Glastonbury E-Book

Brian L. Porter

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After millionaire Malcolm Capshaw hires Joe Cutler and his team to search for a fabled artifact, they enter a maze of lies, murder and betrayal.

The real purpose of their search is soon exposed, as an old London crime family displays an unusual interest in an ancient town where Christianity laid its roots in England.

Aided by the enigmatic professor Lucius Doberman, Joe and his team must solve the ancient mystery that lies in the shadows of Glastonbury, or die trying.

Leseprobe

Glastonbury

Brian L. Porter

Copyright (C) 2014 Brian L. Porter

Layout Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

'Glastonbury' is dedicated to the memory of Enid Ann Porter (1914 – 2004). She loved and supported me in my work throughout her life, and to Juliet, whose daily support keeps me going through the darkest times.

Acknowledgements

'Glastonbury' owes its existence not just to the words that appear on its pages, but to the efforts of a number of people who helped along the way. In particular I must say a big thank you to the dedicated group of readers around the world who read and critiqued the book, word by chapter, chapter by chapter, as it progressed. They are Graeme S. Houston, (Scotland), who was responsible for the wonderful cover design for 'Glastonbury', Jean Pike, (USA), Malcolm Davies, Ken Copley and Sheila Noakes, (UK), and of course the book's fiercest critic of all, my wife Juliet.

My appreciation also goes to Sue Chapman, the proprietor of Meare Manor Guest House in Glastonbury for allowing me to use the name of her establishment as one of the prime locations in the story.

Introduction

Glastonbury! The name itself conjures up mental images of the England of long ago. Here in the heart of the ancient county of Somerset, stands the home of the first above-ground Christian church in England, the ruins of a centuries old abbey, and the whole town is overlooked by the imposing Glastonbury Tor, with the crumbling remains of St Michael's chapel standing at its head, overlooking the swirling green countryside that surrounds the town. Glastonbury throbs with legend; it is said the bones of Joseph of Arimathea were laid to rest here, as were the mortal remains of the legendary King Arthur. The Arthurian connection is strong in Glastonbury with many believing it to be the site of Arthur's Camelot. Could it have been the home of the famed round table? Did the Knights who formed that noble group, Gawain, Lancelot and Co. really tread this ground? Was the Holy Grail really brought here all those years ago? Is it still here, buried in some long forgotten secret niche known only to those whose bones have long since crumbled to nothing beneath the marshes and mires that once swirled around the Tor, once an island rising up from the wetlands of Somerset, and now cast adrift upon the land-locked plains of South-West England?

For many, Glastonbury is a hallowed place, a town where history and the present exist hand in hand, where the souls and the ghosts of history encroach every so often on the lives of those who exist in tandem with their memory, and who walk where they once walked, talk in the quiet places they once conversed in, and who tread lightly when the sun goes down and the moon rises over the forbidding and compelling hill that stands as an eternal sentinel over the town and keeps its secrets hidden from those who would pry too deep.

Into this land of myth, magic and legend comes a small group of professionals, hired by a mysterious and wealthy entrepreneur who professes to have acquired a map that will reveal the hiding place of one of the most magical and famed emblems of Arthurian legend. For Joe Cutler, Winston Fortune, and Sally Corbett, fame, wealth and riches could be just around the corner, but first they have a job to do, a job that will lead them into far more dangerous corners of this place of myth and legend than they could possibly have foreseen. As the rain falls on Glastonbury they wait and prepare their equipment for the job ahead, and a new Glastonbury mystery waits to be unravelled.

Prologue

A pale and baleful moon looked down upon the green landscape below as the five men moved silently across the wet and marshy surface of the field. Apart from the leader who walked ahead the other four were burdened by the weight of the load they shared between them. The load had felt heavy enough when they'd started; now it grew heavier with every step. Their arms felt leaden, their muscles ached, and a great sigh of relief issued from each of the four when the leader stopped, raised his hand and uttered one word:. “Here.”

They slowly placed the heavy, lead-lined boxes upon the grass and untied the shovels that were strapped to the top, adding to the weight. Under the orders of the tall man who'd brought them to this spot, they began to dig, first cutting rectangular sods of turf from the ground, pieces that would later be fitted back into place to disguise the burial place. Next, they dug deep, almost as deep as the height of a man, a task made easier by the softness of the earth, but also harder by the degree of fatigue they suffered.

