Glastonbury

by Brian L. Porter

  For now, though, it was time to eat, enjoy a couple more brandies, and then to get some much needed sleep. Graves anticipated a busy and interesting few days ahead of him, he needed as much sleep as he could get. He wanted to be bright and alert for any sign of suspicion from Cutler and his people. Duck in a redcurrant sauce formed the basis of the meal he enjoyed that evening in the dining room at Meare Manor. He was quite enjoying his stay at the old guest house; despite the trials and tribulations of the days this was a first-rate place to spend his evenings. A few more drinks after dinner and Walter Graves had relaxed to the extent that when he returned to his room and undressed and climbed into bed, he was asleep within seconds.

  The sound of the back of Malcolm Capshaw's right hand connecting with the side of Charlotte Raeburn's face shattered what was left of the peace in his bedroom in Stratford.

  “Get out,” he shouted at the unfortunate girl, the only one he could vent his feelings on now that he'd hung up on Walter Graves. Charlotte reeled from the blow, her face burning where his hand had made painful and firm contact.

  “But, Mr Capshaw, what have I done?”

  “Don't argue with me you ungrateful bitch, just get the hell out. I'll see you in the office in the morning.”

  Charlotte rose tearfully from the bed, still naked, and crossed the room to where her clothes lay draped over the back of one of the two armchairs which adorned Capshaw's bedroom. She dressed quickly, and turned to face her employer once more.

  “Mr. Capshaw?”

  “What, are you still here?” he asked sardonically.

  “Don't you remember, sir? I came with you in your car. You wanted me to stay tonight and go into the office with you tomorrow. My car's still in the car park at work. How will I get home?”

  “Why should I care?” He asked quite brutally, then hesitated before reaching into a drawer beside the bed and pulling out a wallet stuffed with twenty pound notes, two of which he threw haphazardly into the air, where they floated gently to the floor and lay on the think pile carpet.

  “Pick it up,” he ordered, and as a shamefaced Charlotte complied he added: “Go downstairs and phone for a taxi, and leave me in peace. And don't be late in the bloody morning!”

  Feeling more of a whore than she ever had in her entire life Charlotte left the bedroom as fast as her feet would take her, ran down the stairs and phoned the first taxi firm whose number she could find in the local directory. Ten minutes later the cab arrived and she let herself out of the mansion clutching the forty pounds. It would cost only half that for the taxi ride home, the rest was obviously her compensation for her `services' for the evening. As the cab carried her towards her own home her hand reached up to touch the flesh where Capshaw had slapped her. Her skin was hot to the touch, and she worried about a bruise showing by morning. Strangely, Charlotte felt more hatred and disgust for herself than she did for the man who was so quick to use and abuse her. After all, he did it because he paid her for the privilege of doing so, in Charlotte's case she couldn't even begin to figure out why she allowed herself to be used in that way, and that, more than anything was the reason for her self-loathing at that moment.

  As the taxi sped through the dark through the streets of Shakespeare's hometown Charlotte Raeburn decided she had to escape the clutches of Malcolm Capshaw. It was a good job, there was no doubting that, but the price of earning the right to be the highly paid personal secretary of the brutal and sadistic millionaire was beginning to seem a little too high for Charlotte.

  Chapter 19

  Dazzling fingers of sunlight streamed through the window of Joe Cutler's room as he sat with his feet up on the bed the following morning. He'd pulled one of the curtains halfway across the window to prevent the sun from shining directly into his eyes and now he checked the time on his watch for the third time in as many minutes. Breakfast for Joe had been a hurried affair, and he'd left Winston and Sally to finish their third cup of coffee together as he needed to make a very important phone call from the privacy of his room.

  As soon as his watch read eight-thirty Joe dialled his own office number. The ever reliable Mavis Hightower answered on the second ring.

  “Mavis, hello. How are you?” he enquired.

  “Fine as ever, Mr. Cutler, thank you for asking.”

  Another minute of pleasantries had passed amiably between them before Cutler directed the conversation to the business at hand.

  “So tell me, Mavis, how's the amateur sleuthing been going?”

