A Gathering of Twine Page 9

  “Why don’t you just get reinforcements?” cried Tate. A few minutes were not going to be enough to get out, and he knew it. Maybe to get back to the mouth of the tunnel that brought them in, but not to get outside.

  “Mr Tate. That... thing over there. There is something growing inside of it. Same for all those other chambers. That creature you saw on the hill? I think that was a premature birth, but it survived. That means that there is a good chance that these are all near enough to term. If we came back, even in a few hours, this lot may have already hatched. And I cannot take that chance.”

  Tate wanted to argue with him. To tell him what the loss of these inscriptions would mean to the world. That he had no way of really knowing what was in those sacs. That they might not be hatched by the time they came back. But he knew it was futile, and the dull ache in his ribs reminded him well enough to hold his tongue.

  Instead, he just nodded.

  The scuttling sound came again and from more than one place this time.

  “We need to get going,” Price said, eyeing the cavern roof.

  Tuther started to lay out the fuse, and the other three began to retreat to the rear of the cave. Tate tried to guess how far they had come. A few hundred yards in that tunnel. Maybe the same again in the cavern. Tuther had given Price the torch, and Tate could see it bobbing ahead of him as they quickly traced their way back.

  A deep moan pierced the silence of the cavern, reverberating around the chamber until it was filled with the ominous howl. All four men froze, and turned towards the giant purple sack. The cry came again, sharper this time, like a primitive animal in labour, but with the depth and resonance of a stag. The sac jerked sharply to the left and, for a split second, Tate saw the outline of a monstrous humanoid form pressed against the thick muscular walls of the makeshift womb.

  Tuther cut the length of fuse, lit what was on the ground, and broke into a run, barrelling past Tate.

  “Come on man!”

  Tate turned and followed Tuther, his legs working like pistons. They arrived almost simultaneously at the tunnel entrance. Price met them there.

  “Where’s the boy?” Tate asked.

  “I’ve sent him up. You’re next. Go!”

  Tate scrambled in. He could feel the rope underneath him. Pulling with his hands and scrambling with his feet he made his way up. Just ahead he could see King. A loud, wet slopping splash from the cavern below made him stop. It’s out! He thought. The waters have broken.

  “Move it!” It was Tuther. Right behind him. Price must be bringing up the rear.

  Quickly scrabbling Tate began his ascent with a renewed urgency. His breathing became laboured and his arms ached. Sweat began to bead on his brow and his neck, and he still could not catch his breath in the warm dust filled air. Tate felt the tunnel twist slightly as it had done before. His ears popped and felt the air becoming cooler. Behind him, he heard a soft wumph. And then another. As if by reflex, he felt another jolt of adrenaline enter his system.

  The charges are blowing!

  And then an almighty explosion. Hot air began to rush up from beneath, and he scrambled as hard as he could as he felt the tunnel shake around him. Tate fell out of the tunnel entrance, coughing and choking. But there was no daylight, just the cool night air around him.

  He heard a scrabbling behind him, and could just make out the shape of Tuther. Still nursing his ribs, Tate gingerly bent down to help the man up.

  “Pull me out!” Tuther moaned. “My legs are caught.”

  The shape of King joined Tate as they pulled on Tuther.

  “Caught on what?” said Tate, as they brought out the dusty form of their enigmatic leader.

  Tuther was silent for a moment, his laboured breathing the only sound to be heard.

  “Tunnel… collapsed.”

  King and Tate looked at each other helplessly.

  It was Tate who spoke first. “How far behind you was Mr Price?”

  Tuther shrugged and shook his head, still gasping for breath. “Didn’t hear him…in the tunnel.”

  In the gloom, the silhouettes of Tate and King looked at Tuther in silence. Only their heaving wracking breath filled the night air and each knew the officer’s fate.

  “What now?” Tate asked eventually.

  Tuther looked up, dust and dirt and muck streaking his face. “Now Mr Tate, we are going get this young man home. And then you and I need to have a drink.”

  As the three men set off down the hill, back towards the village, the sound of their own footsteps masked the quiet padding that came out of the forest.

  A black-clad gaunt figure stepped forward from the shelter of the trees, dragging with him the lifeless body of the creature they had all seen earlier. Laying it down on the ground, he shouldered a rifle and took careful aim at the retreating figures.

  Another stepped out of the dark and gently put his hand on the barrel, forcing it down. A third joined them. To a casual observer, the three were nearly identical. Triplets possibly. Tall, thin, with shoulder-length black hair, and hawkish features. Their impossibly pale complexion suggested a certain other-worldliness that sages had written about in antiquity.

  The hairs on the back of King’s neck prickled and he half turned.

  “I would keep walking if I were you Mr King,” said Tuther.

  “But I thought I saw a man... maybe men. At the edge of the forest.”

  “I know you did son. But believe me when I say that this is not the time for that fight and they are most certainly not men.”

  *

  “That’s it?” asked Danielle incredulously.

  Freeman shrugged. “The files were only recently declassified. Dennis King arrived at what was then RAF Leuchars nearly four days after he disappeared, without Tuther or Tate. He told his story. All of it. A search party went out for Price, but there was no sign of him. Neither the burrow nor the caverns were ever found. King was formally reprimanded and Price was declared absent without leave. He was never seen or heard from again.”

