Red Dragon – White Dragon

by Gary Dolman

  Several moments of stunned silence slid past as her words rolled over them. Then Lucie said, “Surely you must be jesting with us, Miss Jennifer?”

  Jennifer shook her head quickly and held the tips of her fingers to her pursed lips.

  “There is no jest, I promise you. Artie will explain. Please excuse me.” Her voice was tight and strained now and all at once she jumped to her feet and ran from the room.

  “Will she need any assistance?” Lucie asked anxiously. “If she’s been taken ill, I’m a trained nurse.”

  Artie smiled, although, she noted, it was a deeply nervous and strained smile which had been drained of its warmth by the deep concern in his eyes.

  “No, thank you, Mrs Fox, I am certain she will be fine. I… I believe that the warmth of this garden room has made her feel just a little unwell. Leave her be; she’ll recover herself presently.”

  He forced his expression into another reassuring smile but it was no more convincing than his first. “But let me explain; let me tell you why we are so certain that King Arthur has risen again.

  “The day Elliott was killed, as Jenny explained, she and I left Shields early intending to collect various herbs from the moors; valerian root, agrimony and ground-ivy to help ease Uther’s condition and wild ginger for Jenny’s. As we were following the footpath up towards Uther’s cottage we heard the sound of a bugle calling through the fog. It was coming from the direction of Sewingshields.”

  “What time would that have been?” Atticus asked.

  “I would estimate just after seven o’clock, although I can’t be absolutely certain.”

  “How do you know it was the sound of a bugle?”

  Here Artie grinned. “I’ve attended enough regimental parades with Sir Hugh to hear bugles calling in my sleep. I remember it vividly. There were seven notes; two low, two high, two low and one high, repeated thrice. Uther once told us he often heard the sound of a bugle up there, coming from Sewingshields. He said it was always connected with King Arthur’s awakening. So we hurried in the direction of the sound, stopping briefly by Uther’s cottage to take him with us. He has, as you will know if you have met him, a great hope that King Arthur will one day be restored to his kingdom. Unfortunately, he didn’t answer our knock.”

  Artie smiled fondly, and this time, the smile did reach his eyes.

  “Uther often hides even from us when we call upon him, but his door is never locked so we entered anyway to see if he might be really there after all. He wasn’t, so we continued up to the Whin Sill and eventually came, just as the fog lifted, to the top of the Sewingshields Crags. Do you happen to know about the legends of Sewingshields Castle, Mr and Mrs Fox?”

  “Yes, yes we do,” Atticus confirmed, fascinated by his tale.

  “That, in Britain’s great hour of need, Arthur will rise again. Someone needs only to find the hidden vault wherein he lies and there draw a sword, cut a garter and blow a bugle-horn to awaken him from his enchanted sleep.”

  “The folk locally seem to speak of nothing else. We’ve already heard that legend several times. Only this very morning, Mrs Fox and I took our bicycles to visit the site of the castle.”

  Artie regarded them both earnestly. “Well it’s not just a legend; it is God’s honest truth. Jenny noticed footprints in the dew on the grass. They were recent footprints – big ones of extraordinary length. We followed them over the Wall and discovered the entrance to a cave in a little outcrop not far from the castle. It was on what is called the Fogy Moss, hidden behind a thick cover of ivy and brambles that had obviously just been pushed aside. We went into the cave and sure enough, just as the legend said, there was a vault, and there was King Arthur and his Lady Guinevere. The steel boots of the armour Arthur was wearing exactly matched the footprints in the grass.”

  Atticus was dumbfounded. He looked at Lucie whose expression completely mirrored his own. “This all seems too incredible!”

  “Mr Fox, I know it might seem that way but I swear on the grave of my mother that it’s the truth. Arthur was wearing the armour of a knight-at-arms with the Pendragon standard – a red dragon – on his helmet and breastplate. Lady Guinevere was dressed exactly as she would have been in her lifetime. Oh, and by the by, Arthur was a corpse, a mummified corpse like those the farm men sometimes find in the peat haggs and Guinevere was a skeleton.”

