Summary : Oxford, England, 1940. After their triumph over the Dahak cult, Melinda Pappas and Janice Covington are working as academics when they receive a surprise assignment from British Intelligence. The mission sends them in search of a legendary artifact with the potential to shift the war in favour of Great Britain… or her enemies, if they find it first.
Disclaimers
Ownership : I don't own Xena, Gabrielle, Mel, Janice or the other familiar names. They are property of Universal/Renaissance Pictures. This is just for fun and I receive no monetary gain.
Sex : Nothing explicit, but I believe our gals are a couple and so were their ancestors and this is reflected in the story.
Violence : Yes, nothing more than you'd see in the show.
Bad language : Yeah, a little.
Historical and geographical note : The story is set in Britain in July – September 1940. References are made throughout to a number of actual events during the period. I have brought forward one of these by a couple of weeks in order to make the narrative work. As for geography – all Oxford and London locations are pretty accurate, I can't swear by some of the others.
Sequel alert : This is a sequel to Keep Calm and Battle On and the narrative makes occasional references to the events in that fic. It is however a standalone story and you do not have to have read the earlier tale in order to follow it.
Feedback : Yes please. Very gratefully received to quillbard73@yahoo.co.uk
CHAPTER ONE
The closing jingle signifying the end of the evening's big band broadcast crackled from the wireless. Melinda Pappas sighed and chewed her pen as she puzzled over the day's Times crossword. She'd been working on it off and on since picking up the paper earlier in the day, but the grid was less than a third completed. “Face it Melinda,” she muttered to herself. “This one is just too hard for you. Stick to the Daily Telegraph .”
She stood and surveyed the parlour of her new home. It was small and a little drab, but Mel had worked to add a few personal touches. A watercolour of Christchurch meadow she'd picked up at a flea market. A map of Ancient Greece donated by a retiring Classics don. A photograph of Janice taken years ago at a dig outside of Rome, which had fallen out of the archaeologist's kitbag when they were unpacking, and which Mel had decided to have framed despite her partner's protestations.
Overall Mel declared herself pretty satisfied with the accommodation, which Edward Bolton, the Americans' contact at the Ministry of War, had pulled a number of strings to acquire for them. It was a two up, two down workman's cottage in the Jericho area of Oxford. A short walk or bicycle ride into the centre of town and to Somerville College, which had agreed to keep both women on its academic staff for as long as was necessary. Unlike some of the neighbouring properties, the house boasted fully indoor plumbing, for which Mel gave silent thanks each day. From his base at St John's College, Bolton had even arranged for a local washerwoman to collect laundry and to carry out a weekly clean of the property.
Mel loved Oxford: the gorgeous buildings, the often eccentric people and the easy access to reference material on every subject on Earth. She spent her days studying in the libraries, debating with other scholars and, of course, working on her analysis of the ancient scrolls she and Janice had discovered in Macedonia and in England. It felt a world away from the war that was raging in Europe.
Mel knew, of course, that this was only a temporary respite. She and Janice had agreed to stay in England in order to bring their skills and experience to help the country's war effort. She also knew that her partner was already chafing at the day to day tedium of Oxford life, and was itching to be off on a mission of some description. Mel sighed to herself. She wanted adventure too but part of her had hoped for a little longer to settle into her new life. Glancing across at the piece of folded paper on a nearby bookshelf, she suspected that hope was about to be dashed.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an engine, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief. The motor cut out and a moment later she heard the rattle of the back door latch.
“Anyone home?” The familiar sound of Dr Janice Covington's voice echoed gruffly in the kitchen.
“Oh Jan, you've been gone for ages, I was getting a little concerned.” Mel entered the small kitchen just in time to see the archaeologist dump a canvas sack and her shotgun on the table. “Decent hunting?”
“Hold on.” Hands newly freed up, Janice was fiddling with her motorcycle helmet in an attempt to remove it. “Damned thing. Can't I just wear the fedora?”
“It's safer, Jan. You know what the country roads are like round here.” Mel leaned in and helped unfasten the chin strap.
“Hmmph. Well, I guess the goggles help with the insects at least.” Finally free of the headgear, Janice shook out her blonde tresses and reached for the sack. “Anyway, sorry that took longer than expected, but I had a good run with the critters.” She pulled out a couple of rabbits. “Bunnies again, but also something a bit more interesting…”
Mel looked with interest at the brightly feathered dead birds in her partner's hand. “Pheasants?”
“Yep. They were just there, wandering by a hedgerow.” Janice shook her head. “Such dumb birds. Anyway, I've no idea what we do with them. We can try and figure it out tomorrow.”
Janice's hunting trips took place at least once a week. Rationing meant pitiful portions of protein, often in the form of quite unpleasant cuts of meat. In common with many other British residents, the two women had taken to supplementing their diet with a little game, usually, although not always, rabbit. Janice had nagged Bolton into recovering the motorbike they had abandoned near Stonehenge just prior to the fatal confrontation with the Dahak cult and its leader, and access to private transport made it so much easier for her to find suitable hunting grounds outside of the city. The shotgun she'd acquired from a country pursuits shop on Turl Street.
Mel put the bag and its contents in the cold shelf of the pantry before turning back to her friend. “Well, while you were out I took a little wander over to the college to see if we had any mail.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. And look what I found in my pigeon hole. Yours too, I guess he didn't want to take a chance we'd miss it.”
Janice unfolded the piece of paper she had been handed. “Bolton! Wants to meet us tonight?”
“Eagle & Child, in 20 minutes. We'd better get a move on.”
“Got it.” Janice was already heading out the door, picking up her fedora on the way. “About time he found something for us to do.”
*
The Americans reached St Giles a short time later. It was a beautiful summer's evening, with the last of the sun's rays bathing the whole of central Oxford in a warm glow. It felt peaceful and timeless and it seemed hard to believe that the country was at war.
But at war they were, and each day brought further troubling developments. The Luftwaffe was attacking shipping in the English Channel and there had been a number of raids on coastal towns. Mel looked up at the buildings around them, imagining the destruction that bombers would bring, and let out an involuntary shiver.
Putting the thought to the back of her mind, she focused on the evening ahead. She was glad that Bolton had chosen the meeting place he had. Certainly, it was convenient for his base across the road at St John's College, but aside from that both women had grown fond of the traditional pub and its academic patrons. In particular, a group of dons met weekday lunchtimes to discuss ideas for potential novels, and would from time to time invite the Americans to join. Janice took delight in slyly dropping in storylines from the scrolls, although she suspected they would be considered too outlandish even for the imaginative fiction set in fantasy worlds that the dons seemed to have in mind.
They arrived at the pub to find Bolton already ensconced at a corner table at the back. Janice purchased their drinks before walking over, trying without complete success to conceal her excitement.
Bolton stood to greet his visitors. “Dr Covington. Miss Pappas. I trust you are both keeping well?”
“Oh yes, Mr Bolton. We're settling in nicely.” Mel settled into her seat and took a sip of her drink. “The house is lovely. Thank you so much for arranging it for us.”
“Glad to hear it. Your studies keeping you both busy, then?”
Janice took a long pull from her beer before speaking. “Well, kinda. It's quiet here over the summer though, with all the students gone.”
Bolton nodded. “It is, that's true. Things should pick up in a couple of months. I heard Somerville was planning to have both of you give tutorials?”
“That's right!” Mel sounded excited. “And I'm working on a series of lectures on the development of alphabet in the Fertile Crescent.”
Janice sat back in her chair and let the small talk wash over her. After a suitable period, she decided to move the conversation on to more pressing matters. “So, Mr Bolton. Is this just a social meeting, or did you maybe have a new task for us?”
Bolton gave a short laugh. “No beating about the bush with you, is there.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice a little. “You're quite right, of course. But what I'm looking for at this point is information.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “Do you still have any of your old contacts, Dr Covington?”
Janice looked puzzled. “Contacts? In the States, or Europe, or what?”
“Old contacts.” Bolton looked awkward. “You know. From your… slightly less reputable archaeological days.”
“Ah, right. My grave robbing past.” Janice rolled her eyes. “Look, Mr Bolton. I've told you before. That was quite a while ago. I'm a respectable academic and occasional employee of His Majesty's Government, these days.” Seeing Bolton about to protest, she held up a hand. “But yeah. I've still got a few contacts. What do you need to know?”
Relief flooded Bolton's face. “That's just what I was hoping to hear, Dr Covington.” He dropped his voice again. “We're hearing rumours of excitement in the – shadier – side of the antiquities trade about an artifact of some kind. Stories that somebody is prepared to pay extraordinary sums for this item.”
“What sort of item?” Mel asked.
Bolton spread his hands on the table. “That's just the problem, Miss Pappas. We don't know. We've got rumours and lots of crazy theories. That's the extent of it for now.” He turned to Janice. “We were hoping you could do a bit of informal investigation, Dr Covington. It may be that there's nothing in it at all.”
Janice nodded and drained what was left of her beer. “Okay. I've got a contact who should have his ear to the ground when it comes to anything like this. I'll take a trip down to London tomorrow and see what he knows.”
Bolton looked delighted. “Wonderful. Shall we meet here again tomorrow?”
“Wait,” Mel interjected. “I've got a better idea. Why don't you come over tomorrow and have dinner with us?”
“Well! That's very kind.” Bolton looked pleased, if a little taken aback, by the invite. “I'd be delighted. I'll call round about 7.30 if that is agreeable. I'm sure I can find a bottle of some half decent red in St John's cellars.”
Janice winked at him. “Make it a couple of bottles, huh, Mr B? Let's make a night of it.” She stood. “Anyway, my round!”
*
A couple of rounds later, the Americans had said their goodbyes to Bolton and were making their way home hand in hand through the darkened streets. Mel decided to give voice to the question she'd been wanting to ask all evening. “This contact of yours, Jan. Tell me about him!”
“Well,” Janice began before cursing as she almost tripped on a broken paving stone, “He's called Smiler. I knew him years ago, when my dad and I were spending quite a bit of time on various digs in Greece. He ran a little bar in Athens aimed at tourists and expats. Ya know, somewhere you could go and order a familiar drink from people who speak English.”
“Smiler!” Mel exclaimed. “He sounds like a real gangster! Like something in Chicago in the 20s. Oh Jan, this sounds dangerous.”
“Relax, honey. Smiler's real name is George Johnstone. He's actually English, although he grew up in the States. And he's the least dangerous person you're ever likely to meet. He'll be thrilled you thought he was scary, though.” Janice paused before continuing. “The bar's not all he did. Had a little business on the side, acquiring antiquities from archaeologists who maybe hadn't gone through quite the right channels. Finding buyers who weren't all that worried about provenance.”
“Business associate of yours, then?” Mel did her best to keep the note of disapproval from her voice but did not quite succeed.
Janice indicated her assent. “Well, I did have a few decent nights in his bar, but yeah, he was my fence at that time. Managed to offload a coupla pieces round about '35. Anyway, the Greek authorities started sniffing around and Smiler got nervous. He sold up and moved back to London. Opened a little antiques shop in Bloomsbury. Think he does alright. He's still got a bit of a reputation for shady dealings though. If there's something dodgy going on, he'll know about it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Janice gazed out the train window and stifled a yawn. It was ten am and she'd already been up for hours, helping Mel prepare the previous night's hunting haul for the planned dinner with Bolton. Neither woman was a natural in the kitchen, and the plucking of the pheasants had proved particularly troublesome. Leaning back in her seat, she wondered what this latest assignment was all about. The story about the mysterious artifact sounded extraordinarily vague, and she suspected it may turn out to be a wild goose chase. Still, she told herself, it would be good to catch up with Smiler after all this time.
A short while later the train pulled into its destination. Janice and the other passengers were disgorged into the vast, cavernous expanse that was Paddington station. Janice observed the austere, sooty structure and the crowds of people rushing about. Yet again she marvelled at the persistence of everyday life in the face of the existential threat posed by the war. Shaking her head, she made her way to the Underground station.
Sitting in the rickety Tube carriage, Janice glanced down briefly at her outfit. She was dressed in her usual khakis, a cream coloured shirt and her leather jacket – minus her fedora, for once. On the journey from Oxford she'd experienced a brief moment of anxiety that her unusual dress sense might stand out in the capital. However, it was clear that the populace saw khaki and assumed a uniform of some description, and to her relief no one gave her a second glance, uniforms of various types now being ten a penny in wartime London.
