Book of JUDAS

Chapter One Sutton Dean, Oxfordshire Philip Trenchard looked solemnly at the ground as the pallbearers began lowering the wooden coffin into the freshly dug hole. It was mid-May and the earth was soft from the seasonal spring showers. Philip glanced across at his brother Simon, while the Vicar, dressed in his black and white cassock, solemnly intoned the final prayers for their departed grandfather. Having known the deceased and the family for many years, Father George Wells was almost as grief-stricken as those gathered around him. After days of seemingly ceaseless drizzle the weather had changed dramatically for the better as if to mark this sombre occasion. Now, just after twelve o’clock, the sun had emerged to bless the graveyard of the ancient St. Peter’s church, which dated back to the twelfth century. Beyond its waist-high, stone wall perimeter, it was surrounded by green fields in any direction you cared to look and only a loose gravel path running between two fenced fields connected the House of Worship to its Parish, the small Oxfordshire village of Sutton Dean. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” murmured the priest, holding a bible close to his chest with one hand whilst sprinkling earth onto the coffin below with his other. As Father Wells’ recitation moved from the Committal to the Dismissal and final blessing for the departed, Philip watched the dirt spatter harshly onto the wooden coffin lid, partially covering the shiny brass plaque engraved with the name of his grandfather, Sir Lawrence Trenchard. Bowing his head, Philip closed his eyes and took a moment to pay his last respects to the man who had been responsible for his upbringing. Father Wells’ even monologue blended into the background as he cast his mind back to the tragic circumstances that had led to their grandfather becoming their guardian at such an early age. Although Philip was only eight at the time, fourteen months older than his brother Simon, he had a slightly clearer recollection of that terrifying night in October 1974. Recalling the events was always difficult; his mind would replay the tape the same way it had done on countless occasions in the past. It would begin with happy images of their family home and the brothers playing in the garden… only for the scene to be shattered as he moved to the next frame. It was dark – in the early hours of the morning. Simon sitting bolt upright on his bed, paralysed by the bloodcurdling shrieks from downstairs that pierced the silence for what felt like an age but in truth was probably a matter of minutes. Frozen with fear, Philip remembered the gut-wrenching panic that welled up as the screams became muffled and again an eerie silence returned. Several moments later their grandfather Sir Lawrence burst into the room, roughly seized both boys and lurched down the stairs with them clinging to his neck. For both boys it was the same. From the moment they reached the foot of the stairs in their grandfather’s arms, the memory ceased. The next thing that he could recall was Simon crying and screaming “Mummy” as they were hurled into the back of a car and driven off at high speed. The very next morning their grandfather came to them with tears in his eyes and told them the tragic news. Neither Philip nor Simon would ever forget his ashen, haunted face as he tenderly drew them both to him and told them that their mother and father, his own son, had been killed in a fatal road accident. He never offered any further explanation for the events of that night – not then, nor in later years – but continued to hold them tightly, repeating, “You’ll be safe now, I’ll look after you”. From that day onwards, the brothers lived with Sir Lawrence in his stately mansion, Tudor Hall, in the small Oxfordshire hamlet. That was over twenty-six years ago, and Philip was now thirty-five and Simon, thirty-four. On many occasions they had tried to recreate the memory from the moment they had reached the bottom of the stairs but always came up against an implacable inner defensive wall that was not prepared to let them endure the insufferable pain of the truth. Something frightening had taken place; something the mind of a seven- or eight-year-old could not cope with and no amount of mental pressure could bring the barrier down. Philip’s mind skipped to the scene with his brother screaming for their mother and his eyes burst open, startled, as if waking from a bad dream. In the bright sunshine, he quickly took stock of his surroundings again. In line with Sir Lawrence’s wishes there was only a small gathering present to see him lowered into his final resting place. Apart from Simon, Father Wells and the four pallbearers, there were only four other members of the congregation – and Philip knew everyone present save one, an older-looking gentleman with an academic appearance about him, which was not at all surprising, thought Philip, given the history and nature of their