by Bill Kitson
As Eve raised the Glock once more, Alison threw herself sideways, her full weight catching Locke, knocking the stick from his hand. The old man collapsed sideways, the revolver hanging from his limp hand.
Eve’s shot had struck Lionel high in the chest, just below his right shoulder. He screamed with pain and the weapon dropped from his hand. He clutched at the wound. Blinded by pain, he staggered towards the mire, heedless of our warning shouts. On and on he went, until the fog engulfed him. Then we heard a fresh scream, this time of pain and panic combined.
Eve walked forward and kicked Locke’s gun out of his reach. ‘Adam, get the other twin,’ she commanded.
Before I could do so, the driver’s door opened and Joseph hurtled out. He ran towards where Lionel had vanished, but Robert, with a rugby tackle that would have been applauded at Twickenham or Cardiff Arms Park, pulled him down and held him there by sitting on his back. I walked across and relieved Robert of his prisoner.
‘Behave yourself and you won’t get hurt,’ I told him. I wasn’t sure how much of the message got home. Joseph whimpered and looked to where Lionel had gone, his distress increasing as he heard the desperate cry for help that emerged from the gloom. He struggled against my grip, and tried to free himself as if to go to Lionel’s aid, but I pulled him back. I thrust him aside and scooped Locke’s revolver from where Eve had kicked it. ‘Sit down there,’ I told him, pointing to a spot alongside Locke’s prostrate form.
Robert began untying Alison and Tammy. I told Eve to keep watch over Joseph, although it seemed obvious to me that he no longer posed a threat. How strange, I thought, that one twin should be so docile while the other had been capable of such unspeakable violence.
I think Eve had worked out what I intended to do. She nodded to me. ‘Get it over with, Adam, make it quick.’
I walked slowly towards the mire, intent on ending Lionel’s suffering. When I reached the nearest point to where he was floundering, I saw that any attempt to pull him out would be fruitless. He had already sunk up to his armpits in the oozing mud that was sucking him inexorably to his doom. I raised the gun but before I could fire, he gave one last struggle. His scream was replaced by an obscene gurgling sound as the marsh claimed its victim. There was a long, terrible silence.
Chapter Twenty-one
I walked slowly back through the gloom, picking my way carefully. Even at the edges, the mire looked dangerous, and after what I had just witnessed I wasn’t about to take the slightest chance.
When I reached the vehicles, Tony Bishop had joined us and was examining Locke.
‘He’s alive but unconscious,’ Bishop reported. I handed him the revolver and told him to watch the prisoners. Only then was I able to thank Eve for her intervention. I took her in my arms. ‘That was good shooting, my darling. You saved my life.’
‘How bad is your arm?’ Her face was etched with concern.
I showed her the injury, which must have looked worse than it felt.
‘What shall we do now?’ Robert asked.
‘I think if Tony brings his car up here and then takes you and the girls back to the village, you can phone the police from there. If we tie these two up and lock them in the van, Eve and I will stay here and stand guard over them.’
‘What do you plan to do with that?’ Robert pointed to Excoria.
‘I think you know what I have in mind.’
He nodded. ‘Do it, then. The sooner the better.’
As he and Bishop were tying up Joseph and putting him with the still-unconscious Locke into the van, I picked up the blade, Excoria. It was lighter than I expected, exhibiting the expert craftsmanship of the master metal worker, and as I held it I felt a curious sensation of peace, that there was nothing I might not achieve while I held this. I looked at Eve, who was eyeing the weapon apprehensively. ‘Do you remember those inscriptions that Victoria translated?’ I asked.
‘Yes, what about them?’
In order to show her what I meant, I balanced Excoria on my injured arm and gestured towards the blade. Eve looked at me, then at the weapon, then back at me and as I told her what I thought, we both began to laugh. ‘Now, I’m going to do as Robert wants and chuck this thing into Bleke Mire.’