  “But what about the creature on the hill? All of those cadets must have provided statements.”

  “Oh, they did. For all the good they were. Some said it was a tramp. Others that it was a monkey or a gorilla. One boy actually swore that it was a werewolf, brought out by the eclipse.”

  Danielle could tell that the old man was holding something back. “Do you have any idea what it was?”

  It amused Freeman that he was so transparent to his publisher. “I do. I think that whatever that beast was… it was the same thing that King saw as they left that cave.”

  “The three men?”

  Freeman nodded. “I think that grotto, or whatever you want to call it, was some sort of hatchery, and the figures that King saw were its guardians. The steles that Tate translated refer to The Raven Men that serve the Goddess.”

  Danielle smiled. “That’s a heck of a leap. I’m not buying that on the basis of this one story and besides, there is no evidence.”

  Freeman shrugged. “Fair enough. But later will come more accounts that will corroborate what I’m telling you. And you are wrong about there being no evidence. Traces of the gooey substance were recovered, but tests were inconclusive. The scientific techniques of the time were primitive compared to today. All they revealed was that it was some mix of amniotic fluid and unidentified oil.”

  Danielle could almost see another clue. “Did they keep any samples? Perhaps it could be retested...”

  “Some were kept at the time. But over the decades they have been lost.”

  “So I was right - there is no evidence, only this cadet’s testimony to what happened. We don’t know if it was even Tuther and Tate there. He could have made it all up.”

  “I interviewed him myself. That cadet went on to be one of the most highly decorated Air Commodores in RAF history. And we know from Tate’s bank statements that he was in Falkland at the time. The man was obsessive about his personal administration.”

  Danielle�
�s eyes narrowed. “How did you get his bank statements?”

  “The investigation by the British Museum was not the first time that Tate’s credibility was called into question. He was questioned in seventy-five on suspicion of wasting police time, and as part of that they did a trawl of his life. When his son, and then his grandson, disappeared, it was all raked over again.”

  Danielle started forward. “Wasting police time? By doing what?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wodiah 3:8-12

  God saw the bounty of His Kingdom

  And decreed that the Ravens shall bring Him all Thought and Memory,

  So it was that the Ravens rode the heavens on the Skyworms of olde,

  That they may shepherd the beasts of clay.

  My name is Harold Gordon. In 1975 I was a pathologist for Dorset County Hospital and assisted the local police with the investigation of three alleged skeletons discovered at Maiden Castle.

  Monday 8th September 1975

  Tate and Lincoln stamped their feet in the cold of the autumn morning. The first frost had come, but it was more than the unseasonable cold that chilled them. Tucking their hands underneath their armpits, their breath hung in the air like miniature steam trains that had taken a bizarre wrong turn into this strange field in Dorset. Neither man said anything. They knew that they had done everything by the book, but this investigation was taking far longer than they had expected.

  Dawn’s early light was bravely trying to burn off the blanket of low cloud, and the two men eyed the police portacabin that sat at the side of the field. They should be able to hear the familiar sounds of their colleagues excavating the Maiden Castle site. But all activity in the field was frozen, like a glacier waiting for the inevitable sunrise.

  Occasional noises could be heard from the Scenes of Crime tent, as though this temporary structure was mocking the impotence of history; that all ruins must fall to dust no matter how grand, whilst the new looked on. The grassy slopes that would have once formed the foundation of the castle remained silent, as if this modern science was not worthy of retort.

  A figure in an all-in-one plastic white suit emerged from the tent, carrying a bag that bore the word “evidence”. Tate and Lincoln had seen many of these come out and each one was like a razor blade being run against their heart. Who knew what valuable archaeology each bag contained? Or where it was being stored? If it was being stored.

  Lincoln turned his back on the sight, feeling sick.

  They had both been interviewed separately. All the staff had. Several times. The same questions over and over and over again. Who had access to the site? Had they seen anyone acting suspiciously?

  The door to the police portacabin swung open, like a bad prop in a Hammer film, and the imposing figure of Sergeant Coombes emerged followed by Doctor Gordon. They had met the pathologist the previous day, but he had not said anything to them.

  “Mr Lincoln. Mr Tate. Come in please.” The men followed the Sergeant into the portacabin, and the pathologist joined them.

  This would be the first time they were interviewed together. Tate thought that the police had stopped doing this many years ago, but did not say anything. It was warmer in the cabin, and both men were thankful for it, although it was the dry heat that came from overused electrical heaters. Lincoln instantly felt thirsty but the Sergeant did not offer any refreshment.

  “Mr Lincoln,” the Sergeant said, sitting down, “tell me again your version of events.”

  This would be what? His sixth? Maybe seventh time? Lincoln sighed. “I was excavating what we thought were the outer walls of burial tombs in the grounds of the castle. I uncovered a fragment of bone that looked like a human jaw. I sent Lana Collins to fetch George here, whilst I secured the area. George arrived. He agreed with me that it looked human, and went to call you.”