A couple of Tube journeys later and Janice found herself at Holborn. She paused outside of the station and scratched her head, before reaching into her jacket pocket for a smoke and a light. She'd only visited Smiler's shop once before, during a rare trip to London a couple of years earlier, and she was struggling to recall the precise location. Reluctant to ask directions and take the risk, however small, of alerting hostile forces to her enquiries, she headed in the direction of the British Museum. She vaguely recalled that the shop was somewhere in the vicinity, down a small lane off the main road, and figured that it couldn't be too hard to find from there.
Janice had not, however, counted on the sheer number of tiny lanes crammed with curiosity shops, bookstores and ancient-looking hostelries. She spent an increasingly frustrating forty minutes attempting to locate the correct alleyway, and was beginning to wonder whether Smiler was even still in business, when she noticed a vaguely familiar pub sign. “Gotcha,” she muttered to herself. “This way.”
Smiler's shop had an unremarkable front. The sign proclaimed “George Johnstone, Antiques and Curios” in a Victorian style typeface. Thick patterned windows obscured the view of the interior. The place looked understated, with an air of genteel shabbiness. A sign on the door proclaimed the establishment open.
Pushing open the door caused a bell mounted above it to tinkle gently. The shop, however, remained stubbornly empty. Janice took the opportunity to observe the interior. One wall boasted floor to ceiling shelving, with every inch taken up with second hand books and small ornaments. An antique toy section in one corner boasted a range of battered teddy bears and terrifying dolls. Behind the counter was a selection of elaborate clocks, each displaying a slightly different time to the others.
The bulk of the shop, however, was given over to items purporting to be hundreds or thousands of years old. A locked glass display case showed a range of ancient jewellery and accessories, from Celtic torcs to Imperial Chinese hair pins. A couple of cracked amphorae bearing rather ribald scenes were visible in another glass case. A selection of weaponry was displayed on another wall, complementing the suit of armour standing near the counter. There was even a drawer full of small fossils.
Janice glanced at one of the labels attached to a drinking vessel and tutted at its description. “Genuine Viking drinking horn, c900AD. You're still a con-artist, Smiler. More New Jersey c1936AD, I'm guessing.” She shook her head. “Where the hell are ya, anyway?”
The archaeologist made her way to the counter and rapped her knuckles on the counter before calling out. “Hey! Anyone home?” As no answer was forthcoming, she vaulted over the counter and opened the door behind it. “Smiler? Are you there? It's ‘Mad Dog'!”
Still no response. Janice felt increasingly troubled. She walked through the door and into the shop's stockroom, continuing to call out her friend's name.
There was still no sign of life so Janice decided to investigate what lay behind the door at the back of the stockroom. Opening the door and stepping into the room she immediately registered two things.
Firstly, George Johnstone standing behind a table, a look of terror on his face,
Secondly, a large sword lying on said table.
Janice had very little time to process either of these developments because the third thing she registered was the unmistakeable feeling of a gun barrel pressed into the base of her skull. Slowly, carefully, she raised her hands, trying desperately to ignore the icy grip of terror which had taken hold.
Smiler, for his part, pulled his eponymous facial expression – on this occasion more of a rictus grin – before beginning to speak in his curious mid-Atlantic accent. “Dr Covington! What perfect timing!” He scratched his scruffy greying facial hair, which was somewhere between a four day growth and an actual beard, before making eye contact with whoever was jabbing a firearm into the back of Janice's head. “Mr – ah – sorry, I'm not sure I caught your name. Sir! Please allow me to introduce my old colleague, Dr Covington. She's one of the world's leading experts in ancient artifacts and will I'm quite sure be happy to cast her appraising eye over this – very special - piece!”
“You ‘avin a larf? This girl? She's just a bleedin' kid!” The unseen cockney sounded unimpressed, but to Janice's relief the weapon was lowered. “Wot you on abaht, Smiler?”
Janice took a few breaths to steady herself. “Mr Johnstone's right. I may not look like ya typical antiques expert but I know my stuff.”
“But you're a ‘septic'! Wot can you know about stuff from before you woz even a country?”
Tempting though it was to take issue with the man's disparaging term for her countrymen, Janice decided to ignore it, a decision influenced in no small part by the fact that the cockney was holding a gun while both her firearms were still in Jericho. A different approach was needed. She gave a dismissive snort. “Americans, yeah. Don't know a cowpoke from a Caravaggio! That's why I left to teach at Oxford.”
The mention of the ancient university clearly impressed the Londoner, who now spoke with a new-found respect for the woman he'd just threatened with a gun. “Oxford! Blimey. Look, I'm sorry I scared you, miss. There's some dodgy people around these days and you gave me a fright! But it's this sword, see. I'd be ever so grateful if you could give me your opinion. Seeing as you're an expert, like.”
Janice turned to look at the man. He had a thin, pock marked face and receding greasy hair parted on one side. His clothes looked shabby and she noticed his right hand, which was still gripping the pistol, was trembling slightly. She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I'd be delighted to,” she muttered, praying silently that the item would be something she could have a shot at identifying accurately.
The weapon in question was a large one-handed sword of considerable antiquity. The blade was whole although damaged in a few places. The hilt was quite plain, but the pommel bore a marking of some description, which was too worn away to identify. A further marking, possibly of a cross, was visible in the centre of the grip. Janice studied the sword carefully, but avoided touching it as she was unsure how the man would react. In her peripheral vision she could see Smiler gurning, something she did her best to ignore.
After a few minutes she turned back to the cockney. “Central European, I'd say. Most likely forged for one of the Teutonic Knights. Thirteenth century, maybe fourteenth. Nice piece.”
“Heeeey!” Smiler drawled, clapping his hands together and forcing a smile. “You see? Just what I told you! Ah,” he turned to Janice, “You haven't lost your touch!”
The cockney looked crushed. “You sure about this, miss?”
Janice nodded. “Yeah, to within fifty years or so. Definitely from that part of Europe.”
The man glared at Smiler. “You were telling the truth!”
“I was.” Johnstone had assumed a business-like air. “Not nearly as old as you thought it was, I'm afraid. But it's a lovely piece and I'm sure it brings you much enjoyment!”
Muttering, the cockney wrapped the sword up and stashed it in a large bag, before stomping back out through the shop.
“Goodbye to you too! Please call again!” Smiler followed the visitor to the door and, when he was certain the man had gone, put the latch on and turned the sign so that it read “closed”. Sighing with relief, he returned to Janice, who was standing with her hands on her hips and an incredulous look on her face.
“What,” she spat out. “What the HELL was that?”
“Now, now.” Smiler had pulled a large spotted handkerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and was using it to dab his forehead. He was a short, stocky man of indeterminate age who often seemed out of breath. Janice used to wonder if he had health problems, but had long ago concluded that he was simply exhausted with the effort of juggling so many different falsehoods and remembering which story he'd told to each person.
“I mean it, Smiler. It's not every day someone threatens me with a gun when I walk into a shop!”
“Well,” sniffed Johnstone. “It's good to see you too, Dr Covington.” Glancing at the expression on her face, he switched effortlessly to a more mollifying tone. “You turned up at just the right time, Janice. And said the right things! Thank God!” With this he rolled his eyes heavenward and clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
Janice was unimpressed. She was used to Smiler's theatrics, having seen them used repeatedly on customers, sellers and Greek police alike. “Glad I could be of assistance. But I think you owe me an explanation.”
“Of course, of course.” The bearded man pulled up a chair and gestured for Janice to sit in it, before opening a cupboard and removing a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.
“Drinking before lunch, Smiler?” Janice shook her head but accepted the tumbler anyway.
“Uh. Not usually, not usually.” Johnstone had pulled out the handkerchief again and had resumed dabbing his face. “This whole business. It's got me just about crazy! It's every other day now, some low life coming in with an old blade and a garbage story! As if this darned war wasn't enough.”
Her old acquaintance seemed close to tears, so Janice decided to try to refocus the conversation. “Ancient swords, eh? I heard there were rumours of some… interesting items in the antiquities trade?”
“You did?” Smiler looked surprised. “Thought you went legit, after you got your fancy doctor title and all. By the way, is it true what you were saying to that guy? Are you really teaching at Oxford?”
“Ah…” Janice did her best to look bashful. “Yeah, I got offered a gig teaching classics and ancient history. Too good to turn down, war or not.”
“Well, good for you!” Smiler seemed genuinely pleased. “And… anyone special in your life?”
“Matter of fact, there is.” Janice tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the smile appearing in her face at the thought of Melinda Pappas.
“Aw, that's lovely. I knew you'd find someone. Who is the lucky gent? Anyone I might know?”
“Um…” Janice rubbed her neck. “Actually…”
Smiler waggled a finger playfully. “Say no more! A lady, then. I always thought you might end up on either side of that particular fence. I remember when you used to come to my bar. Turned quite a few heads, you know. Men wanted you, women did too. And they both wanted to be you! Hang on. Is that right…?”
Unsure what to say to that, Janice eventually contented herself with a shrug of the shoulders. “Yeah. She's a peach. Lovely gal. We're very happy.” Keen to move the discussion on, she cleared her throat. “As for the other thing… let's say I'm not as active as I used to be. But for the right job I could be persuaded. Matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. What's the deal with this sword? Is it something I might be able to track down?”
To Janice's surprise Smiler jumped up and shook his head angrily. “Even I wouldn't touch this one. And if you've got any sense you'll stay away from it as well, Mad Dog or not.”
Interesting. Janice decided to push Johnstone a bit more. “Ah, c'mon Smiler! Don't tell me you're developing a conscience all of a sudden? Not stopping you selling knock off crap as genuine Viking drinking horns, is it? And some of those amphorae looked more home made than Homerian…”
Smiler covered his eyes with his right hand and groaned. “Yeah, sure, I sell some novelty items…” he ignored Janice's snort and continued, “But there's plenty genuine stuff as well. I mean, maybe the paperwork's not totally kosher, but you of all people should know how it is!” He sat down again and refilled his glass. “Matter of fact I wish you were still in the trade. I could do with a more reliable supplier.”
“Hey,” said Janice in as conciliatory a tone as she could muster, “That's what I'm saying! Just because I've got a respectable job now doesn't mean I've lost my touch! I could track down this sword for ya.”
“You don't get it, do you.” Smiler took another gulp from his drink. “I don't want anything to do with this particular item. Or the people looking for it. Look, let me explain. I warn you though, it's going to sound crazy.”
“Crazy I can do. You'd be surprised what I've seen in the last couple of years.”
“Okay. Well, it's like this…”
CHAPTER THREE
Mel checked the kitchen clock for the hundredth time and let out a sigh. Janice had been gone for several hours and she was feeling a twinge of anxiety. In truth she would have quite liked to join her partner on the trip to London, but Janice had thought her contact would be more likely to open up if she went alone. This seemed sensible, but given the bizarre events both women had been embroiled in since the beginning of the year Mel couldn't stop worrying a little.
She gazed round the kitchen. Everything was ready for dinner with Bolton. The Southerner had even gone to the trouble of picking some wild flowers to serve as a centrepiece. There was really nothing else she could do for now. She considered going upstairs to the tiny bedroom that now served as their study and continuing her work on the translation of the Macedonian scrolls, but for once this didn't appeal.
Scolding herself for lack of motivation, Mel decided instead to cycle into town in order to visit the Bodleian Library. There were a couple of things she wanted to check before finalising her lecture plans for the coming term, and it was a pleasant enough day for a bike ride. She loaded her notebooks and some stationery into the bike's front basket and set off to the Bodleian.
It was a short journey – no more than ten minutes or so – and as always Mel took the opportunity to marvel at the ancient buildings that made up the city. On the way she spotted one of the Eagle & Child regulars crossing St Giles and gave him a cheery wave. “Hello, Professor Tolkien!”
The don smiled and touched his hat as she rode by. “Good afternoon, Miss Pappas.”
By the time she arrived at the library Mel was already feeling better and her anxiety about Janice's safety had dissipated. She chained her bike to the railings outside the Bodleian, waved her pass at the ancient doorman snoozing in a chair just inside the door and made her way up the stairs to the main reading room.
Once inside she headed for the chained enormous books which made up the Bodleian's catalogue. It had taken her some time to get used to the library's idiosyncratic filing system but now she had got the hang of it it was second nature to her. She quickly located the reference to the book she was looking for, but on scouring the shelves she found it was not where it should have been. Huffing slightly, she went to the counter to enquire further.
As one of the biggest and most prestigious libraries in the world, the Bodleian employed large numbers of staff. However the librarians seemed to stick to their quite narrow areas and in this section Mel was used to dealing with an elderly and charming gentleman who could always be relied upon to assist with locating obscure or misplaced texts. To her surprise, there was no sign of him this afternoon, and instead the desk was staffed by a younger woman.