  “We'll have less of the `amateur' if you don't mind, Mr. Cutler. I'll have you know I've been very busy on your behalf, and I think I may have come up with one or two little surprises for you.”

  “No insult intended, Mavis. I know you never do things by halves. Now don't keep me in suspense. What have you got for me?”

  “Well now. Let's take your Mr. Malcolm Capshaw for starters. On the surface he's everything your original cursory checks indicated.”

  Cutler winced at Mavis's use of the word `cursory', the word becoming a fierce accusation on the lips of his trusted employee.

  “Millionaire businessman, financier and international trader in stocks, shares, and in short, almost anything that poses as a saleable commodity. He's well known as a backer of various archaeological and historical projects around the world and his name is mentioned on the plaques adorning more than a few exhibits on display in many of the world's great museums. It's what's behind the public façade that should interest you though, Mr. Cutler.”

  Mavis paused for effect. It worked.

  “Come on, Mavis, what is it?”

  “Malcolm Capshaw seems to have another, less well publicised side to his business, and indeed to his personality. Very few people are aware that he was born and went to school in the old east End of London, not far from the old stomping grounds of Jack the Ripper himself. His closest friend at school, and I might add one with whom he is still in close contact, was none other than a certain Mr. Boris Maitland.”

  “Maitland? You don't mean…?”

  “Oh yes I do mean,” said Mavis triumphantly. “Your Mr Capshaw is closely allied with Boris and his brother Karl, and one of the biggest criminal fraternities in the whole of London. Though the police have so far failed to pin anything serious on the brothers, they are known to be responsible for dozens of major crimes committed in the last few years. They've just been very clever, always managing to keep one step ahead of the law. It's suspected that Capshaw's millions have helped them more than once in their efforts to evade justice, not to mention that he may be up to his eyes in whatever criminal activity they're involved in.”

  “Bloody hell, Mavis! You didn't get that little lot from an internet web page. Where on earth have you been digging?”

  “Ah, well, there you are you see. You should never underestimate little grey haired old ladies, now should you, Mr. Cutler?

  “Anyway, I did tell you once, though I imagine you've forgotten, that my nephew Eric is a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police. When I called him and told him that you'd accepted a contract with Malcolm Capshaw and that I was worried that you might be in a bit of trouble and had he heard of him, it was hard to shut him up. The Met have a file on Capshaw an inch thick, and growing, as Eric put it, and it's not only in business that he has a reputation for playing dirty. He's also known to have some, how shall we say, less than savoury appetites of a sexual nature. In other words, he likes it rough, Mr. Cutler, and any woman who gets involved with Capshaw had better watch out. Apparently, his money was the only thing that managed to keep him out of court when one of his previous secretaries reported him to the police for rape. Two days after she made the allegation she suddenly withdrew it, and though the police couldn't prove it they were sure that Capshaw had bought her silence. Put it this way, she left a very small one roomed apartment and moved into a beautiful detached house in the country not long after she dropped the charges, so you just have to make up your own mind.”

  A men
tal picture of Capshaw's current secretary leaped into Cutler's mind, that apparently cold and hard nosed girl in the smart business suit who'd shepherded him in and out of Capshaw's office a couple of weeks ago. Suddenly, he didn't despise the girl quite so much. Perhaps behind that cold exterior she was simply hiding a fear of her employer, though Cutler knew there was little he could do to prove or disprove that particular theory. He did know, however, that he was beginning to like Malcolm Capshaw less and less with each word that came to him over the telephone from the mouth of Mavis Hightower. With that dislike came more than a growing suspicion that he, Winston and Sally might be in over their heads in something far bigger than he could have imagined. His attention returned to Mavis who was far from finished.

  “Apparently, the poor girl was covered in bruises when she staggered into the police station, so it must have cost him an arm and leg to buy her silence after something like that. Eric says the report stated she was in a bad way, Mr. Cutler. It must have been his money and her fear of the man that made her drop the charges, nothing else makes sense. You must be careful with that man, really you must.”

  “I'll be careful, no doubt about it, Mavis, you can count on it. Now, what about Graves? I don't suppose you have another nephew squirreled away in the Department of Education or whatever the governing body is for history professors?”

