A Gathering of Twine Read online

  “His son and grandson have both vanished. Separately - and about ten years apart I might add - and they had got tangled up in whatever it is that Grandpa Tate is involved in. Stranger still, George Tate is still alive. He’s a hundred-and-eight years old. Doctors can’t explain it. He should have died thirty years ago.

  “The first account is an investigation into George Tate by what was then The British Museum. Tate had been excavating a site in Dorset – Maiden Castle – in the seventies. He uncovered a vast basement and, on the lowest floor, he found huge stone reliefs – steles – on which were carved an ancient legend. What was discovered is not in dispute. It was George’s interpretation of them that was to forever change his life and that of his family.”

  [Maiden Castle Stele 1-9]

  [Text destroyed]

  [Maiden Castle Stele 10-12]

  It was the time before time when the hours were deep in violet, and there were none but the Oils of Namlu. By Her order The Goddess Danu parted [translation contested; fought free of] the Oils and rose, heavy and ripe with the weight of the cosmos.

  By the Words of Power, Danu - The Great Outer Dreamer - parted her legs, and All That Ever Will Be came forth and hung as a bat above Namlu. As Her egg hatched, so Danu bathed in the tide of its river [translation contested; Danu bathed in the dust of life].

  Danu saw that her creation was as She intended, and with her mighty arms Danu drew down the breath of Namlu that all would know her word.

  Plucking out her golden eye Danu created the sun.

  From the dust of her shell, Danu formed the worlds.

  Removing a lung, Danu created the sky and the clouds.

  With her blood, Danu formed the oceans, rivers, and lakes.

  With her nails, Danu created the land and the mountains.

  There in the eternal strata of the tide, Danu fashioned the first womb [translation contested; cave], blessed it with the Land of Sumer, and kept all safe from the Ire of the Canopies.

  CHAPTER 2

  John 1:1-5

  In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.

  All things were made by him,

  In him was life, and the life was the Light of Men.

  And the Light shineth in the Darkness;

  And the Darkness comprehended the Light not.

  My name is Sarah Slack. For most of my working life, I was a secretary and administrator at The British Museum, London. I had not long joined the BM when I was instructed to take the minutes at the disciplinary hearing of Professor Tate.

  Tuesday 3rd April 1979

  Walsh looked at Lawton and raised his silvery eyebrows as if to say What are we supposed to do?

  Lawton ran a hand through his grey hair, looked back at the Chairman and shrugged in response. Damned if I know.

  Both men turned to Thorne. “Don’t look at me,” he said adjusting his dark blazer. “I’ve got no idea.”

  It had been years since there had been a need to investigate a sitting professor in this manner. It had never been known for an employee not to show at their own hearing.

  “Uh, Ms Sindent?” Walsh said to the young Head of Human Resources. “I think the panel could use some guidance.”

  Sindent looked like they felt – awkward. They all were. George Tate knew each and every one of them. They all knew him. Some of them had been his friends for at least twenty years if not more. And now this?

  Sindent began. “Uh, Jerry... sorry, Mr Chairman. I believe that, from a procedural perspective, the hearing should go ahead, and we will treat Professor Tate as being in absentia.”

  Walsh shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that would be entirely… fair,” he said, looking to Lawton and Thorne who both nodded. Walsh turned back to Sindent. “Has anyone tried to telephone him?”

  Sindent’s response was curt. “Mr Chairman, Professor Tate does not have a telephone at his house yet…”

  “Don’t blame him either,” muttered Thorne. “Damned infernal devices always intruding on our privacy.”

  Sindent continued, “… and it is Museum policy to continue a hearing in absentia.”

  Walsh turned to his colleagues. “Lance? Piers?” The two men shrugged. “Very well then. Uh, Ms Slack, could you please record that Professor Tate has not arrived and that the hearing will be held without him. Ah. Ok. Yes. So to read out the allegation?”

  Sindent nodded.

