“Wow, man, that's some view,” said Winston Fortune, amazed at the sheer beauty of the vision that met his eyes.
“I hardly knew England still had such places of unspoilt beauty,” added Cutler.
“It looks like it's barely changed in centuries,” came from Sally.
“Ah, but that's the whole point you see, Miss Corbett,” said Graves. “It has changed, and those changes are what have made our task all the more difficult. Where once ponds or lakes lay, there now exist the fields you see before you. Where forests of great oaks and pines once flourished, man has sought to render them redundant, and has cleared the way for fields of crops to grow to sustain the ever burgeoning population. Hills have shrunk, or grown and many Dark Age settlements have been buried beneath the progressive march of modern civilisation.”
“You make it sound like an impossible task,” said Cutler.
“Not impossible, Mr. Cutler, just difficult. That's why Mr. Capshaw chose those he considered best qualified to get the job done successfully.”
“That leads me to a question, Mr. Graves,” Winston suddenly cut in.
“Please, ask away, Mr. Fortune.”
“Why us? After all, we're surveyors not archaeologists. Wouldn't it have made more sense for Capshaw to hire a team of qualified archaeologists to conduct his search? Surely they would have known what to look for and how to go about it in a more methodical manner than us?”
“Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Mr. Fortune. On the surface you may have a point, but you have to bear in mind that most archaeologists have very fixed minds, despite what you may think to the contrary. To try to convince a senior member of that profession of the authenticity of the project would have taken too long as far as Mr. Capshaw was concerned, and then there would have been the added problem of the students.”
“Students?”
“Yes, Mr. Fortune, students. You see, archaeologists generally work on their own, so when a project comes along that requires field searches like this, and certainly where some form of digging or excavation is likely to be needed, such men will invariable turn to the student fraternity. Archaeology students would have been recruited to carry out the donkey work of the search under the guidance of some archaic old member of the intelligentsia and I can assure you that those students would have soon developed what I call a `loose tongue' syndrome, probably over a few beers one night in the pub, the secret would have been out in no time and the whole search area would have been inundated with treasure hunters and the like. No, Mr. Capshaw knew exactly what he was doing when he hired your employer here to conduct the search for Excalibur, with me as your guide and provider of historical reference.”
“So you're the archaic intelligentsia, and we're the donkeys, eh, man?”
“Well, not quite, Mr. Fortune, but yes, in a way that's true I suppose. Though I must say that you and your friends are being paid a far greater sum of money for your time and effort than a group of long-haired students.”
“Okay, everyone, enough chit-chat, let's get to work.” Joe Cutler had heard enough. He wanted to get the day's search underway.
It took less than forty-five minutes for Sally and Winston to position the markers and pins under the direction of Cutler who manned the central control point.
Before beginning work in earnest they gathered at the van, where Sally poured coffee for everyone from the two flasks she'd brought along that morning.
“Well, here's to success,” said Graves, raising his coffee mug high in the air.
“Mmm, success,” added Cutler, as the others merely stared at Graves.
“Tell me, Mr. Cutler, if for example an old pond or lake or river bed lay beneath the land in front of us, would your radar be able to detect it? You see, here on the old map there are a number of settlements marked that are obviously long gone, consigned to history's recycle bin, and then there are a number of streams and ponds and at least one larger body of water marked, none of which appear on today's maps. If we could find one or more of them we would have a definite point of reference that could point us in the exact direction of Livara.”
“Well, it's not quite that simple,” Cutler replied. “If there was a pond for example, and it simply dried up or was drained for some reason and left to nature's own devices, it's highly likely that it would have simply become overgrown with the natural vegetation that already existed around it. In such a case the radar would be unable to pinpoint it, as the infill would have been perfectly natural and the pond would have been purely reclaimed by the land. Such natural infill would be extremely hard to detect, if at all. On the other hand, if that pond had been drained and then filled in artificially by rocks or some sort of structure, or by having something `alien' buried in the resulting void and then covered over, then yes, the radar would give us a reading and we would have a possible site to investigate. Is that clear enough, Mr. Graves?”
“Quite clear, thank you. I think I see what you mean. Your ground penetrating radar is able to detect and indicate changes in the natural lie of the land where artificial means have been used to effect that change, yes? Natural changes would give you no reading?”
“Basically, yes,” said Cutler. “The map shows several ponds and streams as you say, but the likelihood is that they simply dried up and disappeared over the centuries, at least they did if I'm any judge of the natural way of things. Our best bet, if we don't stumble directly onto the swords' burial place is to perhaps find evidence of one of those settlements shown on the map. If there were structures anywhere on this land in the distant past and they've since been overgrown or become buried as the land dried out and the vegetation or arable settlement took their place, then we stand a chance of finding something.”
“Capital, Mr. Cutler, just capital. That's what I like to hear, a positive way of looking at the problem. So, let's get started everyone, shall we? We've got a sword to find.”
