by Gary Dolman
“We would like to speak with you, Mister… Pendragon,” Atticus called slowly and loudly through the glass.
Pendragon – the man they took to be Michael Britton – was still for a moment. Then, very slowly, he lowered his arms to his side and began to shuffle reluctantly in the direction of the doorway.
An age later, the latch clicked and lifted and the door retreated a few inches. A grimy, bearded face filled the gap.
“Mr Pendragon, Mr Uther Pendragon?” Atticus asked.
“Yes,” the word was a croak, barely audible. The voice that spoke it sounded as if it might not have been used for some time.
“May we come in and speak to you for a moment please?” Lucie asked, her tone gentle.
Pendragon looked from one to the other. Then with an expression somewhere between defeat and resignation, he pulled the door wide.
If Michael Britton’s cottage seemed mean and small from without, it was positively cramped from within; the low, timber-beamed ceiling festooned with cobwebs and rotten plaster making it seem all the more so. A vast, cast-iron kitchen range filled one side of the space and the only items of furniture they could see were a large, battered table and four equally shabby chairs. This table was littered, as was every other surface in the cottage, with a deep mulch of charcoal and pencil sketches. Even the grubby, lime-washed walls with shadows of black mould creeping across them were crowded with painted frescoes like the tattooed arms of a fairground wrestler.
In particular, they noticed that on the wall separating the living area from what they presumed was a bedroom, was a large and intricate rendering of a beautiful, statuesque woman. She was clothed in a long, blue gown. It must have been a wedding gown because her long, auburn hair was framed by a veil of lace. The fine brushwork was breathtaking. A large, fiery-red dragon was curled around her body, seeming to guard her from all peril. It was a variation on the larger fresco in their room at Shields Tower and in spite of its lowly setting, it was perhaps even more stunning.
Atticus spoke in a loud, slow and patient tone.
“Mr Pendragon, my name is Atticus Fox. I am a privately commissioned investigator and this is my wife and investigatrix Mrs Lucie Fox.” In an effort to make himself understood, he pointed firstly to himself and then to his wife.
“Mr Fox, I am not completely witless. You may speak to me quite plainly. Why does everyone always take me for an imbecile?” Britton’s tone was quiet, more beseeching than indignant.
Atticus was completely wrong-footed. He glanced to Lucie. She looked awkward; he was mortified.
“Mr Pendragon, please forgive me. I really meant you no offence.”
When Britton nodded his weary acknowledgement he went on. “We are here on Sir Hugh Lowther’s instructions to investigate the recent deaths on his estate.”
Uther Pendragon stared at him with emerald-green eyes, startlingly bright in the grime of his face. His hands trembled slightly as he reached into the threads of his trouser pocket and pulled out a filthy, crumpled rag that once might have been a pocket-handkerchief. He wiped it across his mouth and whispered, “Deaths: so there has been another murder then? Who is it this time?”
“You do not know about Sir Douglas?” Lucie asked.
Uther turned sharply towards her, his eyes brighter yet with shock and horror.
“Sir Douglas – Sir Douglas Lowther you mean?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do. He was killed beside the Broomlee Loch sometime in the afternoon of yesterday. He was throttled, and choked with biltong meat.”
Uther closed his eyes and began to rock slowly to and fro.
“It’s started once again then. I am truly sorry for Sir Douglas. He was always kind and generous to me in spite of my madness. At least he can be with his wife once again in Heaven. That is, if she is in Heaven. They say suicide is a sin.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s started once again?’” Atticus asked, cutting across him.
“I mean that there have been other deaths – mostly many years ago now. The first were the three smugglers; they had all been mutilated and thrown off the crags up yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the moors. “Then a soldier from over Hexham way went missing. That was just before Igraine, the first Lady Lowther disappeared too. Her body has never been recovered either.”
He closed his eyes for several, long seconds as if in silent prayer.
“Then there was another. It was just the other day, Saturday I believe it was. Three policemen came to talk to me about it.”