Two hours later it was done; the last pieces of turf were carefully re-laid to cover the traces of the burial. They were well away from any regular byways and it was unlikely anyone would find the place before the turf had knitted itself back into place. To all intents and purposes, the hole was perfectly hidden, its contents safely interred in the earth.

With the moon as sole witness to the burial of the heavy lead-lined boxes and their contents, the five men looked back just once as they left the field, their leader taking time to pause and mark the burial site on a map he carried tucked into his belt. Soon, the men had gone, the field lay silent and only the moon would know that they had been in this place that night, and of course, the moon would never tell.

Chapter 1

A faint grey wash of daylight breaking through the crack in the curtains signalled the coming of morning. Joe Cutler stirred beneath the warmth of the duvet, listening to the steady drip of raindrops falling from the gutter to the ground below. Rain, bloody awful rain, third day in a row. No work again, they couldn't do a thing as long as this damned rain persisted. He and his team needed dry weather, solid ground beneath their feet, not the soggy morass that presented itself as long as this perpetual downpour lasted. Even then, when it finally stopped they'd have to wait for the ground to dry out before they could recommence the job, and the more time they lost the more money they lost.

Capshaw was paying them to get results, not sit around checking their equipment day after day, and Cutler's frustration was mounting. It was possible, of course, under normal circumstances to work in the rain, but the low-lying ground in this part of England meant that three days of steady rain had turned the ground into a veritable quagmire, and any attempts to achieve results were doomed to failure. No, Cutler knew he was destined for another irritating and annoying day of relative inactivity, with nothing but the company of his two friends and employees and the sights of Glastonbury to fill what should have been his working day.

Tempted for a moment to pull the duvet back over his head and return to the land of dreams, Cutler thought better of it, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He stretched, then ran his fingers through his well-tousled hair. Standing, he walked to the window and opened the thin curtains, allowing his eyes to take in the sight of the miserable downpour that had brought operations to a standstill. In the distance, the ruined tower of St. Michael was visible atop the legendary Glastonbury Tor and reminded Cutler just why he was here.

After a hasty shower in the tiny shower room, (Mrs. Cleveley's Guest House wasn't exactly the Hilton Hotel), Cutler made his way down to the dining room for one of the landlady's superb home-cooked breakfasts. At thirty pounds a day for bed, breakfast and evening meal, Cutler certainly wasn't complaining about the standards of cuisine or comfort at the guest house, though with the bill for all three of them running at just over six hundred pounds a week, Capshaw's two-thousand-pound advance certainly wouldn't last long if the rain refused to let up.

The others had beaten him to it. As he walked into the well-lit dining area on the ground floor, the smiling faces of Winston Fortune and Sally Corbett greeted him from a table positioned under the large bay window that looked out upon the street.

Cutler made his way over to them and sat down next to the large Jamaican, who had become not only a trusted employee, but one of his closest friends. Sally Corbett sat opposite the two men, a cup of coffee in her hand.

“I don't know what the hell you two have got to look so happy about,” said Cutler, in response to the smiles from his friends.

“Good morning to you, too, boss,” came Sally's response .

“Yeah man, like, how are you today?” Winston Fortune added.

“How am I today? You dare to ask me how I am today? Hell, Winston, we've been here for three days now, and apart from walking around the gift shops and sheepskin factory shops, and checking and rechecking and calibrating and recalibrating every damned piece of equipment in the van, we've done bugger all, and you ask me how I am today?”

“Wow, someone got out of the wrong side of the bed today, that for sure,” said the big Jamaican.

“This rain can't last for ever, boss, we'll get the job done, we always do,” said Sally, the youngest member of the team, and at five feet and half an inch tall (she always stressed the half-inch), by far the shortest. Sally Corbett was twenty-four, pretty in an academic sort of way, and purposely kept her hair cut on the short side, as much of her work involved being stuck in dirty holes in the ground, which would have made long hair wholly impractical. Cutler held his hand up to interrupt the flow of the conversation as Mrs. Cleveley came striding towards the table, smiling as always.

“Hmm, yes, the usual please,” said Cutler as Mrs. Cleveley greeted them heartily, inquiring if they wanted a full breakfast.