deceased grandfather’s career. Standing next to him was Mrs Vines, who leant stiffly forward and carefully dropped the bunch of white lilies she was holding into the open grave, scattering their white, trumpet flowers and green stalks spread evenly over the casket. She sniffled and covered her face with a tissue. Mrs Vines knew the brothers well. In her sixties now, she had been the cook, housemaid and secretary to Sir Lawrence for more than twenty-five years, living in her own annex attached to Tudor Hall. Standing to her left was Felix Bairstow, the family solicitor. He shook his head in grim acknowledgement as he caught Philip’s glance in his direction. Bairstow, also in his sixties, was a very old friend of Sir Lawrence. Their relationship had begun in earnest in the early 1970s when Sir Lawrence had returned from his well-documented travels abroad. Finally, the gentleman standing next to Simon was Dr. James Gifford who had become a close friend of Sir Lawrence over the last few years of his life. In his mid-forties, he worked for the local practice and had taken a sabbatical from the role of family doctor to look after him full time at his request. The thought of entering a private or NHS hospital had filled Sir Lawrence with terror. Father Wells was reaching the end of the service. Two days earlier, Father Wells himself had attended the memorial service that had been held in Westminster Abbey in Victoria for the late Sir Lawrence Trenchard. The service was conducted according to precise instructions he had left with Felix Bairstow and both Philip and Simon were requested to make selected readings. In total there were over four hundred friends, colleagues and distant relatives present to celebrate the life of Britain’s most eminent archaeologist of modern times. The service was attended by various dignitaries, including members of the royal family who had befriended him over the years and who were familiar with his work and discoveries in the Holy Lands of the Near East – he had been knighted in 1971 in recognition of the advancements he had made to our understanding of ancient times and photographs of the occasion were proudly displayed on the wall of his study at Tudor Hall. After Sir Lawrence had completed his archaeological tours through Judea and the surrounding Arab states in the fifties and sixties, he was offered the position of Curator at one of Oxford University’s most famous landmarks, the Ashmolean Museum. With its instantly recognisable domed façade, it was established in the late seventeenth century and internationally renowned for its archaeological exhibitions. The role allowed him the freedom to complete his chronicles and at the same time to accept public engagements to speak and lecture on the archaeological discoveries he had made. “…In the name of the Lord, our Father…” intoned Father Wells solemnly, holding up his free hand and making the sign of the cross above the trench. “…Amen.” The vicar paused, looking up at the gathering around him. “Thank you, Father Wells,” said Simon Trenchard respectfully. “My grandfather would have appreciated your kind words.” The Vicar cast his gaze from Simon to Philip, who smiled and nodded his agreement. In turn, Father Wells dismissed the pallbearers with a discreet signal and two of them headed back towards the church. The remaining two picked up their tools and started shovelling the neat pile of earth back over the coffin, the first shovelful covering some of Mrs Vines’ white lilies. Father Wells, conscious of the brother’s desire for privacy, started to make his way over to join Mrs Vines, Dr. Gifford and Felix Bairstow who were huddled in conversation. Slightly bemused, Philip looked around for the elderly-looking gentleman wearing the black overcoat but he had disappeared. He heard a car engine starting and glanced beyond the stone wall to catch a glimpse of the figure at the wheel of a car steadily crunching down the gravel path towards the village and the main roads. “Who was that?” asked Philip, touching the vicar’s arm as he was passing and nodding towards the departing vehicle. “I’m afraid I’m not sure of his name − David I think. He told me he was a very old friend of your grandfather’s and Felix expected him.” “Thanks,” said Philip curiously as he watched the car disappear from view. He knew Bairstow well enough to know that none of those present would have been there without his late grandfather’s express permission. The vicar joined the others and gently ushered them towards the path leading to the church. Simon approached Philip, carefully skirting the grave and the two gravediggers. “Come on,” he said, putting a hand on Philip’s shoulder and gently pushing for him to follow. The graveyard was grassy and uneven and the variously shaped headstones broke through randomly scattered bushes; the recent ones proud and upright, and weathered, ancient ones protruding at all angles from the greenery. Philip followed his brother