Glastonbury

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Two weeks earlier Joe Cutler had sat waiting outside the office of Malcolm Capshaw. He'd responded to a phone call three days previously, inviting him to a discussion with the millionaire, one which might lead to his company making a large sum of money and enhance its professional reputation at the same time. Cutler had been unable to resist the invitation, even though Capshaw's secretary had been less than forthcoming about the nature of the job her boss had in mind for Cutler's team.

Now here he was, sitting on a leather sofa in a palatial office in Stratford-on-Avon, with Capshaw's secretary looking over her glasses at him as he fidgeted uncomfortably on the squeaky polished leather. She looked around thirty years old, dressed in a smart, dark blue business suit, her long dark hair tied back professionally. Her shoes were of the highly glossy patent variety and her make-up could have been applied by a professional at a beauty parlour. Cutler found himself wondering if she performed more than secretarial duties for her boss; she looked the type.

The telephone on her desk buzzed and she listened to her boss via an earpiece hidden discreetly behind her left ear.

“Yes, sir, he's here. Of course, Mr. Capshaw, I'll show him in now.”

She rose from behind the desk. She was taller than Cutler had imagined as he'd watched her sitting behind the desk. She stood almost as tall as he was, which he found a little intimidating.

“Mr. Capshaw is ready for you now, Mr. Cutler,” she announced, somehow managing to make Joe's name sound like an insult. She led him through a heavy oak panelled door that led to what appeared to be a sort of air lock, with another identical oak door about five feet further on. Cutler realised this aided in sound-proofing Capshaw's inner sanctum, and also prevented anyone eavesdropping through the door.

The secretary didn't knock at the second door, she simply opened it and ushered Cutler through into the thickly carpeted office of Malcolm Capshaw.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” said the man sitting behind the large desk at the far side of the office. “That will be all for now. Do come in please, Mr. Cutler.”

Charlotte seemed to disappear on silent heels and the door closed equally silently behind her, leaving Cutler alone with Capshaw. The office was huge and Cutler couldn't make out the face of the man behind the desk until he drew nearer. The sunlight brightly glittered through the large plate glass window directly behind his host. As he moved closer he saw that Capshaw was a broad thick set individual, dressed immaculately in a suit that must have cost at least five hundred pounds. Capshaw was clean shaven with a good head of hair, expertly groomed, and Cutler guessed he was probably around fifty years of age. He had the steely, determined look of a man used to getting what he wanted, his eyes were grey and deeply penetrating in their gaze, and Cutler thought it might not be a good idea to cross a man like Malcolm Capshaw.

Capshaw motioned to Cutler to take a seat and immediately proceeded to the matter in hand. He obviously hadn't got where he was in the world by wasting too much time on small talk.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Cutler, one that may prove quite lucrative for you and your company.”

“Can I ask you how you heard about us, Mr. Capshaw?” asked Cutler, always eager to know how word of his professional services passed from one person or client to another.

“That's hardly important, is it, Mr. Cutler? The fact is I researched your credentials and decided that you and your people are the best qualified to do the little task I have in mind for you. Either you want the job or you don't, it's as simple as that.”

“Well yes, of course, Mr. Capshaw. It's just that I don't know anything about the job yet. Your secretary was a little, er, shall we say vague when she called and asked me to meet with you today?”

“Ah yes, good old Charlotte,” said Capshaw with a smile. “Always efficient you know, never says more than she has to in order to get the job done. That's what I like in a woman, or in a man, come to that.”

“Of course, I can agree with those sentiments, Mr. Capshaw. So, the job?”

Without further preamble Capshaw stood up and walked around his desk, gesturing for Cutler to follow him. They walked across the office to a large planning table, which held various papers and what appeared to be a number of large scale maps, all neatly arranged. There was a briefcase at one end of the table and Capshaw swung it around so that the locks faced him, rolled the numbers on the combination locks and then snapped the case open. From its interior, he took hold of and removed a rolled up document that had a yellowed, aged appearance. Cutler didn't need telling that he was about to view something that hadn't just come from a digital printer.

“This, Mr. Cutler, is the reason I asked you here today. This document which recently came into my possession is the clue that will lead us to solving one of history's greatest secrets. Tell me, have you ever been to Glastonbury?”

Cutler narrowed his eyes. “You mean Glastonbury, Somerset, as in rock concerts and such?”

“No, Mr. Cutler. I mean Glastonbury, as in the history of Christianity, the Holy Grail, King Arthur, and such.”

“Oh no, Mr. Capshaw,” Cutler said, shaking his head. “You don't want me to get involved with some improbable and highly unlikely grail quest, do you? If that's what this is all about, I'd rather we didn't waste any more of each other's valuable time. I think you've been reading too many novels and I wouldn't be interested in getting involved in anything like that, not even for the lucrative sum you seem to be hinting at. There's no such thing as the Holy Grail, I'm sure of it. It's just a wonderfully romantic historical fantasy.”