On seeing Mel's approach, the woman looked up. Large chocolate brown eyes were framed with horn rimmed spectacles. She wore a buttoned up thick cardigan in a drab beige colour. Her long platinum blonde hair was pulled back in a rather severe style, which, Mel suspected, made her look rather older than she was. Indeed, her unlined face suggested she was no older than Mel herself. Tilting her head to one side, the woman affected a bored expression. “Can I help you?”
“Why yes, I hope you can.” Mel smiled at the librarian and handed her a page from her notebook with the details of the missing text. “I was looking for this book, but it's not where it should be, and I wondered if - “
The woman removed her glasses before looking at the note without much interest. “If it's not on the shelves I can't help you. Maybe someone stole it. Who knows, with this war and all.”
“I could really use a copy of that book,” Mel persisted. “I'm just finalising my lectures for next term and this would be so helpful.”
The blonde sighed audibly as she picked up the piece of paper again. “Hmm. Commerce and Culture in Ancient Sumer . I'm afraid I don't recall seeing it. But there should be a copy in the stacks. You'll need to fill in a request slip for it.”
“Thank you! Thank you, that's wonderful.” Mel beamed at the librarian, and tried to ignore the disdainful look she received in response. She completed the slip and dropped it in the box by the counter. She glanced again at the librarian, who was now flicking through a card index. The woman seemed oddly and troublingly familiar, but try as she might, Mel couldn't place her.
Mel considered doing some different research but on reflection decided to head home. On the way out she saw the doorman had awoken and was flicking through a newspaper. She decided to enquire about the fate of the usual librarian. “Excuse me sir, but have you seen Mr Cleethorpe lately?”
The doorman looked up. “Had a bit of an accident. Nasty one, by all accounts. He's going to be away for a while.”
“Oh! I'm sorry to hear that,” Mel said with genuine concern. “What happened?”
“Fell off his bike, they reckon.” The doorman shook his head. “Bad accident, though. Collided with a bread van, or something. Poor guy. He's nearly my age! Anyway, that new lady is covering for him.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Very serious lady. Bit stand-offish, if I'm honest. Doesn't really talk to the likes of me.”
Hmm. Mel said her goodbyes to the doorman and cycled home slowly. She couldn't shake her feeling of unease about the woman, although her rational side told her that she was simply on edge due to Janice's mission to London's criminal underworld. She gave a silent prayer. Please let her be safe.
On arrival back at Jericho Mel saw to her delight that Janice was sitting in a deckchair in the tiny back garden, smoking a cheroot and drinking tea. She ran out from the kitchen and threw her arms around the startled archaeologist. “Oh, thank heaven you're back! I've been a bit worried.”
Janice winced as splashes of hot tea hit her thighs, and put down her cup before any further spillage occurred. She returned her partner's embrace before pulling back and patting her hand. “It's okay honey. I said it would be a few hours.”
“I know, but… I just started thinking about the things that could happen. I know, I'm just being crazy.”
“Well,” Janice said gingerly, retrieving her cheroot from the ashtray, “You're not totally crazy. I was threatened by a very jumpy man with a gun.”
“What!” Mel looked horrified. “What happened… did you… um…”
“Relax, sweetheart. No harm done. But I have I got a story for Bolton! Ya see, it's like this…”
*
A knock on the door at 7.30 precisely signalled the arrival of Edward Bolton. Mel opened the door to be greeted by a bouquet of flowers. “For you both,” said Bolton awkwardly, before handing over a canvas bag containing the promised bottles of wine and a square metal tin. “This one's for you, Dr Covington. Some small cigars. Present from the Prime Minister.”
“Mr Churchill? He remembers us?” Janice thought back to the brief meeting they'd had with the British leader following their disruption of the Dahak cult and her elimination of its leader. A great deal had happened in the weeks since then and it seemed unlikely that this particular event would feature highly on the PM's list of priorities.
Bolton smiled and nodded. “Indeed he does. He was very taken with you and grateful for what you achieved. He knows you like your tobacco and that it can be difficult to come by a decent smoke at the moment, and so here you go. A small token of the country's appreciation.”
Janice didn't know what to say to that, really, so she gave her thanks and ushered Bolton towards the table. “Take a seat! I'll open the wine then we can serve up the food. I hope you like it, Mr B. It's been a joint effort.”
Dinner was served – a game stew accompanied with roasted potatoes and a side of cabbage. It was a hearty meal for a warm summer evening but diners subject to wartime rationing were unlikely to object on that basis. Bolton expressed his approval before a slightly troubled expression crossed his face.
“Nice pheasant, Dr Covington. I hope you haven't been helping yourself to game from any of the local estates?”
Janice put down her fork and took a swig from her wine glass before answering. “Ah, I dunno exactly where it was. Came upon a brace of ‘em while I was out rabbiting. Too good a dinner to miss.”
Bolton rolled his eyes. “Be careful, Doctor. People take this stuff very seriously in England. If you get arrested for poaching don't think I'll be able to get you off as easily as I did that murder charge. And before the Glorious Twelfth too!”
“Ya know what they say Mr B. The Earth was made a common treasury for everyone to share.”
Bolton snorted. “Sounds like you need to talk to our Mr Attlee, Dr Covington. Anyway… I hate to talk shop during such a lovely evening, but I do have to ask if your trip to London yielded any intelligence.”
“Ya could say that.” Janice sipped her wine. “I had a rather interesting day, catching up with old colleagues… being threatened with a gun… the usual.” Seeing Bolton's alarmed expression she softened her tone before continuing. “No harm done. But I did get the word on this mysterious artifact everyone's so excited about.”
“And?” Bolton had leaned forward in anticipation.
“Well, it's a sword. But not just any old sword. Something quite special. Brace yourself, Mr Bolton. It's Excalibur.”
It was one of those extremely rare occasions where the cliché of an environment being sufficiently quiet to hear a pin drop was entirely accurate. Bolton sat in complete silence, blinking occasionally. When he finally spoke, it was without his usual fluency and precision. “Excalibur. What?... Dr Covington, this must be a… no, not real, surely… a wind up of some kind.”
“My source reckons it's for real,” said Janice. “Well. The search is for real, anyway. Who knows if the sword itself is. But whoever's putting out the word on it is apparently ready to pay serious money.”
“I don't suppose your source had any idea who this mysterious buyer might be?”
Janice shook her head. “He doesn't. I don't think people believe him, though, because he's usually the go to guy on anything like this. The less respectable end of the antiquities trade. So every day he's got some new burglar or sneak thief turning up with an old sword, wanting him to arrange the trade. But he couldn't even if he wanted to because he's got no clue who Mr X is. In any event, none of the weapons he's seen so far would match a sword from the period anyway.”
Bolton leaned back and closed his eyes. Janice took the opportunity to jump up to clear the plates away. Mel smiled and thanked her partner before turning to their guest. “Why don't we take our drinks into the parlour, Mr Bolton. More relaxing there.”
Ensconced in the parlour's worn but comfortable seats, they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Janice and Bolton took the opportunity to light up as they sipped their wine. At length, Bolton spoke. “Well. If you've got any ideas where we go from here, I'm all ears.”
A pause, and then Mel broke the silence. “We had the chance to discuss this before you arrived, Mr Bolton. And we'd like to try to locate this item for you. Before anyone else gets their hands on it.”
Bolton closed his eyes again and took a long drag from his cigarette. It was clear that he was weighing up the situation. Opening his eyes, he rested the cigarette in a nearby ashtray before looking at both women, a serious expression on his face. “Well. Thank you. But where would you start? Even Dr Covington's shady contact has no idea who's behind this. And the sword might not even be real, as you say. Just a myth.”
“True. But we know a little bit about turning myth into history.” Janice took another mouthful of wine. “Mr Bolton, I spent years looking for the Xena Scrolls. I lost count of the number of people who told me I was wasting my time, that they probably didn't exist and if they did I'd never find them. I ignored them and kept going… and the rest is history, as they say.”
“You're right. It's got to be worth a try, at least.” Bolton looked troubled. “If it is German agents hunting for this thing, then we may not have much time.”
“We start tomorrow,” said Mel, decisively. “In the meantime, let me top up your glass.”
*
Bolton finally took his leave of the Americans a little before ten. Mel looked without enthusiasm at the dishes stacked in the sink. Janice came to stand beside her and groaned. “Let's leave that till the morning.”
“Janice…” Mel scolded halfheartedly, what was left of her resolve evaporating as she felt her partner's arms encircle her waist and her lips plant the gentlest of kisses on her neck.
“Leave them. Let's go to bed.” Janice increased the frequency and intensity of her neck kisses.
“Janice Covington! You are such a bad influence!” Laughing, Mel turned to face her soulmate and pulled her closer before capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. “You win. But we get up early tomorrow to clear up!”
“Mmm. Whatever you say, gorgeous.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Reluctantly, Janice extricated herself from the comfort of Mel's embrace. “It's gone seven, sweetheart. We need to get started on this Excalibur thing.”
“Urgh. Alright. I know. I'll be down shortly.”
Janice washed and dressed quickly before heading down the narrow staircase. Her heart sank when she saw the previous night's detritus, but she rolled up her sleeves and began to tackle the mountain of pots and crockery in front of her. So absorbed in her task was she, that she didn't immediately register her partner's arrival and gave a small start when the Southerner brushed against her.
“Sorry, Jan, I didn't mean to scare you.” The Southerner opened the pantry. “Can I get you some breakfast?”
“Mmm. How about a side of bacon, three eggs over easy and a pot of the finest coffee?”
Mel gave a wistful sigh. “I was thinking of some cheese grits and fresh baked biscuits. Unfortunately…”
“There's a war on. So some tasteless bread with a thin coat of margarine will do just fine. Mug of tea on the side?”
Both women laughed and Janice stacked the final pot on the edge of the sink to dry, before accepting a plate with the aforementioned bread. “Thanks honey. Right. Where do we start with this?”
“Well.” Mel had adopted a business like air as she stood with one hand on her hip. “We have no idea exactly what we're looking for, where to find it or even whether it's real. So, I say we get back to basics. Find out what we can about the King Arthur legend and try to tie it back to some actual history. When, where, etc. Also see what we can find on Excalibur itself. What it looks like, where it might be, any special powers. And you keep your ear to the ground with your friend Smiler and any other contacts you have who might be able to help.”
Janice nodded, impressed. “Sounds like a plan. Let's get started!”
*
Their first port of call was, of course, the Bodleian Library. Arriving shortly after opening time both Americans busied themselves with the catalogue books, searching for potentially relevant texts. It wasn't as straightforward as they had hoped and in whispered conversations it was agreed that Mel would look for clues in general histories of the period in which Arthur was thought to exist – the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries AD – while Janice would focus on more esoteric texts concerning mystical weapons. As she considered where to start, Janice remembered an amusing anecdote about her previous contact with Smiler and got half way through telling her friend about it before the dark haired woman's obvious discomfort at the archaeologist speaking audibly in the almost empty library shamed her into running over to the catalogue.
A short while later. Mel headed to the counter with a list of the books she wanted from the stacks and sighed to herself when she saw the officious blonde woman sitting there. Forcing a smile, she dropped the request slips in the box and nodded at the blonde. “Good morning.”
The librarian scowled and for a moment Mel thought she was going to be shushed. Instead the woman picked up the slips and removed her glasses to study them in detail. Dark brown eyes flickered from the paperwork to the Southerner standing before her. The blonde cocked her head and spoke in a strangely girlish tone. “Mm. The Legend of Camelot . Histories of Gildas the Monk . The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle . What on earth did happen to that research on Sumerian currency, or whatever it was?” She gave a little laugh and tucked some hair which had come astray behind her ear.
Before Mel could respond, Janice arrived with her own list of requests. She nodded an acknowledgement to the woman behind the counter and was turning to leave when the librarian called out to her. “Wait a moment my dear! Something about you seems familiar!”
Janice paused and took a moment to study the librarian. She couldn't recall meeting her ever before. There was, however, something quite disagreeable about her that was difficult to identify. Perhaps it was the eyes, which seemed inordinately watchful and, in Janice's mind at least, suggested malice beneath the woman's otherwise unremarkable exterior. Forcing a smile, Janice shook her head. “I'm sorry, I can't recall… I haven't been in England long... maybe we ran into each other elsewhere? I'm Dr Janice Covington.”
“Ingrid Taylor.” The woman took Janice's offered hand and shook it halfheartedly. She suddenly appeared distracted by Mel's presence. “Speaking of familiar, have we met before, Miss Pappas?”
