Tate let Gordon explain the events of the morning, the similarity between the Ashley Cooper relic and what had been uncovered by the dig. He offered no explanation, just the facts, and Coombes knew that the chances of conviction were slim, especially now that his team had reported nothing abnormal in Tate’s financial affairs.
*
Gordon watched the last of the police vans leave the grounds of Maiden Castle. Already the sounds of activity were beginning, and a steady stream of young men and women came past him with their trowels and sieves, like latter-day prospectors.
He still felt uneasy. The remnants of his vision clung to him like a greasy shadow. He turned, and saw Tate and Tuther watching him. Having loaded his kit bag into his car, he approached the two of them.
He tossed Tate the amulet they had examined earlier that day.
“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking their hand in turn, “I trust that you’ll understand that I hope never to see either of you again.”
Not waiting for a reply, he turned around smartly, got into his car, and drove away from Maiden Castle as quickly as possible.
*
“What do you think it was?” Danielle asked. “Did Tate and Tuther poison him somehow? To induce the vision?”
Freeman smiled. “Not Tate. Tuther, maybe. You see, Doctor Gordon kept the broken vertebra from St Giles House. When I tracked him down, he was more than happy to give it to me - told me the thing was cursed. He had barely slept a full night in the fifty years since meeting Tuther and Tate.”
“You have it?” Danielle was astonished. “Can I see it?”
“It is safe,” the old man said sagely. “I had it tested. It is infused with lysergic acid.”
Danielle looked flummoxed. “I should know what that is, shouldn’t I?”
Freeman nodded. “The UN legalised it not six months ago.”
“LSD?”
Freeman smiled. “LSD is the man made product. Lysergic acid is the raw material. Like a poppy is to heroin.”
Danielle’s mind was racing. “It was Tuther who broke open the vertebrae... he knew what the dust contained?”
Freeman shrugged an affirmation.
“But why?”
“Who knows? Maybe he had put those skeletons in the ground, and was scared that the Doctor was getting too close to the truth, and caused his little trip.”
“But he would have had to have known about the Ashley-Cooper statue before...”
Freeman smiled again but said nothing.
Danielle’s eyes widened. “Did he? How?”
“Danielle, I need you to understand that there is no record of Mr Tuther. Ever. He might have been in the War, but not by that name. I’ve been up and down and left to right through every census, every parish entry, and every military database that has ever been kept. Celus Tuther has never existed.”
“An alias?”
“Maybe. Men matching his description pop up throughout history, and usually not in very pleasant circumstances. I can place him in Wewelsburg at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and then later when the British Army were slaughtered in Afghanistan in eighteen forty-two. A lord closely resembling him fought Baron Stanley on behalf of Richard The Third… and lost most of his forces in that conflict. But is it always him? Who can say?”
“You never found him? During your research?”
Freeman was silent. Find him? No. But he found me…
Danielle sat back and then leaned forward again as another thought came to her. “There is a part of your story that doesn’t make sense. In the cavern with Price. King said the air was thick with dust. And there were worm fossils down there. Why didn’t they all trip out like the good Doctor?”
Freeman continued to smile. “Maybe they did. Huge foetal sacks hanging from the ceiling? Ancient inscriptions? A secret cavern that could never be found again? Sounds pretty trippy to me.”
Danielle was getting confused. “You doubt your own argument?”
“I didn’t say that. It is just one interpretation. Maybe the fossils need to be broken to release the dust. Maybe the dust King saw was all the dander from whatever herd of hellish beasts was being grown down there.”
Danielle nodded. She could see that. “So what of Doctor Gordon?”
“He led a very full, satisfying life, albeit with an inescapable sense of foreboding - his words. I interviewed him five years or so ago. He died about six months later at the age of one hundred and ten.”
Danielle whistled, and then stopped. “How old is George Tate?”
“Today, a hundred and eight.”
Danielle mulled this over. “That’s two very old men. In this day and age, most men get to what? Early seventies?”
“Sixty-four,” Freeman interjected.
“Really?” Danielle raised his eyebrows. “So we have two of your characters, involved in who knows what, living a very, very long time indeed.”
Freeman nodded. “Three. Dennis King is still alive.”
“Coincidence?”
“No such thing.” It was Freeman’s turn to lean forward. He reached for his Plex-Pad and pressed another of the screen icons. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. “Damned thing.” He pressed it much more firmly this time, and the screen changed, showing the image of a small vial. A chemical structure and formula was given on the side.
“And what is that?”
“Ergot oil. The active ingredient is lysergic acid.”
Danielle looked blankly. “What does it do?”
“Bluntly, it blows your mind. It opens up the door to all the realities of the universe and sets your consciousness free to realise that time and space are merely constructs of our perceptions. It also kills you very painfully.”
Danielle still looked blank.
Freeman sighed. He was going to have to spell it out for the girl. “Danielle, I think that George Tate unlocked some ancient religious text, and with Celus Tuther, or whoever he is, found a recipe to take this safely,” he pointed to the picture of the vial, “and when he did he saw a version of Doctor Gordon’s vision. A side effect is incredible longevity.”
