“Oh come on, Joe,” Sally retorted. “Since when have I been a member of the feminist lobby?”
“True,” said Winston thoughtfully. “Must be somethin' to do with that nice pair of legs you flash at us now and then when you come down to the bar or for dinner.”
Sally playfully punched Winston on the arm, careful not to do anything that might upset his driving.
“Winston Fortune, if you weren't driving this van I'd slap your face,” she said.
“Are you saying that you wouldn't open a door for me if I turned up in my muddy jeans and sweatshirt? It's just my legs that do it for you, is it?”
“Ha, ha,” he laughed. “Now you should know me better than that, Sally girl.”
“Yes, well, you just watch it, Winston, that's all,” she went on, jokingly scolding him once more before the conversation turned serious again.
“Honestly, Joe,” she said, turning to Cutler, “Wild horses wouldn't keep me away from this one. I'm with you and Winston all the way, whatever happens.”
“Well, I guess we're all in it together then,” said Cutler as Winston Fortune turned off the main road and onto a rough track rutted with the tracks of passing tractors. A wooden sign that had obviously seen better days hung from a pole as they made the turn.
“Here we are then, boss, Maiden's Farm,” Winston announced.
“Remember what I said to both of you,” Cutler said with a serious note in his voice. “If Graves thinks for one minute that we're on to him it could prove more than a bit dangerous and I don't want any of us getting hurt. We've a good idea that the Excalibur search is just a blind to cover up the search for something else, but until we know what that something else is we can't do much. If we're to stand a chance of finding out what it is we're going to have to go along with Graves and act as though nothing's changed.”
“Don't you worry, boss, we know the score,” said Winston.
“Yes, Joe, we're ready, Graves won't suspect a thing,” Sally added. “Just one thing though. What about the body?”
“We keep quiet as we agreed, Sally, at least for now. When we're ready, when we know what's going on, then we can report it to the police and I'm sure they'll be pleased to have a word or two with our friend Mr. Walter Graves.”
“Speaking of the great man, there he is,” said Winston as they turned off the track into a rather muddy farm yard where Graves stood beside his gleaming BMW, still unnervingly free of dirt, a mobile phone pressed to his ear.
Winston circled the van until it was facing the same direction as the BMW and revved the engine twice, just to annoy Graves, before switching the ignition off. The engine juddered in protest as its fuel supply ceased and the yard fell silent. The three surveyors dropped from the cab of the van to be greeted by Graves, as usual displaying that cheerful smile and displaying a body language that could have seen him being taken for a gentleman farmer rather than a professor of history and a…a what? That was the big question. Could he really be a killer as Mavis had hinted at in her conversation with Joe Cutler?
Winston Fortune smiled at Graves as he walked towards him, holding his hand out and shaking Graves's in greeting. Behind that smile, however, Fortune's old Special Forces training had clicked into gear and from now on Winston would make very sure that Mr. Walter Graves was watched very closely indeed, and his every word would be carefully screened and scrutinised by the big Jamaican, who now considered himself to be on a kind of active duty once again. Joe Cutler was his boss, his employer, and a clever man as well, and Sally was a brave and plucky girl, but if things were about to turn nasty in the wilds of Somerset Winston knew that he was the man with the ability to extricate them from a potentially life-threatening situation. He hoped, of course, that it would never come to that.
“Gentlemen, Miss Corbett, welcome to Maiden's Farm,” Graves called out as they drew nearer to him. “I've already spoken to Mr. Garforth the farmer. He's quite happy for us to carry out part of our search for artefacts connected with Joseph of Arimathaea on his land.”
“Oh good, yes of course,” said Joe, remembering the cover story under which the search team was operating when dealing with the public.
“He says we can come and go as we please,” Graves continued. “He's busy up in one of the fields to the east of the farm. Luckily, our search area is in the opposite direction.”
“Lucky for us,” said Sally, feeling that she should say something.
“Most certainly,” Graves replied. “Now, I've got the grid marked out on this plan of the farm so I suggest we get the equipment out and make a start.”
As usual Graves's `we' seemed to exclude himself from any kind of physical work, and the three Strata Survey people were left to unload their equipment from the van and haul it to the field where they were to set up the first search area of the day. Graves seemed content to carry the weight of his mobile phone, animatedly involved in conversation with some unknown associate. Cutler would have loved to get closer to try to ascertain what Graves was discussing and who he was talking to but judged it prudent to stay back and not appear too inquisitive. For now, he'd play it coy, keep up the charade of the search as he knew Graves expected him to, and bide his time until he knew more. Patience and observation would be far more important.
