Glastonbury

by Brian L. Porter

  Capshaw believed she was still mad with him for being a little heavy handed with her after Graves's call the previous night, but, what the hell? He paid her enough, didn't he?

  The morning wore on, however, and still no sign of Charlotte. Capshaw realized she may have walked out on him without saying a word. Stupid bitch! Didn't she realise what trouble she'd be in if she'd done something so stupid? Surely she must know that he wouldn't let her get away with such a thing, besides which, Charlotte knew too much about Capshaw and his illegitimate dealings to be allowed to walk around like a loose cannon. As lunchtime approached with still no word from his secretary Capshaw began to accept that he'd gone too far the night before and Charlotte had, indeed, `done a runner'. His problem was going to be in finding her, bringing her back if necessary and making sure that she realised the error of her ways. The prospect of `disciplining' Charlotte before forcing her back to work made Capshaw hard all over again. Now, all he had to do was trace the stupid little harlot.

  As he was about to lock up the office and leave for lunch the telephone rang. Capshaw reluctantly answered the infernal machine, not really wanting to talk to anyone, but thinking that it might be Charlotte ringing him with some flimsy excuse for not being there.

  “Hello, Malcolm. How come that juicy little secretary of yours isn't answering the phone. You given her the day off?”

  The unmistakeable voice of Boris Maitland boomed down the telephone line, and Capshaw felt as though his knees had turned to mush.

  “Er, hello, Boris. No, Charlotte isn't here, she's…”

  “Something's wrong, isn't it, Malcolm? I can tell by the way you're hedging, old friend. Tell me, come on, do we have a problem?”

  “It's just that Graves phoned me last night and I lost my temper with him and afterwards I was a little rough with Charlotte, and when I woke up this morning she was gone and I haven't seen or heard from her.”

  “You fucking idiot, Malcolm. That blasted dick of yours has got you into trouble before, now it looks like you've done it again. What was it; you beat her up while you were fucking her?”

  The silence that greeted his question merely served to confirm Maitland's hypothesis.

  “I'm asking you a question, Malcolm. Have you gone and put us in trouble again because of your nasty little appetites?”

  “I just don't know where she is. Maybe she'll come back tomorrow.”

  “And then again maybe she won't. How much does the bitch know about Glastonbury?”

  “Er…”

  “I said, how much, Malcolm?”

  “Almost everything.”

  “Oh, that's bloody good isn't it, Malcolm? That's just bloody fantastic, you fucking idiot! Where can she have gone? Think man, you must have some ideas. Has she got a mother or someone she'd run to?”

  “I don't know, Boris, honestly. Wait a minute. When she came to work for me I had her fill out a next of kin form in case of emergencies. It must be filed somewhere. Let me look.”

  “Don't just look, Malcolm. Find!”

  Maitland waited at the other end of the line while Malcolm Capshaw searched through various drawers in his desk until he found something. Capshaw picked up the receiver again.

  “You still there, Boris?”

  “I'm waiting, Malcolm.”

  “It seems her only relative is a cousin in Herefordshire, some obscure village in the country.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “What are you going to do, Boris?”

  “Hopefully, I'm going to get you out of the shit again, Malcolm, that's what I'm going to do.”

  Maitland gave Capshaw no chance to reply, the line went dead. Capshaw sat quietly at his desk for a few minutes. He neither knew nor wanted to know what Boris Maitland planned to do. Whatever it was, he was certain that Charlotte wouldn't be wanting to come back to work for him. For now it was better that he kept his mouth shut and allowed Boris to solve the problem. He was good at that. Malcolm Capshaw believed it was time to find a new secretary anyway.

  Chapter 34

  Walter Graves was becoming increasingly bored and irritated. The surveyors had found nothing, despite Graves feeling that they were close to the right place. It had to be somewhere in the area they were now searching with the GPR. If they didn't find it soon, his job would become increasingly difficult. He knew that they were no longer fooled by the Excalibur story and assumed that Cutler thought that he and his people could somehow outwit him and turn the prize over to the authorities. Their conversation in the van that morning hadn't helped him much, being mostly concerned with the mysterious `Lucius', whoever he may be. That at least was one question that Graves was determined to find an answer to very shortly. As soon as the team broke for lunch Graves excused himself, saying he had urgent business in town that couldn't wait, and promising to return in an hour.

  He left them eating sandwiches and drinking tea and headed back to Glastonbury, his intention being to speak to Mrs. Cleveley and elicit information about Lucius. As he drove his car phone rang and Graves pressed the hands-free button, allowing him to talk as he drove. He was surprised to hear the voice of Boris Maitland who informed him that there was a problem at Capshaw's end of the operation and that Graves was to do everything he could to facilitate an early conclusion to the operation, whatever the cost. Maitland waited long enough for Graves to give him his assurance that he would do everything in his power to achieve a speedy resolution to the search, and the line went dead.

