The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Your brother had the ill luck to be standing with his back to the open casement,’ I said.

  ‘He should not have been up so late,’ said Colin. ‘I expect he could not sleep in his greedy excitement. He was examining his precious sky-stone, cradling it in his hands, working out his profit, oblivious to what was happening behind his back beyond the still-open casement . . .’

  ‘That boat there, the herring buss, floated straight towards the Argo in the night—’

  Colin Case nodded. I could have sworn that he was smiling, but he was standing against the sun and it was hard to be sure. I went on.

  ‘—and the tip of the bowsprit entered through the aperture provided by the window like . . . like the point of a giant foil—’

  ‘—a closed window would have shattered, even provided some defence,’ added Tallman.

  ‘I understand the talk about needles now,’ said Jack.

  ‘Jonathan was struck by the tip of the bowsprit. The jib boom, if we want to be precise. It delivered a great blow with the whole mass of the vessel behind it. The tip ripped into his back and flung him up so his head hit the roof. Almost at once the other vessel was fended off from doing further damage. No one on board was aware of more than a violent jarring or jolting while all this was going on. The Draco slipped back and the bowsprit – or the very end of the thing – withdrew from the cabin as neatly as it had entered while its tip withdrew from my brother’s body, yes, like a sword’s point. It did some slight damage to the frame of the cabin window, but not one of us was aware that it left a dead man in its wake.’

  Nicholas Tallman performed a priestly act at this point. He lowered his head and crossed himself. The rest of us stood silent, dumfounded by Colin Case’s explanation. Yet it was surely correct.

  I watched as the herring buss manoeuvred itself nearer the centre of the stream. Then, with sails hoist so as to catch the gentle wind, it set off with the outgoing tide to find fish.

  Jack and I left the boat at Gravesend. We sailed on the long ferry back to London, and that journey took us another day, so we missed two days’ work and were fined and berated accordingly. We preferred to pretend that we had been playing truant – the kind of misbehaviour which is not unknown among players – rather than recount the strange tale of the travellers on the Argo and death by bowsprit.

  Colin Case must have managed to square things with his friendly local justice, for the boat soon sailed on for France. The death of Dr Jonathan was presented as the peculiar accident which it was, and it has to be said that nobody much mourned the passing of this unpleasant individual. Nicholas Tallman, I assume, reached the safety of a friendlier country, while Thomas served under the tutelage of his kindlier cousin, Colin Case.

  As for what happened to the sky-stone I remain ignorant. Ignorant whether it found its way to Maître Renard in St-Malo or whether Henry Tallman returned it to London to the ‘important foreigner’. Or perhaps kept it for himself. After all, he had been eager to show it to his friend Dr Dee. I don’t know, though. Some things are destined to remain mysteries.

  And there is another mystery, too. It was only when Jack and I discussed it later that we realized how willingly both of us had accepted Colin Case’s story of the death of his brother. That it was an accident disguised as a murder. It was hardly surprising we’d leaped to the conclusion of murder. The unlamented physician was the victim of a violent, bloody assault, and there were several individuals on board with the motive and opportunity to kill him. We were just as quick to seize hold of the comforting notion that Jonathan Case’s death was a freakish chance. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was not the bowsprit of the Draco which had done the damage after all but – say – one of those vicious, hooked implements the mariners made so free with on deck?

  Perhaps it had been the other way about, a murder disguised as an accident. If so, Colin Case’s story was a brilliant piece of improvisation to cover himself . . . or to cover someone else . . . just a story.

  Epilogue

  London, 2010

  Greg edged his hand along the rim of the crater. The profile was ragged and unclear, but he reckoned he could make out a distinct circular shape. In fact, he was sure he could see a central peak indicative of the crater floor rebounding from the compressional shock of an impact. This is what was so exciting about scrambling over a new crater. Checking his coordinates, he noted them down on the pad he carried with him. 61 10N: 45 25W. Scanning across it, he estimated the diameter of the crater to be over two kilometres. Big enough to be a medium-size meteorite impact on this part of Greenland. He would have to measure it more accurately later. But for now visual observation was enough to get his pulse racing.