“We know, Mr Pendragon; that was one of the deaths to which my husband refers.” Lucie’s tone was patient and soothing in a way Atticus, try as he might, could never quite manage. “A Gypsy man, a Mr Samson Elliott, was found apparently stabbed and decapitated next to his horse and caravan just over the wall from here. We are interested as to whether or not you heard or saw anything that day.”
Uther considered for a moment. “What day is it today?” he asked.
“It is very early on Friday morning.”
Uther shook his head. “No, as I told the policemen, I was out around Sewingshields for most of the day last Saturday.” His hands began to tremble violently and he wiped his mouth again with his rag.
“I heard the sound of the bugle over the moors and I dared… that is to say, I went out to investigate.”
“The sound of the bugle,” Atticus repeated.
Uther nodded.
“Yes Mr Fox; I’m certain it was King Arthur’s bugle again. It was early in the morning. Even though I searched the marshes and the crags around the castle for the whole day, I found nothing, just as I always find nothing, and I returned home just after nightfall.” He stared intently at Atticus and the huge circles of his eyes betrayed what might have been raw fear. “I’ve told the policemen all of this already. Upon my life that is all I know.”
“The castle you mention being Sewingshields Castle?”
Uther nodded.
“What is King Arthur’s bugle, Mr Pendragon?” Lucie asked.
Uther turned his eyes onto her and they all at once became shining and animated. He began to speak very quickly:
“Good King Arthur and his queen Lady Guinevere together with several of the Knights of the Round Table lie slumbering in an underground vault somewhere near to the ruins of Sewingshields Castle. They will sleep there until ‘The End of Days,’ which is a time when there will be a great need for them to rise once again.
“Then will they be awoken.
“They sleep with a knight’s garter, a sword and a bugle horn. To wake them, one need only to draw the sword, cut the garter and sound a note on the bugle.”
Uther stopped speaking and lowered his head conspiratorially.
“One day, many years ago, a shepherd sat knitting as he tended his flock on the common land close by Sewingshields. By chance, his ball of wool rolled away from him and fell down into a cleft in the rocks. Climbing down in order to search for it, he discovered a hidden cavern. It was full of toads and newts and suchlike creatures and there were bats flying around his face, so he made sure he was quick to retrieve his wool and be gone. Then, just as he was about to clamber back out, he noticed the light of a bright blue, magical fire flickering far away in the depths of the cave. Summoning all his courage, he followed it and eventually came across a great, cavernous vault where King Arthur and Lady Guinevere, together with their knights and hounds lay in a deep, enchanted sleep. With them were the sword, the garter, and the bugle horn spoken of in the legends. Remembering them, he drew the sword and used it to cut the garter. As he did so, Arthur, Guinevere and the knights all began to stir and awaken and the poor, simple shepherd took fright. He thrust the sword back into its scabbard and fled the vault without blowing the horn which would have woken them fully. Guinevere and the knights immediately fell back into their slumbers and only Arthur remained awake.”
Here Uther leaned in close towards Atticus and Lucie and the smell of his unwashed body wafted heavil
y over them almost like a physical blow.
“King Arthur cried these words after the shepherd:
‘Oh, woe betide that evil day,
On which this witless wight was born.
Who drew the sword, the garter cut,
But never blew the bugle horn.’
“Mr Fox, on the morning of the Gypsy man’s death, I heard the sound of a bugle calling across the moors through the mist and the drizzle. I am no witless wight like the shepherd so I immediately set off to discover the source of the sound. Where the bugle sounds, there will I find my son King Arthur. After many hours of searching the crags and the fells around the castle as far as the shores of the Broomlee Lough, I found nothing, so I returned here to my home.”
“You surely can’t think the legend is real?” Atticus asked incredulously.
Uther shrugged and wiped his mouth.
“I believe it is the truth, Mr Fox, yes. Of course I do. The shepherd’s story has the ring of truth to it and, in any event, King Arthur and his Lady Guinevere have visited me here, in my cottage on many occasions. That is why I have a red dragon, the standard of Pendragon always freshly painted on my door. Arthur sees it and recognises the red – the blood-red. He knows that he will always find a welcome from his father here.
