The work goes more slowly now. Each layer has to be recorded as it’s uncovered. The people working the soil have to do so with gentleness, anxious not to violate what lies just beneath.
By that evening, it’s clear we have a mass grave on our hands. The aftermath of battle.
The security firm arranges floodlights and a diesel generator. They plant two guys up there all night. Two guys and a van and a German shepherd.
The next morning, we start early. The whole site is a-bustle from well before eight. Our crowd of volunteers gathered here among these winds, these bones, these centuries.
I text Jones.
Say, ‘We might want to have an Armed Response Unit on the scene as a precautionary measure.’
Fiona Griffiths and her ARUs.
He texts back. Says no. ‘Unless circumstances alter.’ His message is friendly, though. Trying hard to encourage me.
Meantime: more bones, more scorched remains.
Lots of both.
And then, glory be, at eleven-seventeen on 23 June, the word coming up from our now-sixteen metre hole is that we have a sword. A whole sword. A sword that seems to have been lying, almost triumphally, on the bones and embers and clutter below. As though the sword itself is the victor and slayer of all that slaughtered horde.
We photograph its position as we’ve photographed all our significant finds, but because this is big, we film it too. Film every stage. Three phones, at least, recording the whole thing.
Down in the pit, the sword is tied with bandages of soft grey webbing to the hoist.
Is borne aloft.
Is washed off with unbearable gentleness.
Gleams in this new sun, for fifteen centuries a stranger.
The sword is a warrior’s tool, all right. No ceremonial thing this, but something battle-dinged, cut about, incised. It’s bent too. Bent from use. The shaft of the blade lies at a slight angle to the hilt.
And it’s jewelled. Ornamented. A flash of gold on hilt and pommel.
Those things and, on the very base of the hilt, an image.
Time and the aeons have corroded what was once, presumably, a crystal sharpness. But you can still see what was there. Still read the image’s encoded text.
A bear’s head, crowned.
The bear and the king.
Arto-rı¯g-ios.
Arthur.
We are standing on Mount Badon and we’ve just discovered Arthur’s sword.
Tifford and Wisbech are almost frozen in this moment of glory.
Frozen with the beautiful shock of what they’ve found.
Frozen, but not stupid.
They do what they have to do. This site isn’t secure. Two unarmed security guards and a single stupid dog is not remotely protection enough for this astonishing treasure.
They wad the sword in loose grey blankets. The sort of thing that furniture movers use. They carry the sword down to Wisbech’s car. She’ll take it direct to the British Museum. Their vaults. The security guys will follow every step of the way.
I call Jones this time. Say, ‘I think circumstances have altered, sir. I’d strongly recommend we arrange that ARU.’
I say everything I can. Everything I should. But Jones thinks I’m over-reacting. He notifies the Thames Valley Police traffic guys that the movement of a valuable item is being contemplated. Passes on Wisbech’s licence plate, which I’ve just given him. But that’s it.
‘No need to over-react,’ he says. ‘But thank you.’
We walk the sword down to Wisbech’s car. Are lowering the rear seats so the damn thing can lie flat and comfortable.
Are doing those good things when a black Ford Focus sweeps into our little car park.
The car moves a little fast, a little wildly.
I get the hell away.
Up the hill. Behind a hedge. Out of sight of the new arrivals, but near enough to watch.
The Focus stops. Turns. Ends up facing the way it came, blocking the exit.
Three men get out.
Dark clothes. Balaclavas. Guns. One shotgun and two handy-looking pistols.
The men could well be the three men from the museum. I can’t say for sure – one of them looks too tall, has the wrong kind of movement – but without faces, it’s hard to tell.
From the shelter of my hedge, I call the Thames Valley emergency number. I tell them in a low murmur what’s happening. Tell them to get their arses over here as fast as they can.
‘And, please, an ARU,’ I say. ‘These men are armed and dangerous.’