Mel smiled. “Only briefly, yesterday.”
“Mm. I remember your name from the slip you filled in. Pappas. Any relation to Melvyn Pappas of Nobel Prize fame?”
Mel gave a start. “Yes. My father.”
“Well, he must be so proud to see his daughter teaching at Oxford.” Ingrid rolled her eyes heavenward as if contemplating a difficult topic. “Pappas. Greek, isn't it?”
Bristling, Mel gave a curt nod. “I'm afraid my father never lived to see me take up this position. His family came from a small town near Thessaloniki. But I'm an American. Why do you ask, Miss Taylor?”
“Oh, no reason. Just making conversation!” The librarian gave a fake sounding laugh and stamped the request slips. “These will take a few hours.”
“We'll come back later. Thank you.” Mel turned and stalked out the door, followed by Janice.
“What you wanna do?” Janice thrust her hands in her pockets and looked up at the dreaming spires around them. “We got some time to kill.” Her eyes lighted on a café opposite. “Buy ya a coffee?”
They took a seat inside. Janice saw to her delight that the venue offered fresh brewed coffee, and immediately ordered a pot of it for herself. Mel opted for a pot Earl Grey tea. The drinks arrived quickly, and the Americans sat in companionable silence for a few moments, watching the bustle of university life through the grimy windows.
Janice lit a cheroot and studied her companion. She could tell the Southerner was troubled about something. Leaning forward, she spoke in a low voice. “What's up, honey?”
“Hmm,” Mel mumbled. “That woman from the library. She makes me a little uncomfortable.”
“The Ingrid broad? Yeah, she seems a bit of a weirdo. But library folks often are. They get stir crazy stuck in there all day.”
Mel gazed into her teacup. “I thought it was odd, the way she talked about my father.”
“She's working in academia, Mel. Your daddy was a pretty big cheese in that world. She probably recognised the surname then looked him up in Who's Who or something.”
“The Greek connection… strange of her to bring that up.” Mel had picked up a linen napkin and was twisting it round her fingers. “It's not something the family ever really… highlighted.”
Janice took a drag from her cheroot. “Well, I never really thought about it, but Pappas does sound kinda Greek. Not a tricky guess.”
“It was very… awkward,” Mel said quietly. “My grandfather made money in shipping, back in the old country. He moved the whole family to America and ended up in Charleston. They were quite affluent but… they never really fitted in. My mother's family disapproved but they eventually agreed to the marriage. There were five daughters and, although they'd never admit it, I think money was quite tight. Marrying my father meant she could have the lifestyle she'd been brought up to expect. But she always tried to make him play down his background. Maybe anglicise his name. He refused, he was always so proud of his heritage. Taught me Greek when I was just a toddler. I guess that's what started my fascination with languages.”
Janice listened with interest. Despite their closeness, neither woman had told the other much about their respective families. Mel's background was utterly alien to Janice, but what little she knew of it seemed fascinating nonetheless. She was hoping for further insights, but Mel had already turned her attention back to Ingrid Taylor.
“There's something about that woman. The way she looks at you. Like her eyes are boring into your soul. And what was that about you looking familiar?”
“I couldn't tell ya. Never cast eyes on the lady before. She wears glasses. Maybe she just couldn't see me properly and confused me with somebody else.” Janice drained the last of her coffee. It had been underwhelming. “Speaking of Greek, this place could do with some proper Greek coffee.”
“Mm. It did look rather… insipid.” Mel sat back and sighed. “I'm being silly about Miss Taylor, aren't I?”
“I don't know about silly. I wasn't crazy ‘bout her either. Someone gives ya the creeps, I always say go with your gut. So keep an eye out, but don't worry too much.” Janice checked her watch. “Those books will be hours yet. How about we go have a nice walk down Christchurch meadow? If we're gonna be stuck with our heads in books for the foreseeable I wouldn't mind getting some fresh air while we can.”
“Good idea.” Mel gave a small smile and the two Americans headed out into the sunshine before turning in the direction of the meadow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dr Janice Covington rolled up the sleeves of the men's blue cotton shirt that she had taken to wearing around the house and took a step back from the large map of the British Isles that she had just tacked to the wall.
It had been a long fortnight. Both women had spent their days in Oxford's libraries, studying every Arthurian-related text they could get their hands on. Their evenings had been spent at home, poring over their notes and trying to identify something – anything – that might give them the breakthrough they so desperately needed. Meanwhile, the Luftwaffe's assaults on British targets escalated. The sense of urgency was palpable. Great Britain desperately needed something to turn the tide of the war.
With that in mind Janice put her hands on her hips and turned to her soulmate and fellow researcher, who was perched on the sofa looking expectantly at the archaeologist. “Two weeks. Two weeks of spending every waking moment with our noses in a goddamned book. So let's go. What have we got?”
“Let's start with the basics,” Mel began. “King Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. Arcturus the Bear. Most accounts have him as a Romano-British nobleman who fought against Saxon incursions in the fifth or sixth centuries AD. If he existed at all, that is – many historians are doubtful about this. There aren't any contemporary sources which might confirm the reality of Arthur – although, of course, there aren't many surviving sources from that period at all. The first direct references seem to be from several centuries later, and then of course as time went on the story developed into a detailed romantic tale with the Round Table and the heroic knights, a love triangle between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot, the Holy Grail and so on. I think we can discount most of these later embellishments.”
“Agreed. So, possible locations for Arthur's court?”
“Various locations have been proposed for ‘Camelot' or ‘Avalon', both places mentioned in the literature. Mostly in the West of Britain.” Mel consulted her notebook. “Tintagel, in Cornwall. Anglesey, off the North coast of Wales. Caerleon, which was a Roman fort in South Wales. Carlisle, way up north by Hadrian's Wall. Glastonbury, where legend says that Joseph of Arimathea brought the Holy Grail.”
Janice looked over from the map, where she was sticking coloured pins. “Great. Any ideas which is most likely?”
Mel shook her head. “I'm afraid not. I've gone through every book in the Bodleian on the historical reality or otherwise of Arthur. There's no consensus on where he was most likely based.”
“Any digs been done in these places?”
“Lots. But none of them have found anything that could be definitively traced back to Arthur.” Mel held up her notebook. “I've got four of these, all filled with my notes on this. I hoped when I went back over them something would jump out… but there's nothing. I don't know, Jan. I'm not very hopeful that this is going to help us find Excalibur.”
“Well, on that subject…” Janice turned to her own notes. “Various stories, none of which make much sense. Sword in the stone, can only be pulled out by the true king/hero, ya know the drill. Or, possibly given to Big A by some mysterious broad in a lake. May or may not have magical powers, and these seem to vary. Gives the wielder great strength, grants him some form of protection, destroys enemies against the odds. Christ.” Janice reached for a glass of Scotch, which was balanced precariously on the arm of a nearby chair. “What a load of horse shit.”
Mel frowned at her friend's language, but refrained from commenting on it. “Oh Janice. We knew this was a long shot. People have been looking for the truth about Arthur and Excalibur for centuries. What were the chances of us figuring it out in a couple of weeks?”
“Hubris,” Janice grunted. “Brought down most of your key folks in Greek mythology. Looks like we're coming down with it as well. Maybe it's a family trait.”
Mel gave a small shake of her head. “We don't know that happened to Xena and Gabrielle.”
“Huh? There's still scrolls to be found. I bet that's what happened.” Janice rubbed her brow. “Ah, hell, I'm sorry. I'm just gutted we've wasted so much time on this. We should never have told Bolton we'd do it.”
“We gave it a try. That's the most he could expect.”
“Not sure he'll see it that way,” Janice muttered. “Anyway, we'd better go break the bad news. We meeting him in the Eagle & Child?”
“Not tonight. There's some meeting on at the pub and he wanted to avoid it. He said to meet at his college rooms.”
“Come on then. Might as well get it over with.”
*
Climbing the staircase to Bolton's rooms, Mel had a brief moment of déjà vu to her childhood, waiting outside the headmistress's office to be reprimanded for a silly prank involving replacing the ink in the desk inkwells with blueberry juice. She remembered distinctly that the expected punishment troubled her far less than the knowledge that she'd disappointed her teachers and let the school down. She hated that Bolton would be disappointed with them and she wondered whether Janice had been correct with her diagnosis of hubris. Her thoughts were interrupted by Janice's loud knocking and a voice calling them to enter.
Bolton's study was a large oak-panelled room. He sat behind a large desk resplendent with an elaborately tooled telephone and an extraordinary range of stationery, which was arranged with military precision. The desk also boasted a silver tray on which sat two crystal glasses and a large decanter of whisky. Bolton was drinking from a third glass as he studied a paper in front of him. He appeared tired and grey – the difference in the two weeks since they had last met was extraordinary and without question the result of the seemingly endless German attacks on his nation. He looked up and acknowledged his visitors. “Miss Pappas. Dr Covington. Please take a seat.”
Janice flopped down in a dark red leather armchair, while Mel sat down more rather carefully on another. Bolton poured drinks for them both. “Scotch is a bit rough, I'm afraid, but…”
“I'm sure it's great, Mr Bolton. Cheers.” Janice raised her glass and took a gulp before grimacing. God, she thought, it is quite rough. Not like his usual stuff.
Bolton opened a silver cigarette case and offered it to his guests. As usual, Janice took a smoke while Mel politely declined. Taking a deep drag, he turned to his visitors. “So. I hope you ladies have some good news for me. None of my other ‘agents' do.”
Janice sighed. This wasn't looking good. She knew that Bolton ran a number of other scholars in Oxford, investigating everything from religious prophecies to magick rituals to highly experimental technology. Most of it was extremely esoteric stuff, but it was a mark of the British Government's desperation that they continued to fund the research. Anything that might give them an edge in this war, no matter how unlikely.
“Oh Mr Bolton,” said Mel sadly. “I'm so sorry. We've scoured every text there is. There's nothing, I'm afraid. We have no idea where Excalibur is, or even if it ever existed.”
Bolton took a long drink from his glass. He had a sad, resigned expression on his face. “It's alright, Miss Pappas. I know you will have given your all to this research. It was always something of a long shot, as they say. I don't suppose you have heard any more from your contact, Dr Covington?”
“No. I'm afraid not. I've called his shop eight times in the last few days but there's never an answer. I guess maybe he's out of town.”
“Perhaps.” Gloom and disappointment radiated from Bolton, an infectious cloud of despond.
Janice worked quickly to stave off the sense of hopelessness. “Look, don't sweat it, Mr B. I'll take the train to London tomorrow and try to speak to him in person.”
“Very well, Dr Covington. Thank you.” Bolton stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. “I'm not sure there's much any of us can do, I'm sorry to say. The Luftwaffe are relentless. Our coastal towns are under constant bombardment. They even bombed London, last week. I fear Britain is… ah, how would I put it delicately…”
“Fucked.” Janice spat out the word, suddenly and decisively. She ignored the horrified gasp from her partner and savagely ground the remains of her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “We're fucked. The country is fucked. The whole world is fucked.”
“Janice… please…” Mel seemed to be having difficulty speaking, so shocked was she by the archaeologist's outburst.
A tiny smile had appeared on Bolton's lips. “Not quite the delicate phrasing I was hoping for, but you are of course quite correct Dr Covington. That word describes Great Britain's position quite accurately. Forgive your friend, Miss Pappas. Sometimes desperate times call for a little Anglo-Saxon.”
Apparently recovered, Mel graciously accepted a refill of her glass. “Is there anything more we can do to help, Mr Bolton?”
“Ah, I don't think so. Not now.” Bolton rubbed his brow. “Dr Covington, do let me know if you hear anything – anything at all – from your contact. Beyond that… just pray. Pray for a miracle.”
CHAPTER SIX
Dawn had broken an hour or so ago, and a grey light was just visible through a chink in the blackout curtains. Janice opened her eyes before quickly closing them again. A sleeping Melinda Pappas was holding her tightly in her long arms. Indeed the tangle of limbs would make it difficult for any observer to ascertain where one soulmate ended and the other began. Perhaps, Janice mused to herself, that was the point. Their lovemaking the previous night had begun with the desperate urgency of life in wartime but had rapidly given way to a gentle, sensual but relaxed exploration of each other's bodies. As if they had been doing this for millennia and knew they would continue, even if this current situation turned out to be as dire as was feared. Always together. In death as in life.
Janice allowed herself a few more minutes of snuggling with her lover before gently touching the Southerner's nose with her own. “Wake up, sweetheart.”