  Atticus searched Artie’s face for some hint of jest or invention but found none. His earnest, emerald-green eyes gazed back with the innocence of utter conviction.

  “Where exactly is this vault?” Atticus asked at last.

  The green eyes fell. “I’m sorry, Mr Fox but Jenny and I have discussed this at length and we’ve both sworn to God and to each other not to reveal its whereabouts to a single, living soul, not even to Uther. We wouldn’t want Arthur and Guinevere to be gawped at like… like animals in a menagerie.”

  “Then how do we test the truth of what you’re telling us, Artie? You’ll admit it’s not an easy tale to believe.”

  “You already have my word for it, Mr Fox.”

  The wicker of Lucie’s chair squeaked as she shifted her position. “And your word is no doubt entirely honourable, but for all that, we wouldn’t be doing our duty to your father if we didn’t seek further corroboration. Arthur, what if Mr Fox were to consent to be blindfolded whilst you took him to this cave? He could witness the truth of what you say without knowing of its precise location.”

  Artie considered her proposal.

  “I can’t see any reason why that wouldn’t do fine, Mrs Fox, if he gave his word of honour that he wouldn’t try to remove his mask.”

  “Gladly,” Atticus agreed.

  At that moment, there was a sharp, insistent rapping on the glass door behind them and as they turned it swept open.

  Collier, the butler was trembling like a schoolboy in a master’s study, obviously struggling hard to control himself.

  “Begging your pardons, Master Arthur and Mr and Mrs Fox, but the colonel has asked me to summon Mr and Mrs Fox immediately. Dr Hickson has been found dead on the road and it appears certain that he has been murdered.”

  Through the open door, the loud tick of the great grandfather clock tried to measure time that had frozen, as the import of the words, in complete contrast to the formal, precise tones in which they were delivered, sank fully into their consciousness.

  Collier continued: “Sir Hugh discovered the doctor’s body in his gig on the Stanegate and brought it back here. He has had it taken up into one of the bedchambers. Please come directly.”

  Gripped by dread, they followed him out of the orangery where the statue of Urth pointed them up the stairs to one of the grand bedrooms adjacent to their own.

  Atticus hesitated at the bedroom door as it stood ajar.

  “I wonder if the body is in – you know – a poor state,” he whispered sheepishly. Lucie shrugged impatiently and slipped past him. Atticus swallowed back his trepidation and followed her into the room.

  It is a curious aspect of human memory that the recollection of an individual’s identity depends so much upon the context in which we find them. There can perhaps be no greater dissimilitude than that between a post-mortem examiner and his subject. Therefore, if Mr Collier had not already told them of the identity of the corpse laid-out on the wide, brass-framed bed, with its head resting on the silk pillows and its still-gloved hands folded piously across its chest, they might well not have immediately recognised whom it was.

  Dr Julian Hickson’s restful attitude was in complete contrast to his face, which looked as if it had been roasted in Hell. It was dark and red with eyes as wide and staring as dinner plates. The tiny, pixie’s mouth was stretched into a scream of agony above the pointed chin, now daubed with a purplish smear.

  Despite the casements having been thrown wide open, the acrid stench of vomit in the room was overpowering. Purple vomit saturated the front of Hickson’s shirt and waistcoat where it merged with a larger and altogether more sinister s
tain. This second stain, broad and slick and red, had spilled from a by now familiar pair of deep gashes that cut right across his torso; gashes which intersected below the diaphragm to form the shape of a crux decussata.

  Sir Hugh Lowther’s dark silhouette was folded into the window seat of one of the high, stone-mullioned windows, gazing out through the open casement across the formal west gardens.

  “He’s quite dead, Fox,” he said huskily to the phalanx of petrified grotesques listening below. “I found him in his pony-gig on the Stanegate towards Hayden Bridge. He was already dead. I tied my horse to the back of the gig and drove him back here.”

  He pulled away from the window and turned to face the Foxes. Away from the light, his dark silhouette took form and colour and the true horror of his ride from the Stanegate became apparent. His clothes, from his highly polished boots to his fine leather gloves were smeared and streaked in dark, glossy blood.

