The Messiah Secret

Finally the door swung open. Mayhew staggered as a powerful hand shoved him forwards, almost fell, then regained his footing as the door slammed behind him. Turning back he saw the American gangster – despite the clerical collar, what else could the man be? – putting the key into his pocket.

‘Go into the kitchen,’ the man said, pointing towards the back of the house.

Mayhew nodded dumbly and led the way. It never occurred to him to wonder how the man could possibly know where the kitchen was located.

‘What do you want from me?’ Mayhew asked again, once he was in the kitchen.

The man ignored his question, gesturing with his pistol to a wooden armchair standing in one corner of the room. ‘Take off your jacket, then go and sit down.’

Mayhew placed his jacket on the table, then walked across to the chair.

The man followed him, pulled a handful of plastic cable ties from his pocket and tossed one to Mayhew. ‘Put that around your right wrist and pull it tight,’ he ordered, and watched closely as Mayhew obeyed him. ‘That’s good,’ he said, stepping closer and securing Mayhew’s left wrist to the other arm of the chair. Then he drew a small pair of pliers from his pocket and pulled both cable ties tight.

Mayhew grimaced as the thin plastic cut into the flesh of his wrists.

The man pulled another chair across and sat down opposite him, laying the pistol on the kitchen table. From one of the inside pockets of his jacket he drew a leather whip with multiple steel-tipped thongs and placed it beside the automatic.

Gulping for air, Mayhew watched his actions with increasing trepidation.

‘This is a scourge,’ the man said conversationally, looking down at the whip. ‘It’s one of the oldest implements of chastisement, used for both punishment and persuasion, and even for self-flagellation. The name is derived from the Latin excoriare, meaning “to flay” and corium, “skin”, and it was used by the Romans to punish offenders. It’s been used through the ages in monastic orders around the world, and I’ll introduce you to it in a moment. Then I’m going to ask you some questions. I suggest you answer them as quickly, fully and accurately as you can.’

The man removed his jacket, picked up the scourge and stepped towards the wooden armchair.

‘No, wait,’ Mayhew shouted desperately. ‘I’ll tell you anything I can.’

‘I know you will. There’s not the slightest doubt about that.’

‘No. Please – please wait—’

‘Be silent. Remember that our Lord Jesus Christ endured a scourging during His Passion, before He was made to carry His cross to Calvary. This holy instrument will simply encourage your cooperation and ensure your recollections are accurate.’

The man turned so that he was facing his captive, then swung the scourge against Mayhew’s chest, the steel-tipped ends of the thongs ripping apart the thin cotton of his shirt and carving furrows across his torso.

Mayhew howled in pain and leaned back as far as he could in the chair. His fists clenched and more blood appeared around the cable ties as the thin plastic cut deep into his wrists.

The man moved around to the other side of the chair, changed his grip on the scourge and swung it again. Then he moved back to his own chair and sat down.

After a couple of minutes, Mayhew’s howls of pain had subsided to low moans of agony.

‘Now,’ the man said, ‘we’ll start at the beginning – tell me everything you know about Bartholomew’s Folly.’

Whatever Mayhew had been expecting, this wasn’t it.

‘But it’s just a story, a story about a stupid man who lost a fortune searching for something that wasn’t there.’

‘Then it won’t be a problem for you to tell me all about it, will it?’

Mayhew shook his head. ‘No, but I mean . . .’ His voice trailed away into silence.

The man picked up his scourge, as Mayhew gathered his thoughts, and quickly explained everything he knew or had read about Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax’s abortive expeditions to Persia.

‘I’ve read all that in one of the guidebooks,’ the man snapped. ‘I need more information. Why do you think he was just wasting his time?’

‘What?’

‘Five minutes ago you told me Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax was just – and I quote – “a stupid man who lost a fortune searching for something that wasn’t there.” Unquote. That’s what you said. So how do you know it wasn’t there?’

‘Well, I don’t know that, of course,’ Mayhew wailed. ‘What I said was an educated guess.’

‘So educate me. Give me your reasons.’

Mayhew paused, trying desperately to think clearly amid the waves of panic and fear that were threatening to overwhelm him.

‘There are two reasons,’ he said finally. ‘First, the fragment of Persian text probably dated from the first century AD, and it’s likely that in the next two thousand years somebody would have stumbled across this so-called treasure – if it ever existed – and recovered it.’

‘And the second reason?’