‘But won’t the police want it for evidence?’
‘I’ll tell them that Lionel staggered into the marsh carrying it with him and they both sunk without trace.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No way, it’s treacherous.’
I walked forwards, picking my way with extreme care, my eyes searching the ground for firm footholds. I knew that one false step could end in disaster. The grim reminder of what had happened to Lionel was still fresh enough to act as a potent warning. It was only when I reached a point where I judged it was unsafe to go any further that I looked up. The fog had lifted sufficiently for me to be able to see the small tarn ahead. Obviously I was close to the centre of the mire.
I knew it would take a supreme effort to reach the water from where I was standing. The last thing I wanted was for the weapon to fall short and be picked up by some adventurous wildfowler. As I stood there, shuffling my feet to ensure I was properly balanced, I looked towards the reeds at the water’s edge, and was suddenly aware of the eerie silence of this place. I remembered John Keats’ poem ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’: ‘Oh what can ail thee knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, and no birds sing.’
I shivered, but not from cold, rather from an unnamed dread of things beyond my comprehension. Suddenly, I wanted to be away from this awful place. I swung my arm back and hurled the blade with all the strength I could muster. The effort almost caused me to lose my footing, and I struggled to regain my balance. As I did so, I looked up, in time to see the bright steel glitter in the weak light as it traversed an arc to the pond. There was a sudden movement in the rushes, then the blade splashed into the water. I stayed there, motionless, my eyes blinking with surprise. I stared at the spot where Excoria had vanished for several moments, then turned and made my way with great care back to Eve. As I made my way from clump to clump of the sturdy grass I dismissed the movement I’d seen as no more than the stirring of the reeds from a sudden gust of wind.
There was only one flaw in that argument, and I had almost reached the vehicles before I acknowledged it. There was no wind; not even the merest zephyr of a breeze. Nothing to create that movement, unless it had been a fish, or an otter, perhaps. Even now, as I record this for the first time, I can feel once more that cold shiver from the thought that it might have been something else; something far beyond my understanding. We waited for the police to arrive, and I told Eve what had happened. I was a little hesitant, wondering if she might have thought that all we’d been through had finally affected my sanity, but she accepted my version of events without question.
‘There’s definitely something strange about this place,’ she said, looking around. ‘I’ve felt it ever since we arrived. I don’t know what it is, but I’m glad we’re together. I wouldn’t want to be alone here, or with someone I didn’t love or trust. Perhaps that has something to do with why all Locke’s plans came to nothing and ended in disaster.’
‘Love rather than hate, you mean?’
‘Or good triumphing over evil, more like.’
It was less than half an hour before Holmes and Pickersgill, together with a posse of uniformed officers, arrived to take the prisoners from us. Locke had regained consciousness by then, but looked dreadfully ill, and I guessed there would be little or no chance of him ever standing trial. Not before an earthly judge, that is. After we had given a brief, strictly edited version of what had occurred, Holmes allowed us to return to Barton Manor to rejoin our companions. ‘We’ll be along later after we’ve interviewed these two.’ He indicated the police van, into which the uniformed men were loading the prisoners. ‘They’ll be held in custody pending a remand hearing, so once we’ve got the formalities out of the way we’ll be up to se
e you all, complete with pads of statement forms.’
It was one of the few signs of humour I’d seen from the young detective, and I guessed it was relief from the stress of the case that had caused him to relax somewhat.
Despite Holmes’ promise, the day passed without any sign of the detectives’ arrival. As we waited, we were able to discuss the case in depth and agree on the content of the statements we would have to give. Eve expressed the need succinctly. ‘We have to ensure our stories tally,’ she told them. ‘It would be easier if we were able to reveal everything, but as there are elements we don’t want the police to know, that makes the need for uniformity even greater.’ She looked at me, knowing I had several points to put over.
