“That puts it well and truly in the modern age Winston,” Cutler commented.
“Oh yes, boss, too modern to have anything to do with Excalibur or King Arthur or Sir Pelleas or…”
“Okay Winston. I think you've made your point,” said Cutler.
“Listen, you two are getting me really worried now,” said Sally. “You're really saying that Mr. Graves isn't a historian, that he knows who's buried in the grave, and that we're not actually searching for Excalibur, despite what we've been told?”
“You catch on quick Sally,” Winston answered.
“Joe, this is starting to scare me,” she continued, looking almost imploringly at Cutler, as if he could take away the fear that had suddenly gripped her in a vice-like grip.
“I'm sorry, Sally.” Cutler tried to calm her. “I'm sure we'll get it all sorted out. But if Graves isn't on the level, then we have to assume that neither is Malcolm Capshaw. We may have been hired to find something of a more modern ilk than Arthur's sword, and that they don't trust us enough to tell us what it is.”
“You mean the whole thing is probably criminally connected,” Winston butted in,” and they daren't tell us what it's really about, `cause if they did they know we'd go running straight to the police.”
“Which we should have done straight away when we found that poor man in the grave today,” Sally added, a slight quiver appearing in her voice for the first time.
“In retrospect I think you're right. We should have done just that,” Cutler agreed, “regardless of what Graves said.”
“And the gun?” asked Winston. “He made you look a fool there didn't he boss?”
“I still think he has a gun, Winston,” Cutler said thoughtfully. “He probably caught me looking the other day, and thought up the pistol-grip screwdriver ploy to drive me away from the scent.”
“That makes him a very clever and very devious man,” Winston Fortune concluded.
“And the police? Why don't we call them now?” asked Sally.
“Look, I know you might think me a fool, and I'm sure Capshaw and Graves think me one, but I want to know what this is all about Sally. If we go to the police now, what do we actually have to report? A skeleton in a field with no known connection to Graves, as far as we know? He'd get round that one with his historical search ploy, no problem. A gun that only I've seen, and that was only a quick view of what I thought was the handgrip of a pistol. He'd show them the screwdriver. I don't think he'd have the gun where they could find it easily, knowing I've seen it he probably won't have it on his person any more while we're doing the job. They need real evidence for a search warrant, which they'd need to go searching in his room or his belongings, and I don't think we've got enough to give them at the moment. At the very worst he'd say we're in it together and we'd all end up being considered complicit in unearthing and then concealing a grave of someone who died a long time ago.”
“How do we know it was a long time ago? Winston said it was a fairly modern watch and blanket.”
“I said about fifty years old, I think,” said Winston, “and that's just a guess.”
“But it's certainly not ancient,” she went on.
“No, Sally,” Cutler continued, “but we need more before we can go to the police. Come on, be honest, don't you both want to know what's really going on here, because I do? I hate anyone trying to make a fool out of me.”
“I'm with you, boss,” said Winston Fortune, making his decision. “Let's go along with Graves until we find out what's going on and then if we confirm that he's up to no good we go to the cops with a cut and dried case against the creep.”
“And you, Sally? Are you with us?” asked Cutler.
Sally Corbett went quiet, and appeared lost in thought for a good thirty seconds. She was afraid of what they might unearth if they went on with this mad scheme, but she couldn't help be intrigued by the mystery that had grown around Walter Graves and the strange and possibly false nature of the search in which they'd become involved.
“Sally?” Cutler broke into her thoughts. “Well?”
“Call me a bloody fool as well then,” she said, taking a deep breath and forcing out a smile that betrayed only a hint of false bravado. “I'm with you, boss. Just promise me please, that if things start to look too dangerous or we do find out that Graves is involved is some sort of criminal activity we go straight to the police, without hesitation.”
“My word on it.” said Cutler, and rightly or wrongly, for better or worse, the three of them had made the decision to stick with the search, to try to outwit a man they barely knew, and who may or may not have been highly dangerous. For one of the three members of the Strata Survey team seated at that table that evening, the danger presented by Walter Graves would soon become all too evident, but for now, they were determined in their resolve to solve the mystery, and to find out who or what lay beneath the earth somewhere nearby that had caused Malcolm Capshaw to pay so much money and devise what appeared to be an elaborate deception in order to unearth it.
The decision made, they all seemed to relax a little, and soon all three rose from the table and made their way to their respective rooms to shower and change. Sally was also determined to try to contact Professor Doberman to try to ascertain what, if anything, he'd learned from the copy of the chronicle she'd e-mailed him that morning.
The answer, which she relayed to the others when they met in the bar a short while later before dinner, wasn't particularly encouraging.
“I spoke to Lucius from my room,” she informed the two men as they enjoyed a pre-dinner bottle of wine between them.
“Oh, it's `Lucius' now is it? said Winston, grinning that cheeky lascivious grin he used when in a tormenting mood. “What happened to Professor Doberman?”
“The professor asked me to call him Lucius,” said Sally indignantly. “I'm not a student any more as he said, and he prefers to be known by his given name to anyone other than those studying at the university. Anyway, are you interested in what he had to say or not?”
