by Unknown
Arthur parked in the front courtyard. When he got out he wondered if he’d be able to find a bell on the massive oak doors but one of them swung open and out came an animated short man waving an arm in enthusiastic greeting.
“Hello there!” Harp called out. “Welcome to Binford Hall. How was your drive, Arthur?”
As they exchanged the requisite pleasantries, Arthur registered first impressions of his host. Harp had a florid complexion and a red, drinker’s nose, which on closer inspection was really a knobbly rash. When Arthur returned home he would do an online search and decide it was rosacea, a stubborn condition that even a billionaire couldn’t defeat. In fact, during the weekend he wouldn’t see Harp drink all that much. The same could not be said for Mrs. Harp, who always seemed to have a glass of something at hand.
Harp had a white fringe of longish hair and glistening, intelligent eyes. His protruding belly might have made anyone else appear chubby but his clothes were so impeccably tailored and pressed that he merely looked prosperous. Arthur imagined that each and every garment peeled from his small frame was sent to the cleaners immediately, and even the man’s pristine buttery loafers, subjected as they were to the horrors of a gravel drive, instantly would be sent for resoling.
Harp beckoned him. “Come inside. Leave your bag. I’ll have it taken to your room. Have a quick freshen-up then I’ll show you around while there’s still light. Marvelous to have you here. Absolutely marvelous. You’ll meet my wife later.”
The entrance hall was cavernous and paneled, soaring two stories, dwarfing visitors. A gracefully swooping staircase led to a bannistered gallery. The walls were lined with portraits and landscapes in heavy ornate frames, and on the stairs Arthur swore he made out Rembrandt’s signature on an amber-toned portrait of an apple-cheeked peasant.
Harp must have been tracking his eyes. “Yes, indeed. It’s a Rembrandt. You might be confused by the way it’s spelled: Rembrant, without the d. That’s the way he signed his name prior to sixteen thirty-three. Bought it with a de Gelder and a Hals at the same auction a decade ago. Should have bought more when I had the chance. Dutch Masters always seem to be in a bull market.”
Arthur resisted the urge to ask what it was worth though he was reasonably certain Harp would have been more than pleased to tell him.
At the top of the stairs, Harp pointed down a long hallway and said, “Fifth door on your right, the open one. That’s yours. When you’re ready come back down, give us a shout and we’ll have our tour. Is that all right?”
“More than all right,” Arthur said, bewildered by the grandness of it all.
His room was large, well-appointed, and en suite with a large claw-footed bath and a separate steam shower. There was even a flat-screen TV mounted at bath level.
A porter brought his bag and returned a short while later with a cart of beverages: bottled water, sherry, premium liquors. He considered having a nip but he wanted to be perfectly clear-headed for the chairman so he grabbed his coat and headed downstairs for the walkabout.
Though his legs were short, Harp beat out a fast pace in his Wellington boots, compelling Arthur to lean into his stride to keep up. He took him on a meandering tour of the property barking out facts about previous owners of Binford Hall, pointing out architectural, landscape, and horticultural features, glibly spewing the Latinate names of plantings. According to Harp, none of his predecessors at Binford had been much good at anything other than inheriting money. Not a luminary among the lot in arts, sciences, politics, or commerce—until him, of course, which seemed to be the subtext of the discourse. He’d bought the house in the early nineties from a bankrupt ne’er-do-well who could trace his lineage there back to the sixteenth century. Apparently, the fellow took his proceeds and decamped for Spain where he promptly killed himself in a road accident.
“He left Binford in a complete and utter mess but it had potential. I could see that from my first visit. How much do you think it took to make this place right?” Harp asked.
“Millions, I should think,” Arthur answered.