“Right, Mr. Cutler, two boiled eggs, toast and coffee it is then,” and she scurried off back towards the kitchen.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “Capshaw is paying us to find the bloody thing, not sit on our backsides all day. We started off with a two-week contract to do the job and this will be the third day we've lost already. May I remind you, my wonderful employees, that the advance I received is going to pay for this wonderful lap of luxury in which we're currently ensconced, but once I've paid the marvellous Mrs. Cleveley for our two week stay, there won't be much left to go around unless we do something to earn our fee?”

“But Capshaw will still pay us, won't he, boss?” asked Winston.

“Sure, he'll pay us. But do I need to remind you that we only get a flat fee if we see out the job and find nothing. The big bonus is only payable, if we actually find what he's looking for.”

“Yeah, like that's going to happen” joked Winston.

“You know, I have to agree with Winston on this one, I think you've really flipped this time,” jibed Sally.

“Listen you two doubters, I've seen the original document; he showed it to me spread out on his desk. I've no reason to doubt his sincerity or belief that the thing is genuine, and if it is and we can solve the puzzle of its location, we'll share in the rewards that such a find will bring. You've both seen the copy he gave me, I know it's not the same as having the real thing in your hand, but believe me, that document was old, very old.”

“These things can be faked, you know,” said Sally.

“Sure they can, and maybe someone made a mint by selling old Capshaw a dummy document and then doing a runner,” Winston continued.

“Listen, I don't think a reputable man like Malcolm Capshaw would be taken in by a fake document. He's very wealthy, very knowledgeable and from what I've heard, not a man to cross in either his business or personal life.”

“So you think it's the real deal then, eh, boss?” asked Winston.

“If I didn't, we wouldn't be sitting here now, waiting for the bloody rain to stop would we, you moron?”

“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,” Sally sang the old childhood rhyme.

“Don't come back at all,” Cutler snapped as he looked out the window at the incessant precipitation that seemed to be drowning his prospects of achieving what his cohorts already thought of as being wildly impossible.

Mrs. Cleveley chose that moment to arrive at the table with two plates of scrambled eggs, ordered by Winston and Sally before Cutler had made his entrance.

“Here we are, my dears,” the landlady chimed in her sing-song Somerset accent. “Yours will be along in a minute, Mr. Cutler. They say the rain'll stop later this morning, I just heard it on the radio.”

“I hope you're right, Mrs. Cleveley, I really do,” he replied quietly as she scurried off to fetch his breakfast.

Twenty minutes later the three of them gave up their seats under the window and made their way to Cutler's room, where he unlocked his briefcase and removed the copy of the document Malcolm Capshaw had presented him just two short weeks ago.

“Right then, let's just go over this again, in the hope that the rain does stop and the ground dries out enough for us to start the search sometime tomorrow.”

“You're the boss,” said Winston as he stretched his large frame out along the edge of Cutler's bed.

Sally sat demurely at the foot of the bed; her legs tucked under herself as Cutler unfolded the document and placed it on the bed where the three of them could see it clearly.

The paper he placed on the bed was a photo of something that definitely looked old. Most of the wording was indecipherable to the three of them, being written in what today is referred to as Old English, though the words seemed to have a hint of French or perhaps even ancient Latin to their untrained eyes. Whatever the words were, they were faded enough to make most of the script unreadable, perhaps even to an expert in languages. What made the document so interesting and potentially valuable was the one word which was still quite visibly etched in centuries old ink towards the end of the first line at the top of the document.

As the other members of the Strata Survey Company looked on, Joe Cutler, owner and chief survey engineer of the company he'd started three years ago traced the index finger of his right hand slowly across the page. His finger stopped directly below the word that had convinced him to take the job when Capshaw had called him and invited him to a meeting in his office. Hell, if they were successful, it would put him and his company on the map big time, he knew that such a find would bring him instant recognition, and the contracts would come pouring in.

“You know of course, that most people don't even think Arthur existed and if he didn't then this is just a wild goose chase,” Sally pointed out.

“Will you just listen?” Cutler replied. “If Capshaw was convinced, then for what he's prepared to pay us for succeeding, we at least ought to try.”

“Okay, boss man, we're all ears,” said Winston as he waited for Cutler to speak. “Go ahead and tell us again just how we're going to find King Arthur's Excalibur!”