Mel grumbled and tightened her grip on the archaeologist, causing Janice to press her nose harder into her partner's and poke her gently in the ribs. At last Mel released the blonde, but not before muttering “Please stay.”
“I'll only be gone a few hours. I promised Bolton. It's the least we can do, really.” Janice had slid off the bed and and was peering through the curtains. “Looks like rain. I'm gonna grab some tea and head off shortly. Ya never know. This could be the breakthrough.”
In her heart, of course, Janice knew that a breakthrough of any kind was highly unlikely. She thought briefly about asking Mel to accompany her to the capital, but dismissed the idea. There was no sense in them both wasting yet another day on this proverbial wild goose chase. Janice chugged down a mug of tea and breakfasted on several slices of slightly stale bread, coated in the Marmite yeast paste she'd become rather fond of over the previous two months, before saying her goodbyes and leaving the cottage. It was chilly for August and looked like rain, so she grabbed her leather jacket and fedora and travelled to the station by motorbike. She hoped that Mel wouldn't notice that she hadn't taken her helmet.
On the train, Janice thought she sensed a rather more subdued mood amongst her fellow commuters than on the previous occasion. Unsurprising, given the war situation. She wondered when invasion would come and how the British people would react. With quiet resignation, like most of continental Europe? Or would the nation's bulldog spirit prevail, and the population fight on the streets and beaches like Churchill had said? Janice shuddered. Her own inclination, of course, was to the latter approach, but the inevitable carnage that would result was unimaginable. “What was that saying? Sometimes there are no good choices, only lesser degrees of evil.” The businessman sitting opposite her in the carriage gave a start, and she realised with some embarrassment that she said this out loud. “Sorry,” she muttered. “A lot on my mind.”
The man gave a small, uncomfortable nod of acknowledgement before hiding once again behind The Times .
Both passengers were relieved to see Paddington station come into view and Janice was already on her feet and heading to the exit before the train came to a stop. She reached out of the window to open the door and made haste to the Underground station.
Forty minutes later she stood outside Smiler's shop. It was closed. She peered through the windows but the place looked deserted. In frustration she banged on the door for a while and shouted through the letterbox. There was no answer.
“I think you're wasting your time there, love.”
On hearing the voice Janice spun round to see an elderly man wearing a rather old-fashioned waistcoat and tiny pince-nez spectacles. He was holding a saucer in one hand. She frowned. “Er, hello?”
“Hello.” He put the saucer down and a small brown cat appeared as if by magic. “If you're looking for Smiler, miss, I'm afraid you're too late.”
“Too late for what?” Apparently finished with whatever was in the saucer the cat was winding itself around Janice's legs. She bent down to scratch the creature's ears. Looking up, she saw the man disappearing into the shop next door, a tobacconist. She followed him, with the cat bringing up the rear.
On entering the shop, Janice briefly lost her train of thought as she looked around in wonder. Truly a smoker's paradise, with shelves crammed with rare cigars, unusual tobaccos and beautifully made pipes and cigarette cases. The war had not yet seemed to have impinged on the proprietor's ability to source high quality smoking materials.
The waistcoated man stood behind the counter, polishing his glasses with a spotted handkerchief. He smiled at Janice. “You a smoker, miss? Can I interest you in any of my stock?”
Janice paused for a second before indicating in the affirmative. “Er, yeah. Sure. You got any cheroots?”
“Of course, of course!” A selection of suitable products was quickly displayed on the counter, and Janice purchased two boxes of a familiar brand.
As the tobacconist was wrapping up her purchases, Janice attempted to bring up the issue of the deserted shop next door. “Anyway. About Smiler. You said I was wasting my time?”
“Ah. Ah, yes.” The man looked uncomfortable and a little sad. He clicked his tongue and the cat jumped on the counter and began rubbing its face against the till. “There's been no sign of old Smiler for over three days now. It's not looking good, I don't think, Miss.”
Janice pushed her fedora back and scratched her head. “I'm not sure I understand, mister. He could be anywhere. Why are you assuming the worst?”
The man sighed. “You'll have heard about the bombing?”
The use of the definite article told Janice that the tobacconist was almost certainly talking about the major attack a few days ago on the docks area of East London, rather than the sporadic bombings around the capital which had caused property damage and a handful of casualties but not much more. She nodded, a sickening feeling beginning to grip her.
“Well, the thing is, miss, that night he called in here for a packet of Gauloises. Told me he was off to meet a contact in a pub out East. Something about a cargo coming in from Egypt. Anyway, I knew that pub from years ago when my brother was working down the docks. It was right where the bombs hit. Nothing left, I reckon. And we haven't seen him since.”
“Oh, Christ.” Janice removed her hat and ran a hand through her hair. “Christ, that's awful. Poor Smiler.”
The man made sympathetic noises. “You a relative, miss? I never knew he had any family.”
“Ah, no. A friend. His family are in the States.” Even as she said it, Janice knew she had no idea whereabouts in the States or how she might contact any surviving relatives there.
“Yes, boy, you're missing your master aren't you?” The tobacconist scratched the cat's head and was rewarded with a purr.
Janice started. “This is Smiler's cat?” For a second she entertained a fantasy of wrapping it in her jacket and taking it to Oxford. Mel would be delighted… but the practicalities quickly scotched the idea and she was relieved when the old man explained that the cat split his time between a few shops on the road, trading his mousing skills for cuddles and the odd piece of fish.
The conversation had dried up, so Janice collected her purchases and bade the shopkeeper goodbye. She glanced up at the sky and saw the sun beginning to make a tentative breakthrough of the cloud cover. The Tube seemed even less attractive than usual after the news about Johnstone, and she decided to walk back to Paddington.
Janice meandered through the London streets with minimal purpose or direction, taking in the sandbags and barbed wire and the people carrying gas masks. “Poor London,” she mumbled to herself. After quite some time of wandering in what she vaguely considered the right direction, she cursed herself for embarking on the trek without a map or indeed any clear route in mind. Determining to abandon the idea and take the Tube at the next station she came across, she turned a corner into what appeared to be a rather high end residential area. Lost in thought, she almost jumped out of her skin when she heard her voice called loudly from the other side of the square.
“Janice Covington!”
There it was again. She couldn't be imagining it. She turned and gasped in shock as a familiar figure sprinted over to her.
“Hey there! I can't believe you're here, in London!” A very excited Jack Kleinman threw his arms around the archaeologist in his innocent, puppy-dog fashion.
Janice extricated herself from the embrace and shook her head in wonder. “Jack! What the hell are you doing here?”
Jack Kleinman was looking rather dapper in a dark blue single breasted suit and patterned tie. He gave a slightly self-satisfied smile which Janice for some reason found infuriating. “US Embassy.”
“Huh.” Janice struggled to process this latest development. “You're a diplomat?”
“Uh, in a matter of speaking.” Jack considered how to present the true situation in an impressive fashion but found it almost impossible with green Covington eyes boring into him. “I'm… er… a driver for the ambassadorial staff. Hey, fancy a drink? There's a great place around the corner. I'll fill you in.”
Janice looked at her watch. It was rather later than she thought. After the day she'd had so far, a drink would be welcome. She clapped Kleinman on the back. “Lead on, ‘Jacques'.”
A path on the opposite side of the square led into a larger road. Jack directed the way to a bar located in the lower ground floor of a white Regency building. On entering the establishment, Janice looked with interest at the US memorabilia decorating the walls. “Hey, look at that. Boston Red Sox, 1936. Don't see much of that over here.”
“Yeah, most of the customers are Embassy staff. Great little place. They do proper cocktails as well. Fancy a Manhattan?”
“Sure, why not.” Janice smiled as Kleinman summoned the barman and ordered their drinks in a bumbling yet officious manner. “So. Tell me the full story!”
“Well, you know, after my actions at the tomb, I was a wanted man across the Balkans. I needed to lay low and plan out my next moves. So I took a new disguise and –“
“Jack,” said Janice in a gentle tone. “Tell me what really happened.”
A deflated Jack Kleinman gave a little sigh and looked down at his hands. “I didn't know what to do after I left you two. So I went straight back to the States. Anyway, my Uncle Frank heard I was at a loose end and put a word in for me with an old Army buddy from the Great War. Well, I say buddy. He was my uncle's CO but he owed him a favour. Old Frank carried him off the battlefield when he got shot by the Hun back in '18. Turns out this guy's a diplomat now and was just about to take up a posting in London. Needed a driver and… well. Here I am.”
“That's great! Good for you.”
“Not really what I had in mind the last time I saw you. But, yeah. I guess it's okay.” Jack turned to thank the barman who was delivering their drinks. “So, anyway. What are you doing here, Dr C?”
Janice paused and took a sip from her drink as she considered how to answer. She had no faith in Jack Kleinman's discretion and needed to be cautious about how much she told him about her new life in England. “I'm teaching a class at Oxford University. Moved across a few months ago.”
Kleinman looked impressed. “Wow! I guess all the eggheads ate up that stuff with those scrolls, then!”
“You could say that, yeah. But they knew me by reputation.”
“Reputation?” Jack looked puzzled. “They knew you were a grave robber?”
“No! I mean my previous… uh… scholarship.” Janice shook her head. A comment of that nature from pretty much anyone else would have enraged her, but she knew Kleinman was entirely lacking in both guile and malice.
“Oh, right. Gotcha. So, anyway, whatcha doing in the Big Smoke?”
Careful, Covington. Don't give anything away about your reasons for seeing Smiler. Anything at all. “I was visiting a friend. But I got some bad news. Turns out he was caught in that bombing raid on the docks a few days back.”
Jack made a disgusted noise. “Damned Hun! It's a disgrace!” He leaned forward and began speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I've heard things. That they're expecting more bombings. Can you believe it?”
Janice shook her head. “Yeah, of course I can believe it! The goddamned Krauts are trying to invade! Whaddya expect ‘em to do, offer free Coney Islands?”
The deflation of Kleinman continued. Clearly, the classified intelligence he thought he'd overheard was simple common sense. He decided to change the subject. “So, anyway, Doc, you ever hear from Miss Pappas?”
“Matter of fact I do. She's actually working in Oxford as well.”
“Wow! What are the odds of that?” Jack looked truly amazed at this extraordinary coincidence. “Hey, Doc, you don't happen to know if she's seeing anyone?”
Oh boy. Janice rubbed her neck. “Uh, yeah. She is. Been stepping out together for a while, I believe.”
“Ah, yeah. Well, a peach like that would get snapped up right away. Bet he's some big shot at the University, eh?”
“Yeah. Kinda.” Janice hoped the colouring of her cheeks was not as obvious as it felt.
“Well, how about you?” Jack had adopted a slightly pleading tone.
“I'm, er, also seeing someone.”
Jack groaned. “Let me guess. Tall, dark, handsome, right?”
Janice choked on her drink before regaining her composure. “Right. Ya got it in one.”
“I'm gonna stay for another. Wanna join me?”
“Sorry, Jack, I gotta get back to Oxford. Duty calls. Thanks for the drink.”
“Hey, no problem. Look…” Jack pursed his lips and his voice took on an unfamiliar serious timbre. “If things get really bad here, you come straight to the Embassy and we'll make sure you get home. Tell Melinda, too, if you see her.”
“Mm. Yeah, thanks.” Janice mumbled as she reached for her fedora.
“I'm serious, Janice. England ain't gonna win this war. Come home where you'll be safe. Don't try and be a hero.”
Janice gave a sad smile and waved as she walked up the steps out the bar. As she exited into the street, she had the odd feeling of being watched. However, she couldn't figure out who might be doing such a thing and in the end she dismissed it as pure paranoia. She walked up the road and spotted a Tube station at the end of it. “Hometime,” she muttered to herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mel put down her pen and reviewed her page of notes. Since the Arthurian failures she thought she ought to return immediately to the scrolls, and continue the draft academic text on them on which she and Janice were working. She also, she knew, ought to update Georgetown on where they'd got to. She had already informed Assistant Professor Livingstone of the discovery of two new scrolls in a cave near Stonehenge, and he was anxious for an update.
However. The particular scroll she was working on related to a trip the writer had taken to her home town and as such contained a greater number of unfamiliar dialect words than usual. Neither her own knowledge nor the Ancient Greek dictionary beside her were proving much use in deciphering them. “Gabrielle could have done with some proper Classical training,” she huffed to herself, before acknowledging with a groan that a trip to the Bodleian was probably inevitable.
Mel chained up her bike outside the huge library with a heavy heart. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for. Probably not a dictionary as such, more a history of the Thrace and Chalcidice regions during the late Classical period. Something that might give her some clues as to the concepts Gabrielle was trying to describe. But that meant the history section and dealing with Ingrid Taylor. She took a deep breath. Come on, Melinda. You've faced much worse than this.
