Paul Christopher: The Sword of the Templars

“And he was your grandfather?” the lawyer asked, turning to Peggy Blackstock, the attractive dark-haired woman sitting beside Holliday on the other side of the gleaming glass-topped desk.

“That’s right. On my mother’s side.”

“So Colonel Holliday is in fact your second cousin and not your uncle,” said the lawyer. The mild reproof in his tone seemed to suggest that there was something inappropriate about their relationship. A pretty, thirty-something not-quite-niece with a roguish-looking not-quite-uncle who could have been her father. The lawyer was exactly the kind of small-town holier-than-thou, self-important pencil-necked jerk that Holliday had hated since he could remember. Another few years and he’d be running for mayor.

“I guess so,” the young woman replied with a shrug. “He’s always been Uncle John to me, or just Doc. What does it matter?”

“Just getting things straight in my mind,” said the lawyer airily. “My father’s notes in Mr. Granger’s file are a little… disjointed, you might say.”

The lawyer had the head of a much thinner man on a pudgy body that no amount of pinstripe tailoring could disguise. His hair was slicked back with some kind of gel, and he had a blue-black sheen of five o’clock shadow across his cheeks and jaw. Behind him on the wall was a prominently displayed Juris Doctor diploma from Yale Law School. The lawyer was the younger Broadbent of Broadbent, Broadbent, Hammersmith, and Howe, the firm that represented Holliday’s uncle Henry. As the lawyer had explained to them earlier, his father had recently retired with Alzheimer’s and Broadbent the younger was taking up the slack. He’d made it sound like some kind of sacred duty rather than a job.

“If the interrogation is over maybe we could get on with the matter at hand,” said Holliday.

“Certainly,” answered Broadbent a little stiffly. He cleared his throat and flipped open the file on his desk with one perfectly manicured finger. “Mr. Granger left a surprisingly substantial estate for a university professor.”

Holliday wasn’t really interested in the greasy little lawyer’s opinions about his uncle, but he kept his mouth shut. He just wanted to get the whole thing over with.

“Please.”

“Yes, well,” said the lawyer. He went on. “There is a pension fund amounting to something more than three quarters of a million dollars, various stocks and bonds of an equal amount, a life insurance policy fully paid up valued at half a million dollars, and then of course there is the Hart Street house and its contents.” Hart Street was a short cul-de-sac a little way from the center of town. Uncle Henry’s house was a massive, Shingle Style Queen Anne mansion at the end of the tree-lined block, backing onto Canadaway Creek. The creek was where Uncle Henry had taught Holliday to fly-fish for steelhead trout when he was a little boy.

Broadbent cleared his throat again. “According to the will everything is to be divided equally between you and Miss Blackstock.”

“Who is the executor of the will?” Holliday asked, sending up a silent prayer in hopes that it wasn’t the lawyer.

“You and Miss Blackstock are coexecutors,” said Broadbent, his voice prim. “Equally.” He glanced at Peggy, smirking.

“Good,” said Holliday. “Then we won’t be needing your services any longer. Do you have the keys to the house?”

“Yes, but…”

“I’d like them please,” said Holliday.

“But…” Broadbent looked at Peggy for support. He got none. She just smiled pleasantly.

“The keys,” repeated Holliday. Broadbent unlocked a drawer in his desk, rummaged around for a moment, and brought out a heavy ring of keys with a string and paper tag attached. He leaned forward and dropped the key ring on the desk in front of Holliday and then sat back. Holliday scooped up the keys and stood up. “If there’s any paperwork to sign, send it to us at the house. We’ll be staying there for the time being.”

“Is that the case?” Broadbent said to Peggy coldly.

She stood up and threaded her arm through Holliday’s. She leaned her cheek on his shoulder affectionately, batting her eyelashes and smiling at the lawyer. “Anything Doc says is just fine by me,” she said. They started to leave the office. Broadbent’s voice stopped them.

“Colonel Holliday?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“My father’s notes referred to an item that might have been in your uncle’s possession. Part of his collection.”

“My uncle collected a lot of things,” said Holliday. “Anything that interested him.”

“The item in question had a special significance to my father.” Broadbent paused for a moment, frowning. “They knew each other, you know,” he said finally. “They were in the same outfit during the war.”

“Really,” answered Holliday. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes.”

“So what was this object?” Holliday asked. “And why was it significant?”

“They found it together,” said Broadbent quietly. “In Bavaria. In Germany.”

“I know where Bavaria is, Mr. Broadbent.”

“They found it in Obersalzberg. At Berchtesgaden.”

“Really,” said Holliday. Berchtesgaden was the location of Adolf Hitler’s summer house. Uncle Henry had never mentioned being there, at least not to Holliday. If he remembered correctly Berchtesgaden had been captured by the 3rd Infantry Division.

“Just what was this object that they found together, your father and my uncle Henry?”

“A sword, Colonel Holliday. A sword.”

“What kind of sword?” Holliday asked.

“I have no idea,” answered Broadbent. “I only know that my father thought it was extremely important.”

“Important, Mr. Broadbent, or valuable?”

“Important.”

“I’ll let you know if I find it,” said Holliday.

“I’d be happy to purchase it from you at any price you thought appropriate,” said Broadbent.

“I might not be happy to sell it to you, though,” answered Holliday.

They left the office and went downstairs to the street. It was early afternoon, the summer sun shining brightly from an almost cloudless sky.

“You were mean to him,” said Peggy, laughing. It was the first time she’d laughed since Uncle Henry’s funeral two days before. Holliday squeezed her arm in his. Peggy was a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojour nalist, and her work took her around the world and back again. He hadn’t seen her for more than a year this time. He wished their reunion could have come under better circumstances.

“He deserved it,” said Holliday.

“What was all that about a sword?” Peggy asked.

“I have no idea,” answered Holliday, “but I do know that Uncle Henry wasn’t in the Third Infantry Division, and they were the guys that took Berchtesgaden in 1945.”

“So what now?” Peggy asked.

“Lunch,” said Holliday. “Something fancy at the White Inn?”

“Cheeseburgers and fries at Gary’s Diner,” answered Peggy.

“Even better,” said Holliday.

As usual the old diner around the corner on Eagle Street was packed with SUNY students, but eventually Peggy and Holliday got a booth next to a window and spent a long lunch hour catching up and going over old times. Apparently Peggy had been on assignment covering the most recent G8 summit being held in Niagara Falls when the call came in about Uncle Henry, which put her only a two-hour drive away from the old man’s deathbed. At least he hadn’t died alone. In that way, at least, she’d been lucky. Before that she’d been in Nepal, and before that she’d been in the new African war zone in the Jwaneng district of Botswana, documenting yet another potential genocide.