  Graves sighed. It appeared Malcolm Capshaw hadn't been as clever as Graves had originally thought him to be. Whatever happened Walter Graves knew that he had to do whatever was necessary to ensure that he personally walked away from this job without a stain on his character. His future in both his fields of expertise depended upon it. As he neared the Rowan Tree he decided to bring certain parts of his plans forward, which might prove difficult, but felt he was being left with very little choice.

  Annette Cleveley was delighted to see the `nice historian' again. She welcomed Graves like an old friend and invited him into her office for a cup of tea, which he gladly accepted. She wondered if he'd come to see his `friends' again, but he assured her that he'd just left them hard at work. No, he told her that he was trying to trace a friend who was supposed to meet him here. This friend had left his wife quite recently after discovering she was having an affair with his best friend and would probably be travelling incognito, using a false name so that his wife couldn't find out where he'd gone. Graves wondered if anyone new had checked in over the last couple of days, it was strange he said, that his friend hadn't phoned him, and Graves had especially recommended the Rowan Tree to him because of the lovely friendly landlady who ran the guesthouse.

  Mrs. Cleveley was flattered, as Graves intended her to be, and replied that the only new guest who'd arrived in the last two days was another friend of Mr. Cutler and his people. She was more than excited to discover that her new guest was, like Mr. Graves, another professor of history.

  Graves pressed her to tell her the gentleman's name. After all, as another professor of history there was a chance that they might know one another as their paths may have crossed over the years. Perhaps, he'd said, that they may even have worked together at some time in the past.

  Mrs. Cleveley was happy to reveal the name of her new guest, and Graves thanked her very much, but told her that he'd never heard of the gentleman, and that they obviously didn't know each other at all.

  Women, thought Graves as he drove back in the direction of Maiden's Farm. A bit of flattery and most of them will tell you anything, even sell you their bodies if the price is right, this last thought coming as he remembered Mrs. Cleveley's buxom daughter Claire from his last visit to the Rowan Tree. As for Lucius Doberman, Graves had lied to the proprietor and landlady of the guesthouse. He did in fact know the learned Professor, not personally of course, but by reputation. What on earth was such a scholar doing here, how did he know Cutler, and how dangerous could he be to
the operation? Cutler, Fortune, and Corbett were one thing, but the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of one the country's leading historians would certainly raise a stink in all the wrong quarters as far as Graves was concerned. The whole thing was getting out of control, and if there was one thing that Walter Graves prided himself on when he was involved in a job, it was always being in total control.

  From now on, he was going to have to be very, very careful about every step he took along the road to the recovery of the prize he was seeking, and he would have to keep a more than close eye on Professor Doberman. He could prove to be the proverbial `fly in the ointment' and one that Graves could well do without.

  Graves drove back to the farm where he spent most of the afternoon revising and re-revising his plans until he thought he might just have thought of a way to bring the job to a successful conclusion. First of all, he would have to make some slightly more in-depth preparations for the future of Miss Sally Corbett as his original plan would now be unsuitable. He needed somewhere more secure, and he knew just where to look in order to find just the right place.

  A series of tunnels and passageways running beneath the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, stretch out and into the land beyond. What they were originally designed for is a matter for conjecture, but Graves considered making use of the ancient passages for his scheme to bring Cutler and Fortune to heel and bend them to his will. It would need careful planning and forethought and time was running short. He would have to excuse himself from the search once again and make his way beneath the grounds of the abbey in order to make his preparations.

  Joe seemed unperturbed by Graves's announcement that his important business would mean him having to disappear for the rest of the day. In fact, all three surveyors welcomed the news. Graves smiled to himself as he drove towards the old abbey. They might think they were clever, but Cutler and his amateurs could never hope to beat a true professional at his own game.

  “What d'you think he's up to, boss?” asked Winston.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Cutler replied, “but I'll lay odds on it not being anything designed to improve the quality of our health.”

  “Do you really think he intends to harm us then, Joe?” Sally asked. She wasn't the kind of woman to be easily scared, but for the first time a slight tremor was audible in Sally's voice.

  “I don't want to think it, but yes, Sally, I really think that Walter Graves is capable of the worst kind of violence.”

  “Listen, boss,” said Winston. “I know we don't have much in the way of evidence, and Graves hasn't done anything overtly criminal as far as we can see so far, but surely we should be at least talking to the police. We can warn them of our suspicions about Graves and they can maybe keep an eye on him, and us come to that.”

  “Look, Winston, what do want me to tell them? That we suspect this man, who is a fully accredited professor of history, is leading us in a bogus search for King Arthur's sword Excalibur? Not only that but we've lied to the local authorities, telling them that we're looking for evidence to support a Biblical theory. We think that Graves is really looking for something else, though we haven't a clue what it is, although we think it's connected to a ship that sunk over sixty years ago, and a body we discovered in a field near Glastonbury and then helped to cover up again so we could continue our search. What proof do we have that he intends to harm us? Theories, that's all we have, Winston. Until Graves shows his hand we can only go along with the pretence and try to find out what this job is really all about.”

  “What about the gun? You could tell them about that,” Sally said, hopefully.