  “I did even better than that, Mr. Cutler, much better than that in fact. You told me that Walter Graves served in the army before taking his doctorate so I started at the only logical place.”

  “Which was?”

  “Why, Betty Hunter of course.”

  “Betty Hunter, Mavis? I can't wait to hear this one, go on.”

  “Well, Betty is a great friend of mine, lives two doors away from me, and she works at G.C.H.Q.”

  “Spy Central,” Cutler interrupted.

  “Yes, well, when I told Betty of your little predicament with the man, she phoned a friend of hers at the Ministry of Defence and, Bob's your uncle, she came back to me with all I needed to know.”

  “Er, Mavis, isn't your friend bound by the Official Secrets Act or something like that? Should she have been telling you all this? She might get into trouble.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Cutler, it's quite all right. We're friends after all.”

  Mavis said this as if it excused any possible breach of national security committed by her friend in revealing details about Walter Graves to her. It couldn't possibly be wrong if they were friends, could it?

  “Oh well, that's alright then, Mavis. Please, go on.”

  “Anyway, she didn't actually tell me anything at all. She just sort of dropped subtle hints, and I filled in the gaps with intuitive guesses and when I was on the button so to speak, Betty just gave me an affirmative response. So there you are, everything is quite alright, I assure you.”

  Amazed, astounded and delighted at his office manager's depth of duplicity and talent for covert undercover investigation, Cutler waited for Mavis to get to the point.

  “So, where were we? Oh yes, Walter Graves. Mr. Graves was indeed a soldier, and a highly well-thought of one at that. He was highly decorated and fought in the Falklands campaign and was at the Battle for Goose Green and took part in the liberation of Port Stanley. He held the rank of Major and was respected and admired by all those who served under him, and also by his superiors. Unfortunately, there was a hint of some minor scandal surrounding an action he was involved in while in the Falklands, something to do with the treatment of prisoners of war. It never became public knowledge and Graves was allowed to resign his commission and return to the UK without a stain ion his character. Whatever happened in the Falklands was quietly covered up and forgotten, not because of any loyalty to Graves himself, but the mission he was on was apparently of a highly sensitive nature and it was deemed `not in the public interest' for the specifics of the mission to be revealed.

  “Anyway, Graves soon gained a place at Oxford, where he graduated with honours and began his new career as a historian. He discovered he had a talent for the `Indiana Jones' type of adventure and it was his penchant for becoming involved in all manner of overseas expeditions that probably brought him to the attention of Capshaw. Five years ago he was offered the professorship at his college, which he accepted on condition he was allowed to pursue his exterior researches. The college agreed and he's still there today.”

  “Is that all, Mavis?” asked Cutler, sensing more to come.

  “Oh no, Mr. Cutler, that most certainly is not all. They're only rumours, of course, but it seems that trouble and tragedy seem to follow Mr. Graves around. On more than one occasion, people with whom he's been in competition in order to discover or unearth certain historical artefacts have met with unfortunate `accidents'. Over the last three years those accidents have resulted in at least three fatalities, though as I said, they can only be connected to Walter Graves by virtue of rumour and innuendo. In short, if Malcolm Capshaw is to be considered corrupt and criminally inclined, I would say that Walter Graves should be considered highly dangerous and the man should be avoided if at all possible.”

  Mavis fell silent, and Cutler took a deep breath before replying to her report.

  “Mavis, you should have been in MI5, or some such branch of the intelligence services. You're quiet amazing, d'you know that?”

  “Why, thank you,” she replied gracefully.

  “I can't tell you how much all that information helps. At least we know to some extent who and what we're dealing with now, thanks to you and your nephew, and Mrs. Hunter, of course. Please thank them both for me, won't you?”

  “Oh I will, when the time is right,” Mavis went on. “It wouldn't do to let them know I was passing on all this secret information to you now, would it?”

  Cutler laughed.

  “Mavis Hightower, you're incorrigible, but I don't know what we'd do without you. Thank you, really, you've discovered far more than I thought you would in such a short space of time.”

  “You're welcome, Mr. Cutler,” she replied. “Oh, there was one more thing that Eric mentioned about the Maitlands.”

