further investigation. Peter was asked to find other lodgings, if at all possible, for the night at least. They felt that there was some increased level of danger staying alone at the house.

Peter reluctantly agreed to stay overnight at a hotel. The police would conclude their investigation during daylight hours, they told him. However, Peter did not report the book that he had found in the desk. He was determined to review it later at his hotel once there was appropriate privacy.

It was a few hours later and well after midnight, in the privacy of his hotel room in Carmarthen, when Peter finally opened the mysterious book from Uncle Willie. At first, he flipped quickly through the book to view its contents. It was full of drawings and partial maps. As it was a small book, the writing was often written in extremely small lettering. It seemed like a catalog of instructions and directions.

The book also listed many gemstones, like diamonds and sapphires. There were many illustrations of them. There were both charcoal and colored images of the various stones. On several pages, there was a particular drawing that seemed to repeat itself, with only slight modifications. It was the drawing of five stones, with its corresponding gemstone typewritten underneath each stone.

The first of the five stones was a large diamond, usually drawn as a hexagonal shaped stone. Occasionally there was a line dissecting it, with a note to the side saying, “cut?” The other four stones were those of a ruby, amethyst, emerald, and sapphire. Many pictures of the other stones on various pages had a similar note or word. Again it read, “Cut?”

Among the drawings of the stones, there were many maps in the book, but they were not readable by Peter. The writing seemed to be in Hebrew, or something similar to it, he assessed. Several pages had hieroglyphics, with pictures of waves or eagles on the stones. On one page, there was a drawing of a long sword, and it had symbols of lightning all around it. Underneath the sword drawing, in letters of gold, these words were written: “SWORD OF GATH!”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning, Peter woke up to sounds of traffic in the corridor, outside of his room. Children ran up and down the hallway, and several pounced on a hollow part of the floor. With ruffled hair and putrid breath, he staggered to the front door, opened it slightly, and mumbled indistinct profanity. He gave the children a grim look of distaste, and they simply ignored him.

After a necessary and hot shower, the phone rang in Peter’s stale smelling room. It was the police stating that they had completed their investigation and that he was allowed to return to Uncle Willie’s apartment. Peter thanked them and repeated to them his contact information in London. He was most annoyed and bothered by the whole matter.

He thought of Robbie after the call from the police. He considered him to be more of a friend than a butler, so he attempted to call Robbie on his cell phone to relate the sad news and sudden tragedy that had robbed Uncle Willie of his life. Robbie’s voicemail came on, but Peter left no message.

As Peter ended his phone call, he noticed a red light on his cell phone. The battery was not fully charged, even with a full night of charging. He would need to grab a new battery and charger before he left for Uncle Willie’s place, he thought. So he decided to take a walk downtown after some much-needed room service.

After a late breakfast, Peter went to a couple of shops in downtown Carmarthen. Initially, he had only meant to pick up a battery, but he got lost in the charm of the shops and the atmosphere. He walked past Frankie and Benny’s. He smelled the pizza, chicken, and burgers. There is a calming performed when walking over block paving, he thought. It was as if he transported back to a simpler and uncomplicated time and place.

Once Peter picked up a cell phone charger and a battery, he called for a taxi. He wanted to re-inspect Uncle Willie’s home. Perhaps he had missed something, he thought. Maybe there was a clue there that would explain why this had happened. He could not imagine any reason for Uncle Willie to have any enemies.

Within several minutes, a taxi picked Peter up and sped away from the shopping walk area. Peter stretched his neck out of the window and thought he spotted the old ruins of a nearby castle.

Right! I just go over to the castle and move in, being royalty and all!

As the taxi drove away from the shops in Carmarthen, Peter pulled a key ring out of his pocket. The police had given it to him on the night before. They had retrieved it from Uncle Willie’s pockets after they had searched the body. It was nothing special. It was an ordinary key ring, and it had a couple of what he thought were cheap or fake gemstones on it. They were red and green. He thought nothing of it and put it back in his pocket.

This nightmare is almost over—he pondered. He decided that he would only stay for the afternoon then he would return to London by the evening train. He had had enough of death.

Peter attempted to call Robbie again but was unable to reach him. This time, he left a voicemail.

“Robbie! Something tragic has occurred here. Please return my message as soon as possible!”

Once back at Uncle Willie’s place, Peter tidied up the rooms, and he looked for anything else that might be of importance. He knew that Robbie would get their legal team on top of things soon. Perhaps there was something of sentimental value that was worth saving, he thought. In Uncle Willie’s office, there were photo books that he knew he wanted to save, mainly because they had his mum’s photo in it.

