The Rozabal Line (7 page)

Chapter Nine

New York, USA, 2012

British Airways flight BA 0178 left John F. Kennedy airport at 9:15 am and was scheduled to reach Heathrow at 9 pm GMT. Occupying two seats in the second row of World Traveller Class, with 351 other passengers and 39,900 pounds of luggage on the 747-400, were Martha and Vincent Sinclair.

The customary drinks and salted peanuts had arrived, and aunt and nephew were getting into the mood of the trip. 'Vincent, you must write down whatever you saw in your visions. Very often we tend to forget things like that,' said Martha.

Vincent replied, 'Actually Nana, I've already done that. In fact, I've brought along my notes of the images that I saw during Mom and Dad's funeral, as well as what I saw when I had those crazy flashes in Central Park.'

Vincent got up, opened the overhead luggage bin and pulled out his duffel bag.

Unzipping it, he quickly found his leather-bound notebook. Taking it out, he zipped up the bag and returned it to the overhead storage before sitting down. Opening it, he turned to a page that had been tabbed with a yellow Post-it. He gave the notebook to Martha. There were several notations on the page:

'St John Cemetery: Daughters of Jerusalem. Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?

Jerusalem. Wooden cross. Blood. Wailing women. Impale him. Simon. Alexander.

Rufus.'

These entries were followed by: 'Central Park: Blood. Wounded soldiers.

Bandages. Greek cross. Red. Bassano portrait. Stately house. Number 18. London street. Iron fencing with an "S" logo. Indian antiques. Parties. Food. Musicians. 1940s'

La Salle ambulance. Buckingham Palace. Bell. Grave. So soon?'

'Excuse me, ma'am. Would you prefer the chicken casserole or the sliced roast beef?' enquired the flight attendant. 'Neither. I've pre-ordered a vegetarian meal,' said Martha. The stewardess referred to a list and immediately pulled out an appropriate tray from her cart. Stir-fried vegetables with basmati rice, pasta salad and fresh fruit 46

yoghurt for Ms Martha Sinclair.

Vincent tucked into a meal of sliced roast beef with scalloped cheese potatoes and green beans, garden salad with ranch dressing, and blueberry cheesecake; not bad for airline food. For a while at least, they forgot about the notebook and its contents.

London, UK, 2012

The ridiculous name, Airways Hotel, belonged to a nineteenth-century period home that was located just a stone's throw away from Buckingham Palace. It had now been converted into a forty-room bed-and-breakfast priced at PS45 a night. It was just one of the many little family-run places that one saw in the oddest parts of London.

They all looked identical to one another--in fact, without the signboards outside, one wouldn't be able to tell any given Victorian townhouse-hotel, with its pillars and white facade, from another.

This is where Martha and Vincent checked in upon arriving in London. Vincent had decided that he would rather be near Buckingham Palace in order to experience the area a little better. They had boarded the Piccadilly Line from Heathrow to Hammersmith and had then taken the District Line to Victoria Station, which was just a short walk away from the hotel.

The front desk was supervised by a middle-aged matron. She was the proverbial English landlady with rosy cheeks, wide matronly hips and checked apron. She quickly rattled off the deal to Vincent: 'Your bedrooms have independent bathrooms. Both rooms have a telly, hairdryer, fridge and tea-coffee maker. Direct dial in your room gets billed to your account. The tariff includes traditional English breakfast served downstairs in the morning between eight and nine o'clock. VAT included. Any questions, luv?'

The traditional English breakfast the next morning was essentially a full-blown frontal cholesterol attack. Besides toast, marmalade, fruit and porridge was the fry-up which included sausages, bacon, kippers, black pudding, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and hash browns. Vincent couldn't believe the amount of grease the English consumed each morning, until Martha told him that not all English people ate like that every day. While Martha attempted to rid herself of her jet lag, Vincent settled for some tea and toast. He then quickly made his way to Buckingham Palace.