The rest of the day passed in almost boring fashion. They marked out the search grid, inserted the posts and markers, took turns to walk the lines with the hand-held radar unit, and found absolutely nothing, apart from one small moment of excitement when they'd detected a ground disturbance and dug down only to discover an old tractor radiator obviously buried years previously. Farmers did that sort of thing all the time Winston told Sally. Why waste time and fuel trekking to such places when it was just as easy to dispose of old equipment beneath the earth on their own land?
It was a very frustrated team of surveyors who eventually packed up their equipment for the day and drove back to their temporary home in town at five o'clock. Sally was upset that Joe and Winston had both decried her idea of using her feminine wiles on Graves. They were both too protective of her so she thought, but she couldn't get them to alter their opinions and Joe had been determined in his resolution not to invite Graves to share their table for dinner that night. Winston had tried to lighten things a little when he quipped: “That don't mean you can't dress up for me and the boss though, Sally girl. I'd just love to see those pretty legs of yours again.”
“Pervert!” she'd snapped back at Winston with a grin on her face and it was clear that his tactics had worked. The tension had lifted.
Graves had sped off in his BMW before they'd even packed up the equipment into the rear of the van. Joe Cutler was more than frustrated as he wanted to know more about what Graves got up to in the hours they were separated from him. Perhaps he should have allowed Sally to invite him to dinner. As quickly as the thought entered his mind he dismissed it. Whatever Graves was up to, he would obviously suspend any out of hours work until after any meeting with Joe and the others. No, there had to be a better way to get close to Graves, Joe just wished he could think of it. Maybe a long talk with Winston and Sally over dinner would throw up some ideas.
As things turned out, it was good that Joe had decided not to invite the historian to dine with them that evening. As they arrived back at the Rowan Tree, Winston parked the van while Joe and Sally went indoors. Cutler was surprised when, as they walked into the foyer of the guest house, a tall well-built man with a shock of black hair, combed back from is forehead rose from one of the armchairs in Mrs. Cleveley's reception area and moved straight towards him and Sally.
“Sally, so good to see you,” the man growled in a voice that reminded Cutler of Christopher Lee in one of his Dracula roles.
“Lucius! What on earth are you doing here?” Sally gasped as the man threw his arms around her and almost crushed her in a bear hug of monumental proportions.
“I thought you might need some help with this little project of yours, and as I had some time to
spare, and a friend of mine gave me a spot of information I thought you'd be interested in, I thought I'd take a break from the stuffy old halls of learning and enjoy a weekend in the country. Now, who's your friend?”
The man released Sally from the hug and stood back, offering his large paw of a right hand to Joe.
“Yes, of course,” Sally hesitated as Winston walked in through the front door. She beckoned him to join them. “Er, Joe Cutler, Winston Fortune, please, may I introduce you to Professor Lucius Doberman?”
Joe Cutler gave way to Winston who pumped the hand of the learned professor in a warm welcome. Winston also saw Doberman's likeness to the actor.
“Well now, ain't this a turn up for the books?” said Winston as he stepped back to look at the tall and unexpected visitor.
Joe Cutler turned to the professor and his next words confirmed his gratitude to the man for having travelled all this way to offer his help to their cause.
“Professor Doberman, I can't thank you enough for coming. You may not realise it yet, but your arrival couldn't have come at a better time. Sally, it looks like you'll have the chance to dress for dinner after all!”
Chapter 23
Lucius Doberman swept into the bar room of The Rowan Tree just after seven p.m. If Winston and Joe had thought the professor bore a strange resemblance to the famed cinematic portrayer of Count Dracula that thought was reinforced by the entrance made by Doberman as he arrived to join them for a drink prior to dinner. The man was taller than they'd at first realised, being at least six feet four or five, and he walked with a particularly upright bearing that gave him the appearance of being a man of great strength as well as one of supreme self-confidence. He wore a black Edwardian style jacket with a high and wide collar that wouldn't have looked out of place on the vampirical count himself, with equally black trousers, and a white shirt with a slight ruff at the collar. On anyone else it might have looked slightly effeminate, but on Doberman the whole ensemble simply reeked class, and shouted out to the world that here was a man perfectly at peace with himself and who cared little for the everyday conventions of ordinary men. `University professor' could have been stamped across his forehead. It was that obvious who and what the great man was to almost anyone with a modicum of intelligence.
