The Sign of Ouroboros

by David Longhorn

This led to a discussion of Kelly's background, and her involvement with Ouroboros.

  “New one on me,” said Healy. “But these weird groups spring up like weeds in a city like London.”

  “Ouroboros is a low-key outfit,” said Brad, “nobody seems to know much about it.”

  “But this Kathy Hopkirk promised to spill the beans, eh?” said Healy. “I think I can legitimately look into her background. She's involved in this case, perhaps a material witness. In the meantime, I will list your daughter as missing, Mister Steiger. I think in the circumstances, she could be at risk.”

  “What does that mean in practice?” demanded Brad. “That she's on some database with ten thousand other names?”

  “I'll make it a national priority and involve Interpol, if my superior approves,” promised Healy. “Will that do?”

  Brad nodded, pleased that his initial impression of Healy was correct.

  “In the meantime,” the officer went on, “I have to ask, are either of you gentlemen at risk?”

  “Yes, I'm afraid we may be,” said Marcus. “Ouroboros may claim to be peace-loving, but I've had some near misses with fanatics over the years. I'd put nothing past them.”

  “Unfortunately, I can't allocate any officers to protect you,” said Healy. “You won't be surprised to hear our budget simply won't stretch to that. But I would advise you both to be very careful in the future. And get out of London. Take a holiday, Mister Valentine. And you, Mister Steiger, would be well advised to go back to the States.”

  “Sorry, but I think I have to stick around,” said Brad. “I can't just abandon my daughter.”

  “And I can't just throw everything up and leave,” put in Marcus.

  Healy sighed.

  “Thought so. For what it's worth, you can contact me directly if you suspect you're being followed, or if you receive any threats. In the meantime, I'll try to keep you informed as far as I'm able.”

  With that, the interview was over, and Healy was left alone to write up his own preliminary report. He made a point of mentioning Ouroboros in the Hyde Park case, and in his missing person file on Kelly Steiger. He then immersed himself in work on another one of his half dozen active cases. At five O’ clock, he was interrupted by a junior officer bearing a cup of coffee.

  “Just in time, the disgusting instant caffeinated brew that energizes the lonely sleuth,” said Healy.

  “Yes, sir,” said Constable Knapton. “And a rumor from on high has it that the Deputy Commissioner wants your guts for garters.”

  “Again?” asked Healy. “It's only Tuesday.”

  “Yes, sir,” continued Knapton. “Apparently you've violated protocol and such like.”

  “Aren't I the little reprobate,” returned Healy, blowing on the steaming coffee. “You couldn't manage a doughnut or a cupcake or something to go with this muck?”

  “I'll do my best, sir,” said Knapton, but before he could leave, the Deputy Commissioner himself appeared, blocking the doorway.

  “Don't get up, Healy,” began the senior officer. “Just a flying visit. About this missing person thing.”

  The Deputy Commissioner barged past Knapton as if the latter did not exist.

  “We can't squander resources on every American who decides she doesn't like her dad anymore. I've blocked your request to list the Steiger girl as missing.”

  “Sir,” began Healy, “I felt that the cult involvement merited–”

  The Deputy Commissioner silenced the detective with an impatient gesture.

  “If the girl is in any kind trouble, that's a problem for the local force to deal with,” he barked. “Just leave it, it's not our concern. Focus on the actual evidence, not your usual speculation and touchy-feely stuff.”

  Without waiting for Healy to respond, the senior officer left without bothering to close the office door.

  “That's me told, eh?” said the detective.

  “Yes, sir,” said Knapton, apparently unruffled.

  “You want to get out of uniform one day, lad?” asked Healy.

  “Yes, sir,” returned Knapton, now sounding wary.

  “Well, put your keen intellect to work and tell me what was wrong with that conversation.”

  “Don't get you, sir,” admitted the constable. “I think you just got the usual bollocking for overstepping the mark.”

  Healy sighed, leaned back in his chair.

  “You fail to bring me doughnuts, or elementary deductive powers. Think, what did the old bugger actually say?”

