He watched Milford's expression at the mention of the esplumoir, but the old professor was slowly stroking his white mustache and frowning as he gazed through the window. Indy turned to see if he was looking at anything in particular, but it seemed he was just daydreaming.
Milford noticed that he'd stopped talking. He blinked, and looked down into his tea. "Damn it, Indy, there was something I was going to tell you. Now wait. Did I already tell you about it?"
Indy tried to be gentle, but he was irritated. "Dr. Milford, let's not get into this again. All you've told me is that there's something you wanted to tell me."
Milford scratched his ear. "Well, if I didn't already tell you, then I'm sure it will come to me. Now what were you saying, something about Scotland?"
Indy repeated what he'd already said.
"Excavating for Merlin, eh?"
"Well, not exactly Merlin, but..."
Milford scratched his chin, and touched his mustache. "You know, it seems I was talking with someone recently on that very subject."
"Me."
"Huh?"
"You were talking to me about it the other day at the Tower of London. You had some strong doubts about being able to prove that he lived."
"Yes, of course."
Indy took a bite of his biscuit, and sipped his tea. "By the way, do you know anything about Merlin's esplumoir?"
Milford repeated the word. "Yes, yes. That's one of those words," he muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"One of those words that was probably a misinterpretation between the French and the English when they translated stories back and forth." He waved a hand, looking annoyed. "It's a mess. You could spend a career looking at those words, trying to straighten things out."
That was just the sort of career Indy was avoiding, by pursuing archaeology instead of linguistics. But he was interested in what Milford had to say, and asked him to explain.
"I don't know enough about this esplumoir, but I'll give you another example about your friend, Merlin. Do you know what a barrow is?"
Indy sipped his tea. "Sure, I've been an archaeologist a couple of months now. It's a mound of earth or stone built over a grave. Britain's literally covered with them."
"True enough, and if Merlin was an historical person, he was buried in one."
Indy was surprised by Milford's confident, self-assured tone. "Why do you say that?"
"I'm sure you know the story of Le Cri de Merlin, about how he cried out from his tomb."
Indy nodded.
"Well, it's a mistake." Milford slowly stirred his tea.
"What do you mean?"
"A mistake in the translation found in the French texts, then later repeated by the English. The original word was cruc, which is an early English word for barrow, but it was translated to cri. Then, Geoffrey of Monmouth took the French cri and translated it to cry."
Milford beamed at Indy. He was in full control of his faculties at the moment, and he wasn't finished. "For example, if I may return to the topic of losing one's head, when Eldol cut off Hengist's head, he 'raised a great cry over his head,' Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote. Of course it was supposed to be a barrow that was raised over his head. That was the custom in burying a Saxon chieftain."
Indy set down his cup. "Really?"
"Yes, of course. I've been arguing this point with your father for years."
"So you're saying that Merlin was buried in a barrow, not in a cave," Indy said.
"Exactly. The story about his being trapped in a cave didn't make sense, anyhow. Why would a savvy magician like Merlin allow a young girl to fool him? He was too wise for that."
Interesting, Indy thought. Milford's last point was more or less the same thing that Deirdre had said in her paper.
"So what about his last words? He said he was going to retire into his esplumoir."
"Like I said. I don't know this one well. But I do recall something about this esplumoir being his way of saying he was going to die, change his feathers so to speak. Or so whylome wont. I wouldn't be surprised if it meant something else altogether. Remember they wrote with quills, feathers in those days. Look at the root of the word. The Welsh plufawr, 'feathers,' comes from the Latin pluma. It probably means he retired from the active life and went to some secluded place to take up the plume, to write."
It was a few minutes after four when Indy returned to the Russell Square flat after accompanying Milford back to his room at the club. He was tired and decided he'd lie down for a few minutes. Spending time with Milford exhausted him. Maybe it was because he was always on guard, uncertain of how Milford would act, whether he would slip into Middle English, mumble incoherently, or get angry at him. In spite of his forgetfulness, Milford seemed capable of getting around by himself, and never forgot—at least for long—what he was doing at any particular moment.
"Jack, you here?" he called as he closed the door. No answer. Shannon must have left. Now he was committed to going out tonight, even though he was leaving early in the morning. He wished he hadn't made the promise, but maybe he'd feel more like going out again after he'd rested.
He glanced at his desk, looking to see if Shannon had left a note. He heard something. It sounded like a stifled cough. He turned his head. His bedroom door was closed. It hadn't been closed when he went out. He never closed it.
Not more trouble. He didn't need it, didn't want it. He considered heading for the door, and calling the police. But who knew what he'd find when he came back. He took a couple of cautious steps toward the door, and reached for the handle.
Suddenly, it burst open amid shouts and screams, and people spilled out around him. "Surprise!"
He looked around, baffled. For a brief moment he didn't know who they were. They looked familiar, but...
... Of course, his students.
"Professor Jones!" It was Deirdre. She moved forward from the throng that had surrounded him. "I hope you don't mind. Everyone wanted to say goodbye and wish you well on the dig."