Chapter 2

Two weeks earlier Joe Cutler had sat waiting outside the office of Malcolm Capshaw. He'd responded to a phone call three days previously, inviting him to a discussion with the millionaire, one which might lead to his company making a large sum of money and enhance its professional reputation at the same time. Cutler had been unable to resist the invitation, even though Capshaw's secretary had been less than forthcoming about the nature of the job her boss had in mind for Cutler's team.

Now here he was, sitting on a leather sofa in a palatial office in Stratford-on-Avon, with Capshaw's secretary looking over her glasses at him as he fidgeted uncomfortably on the squeaky polished leather. She looked around thirty years old, dressed in a smart, dark blue business suit, her long dark hair tied back professionally. Her shoes were of the highly glossy patent variety and her make-up could have been applied by a professional at a beauty parlour. Cutler found himself wondering if she performed more than secretarial duties for her boss; she looked the type.

The telephone on her desk buzzed and she listened to her boss via an earpiece hidden discreetly behind her left ear.

“Yes, sir, he's here. Of course, Mr. Capshaw, I'll show him in now.”

She rose from behind the desk. She was taller than Cutler had imagined as he'd watched her sitting behind the desk. She stood almost as tall as he was, which he found a little intimidating.

“Mr. Capshaw is ready for you now, Mr. Cutler,” she announced, somehow managing to make Joe's name sound like an insult. She led him through a heavy oak panelled door that led to what appeared to be a sort of air lock, with another identical oak door about five feet further on. Cutler realised this aided in sound-proofing Capshaw's inner sanctum, and also prevented anyone eavesdropping through the door.

The secretary didn't knock at the second door, she simply opened it and ushered Cutler through into the thickly carpeted office of Malcolm Capshaw.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” said the man sitting behind the large desk at the far side of the office. “That will be all for now. Do come in please, Mr. Cutler.”

Charlotte seemed to disappear on silent heels and the door closed equally silently behind her, leaving Cutler alone with Capshaw. The office was huge and Cutler couldn't make out the face of the man behind the desk until he drew nearer. The sunlight brightly glittered through the large plate glass window directly behind his host. As he moved closer he saw that Capshaw was a broad thick set individual, dressed immaculately in a suit that must have cost at least five hundred pounds. Capshaw was clean shaven with a good head of hair, expertly groomed, and Cutler guessed he was probably around fifty years of age. He had the steely, determined look of a man used to getting what he wanted, his eyes were grey and deeply penetrating in their gaze, and Cutler thought it might not be a good idea to cross a man like Malcolm Capshaw.

Capshaw motioned to Cutler to take a seat and immediately proceeded to the matter in hand. He obviously hadn't got where he was in the world by wasting too much time on small talk.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Cutler, one that may prove quite lucrative for you and your company.”

“Can I ask you how you heard about us, Mr. Capshaw?” asked Cutler, always eager to know how word of his professional services passed from one person or client to another.

“That's hardly important, is it, Mr. Cutler? The fact is I researched your credentials and decided that you and your people are the best qualified to do the little task I have in mind for you. Either you want the job or you don't, it's as simple as that.”

“Well yes, of course, Mr. Capshaw. It's just that I don't know anything about the job yet. Your secretary was a little, er, shall we say vague when she called and asked me to meet with you today?”

“Ah yes, good old Charlotte,” said Capshaw with a smile. “Always efficient you know, never says more than she has to in order to get the job done. That's what I like in a woman, or in a man, come to that.”

“Of course, I can agree with those sentiments, Mr. Capshaw. So, the job?”

Without further preamble Capshaw stood up and walked around his desk, gesturing for Cutler to follow him. They walked across the office to a large planning table, which held various papers and what appeared to be a number of large scale maps, all neatly arranged. There was a briefcase at one end of the table and Capshaw swung it around so that the locks faced him, rolled the numbers on the combination locks and then snapped the case open. From its interior, he took hold of and removed a rolled up document that had a yellowed, aged appearance. Cutler didn't need telling that he was about to view something that hadn't just come from a digital printer.

“This, Mr. Cutler, is the reason I asked you here today. This document which recently came into my possession is the clue that will lead us to solving one of history's greatest secrets. Tell me, have you ever been to Glastonbury?”