“The Doctors vision? With the Apocalyptic Tentacle of Doom? That’s real?”
“These things are subjective. Look at some of the work that went on with the particle smashers. They showed the myriad of layers that make up the universe, and our interpretation of reality really is just a narrow band on that spectrum.”
Danielle was trying to grasp the concept. “So if what we experience is only a small part of reality, then where is the rest of it? And why aren’t other people experiencing it? Why aren’t more people coming forward…?”
Freeman laughed. “Where would you put someone who told you about the layers of reality?”
Danielle paused. “The nuthouse?”
“Delicately put. Unfortunately, George took several attempts to get his recipe for Ergot right. His mistakes poisoned him, although he didn’t know it at the time. As he compounded his errors time and again, he became frailer and his mind began to deteriorate. He was admitted as a day patient to a nursing home at the age of seventy-seven, and then as a permanent resident two years later.”
Danielle could not see where this was leading. “And what? He spread his end-of-the-world-visions around a nursing home?”
Freeman smiled. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
CHAPTER 5
Daniel 2:44-45
And in the days of those kings
The God of Heaven shall bring His kingdom to Earth,
That it shall never fall but reign from alpha to omega.
It shall break in pieces all other kingdoms and bring them to an end.
And you will know when you see a city was cut from a mountain by no human hand,
That it broke in pieces the iron, the bronze, the clay, the silver, and the gold.
A great God has made known only to worthy men what shall be after this.
My name is Doctor Andy Cullum. In 2006 I was a General Pr
actitioner and consultant Gerontologist, based permanently at the Paternoster Nursing Home, North West London.
Sunday 3rd December 2006
“Turn it down! TURN! IT! DOWN!” Kandian roared. The old man was sitting in his window bay, his paint brush an occasional flurry only broken by his insistence that his neighbour turn that accursed music down.
Nurse Dawkins sighed, and looked to the porter, Simon, who shrugged.
It was the same every night. They could almost time it. As the sun began to set, their charge, Eric Kandian – a once talented artist of no particular renown – would begin to rant and rage, demanding that his neighbours’ music be turned down.
Of course, there was no music. There had never been. He had been this way since he was admitted eighteen months ago, but he had grown markedly worse in the last few weeks, and it seemed that each episode was beginning earlier and earlier in the day.
His daughter, Amy, came dutifully every night to sit with him and speak about the events of the day. Lately, the visits were becoming shorter, as if she sensed her father moving further and further from her, as his disease increasingly isolated the functional parts of his mind.
There was a knock at the door and Nurse Buckland came in, accompanied by Doctor Cullum.
“Time for your tablets Eric,” Buckland said.
Kandian harrumphed loudly.
Cullum nodded Dawkins over. “How’s he been today?” he asked, looking at Buckland trying to give Kandian his nightly medication.
“Not great,” she replied. “He had a good night’s sleep. Maybe five or six hours. He was quite bright this morning and had most of his breakfast. We took him for his bath around ten and he was good as gold. He became quite agitated towards the end of lunch and started throwing a few bits around. That’s why Simon’s here.”
Simon nodded in acknowledgment of his role.
“We tried to get him painting, and he seemed to calm down for a bit, but... well you can see for yourself. It looks like he’s building up for a full episode.”
“Cognitive function?”
“Pretty disjointed. Not as bad as he was at the beginning of the week. He only asked for his mother once today, and then he had a bit of a cry after that. Occasionally he’ll talk to me as if I’m his wife, reminiscing about a holiday or friends. But then he forgets.”
Cullum’s nose twitched, and he looked about.
“Sorry,” said Dawkins. “His pad leaked during his afternoon nap. We’ve not had time to change the bedding.”
“Has his daughter been yet?” Amy Kandian had a reputation for wanting everything to be just so for her father, and there were no exceptions.
“No. She’ll be here around six-ish. Half-hour or so. Do you want to speak to her?”
Cullum thought for a moment. “No. I was thinking about adjusting his prescription, but I think we’ll let the last lot settle down. Maybe give it a few more weeks. Make sure that bed gets changed before she arrives.”
He turned, and watched Buckland hand Kandian his tablets. This was better than a couple of nights ago. That had been a major operation. Cullum wanted to spend a bit of time with Kandian, see if some behavioural therapy might help the man. He had only been recently transferred to his list from Dr Roberts, who had apparently left without giving any notice. The staff room had been awash with gossip of an affair with a nurse, who had also left at the same time, and that the two had eloped. But when the police visited and started asking questions it became apparent that something more serious had happened. The management were tight-lipped about it, as usual.
However, time was against Cullum tonight, and he wanted to try and have a proper conversation with his next patient. He left with Buckland in tow.
Cullum knocked at the next door. A little childish laugh was all the response he got, and after a moment Nurse Arnold opened the door.
