As the moon traversed the night sky over Glastonbury, Cutler dreamed of knights and damsels and the steely glint of a wondrous sword. In his mind as he slept he already visualized the prize they were about to launch their search for. In the dream, unfortunately, just as he reached out to take the sword from the unknown hand that offered it to him Excalibur exploded into a myriad of fragments, shards of shining steel flying off in all directions as the mighty sword disintegrated before his eyes. It was a dream Joe Cutler was to remember much later, but for now he slept on, and no other dreams appeared to disturb his sleep that night. If they did they quickly became nothing more than forgotten memories.
Chapter 6
Meare Manor Guest House is situated on St. Mary's Road, some three miles from the centre of Glastonbury in the pretty village of Meare, and was once the summer residence of the abbots of Glastonbury Abbey. Rebuilt in 1802, and more recently fully renovated, it afforded a finer touch of luxury than Mrs. Cleveley's welcoming little Rowan Tree. With complimentary port and sherry included in the room package Graves felt it added a touch of welcome refinement to his task, and after all, he considered himself to be a refined man.
Walter Graves checked in to the Manor early on Thursday afternoon, long after Cutler and his team had left the Rowan Tree to begin their first day's `real' work on the search for Excalibur. He could have been extravagant and booked one of the Manor's rooms with four-poster bed, but decided instead on a regular double bedded room. It would suit his purposes adequately, he didn't intend on spending too much time in the room anyway. Contrary to Winston Fortune's assessment of his appearance Graves was neither old nor bald, and certainly didn't need a stick to assist in walking. In fact, anyone casting more than a cursory glance at the man who now sat relaxing in his room at the Manor would have probably placed him in his mid-forties (he was fifty-three), and might have been forgiven for thinking him to be a retired professional soldier (which he was), rather than a so-called stuffy old historian. Graves stood six feet two with a full head of dark wavy hair, and a muscular and tanned body that belied his years. His interest in things historical and his subsequent acquisition of his academic credentials had followed his service in the Falklands War, after which he'd resigned his commission and followed his heart rather than his mind when it came to his future career choice.
Over the years things had changed a little for Walter Graves and he now found himself doing a certain amount of free lance work in addition to his normal duties as a part-time tutor in history at one of the country's lesser known seats of learning. He didn't like Malcolm Capshaw and under normal circumstances he wouldn't have dreamed of working for the man, but Capshaw knew a little too much about certain aspects of Graves's past, and the ruthless businessman hadn't been afraid to use a few threats in order to coerce Graves into going along with his plans for the Glastonbury job. Having worked for the man once before, Graves knew better than to try to turn Capshaw down. As he rose from his chair and pushed his emptied suitcase under the bed and out of sight, Graves decided to do his job and no more, then get the hell out of Glastonbury and as far away from Malcolm Capshaw as he could, hoping that this would be the last time he'd be forced to work for the man.
Capshaw had given him precise instructions as to the nature of his responsibilities once he arrived in the town, and Graves now opened the briefcase he'd left lying on his bed. He removed his own copies of the document and the map supplied by Capshaw, as well as two volumes of historical texts he brought from his own personal library to help with the task. There was also a note book, bound in worn thin red leather, with dog-eared pages and a well crushed spine. Cutler and the others would have been surprised to know that the notebook dated from a mere sixty five years ago, and contained no reference whatsoever to Excalibur, King Arthur or the history of Glastonbury. It was, however, vital to Graves as far as his part of the search was concerned. Finally, he removed from his briefcase the one object that would have caused Cutler, Fortune and Corbett to freak out and probably have felicitated their early departure from Glastonbury, money or no money. The Ruger P89TH Two-Tone 9mm semi-automatic pistol with it's comfortable rubber handgrip may not have been the world's most powerful handgun, but it suited Graves admirably and had never yet let him down. He ran his fingers over the cold steel of its barrel, and then turned the gun over in his hands with the practised movement of a professional. After checking that the magazine was full he replaced it with a satisfying clunk as it clicked into place. Making sure the safety catch was on Walter Graves placed the gun in the specially reinforced and adapted inside pocket of his jacket. He stood and checked in the mirror to ensure that there was no tell-tale bulge, and two minutes later he was out of the room, leaving his key at reception, and getting into his black BMW 525 which sat gleaming where he'd left it in the Manor's car park on his arrival. A quick drive and he was in Glastonbury. He found a car park in the centre of town where he left the BMW and then made his way on foot to the Rowan Tree using a local tourist map as a guide.
