“Perhaps you'll allow me to join you all for a meal this evening, Mr Cutler, after you've all showered and changed, of course. We can maybe discuss our plan of action for the search over a good meal and a couple of drinks?”
“We'd be delighted,” said Cutler. “We can all get to know each other a bit better. After all, we'll be working closely together for the next couple of weeks, won't we?”
“That's settled then.” Graves clapped his hands together much in the way as they would have expected a history professor to do. “I'll let you go now, and meet you here in an hour if that's alright. I've some calls I have to make and I'm quite comfortable sitting here enjoying a good whisky.”
Graves reached into his pocket and took out a mobile phone which he sort of waved at the others, as if to show them he really did have some calls to make.
“Well, we'll see you soon then,” said Cutler as he rose and led the others towards the door way.
“I shall look forward to it, Mr. Cutler,” smiled Graves as they left.
As the three of them made their way to their respective rooms to wash off the grime of the day, Graves keyed a number into his phone, sat back in his chair with his whisky in one hand and, hearing a voice reply at the other end of the line, he spoke quietly and professionally to the man who answered.
“Hello, that you, sir? It's Walter Graves here. I've arrived in Glastonbury.”
He listened as the other man spoke.
“Don't worry; I know what I'm doing. I'll get the job done, don't you worry about that, and no, sir, they don't suspect a thing.”
Capshaw said something at the other end of the line and Graves simply replied with a “Yes, sir,” before hanging up and relaxing once again, taking another sip of his whisky. He made a couple of other calls to no-one of particular connection to the job in hand, his broker, his bookmaker, and a friend at the college he taught at, and then spent the rest of his time waiting for the others by sitting and admiring Mrs. Cleveley's daughter Claire as she worked behind the bar. As attractive as Claire was, however, Graves wouldn't allow himself to entertain any thoughts in that direction, not while he had a job to do. He couldn't help thinking though, as Claire moved around the room clearing empty glasses from a few of the tables in her white blouse and short black skirt, that the landlady's daughter had a dammed fine pair of legs.
Cutler and the others arrived exactly an hour after they'd left the bar, and Graves turned his thoughts away from Claire and back to his professional responsibilities. He smiled and rose as they entered the bar. He reached out his hand once again, greeting the Strata Survey team as if they were old and valued friends. Sally even took his arm as they walked the short distance to Mrs. Cleveley's dining room, and the four of them enjoyed a splendid roast beef dinner before returning once again to the bar, where the evening's real work took over and the conversation turned to things ancient and mysterious.
Chapter 8
By the time Graves left them it was almost eleven p.m. and by then their minds were alive with the tales he'd told them of those bygone days that many believed to be nothing more than myth. They'd been enthralled and intrigued by the names of some of the Knights of the Round Table; names like Sir Aglovale, son of King Pellinore of Listinoise, Sir Bors, King of Ganne (Gaul), and Sir Dagonet, the court jester. Graves had been totally enthused by his rendering of his stories, which included tales of Sir Palamedes the Saracen and Sir Ywain the Bastard. Sally had found some of the names quite amusing, particularly the last one, though there were other, less fantastically named Knights such as Sir Daniel, Sir Lionel and Sir Gareth.
Graves had told them of Avalon, Camelot, Viviane the Lady of the Lake and Tintagel, Arthur's birthplace, and had related all he said to them in terms of the words being fact as opposed to legend or fiction. If what he'd told them was true, (and of course it had to be if they were to succeed in their search), then a great part of English history had been submerged into the dark mists of time, buried in Dark Ages myth and legend. The big question was why? Even Graves hadn't ventured a speculation on that one, though he did have a theory that he'd told them he might share with them as their work progressed.