“Do you think that King Arthur would leave us all unprotected, Mr Fox? Of course not, and in any event, you cannot deny that the blast of the bugle horn was real enough.”
Atticus searched for some way to answer him. Finding none, he asked, “You might have observed that there are a number of long, deep footprints in the soft ground around the site of the murder. They lead through the wall, to the area around your cottage. Mr Pendragon, they are footprints which might well have been made by a large man such as you.”
Uther looked at him, puzzlement creasing his grimy skin.
“There were no footprints when I left that morning that I recollect, although I admit it was very misty and I returned when night had already fallen. I have not been able to leave my cottage since then, except to go round to the back, to my fresh-water pump so I’m sorry, I can’t assist you. Upon my honour though, I haven’t noticed any footprints.”
“Very well, so tell me then; do you possess a sword – a sword or any other instrument with a long, sharp blade?”
“A sword, yes I can assist you there. I do have a sword, I have a very fine one.”
Uther wiped his mouth.
Atticus and Lucie exchanged uneasy looks. “May we see it please?” Atticus asked.
“I’m sorry but that will not be possible. It has recently been taken from me.”
“Taken from you? Stolen you mean? When did this happen?”
“Whilst I was out searching the moors for King Arthur’s vault on the day of the Gypsy’s death. I assumed that King Arthur took it. He always threatened that he would. He said it was the sword Excalibur.”
Atticus glanced to Lucie once again but her eyes were still fixed on Britton. “From precisely where was it stolen, Mr Pendragon?” she asked.
Uther’s hands began to tremble violently once more.
“Please do not say that it was stolen, Mrs Fox. It is Excalibur; it is Arthur’s own sword, his to take should ever he wish. He took it from the wall by the side of my bed where I kept it in case… in case I had need of it.”
“Had need of it for what purpose?” Lucie asked gently, “Not for protection surely?”
Uther bowed his head. “Forgive me, Mrs Fox but I don’t wish to say.”
“Very well, we shan’t ask more – for the present anyway, but where did you get the sword from?” Atticus asked.
“Now you’re beginning to sound like the doctor, Mr Fox.” There was a sudden sharp edge of agitation to Uther’s tone.
“I had a proper naval cutlass from my time on the old Shannon – HMS Shannon that is. I spent time in the Royal Navy you see? My physician, Dr Hickson confiscated it. He said that I might have it back when I could be properly trusted with it and not before. Sir Hugh gave me another sword though. He said that whatever our differences, he’d be damned if a fellow military man would be left without a sword for his honour, particularly one who had served in the Uprising and rendered his father such a service as I had.”
He sighed.
“King Arthur told me later that it was none other than the sword Excalibur.”
“What would Sir Hugh be doing with Excalibur?” Lucie asked.
“It’s quite obvious if you think on it,” Uther replied curtly. “Excalibur was cast into a lake – a lough – by Sir Bedivere, who was one of the Knights of the Round Table. Sir Hugh’s family has owned the land around the loughs for generations. So it’s really not surprising at all that it would have been in his possession.” He glanced between Atticus and Lucie. “Why do you ask about it?”
“Because Samson Elliott was killed with a sword. We have been told that he was run through with a sword blade before he was mutilated and beheaded!”
Uther looked stricken and his hands once again began to shake uncontrollably.
Lucie put her hand on Atticus’s arm to forestall any further questions.
“I’m sorry, Mr Pendragon. This is all becoming too much for you and I can see you grow distressed. Let me get you a glass of water. Where might I get it from?”
“Thank you, Mrs Fox,” Uther answered with a sob. “There is a draw pump around the back of the cottage.”
“Never mind that,” Atticus interjected. “I have some Harrogate water here in my flask. It is first-rate, chalybeate water that you may have with pleasure. Chalybeate water is full of iron, which is good for the mind and the Harrogate waters are recognised generally as being the best healing waters in the world.”