past a flowering magnolia towards two headstones planted side by side against the perimeter wall. Usually unaccompanied, they each visited this plot whenever they were back in the country. The inscription on the first headstone read: John Trenchard Loving husband of Valerie and Beloved father of Philip and Simon 1942-1974 Next to their father was their mother’s headstone with matching engraving. The brothers stood in silence for a few minutes. Before the service they had arrived with flowers and, thanks to Mrs Vines’ assistance, the flowerpots in front of the headstones were now a splash of spring colours. “It’s good to see you again, Philip,” said Simon, still focusing on the headstones. “You too,” he replied. This was the first time they had seen each other for over two years. “I had a phone call from grandfather three weeks ago asking me to come back to Tudor Hall as soon as I could… I was due to be here now to see him,” said Philip. “I know,” replied Simon. “He called me afterwards and agreed the dates with me. Said he wasn’t feeling well… but I could tell he was excited about telling us something… I guess we’ll never know what now.” “Do you think it was something to do with our Mum and Dad?” asked Philip inquisitively. “Too late… We’ll never know,” murmured his brother. Philip looked over his shoulder, sensing someone coming. It was their grandfather’s trusted solicitor, Felix Bairstow. “I’m sorry to intrude,” he said, as he got closer. “But it was your grandfather’s wish that I read the will back at Tudor Hall after the service. He was adamant that he only wanted me to proceed if both of you could attend. Is that convenient for you?” Philip exchanged a quizzical glance with Simon before nodding his confirmation. “We’ll be along in a few minutes,” he replied, and Bairstow turned around and made his way back along the grass track to the others, still milling around the ivy-wreathed lych gate. They stood quietly with their heads lowered, shoulder-to-shoulder, both absorbed in their own thoughts. At six feet three, Philip was marginally taller than his younger brother and everything about his appearance spoke of style and success. He was well groomed with dark hair, cut short at the sides and wore an expensive black suit that fitted his lean frame perfectly. Although they were alike in physical stature, that was where the similarity ended. In contrast, Simon’s persona was much more relaxed and laid back – in faded jeans and an open-neck, checked shirt, he stood casually with his hands in his pockets. “Ready?” said Simon, taking a step backwards. Philip bent down and pulled a single flower from the arrangement in front of each headstone and turned to accompany him along the path to join the others. As they reached their grandfather’s half-filled grave, Philip halted. “Hopefully he’s finally gone to join them,” he said and gently tossed the two flowers onto the fresh soil as the diggers continued shovelling the earth. At the gate, Bairstow was organising who would travel in which car. The brothers had walked together from the village in the morning and accepted his offer of a lift. On the other side of the swing gate, the gravel path swept around a grassy mound in a turning arc for the three cars that were parked along the verge. Philip held the front door open for Mrs. Vines to get in and then clambered next to Simon into the back of Bairstow’s Jaguar. They were the second car to depart and Philip gazed out of the window to his left through the wooden fence and out across the horse paddocks and the green fields that gently sloped up to the woods just over a quarter of a mile away. As he gazed into the bright sunlight along the line of trees with the blue skies in the background his mind wandered to the reading of the will that was to take place later that day. At least it should be relatively short, he thought – there were no skeletons in his grandfather’s closet that he was aware of. A few moments later the car left the driveway and joined a country lane that wound its way through the village for the short journey to Tudor Hall Estate, whose grand entrance was opposite the village green’s central stone obelisk; a monument inscribed with the names of the local sons and fathers who had died during the Second World War. “Felix, who was that man at the service wearing the long black overcoat?” asked Philip as the Jaguar turned in to face the high wrought-iron gates. Automatically they parted slowly to reveal the tree-lined drive through the magnificent grounds, whose every inch the brothers knew, towards Sir Lawrence Trenchard’s splendid residence. “I’m not sure exactly,” he replied, catching Philip’s eye in the rear view mirror. “I believe he was a friend of your grandfather’s, connected with Oxford University or the Ashmolean Museum in some way. Anyway, he satisfied your grandfather’s written instructions as to who could attend.” Philip nodded thoughtfully as the car drove through the gates.