This is Swindon, not Llanymawddwy, so the operator calmly tells me she’ll do what she can. She doesn’t seek to imply that my request is ludicrous. She confirms, yes, there is an ARU available in Swindon itself. I give her the number of the Ford Focus. She repeats it calmly and accurately.
And, as we talk, I watch.
The guy with the shotgun rounds up everyone in the car park. Herds them into a corner. Stands there, casually enforcing submission.
One of the two pistol guys goes round collecting phones. Dumps them into a bag. His other pistolled buddy gets the sword out of Wisbech’s car. Puts it in the Focus. Then the two pistol guys go around knifing the tyres of every car in the car park, including mine.
They drive off. The whole thing takes two minutes, maybe less.
For a moment, just a moment, there is perfect stillness.
A bird, a lapwing maybe, calling aloft. The burr of the motorway.
Then Tifford, Dr Simon Tifford, Senior Archaeologist and a man now very close to tears, breaks the silence.
‘They’ve stolen Excalibur,’ he wails. ‘They’ve stolen fucking Excalibur.’
40
There’s a search, of course. A hue and cry.
The Thames Valley Police got an ARU to the scene within eight minutes. Good going, yes, but about six minutes too late.
At first, the Focus seemed to have got away scot-free, only then the damn thing was found. Two miles away. Abandoned. Burned.
We presume the thieves just swapped cars, and we have no clue at all as to that new vehicle.
Which is great. Which is just great.
And – well, failure is failure. The news is full of the whole damn affair. Not just domestically, but all over the world. One typical headline – this one from the Times – says simply: KING ARTHUR’S SWORD: FOUND – THEN STOLEN.
Bleddyn Jones and his counterparts in the Thames Valley put out a joint press release that begins:
THEFT OF ‘EXCALIBUR’ – INFORMATION WANTED
A historic sword, bearing a ‘bear and crown’ imprint on the hilt, was today stolen from Liddington Castle outside Swindon. The sword is believed to have a possible connection to ‘King Arthur’ and may well represent an antiquity of the highest possible value. If any members of the public have any information whatsoever . . .
Blah, blah.
The best way to recover the sword, I submit, would be not to have lost it in the first place. I don’t like the way the press release puts inverted commas around the name King Arthur – those quote marks reek of Jonesian influence, if you ask me – but I can’t have everything.
Bleddyn Jones texts, emails and calls. He wants me back immediately. He’s nice about it. Apologetic even.
I tell him yes. Try to be gracious.
And in better news – in glorious, wonderful, sunshine and rose-petalled news – Bev texts me to say that Dennis Jackson has cut short his sabbatical. He’s coming back to take over Major Crimes.
Praise be.
Glory be.
I breathe a silent prayer to whichever stone-faced god looks after the holiday-and-sailing habits of gruff middle-aged Welsh coppers.
I text Jackson. Invite him round to breakfast. A welcome back thing.
And of course, I’ve got some bits and pieces of my own to catch up on.
Computer stuff mostly. I’m not a geek, not really, but I’ve learned from the best and I’ve done a few practice runs already. Katie and I spend a
pleasant day or so putting our material into order and, when we’re ready, hit submit.
Katie’s brought a bottle of fizz with her to celebrate. I’m feeling so celebratory myself that I have almost half a glass myself.
When, finally, I go into the office, I experience that weirdness I always get when I’ve been away any length of time. Weirded out by the normality. The way life without me seems to have been much the same as life with me, only presumably more peaceful and with slightly worse grammar.
And, bless the man, Bleddyn Jones has – finally, finally – pieced the whole damn jigsaw together. He’s still awkward with it. Almost deliberately clumsy, like a rugby type buying lingerie for his wife.
But still. He gets the picture. His forward-looking version of it, at least.
‘It seems like this was all pre-planned,’ he tells a jam-packed briefing room. ‘We now suspect that the thieves have been on the trail for some time. They stole documents from Bangor Library and Saint Tydecho’s church up in Llanymawddwy. They stole a bear-and-crown seal box from Dinas Powys and killed the lead archaeologist who might have known enough to put these leads together for herself.