  He looked south to the airstrip at Narsarsuaq, where other research team members could make their landing if he was right about the crater. No terrestrial impact craters had so far been identified on the surface of Greenland, covered as it mostly was with snow and ice. But the nearby landmass of continental North America was peppered with them. He ached to be the first person to identify a genuine impact crater on Greenland. He scanned across the deep blue fjord to the tiny settlement of Qassiarsuk hanging on to the small strip of green below the snowfields and glaciers. He thought he could just make out the site of Brattahli∂, the ancient Viking settlement at the head of the fjord. It was a sheltered location almost a hundred kilometres from the ocean, and no one knew exactly why it had been abandoned. Some scientists simply reckoned the weather had got worse, and the settlers had retreated from the encroaching ice and snow. Other people, more inclined to believe the old legends, said some evil had taken place there, driving the settlers out. Greg was a sceptic when it came to the supernatural, preferring hard facts and common sense to the unspeakable and the unprovable. Once more he returned his gaze to the impact crater and looked across the far rim towards the whiteness of the mountains that angled away from him. The sudden and insistent burble of his landline cut across his excitement.

  He sighed and flicked the knob situated under his right hand in order to turn the motorized wheelchair to the left. The hum of the electric motor, which he hardly noticed normally, seemed like the angry buzzing of a cloud of bees. He felt as though a dull, leaden weight was filling his chest, which was ironic. As a T2 paraplegic, he had no feeling at all from somewhere just above his nipple line. When the accident had first happened, and he was lying in hospital, he had been told by an inexperienced doctor that he was lucky because he still had full use of his arms and hands. Greg had sworn at the poor man with all the vehemence he could muster. He sure as hell didn’t feel lucky just at that moment.

  Until two years ago, Greg Janic had called himself a hunter and explorer. Among other things, he explored the world for evidence of meteorite craters, enjoying the freedom of the outdoors and the exhilaration of climbing in often mountainous and dangerous terrain. Greenland had drawn him for years as one of the last wildernesses on the planet. It had turned out to be his nemesis. Climbing Allerulik, one of the peaks in the Narsaq region, a spring-loaded camming device had failed him, and he had plunged a hundred feet down a glacier. His only consolation had been suing the cam’s manufacturer, and getting enough compensation to meet all his new and complex needs as a paraplegic. And to make him reasonably wealthy into the bargain.

  He had set himself up in an apartment in central London with enough computer equipment to freak out even the geekiest of nerds. When he had first been looking for somewhere to live, one estate agent had shown him a loft apartment overlooking the Thames. It had a magnificent view, and he could have well afforded the flat. He had been sitting in his wheelchair staring out at the sun sparkling on the river. The view had been full of activity – boats on the water and people with the full use of their limbs hurrying around like ants. He had suddenly felt nauseous. It was as though he was trapped in a picture looking out on the real world. He had abruptly turned his wheelchair away from the window and exited the apartment. The place he ended up buying was in a war
ehouse conversion. It had restricted views, and it suited him. He wanted to see the world only through the medium of a computer screen.

  For a year he had had mood swings and had thought of suicide, refusing to even talk to his old friends, most of whom he had known through his work. He could not bear to think of them able still to climb mountains and dig for evidence of meteorites. Finally, he had answered the persistent phone calls made by an old friend and colleague, June Piper. She had eventually convinced him that he could contribute to the research team she led, and which he had done fieldwork for. So he returned to impact crater hunting, and he did it without ever leaving his home. It was remarkable what could be done using Google Earth.

  He picked up the phone. It was June on a very bad line. ‘Hi, Greg. What kept you?’

  He felt annoyed that his Google search had been interrupted and showed his displeasure. ‘Nothing. Just a small case of T2 paraplegia. I had to drag my useless limbs across the floor. It took some time.’

  He could hear June laughing down the phone. She was never embarrassed by his condition, as others were when they saw him in a wheelchair. He pictured her short, stocky frame topped by her round, ruddy face and cropped hair. Always dressed in a check shirt and jeans with sturdy walking boots on her feet, her appearance screamed ‘I’m a lesbian; deal with it’. And she didn’t cut Greg any slack about being a paraplegic, either. Where others sometimes treated him like a child, or, even worse, a brave little soldier, her attitude to him was ‘So, you’re in a wheelchair; deal with it’. His self-pity didn’t work on her, so he became all business.