“Thank you, Mr Fox. It is extremely kind of you. And at least it won’t be orange.”
Atticus looked at him sharply. “At least what will not be orange?”
“At least the water won’t be orange. There is an orange tinge to the water from my pump, as there has been for many years now. I think it must be the peat washing down from the moors into the well beneath it.”
“How peculiar, I have never heard of such a thing. But now that you mention it, we took a plaster of Paris cast of what we hope might be the murderer’s footprint before we came here. The water I took from a puddle to mix the plaster, which might have been from the overflow of your pump, did have a slight but definite orange discolouration.”
Atticus took a slim, silver hip-flask from the pocket of his jacket and reached for a glass tumbler from a shelf above the cooking range. There was a thin but distinct film of orange dust on the tumbler bottom which broke up when Atticus wiped it clean with his pocket handkerchief. He emptied his flask into the tumbler and held it out to Uther who took it gratefully. Uther held the clear water up against the stream of light from the window. Then he whispered, “A willing foe!” and drank deeply.
Atticus looked at him uncertainly for a second.
“What did you mean, ‘a willing foe’?” he asked warily.
“Nothing, nothing,” Uther replied. “It’s just an expression – a naval one, from the wardroom. I mean you and your beautiful wife no harm.”
Lucie smiled, suddenly self-conscious and said, “Now, Mr Pendragon, if you are feeling a little calmer now, would you be so kind as to show us where your sword was kept before it was… taken?”
Uther shrugged clumsily. “Of course, if you think it will help.”
He led them through into the second room of the cottage, which served him as a bedroom. It was almost completely filled by an old and very tarnished, brass-framed bed which was also covered by sketches and drawings on every type of paper imaginable.
But Atticus and Lucie barely noticed these. Instead their attention was drawn irresistibly to a strange group of objects clustered in one corner, a group that reminded Atticus strongly of a shrine he had once seen in a widow’s house to her long-deceased husband.
It was dominated by a large, imposing and h
ighly polished suit of medieval armour. Nothing could have looked more out of keeping against the shabby, peeling walls and plaster-strewn floor.
Their gaze was drawn immediately to the breastplate of the armour and a large, scarlet emblem of a dragon. Above it, on the flat top of the great helm, the figure of another red dragon crouched as if ready to leap out and devour them.
Against the shoulder plate and extending up through a hole in the rotting lathes of the ceiling, was a spear, or rather a lance. It was a long lance, half as tall again as Atticus with a razor-sharp and lethal-looking iron tip glinting in the columns of sunlight pouring in through the worn thatch of the roof.
Their eyes crept down the length of the shaft to the floor, where next to the greaves, the shin guards, was a good-sized block of stone. It was very similar to the stones used to found the dry-stone walling just outside the cottage with the very same mosaics of moss and lichen. On this stone were placed side-by-side, a platter and a goblet. Both objects were plain and without ornamentation, both apparently exceedingly old and both wrought from bronze.
After several long seconds of staring with stunned bemusement, the meaning of the collection hit Atticus with a force that almost knocked him to the ground.
“Good Heavens above!” he exclaimed. “Mr Pendragon, is… is the armour authentic?”
Uther shook his head. “It is a one of a pair of reproductions that Sir Douglas Lowther had the blacksmith make for a fête in Hexham many years ago. It was to re-enact the fable of the Red Dragon and the White Dragon. This armour, with the emblem of the Red Dragon – the Pendragon, was given to me by Lady Igraine. It was a token of her appreciation for a fresco I painted for her down at the Tower. The other, with the emblem of the White Dragon, sits on a whinstone dais at the foot of the grand stairs there… along with a replica that Igraine had the blacksmith make to replace this one. Sir Hugh was very angry at her for giving me this, I heard. I think he struck her several times for it.”
“And the spear, goblet and plate,” Atticus continued tentatively.
“Are completely authentic, Mr Fox.”