Cutler narrowed his eyes. “You mean Glastonbury, Somerset, as in rock concerts and such?”

“No, Mr. Cutler. I mean Glastonbury, as in the history of Christianity, the Holy Grail, King Arthur, and such.”

“Oh no, Mr. Capshaw,” Cutler said, shaking his head. “You don't want me to get involved with some improbable and highly unlikely grail quest, do you? If that's what this is all about, I'd rather we didn't waste any more of each other's valuable time. I think you've been reading too many novels and I wouldn't be interested in getting involved in anything like that, not even for the lucrative sum you seem to be hinting at. There's no such thing as the Holy Grail, I'm sure of it. It's just a wonderfully romantic historical fantasy.”

Capshaw pursed his lips. “This is not about the Holy Grail, Mr. Cutler. I'm talking about King Arthur.”

Cutler drew a deep breath. Capshaw might be a millionaire entrepreneur and renowned financial speculator, but he suspected he'd definitely got his sums wrong this time.

“Oh come on, Mr. Capshaw. With all due respect, there's no proof that King Arthur even existed! Just what part of the Arthurian legend do you want me to get involved with? His body was supposedly found centuries ago and as far as I know, that was later proved to be a hoax perpetrated by the monks at Glastonbury Abbey.”

“King Arthur did exist, Mr. Cutler. I'm convinced of it, and this document will help to prove it to you. I can't reveal to you where it came from or how it came into my possession, but a lot of people have died over the years to protect it and the information it holds. I'm a wealthy man as you already know, and the money itself is not of great importance to me. I thought you would appreciate a large cash injection into your business. You're building a very good reputation in your field, Mr. Cutler. Imagine how high your stock would rise amongst your potential clients if you could put on your CV that you were instrumental in leading the team that finally revealed the burial place not of King Arthur himself, but of his great sword, Excalibur!”

Cutler stared at him, incredulous. “Excalibur? You're not serious, surely? That's just so much myth and legend, for sure.”

Capshaw held up a hand. “Give me fifteen minutes, Mr Cutler, that's all I ask. If you're not convinced there's a possibility I might be telling you the truth by then, you can leave my office and we'll forget we ever met. The job will go to one of your competitors and the future success and prosperity of another survey company will be assured as opposed to Strata Surveys.”

Cutler knew he couldn't just walk away without giving Capshaw the chance to state his case. He couldn't take the chance that the man might be right, though everything he knew told Cutler the Arthurian legend was just that, a legend. Still, fifteen minutes wouldn't hurt; after all there was the fee to consider.

“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Capshaw. I'm all ears,” said Cutler, and he bent over the planning table as Capshaw spread the document out before them.

An hour later, Cutler was back outside in the fresh air, walking along the cobbled path that followed the bank of the River Avon. He wondered if William Shakespeare had ever walked along this bank of the river, not on this path of course, which was quite modern. His mind was still refusing to take in everything he'd learned in the last few minutes. The document Capshaw had showed shown him was centuries old. At least, Capshaw said it was, and he was more of an expert on that sort of thing than Cutler was. There was no doubt that it had been written by someone with a grasp of the language of a millennium ago, nor was there any doubting the location described by the map attached to the document. Though the topography of the terrain and the very nature of the land had changed in the last thousand years, Glastonbury was still Glastonbury. If the map and the text were genuine, then there was every chance that the fabled sword used by the presumably mythical King Arthur was buried somewhere near what was today known as Glastonbury Tor, a site that would have been an island many years ago. Was it possible therefore that King Arthur had actually existed? Had the history of the Dark Ages failed to record the accurate story of his rule? Could Glastonbury really have been the Avalon of legend, as many have supposed it to be over the years? Had truth and legend somehow become so intertwined that the reality of those long-ago days had been lost in the swirling mists of time, until the story of Arthur had become just that; a story, with the truth being hidden behind a veil of myth, superstition and legend? Had it all been a cleverly orchestrated deceit by those who had reason to keep the facts of Arthur's life and death a secret from those who followed him?

Suddenly, Joe Cutler found himself asking questions he wouldn't have been capable of formulating a short time ago. Somehow, Capshaw had convinced him that there was a real possibility the sword of King Arthur actually existed. He knew that if he and his team were to find it, and Capshaw kept his promise to ensure it became a national treasure, the publicity would assure his company's future, aside from the sizeable sum Capshaw was offering for the work of locating the artefact.