“What's with the we?” asked Winston five minutes later, as he and Cutler carried a pair of heavy spades over their shoulders as they walked back down the path through the wood. “Have you noticed that it's us who are doing all the carrying, man, while he just sits and watches?”
“As you said, Winston, we're just the donkeys.”
“Ha, bloody ha, boss, that's what I say, ha, bloody ha.”
“Oh come on, Winston. Where's your sense of humour?” asked Sally, bringing up the rear and carrying a small hand shovel and a knapsack containing spare batteries for the radar handset.
“I'll tell you where it's gone, Sally girl,” he remarked as he looked ahead to where Walter Graves was waiting at the edge of the open land. He nodded in the direction of the historian and spoke softly as he continued.
“Until we know for sure exactly who or what that man up ahead really is, my sense of humour has been sent on permanent sabbatical. I'll let you know when it comes back, okay, girl?”
“Whatever you say, big man, whatever you say,” said Sally.
Thirty minutes went by as Winston walked the grid along the strings laid out earlier. As the sun rose higher in the sky and the day grew warmer he suddenly stopped, checked that he was reading what he thought he was reading and spoke into his the mouthpiece of his communicator.
“Boss? Hey, boss, you there, man?”
“Yeah, Winston, what is it?”
“I got a reading, boss; I got a reading, man. I think we've found something. Fetch those spades man!”
Chapter 14
“New suit, Charlotte?”
“Yes, Mr. Capshaw, do you like it?”
“Very nice indeed, Charlotte. Come closer, there's a good girl.”
It was eleven thirty in the morning. Capshaw had no appointments for the next hour and Charlotte had a good idea what he had in mind as she approached the desk. The dark blue two-piece skirt suit carried an expensive designer label. Worn as it was today, with the open necked cream silk blouse that set the colour off perfectly, Charlotte knew full well that she could only afford such
luxuries as a result of the hugely inflated salary paid by her employer. Even so, even for Charlotte it was sometimes hard to do everything that was expected of her in order to earn it.
“Closer,” Capshaw ordered as Charlotte stopped about a yard from his desk. “Here, next to me.”
Charlotte did as told. Though she had few qualms about sharing Capshaw's bed when called upon to do so, she often felt uncomfortable when called upon to give in to his demands within the confines of the office. She always harboured a fear that someone would walk in on them one day and find her in the midst of the sexual act with her boss. She had some self-respect left, not much, but enough not to want to be found with her clothes in disarray and a panting Malcolm Capshaw between her legs in the middle of the day.
Capshaw's right hand moved slowly up the inside Charlotte's leg, slowly savouring the feel of the nylon as he slowly pushed the hem of her skirt upwards and his hand moved higher until he reached the bare flesh where her stocking top gave way to the naked flesh of her thigh. He grunted, and Charlotte inwardly shuddered.
“Open,” he commanded in a voice not to be argued with.
Slowly, she opened her legs as far as the confines of her skirt would allow. Capshaw's fingers began to probe between her legs. In accordance with Capshaw's instructions Charlotte wasn't wearing any underwear. As his fingers pushed into the warm wetness of Charlotte's private places the sound of the telephone ringing in the outer office gave her the opportunity she needed.
“Mr. Capshaw, the telephone,” she entreated.
“Bugger the telephone, stand still,” he ordered.
“It might be important,” she begged.
“I said let it ring,” he retorted, though she knew the spell was broken. Capshaw hated to be interrupted and his unsatisfied lust would probably now
give way to anger. She was right. Malcolm Capshaw removed his hand from Charlotte's heat, ran it down her leg until her skirt dropped back into place, and snapped at his secretary: “Answer the damned thing,” he growled. “And it had better be bloody important!”
Charlotte hurried from Capshaw's office as fast as her high heels could carry her, and closed the door behind her. Passing through the second door that led back to her own office she breathed a sigh of relief as she walked to her desk and pushed the `answer' button on the desk telephone.
“Mr. Capshaw's office,” she spoke into the receiver in her most professional voice.
“It's Maitland, put me through,” the voice at the other end of the line demanded.
“Right away, Mr. Maitland, just a moment.”
Charlotte buzzed her employer who answered immediately. She could almost feel the heat of his anger through the telephone.
“Well, who the bloody hell is it?” he snarled.
“It's Mr. Boris Maitland, sir,” she replied. “He sounds as if he's in a hurry.”
“He's always in a bloody hurry. Alright, put him through.”
Charlotte flicked a button on the desk phone. “Putting you through now, Mr. Maitland,” and closed the connection from her end, allowing Capshaw and Maitland to speak in private. Charlotte would never dare listen in on any of Capshaw's conversations and certainly not one with Boris Maitland.