Her attitude as she trotted up the stairs hopefully radiated more confidence than she felt. Mel headed towards the desk and saw to her delight that Mr Cleethorpe was ensconced behind it. His right arm was in a sling and his face was marked with bruises and abrasions. He smiled as he saw her approach. “Hello, Miss Pappas. How's the research coming along?”
“Oh, Mr Cleethorpe, never mind my research! How are you feeling? I heard you had an accident on your bicycle!”
“Ah, yes, well, I suppose word travels fast. It's all true I'm afraid. Blasted brakes failed and I went straight into the side of a bread van. Arm broken in two places, concussion, bruising all over. I'm on the mend now, though. It's good to be back.” His voice dropped a little. “I'm not sure readers were too happy with my replacement.”
“Oh, Miss Taylor. Well.” Melinda paused, torn between her Southern manners and a desire to share her true feelings with the elderly librarian. The former won out. Mostly. “She seemed quite a serious lady. I expect it takes some getting used to, starting a new job like this. It's wonderful to see you back, anyway.”
“Mm.” Cleethorpe appeared to be pondering something. “She's a strange one, I think. Started work a couple of days before my accident. In the stacks. Then she took over the counter job as soon as she heard I'd be away for a few weeks. I came back yesterday, and I have to tell you she didn't seem pleased to see me. Then today – never showed up.”
Mel shrugged. The truth was she wouldn't be sorry if she never saw the woman again, but she decided to keep that to herself. “Well, who knows. Now, Mr Cleethorpe, I wonder if you could help me? I'm looking for any texts you might have on day to day life in Northern Greece during the late classical period…”
*
A few hours later Mel exited the library. Mr Cleethorpe had pointed her in the direction of some older books discussing everyday objects found in archaeological digs of domestic quarters from the period, and the information within them was likely to prove helpful in deciphering the puzzling words in what she was terming “Gabrielle's trip home” scroll.
Cycling back to Jericho, she heard the unmistakeable growl of Janice's motorbike, as the blonde overtook her before coming to a halt outside their home. Mel noted, with some irritation, that her partner had eschewed the helmet in favour of her fedora. She decided against bringing the issue up when she saw the look on her friend's face. Parking her cycle, she called over. “Hey, honey. How was it?”
Janice walked up to the taller woman and, to the Southerner's surprise, hugged her fiercely. She didn't speak, and Mel had spent enough time around the little archaeologist to know that she should wait for her to feel comfortable enough to discuss what was on her mind. She returned the hug and, then, after a minute or so, gently removed her hat and pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her friend's ear. “Let's go inside. Have a nice cup of tea.”
Despite herself, Janice burst out laughing. “You're more English than Bolton! Tea is the answer to everything in this goddamned country!”
Mel frowned. “Well, you know what they say. When in Rome…”
“Not sure what Xena would say to that. But, yeah. I guess a ‘cuppa' might be a good idea.”
Over a pot of Earl Grey and a portion of the week's biscuit ration, Janice filled her partner in on Smiler's fate and her unexpected meeting with Jack Kleinman. “Last person I expected to see. Small world, huh?”
“It is quite a coincidence.” Mel looked at the clock. “Have you eaten today, Jan?”
“Liquid lunch with Idiot Boy,” Janice said, more harshly than she'd really intended. “Ah, sorry. He's got a good heart.”
Mel examined the contents of the pantry. “Looking a bit bare. We could fry up some Spam and potatoes?”
Janice groaned. “Ah, no. That's the last thing I need after today. How about we go out for dinner? Somewhere fancy. That place just off the High Street?”
Mel considered this. They'd been there once before and found it pleasant if a little stuffy. It wasn't cheap, but the Spam was looking less and less appealing. In the end… “Alright. But you can't go in khakis. Those waiters are snooty enough.”
Janice opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. “Fine. I'll wear that dress you like. Anything for a decent dinner.”
*
The dinner they eventually found themselves eating was certainly an improvement on their usual nightly fare, but still slightly underwhelming given the grandiose surroundings. Restaurants were officially free of rationing but on this occasion the eatery's suppliers appeared to have been unreliable. Half of the items on the menu were unavailable, and the portion sizes of the rest proved disappointing. Still, Mel enjoyed her baked trout and Janice's minuscule pork cutlets with apple sauce were tasty and comforting.
As they ate Mel filled her dining companion in on the day's events. “I'm glad that awful Ingrid lady is gone. And I think I'm making some real progress with that scroll.”
Janice grunted an acknowledgement through a mouthful of carrot.
“I couldn't understand what Gabrielle was talking about,” Mel continued. “Some of the words were unfamiliar and others didn't seem to make sense in the context. But I think I get it now. Gabrielle had returned home alone and found her home village under threat from a warlord. The townsfolk had hired a mercenary to help mount a defence, but he was a drunk who spent all his time with a flagon of wine. She had to organise the village's defence, and without weapons all she had was household goods. Pots and pans, bolts of cloth etc.”
“Good,” Janice murmured. “We might have something successful to our names after all.”
Mel ignored this. “It's going well. We should have a manuscript for Livingstone by the end of the year.”
Janice found the wine bottle empty and, ignoring Mel's look of disapproval, signalled to the waiter for another. “Kleinman was asking about repatriation. He thinks Britain's lost the war.”
“Well…” Mel paused. “It's a difficult time at the moment. And what does Jack Kleinman know, really?”
“Huh. Not much. But on this, I think he's repeating what he's heard his bosses say.”
“If England does fall…” Mel had dropped her voice to a whisper and was choosing her words carefully. “If that does happen, and he can help us get back home… I think that's an offer we should consider, Janice.”
The wine arrived. Janice waved away the tasting glass and indicated that the server should just pour it. She took a big gulp as she composed her thoughts. “So. All that stuff Churchill said. Fighting on the streets. Fighting on the beaches. We just ignore it and run off home with our tails between our legs?”
“Jan… we're American citizens. Our Government wants no part in this war. What could we do, here, really?”
“Take a rifle. Take the chakram. Hell, take Gabby's pots and pans. Anything we can do to stop these bastards.”
Mel put down her fork and considered her response. “Janice Covington. You mean the world to me. I don't want you dying in some heroic last stand against the Nazis. Or being shot when they catch you afterwards. And it's not just that. If they were to find out… about us… that would be the end of both of us.”
Janice bit her lip. “Xena wouldn't have run. She'd have stayed and fought for the greater good.”
“Even for Xena…” Mel leaned across the table and covered the blonde's right hand with her own. “Even for Xena, there were some things that trumped the greater good. Making sure Gabrielle was safe, for one.”
“But…” Janice groaned and took another drink of wine. She was too tired to formulate a coherent argument.
Mel, however, had just got into her stride. “I've been going through my notes. Xena stood and watched the woman that murdered Gabrielle's husband drown slowly in quicksand. Didn't even try to save her. The greater good be damned,” she whispered this last word, “what mattered was that she'd promised Gabrielle she'd make sure Callisto never hurt anyone again. And what about when she was in Britannia? She left Boadicea's troops to fight Caesar without her, all so she could save Gabrielle from Dahak.”
Janice made a non-committal noise.
“Look… if you're desperate for a greater good angle, consider this. If this country comes under Nazi rule, and they don't have you shot as a partisan, or both of us jailed or killed for being deviants, they might force you to put your talents to use in their service. Find ancient artifacts for their use.”
“I'd never do that!” Janice yelled in outrage, causing the handful of other diners to look across in consternation.
“Not voluntarily. But what if they threatened to kill me… torture me… if you didn't?”
Janice buried her head in her hands. “What a goddamned mess. If only we'd found Excalibur. I mean, how many swords in stones can there be anyway?”
“What did you just say?” Mel's demeanour had changed in a heartbeat.
“I said, how many swords in stones…”
“Yes. And you're right.” Mel caught the waiter's eye and signalled for the bill. He hurried over and she refused his offer of pudding. Seeing Janice's look of confusion, she pointed at the wine. “Maybe push the cork back in there and we'll take it away with us.” She handed over some notes and coins and pushed back her chair.
“What's going on?” Tired and slightly fuzzy from the wine she'd consumed, Janice watched Mel stand up and shrug on her cardigan. “We're leaving?”
“Yes. I'm sorry. But there's something we need to look at.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Janice marvelled at Melinda's ability to travel at high speed in heels without ever stumbling. It was not a skill that the archaeologist shared, and by the time they had reached St Giles she could bear it no more. She pulled off her shoes and, barefoot, trotted along next to her friend. “I knew I should have worn my boots.”
“Oh, hush, darling. You looked lovely.” Mel's platitudes were quite unlike her and were a clear indication that her mind was elsewhere.
Janice huffed. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“It will be easier to show you. Look, we're nearly home.”
As soon as they crossed the threshold of the cottage, Mel ran upstairs. A brief moment of excitement on Janice's part quickly faded when she saw the taller woman make for the study, not the bedroom. She followed her friend into the room to find her rifling through a drawer filled with files and notebooks. “Okay, Mel, we're here. What was so important we couldn't finish our dinner?”
“Something you said earlier got me thinking.” Mel flipped through a notebook that contained the transcription of the second Britannia scroll. “I can't believe we missed this. But it was a throwaway line and when I did the translation I was more focused on the demonic pregnancy aspects. Ah, here we go.” Mel read out a couple of sentences in Ancient Greek. “See what I mean?”
“A blade… embedded in rock… what the HELL?”
“You'll recall that our ancestors hid out in some outbuildings belonging to a group of warriors, and that while they were there Gabrielle gave birth to Hope?”
“Of course.” Janice shuddered. “Not something you forget, even thousands of years later.”
“Quite. Well, while all this was going on, and shortly after Gabrielle had her baby, Xena noticed a sword that was somehow stuck in a stone, and pulled it out. She examined it then returned it to its place. A couple of the warriors who saw this apparently became quite excited, but then attention returned to Hope and what was to be done. It's not mentioned again in the scroll.”
“No.” Janice was shaking her head. “This can't be it, surely? X & G were around hundreds of years before Arthur was supposed to be fighting the Saxons.”
“But actual evidence of Arthur is proving hard to find. And this is the only first hand account of a weapon that might be Excalibur that we've come across. Perhaps the later tales of the Round Table were just folk memories of a much older order of fighters. Who knows?”
“Best lead so far. Well, only lead so far.” Janice scratched her head. “But this doesn't help us find the damned thing.”
“Well, let's try and figure it out. Take a look at your map.”
They traipsed back down the stairs to the parlour, where the map of the British Isles was still on display. Mel reviewed another notepad, in which she'd jotted down her initial translation of the scroll. “Alright. So Gabrielle was attacked at what's now Stonehenge.”
Janice stuck a pin in the corresponding spot on the map.
“Then, they journeyed to a port where they sought passage on a ship going East. Now, when we first found that our ancestors had travelled to Britannia I suppose I'd assumed they'd made landfall in the far south east of the country. What's now Dover, perhaps. But that would have necessitated a long land journey, and put them at risk of ambush from Roman forces. They may have taken a longer boat trip, along the southern coast of England. If so, it would make sense for them to return to the port of entry to find a ship going their way.”
Janice studied the map. “Okay. So what's the nearest major port to Stonehenge?” She gently sketched a straight line down to the coast. “Ah. Interesting! Look, there's a port here. Just head south east from the stones. Not too far, even if they were on foot. A few days, max.”
“That timing fits with what we know from the scroll. What's the town called?”
“Southampton. Don't know it, I'm afraid.”
“I've heard of it. It's a pretty old place I think, so quite possibly around for our ancestors to have visited.” An excited tone was discernible in Mel's speech. “Now we just need to figure out where they went next.”
“Let's go back over the scroll.” Janice had poured a glass from the wine they brought back from the restaurant, and was pacing around the tiny parlour drinking and puffing on a cheroot.
Mel helped herself to a glass as she studied her notes. “Alright. So they left the port after the tavern Gabrielle was in was attacked by a mob. In the fracas someone had mentioned these warriors as being behind it, so our heroines headed inland, to find where the group was based.”
“Back the way they came, you mean?”
“I don't think we can say for certain. But the scroll didn't mention doubling back, and Gabrielle's description of the forest and the things inhabiting it suggest this was new territory.”
“Okay.” Janice looked at the map again. “So let's assume they headed roughly north east, through a forest of some sort. How long did they travel for?”
“It's not clear from the scroll.”