“Hey, sorry. I'm just pulling your leg, you know that.”
“Shut up, Winston,” Cutler ordered. “Please tell us, Sally. Was he able to enlighten you at all?”
“Well, as he said to begin with, it isn't easy to work with a copy such as I was able to send him. For a start he wasn't able to verify the age of the document, only the original would suffice for that purpose, so he's tried to concentrate on the wording of the document.”
“And?” Cutler prodded.
“He can't be sure, it's as simple as that I'm afraid. He says that the wording and writing style is typical of the era we're investigating, but the other difficulty is that he can't see the actual ink it was written with, which would apparently have given him a clue to the age of the chronicle. He did say, though, that there were one or two small anomalies in the text, almost as if the writer were `hesitating', as Lucius put it when writing certain letters, particularly some of the upper case letters at the beginning of various sections of the chronicle.”
“Like maybe he was looking at something he was trying to copy?” asked Winston. “As if he was a modern writer referring to an old text for the way to form those letters?”
“That's exactly the way Lucius put it!” she exclaimed.
“So, basically, your professor is saying that he thinks it's a fake?” asked Cutler.
“He's not saying that exactly, but he's recommending caution, that's all. He says that the information in the chronicle is interestingly tantalising, but is certainly like nothing he's ever seen or heard of before. He thinks it strange that such a document could have existed for so many years without anyone having even a hint of its existence, or of the information it contains. His own personal view and he stressed that it is only his own view, is that the whole thing may be a carefully contrived hoax. He said that there are always unscrupulous people who are prepared to perpetrate massive hoaxes and make money from `gullible fools' as he described them, who think they
can be the one to find the Holy Grail, or a long-lost DaVinci, or a new Biblical writing or some such thing. If, and again he stressed the word `if', this is a hoax, it may be that Capshaw has been taken in by someone out to make money from him by use of a fake Arthurian Chronicle. His final word was that he personally doesn't believe that the Arthurian legend is anything more than just that, a legend, and that we should be very careful about believing in a document which is wholly unsubstantiated by any known historical fact or point of reference.”
“Sounds to me as if the professor is stating his case quite unequivocally, Sally,” Cutler said thoughtfully as she finished her narrative of her conversation with Doberman. “The whole Chronicle of Gareth is a fake, that's what he's saying. I know you keep saying `in his opinion' but that's precisely why you contacted him wasn't it? To get his opinion?”
“I didn't want to be too discouraging, Joe,” she said quietly.
“Hell no, Sally. You and your professor have done a great job if you ask my opinion,” Winston added to the conversation. “What you say, boss?”
“I agree with Winston, Sally. I think that from now on we have to assume that the document and the map are bogus, and we should proceed with great caution.”
“Do you think that Graves is part of a plot to make money from Capshaw then, Joe?” Sally queried.
“I'm not sure what part Graves plays in all of this,” Cutler replied. “We have to remember that he's being paid by Capshaw, just as we are. Not only that, but he reports to Capshaw every day as far as I know, which in my book means the two of them are a lot closer than we might think. If he was part of a plot to make money out of Capshaw I don't think he'd be quite so `in' with him. No, I think that Capshaw is all part of bigger picture, a conspiracy of some kind that excludes us from the real nature of what's going on. We're the only dupes in this affair, Graves knows exactly what's going on, you mark my words.”
“So what do we do, boss?” asked Winston gravely.
“What do we do, Winston? Why, we have a damn good dinner, that's what we do. Then tomorrow, we go along with our friend Mr. Graves in his search for Excalibur, and while we're doing it, we try to find out exactly what the hell's going on and why someone thinks they can make bloody fools of the three of us!
Chapter 18
Walter Graves sat in the bar of Meare Manor, his brow etched with a frown that showed no sign of disappearing. He was sipping his second large brandy of the evening somewhat absent-mindedly, as though the warming liquid in the glass were nothing more than a prop to sustain his presence in the comfortable surroundings of the bar. His mind was obviously elsewhere as he appeared oblivious to the various comings and goings around him as other guests entered or left the bar, even managing to avoid the cheery `Good evening' launched in his direction from an elderly, slightly rotund gentleman of the old school, complete with handlebar moustache and navy blue blazer sporting the badge of the Royal Air Force. Had he looked up and acknowledged the man, Graves would have made the instant assessment that he was being spoken to by a retired Wing Commander, or group Captain or other such high ranking officer. His people-watching skills, usually one of his greatest assets and skills in the performance of his work had taken the evening off.
The skeleton had been a surprise, and an unwelcome one at that. Though he knew there'd been a chance that they'd unearth the remains of the man in grave, he'd considered the chance to be a small one and he certainly hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon in the search. Added to that was the fact that he'd had to lie on his feet, concocting a rapid explanation for the purposes of directing Cutler and the others away from the truth. He was clever, and well used to improvising and manipulating a situation when necessary, but this whole thing was getting a little too complicated for his liking.