He laughed. "No. I guess I don't mind. Hell, you're all here now." Red, blue, and green balloons bobbed near the ceiling, crepe paper streamers had materialized as if out of nowhere, and one of the students was holding out a cake. On the top of it the frosting spelled "Happy Digging," and below the words was a drawing of a man and woman, both carrying shovels and holding hands.
"What is this?" Deirdre peered at the drawing, her shoulder pressed against his arm. "I didn't have anything to do with that," she said emphatically. He liked the sound of her lilting Scottish voice, even when she raised it.
The crowd laughed and several students shouted lighthearted taunts. It was obvious that everyone thought something was going on between them, or that it should be, if it wasn't.
Indy's face reddened, and he avoided looking at Deirdre. Then he glanced beyond the crowd and saw Shannon across the room, leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed and there was a smirk on his face. "Jack, did you have something to do with this?"
"Me?" Shannon tapped his hands at his chest, brows lifting. "I just opened the door."
"Oh no, he was in on it," someone shouted.
"Right from the start," another voice piped in.
"I knew it," Indy said. "That's why you were so insistent on me getting back by four."
Glasses of soft drinks and wine were being passed out. "Cut the cake," someone said. The gangly young man who was supposed to write his term paper on views of Stonehenge in the seventeenth century stepped forward with a knife.
"I should get to cut it," he said. "I wrote my term paper on Stonehenge, comparing the ideas of the architect Inigo Jones with those of Professor Indy Jones."
"And he managed to pass," Indy added.
"Let's cut it on the table," the girl holding the cake said, and moved toward the kitchen, followed by a swirl of students.
Indy looked around and saw Deirdre standing back from the crowd. He moved to her side, touched her lightly in the small of the back. "Thanks. I appreci
ate this. I had no idea."
"No idea of what?" she asked.
He smiled. "No idea it was going to happen."
She looked up at him. "I wasn't sure myself." It seemed they were talking about more than just the party.
"I'm looking forward to Scotland."
"Me too. It'll be nice to go home."
"Are you from that region of Scotland?" he asked, realizing how little he knew about her.
"I'm from Whithorn. I grew up in the village."
"Oh." Indy was surprised. "I didn't realize that."
There was a rap at the door, and Indy turned to see Shannon opening it. Joanna Campbell stepped inside.
"Joanna! What are you doing here?" Deirdre exclaimed and moved across the room. One surprise after another, Indy thought as he trailed after her. He stopped short to give mother and daughter a chance to talk alone. They exchanged a few quick words, then Dr. Campbell turned and smiled at Indy.
He moved over to them, and she touched his forearm. "I hope you're not upset by this invasion of your privacy, but your students were insistent. You're probably the most well-liked professor I've had on my staff. I can't recall ever hearing such enthusiastic comments as I have about you."
Her compliment astonished him. "Why, thank you, Dr. Campbell. From the bored looks I see sometimes in class, I would've never known."
"You can call me Joanna. No need to be formal."
"Good. Let me get you a glass of wine, or would you like something else? And we've got cake." He was relieved that it was already sliced so he wouldn't have to explain the drawing.
"No, nothing for me. I'm not going to stay." She leaned forward, and spoke confidentially. "Actually, I wasn't officially invited, and I'm afraid I've embarrassed Deirdre." She glanced over at her daughter.
"Oh, that's not true," Deirdre protested.
Joanna flashed a smile, but her demeanor quickly turned serious. "There is a particular reason I've come here to see you. Deirdre, you should listen, too."
"I'm listening." Deirdre sounded sarcastic, yet puzzled at the same time.
"I'm afraid my plans have changed. I need to stay in London a few more days."
"But Joanna, you promised—"
Her mother raised a hand. "Let me finish, Deirdre. I don't think there's any need to disrupt our plans. I want you two to go on to Whithorn without me, and I'll join you as soon as I can."
"But what are we going to do?" Deirdre sounded exasperated.
"All the equipment is packed. You know the area well, and Professor Jones is a fully qualified archaeologist." She turned to Indy. "I've prepared written instructions for you as guidelines. You'll need to hire a couple villagers. Deirdre can help you with that. She knows everyone, including the ones I've worked with before. Anyhow, by the time the two of you get started, I'll probably be there. Is that all right with you?"
He felt light-headed. Everything was happening so fast, but he couldn't think of a more interesting change in plans. "I guess we can make do until you arrive."
"I know you will," she said confidently.
Indy accompanied her to the door, and opened it. "One other thing I was wondering about. As I understand it, the intent of the dig is to look for the gold scroll mentioned in the monk's letter."
Joanna smiled. "Yes, of course."
"Well, it's just that ... I don't see how you can assume from the letter that the scroll is buried in the cave."
"I'm glad you mentioned that. I've been so busy that we haven't had time to talk about all the background."
They moved out into the hall, and Indy closed the door, shutting out the noise.
"You see, after I read the letter," Joanna continued, "I contacted a friend of mine, who happens to have an excellent relationship with the Vatican. He found out that no such scroll or letter was ever received, and there was no request made to exorcise Ninian's Cave."
"I was wondering about that, since the letter was found in Whithorn."
"Exactly. It was never sent. Neither was the scroll. What I did find out was that Father Mathers remained in Whithorn until his death five years later. My theory is that since the scroll has never turned up, it was buried in the cave."