‘We will have to explain about Excoria,’ I began, ‘but what we can’t say is how it disappeared, otherwise one or more of us would face a charge of tampering with evidence, or obstruction, or whatever the term is. As far as the police are concerned, all they need to know is that Excoria finished up in Bleke Mire along with Lionel. That isn’t exactly a lie, just not the whole truth.’
‘It seems strange that after all that we’ve been through, the mystery is still as baffling as it was when we started,’ Alison stated. ‘I mean the location of the Holy Grail. I think it would have been wonderful to have been able to present it to the world.’
I looked at Eve, and then at Robert, and saw that both of them were awaiting my response. Eve nodded slightly, and I decided to tell the truth. ‘Do you remember the wording of the runic messages that Victoria translated. In particular, the first one, which read like this, “My time is almost at an end. I have passed to my sons the secret that has been handed down through the generations. It will be for them to carry it and in the end, they must decide whether it is prudent to reveal it or let it rest. I have counselled them to think long and choose wisely.” That wording baffled us. It’s hardly surprising that we’ve been foiled in our attempt to interpret that message, because all along we’ve been deceived by a very astute old man with a long white beard.’
‘Who on earth are you talking about?’ Robert asked.
‘That’s how Merlin is usually portrayed in popular fiction. The secret lies in the words, “it will be for them to carry it” which should have been read literally. When I examined Excoria, I found there were markings all around the blade and hilt. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I think that Merlin inscribed the location of the Grail on the metal of Cerdic’s Excoria and Arthur’s Excalibur.’
Victoria interrupted me. ‘I thought you said the killer took Excoria into the marsh with him? When did you examine it?’
‘No; I said that all the police need to know is that it finished up in the mire. With Robert’s approval I threw it into the tarn in the centre of the marsh.’
Victoria looked apoplectic, so I hastened to add, ‘Before you condemn what I did as sacrilege, consider what Cerdic and Arthur’s wishes might have been. When Merlin told them the location of the Grail, the world was an unstable place. Old empires were dying, new ones being formed. Isn’t that very much how things are today? Only the weapons have become far more lethal. Now consider the effect that discovery of such a valuable artefact might produce. An excuse for new crusades, new holy wars perhaps. That was why Cerdic acknowledged the danger such a relic might represent, and followed Arthur’s example, leaving it for fate to decide whether to reveal it.’
I paused to let everyone dwell on this, before adding what I hoped would be a clinching argument. ‘If you are still in any doubt, all you have to do is think about all that has happened since this began. Even without the Grail appearing, there have been two near-fatal accidents, one to DI Hardy and the other to Frank Jolly. Then there was the break in here, the kidnap of Alison and Tammy. Add to that total, four murders, and the planned murders of four more of us, and finally the violent death of one of the killers.’
The others seemed prepared to accept my logic readily enough. My only misgiving was that as a professional historian, Victoria might not be swayed by the emotional argument. I was concerned that she would regard the destruction of so valuable a piece as a criminal act. I was therefore more than a little surprised by her response.
‘There is a legend that the soul of a warrior lives on after his death; being captured in the blade of the weapon he carried into battle. Perhaps that was so with Cerdic and Excoria. It might even be that your action today was not quite so much of your own free will as you imagine. Isn’t it quite possible that you were directed to that mire today, not by Locke, but by other influences, so that the original intention of making sure that secret would be hidden for all time could be fulfilled? Or, if not for all time, at least until powers we cannot begin to understand deem it more appropriate?’
She had only one question; and it was not difficult to answer. ‘What I fail to understand is, if Locke had the weapon in his possession, why did he fail to translate the inscription. I may have been highly critical of his abilities as a historian, but I do know he had a working knowledge of the Ogham, the Celtic alphabet.’
‘For the same reason that you struggled with the final runic inscription,’ I told her. ‘I’m no expert, but I believe the markings on Excoria would have turned out to be something other than Celtic.’
Victoria groaned. ‘Not bloody Aramaic?’