“Right. But Gabrielle was showing by this stage, right? And we think they were on foot. So I'm guessing they didn't go too far, especially given how fast the pregnancy was progressing.”
“That makes sense.” Mel joined her partner by the map. So we're looking at the immediate vicinity of Southampton. Maybe 20 miles or so from the city.”
“You're a genius. Do you know that?” Janice wrapped an arm around the taller woman's waist and squeezed tightly. “Tomorrow, let's get some more details on this place and figure out where we go next. For tonight… how about we take this upstairs.”
*
The Americans divided the next day's work between them. Janice would visit the Bodleian to research the history of Southampton and its environs, while Mel would visit the Geography faculty library to learn more about the topography of the area. They agreed to reconvene at home in the afternoon, before deciding next steps and, in particular, when to inform Bolton of this latest development.
Mel had a successful morning, and was pleased with what she'd learned. On leaving the faculty building, she was surprised to see Ingrid Taylor pushing a bicycle on the pavement opposite. She tried to detour down a side street, but unfortunately she had already been spotted.
“Miss Pappas! Fancy seeing you here.” The blonde crossed the road, apparently intent on a chat.
“Why, hello Miss Taylor.” Mel forced herself to smile. “We missed you at the Bod yesterday.”
“Hmm, yes, well. I was wasted there, really. I decided my talents lay elsewhere.” Ingrid tilted her head to one side in an attempt to see the books and papers under the American woman's arm. “Speaking of changes, have you switched to Geography?”
“What? Oh, no. I just had something I needed to look up.”
“Mm.” Ingrid put a finger to her lips. “And your little friend? Dr Covington, was it? How is she?”
Mel found herself grinding her teeth. “Janice is fine. Just catching up on her own research.”
“I see. So young to be a doctor, isn't she? But then I suppose standards may be different in the United States. Anyway, I had better let you get on.” Ingrid turned to cross the road again. “Oh, if you see Mr Cleethorpe, do give him my regards. Let's hope he doesn't have any more accidents!”
Mel watched the departing figure and shook her head. “Extraordinary.” Putting thoughts of the rude woman to the back of her mind, she set off in the direction of home. Lots to do, after all.
*
Back in Jericho, the two scholars compared notes. “Okay,” announced Janice. “So Southampton was a port back in Roman times, and probably before that. It's looking good as being the place Xena and Gab tried to sail from. The area around the city was a mix of woodland and scrub for thousands of years. Loads of archaeological interest, Bronze Age burial sites, etc. There's something called the New Forest there now, which actually isn't all that new but would have been after the Norman Conquest.”
“That fits with what I've been reading.” Mel unfolded a piece of paper where she'd sketched something from a book. “The New Forest is a beauty spot, popular for hiking, riding and camping. And the Bronze Age burial sites you mention - barrows – still hundreds of them apparently. Most of them have never been excavated. They vary from little cairns to more elaborate underground chambers.”
“Woah.” Janice took a deep breath. “It's a incredibly long shot, but what if the sword is buried in one of these barrows? But it's a huge area. What are the odds that we'll find it?”
“We've narrowed the area where the warriors were likely based, though.”
“Still huge.” Janice sounded doubtful.
“But got to be worth a shot. Surely. Look,” Mel clasped her friend's hand in hers. “You never know. Just being there might stir some ancient memory in one of us.”
“Even if we find where this fort or base or… whatever… was, there's no guarantee the sword will be there. And let's say we find it. So what? We don't know if it has any use apart from in a museum.” Janice remained sceptical regardless of her friend's cajoling.
“Well. Someone else is desperate to get this thing. And that someone is probably German intelligence. They clearly think it's worth having.”
Defeated, Janice rolled her eyes in resignation. “Okay, okay. Let's take this to Bolton. But I'm going to tell him we're gonna need one serious dig team. We'd better drop him a message.”
Mel squeezed her partner's hand and gave a mischievous grin. “Already done. I dropped a message in at St John's on the way up here. Eagle & Child, 7.30pm.”
Janice waggled a finger in mock outrage. “You're a piece of work, Melinda Pappas. Ya know that?”
“Mmm, I know that.” Mel wrapped her arms around the shorter woman and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips, which gradually developed into a much longer and more passionate embrace. Breaking apart a little reluctantly, she gazed into green eyes. “And I know if there's any archaeologist who can figure this out, it's you.”
*
Edward Bolton entered the pub at the appointed time, to find the two Americans already ensconced at a corner table. He made his way to the table, stopping to purchase a Scotch at the bar on the way. “Good evening, Dr Covington. Miss Pappas. You message suggests you may have good news for me. Did your contact come through?”
Janice shook her head sadly. “I'm afraid not. He is missing, presumed dead, in that big bombing at the London docks.”
“Oh Lord. I'm so sorry.” Bolton paused in a respectful silence for a few moments before continuing. “So the news…”
“We may have identified some potential locations for the current whereabouts of the sword known as ‘Excalibur'. It looks as though it may date from an earlier period…” Mel summarised their research, taking care to be a little vague about the provenance of the Britannia scrolls, the discovery of which they had concealed from Bolton initially.
“I'm gonna need a decent-sized dig team if we're gonna have a hope of finding the right place. Not to mention the right gear.” Janice puffed on a cheroot as she listed her requirements.
Bolton looked at the women as though they had lost their minds. “Miss Pappas. Your research sounds… fascinating and I agree it sounds like a promising line of inquiry. But the New Forest is huge and it could take years to find the right place, even if your theories are correct. And from what you tell me, there is no indication that the artifact is buried in one of these chambers anyway.”
Janice opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again as she realised that Bolton's arguments were in fact identical to her own.
Mel put down her glass and looked sternly at the civil servant. “Mr Bolton. We know that the situation in England is not good at the moment. That any boost, no matter how improbable, is welcome. And that if nothing else you wish to avoid potentially powerful items falling into enemy hands. Now, we can't promise a miracle. But sometimes you have take a chance. Even if it's a long shot.”
Bolton considered the Southerner's words. They were heartfelt and oddly convincing. He sighed. What did he have to lose, really, in sanctioning the project? “Very well. But Dr Covington, I don't have a team to lend you. And the students here are still away… and in any case this must be considered top secret.”
Janice sighed in frustration. “Well, what about the gear? And transport? We can't take everything we need on the bike.”
“That I may be able to help with. Give me 24 hours to source what I can. Could you write it down?”
Janice scribbled her requirements on a beer mat and handed it to the Englishman. “We'll be ready to leave first thing Thursday.”
“Excellent. My driver will collect you.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was 7am Thursday and Janice was standing in the kitchen, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet as she tried to ignore the feelings of excitement and trepidation that were vying for supremacy within her. She looked over at Mel, who was adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag. “Are you sure you're going to be comfortable like that, sweetheart?”
“I've told you Jan, I'm fine. I'd really rather travel in a dress. I can change into pants when we're there, if it's absolutely necessary.”
Janice rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say. At least you've ditched the heels.” A horn alerted them to the arrival of a large black car pulling up outside. “Okay, c'mon honey. That's our ride.” She picked up her kitbag, which contained supplies including food, toiletries, spare clothes for them both and a bottle of Scotch. Under her other arm she held the shotgun and a newly purchased fishing rod. Their destination, after all, sounded like a place where game and fish might be readily available.
For her part, Mel checked the chakram was secure on her hip and invisible beneath her jacket. She hadn't touched the ancient weapon since the night of the fracas at Stonehenge, but she was keen to have it available for this latest adventure. Her own bag was crammed with maps and guidebooks. She was feeling a little jittery and took calming breaths before following Janice out to the car, which she saw to her surprise was being driven by a young woman.
The driver got out of the car and opened the boot. “There you go. Stick your gear in there.” She held out her hand in greeting. “I'm Tilly, by the way.”
Mel shook the woman's hand and smiled. “Melinda. And this is Janice.”
“Nice to meet you.” The driver returned to the front seat. “Anyway, we'd better be off. Make yourselves comfortable!”
They drove in silence for a while, before Mel decided to try making conversation. “We didn't realise Mr Bolton had a new driver, Tilly. Are you enjoying it?”
“Eh.” Tilly sounded unenthused. “It's alright, I suppose. When I signed up for a Ministry of War job I thought I'd be working in an office somewhere. But when they found out I could drive I got landed with this. Ferrying around some old don and his students.” She tutted. “Professor Bolton's very nice, but why does he get his own driver? Don't even understand why he's on the payroll. The Ministry's strange. Anyway, I'm looking at taking a job in the munitions factory near home.” She took a hand off the wheel and clapped it across her lips. “Oh my goodness! Please don't tell Professor Bolton.”
“Oh, of course not,” Mel said reassuringly. “Your secret is safe with us.”
For her part, Janice contented herself with private amusement at the thought of Edward Bolton being an academic. Still, as cover stories go, it was probably credible given the environment in which he was based. She leaned forward to address their driver. “How much further?”
“Ah, twenty minutes or so. I dropped the Professor off there earlier.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence until Tilly pulled off the main road and into parking lot next to a wire fence surrounding a nondescript facility of some sort. As they arrived, Bolton emerged from a Nissen hut in the corner of the car park. “Ladies. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Professor,” said Mel, just about managing to keep a straight face.
Bolton noticed Janice smirking and tutted. “Well. Shall we get started.” He led the way to a dark blue pick up truck. “All yours for the next three weeks.”
The vehicle's flatbed contained a number of items. Janice noted a small canvas tent, blankets, cooking pots, shovels, towels and a wood chopper. “Looks great, Mr – ah – Professor B.”
“Well. Good luck. I hope you have some success. But it's…”
“A long shot. We know.” Mel smiled. “We're going to try to stay positive.”
“Right. Yes.” Bolton reached into his inside pocket and handed Janice some petrol coupons. “Thought these might come in handy. Along with this.” He produced a bottle of cognac from his briefcase.
Janice thanked him and threw her kitbag in the back, before climbing into the driver's seat. “C'mon Mel. Let's see what this baby can do.”
Bolton stood for a few moments as he watched the truck disappear into the distance. He shook his head slowly before making his way to Tilly and his ride back to Oxford.
*
It was taking Janice a little while to get used to their new vehicle. It shuddered alarmingly whenever she changed gear, the clutch pedal had a habit of sticking and the steering seemed all over the place. “I miss the bike,” she muttered. Still, she'd driven crappier cars on expeditions. She glanced at her passenger, who was gripping the doorframe, eyes squeezed shut. “Is it really that bad, sweetheart?”
“It's just a little… unpredictable in its movements.” Mel forced open her eyes. “I'm sorry, Jan. I'm just a little anxious today.”
“Well, we've got a lot to be anxious about.” Janice noted with some satisfaction that she appeared to be gaining more control over the pickup. “But let's try and relax for the journey anyway. You know what we're doing when we get there?”
“I think we should drive around for a bit. Get a sense of the landscape and where to start with this. Then I guess we can look for a place to camp.”
Janice nodded. “Sounds sensible. And let's hope and pray we get a vision, or a memory or something.”
*
The New Forest looked quite beautiful in the late Summer sun. Occasionally a wild pony was visible from the road, causing Mel to squeak with excitement. Janice noticed to her disappointment that a number of paths appeared to be closed off due to wartime activities, and she wondered if the expedition's already slim chance of success had become even less likely. She decided against voicing her fears for now, keen to avoid dampening their spirits before the search had even begun. Seeing a lay-by ahead, she pulled into it and killed the engine. “Okay. Let's try and orient ourselves. That sign we passed a few minutes ago said 15 miles to Southampton.”
“Right, which means that Xena and Gab might have headed right where we're sitting now, looking for these warriors.”
“They might have done. But we're going to need to be a bit more specific.” Janice spread a map of the forest on the dashboard. “So let's think. What would a bunch of warriors living in a forest need nearby?”
“Fresh water. But… looking at this, the place is covered with little rivers, streams… even some lakes.” Mel pulled a notebook from her bag. “So let's try and figure out where Gabrielle might have gone when she ran away with Hope. Ah, here we go… she took a horse and rode away from the fort. She believed that these forest spirits were protecting her. Anyway, after a time she traded the horse to a man she'd just met, in exchange for a small boat or raft. Then she hid the baby in a basket and trekked up a hill to throw Xena off the scent.”
“Okay. So we gotta few natural features to look for. And let's think about this. Gab had only given birth a coupla days before, right? So let's assume that she wasn't in much of a state to ride very far.”
“Good point. So, let's say we're looking for a site maybe a mile or two from a waterway that is wide enough to take a small boat but also calm enough for a baby in a Moses basket. Near a hill.” Mel scrutinised the map. “Well, it's so hard to see on this. But, it could be in this area” – she drew a circle – “or here” – another circle. “Maybe even here.”