“Times ten!” Harp crowed, puffing out his chest. “Spared no expense. Right now I’d rate it as one of the finest country estates in England. And it’s not just the house and gardens. We’ve got almost four hundred acres of prime Suffolk farmland out that way beyond the stables. Had to introduce all the new methods to make the enterprise profitable. You know, I still haven’t gotten my Nobel Prize in physics—though rumors do swirl about this year’s slate. If by some travesty I never get it in physics, I should damn well get one in agriculture. My farm manager goes around giving seminars on how we turned it around. We are, without doubt, the highest tech farm in the country.”
The light was fading but Arthur made out an expanse of tawny hues in the distance.
“That’s where you’ll be doing your prospecting tomorrow,” Harp noted. “The weather’s supposed to be fine.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Arthur said.
#
“We dress for dinner.”
That’s what Harp told Arthur as he deposited him back at his room. If the notion of dressing for dinner would be satisfied by a sport coat and striped tie then Arthur would be fine.
The dining room was extraordinary: a high Tudor hall with a musician’s gallery, heraldic banners, and an elaborately coffered ceiling. The long table, perfectly centered in the cavernous room, was set at one end for three with Harp at the short side.
Harp was dressed in a dark suit with a silky lavender tie, his wife in an elegant dress. Mrs. Harp started the evening with the pinched look of someone forced into hospitality but she brightened at the sight of Arthur and delivered compliments on his blue eyes and thick hair to Harp’s apparent irritation.
“I read, of course, of your tragic happenstance and communicated with Martin Ash about it,” Harp began when the starter was cleared by the server. “I would have reached out earlier but I wanted to make sure you’d convalesced. Are you all right now?”
“Close to a hundred percent,” Arthur said. “I’m back to work and feeling quite fit, thanks.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through something like that. The state of this country! Brazen burglaries are out of control.”
Arthur nodded. There was no reason to correct Harp’s impression.
“You know, I find our company newsletter very informative,” Harp said, changing the subject. “How else would I have discovered that someone as interesting as you worked for me?”
“I’m really not all that interesting,” Arthur demurred.
“This is a modesty-free zone!” Harp insisted. “You have a first in chemistry from Bristol, you’re a bloody good marketing chap according to Martin Ash, you’re a descendant of the man who put King Arthur on the map, a student of history, and something of an explorer. That spells Renaissance man, Arthur, and I like Renaissance men. It takes one to know one.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t give me that ‘sir’ nonsense. It’s Jeremy to you. So you’re a Grail aficionado, is that right?”
“I am. The subject fascinates me.”
“I’m a bit of a Grail hobbyist myself,” Harp said, reaching for his wine glass.
“Is that right?” Arthur said enthusiastically. “Why the interest?”
“All work and no play … Even when I was doing physics day in and day out I had outside interests. That particular one probably sprang from reading your ancestor’s Le Morte D’Arthur as a schoolboy. The Arthurian quest is very alluring, isn’t it? It’s a metaphor for all sorts of pursuits in life. I’ve periodically dabbled in the subject matter though I daresay I probably don’t hold a candle to your knowledge.”
“I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t agree more with your views on the appeal of the subject,” Arthur said, “though there are those who might say the quest is more than metaphorical.”
“Are you among them?” Harp asked, helping himself from a platter of meat cradled by the server.
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Arthur dodged the question. “As you may know, the Catholic Church has obliquely endorsed the chalice kept at the Valencia Cathedral as the true Grail, so it might be argued that a real, physical artifact has already been found.”
Harp laughed. “But you don’t believe that, do you? I can tell by your face.”
“Not for a second!” Arthur paused to consider. “It’s certainly an interesting object. I mean the Valencia Chalice dates to the first century and it is unquestionably from a piece of Middle Eastern agate; but none of the serious Grail people believe it’s the genuine article. I could certainly go on.” He looked at Mrs. Harp and thought better of it. “It might be a little tedious for your wife.”
“Nonsense!” Harp exclaimed. “Much more amusing than talking about the weather or neodymium magnets! You agree, don’t you, Lillian?”