‘We don’t know how they first came across the clues that led, eventually to Liddington Castle. Most likely, it was a chance encounter, initially, but a chance encounter that encouraged them to explore. And as well as Dinas Powys, their researches obviously took them to Llanymawddwy because our very own Sergeant Griffiths interrupted them in the process of a theft at the church there. And that’s where we found the vellum – sheepskin basically – which . . . well, it was a palimpsest. Hidden text. Pointing to Swindon.’
Jones’s explanation judders on a little further, before grinding to a halt.
It’s hard for him, this. Partly, because subsequent events have proved me essentially right. Partly because his basic issue with me – that I don’t follow orders and am not to be trusted – is spot on, no matter that I’m now the one who’s looking golden. But mostly, Jones’s job, all along, has been to find and prosecute the killers of Gaynor Charteris. He hasn’t done that. Worse: by failing to understand the broader chain of events, he has also failed to prevent the theft of a sword which may yet prove to be the single most valuable antiquity in the world ever.
Whoops.
For a man who’s only been Acting Head of Major Crime for a few months, his record thus far is looking distinctly patchy.
I don’t gloat. I do help. I do what I can.
On Friday evening, George Bowen comes down to Cardiff and he, Katie and I have a little celebration. Bowen says, ‘Any news yet?’ And I say, ‘No, not yet.’
On Saturday night, I clean my house, top to bottom. No real reason, I suppose, but it’s one of those girl-things you do by way of preparation. A bride dieting ready for the big day. A mother-to-be buying booties for her unborn child.
Get everything ready.
Go to bed.
Can’t sleep.
Make peppermint tea.
Drink it.
Still can’t sleep.
Get up again.
Shove a chair under the handle of my bedroom door. Make a nest of pillows at the head of my bed. Swaddle myself in a soft pink pashmina shawl that my two sisters gave me as a joint Christmas present. Hold my gun in my lap, fully loaded, but with the safety on.
Feelings without names walk through a body without substance. I don’t know who I am, or where, or why.
And then – I just sit there. All night. Quiet and alone here in this gunned-up darkness.
41
Eight the next morning.
A knock at the door.
A heavy, unmistakeable, masculine knock. Dennis Jackson, my once and future boss.
I open up.
‘Fiona,’ he says.
He looks sun-tanned. Real tanned, not the normal Welsh version, where an upper layer of skin might have taken a little colour, but the six layers beneath are still all white and scared and fragile.
I tell him to come on in.
He comes on in.
Looks around. He’s never been here before. But my house is completely unremarkable and he is visibly unsure of how to find anything to say.
I say, ‘It must be nice to be back.’
He agrees.
I show him our breakfast spread.
He’s impressed.
I set him to work on the coffee, then do toast, and my fancy version of scrambled egg, one that has goat’s cheese and chives in it. The egg doesn’t come out completely right – I think I forget to stir – but I give the better bit to Jackson and the not-quite-so-good bit to me.
‘The white bits are meant to be there,’ I tell him. ‘They’re goats’ cheese.’
‘Very nice.’
‘The green bits are chives.’
‘Lovely.’
We eat and drink. Peppermint tea for me. I’ve never got the point of coffee.
Jackson says, ‘So.’
I’m really quite sure that the word doesn’t mean anything at all when it stands alone in a sentence like that, not even if you give it some good senior officer gruffness and solidity. Also, I don’t see what you’re meant to say in response. The word ‘so’ isn’t a question. It doesn’t indicate subject matter. As far as I’m concerned, the damn thing is no more than a vowel wearing a sun-hat and that, in my view, is no way to start a conversation.
But since two can play at the same game, I do precisely that.
Say, ‘So.’
Not as deep and rumbly as Jackson’s version, but a whole lot prettier.
