But when they brought the coffins out, I watched carefully and I saw my Lincolnshire sergeant put into one with an unusual mark on the lid – a burr in the oak that was almost the shape of England.
The present
The journal ended there. Can you believe that? I felt as if I had been smacked in the face when I realized it, and I sat back, my mind tumbling. What had my great-grandfather done next? Had he tried to get into the coffin later? But he couldn’t have done. If the signet ring of the last German Emperor had been up for grabs after the Armistice, I would have known. The whole world would have known.
I went back to Hampstead next morning. I intended to scour that house from cellar to attics to find out if Great-grandfather had recovered the Kaiser’s signet ring from the coffin-
I’ve just reread that last sentence, and it’s probably the most bizarre thing I’ve ever written. Hell’s teeth, it’s probably the most bizarre thing anyone has ever written. I hope I haven’t fallen backwards into a surreal movie or a rogue episode of Dr Who, and not noticed.
But there were no more journal pages. Eventually, I conceded defeat, and returned to my own flat. This time I ransacked the few family papers I possessed. I don’t keep anything that could incriminate any of us, of course – there’s such a thing as loyalty, even though my family are all dead. But there were birth certificates, carefully edited savings accounts – burglars have to be cautious about investments. Too much money and the Inland Revenue start to get inconveniently interested. My father used to buy good antique furniture; my grandfather invested in gold and silver. I don’t know what my great-grandfather did.
There were letters there, as well, mostly kept by my parents out of sentiment, and it was those letters I wanted. I thought there might be some from my great-grandmother and I was right; there were several. Most were of no use, but one was dated September 1920, and attached to it was a semi-order for Great-grandfather to report to the HQ of his old regiment. He had, it seemed, been chosen “at random” to be one of the soldiers who would assist in exhuming six sets of “suitable” remains from battlefields in France.
Random, I thought, cynically. I’ll bet he contrived it, the sly old fox.
The six coffins, said the letter, would be taken by special escort to Flanders on the night of 7 November. A small private ceremony would take place in the chapel of St Pol, and Great-grandfather would be one of the guard of honour.
By that time a pattern was starting to form in my mind, and I unfolded my great-grandmother’s letter with my blood racing. It read, “My dear love… What an honour for you to be chosen for that remarkable ceremony. When you described it in your last letter it was so vivid, I felt I was there with you… The small, flickeringly lit chapel, the six coffins each draped with the Union Jack… The Brigadier General led in, blindfolded, then placing his hand on one of the coffins to make the choice…”
That was when my mind went into meltdown and it was several minutes before I could even get to the bookshelves. Eventually, though, I rifled through several reference books, and in all of them the information was the same.
“From the chapel of St Pol in Northern France, the Unknown Soldier began the journey to the famous tomb within Westminster Abbey… The man whose identity will never be known, but who was killed on some unnamed battlefield… The symbol of all men who died in battle no matter where, and the focus for the grief of hundreds of thousands of bereaved…”
Great-grandmother’s letter ended with the words, “How interesting that you recognized the coffin chosen as one you had helped carry from that battlefield shortly before the Armistice. I wonder if, without that curious burr, you would have known it? It’s a sobering thought that you are probably the only person in the whole world who knows the identity of the Unknown Warrior.”
All right, what would you have done? Gone back to your ordinary life, with the knowledge that the grave of the Unknown Warrior – that hugely emotive symbol of death in battle – contained probably the biggest piece of loot you would ever encounter? The signet ring of the last Emperor of Germany – the ring intended to seal the Peace Treaty that ended the Great War. Wilhelm II’s ring, that never reached its destination because a German car had a puncture.
The provenance of that signet ring was – and is – one hundred per cent genuine. It’s documented in Great-grandfather’s journal and Great-grandmother’s letter. Collectors would pay millions.
It’s calling to me, that iron-bound casket, that unknown soldier’s tomb that’s the focus for memories and pride and grief every 11 November. It’s calling with the insistence of a siren’s seductive song… Because of course it’s still in there, that ring, along with the loot taken from the French château. It must be, because in almost a century there’s never been the least hint of anyone having tried to break into that tomb.
I’m ending these notes now, because I have an appointment. I’m joining a party of tourists being taken round Westminster Abbey. Quite a detailed tour, actually. After I come home I shall start to draw a very detailed map of the Abbey. Then I shall make precise notes of security arrangements and guards, electronic eyes, CCTV cameras…
THE LADDER by Adrian McKinty
DONALD SIGHED AS the university loomed out of the rain and greyness. All morning he had hit nothing but red lights and now, although it was green, he had to stop because a huge gang of students was crossing the pedestrian walkway in front of him.
It was rag week and they were wearing costumes: animals, Cossacks, knights, milkmaids. Predictable and drab, the outfits had a home-made look and they depressed him. The students were laughing and some were actually skipping. It was raining, it was cold, it was November in godforsaken Belfast so what the hell had they to laugh about?
The traffic light went red and then amber and then green again and still they hadn’t all got across. He was tempted to honk them off the road but no doubt from hidden pockets they would produce flour-and-water bombs and throw them at him. He sat there patiently while the car behind began to toot. He looked in the rearview at a vulnerable, orange VW Microbus. Yeah, you keep doing that, mate, he said to himself, and sure enough half a dozen eggs cut up the poor fool’s windscreen.
He chortled to himself as the mob cleared and he turned into the car park.
“Jesus, is that a grin?” McCann asked him when he appeared in the office.
He nodded.
“What, have you got a job offer somewhere?” McCann wondered.
“No, old chap, I am doomed to spend my declining years with your boorish self and my cretinous students in this bombed-out hell-hole of a city slowly sinking into the putrid mudflats from which it so inauspiciously began.”
“Bugger, if I’d known I was going to get an essay…” McCann said, not all that good-naturedly.
Donald took off his jacket and set it down on the chair. “Is this coffee drinkable?” he asked, staring dubiously at the tarry black liquid in the coffee pot.
“Drinkable yes. Distinguishable as coffee, no.”
Donald poured himself a cup anyway, added two sugars and picked up the morning paper.
“Before I lose interest entirely, why were you smiling when you came in? Some pretty undergraduate, no doubt?” McCann asked.
“No, no, nothing like that, I’m afraid. The students went after some hippy driving a VW Microbus… talk about devouring your own.”