  Knapton frowned, then enlightenment dawned.

  “He said it was for the local force to deal with! But that means he knows she's not in London anymore.”

  “And almost certainly knows where she is,” added Healy.

  The two officers stared at each other for a few moments.

  “Feel free to just walk out, closing the door behind you,” said Healy, eventually.

  Knapton walked to the door, closed it, and then leaned against it.

  “I might not be the brightest, sir, but I don't like crooked coppers.”

  “Me neither,” said Healy. “Let's see if we can find out exactly what this particular one is trying to hide.”

  Chapter 3: West of Ireland, May 1994

  Jonathan Clay woke in a cramped bunk bed on a cold, damp morning. It was spring in Ireland, but since his team had arrived at the site, it had rained every day. It made work difficult and unpleasant. He looked out of the window of the trailer, and saw no break in the lowering ceiling of gray cloud.

  But if you don't want to get your hands dirty and your socks wet, he thought, don't be a professional archaeologist.

  Clay was sharing a trailer with Dermot Kavanagh, a student from Dublin University. A separate, smaller trailer was occupied by Olivia Ballard, his other student. They had been forced to rent the trailers to live at the site of their dig instead of taking accommodation in the nearby village of Ballymahan. Even though Clay had started hunting for rooms months in advance, the locals had claimed that all the B&Bs were booked. At the time, he had believed them. Now he was not so sure.

  “Wakey, wakey, Sam,” he said loudly. There was a groan from the upper bunk.

  “What time did you get back from the pub, young man?” demanded Clay.

  Dermot's round face appeared, bleary-eyed and unshaven.

  “Let's just say it was late, boss,” said Dermot. “Sorry.”

  Something about Dermot's expression told Clay that the student was concerned about something more than a hangover.

  “What's wrong?” he asked. “Not more superstitious nonsense?”

  Dermot swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, groaned, held his head in his hands. He was a gangling, red-headed young man who Clay often thought looked like a parody of an Irishman. The one exception to the stereotype was that the lad could not hold his drink.

  “I'm afraid so, boss,” Dermot said. “We've lost Kieran. He won't be coming up today. Or any day.”

  “What? But Kieran was our last volunteer!” protested Clay. “We'll never get the work done now!”

  “I know,” moaned Dermot. “It's a bloody disgrace. I reckon the priest got to him. And maybe some of the old biddies. He was ashamed of himself, I could tell. But it's hard to go against the grain when you live in a little village. I know that myself.”

  Clay grunted noncommittally. They had begun their excavation at Ballymahan's stone circle with no less than a dozen volunteers, mostly young men and women, a few kids, and a couple of keen retired folks. But one by one, they had dropped out. Some had apologized and offered fairly lame excuses, but most had simply stopped showing up.

  Before he could question Dermot further, there was a loud banging on the trailer door.

  “Morning, boys! If you're not decent, tough luck, I'm coming in anyway!”

  Olivia climbed into the trailer, carrying her usual morning burden of fresh eggs and milk from the farmer whose land they were camped on.

  “Why the long faces, chaps?�
�� she asked when they greeted her with desultory Hellos.

  Clay explained that they would be working without help.

  “Bloody hell,” she erupted. “What is wrong with these people? You'd think it was the Dark Ages, not the twentieth century.”

  Olivia was just a shade over five feet tall, but Clay often thought that she had enough energy for two full-grown men. He had had to effectively bar her from visiting the village pub because of her propensity to get into arguments with the locals about the Nine Sisters, as they called the standing stones near Ballymahan.

  “There's no point in complaining,” said Clay, trying to mollify her. “Let's just have breakfast and try to work out what we're going to do.”

  A few minutes later, they were sitting in the cramped 'living room' of the trailer eating scrambled eggs, washed down with mugs of coffee. The discussion of their plight had gone in circles. It seemed inevitable. The dig would have to be abandoned.

  “It's just so bloody infuriating!” erupted Olivia. “We're so close to making a genuinely worthwhile discovery. It would put this place on the map, probably boost tourism. Don't these Irish yokels know a good thing when they see it?”