  “Yes, I could, Sally. Then what? Graves might have a legitimate permit for the weapon, I may have been mistaken, I'm not sure any more. I'm starting to doubt myself a little. Also, the police need a reason to search Graves or his room, I've told you that before. They can't just go blundering in and trampling all over his so-called `human rights', so we've nothing to present them with.”

  “Oh well,” Winston re-entered the conversation. “It was just a thought, boss. I s'pose we're just gonna have to watch each other's backs real close, eh?”

  “Real close, as you say,” Cutler confirmed.

  “In that case, you'd both better promise not to take your eyes off mine for a minute,” said Sally.

  “Sally girl, back or front, it'll be a pleasure to keep an eye on you.” Winston laughed.

  Winston's humour could be infectious, and the mood between the three of them visibly lightened. They spent the rest of the afternoon in a fruitless search. Graves didn't return to the farm at all during that time. He phoned Cutler on his mobile to tell him that he'd been detained in town and would meet them at the farm at nine o'clock the following day.

  As they drove back to the Rowan Tree that evening Cutler and his team were still blissfully unaware of the small transmitter that clung to the underside of the rear wheel arch of the van. Walter Graves was frustrated, however, by the fact that the survey teams' conversation on their way back to the Rowan Tree was unusually muted, as though a cloud hung over the cab in which they rode. Apart from a couple of references to Lucius Doberman and what he may have discovered during the day, little else was said that bore any relevance to the matter in hand. Winston Fortune was obviously trying to cheer everyone up and produced a string of banal and cheesy jokes that wouldn't have been out of place at a children's birthday party. Graves was relieved when he heard Fortune announce, “Here we are then folks,” and the sound of the van's engine died in the background. With a sense of relief Walter Graves turned his receiving unit off, though he really wished he could find a way of hearing what was discussed when they met up with Doberman later that evening.

  As it was, he had to be content with returning to Meare Manor, where, after a shower and a meal, he retired to his room to finalise his strategy for the following day.

  Chapter 35

  In contrast to the previous evening, Lucius waited for Joe and the others when they arrived at the guesthouse. The professor sat at a table by the window, the last rays of the evening sunshine bathing him in an almost sepulchral light as they filtered through the curtains and reflected from the polished surface of the table. Once again, both Joe and Winston couldn't help themselves from making the `Dracula' connection where Lucius was concerned, especially when he rose to greet them, his height causing him to stoop slightly as he offered his right hand, and Joe and Winston found themselves looking into his eyes. The black jacket and crisp white shirt did little to dispel those thoughts, and neither man would have been surprised to see a pair of sharpened fangs appear when Doberman's lips parted in a smile.

  They were snapped back to reality by Lucius's warm greeting, and all thoughts of the Prince of Darkness were once again dispelled from their minds.

  “Joseph, my dear boy, Winston and Sally, welcome back. Come, sit down. I know you have to go and shower and change out of your grubby working clothes, but please come and join me for a minute or two. I promise not to keep you too long.”

  Cutler and the others sat as Lucius had requested, refusing his offer of a drink.

  “My friends, it has been a most interesting day. As I indicated to you earlier Marcus did indeed get back to me with some news relating to your Mr. Graves. I thought you would like to hear what he had to say before going to your rooms.”

  “We're all ears, Lucius,” said Cutler. “What have you found out?”

  “Well, as I said, your Mavis did a good job with her limited resources, but Marcus was able to extract more relevant information from the Dean of Graves's college. It appears that Walter Graves is very well connected in many ways. He came to the college with the highest of references, some of them from very unexpected sources, including the British Museum and a number of highly respected philanthropists and educational bodies. He is, in fact, slightly older than I am, but keeps himself in superb physical shape with daily workouts in the college gymnasium. He is regarded as something of a genius in his field, though
his academic stature has always been held back by his predilection for disappearing for weeks or months at a time in order to pursue various `research' projects as he describes them. The college were a little unhappy at having to agree to allow him these extended absences when he joined them, but there was apparently a great deal of pressure brought to bear on the college authorities to give Graves the position with their faculty. Where that pressure came from the Dean was not prepared to say, not even to Marcus.

  Bearing this latest information in mind I would have to say that it merely confirms what we have already thought, that there is far more to Walter Graves than at first meets the eye. Oh yes, and there was one other thing. The Dean had no idea that Graves was in Glastonbury, and had never heard of any document relating to Excalibur. He was under the impression that Graves is in the Scottish Highlands, carrying out a historical research project into the decline of the Crofting industry north of the border. I fear, my friends, that great care must be taken in any dealings with the man.”

  “Pardon me, Lucius, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I think we knew that already, man,” said Winston.

  “Yes, it's new information, but it does just reinforce what we've already deduced for ourselves,” Cutler added.

  “Yes, well, there it is anyway. I'm sure you'll agree that the man is definitely not to be trusted under any circumstances. I'll be glad if we can solve this mystery and get you all away from the man as soon as possible,” said Doberman.

  “Oh, Lucius, you're quite a sweetie really, aren't you?” said Sally.