Mrs. Harp poured more wine for herself and delivered a thin smile.
“You made a provocative statement in that article,” Harp continued. “You said you had some ideas where the Grail might be located.”
“I do.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well, it’s not my personal research, but I belong to an informal group of Grail hunters, most of them academic types who meet periodically to share ideas.” Arthur stopped talking to wipe an unwanted tear that suddenly had formed at the corner of an eye.
“Are you all right?” Harp asked.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quickly. “It’s just that the founder of the group and his wife were the people who were killed.”
“I see. Terrible, terrible,” Harp clucked, and his wife parroted him.
“Andrew Holmes was a history don at Cambridge. He made some notable progress recently by uncovering a remarkable medieval document.”
“Yes?” Harp looked at Arthur keenly, resting his utensils on his plate.
“I really shouldn’t say much about it because he hadn’t published his findings. I don’t think he would have wanted anyone speaking about it prematurely.”
“You can trust me, Arthur,” Harp eagerly urged. “Anyway, who would I talk to about it? You have my vow of silence as a gentleman and your boss.”
Arthur glanced at Mrs. Harp, who piped up and said, “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m hardly paying attention.”
“Go on,” Harp insisted.
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure anyone’s going to know the full extent of what he found because the house fire destroyed all his papers. But here’s what I was told. As you know, the Grail quest entered into the public consciousness via the Arthurian legend and subsequent literature. Thomas Malory may have definitively put the topic on the map in the fifteenth century with Le Morte but everyone knows that he relied on antecedent works.”
Harp chimed in almost mechanically. “Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval, le Conte du Graal; Robert de Boron’s La Grant Estoire dou Graal; and Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival.”
Arthur was stunned into silence. When he recovered he said, “You seem to be more than a dabbler.”
“No—really not, I assure you. I’m blessed or perhaps cursed with a photographic memory. When something makes it inside my brain it never seems to leave.”
“Don’t I know it,” his wife said without a touch of humor.
“Well, you’ve cited the troika of relevant twelfth-century texts, two French, one German,” Arthur said. “And of course there were other versions produced over the centuries prior to Malory’s definitive work; but the really interesting question is why did the original three manuscripts pop up within one or two decades of one another? Was it coincidence? Did the first one out, Chrétien de Troyes’, spark some quick copycats? Is there another explanation?”
“Copycats?” Harp repeated.
“Well … perhaps that’s not the best word, as each work presents a unique version of Grail events.”
“And you’re about to propose an alternate explanation, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. So, as I’m sure you know, in addition to the Valencia Cathedral, there are a host of other possible sanctuaries for the Grail.”
“Besides the theory set forth in The Da Vinci Code,” Harp said teasingly.
“Oh please,” Arthur laughed. “So besides Valencia, the most commonly cited ones are Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland, Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, Oak Island in Nova Scotia, and the monastery of Montserrat in Spain. Montserrat has, perhaps, had particular appeal since the monks there have long championed the notion that Montserrat is the ‘Munsalvaesche’ that von Eschenbach cites as the Grail castle in Parzival. Even though Montserrat has been picked over exhaustively by Grail hunters, Andrew Holmes always favored the location for a variety of historical reasons.
“Several months ago the monks at Montserrat gave Andrew unusually broad access to the medieval library there. In a folio that probably hadn’t been touched for nine hundred years he found a letter written in 1175 to the abbot of Montserrat thanking him for his hospitality during a pilgrimage. It was signed by three men: Chrétien de Troyes, Robert de Boron, and Wolfram von Eschenbach.”
Harp swallowed. “All three at the same time and the same place? Amazing. Was the letter more than a thank you? Was there any mention of the Grail?”
“I don’t know. Holmes hadn’t shared its contents with the group. He was playing his cards close to the vest. I think he expected to make a splash when he was ready to present his paper. But we could tell from his body language that he was more firmly than ever in the Montserrat camp.”
“Did he have a copy of the letter?”