‘Yes, I told you he was a very cunning old man, was old Merlin.’
‘That’s damned clever of him, but it also shows how determined they were to guard that secret, which in turn underlines how right your decision was.’
It was the following morning before Holmes and Pickersgill arrived, and after we told them about the Pengelly history, their opening remarks explained why they had been delayed, as well as filling in some of the gaps in our knowledge. ‘That tallies with what Locke told us,’ Holmes said. ‘Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to give us the whole story. We began to interview him, but had to suspend it because he was taken ill. From what we were able to gather beforehand, it seemed that he devised the scheme to defraud Stephen Pengelly in revenge for the treatment his niece had received. To do this he co-opted his old friend Wharton and his associates. However, once he started to research the Pengelly family history to lend credibility to the confidence trick, he discovered something amazing, and the whole scheme took on a different slant. All the money Stephen paid to that company Overtring was to provide funds for more research, and visits to some previously undiscovered sites. It seems Locke uncovered the dagger and then they found something at another of these, but Locke never got to see it; he was too ill to travel, and only learned of the fact much later.’
Johnny Pickersgill added, ‘For some reason, Locke believed Pengelly had found something that would cure his illness, and was determined to get hold of it, but Stephen wouldn’t let him in on the secret. He mentioned something about stone tablets with writing on them, by which we thought he meant tombstones.’ Johnny looked around, but as no one spoke, he continued. ‘Locke felt that Pengelly had cheated him, because when the stone tablets were found, Locke was having treatment for his cancer. He said he chose that point to have the treatment because he thought that the site Pengelly wanted to look was unlikely to yield any result. I think that peeved him a bit. When he’d recovered, Pengelly had ordered the stones to be re-buried and wouldn’t tell him what was written on them.’
‘To be honest,’ Holmes added, ‘we thought this was a bit far-fetched, thinking that something written on a tombstone could provide a miracle cancer cure, but Locke obviously believed that to be the case. He was about to tell us what it was, but before he could do so, he collapsed and had to be rushed to hospital. He got really angry as he was talking about it, and I honestly believe that caused his collapse, or at least hastened it. That was part of the reason we didn’t get here until now. I spoke to one of the doctor this morning,’ Holmes added, ‘and the news isn’t good. Locke is in intensive care, and by the sound of it he only has a very short time left. We’re talking days, not weeks.’
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‘Does that mean that Joseph will have to stand trial alone?’
‘Nobody will stand trial. Joseph has been committed to a secure mental institution. He will never be considered competent to understand what is going on in a courtroom. The psychiatrist believes the trauma of his brother’s death was the tipping point.’
We had been back at Eden House a few days, the only unsolved mysteries centred around where Stephen Pengelly had found those runic tablets and where he had discovered Domenico’s journal, but as Eve commented, ‘No doubt if we tried hard enough we could locate both places, but why bother? Life without mysteries would be far too boring.’
I agreed, adding, ‘And maybe the timing of Locke’s collapse during his interview was a little more than pure coincidence, because it happened before he could reveal the rest of what he knew.’
She shrugged. ‘You may be right, but we’ll never know. Let me take look at your arm. I need to change the dressing.’ When Eve removed the bandage, she stared at the wound site and gasped. ‘Adam, look at your arm.’
I did so, and was astonished to see there was no mark, no scar where Excoria had taken the skin off. The injury had healed remarkably quickly, and with no trace left. ‘That is really weird,’ I said.
I looked at Eve and smiled as I drew her into my arms. ‘I’ve been meaning to say this for a few days now, but it is really nice to be home. Barton Manor is a very fine house, with very pleasant company, but I prefer Eden House.’
It was a week or so later after our morning walk when I asked her as to when she thought we should arrange the wedding. Eve was a good organiser and had promised to start planning, but something always seemed to get in the way.
‘I’ve been thinking about that and decided we should get married now,’ she told me.
‘That suits me. Any particular reason?’ I asked.