  “Very well. The allegation is that between March Nineteen-Seventy-Three and December Nineteen-Seventy-Eight, Professor Tate, whilst in the employ of The British Museum, did knowingly falsify his results from the excavation of Maiden Castle, Dorset. Further, Professor Tate plagiarised the work of a deceased naval colleague in order to obfuscate his deception.”

  Walsh looked at Sindent, who nodded again.

  “Right. So George isn’t here. Um... we enter Not Guilty on his behalf?”

  Sindent continued nodding.

  “Ms Slack if you could enter that into the minutes. Right. Yes. So, Ms Sindent. Over to you, I believe.”

  Lawton leaned in and whispered. “Jerry, are we really going to do this?”

  Walsh looked back at him blankly. “What else can we do? There’s been an allegation. You know the drill. It’s not like it was before.”

  Lawton’s voice came as a hiss. “But it’s George.”

  Thorne leaned over. “His reputation or ours? The Museum’s?”

  Lawton sat back in silence.

  They all knew what he meant. For too long the highest standards of research had been slipping. Each case on its own had been nothing. A misquote here. A slanted view there. But it had all been small steps over thirty-odd years, culminating in the Cowell case. Dr Cowell claimed that the nomadic tribes of Siberia had been using advanced metals for nearly a century. Under scrutiny, the metals were modern and made with present-day techniques. The Museum dealt with these matters in the way they always had. Cowell had the decency to quietly resign – and not force a charade like this one - and in return, he had got to keep his pension. The problem was that in Cowell’s case, his ‘misunderstanding’ had not come to light until after a number of papers had been submitted to leading journals. By industry standards, the furore had been intense, although it had not made it through to the mainstream media. After that, The Museum instigated a zero-tolerance policy to any questionable research, be it unintended or otherwise.

  “Sorry Ms Sindent. You may continue,” said Walsh. And please let this be quick and painless, he thought.

  “Thank you, Mr Chairman. I would like to bring Dr Lincoln in.” Walsh nodded his approval. Sindent crossed the room and opened the door. “Mike? Come in please.”

  Mike Lincoln entered. Despite his relative youth, compared to that of the panel, his gaunt stature accentuated the fine lines around his eyes and his hair was beginning to lighten at the temples. In his nervousness, he seemed older than his years. He rubbed his fingers together, caught himself, and made a conscious effort to stop fidgeting.

  “Dr Lincoln, when did you first meet Professor...?”

  Lawton’s sense of frustration rose again. “Oh for heaven’s sake! There is no need to go into the tiniest of details! We all know the man! We know his track record!”

  Walsh turned and looked at his colleague coldly.

  Lawton met his gaze. “What? Jerry come on, this is just drawing out the inevitable. None of us wants to be here. None of us want to have to do this. Just ask Mike about that damned book and let’s get this over and done with!”

  Walsh agreed with him. But the procedure was the procedure. He looked to Sindent, who stared back impassively. Fine! He thought.

  “Mike. Do you mind if we do this quickly and informally?”

  “No Jerry... uh, Mr Chairman... uh...”

  Walsh held up a hand in a bid to relax the man. He never stood on ceremony and did not see why anyone else should. “Mike. Whose idea was it to dig at Maiden Castle?”

  “George’s... Professor Tate. He had been looking at s
ome unusual archaeological finds in the area for quite a few years and thought that the castle might have been a focal point or a hub. Like a regional capital.”

  “What unusual finds?” Walsh continued, making notes. Sindent sat down, clearly feeling redundant. Walsh did not care. He could not stand the blasted woman anyway. No one could. She was all sweetness with her pale complexion and shoulder length black hair, but her attitude... she could be poisonous whilst saying the nicest things. And the way she clicked her fingers.... urgh! Walsh just wanted this done and to be away from that wretched creature as quickly as possible.

  Lincoln was still answering. “…and pottery mostly. A bit of jewellery too. It was the mix of styles and designs, though. There was very little consistency. It didn’t match what we thought we knew.”

  Walsh looked up from his pad. “The dig began in seventy-three?”

  Lincoln nodded and swallowed nervously. He could feel sweat prickling and beading on his back.