As he made his way through the throng of early morning shoppers and tourists along the streets of the old town, Graves took time to look around him and study the beauty and workmanship that made many of Glastonbury's buildings a joy to behold. His learned eye would flit from side to side, taking in the panoply of historic (and less than historic) buildings that decorated the highways and byways of the ancient town.
The sun was shining, the grey wet weather of the previous three days had given way to a warm spring day, and Graves felt the sun's warmth upon his back as he walked. His mind switched off from the sounds of the passing traffic; he heard the sound of a blackbird as it sent its serenade bursting forth from its perch on the guttering of a bookstore. He heard the bird but managed to filter out all other sounds as he took pleasure from the sound of nature and shut out the noise and hustle of the street. Graves was good at that, driving unwanted sounds and intrusions into another dimension, leaving his mind clear to focus on the good things in his life. Even in the midst of the battles on the Falklands all those years ago his mind had managed to block the sounds of Argentine bullets as they whizzed above his head, Graves hearing only the sound of cormorants as they wheeled above the battle, screaming their displeasure at the man-made cacophony below.
Ten minutes after parking the car he found himself looking up at the small guest house currently serving as temporary home to the staff of Strata Surveys. Though not quite exhibiting the ambience or `Olde Worlde' charm of Meare Manor, he found it clean and welcoming, the tiny reception area quiet and airy. As he approached the desk he was greeted with a polite and cheery `Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”
Mrs. Cleveley had popped up like a glove puppet from behind the desk.
“Sorry,” she said, slightly breathlessly, “I was just looking for something, what can I do for you, sir?”
“I'm looking for a Mr. Joseph Cutler and his associates from Strata Survey Systems.”
“Oh, I'm sorry. They left very early this morning, barely had time for breakfast. Mr. Cutler said they'd be back sometime around five.”
Graves checked his watch. It was 3.50 p.m. Not too long to wait and he could do with a drink.
“Do you have a bar here Mrs…er?
“It's Mrs. Cleveley, sir, Annette Cleveley. Yes we do have a bar, but I'm afraid it doesn't open until we start serving evening meals at five. There's a good pub on the corner if you turn left out of the door, though. They're open all day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cleveley,” said Graves, smiling his most charming smile. “I'll take a little walk and return after five. Perhaps you could tell Mr. Cutler I've been asking for him if he returns before I do.”
“Certainly, sir, who shall I tell him was asking for him?”
“Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry, I forgot. My name is Graves, Walter Graves. He's expecting me.”
“Are you part of his exciting scheme then Mr. Graves?”
“Scheme?”
“Yes, you know, looki
ng for things to do with that Joseph of Arimathaea from the Bible.”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Cleveley, I'm a part of that alright. I'm just here in an advisory capacity though. I'm a historian.”
“A historian? Well, I never!” she exclaimed. “I don't think I've ever met a historian before. That must be very interesting, Mr. Graves.”
“I assure you it is, Mrs. Cleveley, though it can also be quite boring at times as I'm sure my students would be only willing to testify to.”
“Oh, I'm sure that's not so at all,” said Mrs. Cleveley, already enthralled by the academic air that seemed to ooze from every pore of her visitor.
“Anyway, I'll be back before too long,” said Graves as he turned to leave.