  Clay noticed Dermot bridling slightly at the Englishwoman's remark about the villagers, and said, “Look, we don't know for sure that it's superstition. It might simply be that people have better things to do. Paid work on the farms around here, for a start.”

  “I suspect the real reason is approaching right now,” said Olivia, looking out of the window at the dirt road to the village. Clay and Dermot half-stood to look past her. Heading up towards them was a battered Fiat that they all recognized at once.

  “Father Quigley,” Clay said, resignedly.

  “Come to gloat, the arrogant bugger,” fumed Olivia.

  “I'd better talk to him, you two check those geophysical results for me.”

  The two students exchanged a glance but said nothing. It was obvious to them that Clay was creating make-work for them, keeping them busy to try and shore up morale. The archaeologist felt ashamed at the failure of this, his first big project, and a growing anger that the young people's careers should be blighted. He got up and went out to face the priest.

  “Good morning, Doctor Clay,” said Father Quigley, slamming his car door. He was a youngish man with thin, sandy hair and freckled features.

  “Not really,” replied Clay. “As I'm sure you're aware, we've lost our last volunteer. And I daresay no more will be forthcoming. You must be pleased.”

  The priest shook his head.

  “You misjudge me, Jonathan,” he said. “I don't bear you any ill-will. I merely speak for the community. People simply don't want you here.”

  Quigley gestured at the stone circle known as the Nine Sisters. Legend had it that the stones were evil witches who were petrified by Saint Patrick. As if on cue, a rent in the clouds permitted a shaft of sunlight to fall onto the ancient monument.

  “Walk with me, Father,” said Clay to the priest. “Come and meet the Sister and tell me just what you find so disturbing about archaeology.”

  “I've nothing against science,” replied Quigley, falling in step beside Clay. “I just think there are other forms of knowledge, other paths to truth. And that scientists, like yourself, have uncovered some terrible truths that are better left alone. The events of this century prove that, I think.”

  “That didn't take long,” said Clay, with a wry smile. “From folk stories about a Neolithic monument to Hiroshima in one giant leap.”

  Quigley laughed.

  “I'm not suggesting some terrible catastrophe would arise if you excavated the Sisters,” he said. “I'm just saying the locals don't like it and sometimes you have to go with the flow. There's genuine fear among these people. They come to me, and I see it in their faces, hear it in their voices. How can I ignore that?”

  Frustrated, Clay pointed at the stones.

  “We've done no damage, not even touched one of the Sisters!” he pointed out. “All we've done is put a trench across the center of the circle. We've found some pottery, arrowheads, the usual stuff.”

  “Yes,” admitted Quigley, “but the legend says that digging anywhere around the circle is blasphemous.”

  “How can it be blasphemy to disturb a pagan monument?” protested Clay. “This circle pre-dates the arrival of Christianity in Ireland by at least a thousand years!”

  They had just passed into the circle and Quigley stopped to look at the nearest stone. Like all the Sisters, it was about waist-height, an unremarkable lump of unworried granite. Irish stone circles tended to be much more modest than their British counterparts.

  “Legends have their own logic,” said the priest. “Locals believe that my namesake, Saint Patrick, drove all the snakes out of Ireland by overcoming the witches who worshiped the serpent. He turned them to stone, and their weight somehow pins down their great snake-deity that lies beneath our feet.”

  Clay looked down at the green Irish turf before he could stop himself, smiled at his response to such nonsense.

  “There were no snakes in Ireland in the first place,” he pointed out. “Not a shred of scientific evidence. Not a single skull, bone, or scrap of reptile skin has been found in any part of the Emerald Isle. You know that; you're an educated man.”

  “As I said,” replied the priest patiently, “it is a legend. Not susceptible to scientific logic, but it conveys a truth of its own. Good conquered Evil, the Good Lord was victorious over the serpent.”

  “Do you want to hear my theory?” asked Clay. “Not the garbled version your parishioners might have got down the pub from Dermot and Olivia.”