No orderly was necessary for Professor Tate. The man was largely harmless, or at least had been for the last two years. Tate sat in the bay window, gazing out across the lawn, towards the road. Arthritis had balled his hands into little more than claws, and his spine curved alarmingly forward. But for all the discomfort the man must have been in, Cullum had always known him to be in a relatively good mood. He had his moments - a bit of confusion, occasional frustration - but on the whole, one of his more well-disposed patients.
“How has he been?” Cullum asked Arnold, whilst Buckland went over to hand Tate his nightly prescription.
“Fine today. His usual self. He had a patch around four-ish. Uh... did the late shift make you aware of what happened last night?”
Cullum shook his head. “No. What happened?”
“He hit his son. I don’t mean a lunge. A proper right hook. I’ve never seen him move so fast.”
Cullum frowned. This was unusual. “When was this? Last night?”
Arnold nodded. “About half-seven. Maybe eight. Just before shift change.”
“What happened exactly?”
“I spoke to Mr Tate Junior...”
Cullum flicked through some paperwork. “Devon?”
“That’s him. I was trying to convince him to go to the hospital. George here hit him so hard. I was worried that he had fractured his cheek but he refused.”
“Did you find out what set him off?”
“Not really. I was outside when it happened - you know giving them some privacy - but the door was open, in case they needed me. The son – Devon – said something about selling George’s house, and he seemed ok with that. Then he said that he had found some old boxes. Manuscripts and research, and that he had tried to donate it to George’s old employer – The British Museum – but they had refused it. Well, George seemed to lose it. I mean in an instant. No build up. He told his son to burn it all, and when he protested, well that was when George hit him. I was in the doorway by that time. I had heard George change. But he moved so fast that I couldn’t stop him.”
Cullum nodded. “And he’s been alright today?”
“Yes, quite lucid actually.”
Cullum nodded again. “Do you think he’ll be ok to talk to?”
“I should think so. Do you want me to call Simon just in case?”
Cullum shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” The recent Patient Aggression Management course was still fresh in his mind. And besides, George Tate was a slight man. Agile maybe and perhaps his son had been complacent. It certainly sounded that he had done something to provoke the old man. He would try and catch him later to find out what it was all about.
Cullum approached Professor Tate. “George?”
Tate turned to look at Cullum, his brow furrowing.
“Hello, George. Do you remember me?”
Tate’s furrows increased and shook his head. “You look like someone I used to know. Doctor type. Um... what was his name? Callum? No. Cullum, that was it. Colossal wanker of a man. Doubt he could even get it up!” Tate leaned forward and whispered loudly, “I think he was... you know... a gay. Walked like a mincer. Always wore those poncey pink shirts. Like yours.”
Cullum looked hard at Tate. So much for the lucidity.
Tate’s lined face creased into a broad smile, eyes twinkling. “Of course I know it’s you! I’m just having you on. Grab a chair and have a sit-down, Andrew.”
Cullum relaxed. Even though it was only ever his grandfather that had called him Andrew, he was man enough to admit Tate had caught him out. Again. The old man had a history of little jokes and was a favourite with the nurses.
Arnold stifled a giggle, and Buckland left quickly, suppressing a laugh. Cullum’s salmon shirts were a running joke in the staff room. No doubt this will come up later, Cullum thought, drawing a chair up to where Tate sat.
“How have you been today?”
“Oh, you know. Mustn’t grumble. Usual aches.”
“Nurse Arnold said you’re still not using the day room.”
“Of course I’m not,” huffed Tate indignantly. “They’re all mad!
I’m just forgetful.”
Cullum made a note.
“That said,” Tate continued, “if you were to bring back a few of those student nurses, I might be persuaded...” The old man smiled broadly again, eyes twinkling. “No offence Lisa!” he called over his shoulder.
“You know I’ll always be your gal,” Nurse Arnold chuckled back.
“Did you get out in the garden?” Cullum asked.
“A little. Legs aren’t what they used to be.”
Cullum noted the savage scar on Tate’s shin. The skin was dry and flaking in places.
“How did you get that?”
Tate’s demeanour changed and a coldness entered. “You know perfectly well Andrew.”
“Just checking...”
“What? What are you just checking?” The characteristic twinkle had been replaced by hardness that made Cullum uneasy.
“George. You have ergotism. Sometimes you are gone for days. Sometimes it takes you a while to come back.”
Tate looked out the window. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m here today.”
“You were gone last week. For most of it.”
Tate said nothing.
“Where did you go?”
Tate’s lips started to curl into a rueful smile. “I don’t know. It’s far away, but right here at the same time. I suppose that is just a forgetful old man not making much sense.”
“What can you tell me about your condition George?”
Tate knew he was being tested again. “What do you want me to say, Andrew? I did it to myself. You know that.”
“Tell me again.”
Tate tried not to be frustrated. “I took a heroic quantity of drugs in the eighties and nineties and now I’m paying the price. Can’t write. Barely stand. Mind shot to buggery. Shit myself so the nice nurses will touch me down there...”
The twinkle was back.
“How much for a quickie Lisa?”
“More than you can afford!”
“See! And I thought this was private healthcare. Sort it out Andrew!”
A Gathering of Twine Page 12