‘You’ve been having fun,’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘Leave of absence?’
‘Well, Jones was going to give me another written warning, I think. I’d already had one.’
Jackson nods. Written warnings aren’t really his thing. He just yells.
‘So you thought you’d do a little archaeology.’
‘Yes.’
I tell him about Liddington Castle and the dig.
Jackson hears me out. Eats his egg.
His face doesn’t look happy. Not bad-egg unhappy, just muddled-case unhappy.
He says, ‘OK. Let me get this straight. Our friend, Bleddyn Jones, thinks that someone, somewhere came across some old document, or something like that, indicating that there might really be something in all this Arthur stuff. Probably just ran across the thing by accident to begin with, but quickly realised that there might be some money to be made out of it. Loads of money. I mean, supposing you had in your hands the first proper evidence of a historical Arthur, that’s got to be worth something, right?’
‘Worth something?’ I say. ‘Look, an Old Master painting can go for fifty, sixty, even seventy million dollars. But there are loads of Old Masters out there. They’re scarce, yes, but not that scarce. The actual sword of the actual King Arthur, on the other hand? History’s most famous warrior? The man responsible for the most famous legend of the western world. I mean, what’s the ceiling price for that object? It’s not even a once-in-a-lifetime find. It’s a once-in-a-millennium thing.’
Jackson: ‘OK. I get that. So, our thieves get wind that this whole thing might be real. They follow up. They want to get there ahead of anyone else.’
‘Yes.’
‘They break into the library at Bangor. There are old documents there. Some of them very old. Whatever they have there isn’t quite enough, so they go to Llanymawddwy to see if there’s anything more there. Maybe take something, maybe not. We don’t know if they got away with anything.’
‘Correct.’
‘But there was something there, which they failed to find. Either it was just too well hidden or you came along to interrupt. Either way, you found this bit of vellum which, when fully analysed, suggested some link between Tydecho’s church and the general area of Swindon. And since the oldest bit of text on that vellum had something to do with King Arthur, there was a decent likelihood that the Tydecho–Swindon connection also had to do with A
rthur.’
I nod. ‘Also, Tydecho was, theoretically, Arthur’s nephew. And Llanymawddwy is only a couple of miles away from a probable location of Arthur’s last battle. So yes, Arthur connections everywhere you look.’
‘Right. So we’ve got something that points to Swindon. The thieves have all the rest of the Llanymawddwy material and we have to presume that they’ve got material that points to Swindon. Maybe points a whole lot more specifically than the bit we’ve got. Right?’
‘Exactly. Yes, sir. Spot on. Would you like some jam?’
No is the answer to that. Jackson is egged and jammed to the max. But he does want some more coffee and, ever the graceful hostess, I pour him more.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. May I say that it’s an honour having you here?’
Jackson doesn’t respond to that, but his thoughts are where they should be. On the case.
‘So you secure some time off work – basically by making poor old Bleddyn so pissed off with you that he’s half-ready to fire you – and go tootling down to Liddington. Work there as a volunteer.’
‘Yes.’
‘You go there, because you’re expecting some major find and want to be there for the action.’
‘Yes.’
‘Trouble is, the thieves are also expecting something and they make their own plans. They let you lot do all the hard work of recovering the thing, then they grab it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And at that stage, security is minimal, because no one’s expecting anything, so making the snatch isn’t even especially hard.’
‘Correct.’
Jackson says, ‘And on this story, Gaynor Charteris was killed because she came across this damn seal box and the thieves were worried that she might start shouting about a real historical Arthur. Perhaps she’d find something that connected him to Liddington Castle. Or maybe just interest in Arthur would reawaken to the point where that Liddington Castle dig became major news. If there was real security in place – police cars, cameras, armed officers, all of that – then the whole snatch would probably prove impossible.’
The Deepest Grave: Fiona Griffiths Crime Thriller Series Book 6 (Fiona Griffiths 6) Page 25