  “As I understand it,” said Quigley, in measured tones, “you think some kind of serpent cult lies behind ancient monuments? All across Europe and Asia, from India to Ireland?”

  Clay nodded.

  “Not just stone circles, but also the Stone Age obsession with spirals and circular labyrinths, which are found in hundreds of places. I think snake-worship was overthrown by new faiths, and its adherents condemned as evil. The story of the snake tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden is an echo of that conflict.”

  Quigley shook his head.

  “That's just the sort of talk to get the locals riled up. And before you condemn them as ignorant peasants, let me tell you, I've seen some things out here. Nothing too definite, I admit. Could be it was just my imagination. But I would never go near the Nine Sisters by night.”

  Clay took a breath, then said, “Look, come and see what we're actually doing. Nothing remotely blasphemous. Nothing remotely interesting, either, to the average person. We're just digging up rocks and bones to test a theory about a culture that's three thousand years dead.”

  The two men walked over to the trench. It was some four feet deep, three feet wide, and about twelve feet long. A small excavator stood next to it.

  “We had hoped to put in at least three more trenches and in around the circle,” explained Clay. “But with just the three of us working it would be pointless.”

  Quigley looked puzzled, and glanced at the digger.

  “We only use machinery,” said Clay, “to go down a couple of feet. That's going back just a few hundred years, time-wise. If we used the digger to go deeper, we'd smash all the stuff we're looking for. Most finds are quite fragile.”

  Clay helped the priest down into the trench and then started indicating areas where finds had been unearthed. Quigley listened attentively and asked thoughtful questions. Not for the first time, Clay wished he could somehow recruit the priest as an ally, a respected figure in the community who could win the villagers over. He said as much, but Quigley shook his head.

  “You don't understand, Jonathan,” he said. “I'm on their side. In all conscience, I cannot help you.”

  Quigley seemed about to say more, but then he frowned and looked down into the mud at the bottom of the trench. Following the priest's gaze, Clay saw a buried object with a straight edge, the sure sign of an
artifact.

  “How in the name of God did we miss that?” he exclaimed, crouching down to gently ease the dirt away from the object.

  “Maybe you didn't,” said the priest, as if to himself.

  “What do you mean?” asked the scientist, but Quigley said no more and simply looked on, frowning slightly. When Clay freed it from the soil, the object proved to be a flat stone, roughly worked, with some kind of engraving on it. It was hard to make out the badly-corroded pattern, but it was circular.

  “What do you make of that, Father?” he asked, holding up the stone to the sunlight. “A circle in the circle, yes?”

  Clay held out the plaque to Quigley, but the priest made no move to take it. Instead, he looked at the object with distaste.

  “You've got it bad, haven't you?” said Clay.

  “Why didn't you find it earlier?” asked Quigley. “Did it somehow work its way to the surface overnight?”

  The question stumped Clay for a moment.

  We were all in the trench yesterday, he thought. None of us noticed it. But we did finish when it was already getting dark. We were tired. But still...

  A terrible suspicion began to form in his mind. He thought of notorious scientific hoaxes, such as the so-called Piltdown Man discovered in England before the First World War. In that case, someone had faked the bones of a supposed 'ape man' and planted them at an archaeological dig site.

  “No,” Clay said aloud, “none of us would plant evidence to back our theories. But someone else might, to try and discredit us.”

  He stared accusingly at the priest, who shrugged.

  “I'm accusing nobody of fraud, Doctor Clay,” he said, starting to clamber out of the trench. “If only it was merely a matter of human perfidy. But if you won't listen to me, I will leave you to your work. I only hope you're right, and that there's nothing here to unearth but the works of dead men.”

  Clay stood and watched the priest making his way out of the circle.

  “Oh, to hell with the lot of them,” he said in disgust, and stared at the stone plaque. Then he examined the small hole from which he had removed it. Had the plaque been covering something, maybe protecting it? That would make sense. He squatted to examine the hole more closely, worked at the sides to enlarge it. There was something odd about the pattern of soil around the hole. But it did not suggest that someone had buried the plaque.