  Walsh continued. “Finished last year?”

  “Uh no. Well yes. The... the funding cycle was over, but there was more to excavate. George... Professor Tate was trying to secure more money when...”

  “When he was suspended?” Walsh finished, and Lincoln nodded again. “The funding was a mix of the Museum and a grant from...” Walsh rifled through some papers. “Ah. Accipiter?” Turning to Lawton and then Thorne again, he said, “Rings a bell. One of ours?”

  Thorne shrugged. “Never heard of it. Could be a side order. There are so many of them these days.”

  “Sounds like it,” Lawton agreed. “What’s the address... ah, Great Queen Street. Yup. Definitely one of ours.”

  “Mr Chairman?” Sindent had risen from her chair with an enquiring look.

  Damn! Thought Walsh. He really didn’t want to have to drag The Craft into this as well. “Yes, Ms Sindent?”

  “Accipiter?”

  “Yes. Uh... it’s a charity. Run by former members of staff. Helps out with funding and whatnot if... if the paperwork gets jammed up and the boys need to crack on.” Strictly speaking, it was not a lie. Probably. Most of the faculty were Masons.

  Sindent sat back down.

  Walsh looked to Lincoln. “Right. So you finished up last year. What had you found?”

  Lincoln rubbed his sweating palms on his thighs. “Uh. Well, there were quite a few burial tombs. Some of them had a few interesting artifacts. Religious relics and some weaponry. Amulets and the like. But the biggest thing was the fogou...”

  “The basement?”

  “Yes. It was the biggest ever found. Not just in size but in ratio to the rest of the site. And it had levels. Three in total. Every other fogou... err, basement, we have seen has only one.”

  Walsh jotted the reply down. “And it was on the lowest level that the steles were discovered?”

  Lincoln fidgeted again. “Yes. Most of them were well preserved. There was a little damage here and there. Water and damp mostly. Particularly on the first and last and...”

  Walsh was not interested in the finer points of detail. “What was your opinion of them, Mike?”

  Lincoln could not believe his view was being sought. “My opinion?”

  “Yes. What did you make of them?”

  “Well… They were incredible. Extraordinary. I don’t think anyone has ever...”

  Walsh began to make notes again. “Why?” he said without looking up.

  “Why? I don’t under...”

  “Mike. Why were they extraordinary?”

  “Well, they were so well preserved. And the script…. I’m not an expert on linguistics – I was focussing on the burial mounds outside – but from what George... Professor Tate showed me… the steles were inscribed in an archaic language that seemed to be some mix of ancient Germanic, forgotten Cornish, and an obscure Neolithic Irish dialect.”

  All three panel members stopped writing and looked at Lincoln.

  Walsh knew a great deal about ancient scripts, but a blend like Lincoln had described was next to unheard of. Rosetta maybe. But nothing in England. “Mike?”

  Lincoln smiled weakly. “I... I’m not an expert. But that’s what it looked like. But…you know, you should ask some of the other guys. They are really hot on this stuff.”

  Lawton turned to Walsh and kept his voice low. “Have we got any preliminary reports on this?”

  Walsh took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All in here,” he said patting a bulging file. “It’ll be in yours too.”

  Lawton’s voice was nearly a whisper. “Have you read it?”

  “Have you?” There was an awkward silence.

  “So none of us has,” Thorne interjected.

  Walsh snapped. “Lance! This is George’s work for chrissakes!”

  Thorne held his hands up, sat back, and said nothing more. They had all trusted George implicitly. He just had that air about him.

  “We know,” said Lawton, putting one hand on Walsh’s arm. “But this is important. We’ve long thought that there was more trade going on in the South West. This site could prove it.”

  Walsh exhaled. “Ok. Sorry,” he said turning to Thorne, who nodded an acceptance. “Mike,” he continued, “what do you know about the translation of the steles?”

  “Uh... not much. George didn’t discuss it with me that often. He hardly discussed it with anyone, to be honest. I was outside most of the time – on the burial site. Mr Tuther was leading the basement dig. And George shared a lot with Sam… Dr Cotrahens. He thought there was some cuneiform aspect to the inscriptions.”