  “Oh yes, what was that Mavis?”

  “Well, their father Albert was never as big a fish in the criminal pond as their grandfather Samuel. Albert was a bit of a wimp by London Gangland standards and he was killed by a rival gang in an execution style shooting when the boys were only five and seven. Samuel brought the boys up himself and it's rumoured that he always told them that one day they'd reap the biggest legacy they could imagine. All they had to do was find it. This came from his ex-wife Moira who died in suspicious circumstances some time after she'd told the story to her own mother, and well, you know how old ladies talk and rumours begin?”

  “Oh yes, Mavis, I know just what you mean.” Cutler laughed softly into the phone.

  “I just wondered if this so-called `legacy' might have something to do with why you're all in Glastonbury.”

  “Hmmm, we'll have to wait and see, won't we, Mavis? Now, thanks again, but I have to go. I'm going to have to go to work. I'll keep checking in with you. If you learn any more…”

  “Don't you worry, Mr. Cutler; I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out.”

  The two said their goodbyes, and Joe Cutler made his way out of his room, along the corridor and down the stairs to the foyer of the guest house where Winston and Sally waited. He'd have to fill them in on Mavis's report as they drove to meet Graves.

  As they walked out onto the street outside the Rowan tree, the sun that had been shining so brightly a little earlier disappeared behind a large bank of cumulus that hung like a shroud over the town. The grey cloudy atmosphere that replaced the earlier warmth seemed to suit Cutler's mood entirely. Any flippancy he may have felt about the task ahead of them, any thoughts he'd harboured that it would be easy to outwit Graves and in doing so solve the mystery of their presence in Glastonbury now hung by a thread in Joe Cutler's mind. As Winston Fortune turned the ignition key and the van's engine
kicked itself into life, Cutler wondered just how to tell Winston and Sally of what he'd just learned. He'd try hard not to show it, not to let them know how bad things might be, but in truth, Joe Cutler was a very worried man.

  Chapter 20

  Joe Cutler wasn't the only one to feel a sense of trepidation that morning. Malcolm Capshaw hated leaving his home in Stratford except to travel to work or to one of his favourite night-time drinking haunts. He'd moved to the beautiful and peaceful birthplace of William Shakespeare five years earlier, after the unfortunate incident with that stupid girl Maggie. He'd made it plain to her exactly what was expected of her when he gave her the job as his secretary, (or at least he thought he'd made it clear), and then she cried rape the first time he imposed his sexual desires on her. He'd paid the bitch a tidy sum of money to drop the charges and move out of London, but he also felt that the time had come when he should also seek new pastures.

  He'd decided on Stratford-on-Avon after much deliberation. The price of both commercial and private property was well within his means. Something about Stratford seemed to suggest an air of respectability and stability. Capshaw was keen to get out of London and it took less than a month for him to locate suitable office premises and a further two weeks to decide upon the palatial house that he now called home.

  London soon became less substance and more memory in his mind as his business expanded and he found it less and less necessary to visit the city. Only his connection with the Maitlands tied him to London. Most of the time his business with them was conducted by phone or e-mail, with the brothers occasionally travelling to Stratford to deal face-to-face with Capshaw when the need arose. Only rarely did Boris Maitland insist upon Capshaw's presence in the Capital, and after Capshaw had relayed the latest information from Glastonbury to him the night before Maitland had made it clear that this was to be one of those occasions.

  As his driver sped along towards London, Malcolm Capshaw did his best to switch his mind off from the coming meeting with the Maitland brothers. He tried to focus on the view from the car window, the green fields, the trees, the villages and towns they passed along the way, but all the time the thought that he'd soon be back in London, and facing the possible displeasure of the Maitlands returned. As hard and corrupt as Capshaw himself might be, Boris and Karl Maitland still had the power to instil fear in the millionaire businessman. They were perhaps the only people in the world who possessed that ability. Ever since their days at school together Boris in particular had wielded a certain level of influence over Malcolm Capshaw. They'd been friends, that was true, but Maitland had always been the dominant partner in their friendship, able to manipulate and control Capshaw, to bend him to accept the Maitland way of thinking and doing things, and so it had continued into adulthood.