During the journey from New York to London, Vincent had succeeded in convincing himself that his trip to London was going to be a waste of time--this talk about past-life experiences was humbug. He now headed along St George's Drive till he reached Warwick Square where he turned left and started walking down Belgrave Road.

When he reached the intersection with Buckingham Palace Road, he turned right and kept walking until he reached Buckingham Gate. The walk had taken him less than thirty minutes. It was only when he reached Buckingham Palace that it struck him.

He hadn't asked for directions. He hadn't referred to a map. He hadn't visited London ever in his life. And yet he had walked effortlessly from his hotel to the palace as if he had lived there his entire life!

Buckingham House had originally been built in 1703 as the private residence of the Duke of Buckingham. In 1762, the house had been purchased by George III to be 47

used as one among many homes belonging to the royals. George IV had subsequently engaged the services of architect John Nash, who had redesigned Buckingham House with a marble arch as its entrance; this would later be relocated to Hyde Park. In 1837, Queen Victoria had made Buckingham House her principal residence in London and Buckingham House had now officially been rechristened Buckingham Palace.59

The Household Troops had guarded the monarchy since 1660, their foot guards attired in the familiar uniforms of red tunics and bearskins. In summer, the main attraction for tourists continued to be the changing of the guard, which happened in the forecourt of the palace at 11:30 each morning. The forty-five-minute, minutely choreographed ceremony involved the new guard marching to the palace from Wellington Barracks accompanied by a band, and taking over duty from the old guard.

It was only around 10:30 in the morning when Vincent arrived and the forecourt was quiet at this hour except for a few enthusiastic tourists. Vincent just stood and surveyed the facade of the palace, attempting to see whether it stirred any latent memories inside him. Nothing. So it was a false alarm after all, a complete waste of time, as he'd expected.

After half an hourof wandering about, Vincent decided to make his way back to the hotel to check on Martha. He walked along Buckingham Palace Road and turned right into Eccleston Street. He kept walking till he reached a lovely Victorian residential quarter. For some uncanny reason, Vincent walked further towards it. He now found himself in Belgrave Square.

Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon? It struck him like a thunderbolt! It was one word--Belgrave, not two! Belgrave had been the word hitting his brain cells during his memory flashes in Central Park. If the past-life theory held true, and if Vincent had indeed lived in this area earlier, he would have passed Buckingham Palace often. His primary recollection should have been of Belgrave Square, but he would also have a fleeting memory of the Buckingham Palace environs. Yes, that made sense.

Vincent looked around the square. The grand white-stuccoed townhouses with their uniform pillared facades gave him a sense of deja vu. He felt a chill run down his spine. He trembled; this was eerie. All the terraced houses had the same Victorian

'period feel' to them. The house that he had mentally seen in his visions in Central Park was very much like these homes.

He quickly consulted his notebook. Number 18. Could that mean a house number? He kept walking along the side of the square that he had entered until, about halfway along, he saw Number 18. It had a sign outside which read 'The Royal College of Psychiatrists'. This couldn't be what he had seen--a psychiatric college? No. He had clearly seen a residential house, not a college. Vincent was about to do an about-turn when he noticed the 'S' logo that had been delicately incorporated into the iron railings running along the boundary.

It was the same 'S' design on the ironwork that he had seen in his flashes. He was feeling faint with excitement and anticipation. He felt the sweat running down his back. He felt compelled to go in and find out more about this place.

In the reception area there was a help desk for visitors, and a lounge with some 48

comfortable chairs arranged around a low-level coffee table. He noticed a few glossy brochures on the coffee table and casually picked one up. It was about the Royal College of Psychiatry. He quickly leafed through the sections about the college's courses, career options for students, publications, college events, faculty, and fees, until he finally reached the section on the history of the college. It read: The district of London known today as Belgravia was developed in the 1820s. Previously it was called Five Fields and was a rural area between London, as it was then, and the village of Knightsbridge. In the early 19th century the landowners, the Grosvenor family, began developing the area. The name 'Belgrave' comes from their property of that name in either Cheshire or Leicestershire.The square is ten acres in size. Belgrave Square was laid out in 1826. The corners of the square are on the points of the compass and number 18 is part of the south-west terrace line, the last to be completed.