As he sorted through piles of mail on Uncle Willie’s desk, Peter found a telegram dated a week earlier. He opened it in a carefree manner, but his mild curiosity soon turned to righteous anger as he read the words. His eyes tightened as the words stood out, “I will be there to sort things out, Hajen Habib!”

I’ll be damned! Doctor Habib was here. But I just saw him in a report the other day, when he was in Glastonbury. It had to be him! I wonder if he knows what happened here. Perhaps he was involved! Did he sort things out by killing Uncle Willie? What the hell is this all about, I wonder.

Peter was interrupted from his indignation by a clamorous knock at the front door. The knock had graduated into a heavy pounding before Peter was able to get to the door and open it.

It was a tall but medium built man with shoulder length black hair and a pronouncing black mustache and goatee. He wore a long and black wool overcoat and had a look of both concern and surprise. Peter thought that the clothes were wrong for a warm day of summer.

“Is Willie Myre in?”—his words had to process through Peter’s head. Hearing Uncle Willie’s last name was a rare occurrence.

“No. Sorry, can I help you?”—Peter was taken off guard and was more than curious about the timing of this visit and the dark presence this visitor seemed to emit.

“My name is Dred Morrey, a friend of Willie’s. I was supposed to meet him today at the pub and…”—Dred stopped and sensed that he recognized Peter. “Wait a moment. Are you Peter?”

“Yes. I’m Peter Pendleton from London, just in. I’m his nephew.”—Peter reached out a still unsure hand for a shake. But before he knew it, the man pushed him gently aside as he walked into the room uninvited.

Dred Morrey had a presence and self-assurance about him that did not ask for permission. He walked through the front room as if he was looking for something. He wore an ominous smirk on his face. He turned to Peter and returned the handshake.

“Your Uncle and I have regular drinks at a pub on Queen Street. And today—he did not show. I was worried.”—Dred acted casually, considering he had entered the house with no formal invitation.

Peter explained that his uncle had just passed away. He chose to avoid the word “murdered.” He noticed that Dred’s hair was even greasier than his own was, and, there was something about his nails. They were oddly shaped. Every other nail was dark—as if they had black polish on them. One or two fingers had a tattoo symbol that he could not quite make out.

What kind of friends did Uncle Willie keep?

“You don’t remember me, do you?”—Dred held back a smile and waited and wondered what Peter would remember. “We used to play together when your mom was here with your uncle. We were very young, and it was a long time ago. Willie showed me your photo. You’re all grown up.”

Peter tried to remember his visits to Wales with his mum. He tried to remember any boys that had played with him.

“Wait! There was a boy’s name that I remember, by the name of Cai. Was that you?”—Peter was at a loss, but Dred’s eyes flickered with some degree of recognition.

“Remember?” Dred probed. “There was a rock—thrown into a window. It broke something of your mother’s I think.”—Dred stopped to let Peter figure it out.

As Dred helped himself to a seat on the sofa, he crossed his arms and legs and made himself at home. He seemed quite comfortable. He nonchalantly picked up a photo book Peter had left on a nearby table, and he started to thumb through its photos.

“You were the nasty bully who broke the window, the one that I got blamed for breaking!”—Peter remembered a group of boys that used to play outside while he would be inside the house with his mum.

“I am the very same bloke, old boy!”—Dred struck a chord of remembrance now.

“Old boy—that is what you called me. I remember from the window.”—Peter paced and remembered more information. “You used to make fun of me and my clothes and called me ‘old boy’ this and ‘old boy’ that—yes—I think this reunion is quite over!” Peter abruptly turned toward Dred, who still sat on the couch.

“Put those photos down and please leave. You may have known my uncle, but I don’t wish to know
you
at all. So if you would kindly leave…”—Peter saw Dread’s head slowly move up from the photo book with his dark eyes that seemed to pierce his own.

“You know…”—Dred had ignored Peter entirely. “Your mother was a beautiful woman, wasn’t she? And she named you so very appropriately giving you her maiden name, eh? Peter Jenkins Pendleton? You should just drop the Pendleton, right? And then you could honor the old tart’s whole bloody affairs.”—he paused. Dred said this as he stood up, walked toward Peter, and leaned toward him upon every last and slowly emphasized syllable. “Right?—Old?—Boy?”