Mrs. Cleveley gave him her widest smile and said a cheery, “See you soon then, sir,” as Graves made his way through the door, “and I'll be sure to tell Mr. Cutler you've been looking for him.”
“Thank you,” called Graves, already on the second step that led back onto the street. An hour of peace and a couple of whiskies would do him no harm as he waited for Cutler and his minions, he thought as he made his way to the local hostelry recommended by Mrs. Cleveley. There'd be plenty of time to catch up with Cutler.
As he sat sipping at a fine malt whisky a few minutes later, he took time to pull a piece of paper from the opposite inside jacket pocket to the one that held the Ruger. Stapled together was a three page résumé on the life and times of Joseph Albert Cutler. It was all there from birth to the current day, his parents' names, his father's job at the old ironworks and his premature death from lung cancer at the age of just forty five, and his mother's death three years ago. Cutler's college education and professional qualifications were listed in detail, as were his various romances over the last ten years. As for his business dealings, they took up most of the third A4 page, and it was clear that the man was good at what he did. There was a short section on the credentials of Fortune and Corbett and Graves could see why Capshaw had chosen Strata for the job. Even before he'd met the man he found himself quite liking Joe Cutler, he hoped it would stay like that and that he wouldn't be called upon to take drastic action in the pursuit of his end of Capshaw's quest.
As the second whisky disappeared warmingly down his throat Walter Graves rose from his table, patted the Ruger through the fabric of his jacket in a reflex gesture to be sure it was safely tucked away, left the pub, and made his way slowly back to the Rowan Tree. It was only just after five and he hoped to catch Cutler before he disappeared to his room for a bath or shower. He wanted to see the man, take stock of him after a hard day in the field, rather than when he was refreshed and alert. In short, Walter Graves wanted to get a measure of the man at the lower end of his physical spectrum. That was always the best way to judge a potential adversary!
Chapter 7
A hubbub of laughter announced the return of Cutler and the others as they bounced through the door of The Rowan Tree. They had shared a long day setting up and testing the ground penetrating radar system. After ensuring it was working as it should they had made a tentative start on the job. Cutler placed a yellow metal box on a tripod in the centre of the designated search area, which was little more than an area of marshy wasteland five miles from town. The box contained a lens, through which Cutler scanned the area, guiding Corbett who was holding a red and white survey rod with a knob on top. When he was satisfied with the various positions he spoke to Sally through a microphone attached behind his ear, and instructed her to insert a series of marking pins in the ground that would serve as reference points. These would serve as control points, and Winston Fortune busied himself attaching long lines of string between the poles, gradually marking out a grid they would follow when the survey began. By walking along the grids with the radar in hand, they could survey and map out the whole of the search area in a few hours.
Accurate to about two thousandths of an inch, the GPR system enabled the search team to identify `anomalies' in the ground terrain. For example, if a tree had stood for hundreds of years and then been uprooted at some time in the past, and the hole where it had stood filled in, the radar would enable a trained operator to say with a high level of confidence that a tree had once stood there. Likewise, if a body had been buried in the ground, the shape of the grave, whatever its depth would show up on the radar, and Cutler had more than once used this part of the GPR's arsenal to help the police in searching for murder victims. In this case, according to Capshaw's document, they were searching for a wooden box, centuries old, that may or may not have degraded beneath the ground, which contained the long lost sword Excalibur. Despite their earlier scepticism all three of the Strata Survey people were now focussed upon the job on hand and would apply the highest levels of their professional skills to follow the clues that may or may not lead them to their goal.
Having drawn a blank, but satisfying themselves that everything was working as it should, Cutler, Corbett and Fortune had packed up their equipment for the day and made their way back to Mrs. Cleveley's guest house. On the drive back to town Winston had been amusing himself and the others by attempting to compose a rap based on the Lady in the Lake legend. It was his hilarious attempts at this composition that was the source of the mirth that accompanied their arrival back at the Rowan Tree.