The development was a success from the start, probably helped by George IV's decision to convert nearby Buckingham House into a palace for his residence. Later, Queen Victoria rented number 36 for her mother and this was considered to be a royal seal of approval for the square.Many of the tenants were members of the aristocracy and people of political importance. The first tenant of number 18 was Sir Ralph Howard, who was himself MP for Wicklow, with extensive property in Ireland . . .The next tenant was Clementine, Lady Sossoon. She too had overseas connections; her husband's family, the Sossoons, came originally from Baghdad and India. She lived here from 1929 until 1942 and kept open house for the troops during the Second World War. She is said to have had parties here for soldiers during the war; also, part of the property was used as a Red Cross supply depot during this war. Lady Clementine left in 1942 but retained the tenancy until she died, aged over 90, in 1955.Number 18 was taken over by the Institute of Metals in 1956 and the College came in 1974.60

Vincent quickly consulted his notes from Central Park: Blood. Wounded soldiers.

Bandages. Greek cross. Red. Bassano portrait. Stately house. Number 18. London street. Iron fencing with an "S" logo. Indian antiques. Parties. Food. Musicians. 1940s'

La Salle ambulance. Buckingham Palace. Bell. Grave. So soon?'

Well, this place was very close to Buckingham Palace. It was in Belgrave Square.

It certainly was a stately house, with all the elements of Victorian architecture. It did bear the number 18. The 'S' was definitely a part of its grillwork. Coincidence?

Imagination?

The lightbulb flashed inside Vincent's head . . . Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon.

Sossoon! The house in Belgrave Square had been occupied by Lady Sossoon. It wasn't

'so soon'. It was Sossoon! That also explained the 'S' in the iron grills! Vincent was now sweating profusely. He went over the bit about Lady Sossoon again: The next tenant was Clementine, Lady Sossoon . . . kept open house for the troops during the Second World War . . . said to have had parties here for soldiers during the war . . . also part of the property was used as a Red Cross supply depot during this war.

'What is wrong with you, Vincent?' he said to himself irritably. 'Don't you realise 49

that every cross is not a cross of Jesus? An equal-armed cross is not only a Greek cross, it's also the symbol of the International Red Cross!'

Vincent stepped outside the house at 18, Belgrave Square. His mobile phone had run out of power. Looking around, he located a phone booth and managed to get through to Martha. Before she could get a word in, Vincent said, 'Listen, Nana. I need to talk to you very urgently. There's a pub quite close by. I saw it this morning while getting here. It's called the Star Tavern, I think. It's on the mews adjoining Belgrave Square. Can you meet me there ASAP?' Vincent then quickly made his way to the rendezvous.

The pub was located at the end of the secluded cobbled mews that was just off Belgrave Square. The pub had probably been built sometime in the early part of the nineteenth century to meet the needs of the domestics who served in the aristocratic homes of Belgravia. The mews, quite obviously, had been created to provide horse stables as well as accommodation for coachmen. Of course, in the present day, the mews housed neither stables nor servants' quarters, merely millionaires' homes. The pub was furnished with comfortable benches and scrubbed pine tables, and Vincent also noticed a friendly-lookingroom upstairs, which seemed to be a dining area. Vincent sat down and ordered himself a Fuller's London Pride and waited for Martha.

The table next to his was occupied by an unkempt but handsomeman. Professor Terry Acton had just finished his morning sessions with his patients at the Spiritualist Association and had wandered over to the pub for a relaxed lunch of fish and chips washed down with a pint of Chiswick Bitter.