As for Capshaw, he'd managed to convince Joe he was truly an entrepreneur, and a benevolent one at that. He was a true patriot, and he wanted England to have positive proof of this important part of its heritage. He would make nothing from the find himself, though again, the publicity wouldn't do him any harm. Plus, he would be able to bask in the glory that would attend the fact that he was the man who'd organised and effectively led the team that discovered Excalibur. He'd told Cutler he wanted to see Excalibur behind glass in the British Museum, brightly illuminated so that all could see it, perhaps with his name on a plaque on the case, alongside that of Cutler and his team, of course.

Joe Cutler patted the breast pocket of his jacket, ensuring the envelope containing Capshaw's two-thousand-pound advance was still there. He'd taken the job, for better or worse Capshaw's secretary had handed over the envelope as though she was paying the window cleaner, with a look of disdain on her face. Cutler was, after all, merely the hired help.

To hell with her Cutler thought as he arrived back at the riverside car park where he'd left his rather dirty Toyota pick-up. The stuck up little bitch. Now all I have to do is sell this bloody madcap scheme to the others.

Chapter 3

Cutler figured he'd done a reasonable job of selling the scheme to the others; otherwise they wouldn't be sitting on his bed in room 3 of Mrs. Cleveley's Rowan Tree Guest House, discussing their plans for the next few days. It hadn't been too hard to convince Winston of the possibilities exhibited by the project. Perhaps it was the romantic soul of his Caribbean background that had led the big Jamaican to think a search for the sword of King Arthur might make a pleasant diversion from their usual fare of surveying jobs for building contractors or gas pipe-laying companies and the like. Either that, or the prospect of the fame and fortune coming their way if they were successful convinced Winston Fortune that his boss might not be totally crazy and they might just find what they were looking for. As Winston had pointed out; the client must have good reason to believe in his cause, otherwise, he wouldn't offer them a big fat fee to carry out the search, would he?

Sally Corbett had been a little harder to convince. Younger and definitely more cynical and sceptical than Winston, she'd laughed aloud when Cutler first told her of Capshaw's quest, and the part they were expected to play in it.

“Excalibur?” she'd exclaimed. “You really have lost it this time, boss! You're surely not serious, are you? Who is this Capshaw guy anyway? Has he just escaped from a loony bin, or what? I thought you had more sense than to fall for something like this, I really did.”

“Look, Sally” he'd replied patiently, “I ran a check on Capshaw. Seems like he's rich beyond anything you or I could ever dream of being. He's made a fortune from property speculation and from playing the world's financial markets. Stocks, shares, futures, they're all like bread and butter to him. He's donated vast sums to charities over the years, particularly to those with an artistic connection. He also invests in projects around the world to recover historical artefacts. He's funded a whole range of archaeological expeditions in the last ten years, and he definitely isn't the sort of man to waste his, or anyone else's time on wild goose chases. If he believes in the existence of King Arthur and Excalibur, and he thinks he can find it with our help, then I'm not going to refuse his money without at least giving it a good try.”

“Did you see the original document then?” she'd demanded.

“Yes, Sally, I did, and what's more, I believe it's the real thing. Capshaw was very secretive about where and how he got hold of it, but I couldn't doubt his sincerity for a minute. Anyway, he's paying the bills, and our wages for the job, so what have we got to lose by going along with him, eh? Come on, Sally girl, where's your sense of adventure?”

She'd eventually given in to his persuasion, though in truth, she could hardly refuse to go along with him in reality. Sally had the greatest of respect for Joe Cutler. After all, he'd given her a job when she'd abandoned university without a degree, after she'd suffered a long spell of depression when her twin sister had been killed in a horrific hit and run road accident while on her way to visit their sick mother in the hospital. Sally and her twin, Maggie had been more than close. They'd shared that special bond only identical twins possess, including the ability to second-guess each other's thoughts, and 'see' the same things in their minds simultaneously. Losing Maggie, Sally felt as though a part of herself had died along with her sister. Deeply distraught, she'd ended up packing her things, walking out of the halls of residence at Oxford University, and disappeared into a world of her own for almost a year. Unwilling to return to university, she'd plucked up the courage to start job hunting. Seeing herself as little more than a failed geology student, she hadn't held out much hope of securing a job within her chosen profession. When she'd seen the advertisement for a survey team assistant in her local newspaper, she'd applied just to see what would happen. At the interview, Joe Cutler's down-to-earth approach had been a surprise, he'd refused to see her lack of a degree as a problem, and she'd been totally over the moon when he'd told her he'd rather have someone knowledgeable and prepared to get her hands dirty, than someone whose head was filled with too much theory and a sense of their own importance.

