Page 237 of The Hallmarked Man
‘What would regalia comprise? Sash? Apron? Medals – jewels, I mean?’
‘All of the above, probably,’ said Hardacre. ‘I had a look for any masonic connection with the name William Wright, by the way. A Captain William Wright of Ardwick Lodge died in the First World War.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘East Lancashire. The lodge is still active.’
‘Was he well known, this Wright? Would most Freemasons have heard of him?’
‘Doubt it,’ said Hardacre. ‘The only claim to fame I found is that he drowned at sea. How’s the case going, in general?’
Strike treated Hardacre to a succinct précis of recent events, including the anonymous calls to the office and Robin’s encounter with a masked, dagger-waving man, though omitting any mention of gorillas.
‘Shit,’ said Hardacre. ‘But this all points one way, surely?’
‘Heavy-handed misdirection?’
‘Well, obviously,’ said Hardacre, with a laugh. ‘Brandishing a masonic dagger in the street – you think a genuine mason would do that?’
‘Could be a masonic nutter,’ said Strike. ‘But I agree, the masonic touches are probably a smokescreen.’
‘Got to be,’ said Hardacre.
‘Can’t imagine a Freemason committing murder, then?’
‘Wouldn’t go that far,’ said Hardacre. ‘Never forget what Albert Pike said.’
‘You’ll have to remind me.’
‘“Masonry does not change human nature, and cannot make honest men out of born knaves.”’
Pints finished, they headed out into the bright sun. Ten minutes later, Hardacre was speaking in a low voice to a woman at the front desk in the marble lobby of Freemasons’ Hall, which was high-ceilinged, with a gilded cornice.
‘You’re in luck,’ said Hardacre, rejoining the detective, ‘give it half an hour and we can have a look at Temple Seventeen. There are people in there right now. Museum first?’
So they climbed the broad staircase to visit the first-floor museum.
There were several pieces of masonic silverware on display, though exactly what benefit would have accrued to William Wright from peering at them remained mysterious to Strike.
‘Look here,’ said Hardacre, beckoning Strike over to a small oil painting on the wall. ‘That’s your bloke. Alexander Hughson Murdoch.’
The painting showed a stern-looking, grey-haired Victorian gentleman with mutton-chop sideburns and eyebrows of the kind that suggested sagacity, dressed in the ornate robes of a Grand Master, complete with apron embroidered in gold, and a gold chain around his neck. Painted in the background was the silver nef that had been stolen from Ramsay Silver, a miniature replica of the ship that had taken the first Freemason to America. The short biography beside the picture covered Murdoch’s birth in Edinburgh, his emigration to America, and his triumphant journey from pauper to multimillionaire.
While Strike continued to browse the contents of the glass cabinets, Hardacre visited the shop opposite the museum, returning a few minutes later.
‘Woman on the till says the museum was interested in bidding on some of the Murdoch silver, but they missed out to your Ramsay bloke.’
Strike glanced over Hardacre’s shoulder at the shop.
‘Do they sell daggers in there?’
‘Didn’t see any,’ said Hardacre. ‘But you can get them easily enough. They’re for sale online.’
‘And anyone can buy one, can they? You don’t need to give a password or show your All-Seeing Eye tattoo?’
‘I usually send ’em a picture of my Prince Albert, but just for a laugh,’ said Hardacre. ‘No, anyone can buy them.’
He checked his watch.