Annette Cleveley greeted them with her usual air of bonhomie as they burst through the front door of the Rowan Tree, and informed Cutler that they had a visitor, a Mr. Graves waiting for them in the bar. Cutler and the others stopped giggling and looked at each other as she announced the news of Graves' arrival.
“At last,” said Winston Fortune.
“About time,” Sally echoed.
“Well then, let's see if your advance appraisal of Mr. Graves was on the mark Winston,” said Cutler as they made their way to the small bar where they found the historian seated at a table in the far corner of the room.
“Wrong,” whispered Sally to Winston Fortune as they took in Graves's appearance.
“Very wrong I admit,” replied Winston grinning from ear to ear. “He's got hair, no stick, and he's nowhere near as old as I thought.”
“Just goes to prove that you don't have to be an old fossil in order to be an expert on them,” said Cutler quietly as they approached Walter Graves.
Graves, his head buried in a book on the history of Glastonbury, sensed rather than saw their approach, and quickly closed the book. He looked up once they neared and spoke in that most charming voice of his: “Mr. Cutler and associates I presume?”
Cutler nodded, and quickly introduced the others to Graves, who rose to his feet and shook hands with Cutler and Fortune, then in a gesture worthy of one of the Knights of the Round Table themselves, he reached across, took Sally Corbett's right hand in his own, bowed towards her, and kissed the back of the hand very gently before gesturing to them all to sit and join him. Sally was impressed with his old-world courtesy, and smiled at Graves as she took her seat.
“I'm sorry I wasn't able to join you sooner,” said Graves, looking directly at Joe Cutler. “I hope Mr. Capshaw explained the reason for my tardiness in arriving in Glastonbury.”
“Oh yes, he explained it quite adequately,” said Cutler. “We weren't able to do much until today anyway. The weather's been against us I'm afraid.”
“And how did your day go?” asked the historian.
It was Winston Fortune who cut in with the answer to Graves's question.
“Well, we know that all our equipment is working at it's optimum capacity, and we know that the ground is soft though not too boggy despite the rain, but as for the search itself, we found zip, nada, nothing, man, know what I mean?”
“Not that we expected to find anything straight away, of course,” said Cutler. “I just selected a parcel of land that I believed to be in the general vicinity of the search area as best as I could decipher from Capshaw's map. We could have been miles off track in reality, but I thought it best to start somewhere. Now that you're here, Mr. Graves,
perhaps you'll be able to guide us a little more accurately.”
“Exactly, Mr. Cutler. I must say that I admire your endeavour and I know that you must be keen to make progress as soon as possible. As I said, I apologise for not being here sooner, but now that I am here, we should start the work in earnest.”
“You're not quite what we expected,” said Sally suddenly, still smiling at Graves as she spoke.
“Ah, Miss Corbett, but then who is always as expected? I think perhaps you were expecting some old fossilized semi-geriatric with a beard and leather reinforcements on the elbows of an old tweed jacket, and thick spectacles dangling from a chain around his neck. Am I right?”
Sally blushed.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”
“Please, don't apologise, Miss Corbett. I'm quite often a surprise to those I work with for the first time. I assure you, however, that my credentials are more than satisfactory for the job on hand. I am a bona fide professor of history, though I came late to the profession. I was a professional army officer you see until I gave up the military way of life to follow my one true calling. I'd been a history buff since I was a child and my father took me to The British Museum one day. I begged and begged of him to take me again, and I suppose I must have visited the museum at least a hundred times before I was fifteen years old. I was totally enthralled by the past, but for some reason my life took a different path after leaving school and my first love was left on the back burner until I'd lived out my youthful years and indulged in more warlike pursuits. After the Falklands, though, I decided to go to university, get my degree, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Graves laughed at his own words, as did the others. He'd managed to put them at ease in the space of a few minutes. He knew that his short potted history of his life would do the trick, it usually did, and he smiled again as he addressed Joe Cutler.
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