Capshaw pursed his lips. “This is not about the Holy Grail, Mr. Cutler. I'm talking about King Arthur.”

Cutler drew a deep breath. Capshaw might be a millionaire entrepreneur and renowned financial speculator, but he suspected he'd definitely got his sums wrong this time.

“Oh come on, Mr. Capshaw. With all due respect, there's no proof that King Arthur even existed! Just what part of the Arthurian legend do you want me to get involved with? His body was supposedly found centuries ago and as far as I know, that was later proved to be a hoax perpetrated by the monks at Glastonbury Abbey.”

“King Arthur did exist, Mr. Cutler. I'm convinced of it, and this document will help to prove it to you. I can't reveal to you where it came from or how it came into my possession, but a lot of people have died over the years to protect it and the information it holds. I'm a wealthy man as you already know, and the money itself is not of great importance to me. I thought you would appreciate a large cash injection into your business. You're building a very good reputation in your field, Mr. Cutler. Imagine how high your stock would rise amongst your potential clients if you could put on your CV that you were instrumental in leading the team that finally revealed the burial place not of King Arthur himself, but of his great sword, Excalibur!”

Cutler stared at him, incredulous. “Excalibur? You're not serious, surely? That's just so much myth and legend, for sure.”

Capshaw held up a hand. “Give me fifteen minutes, Mr Cutler, that's all I ask. If you're not convinced there's a possibility I might be telling you the truth by then, you can leave my office and we'll forget we ever met. The job will go to one of your competitors and the future success and prosperity of another survey company will be assured as opposed to Strata Surveys.”

Cutler knew he couldn't just walk away without giving Capshaw the chance to state his case. He couldn't take the chance that the man might be right, though everything he knew told Cutler the Arthurian legend was just that, a legend. Still, fifteen minutes wouldn't hurt; after all there was the fee to consider.

“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Capshaw. I'm all ears,” said Cutler, and he bent over the planning table as Capshaw spread the document out before them.

An hour later, Cutler was back outside in the fresh air, walking along the cobbled path that followed the bank of the River Avon. He wondered if William Shakespeare had ever walked along this bank of the river, not on this path of course, which was quite modern. His mind was still refusing to take in everything he'd learned in the last few minutes. The document Capshaw had showed shown him was centuries old. At least, Capshaw said it was, and he was more of an expert on that sort of thing than Cutler was. There was no doubt that it had been written by someone with a grasp of the language of a millennium ago, nor was there any doubting the location described by the map attached to the document. Though the topography of the terrain and the very nature of the land had changed in the last thousand years, Glastonbury was still Glastonbury. If the map and the text were genuine, then there was every chance that the fabled sword used by the presumably mythical King Arthur was buried somewhere near what was today known as Glastonbury Tor, a site that would have been an island many years ago. Was it possible therefore that King Arthur had actually existed? Had the history of the Dark Ages failed to record the accurate story of his rule? Could Glastonbury really have been the Avalon of legend, as many have supposed it to be over the years? Had truth and legend somehow become so intertwined that the reality of those long-ago days had been lost in the swirling mists of time, until the story of Arthur had become just that; a story, with the truth being hidden behind a veil of myth, superstition and legend? Had it all been a cleverly orchestrated deceit by those who had reason to keep the facts of Arthur's life and death a secret from those who followed him?

Suddenly, Joe Cutler found himself asking questions he wouldn't have been capable of formulating a short time ago. Somehow, Capshaw had convinced him that there was a real possibility the sword of King Arthur actually existed. He knew that if he and his team were to find it, and Capshaw kept his promise to ensure it became a national treasure, the publicity would assure his company's future, aside from the sizeable sum Capshaw was offering for the work of locating the artefact.

As for Capshaw, he'd managed to convince Joe he was truly an entrepreneur, and a benevolent one at that. He was a true patriot, and he wanted England to have positive proof of this important part of its heritage. He would make nothing from the find himself, though again, the publicity wouldn't do him any harm. Plus, he would be able to bask in the glory that would attend the fact that he was the man who'd organised and effectively led the team that discovered Excalibur. He'd told Cutler he wanted to see Excalibur behind glass in the British Museum, brightly illuminated so that all could see it, perhaps with his name on a plaque on the case, alongside that of Cutler and his team, of course.

Joe Cutler patted the breast pocket of his jacket, ensuring the envelope containing Capshaw's two-thousand-pound advance was still there. He'd taken the job, for better or worse Capshaw's secretary had handed over the envelope as though she was paying the window cleaner, with a look of disdain on her face. Cutler was, after all, merely the hired help.

To hell with her Cutler thought as he arrived back at the riverside car park where he'd left his rather dirty Toyota pick-up. The stuck up little b***h. Now all I have to do is sell this b****y madcap scheme to the others.