  ‘I’ve got a new site for you. It’s just north of Narsarsuaq Airfield, so it shouldn’t be difficult to get to. Where are you now?’

  The line crackled, rendering June’s reply inaudible.

  ‘Say again.’

  ‘Kulusuk. Would you believe the population here is about three hundred and they have an international airport? It’s not quite as big as Heathrow, mind.’

  Greg twiddled his control and reversed the chair back towards his computer, still talking on the cordless phone. He moved the hand cursor on Google Earth and zoomed out to seven hundred kilometres. From there, he could see how far the two spots were apart. It didn’t seem a problem, especially with airstrips at both locations.

  ‘OK. If the search is not bearing fruit where you are, I suggest you skip down to Narsaq. It looks far more promising.’

  ‘Nothing bears fruit here, Greg. It’s ice, snow and more ice. But you have the big picture, so we’ll do as you suggest.’

  He ignored her feeble joke and idly moved the hand-shaped cursor around the rim of his crater, caressing it. ‘It’s what I’m paid for.’

  There was a moment’s silence from the other end of the line, and Greg thought he had lost the connection. Then he heard June’s voice again. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot the reason why I phoned you. There’s a meteorite for sale on eBay. Looks interesting. Its curious shape might appeal to you.’

  ‘Curious shape?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  Annoyingly, she rang off before he could question her further, so he opened Google Chrome and went into eBay. He bought lots of items on the website, so his access was smooth and easy. He soon saw what June had meant about the meteorite on offer being a strange shape. From the picture, it looked like one of those stealth planes from the 1980s. Boomerang-shaped with a small tail, and smooth. Later stealth aircraft got all angular to prevent radar working on them. This was like an early prototype, all rounded and smooth. And to Greg it looked old. New meteorites had a fusion crust, making them dark and glossy. This was brownish, and the surface looked grainy. But when he zoomed in on the picture, he could just make out some markings on the surface, half hidden by its granular nature. He thought it might be a fake, but he was prepared to take the risk to get a good look at it. And to add it to his collection. The seller, a guy with the handle Tallman, claimed it was an iron meteorite, which made it quite rare. Less than six per cent of meteorites were iron. He looked at the auction bid and at the time left. It had already reached $2,000 with an hour left, so he put in a bid of $2,200. Within a few minutes someone bid $2,500. Greg added another $500, only to be topped again a few minutes later. He grinned, knowing the guy bidding against him was an amateur. With only an hour – less now – to go, he should have been holding off until the last minute. This was going to be Greg’s strategy before he pushed the bidding higher than it needed to go. He eased back in his wheelchair, rearranged his lifeless legs that had slipped awkwardly and poured himself a glass of Tall Horse. The South African Merlot washed down his throat with its characteristic smoothness as he relaxed and held his nerve. Leaving eBay open, he returned to Google Earth. He ran his electronic hand over the Greenland crater rim once more.

  Fifty minutes later, he had won. The iron meteorite was his for a paltry $3,600. He quickly sorted out the payment and arranged delivery. It was very late, and he should have been going through the tedious ritual that got him into bed by now. But he couldn’t bear it, when he knew he had to do the whole thing in reverse in only a few hours’ time. Not for the first time since his accident, he carried on through the night searching for craters that might provide remains of extraterrestrial life. The one he had found was very promising, as the outline was hard and jagged. He really needed to find craters without an outline eroded by Ice Age glaciers and the millennia. A crater formed by a meteorite that had come down recently – in other words, no more than 100,000 years ago. Even better if it was one that had impacted within living memory. And in a cold place.