“The monks let him photograph it, I believe. But it’s gone. I’d like to retrace his footsteps one day and try to find the letter again. Maybe if Martin Ash gives me a long holiday.”
“And this Holmes chap; that’s all he told you about his recent Grail research?”
Arthur found the question odd. “Actually, he had made a new discovery that greatly excited him. He was going to share it with me the night he was killed. I’m afraid he took it to the grave.”
“A pity,” Harp said. “Perhaps it will be rediscovered one day. It seems to me …”
“Jeremy,” his wife implored, “save some of this for tomorrow, won’t you?”
Harp nodded. “She’s right, of course. Let’s have some pudding and talk about something that interests everyone. Arthur and I can speak more about this at tea tomorrow. What time do you want to start your prospecting?”
“As early as possible. Four hundred acres is a lot of ground to cover.”
“What are you hoping to find?” Mrs. Harp asked.
“Anything more interesting than a rusty tin of baked beans would be nice,” Arthur said. “Not far from here at Hoxne, in 1992, a hobbyist with a metal detector found a hoard of some fifteen thousand gold, silver and bronze Roman coins in a field. The British Museum paid out roughly two million pounds for it. Something like that would be particularly welcome.”
“Wish I could join you,” Harp said. “I’ve got a bloody agricultural meeting to attend. The man from the gatehouse, Hengst; he’ll be about if you need anything. Let’s see to some brandy, shall we?”
“Of course.”
Harp looked up at the empty musicians gallery as if listening to the interlacing melodies of an unseen string quartet. “We’ll drink to the memory of your friends.”
#
Arthur swept his Garrett metal detector over the clodded, pebbly earth. It was sunny and crisp, cool enough that when he had begun his hunt at 8 A.M., his breath had been visible. His boots sank into a wet soil rich and full of promise—of a bountiful fall harvest of winter wheat; of treasure.
Although the best find of the morning had been an old horseshoe, Arthur was contented. This was his first outing in the countryside since being hospitalized and to feel the wind on his face and listen to birdsong felt wonderful. Like a golfer who didn’t much care about his score but relished the time outdoors, he happily tramped about the fields east to west then west to east, mi
ndful not to scan the same ground twice.
Through his headphones he heard the muffled sound of an engine. He looked up to see an ATV approaching from the direction of the house. It stopped about 100 yards away. Arthur recognized the guard from the gatehouse, lifting binoculars to his face; then shrugged off the snooping. He reckoned the fellow was grateful for having something to do on a dozy Saturday.
At noon he stuck his trowel into the earth to mark his place and ambled back to the car for the packed sandwich lunch Harp’s kitchen staff had provided.
#
As the afternoon progressed, Arthur’s arm and shoulder began to take the achy brunt of back-and-forth sweeping. The sun was getting low. His minder had come and gone but returned again, watching afar from his idling ATV. Arthur had increasingly hiked the detector’s iron discrimination settings to cut down on the number of junk targets and it had been over an hour since the last decent tone through his headphones.
He was in a faraway place, thinking about small things like the flock of ducks streaking overhead when a beep brought him back to the soil. It was a pleasant, crisp midtone, fairly faint. His screen showed a reading of 64, a good number, one that included precious metals. The depth reading was about a meter. He swept the detector head a bit further on and got a clear double tone, also at a reading of 64. Two objects.
He swept another arc just to the north of the double tone and suddenly there was a symphony, beeps galore.
He’d never before heard the earth calling to him like this.
Suppressing an urge to fall to his knees and begin knifing the dirt with his trowel, he carefully mapped out the boundaries of the tones. When he was done he planted his trowel in the middle of the area, left his metal detector behind, and fast-walked to the Land Rover for his spade.
He began taking down the topsoil, periodically checking the signals with his detector until he had carved out the boundaries of a roughly two-by three-yard zone. His side began to ache but he wasn’t going to let pain slow him down.