Two days after the interview, Sally received the telephone call that had made her the third member of the team now sat waiting to begin their unlikely quest to discover King Arthur's long-lost sword. They worked well together, and Cutler appreciated everyone's personal opinions. He wasn't the sort of man who imposed his own ideas, merely because he was the boss. If they could devise a better way of doing something, or had an idea which might help get the job done quicker without compromising safety or accuracy, Cutler was always ready to listen. He might be nearly twice her age, (she thought), but Sally knew she was ever-so-slightly in love with the man who paid her wages, not that she'd ever dare to admit it to him, or anyone else, of course.

“Hey, boss. Look.” Winston was pointing at the window. “If I'm not mistaken I could swear that it's getting brighter out there.”

“Looks like Mrs. Cleveley was right. The rain's easing off and the sun's trying to come out,” Sally concurred.

Sure enough, as Cutler stared hard through the wet pane of his bedroom window he could just about see that the clouds were beginning to move away from what had appeared to be their permanent mooring over the town and were gradually giving way to a pale blue and brighter sky blowing in from the east. A broad smile broke out on his face as he turned back to face the others.

“Well, folks, it looks like our luck's in. If things dry out just enough, we'll be able to start laying out our search grids first thing tomorrow. Now, let's go through everything one more time, shall we?”

Sally and Winston groaned, and Sally took the liberty of playfully throwing their street map of Glastonbury at her boss.

“Slave driver,” she laughed at him as Cutler ducked.

“Okay, boss man,” said Winston, sounding resigned to the inevitable. “Let the lecture begin.”

Cutler removed a whole mass of papers from his briefcase along with a beautifully leather bound book, the page edges deckled with gold. It was a thick and heavy volume containing almost everything known about the legend of King Arthur, Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table. Whether fact or fiction, virtually everything ever written on the subject was contained within this one concise work of literature, and Cutler had been left in no doubt as to its value when Capshaw had entrusted it to him. They'd studied the text so many times over the last few days, and now the time was near when they would put what they'd learned to good use. If Excalibur really did exist, then with the information contained within the pages of the book, together with the information on the document furnished by Capshaw, Joe Cutler knew that he and the others would find it. They just needed to sift through the myths, find the facts, forget the possibility of failure, and make sure they followed the trail to wherever the sword was buried.

As the sun broke through the clouds and shafts of golden light suffused the room, he made himself comfortable, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. Having made sure he had Winston and Sally's full attention, Cutler began to read aloud from what, until now, they'd thought of as nothing more than the 'legend' of King Arthur.

Chapter 4

“So, let's see I've got this right then, boss,” Winston said, after an hour of intense listening and discussion. “Camelot wasn't here at Glastonbury, but it was at Cadbury, and Glastonbury was the ancient Avalon, right?”

Cutler nodded.

“And Arthur died of wounds he received at the battle of Camlann in the year 542, and was carried back here, where his body was interred somewhere in the area?”

“Whereupon,” Sally joined in the conversation, “Sir Pelleas, husband of Viviane, otherwise known to history as The Lady of the Lake, took it upon himself to bury the sword Excalibur in a place apart from the body of Arthur, to prevent its discovery and the possibility of it being used by his enemies against the forces of good that Arthur had stood for. Pelleas was afraid that Arthur's enemies might attempt to disinter his corpse and remove the sword if it were there, and use it as a rallying symbol for those who would follow the pretenders to his throne.”

“Looks like you guys have got it,” said Cutler, that irrepressible smile spreading across his face again.

“And you say that all this is true?” asked Sally.

“No, Sally, the book says it's true, Capshaw says it's true, and his tame historical expert says it's true.”

“Ah yes, boss, the expert. When the hell we s'posed to expect the great man, anyhow?” Winston wanted to know. “Wasn't he s'posed to be here by now, man?”