  When he told people he worked for a research team who were looking for extraterrestrial life, he had to fend off the inevitable inane questions about ET, little grey men with big eyes and flying saucers. The research team, led by Dr June Piper, would be overjoyed if they found something as lowly as frozen bacteria. Which is why Greenland was a great place in which to hunt for impact craters. The only drawback was that most of it was covered with snow and ice. The possible crater north of Qassiarsuk was an excellent prospect, as it was on bare terrain but close to the ice sheet. He ploughed on through the night looking at all the smaller dots and hollows on Google Earth that might be part of the scatter from the original meteorite fall. He hardly noticed the creeping greyness that began to fill the room as dawn approached. Suddenly, his email service pinged, alerting him to an incoming email. He scrubbed his stubbly chin, and yawned, aware for the first time that he felt hugely exhausted. He opened his email box and clicked on the new item in the inbox. The message was so unexpected as to immediately wake him up. It was from someone signing himself V. A. Bassianus, who claimed to be a representative of the Sol Invictus Trust. He explained that he had been very interested in buying the iron meteorite and regretted losing out on the eBay auction. He invited Greg to name a price for selling it to the trust. Greg stared at the screen as though it might have the answers to a myriad questions that were buzzing in his brain. He gave in to a persistent habit, developed since his accident, of talking to himself.

  ‘How the hell did you know I had bought it, and how did you get my email address?’

  Any information on eBay had to be confidential. If it wasn’t, and the site had given – or, even worse, sold – his details to this individual, he would sue them. He trusted the site, though, and quickly dismissed the notion. But he still couldn’t work out how V. A. Bassianus could have got his address. He typed a short reply, asking those very questions, and ended by saying the meteorite was not for sale. He sent the email on its way and put it out of his mind for the time being.

  A week later, when a heavy packet arrived at his apartment, the mystery was revived in his mind. Opening the packet, he found inside a battered wooden box with a label stuck to the lid. The label itself was ancient and almost worn away. Only strips remained on which Greg could discern faded brown writing in a crabbed hand. Some of the text was lost completely, along with the paper on which it had been written. What was left would take
him a while to decipher. Intrigued, he opened the box. Inside lay the iron meteorite just as he remembered it from the photograph on eBay. The surface looked darker than in the picture, and smoother – as though someone had tried to polish it. Maybe Tallman, whoever he was, had thought he should do so before passing it on to his buyer. Greg could see the characteristic regmaglypts that covered the surface. They were popularly called ‘thumbprints’ because that was what they looked like – as though someone had pressed their thumb into the surface over and over again while the rock had been malleable. He could also see the marks he had at first thought had been painted on the surface. Looking closely at the rock, he could tell they were an integral part of the material. Curiously, they looked like Hebrew letters. He turned the rock over and over in his hand. It was heavy, and, if it conformed to the normal make-up of an iron meteorite, it held iron, nickel and perhaps some kamacite and taenite. He rolled his wheelchair along his workbench and put the rock on some electronic scales. He whistled quietly. It was almost 1,700 grams, so, taking its dimensions into account, it probably had a specific gravity of 8. Definitely within the range of an iron meteorite. He placed it on the bench and looked hard at it.

  The email message from Bassianus came into his mind, and he wondered what was so special about this stone that the man was prepared to pay any price to get it. He picked the stone up again and nestled it in his lap while he motored back to his computer. Once there, he looked in his email service’s deleted file and called up the message again. He scanned the text, and the email address of the sender.

  ‘What the hell is the Sol Invictus Trust when it’s at home? And why were you so keen to get the stone in the first place, Mr V. A. Bassianus?’

  He tried the obvious first route, typing the name of the trust into Google. He had plenty of hits, including an online gaming site, and information about an English neofolk band addicted to electronic experimentation. There was nothing about a trust. However, there was another entry on an historical site that caught his eye. It was about a Roman emperor called Heliogabalus who had been responsible for promoting a version of sun worship. He replaced Jupiter with the god of the cult called Elagabalus, and renamed him Deus Sol Invictus – God the Undefeated Sun. Greg’s inclination was to be sceptical about anything he couldn’t measure or define, so he didn’t believe in the supernatural. But he knew equally that it didn’t stop some cranks thinking they had powers greater than science could encompass. Someone probably wanted to revive this old cult seriously enough to spend big money on obtaining the meteorite. Then he spotted Emperor Heliogabalus’s birth name, Varius Avitus Bassianus. He clicked back on the email text on his computer screen.