Whether he'd managed to convince Cutler, Fortune and Corbett with his `plague victim' scenario was now the single-most important problem which beset his mind. He'd tried hard to prevent Fortune from seeing too much of the skeleton, making sure that he kept the majority of the remains covered by the blanket that had acted as a burial shroud, but had he done enough? He knew that Winston Fortune was no idiot; he was ex-Special Forces for God's sake, a trained observer with a quick eye. Not only that, but he couldn't be certain that the ruse with the screwdriver had been enough to deflect Cutler from the presence of the Ruger in his pocket. Again, Cutler was no fool, and Walter Graves was beginning to think that what had seemed a fairly simple job at the outset might just begin to turn a little messy before much more time had elapsed. Even Sally Corbett who he'd originally thought would be the one most likely to hang on his every word had appeared to be growing sceptical and more than a little cynical towards his historical knowledge, and his interpretation of the document.
He'd been putting off the call he knew he'd have to make sooner or later that evening, and as he glanced at his watch he knew that Malcolm Capshaw would have left his office at least an hour ago. He'd be at home by now, which was where Graves wanted him to be when he made the call. Better for Capshaw to be in the more relaxed surroundings of his own luxury home when Graves passed on the less than satisfactory news of the day's developments; or at least, that was theory. Walter Graves drained the last of the Napoleon Brandy from his glass, hardly appreciating the fine liquor as it slipped down his throat. He then made his way up to his room to make the call.
“You found what?” Malcolm Capshaw exploded at the end of the telephone line as Graves relayed the information about the discovery of the skeleton.
“Like I said, we found Hogan, or at least, what's left of him.”
“How can you be sure it was Hogan?”
“Come on,” said Graves. “How many bodies do you think are going to be lying around waiting to be discovered so close to what we're looking for? The age of the skeleton looked about right, certainly the blanket he was covered with was from the correct era, and the box they'd put him in was exactly like those described by your friend Maitland.”
“And Cutler and the others? What did they do?”
“They wanted to go running straight to the police, but I think I managed to convince them that the body was much older, probably a turn-of-the-century plague victim, carried away and buried away from the village or farm or wherever they lived in the hope of keeping infection at bay.”
“You think?” stormed Capshaw, so loudly that Graves held the phone away from his ear. “I'm paying you a great deal of money for your skills and expertise, to make this job run nice and smoothly and you hit a little problem and the whole thing is jeopardised. Do you realise how much time and money I invested in setting up the fake Excalibur documents just so you'd be able to keep those bloody surveyors nice and sweet and away from the real object of the search? Fucking hell, Graves! You're acting like a moron when I'm paying you to be a professional. If Cutler and his idiots learn what we're really after do you think for one minute that they'll keep quiet and just go along with it? They'll be running to the law as fast as their feet'll carry them.”
“Everything's under control. I can manage Cutler and his people. Don't worry about them.”
“It's not them I'm worried about. It's whether I've hired the right man for the job that worries me right now. Hogan disappeared over sixty years ago, and he was supposed to stay buried for ever. If the police ever find him we'll have next to no chance of finding what we're after. You'd better get things under better control than they are right now, Graves, and if Cutler and his people start to become a serious problem or a risk to the project then you'll have to arrange a little accident for our poor unfortunate surveyors. Do you understand what I'm getting at?”
“Of course I understand, but I assure you that things aren't as bad as you seem to believe them to be. Leave Cutler to me. I've promised them that if we don't find what we're looking for in five days then I'll go to the police with them and report the finding of the skeleton.”
“You've promised what?”
“Look, it doesn't matter
either way, does it? If we do find what we're after then Cutler and his crew will have served their purpose anyway and they'll quietly disappear forever as arranged. If we don't find it in that time then we'll still have to say goodbye to Strata Survey Systems. Either way, they'll have no chance to voice their worries to the law. As long as I can keep them believing in Excalibur, they'll keep working and we'll have more chance of success than if we dump them now and try to find replacements.”
“I just hope for your sake that they do believe you, Graves. You'd better be bloody convincing in your role as a professor of history, that's all I can say.”
“You seem to forget,” said Graves solemnly into the telephone, “that I am a professor of history.”
“As well as everything else,” Capshaw replied menacingly. “Don't you ever forget, Mister Graves, that I know exactly who you are and what you do. That's why you work for me, remember?”
“As if you'd ever let me forget,” said Graves resignedly, and wishing that he'd never set eyes on the man on the other end of the phone line.
“Now, now, Mr. Graves, let's be fair about this. You might think I exploit your talents to my advantage, which I do of course, but you are also extremely handsomely rewarded for your efforts. Now please, just get on with what I'm paying you for, and find what you're being paid to find.”
“I'll find it, don't worry,” said Graves, but the line was already dead.
Malcolm Capshaw had made his point and hung up on the historian. It was clear to Graves that he had little choice other than to try to play out the Excalibur scenario as long as he could. He still had his trump card to play of course. If Cutler looked like getting too close to the truth, Graves would take and use Sally Corbett as leverage to convince Cutler and Fortune to go on with the search. In fact he almost wished that Cutler would force him into that particular option. Walter Graves decided that he would quite appreciate getting up close and personal with Miss Sally Corbett.
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