  The Officer’s tone was blunt and direct. “Did you leave the area?”

  “Not until your colleagues arrived. I had one of my team – Pete Homer – tape off the area where I was working.”

  “Was the ground disturbed?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Lincoln looked up from the table and straight into Coombes' eyes. “Because I was the one excavating it. I was the one doing the disturbing.” His frustration was beginning to show.

  Tate put his hand on Lincoln’s arm. “I apologise for my colleague Sergeant...”

  “Apologise for what?” exploded Lincoln. “We’ve been here three days now. We found skeletons around a burial ground. We called you,” he said looking at the Sergeant. “Why are we still here?”

  Coombes remained impassive. “And you Mr Tate. You surveyed the site prior to the excavation beginning?”

  “Yes. We began works in the early part of last year. I surveyed the site six years before that as part of the dig request. I have telephoned London to ask them to send the files and photographs to you.”

  “Why so long between the dig request and works beginning?” Coombes asked, feigning disinterest as he made notes.

  “That’s a standard length of time to get permission and then funding.”

  “And is funding an issue?”

  Tate looked at Lincoln. This was new. “Funding is always an issue Sergeant. There are any number of projects competing for a finite pot. Not all get backed.”

  “And what helps a project get backed?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What helps get one dig selected whilst another is rejected?”

  “Well, it is any number of things really. Perceived likelihood of success – something being found. Public interest. Profile of those involved. The possible number of papers that might be written...”

  “So it’s competitive?”

  “Yes, I guess you could say that,” said Tate.

  “Look,” said Lincoln leaning forward. “Can you tell us what this is all about?”

  Coombes looked to Gordon and shrugged.

  “Gentlemen,” Gordon began, “you did not find human remains.”

  Lincoln frowned. “Are you sure? I’m not an expert, but I thought it looked human.”

  “Very sure.”

  “So what was it?” Tate asked, a little too quickly for Coombes’ liking.

  “We were hoping you would tell us.”

  “We don’t know,” Tate replied.

  Coombes and Gordon exchanged glances again. “Gentlemen, is there anything you want to tell us?”

  “How do you mean?” Tate said.

  “Maybe a little joke that has gone too far? A little publicity stunt perhaps?”

  It was Tate and Lincoln’s turn to exchange glances. “Err... I... We... don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tate replied.

  Gordon slid a photograph over to Lincoln. It showed a recently dug square about four feet deep, at the bottom of which were three skeletons, one seemingly to be laying on top of the other, the third to the side.

  Lincoln, still frowning, said, “They look human.”

  “Uh huh,” Gordon replied, arms crossed.

  “But they’re not?” Tate asked, examining the photo.

  “No Professor, they are not.”

  “What are they? Neanderthal? Look a bit tall for Neanderthal.”

  Gordon sighed. “They’re fakes.”

  Tate and Lincoln looked up from the photo, startled.

  “What?” Tate exclaimed.

  “I’ve had them back to my lab, and these are not real. They’re a hoax.”

  Lincoln could feel the colour draining from his face. He remembered Piltdown; that story had broken just as he had started university. The scandal had been toxic. So many people associated with that whole affair had never worked again. He felt sick.

  Coombes noted that Tate seemed more composed.

  “How do you mean they’re a hoax?” the professor asked.

  Gordon sighed again. “Do you really mean to pursue this line?”

  “Doctor, I assure you that I have nothing to
do with this whatsoever, and I would be jolly surprised if any of my team did. Now, how do you know these bones aren’t real?”

  Gordon leaned forward, drawing a sketch on a piece of paper for Tate. “Our first indications were the limbs themselves – overly long you see. I thought it was a case of Marfan’s Syndrome. Then there are the shoulder blades, which were not just longer but also thicker than we would normally expect, by about thirty percent. We thought we were dealing with members of the same family with some congenital disfiguration. However, when we began to examine them more closely, we realised that this was more than disfigurement. When bones grow in infants and young adults, they inevitably reach a piece of cartilage known as the Epiphyseal Plate, where they stop. Once puberty is completed, the cartilage is replaced by bone, leaving a fuse line. These bones you found have no fuse points. They did not grow. They were made.” Gordon looked for a reaction from Tate, but there was none. “Don’t misunderstand me, Professor, these are very good fakes. There are excellent approximations of canaliculi and cortical bone. When we cut the bones open, we would have expected to see a honeycombed centre where the marrow had been. These bones had a network of vessels that were perfectly cylindrical, all the way through. The way the calcium was layered is all wrong. In this case, it has just been applied in a single coating. Unless you’ve discovered a new evolutionary branch...”

  “What if we have?” Tate interrupted.

  Gordon thought for a moment. “Is that likely Professor?”

  “You tell me.”

  Gordon sat back. “No,” he said.

  “What about DNA extraction?”

  “What?”

  “Could DNA extraction prove these were living men?”

  “Now, Professor. I don’t know what journals you’ve been reading, but DNA extraction is a new and highly experimental technology. There is no facility in the UK, and to my knowledge only one in Europe that could run such a test; in Belgium, I think. In my opinion, this is not the skeleton of any living...”