"Maybe the gold was melted down."
She shook her head. "That's not likely. There was an approved procedure which would've been followed. There would've been records, and there aren't any."
"It still seems a long shot."
A hint of a fey smile touched her lips. "This is something I feel strongly about, Jones. Very strongly. I can't explain it. It's just a sense I have that the dig will be productive."
"I hope you're right. By the way, I'm a little confused about Deirdre's paper now. I mean did you..."
"Did I write it? Of course not. But I did suggest the topic to Deirdre. I was hoping her paper would entice you into joining us."
"It didn't take much to pique my interest. I can't wait to get started."
Joanna met his gaze. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. But keep in mind that I'm also expecting you to behave in a professional manner while in the company of my daughter."
"Oh, of course."
10
Whithorn Welcome
The southwest coast of Scotland was wild and forested, a land where ranges of hills were interspersed with breathtaking lochs and glens. A faerie land, Indy thought as he rode horseback toward the village in the dying light of early evening. It was difficult for him to compare it to the rugged desert of the American Southwest where he'd grown up. There, a sense of immensity prevailed. Here, the scale was smaller, but more diverse. It was as if nature was aware that only so much space was available, so everything had to be compacted, scaled to size.
They'd arrived by train late the previous night, and this morning had begun preparations for the dig. They'd met with the village mayor, a longtime friend of Joanna's, and Indy had briefed him on their plans. Later, they found two carpenters who had worked with Joanna on her last dig at the cave, and made arrangements for them to begin work the next day.
It wasn't until midafternoon that they'd finally ridden out to the cave. Ninian's Cave was only a few feet wide at the mouth, but twenty feet or so beyond the entrance it opened into an expansive cavern. While Deirdre had returned to the village to assemble supplies they would need, he'd immediately begun work, taking measurements of the cavern, and laying out plans for the grid they would construct.
In the days after Joanna had invited him to the dig, he'd read everything he could about Candida Casa and Ninian's Cave. A report by the Royal Commission on Ancient Monuments of Scotland in 1914 described small slabs of hand-carved stone and fragments of two Christian crosses unearthed near the cave. Joanna Campbell was mentioned as the archaeologist in charge of the excavation. No mention of Merlin's esplumoir or the gold scroll was made in the report, and he suspected the work had taken place either before she knew about the letter or before she'd decided the scroll was buried in the cave.
He dismounted at the stable and walked to the quaint rooming house where they were staying. It was a three-story eighteenth-century stone building that had been remodeled to accommodate electricity and modern plumbing. He passed the large dining room, and climbed the staircase to the second floor where his room was located. His room was special, the landlady had said, because it was the only one with a bathtub in the room. He'd offered it to Deirdre, but she preferred the larger, corner room next door. He closed the door behind him, and turned on the light. Immediately, he heard a tapping on the wall from the adjoining room. He smiled, walked over to the wall, and repeated the same tapping pattern. Deirdre was no doubt getting ready for dinner, and it was time for him to do the same.
As he washed and changed his clothes, he wished that he and Deirdre were dining alone this evening. Things had been awkward between them, and he wanted to talk with her, to bridge the gulf that had opened. Although he'd been looking forward to spending time alone with her, he'd been haunted by Joanna's departing words, and had intentionally
kept his distance. His job at the university was virtually assured now, but he knew Joanna could still retract her offer if he crossed some invisible boundary with her daughter. Now though, he wanted to make it clear to Deirdre that the way he'd acted on the train had nothing to do with his real feelings about her. He didn't know exactly how he was going to explain it to her, but he would.
Dinner that night would be a village affair. The event was being held in their honor at the local pub, and many of Deirdre's old friends were expected to attend. He straightened his tie in the mirror, left the room, and knocked on the adjoining door. He'd have to make good use of the time he had with her.
"Is that you, Indy?" she asked, then opened the door a couple of inches. She peered out at him, but didn't open it any further. "I'll be right with you. I'm almost ready."
The door closed in his face. He didn't move for several seconds; a part of him expected her to reopen it and invite him in. When it didn't happen, he stepped back and leaned against the wall in the dimly lit hallway. Swell. Now she was the reserved one. Things were going just great. How the hell were they going to work together in a cave?
Finally, the door opened, and they headed down the hall. She was wearing a tartan skirt and a white, frilly blouse, and her hair was bunched primly on her head with a few strands falling to her shoulders.
"You look... very Scottish this evening," he said as they reached the top of the stairs.
"You look rather dandy yourself, Professor Jones."
"I do?" Indy owned two suit coats, a tweed one, which he wore to most of his lectures, and the navy blue wool coat he now wore with a white shirt and blue tie. He noticed her glance stray to his feet as they reached the stairway. He wore his boots, the only footwear he'd brought along. "I forgot my dress shoes back in the flat."
The shoes he'd found scorpions in, he thought.
"Don't worry about it. You're in Whithorn, not London. No one will notice, and if they do, they won't care." She laughed, a lovely trill, a sound that made him want all the more to break through the barrier separating them. "In fact, they'll probably approve," she added.
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