  He looked directly at them and his eyes, bright, staring and wide as Hickson’s, blazed out from above his blood-caked whiskers which were twisted and contorted into strange and outlandish shapes.

  He seemed restless and highly agitated even for him.

  “Our madman has been at it yet again, it would seem.” He stabbed at them accusingly with a gloved finger that was all but dripping with gore. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Fox, damn you!” His gaze lingered on Atticus for a moment before flickering to Lucie and then back to the window.

  “Death by poisoning,” Lucie murmured, breaking the menacing tension in the room. Atticus raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

  Lucie leaned back over the body and peered into the glassy eyes. “That would be my guess. It will take a necropsy to be certain of course, but the vomit and the doctor’s presentation would certainly point that way.”

  Atticus turned to address Sir Hugh, grateful for the excuse to turn away from the body and feel the breeze from the windows play onto his face.

  “Forgive me, Sir Hugh, but may my wife and I have a few moments alone to discuss the evidence of this body? Would you also be good enough to inform the police if you haven’t already done so? After that we would like to interview you in more detail about the circumstances in which you discovered him.”

  Sir Hugh’s already ruddy face flushed darker and he muttered something about being ordered around in his own home. However he struggled out of the deep cushions of the seat and obediently strode from the room, crashing the heavy door shut behind him.

  Atticus asked, “What about…” He almost said ‘his’ but he checked himself. “What about its heart? Has it been removed too?” He knew already the answer to his question.

  Lucie pursed her lips so they became a thin, troubled line.

  “I think so.”

  She gently pulled open the deeper of the two gashes to reveal the flesh beneath. “The wounds are very deep and do you see how the diaphragm has been cut open? I would bet our entire fees the heart has been taken again.”

  “So the murder is identical to the others, in that respect anyway. It is just the manner of the killing that is different. I hope to God he died before his heart was ripped out.”

  “Amen, Atticus,” Lucie murmured.

  She gently touched the corpse’s lips, holding her fingertips against them for a moment and recited: “Red as a beetroot, hot as a hare, blind as a bat and dry as a bone.”

  Then she said, “Hmm,” and stood straight and tall, turning to her husband.

  “For the sake of good relations with the police, we shouldn’t disturb the body any more. I doubt very much if there’s anything more we can glean from it today, anyway. For now, we should presume that I am correct and the doctor was poisoned to death. If it happens not to be the case, then we will surely find out after the post-mortem.”

  “On to Sir Hugh, in that case,” Atticus said.

  “On to Sir Hugh,” Lucie agreed. “I do hope he’s had opportunity to calm himself a little. He looked ready to have a fit.”

  Chapter 25

  They found Sir Hugh Lowther standing in the orangery, gazing out over the gardens towards the wild, craggy fells of the Whin Sill beyond. The large glass of brandy in his hand seemed to glow in the midday sun as it blazed down over his shoulder and projected dancing, amber shadows onto the tiles at his feet.

  “‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions,’ do they not, Sir Hugh.”

  Lowther started slightly as Atticus spoke. He threw back his head and drained his glass before he spun round. The tranquillity of the gardens and moors had clearly not served to calm him.

  “Sorrows be damned,” he bellowed. “Well, what have you found? There’ll be no one left here at this rate. I’ll be like a second William-bloody-Brydon!”

  Lucie answered. “We’re quite sure Dr Hickson was poisoned to death, Sir Hugh.”

  “Are you by God?” retorted Sir Hugh, his eyes bulging. “And are you as sure yet who did the poisoning?”

  “We aren’t precisely…”

  “It was Michael-bloody-Britton! I’ve told you already. You prove it, and I’ll happily pay double your fees.”

  Lucie winced. “That will not be necessary, but thank you for the offer. Now, your butler told us it was you who first found the doctor’s body. We need to know everything you can remember about the discovery, and the circumstances surrounding it.”

  “Very well, I’ll play your damned game with you.” Lowther took a very deep breath as he sat and collected his thoughts.