Cutler and Graves had agreed that the four of them would meet at Meare Manor the following morning at eight. The manor was on the way to the first search area pinpointed by Graves as being of possible interest to them. He'd explained that the map provided by Capshaw had been drawn up over a thousand years ago, and as they all knew, the topography of the land had altered appreciably since then. Not only that, but the scale of the map was in some doubt, and some of the directions and positions of markers on the paper were not as he had expected them to be. In short, the map itself was something of a puzzle, a conundrum, with indistinct and possible misleading entries contained within it, perhaps to prevent an `unauthorised' person from discovering its secrets. He thought that only those with special knowledge and authority in Arthur's day would have been able to decipher the map without any trouble, and he made it clear to Cutler that though he was an authority on the subject, even he would have difficulty directing them to a precise burial location.
“That's precisely why Mr. Capshaw enlisted the services of your company, Mr. Cutler,” Graves had informed him. “If it was as easy as ABC he could have simply sent me along with a team of diggers and we could have gone straight to Excalibur's burial place and dug it up. No, we need you and your ground penetrating radar system. I'll do my best to guide you to every possible location and the rest will be up to you. I have to try and re-orientate the map into today's geographical topography, which is not as easy as it sounds, I assure you, as there have been so many changes over the years.”
“Hang on a minute,” Sally had butted in. “What you're saying is that it's possible that Excalibur is buried somewhere beneath a twentieth century housing or industrial development, and if that's the case we'll never find it below tons of reinforced concrete or an asphalt road.”
“That is indeed a possibility, though a remote one I assure you, Miss Corbett. From my study of the map I'm reasonably certain that the sword is buried well away from today's built up or paved areas. I have every reason to believe that Excalibur is located well outside the boundaries of modern-day Glastonbury. Had I thought differently I would have told Capshaw that there was high chance of failure and it would have been unlikely that he would have financed the search on that premise.”
“So we were wasting our time with today's search?” asked Winston.
“Not at all, Mr. Fortune,” Graves replied. “Mr. Cutler and your good selves made an informed deduction based on your own reading of the document and the map, and you may well have stumbled upon Excalibur on your first try. At least you know that everything is working correctly, and we can also discount that locale from our search area, so the process of elimination has begun. Don't think for one minute that you've wasted your time, I assure you that both Mr. Capshaw and I appreciate the start you've made even if you were barking up the wrong tree, so to speak.”
The evening had broken up soon afterwards and after Graves had departed Joe Cutler and the others sat in the bar for a while discussing their new temporary associate.
“Well, he certainly seems to know what he's talking about,” said Sally Corbett, “and he fervently believes in the Arthurian stuff by all accounts.”
“I'm not sure I trust him, man,” Winston Fortune replied, a deep frown engraved on his brow. “Somethin' about the man just doesn't sit right with me.”
“I'm with Winston I'm afraid, Sally,” Joe continued the conversation. “He may know his stuff, and I don't doubt his credentials, they're too easy to check if we wanted to, but there's something about him as Winston says. I can't put my finger on it, but it seems as though Capshaw has taken Mr. Walter Graves far deeper into his confidence than he has me, and that's a little worrying. He seems too close to the man for my liking.”
“But what's to be suspicious about a historian?” asked Sally. “Surely you can't thin
k he's up to no good?”
“I'm not sure what he's up to, Sally, but I just think we should keep a close eye on Mr. Graves.”
“I agree with the boss man, Sally girl,” said Winston. “Can't quite fathom it, but he smells of something other than college libraries and old parchment.”
“I think you're both being positively absurd,” said Sally as she got up to leave the bar. “He's a perfectly respectable and likeable man, and I think you're being very disrespectful towards him. After all, he's here to help us find the sword. What can possibly be wrong with that?”
“Nothing, Sally. Nothing at all,” Joe Cutler replied. “It's what else he might be here for that worries me.”
“Oh, don't be silly,” she said as she walked towards the door. “I'm going to bed. I'll see you two at breakfast.”
“Goodnight, Sally,” said Cutler, and Winston echoed his words as Sally disappeared from view.
After she'd gone Winston turned to Cutler and said, “You really think there's something fishy about him then, boss?”