Doberman shook hands with the men and bent forwards to give Sally a kiss on the cheek. Joe Cutler could see the man had a genuine affection for Sally, but he could also see why Sally hadn't been interested in the professor's advances at the university. The man just wasn't her type! He wasn't as old as, say, Walter Graves, but the fact that he was a professor of history, his lack of modern style and dress sense, and his overall appearance was something that Joe couldn't see as being particularly attractive to women in general, let alone one as young as Sally had been when she'd first known him.
“Well, now, isn't this nice?” said Doberman as he sat between Sally and Winston, with Joe directly opposite him at the circular bar table. “I never thought to hear from you again in such a mysterious manner Sally. Your call was intriguing to say the least.”
“We're very grateful to you for the information you gave to Sally, Professor,” said Cutler, anticipating Sally's response.
“Oh please, call me Lucius Mr. Cutler, `Professor' sounds so stuffy and formal don't you think?”
“Then I'm Joe, and this is Winston,” said Joe, nodding in Winston's direction, “and Sally of course needs no introduction.”
“Good that's settled then,” said Doberman. “Er, Winston old chap, might I suggest that you're staring?”
The professor had caught Winston Fortune staring at him as he spoke and it was obvious from his reaction that the man was used to plain speaking.
“Oh man, I'm sorry profess…er, Lucius. I didn't mean to. It's just that you remind me of…”
“Ha,” Doberman laughed. “I know, don't worry old chap. You're not the first to see the resemblance. I'm quite used to it, and the `Dracula' nickname that I'm sure Sally was well aware of when she was on campus.”
“Oh, Lucius,” Sally began, but the professor cut her off.
“Oh come now, Sally, we know it's true, and I'm also well aware that for the most part, the name is used in an affectionate sense, so there's no need to feel uncomfortable about it. I certainly don't. I suppose my slightly eccentric mode of dress doesn't exactly help to dispel the use of the name, and anyway, I've grown accustomed to it, and I actually quite like it.”
“Right, well I'm glad that's all cleared up,” said Cutler, reaching across to pour a glass of wine for Doberman. “I presume an Australian Chardonnay is acceptable, Lucius?” he asked as he poured.
“Oh yes, quite admirable, Joseph, old chap. The old colonies have become quite accomplished in the art of producing half-decent wine these days. Pour away.”
It was rapidly becoming apparent that Lucius Doberman spoke as he dressed. There was an old-world flamboyance and affectation about the way he talked, and it was plain to Joe and Winston that `old chap' was about to become the usual means of his addressing them. Joe wasn't sure if he could stand the continual use of his full Christian name, but for now he'd let it ride.
“So tell me, Lucius, what on earth brought you all this way? Couldn't whatever you've discovered have been passed to Sally over the telephone?” Winston asked.
“Ah, let me tell you, when I discovered what I have to tell you all, I judged it best to come down in person, for I fear that what I have to tell you will serve merely to further muddy the murky waters you all seem to have dipped your feet into at the moment. Also, I'm intrigued by this whole scenario. I can't believe that someone may have gone to a lot of time and expense to perpetrate a massive hoax without there being a very lucrative and devious resolution lurking in the background. Then, when Marcus told me what he knew, well my dear boy, I simply couldn't not come!”
“Marcus?” the three surveyors chorused at the same time.
“Ah yes, didn't I mention Marcus before? Oh well, maybe not, but anyway, Professor Sir Marcus Farthingwood is a fellow don at the university. The old boy is eighty five if he's a day and possesses more degrees than I could mention. He's officially retired, of course, but still lives in rooms at the college and many of the students still visit him and call upon his vast knowledge of the world and myriad subjects in seeking solutions to many of their academic and, at times, personal problems. Anyway, on top of all that, Marcus is considered by some to be one of the world's leading authorities on all things trivial and otherwise not classified by subject. In short, if this little case of yours were a Sherlock Holmes type mystery, and I were to describe myself as taking the part of the great detective, then Marcus would be Mycroft to my Homes”
“Er, I'm afraid you've lost me, man,” said Winston quizzically.