If Charlotte was sometimes afraid of her employer, she was absolutely terrified of Boris Maitland. To her mind the man was a thug; a designer suited and well-spoken one it was true, but a thug nonetheless. He'd been to the office on at least half a dozen occasions in the past and Charlotte could never get over the cold, hard, penetrating look in his eyes. It was as if he could see straight into her soul, and that unnerved her greatly. Everything about Maitland made her uneasy and it had reached a point where just being in the same room as the man made her flesh creep. She knew that Malcolm Capshaw occasionally had dealings with certain people who were not entirely on the right side of the law, but how he'd got himself mixed up with a thug like Maitland was entirely beyond her understanding. From her own enquiries she'd learned that Boris Maitland and his brother Karl were suspected by the police to be the leaders of a notorious and murderous crime syndicate based in the heart of London. Between them the brothers were suspected of being responsible for at least a dozen murders. It appeared that if anyone got in the way of the Maitland brothers, they were apt to disappear from the face of the world for a time, only to be found at some later date, dead and hideously mutilated, perhaps by the propeller of a river boat, or churned up in the blades of a hotel rooftop air conditioning unit, that kind of thing.
Charlotte would have been very surprised to learn that Boris Maitland and Malcolm Capshaw were in fact very old friends, and that the two of them had been at the same school many years earlier. For now however she was simply very frightened at the mere mention of Maitland's name, and if she searched deep into her subconscious she might have been able to admit that her biggest fear was that Capshaw might at some future date order her to sleep with Maitland or his brother, perhaps as some kind of perverted favour.
“Well?” asked Maitland. “Have they made any progress?”
“Give them time, Boris. They've only been at it for a few days and it was raining solid for three of them.”
“Fuck the rain, and fuck you,” Maitland snapped. “I want the bloody job done, Malcolm old chap. We have to find it, and find it soon. I want results, and I thought you said you'd got good people working on it.”
“Bloody hell, Boris,” Capshaw replied, “It's been in the ground long enough, a few more days won't hurt. Graves is the best at what he does, and Cutler and his team are legit and reliable. If anyone can find it they can, believe me.”
“Listen, old boy,” said Maitland in his most cultured voice, “I've bankrolled this operation because the rewards are so high, but if anyone finds out what we're looking for and sticks their nose into our business the whole thing could blow up in our faces, you do know that don't you, old son.”
“No-one will find out. Trust me for God's sake, and stop getting so bloody worked up about the whole thing. We've invested a lot of money between us, so success is just as important to me as it is to you, you remember that, my old friend.”
“Yeah, right, well you just keep me posted, old son, you got that?”
“Course I will, Boris. Now for pity's sake get off my back and leave my people to get on with their jobs. When there's something to report I'll let you know, alright?”
“Right, well, I've got things to do. You mind what I said. While we're talking, how's that sexy little secretary of yours? She never sounds too pleased to hear my voice on the phone.”
“Charlotte's fine, thanks, Boris, and I'm sure you're imagining things when you talk to her. She's the most efficient secretary I've found in years, so hands off, d'you hear?”
“Efficient? Yeah, and the rest I'll bet, you old lecher. Don't you worry, Malcolm old boy, I won't play with your little toy, at least, not yet. Maybe one day you'll get tired of her, and then me and little Charlotte might have a little fun together.”
“Fuck off, Boris,” snarled Capshaw.
“You, too, Malcolm,” Maitland growled back, and then laughed.
“See you soon, old boy. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”
The phone went dead in Capshaw's hand. Furious that his fun with Charlotte had been interrupted by his impatient and at times grisly business partner he pressed the `call' button on his phone. Charlotte answered efficiently in two seconds.
“Charlotte. Get back in here now,” he ordered. “And don't bother with a notepad!”
Chapter 15
“Put your back into it, girl!”
“I am putting my back into it you great lummox,” Sally grinned in response to Winston's jovial urging. “Try doing the same yourself. You're twice my size.”
Between them, the two, with help from Cutler, had dug a large trench-like hole in the spot indicated by the radar. They were working in a pair, with each taking rest breaks so that they didn't all tire at the same time. In two hours they'd dug to a depth
of about one and a half metres, watched by Walter Graves who as usual had taken up his watchful stance in his camping chair. Never once had the historian offered his help as they toiled under the increasing glare of the sun as it rose higher in the sky.
“You sure ain't doing badly for a girl, that's for sure,” Winston admitted as he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow.
“I'm pleased to hear it I'm sure,” Sally replied, and then paused to throw a spadeful of earth in the direction of her fellow digger.
“Whoa,” shouted Winston as the soil splattered across his chest.
“Give over you two,” Cutler called from his place of rest on the grass a few metres away. “Come on, Sally, your turn for a break. Give me that spade.”
Sally gladly stepped out of the hole and handed the spade to Cutler as he stepped down to take her place. She looked down at Winston and added as a parting shot, “Keep sweating, big man. Hope you don't get too hot down there.”
Winston merely looked up, grinned at her and drove his spade deeper into the soft earth. His hands suddenly felt the resounding thud as the spade struck something hard and unyielding.
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