“I'm not sure, Winston. Maybe it's just the way he kept gawping at Sally's cleavage, or staring at Claire's legs whenever she came out from behind the bar. I just think he's an old lecher, and I don't think I trust him one little bit. I don't think he's quite as warm and genuine as he makes out. When I looked into his eyes I felt as if there was something a bit cold and unnatural about Mr. Walter Graves.”
“What you expect, man, with a name like that?”
“Oh no, Winston,” said Joe Cutler, in his parting shot for the night. “Whatever is wrong with our Mr. Graves, it goes far deeper than that, far deeper than I'd care to imagine.”
“Now you're scaring me, boss man.”
“Sorry. I'm probably just being paranoid. Just go get some sleep, we'll feel better in the morning, and start afresh.”
They parted on that point, going to their rooms, where both Cutler and Fortune soon fell asleep. Cutler slept well as usual, though for Winston it was a night beset by dreams, dreams of things he'd rather not talk about when he rose to meet the dawn the following day.
Chapter 9
Malcolm Capshaw replaced the phone on its cradle, reached out and switched off the lamp beside the bed and plunged the room into darkness. As he settled back into a comfortable position the warm and semi-slumbering figure beside him stirred into wakefulness.
“Is everything okay?” asked a sleepy Charlotte Raeburn.
“Mmm,” Capshaw relied. “That was Graves. He's spent the evening with Cutler and his people. They seem to be well-hooked on his historical scenario and let's face it, why should they doubt him? He's got all the papers and documents, the map, and he is a history professor after all. He thinks they're well primed for the task ahead. They should carry out the search for Excalibur in good faith. They won't know a thing until it's too late. He's a good man is Walter Graves. I couldn't have picked a better man for the job.”
As a personal secretary Charlotte Raeburn was about as compliant as Capshaw could wish for. Despite her cold and unfeeling exterior, she was efficient, totally reliable, and able to keep her mouth shut. As such, he was able to take her into his confidence knowing that Charlotte would assist his plans in any way she could in order for her to continue to be paid the lucrative salary with which he rewarded her. There was also of course the small matter of keeping his bed warm at night, and providing him with the use of her body whenever the mood took him.
Capshaw in turn saw nothing wrong in using Charlotte's body for his personal sexual gratification. He paid her enough, after all. She was good at her job, yes, but then so were a hundred others out there. He had only to call any reputable secretarial agency and for the money he was offering he could take his pick of the best secretarial staff in the country. The thing he liked about Charlotte, if Malcolm Capshaw could be said to like anything, was her unfailing loyalty and willingness to `turn a blind eye' to some of his more nefarious business dealings. Not only that, but she was more than willing to assist him in return for him providing her with a lifestyle she could otherwise have only imagined.
From Charlotte's point of view, she knew that he probably thought of her as little more than his private whore, which she knew herself to be, but at least Capshaw's sexual demands weren't excessively demanding so far, and the whole thing was usually over quickly. Charlotte had had three lovers in her life before working for Capshaw, and two of them had also been her employers at the time, and she saw nothing wrong with providing such `personal' services for her boss as long as the financial rewards were adequate.
She'd been with him long enough by now to know almost every aspect of Capshaw's business empire inside out. All of his dealings, both legitimate and not quite so legitimate were recorded in her almost computer-like analytical brain, and Charlotte had managed to make herself almost indispensable to the man who now lay beside her. She was enough of a realist, however, to know that if ever the time came when Malcolm Capshaw felt the need to dispense with her services, he would be as ruthless with her as with any of those unfortunate business associates who had had the misfortune to fall foul of the millionaire business man in the past. She hadn't known of the shady side to Malcolm Capshaw when she'd first taken the job as his secretary. She was now far too deeply involved with his empirical aspirations and dealings to be able to take the risk of baling out, not that she wanted to at this time. She just hoped that if ever the time did come when Capshaw wanted to terminate her employment her payoff would be of the financial rather than the painful kind.