“Ah, Winston old chap, allow me to explain. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was indeed a wonderful and varied character, capable of solving many mysteries, but, at times, even he was at a loss to deduce certain facts from the clues available. In such circumstances Holmes would seek the advice of his brother Mycroft, who seemed to spend his entire life in a strange private establishment known as the Diogenes Club. Being totally averse to any sort of physical exertion Mycroft would sit in his chair and deliberate upon all manner of world affairs and criminal matters and Sherlock apparently admitted to Doctor Watson that Mycroft was, in fact, his intellectual superior and that he could solve a case purely by assessing the evidence placed in front of him, and was thus a source of great help to his more energetic and famous brother.”
“Hmm, I think I see,” said Winston, still patently unsure what Lucius was talking about.
Sally grew impatient to know exactly what Lucius had discovered that he considered it so important to warrant a trip to Glastonbury and a stay in Mrs. Cleveley's homely establishment.
“Please, Lucius, won't you tell us what it is you've discovered? Winston might need the lesson in English Literature but I'm sure we'd all rather hear wh
at you've discovered.”
The men nodded in agreement with Sally, but Lucius Doberman simply smiled enigmatically at them. “All in good time, young Sally. All in good time. What I have to tell you will wait a little while you all tell me what you've up to down here. That might help me put some of Marcus's information into better context before I reveal it to you. Now, I'm famished! Let's all eat and you can fill me in.”
Frustrated, the three of them had no choice but to acquiesce to Doberman's request. They made their way from the bar into the dining room, where, over dinner, they brought Doberman up to date with everything that had happened since Joe Cutler had accepted the commission from Capshaw, leaving nothing out, even the possibility that Walter Graves possessed a firearm. Lucius Doberman sat quietly and proved to be a good listener, only interrupting the flow of the conversation with queries here and there when he felt he needed to know more. The discovery of the skeleton of the unknown man in the field caused him to raise an eyebrow, as if he saw some great significance in the find.
As Claire Cleveley cleared away the plates and cutlery from the table, their appetites sated, the four of them made their way back to the bar and found a quiet table in the corner, away from any other guests who might wish to listen in to their conversation. As they settled down to enjoy brandies in the men's case and a gin and tonic in Sally's, Lucius sat back, and cleared his throat. “Now, people, I suppose it's my turn.”
“Come on, Professor,” said Cutler, “You've kept us in suspense long enough.”
“Yeah, man, spill the beans,” Winston added, lapsing once again into his best homeland accent.
Sally sipped from her glass and joined in the chorus of anticipation.
“Lucius, please!”
“Okay everyone, I hope you're all listening carefully.”
Lucius Doberman took a deep breath and solemnly placed his brandy glass on the table in a gesture that was purely theatrical, and began his story.
“After I'd spoken to you the other day, Sally, I admit that I was more than a little intrigued by the whole scenario you'd presented to me. At first I thought that you'd found yourselves involved in some kind of historical or archaeological practical joke, such things are known, of course. On reflection, however, I could see no logical reason for anyone to devise such an elaborate plot unless it was intended to disguise another purpose. The more I thought about it the more I concluded that this was a hoax, for the Arthurian legend can be no more than that, a legend. It's true that little is known of life in Britain during the dark ages, and it's possible that Arthur did exist, not as king of all Britain as the legend tells, but more likely as a warlord or minor ruler of one of the many small kingdoms that existed within what was in fact a very divided nation in those days. Even Cornwall and Northumberland for example were independent Kingdoms, as were many of today's counties and regions. Anyway, Camelot, Avalon, Merlin, Excalibur and the Knights of the Round Table could really be no more than stories passed on around camp fires, perhaps by poets or lyricists of the day, and somehow those stories become interwoven with fact to produce what we now know as the Arthurian legend. That's putting it in a nutshell, of course, but that's the gist of what both I and Marcus Farthingwood believe. You must all realise surely that if the Arthurian tales bore any semblance to truth and reality then someone would have found some supporting archaeological evidence at some time in the last fifteen hundred years. It's a fantasy, no more and no less. It has to be. The more I looked at the copy of the document you sent me, Sally, the more I knew that it was not the supporting evidence required to prove the existence of Arthur or his sword.”
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