Bahamian Rhapsody

Burghley House – England The present Day

Burghley House – England

The present DayThe Battle Prom was an annual event at the country location more famous for its yearly horse trials. This year promised to be spectacular and a crowd of some five thousand gathered on the lawns overlooking the impressive facade of the grand old house. The sun was setting slowly but still had sufficient power to illuminate the many chimneys on the Burghley House skyline.

Built by Lord Burghley in 1587, it had seen many of England’s rich and famous come through its hallowed doors including Queen Elizabeth I herself. It stood in over a hundred acres of land just off the Great North Road at Stamford next to the old stopping off point for stagecoaches coming from London. The grand old house had paid host to many crucial meetings when Burghley controlled England’s destiny by holding it's purse strings. In more recent times it had also hosted a crucial cabinet meeting held by Prime Minister Disraeli to decide the German question. Yet despite all it had seen it had never suffered a shot fired in anger at its impressive walls as it slumbered in the south Lincolnshire Wolds. Lord Burghley had made it the centre of court intrigue and Elizabeth herself had used it as a convenient place to scheme against those she suspected of plotting against her. Most crucially it had acted as the nerve centre when Burghley and Walsingham, the queen’s head of intelligence had plotted their final accusations to condemn Mary Queen of Scots. The unfortunate Queen had subsequently being beheaded just down the road at Fotheringay and lay buried in nearby Peterborough Cathedral. To his dying day Burghley was the Queen's most trusted aide, able to fund this lavish home through the rewards she gave him throughout her successful reign. The house itself was where he kept his deepest secrets and prior to Drake's last voyage he had met his old adversary for a secret meeting.

Exactly at eight o’clock the huge speaker system sprang to life with the sounds of the English Orchestra, and the Lincolnshire countryside was filled with the wonderful sound of their music. The Battle Proms, including one hundred and ninety three real cannons off to the left of the central stage were linked by miles of cables and attached to sophisticated computer controls. Piles of fireworks lay behind the cannons containing, some said, enough explosive power to demolish a fair sized town. Through this fanfare came the voice of the female announcer, her voice reverberating through the vast array of speakers. Ahead of her as she walked onto the vast stage shaped like an oyster shell were rows upon rows of partying people resplendent with Union Jack flags, picnic tables and copious amounts of alcohol. On cue just as the sun dropped behind the horizon a vintage Spitfire flew dramatically out of the clouds to the roar of the crowd and completed a roll in accompaniment to Beethoven’s Battle Symphony. Everyone’s eyes were riveted on the exciting spectacle.

Everyone that is, but a shadowy figure making its way stealthily across the lawns on the southern side of the house. Walking briskly but purposefully, he climbed over a barred gate before disappearing through the mass of trees bordering the sculpture park. Security provisions outside of the main event area were lax and it was not difficult for the man to make his way unseen into the main house itself by entering through the orangery restaurant area He knew exactly where he was heading and went directly upstairs to the oak panelled bedroom on the north side of the top floor of the house, the very bedchamber used by Queen Elizabeth I. It gave one of the best views of the prom guests, not that he was interested in them, he produced a set of skeleton keys and addressed the bleeping intruder alarm system. He took a small electronic box from his jacket, plugged it in to the system and breathed a sigh of relief as the red light went out. Relying on the noise outside to ensure that no one had heard him, he stared dispassionately around the room, then went over to the old chimneystack feeling around carefully inside. His hands were soon covered in soot even though the house chimneys were well swept. After ten minutes of thrusting his hand deep upward inside the stack he gave a grunt of satisfaction. What he sought was there bricked in, he was sure of it.

He glanced at his watch checking the programme on the sheet in front of him, the next part of his plan was fundamental to it's success. It was absolutely critical to get the timing right. He had connected on a Wi-Fi link through to the main computer control panel at the nerve centre, which would hopefully remain undetected. If all went well his own little party piece would perform in synchronised fashion. Still he was taking no chances and started his own countdown making sure that he was well out of harm's way when and his visit was detected.

The orchestra was approaching the final bars of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture, written to celebrate Napoleon's defeat by the Russians, when the hundred and ninety-three cannons started to fire in carefully controlled sequence. Inside the house the man instinctively ducked as his own explosion rent the air. The crowd heard nothing except the vast ground shaking explosions of the cannons discharging. Banks upon banks of cannon filled the whole area with red cordite smoke deftly illuminated by powerful red tinged lasers at the smokes centre.

The man glanced carefully around stood up to look up at the chimney stack and smiled. It had worked; months of hard planning had made this possible, the only time of the year when an explosion at the house would alert no one. He chuckled grimly and muttered a few words in an Arabian language before moving forward to stare at a sight unseen since the sixteenth century. The brickwork was shattered revealing a small lead box about seven inches in length. He stared at the grimy relic with awe and knelt on the floor to clear it of dust. His concentration on the task at hand was so intense that his well-honed sixth sense was slower than normal. Dropping the box he spun around too late to fend off a shattering blow.

His assailant left quietly through the Heaven Room, moving swiftly under the majestic ceiling murals by the flamboyant Italian painter Antonio Verrio. The artist’s passion for three dimensional ceiling murals was evident in the stunning displays. Not that the assailant noticed. He, who just created his own hell on earth, walked silently down the Hell Staircase, appropriately depicting scenes from the underworld and vanished into the crowd. It was not until early the next morning that the chambermaid opened the door and after staring uncomprehendingly at the scene, opened her mouth and screamed incessantly. The sleepy old house had just revealed its main secret, a secret that would in time change the lives of many.

No one noticed the sleek, red, open topped Mazda sports car leave the previous evening as the finale of Land of Hope and Glory was being played. Indeed no one would have been suspicious by the sight of a pretty woman her long hair blowing in the wind. She accelerated down the A1 South to London very pleased with herself having completed the mission to her satisfaction; it was her job, what she had been trained to do. Only one thought crossed her mind as she sped down the deserted road, The Teacher would be pleased, very pleased.

Chapter 1