It was Charlotte who had found and suggested Strata Survey Systems as being the ideal choice for the current task. A small but highly regarded company, they advertised the fact that they used the latest state-of-the art ground penetrating radar in their work, and that client confidentiality was top priority. She'd checked out the credentials of Joe Cutler and those who worked alongside him. He'd inherited a sizable legacy on the death of his mother, and had left his previous employment with a large multi-national corporation specialising in international contract work to set up his own business. They'd even done work for various police forces in the short time the company had been in existence, so no-one would suspect them of being involved in anything other than a highly legitimate and worthwhile historical search project when the time came for them to begin digging around in the Glastonbury countryside. Cutler had done well for himself and had recruited good people to work with him. She'd also found Marchant, the private detective who'd carried out an in-depth investigation into Cutler's past. If it were ever needed, Capshaw was armed with a full and comprehensive dossier on Joseph Cutler that ran from his childhood to the present day.
Blackmail was only one of many avenues that Malcolm Capshaw was prepared to resort to if he felt it would help him achieve his goals in life. After all, that was precisely the way he'd first managed to bring Walter Graves on board for a job that had entailed a little more than the usual expertise exhibited by a history professor. When a rival entrepreneur had threatened to beat Capshaw to the site of a hidden hoard of Nazi gold secreted beneath the dark and gloomy waters of a Norwegian fjord, Capshaw had enlisted the help of Graves in misdirecting the rival teams' expedition while his own divers raised the horde from its actual resting place. When Graves had at first shown a degree of reluctance to become involved with the venture Capshaw had informed Graves that he was in possession of certain documents relating to the unauthorised shooting of two Argentinean prisoners of war during the Falklands campaign some years previously for which Graves had been ultimately responsible, though no charges had been brought at the time. Capshaw was sure that the authorities would be interested in Graves' secret past, as would his current employers. Faced with the threat of exposure of the sorry episode that had convinced Graves to leave the army and enter a more peaceful world of employment, he had reluctantly accepted Capshaw's commission and travelled to Norway as instructed and succeeded in delaying Capshaw's rivals long enough for his employer's people to fin
d the gold and have it flown back to England, where it was soon secretly `fenced' through various international dealers and the proceeds added to Capshaw's personal fortune.
Unfortunately, the man who had first stumbled upon Graves's past whilst carrying out a background check on him for Capshaw, a private investigator by the name of Silas Bowling, somehow got wind of the fact that Capshaw had come into a large sum of money that had something to do with Graves' involvement with the millionaire businessman. Foolishly, Bowling had tried to extort a larger fee from Capshaw as a means of buying his silence in the affair and Capshaw had made sure that Graves would be forever tied to him by sending the former army officer to ensure the detective's permanent silence. Much to his own disgust, Graves had been compelled to bring his Ruger 9mm out of retirement, and Silas Bowling was later recorded at an inquest as having been killed by `person or persons unknown' as he walked from his office to his car one dark and stormy night.
That was why it had been important for Charlotte to find a new and reliable private investigator, one who wouldn't ask too many questions, and who would do the job he was paid for without coming back for more. Marchant had fit the bill perfectly, and if there were a next time Capshaw knew that he would be a reliable and worthy occasional employee.
Capshaw turned towards Charlotte Raeburn in the dark. He'd made love to her earlier that evening, and Charlotte fully expected that now he'd received the telephone call from Graves, he would be ready to drape his arm over her as usual and fall asleep until the morning. Tonight was different, however. His arm didn't drape across her, instead his hand came to rest on her breast, and Charlotte knew that Capshaw needed her again. Though unusual, it wasn't unheard of for him to require the use of her body twice in one night. Obviously, the thought that his latest scheme was officially underway had served to excite something in her boss, and Charlotte knew there would be no putting him off, not if she wanted to keep her job at any rate.
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