Page 108 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

‘You’ve got to believe in a single higher power to be a mason. Doesn’t have to be any particular God.’

‘This, in spite of the fact that most of the symbolism is Christian and weighs towards the Crusades?’

‘Still only symbolism,’ said Hardacre. ‘We aren’t aiming to rebuild the Temple at Jerusalem any more. Just to erect it in our own pure hearts.’

Strike snorted, then said,

‘Ever read any A. H. Murdoch?’

‘Not much,’ said Hardacre. ‘The language is pretty flowery and obscure. I prefer Bridge to Light .’

‘What’s that?’

‘Popular introduction to the Scottish Rite.’

‘Bridges are a thing in Freemasonry, are they?’

‘What d’you mean, “thing”?’

‘Bridges have cropped up a bit,’ said Strike.

‘How?’

‘Semple freaked out about crossing a masonic bridge on a run, and I’ve got some Scottish woman calling the office, who thinks something’s hidden under a bridge.’

Hardacre drank some beer, eyed Strike thoughtfully for a moment or two, then said,

‘There’s a bit in Morals and Dogma , another key text on the Scottish Rite, about a bridge.

“The retreating general may cut away a bridge behind him, to delay pursuit and save the main body of his army, though he thereby surrenders a detachment to certain destruction.” It says such action isn’t unjust, but “may infringe some dreamer’s ideal rule of justice”. ’

‘Interesting,’ said Strike. ‘That might chime with Semple being angry his mate Liddell had been sacrificed.’

‘Yeah. And when you’re inducted into the fifteenth degree, there’s a bridge, too.’

‘What, literally?’

‘They don’t generally hammer one together out of wood in the middle of the temple, no,’ said Hardacre, ‘but there’s a symbolic representation of one.’

‘What happens – troll jumps out and gets you, if you get the password wrong?’

‘Ha ha,’ said Hardacre. ‘You cross the bridge, over a river in which body parts are floating—’

‘Body parts?’

‘It’s symbolic, Oggy,’ said Hardacre.

Slightly to Strike’s surprise, his old friend seemed half-embarrassed, half-defiant, so he decided to leave off flippant comments about Freemasonry, for the moment.

‘How highly would you say masons prize the medals—’

‘Jewels,’ Hardacre corrected him.

‘—jewels they get for achieving the degrees?’

‘Well, they probably wouldn’t want to lose them. Why?’

‘Because Semple seems to have either taken something valuable, or something he thought was valuable, with him to London – or picked it up here, I suppose. He had a briefcase handcuffed to him, last time he was seen.’

‘If he’d got obsessive about Freemasonry, he might’ve thought it was important to keep his regalia with him,’ said Hardacre.

‘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.

‘We can probably get into Seventeen now.’

‘How common would it be for a mason to change lodges, in your experience?’ asked Strike, as they left the museum to walk along a marble-floored passage.

‘Not that unusual,’ said Hardacre. ‘People move to different towns. You might just find one you like better, or you’d rather not see someone you’ve fallen out with.’

‘I imagined the brethren would be in such a state of fraternal goodwill that would never happen.’

‘Just told you, masonry doesn’t change human nature. Why’re you interested in people switching lodges?’

‘Idle thought. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the Winston Churchill? It meets here.’

‘So do about a thousand other lodges,’ said Hardacre. ‘There’s a rumour one of them uses actual human skulls in their rites. Norwegian, if the rumour can be believed, but don’t quote me. I don’t want to be excommunicated.’

A suited man was walking towards them holding a long staff topped with a cross of Salem. Strike let the man move out of earshot before saying,

‘Does the Pope mind you wandering around with stuff like that?’

‘He’s not keen on us generally. Too many non-Christian gods allowed.’

A few minutes later they arrived at a wooden door bearing the number Seventeen, which Hardacre opened. The room was panelled in dark oak, with enough chairs set around the chequerboard floor to seat eighty. Behind a thronelike seat was a large chained swan carved onto the wall.

‘Symbol of Buckinghamshire,’ said Hardacre, pointing. ‘This temple was funded by Freemasons from the county. It’s where three of the oldest – pre-1717 – lodges meet.’

‘And what’s all this?’ said Strike, turning to point at the strange assemblage of objects in the middle of the chequerboard floor.

‘Now, there, I’d have to kill you if I told you,’ said Hardacre.

Ten banners hung from poles faced each other on the black and white carpet, and Strike’s eye was drawn immediately to the lion beneath the word Judah.

On the floor lay tools including a spade and a pickaxe, an aged book that was embossed with the lodge’s name, and a group of three-dimensional geometric objects carved out of white stone.

‘This is set up for some rite, is it?’ he asked Hardacre. ‘This stuff wouldn’t usually be here?’

‘No,’ said Hardacre.

Strike glanced around the rest of the chamber. He noted the ‘rough’ and ‘perfect’ ashlars – cubes of stone representing the uninitiated and educated masons – sitting beside chairs that evidently belonged to masons having some elevated ceremonial role.

‘Can’t say it’s obvious what William Wright wanted to see in here,’ he said at last, after giving the place a comprehensive look, ‘but that’ll do me.’

As they left the temple Strike asked,

‘D’you still maintain masons aren’t allowed to use membership to advance their personal interests?’

‘It’s right there in the rules, Oggy,’ said Hardacre. ‘We’re not allowed to discuss politics or religion during meetings, or do business deals.’

‘But, as you’ve already pointed out, masonry doesn’t change human nature.’

‘Have it your own way,’ said Hardacre, good-humoured as ever.

As they emerged from the hall into the sunlight, the conversation shifted easily to mutual military friends, and Strike mentally filed away GAOTU, the chained swan and the symbolic significance of bridges to be pondered later, when he had the time.