  “Right, Mrs Fox – Lucie – here it is: I was becoming concerned as to Hickson’s lateness in arriving to see my daughter. He’s generally so punctual, do you see? Collier will tell you that he once set the grandfather clock by him. Anyway, eventually I decided to ride over towards Hayden Bridge in order to seek him. It is just a few miles down the valley towards Hexham and it’s where Hickson had his practice.

  “Very soon, I spied him sitting in his gig on the Stanegate, the old Roman way that runs alongside the road there but I could tell immediately that something was wrong with him.”

  “How was that, Sir Hugh?” Atticus asked.

  “Well for one thing, his pony had its head down, grazing on the grass and for another; there was something damned queer about the way Hickson was slouched in his seat.

  “I galloped over to where it was and sure enough, there was Hickson slumped over, dead as a doornail. So, I tied the reigns of my horse to the back of the gig and drove it post-haste back here to Shields Tower. Once here, I shouted for Collier and between us, we lifted him out of his seat and carried him up to the bedchamber where you both saw him.”

  “So if he was already dead, you wouldn’t know if he was very hot to touch or speaking incoherently or having a fit?” Lucie asked.

  The rage fell from Lowther’s face. “Why yes, Lucie, now that you mention it his body was still very hot; hot as a Raja’s daughter.”

  “Did you see anyone else around the area where you found him, anyone at all?” Atticus asked.

  “Not a mortal soul, Fox; it was totally deserted.”

  “And where is the doctor’s gig now?”

  “It’s been taken to the stables. His pony has been fed and watered.”

  “Very good; Mrs Fox and I will need to examine them both presently. How far is it to the place where you made the discovery of the body?”

  “It’s perhaps a mile, maybe a little more. I would gladly show you if you wish.”

  Atticus grunted. “Thank you, Sir Hugh; that would be extremely helpful. We will go there directly we have finished examining the doctor’s gig.”

  The light, two-wheeled pony-gig looked odd, standing where it had been abandoned, askew and empty outside the otherwise meticulously ordered stable block. It was odd too in that it was so very different to what they might have expected of a country parish doctor. It was a delicate, almost feminine vehicle with rubber cushioning tyres, glossy black paint and smart patent leather. On these rural roads more suited
to varnish and cord, it would be a stable-boy’s nightmare to clean and maintain.

  “Handsome gig, Lucie,” Atticus remarked.

  Lucie did not answer him directly and inevitably it was she who saw it first.

  “Atticus, look at that!”

  He glanced down and saw it too. On the floor of the gig, leaning against the patent leather of the dashboard, and in full view of anyone who cared to look was a small, bronze-coloured, object. Though recently polished, it was plain and without ornamentation; indeed it was distinctly ordinary looking and Atticus recognised it immediately as a Hallow of Arthur.

  It was the Holy Grail.

  Lucie reached into the gig and carefully, using only the very tips of her fingers, lifted the heavy goblet by its rim and placed it on the flat palm of her hand.

  Atticus murmured, “The proverbial poisoned chalice, Lucie,” and watched as she slowly turned the goblet round on her palm.

  “There are no fingertip prints for you that I can see” he continued. “Uther polishes it every day – he has told us as much already and the doctor was wearing driving gloves. It’s rather curious that they should be so entirely absent though.”

  Lucie stared at the Grail for a few moments before glancing back to the gig.

  “His clothes were covered in vomit but there are virtually no traces of it anywhere in there. He must have been sick before he climbed, or was put, into his gig.”

  “So if he was found on this Stanegate,” Atticus pondered aloud, “I wonder where precisely the poison was administered and, indeed, what type of poison it might have been. Look, there’s still a tiny drop of it at the bottom of the chalice. Can you tell what it is?”

  He watched as she brought the chalice to her nose.

  “I’m no expert on poisons and it could be anything, Atticus – even one of the doctor’s own medicines, but there is a mnemonic we used to use in the hospital: ‘Red as a beetroot, mad as a hatter, hot as a hare, blind as a bat and dry as a bone.’ We used it to identify cases of poisoning – especially plant poisoning.