  Walsh thought about what Lincoln had said – about not having read the file - and began flicking through some papers. “Uh, Mike? I’ve got Sam Cotrahens’ details here. But who is this Tuther?”

  Lincoln felt his stomach knot tighter. “I... I... Mr Tuther worked on the dig.” The panel’s faces remained blank. “He and George were already a team when I joined the Museum.”

  Walsh looked at his colleagues. “Do you know this fellow?”

  Lawton shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Nor me. I can’t see his name in any of the reports,” said Thorne who was similarly flicking through the overflowing file.

  Walsh turned to the Head of HR. “Ms Sindent? If you please. Who is Mr Tuther?”

  Sindent stood. “Mr Chairman, we have no record of Mr Tuther ever having been an employee of The Museum.”

  Walsh felt his irritation rising again. “Well, have you checked?”

  Sindent reddened. “Yes, Mr Chairman. I checked when I received Mike’s witness statement. No record at all,” she said, trying to keep an even voice.

  “Have you checked the contractors register?”

  “Yes, Mr Chairman.”

  Walsh looked for help from his two colleagues. They just looked back at him and shook their heads. This case was becoming murkier.

  Walsh turned back to Lincoln. “Mike? You’re sure it was Tuther. Not anything else?”

  “S... s... sure as I can be.” Lincoln thought he was going to wet himself and wished he had gone to the toilet before he was called in.

  Walsh looked through some of the papers on the desk in front of him. “Mike, when did you join us?”

  “Err... fifty-eight.”

  “And George and this Tuther were already a team?”

  Lincoln rubbed his sweating hands on his trousers. “Yes.”

  How does a complete stranger work for us for more than twenty years, and no-one asks any questions? Thought Walsh. He knew the answer of course. George had this... knack. You just trusted everything he said.

  Walsh sighed. This was not looking good. “Right. Let’s park the issue of this Tuther for the time being. Mike, did you have anything to do with the translation of these steles?”

  “N... n... no. I just read over George’s notes.”

  “And did he ever mention this other book. ‘The Nine Trials of Greine’?”

  “No.”

  “What about its
author... oh what’s his name. Latter. There we go. James Latter.”

  “Yes... once or twice.”

  The panel members all stopped writing again and looked at Lincoln.

  Lincoln felt he should continue. “I think he served with him.”

  The panel continued staring at him.

  “In the war... George was with him when he died... On the ship... When George caught a blighty one.”

  “Mike,” said Walsh in a low voice, “I want you to think very carefully. What did George say about James Latter?”

  “Uh... not much. We all swapped stories…you know… at night. George’s boat got hit by the Germans. Torpedoed in the North Atlantic. Four or five died, I think. The rest got rescued, and the ship went down. George had shrapnel in his legs and he got brought home. They operated on him but he had to sit out the rest of the war. Latter was one of the dead. I think George knew him for maybe a few months...”

  “When was this?”

  “I... I don’t know. Forty-two? Maybe forty-three?”

  “And this was the same Latter who wrote this ‘The Nine Trials of Greine’?”

  “I... I... I don’t know. It could be. Might be another James Latter. I... I really don’t know.”

  “Right,” Walsh sighed. “That’s all from me. Lance? Piers?” The two men shook their head. “Ms Sindent?”

  “Nothing from me Mr Chairman.”

  “Thanks for your help Mike.” Walsh checked the clock. “Half-ten. Shall we break for tea? Mike, can you hang around in case we need to talk some more? We’ve got Sam next.”

  *

  [Maiden Castle Stele 13-15]

  Danu heard the lamentation of the land, which was lonely without a shepherd. Danu went to a cedar forest and there found a young strong tree. Calling the eagle from the sky, Danu bound the bird to the cedar by the mutual blessings [translation contested; imprecations] of Samūm. Next, she called the doe and likewise bound it to the tree. Finally, Danu called the salmon from the river and this too was bound to the tree.