“Hmm. Okay, let's start with the first one you said. Let's find a place to park up and pitch the tent.”
*
Mel couldn't help feeling a tiny bit disappointed with the extent to which the area was developed, with paved roads, signposted walking trails and even the occasional pub. She'd envisioned a pristine wilderness, not a venue for a glorified Sunday afternoon stroll. She decided to keep her disappointment to herself as she stood back to survey their little camp.
Janice had located a good spot a short distance from the road, and with the practised air of one who had set up countless camps on her expeditions, quickly pitched the tent, dug a fire pit and identified a suitable spot for bodily necessities. Mel had felt like a bit of a spare part during all this, but insisted on carrying water from a nearby stream. Janice nodded her thanks but sounded a word of warning. “Fine for washing, but boil it before drinking.”
“Of course.” Mel put her hands on her hips. “What now?”
“Let's take a walk around. See if we get any inspiration.”
*
Inspiration, it turned out, was sadly lacking. The Americans made their way to the waterway Mel had identified on the map, walked up a nearby hill and tried to envisage which way Gabrielle might have come. “Nothing's jumping out, “ Janice grumbled. “You'd think, if this was such a traumatic experience for both of us, there might be a memory stirring somewhere.”
“Well, come on Jan,” said Mel in a calm voice. “We've just got here.”
“That stuff Ares said. About Xena and Gab's souls being reborn in us. Do you believe it?”
Mel stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. “It's certainly not… what I was brought up to believe. Reincarnation and so on. But I felt Xena in me. In the tomb, and then again during all that Dahak business. How else could I use the chakram? So, yes. I think I do believe it, however crazy it seems.”
Janice thought back to the Salisbury dig, and her visceral reaction to some of the Dahak cult's paraphernalia, and knew that Mel was right. She marvelled at how different they both were to the ancient duo, and yet how alike. But another thing… “Where the hell is Ares, anyway? Might be helpful to get a clue from someone who was actually there when all this crap happened.” She paused, part of her hoping that the Greek war god might manifest right there and then to give them a clue. When nothing happens, she cursed under her breath and continued walking.
“I suppose he is the God of War. He must have plenty to do right now.”
“Yeah, you're right. Look, there's nothing here. Let's get back to the camp and get something to eat. Then we may as well check out that pub down the road.”
Dinner was slices of Spam, fried over the fire and served with bread. A slightly dreamy look came across Mel's face as she ate. “Look at us. Cooking our food over an open fire, eating in the open. Just like Xena and Gabrielle.”
“I expect they had something a bit better than Spam.” Janice sighed as she finished off the tasteless meal. “I'll try and catch us some fish tomorrow.”
“According to the scrolls, fishing was one of Xena's favourite pastimes.”
“In which case, perhaps you should have a go. I'm warning you, I'm pretty hopeless at it. Anyway, let's go get a drink.”
They climbed back in the pickup and drove the mile or so to the hostelry Janice had spotted earlier. It was a mild night, so they took a seat outside and sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their drinks and looking at the stars. Their peaceful evening was shattered, however, by the whine of airplane engines which built into the roar of a squadron of fighters, passing over the pub at what seemed an alarmingly low height.
A passing patron noticed their expressions, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the planes. “Hun bombing Southampton again, I expect. Nearly every night now.”
“Oh my. It's everywhere, isn't it?” Mel looked anxiously at her partner. “I think we've been a little isolated from all this in Oxford.”
“Huh. Yeah, wonder why he hasn't bombed it. Expect he will, at some stage.” Janice drained her drink. “Want another?”
“Erm, no thank you. Maybe we should just get back to the camp.” The proximity of the fighters had unnerved Mel, and she wanted to return to their base, where she could at least feel safe in Janice's arms.
As they bedded down for the night, a thought occurred to Janice. “Hey, Mel. Did X & G have a tent?”
“I don't think so. Well, none of the scrolls mention one. They just seemed to sleep out under the stars.”
“Hmm. Well, I suppose Greece has the weather for it. Bet they had some miserable nights when it did rain, though.”
“They had each other, so maybe it didn't matter.” Mel snuggled up to the archaeologist.
“Aw, you're such a mushball honey.” Janice kissed her partner on the cheek. “But I'm not sure I love ya enough to sleep out in a rainstorm!”
Mel shrieked in mock-outrage and slapped her friend with a pillow. Janice reacted by tickling the other woman, and they both collapsed, giggling, into their bedding.
CHAPTER TEN
Janice woke early the next morning, and headed straight to the nearby stream with her new fishing rod. It was a little cold, so she wore her leather jacket and fedora. A start as early as this was usually something to dread, but the thought of Mel's delight when she woke to fresh fish cooked on an open fire made it all worthwhile.
An hour and a half later, she packed up her angling gear in disgust. She'd reeled in nothing apart from weeds and the odd piece of junk. Cursing horribly, she stomped back to their camp, only to see a stranger approach. “Hello?”
“You can't camp here. This is private land!” The man was red in the face and apparently spoiling for a fight.
Janice shrugged. “Okay. We'll move on.”
The man spotted her fishing gear and launched a fresh tirade. “Do you have am angling permit, sir? This isn't open season for any Tom, Dick or Harry you know!”
“Sir?!” Janice removed her hat and shook out her long blonde hair. “Excuse me, who are you calling sir?”
The visitor took in Janice's hair and her obviously female curves and did a double take, quietly cursing his stupidity. “Right. Well. Do you have a permit, madam ?”
“No. I don't. I had no idea I needed one.” Janice ground her teeth. Not this crap again . “Anyway, don't sweat it, buster. I didn't catch a thing.”
“You shouldn't even be trying! I'll have the law on you!”
At that very moment a bleary-eyed Mel emerged from the tent. “Is everything alright? I heard some noise.”
The man spun to face the tall woman. “Your friend here has been angling without a permit. And you're not permitted to camp here.”
“That's right honey. He's gonna have me arrested for failing to catch any fish.”
Mel took a deep breath. “Sir, we are very sorry if we have broken any of your bye laws. We are Americans, and this is all very new to us. I'm sure the authorities have more important things to be concerned about.”
The man turned on his heel and stormed off towards the road. “Just make sure you're gone in the next hour.”
Janice made a rude gesture at the departing figure. “Well excuse us. We're just trying to save your goddamned country.”
“Oh come on, Jan. It's not worth getting upset about. We can probably find a better spot closer to the next place anyway.”
They packed up the camp and drove towards the second location. Janice grumbled under her breath, but otherwise remained silent. A new campsite was identified and set up, after which Janice finally relaxed and sat on a rock to have a smoke. Mel was standing nearby, holding hair pins in her mouth as she gazed into a compact mirror . “About the camping… I know I said I liked the idea of living like our ancestors… but…”
“If we don't hit paydirt by tomorrow, we're checking into a boarding house for the night.” Janice grinned at her friend. “I've stayed in much more basic situations, trust me. But not if I didn't have to. Some of those digs in Macedonia, Greece, Egypt… you had to make the best of a bit of canvas and a coupla buckets. This place, on the other hand, we're almost in the suburbs! So let's not make it worse than it needs to be.” She sniffed under her arms. “Yeah, I'd better change my shirt. Poor old Xena and Gab. They musta reeked! No baths in those days.”
“Hmm.” Mel considered this for a moment before shaking her head. “From what I've established from the scrolls so far, they were actually both very keen on bathing. In proper baths when they came across them – which seemed to be more often than we might think – and in lakes and rivers the rest of the time.”
“Well, there ya go.” Janice gave a silent apology to her ancestor before removing the map from the pickup. “Okay, let's give this place a whirl.”
*
The rest of the day was spent in surveying the surrounding area. They trekked to the waterway identified on the map, and both agreed that it looked to be a suitable place for both a small boat and a Moses basket. The hill nearby was steep enough to have a sheer drop on one side from which Gabrielle could have pretended to throw the child. There was even a cave which Xena could have investigated after she thought she heard a baby's cries.
‘Whaddya think?” asked Janice, after they paused for a rest at the summit of the hill.
“I think this might be it.” Mel mused as she consulted the map. “Feels strange to be standing where they were – maybe – all those years ago.”
“Yeah.” Janice closed her eyes. The location was making her feel oddly uncomfortable. Was a long buried memory stirring, or was she imagining things? “Okay. So let's say this is it. We reckon she travelled a coupla miles, max. Let's split up and see if anything jumps out. Rendezvous at the camp in – four hours?”
The two friends parted company for the afternoon, with Mel heading East and Janice South West. Both had been a little reluctant to leave the other, but the urgency of the mission made the decision to separate the obvious choice.
Janice trekked through the forest, trying her best to ignore the faint sense of unease that she was feeling. This area seemed wilder than the place they'd been the previous day, with what paths there were narrower and overgrown in places. She removed her hunting knife from its hiding place on her calf, and took to hacking through the undergrowth in search of… what exactly? The warriors' encampment would have been made of wood if not wattle and daub. No trace was likely to survive. Perhaps the sword could have been buried with one of the warriors and still be in existence, maybe in a barrow somewhere? But how on earth could she hope to find it? Janice groaned. The fact that Bolton gave them any help at all on this fool's errand showed how desperate he and the government he represented had become.
Mel found herself in a densely wooded area, which seemed oddly dark and gloomy despite the bright sunshine they'd enjoyed earlier. Shivering, she wished she'd brought a jacket. Weird looking tendrils of mist were visible around her feet and she fancied them grabbing her lower legs. Fighting the rising sense of panic that threatened to take hold of her, she reached down to her hip and felt the reassuring cool metal of the chakram.
In Mel's heightened state of alertness, she became aware of a very soft crunching sound, as if a person nearby was attempting to walk silently but was betrayed by the dry vegetation, acorns and pinecones that littered the path. She gripped the chakram and whirled round, ready to threaten whoever was following her. However, she saw nothing. No one. Not a living thing. Just thicker fog and a weird noise which to Mel's ears sounded like human voices, whispering in a long dead language.
Feeling utterly unnerved, she continued to plough through the trees, until she heard a loud shriek coming from her left. She grabbed the chakram and aimed it at a large tree in the vicinity, not wishing to harm whoever or whatever it was, but keen to show that she was not someone to be trifled with.
Something shot out of the undergrowth and flew up within inches of Mel's face. She screamed in shock yet still mechanically held up her hand to catch the returning weapon. She looked at the thing again as it flew off towards a large embankment. One of the pheasants Janice was so keen on. A false alarm and yet the panic had now totally engulfed Mel. She turned and ran back in the direction of the camp, stumbling blindly through the fog.
A dishevelled and tearful Mel arrived back at the camp a while later. She was torn between disappointment that Janice was not there, and relief that the adventurer was not around to see her foolishness. Taking ragged breaths, she lit a fire before hooking a pot of water over it. “Tea,” she murmured to herself. “Tea will help.”
Tea did indeed help, especially tea with a dash of cognac, and Mel slowly felt her heart rate returning to normal. She looked up to see a tiny pony peering at her from just outside the camp perimeter. Pleased to see the animal, she pulled an apple out of their bag of supplies and made her way towards it, carefully and slowly. She balanced the fruit on her outstretched hand and stood stock still until the pony trotted up and shyly took the offering. Charmed, Mel watched him eat it. She thought about getting another when she heard an exasperated noise from behind her.
“Giving our supplies away to a damned horse?”
“Oh, come on Janice, he's gorgeous.” Mel turned to look at Janice, who was standing with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. Her demeanour changed as soon as she saw the dark haired woman.
“Jeez Mel, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost!”
Mel put her hand to her face self-consciously. “I took a bit of a turn when I was exploring. I'm alright now.”
“Okay,” Janice said, warily but prepared to take her friend's statement at face value for now. “Look, I'm just gonna take the shotgun and try and catch us something for dinner. Let's swap stories after.”
*
Janice's hunt proved unsuccessful. The one rabbit she tracked took off just as she was aiming at it. Cursing, she shouldered the gun and walked back to the camp.
Mel looked up. “Any luck?”
“Nope.” Janice flopped down by the fire and leaned back against a tree. “What we got instead?”
Mel rifled through the supplies bag. “Bread – bit stale now – marmite. Crackers. Some fruit. Spam.”
Janice groaned. “Ah, Christ, not more Spam. Where's your horsey friend gone? I could eat him right now.”
Mel tutted. “You will not. Anyway, he trotted off to join the rest of the herd down that direction.”
“Crackers it is, then. Oh, and some cognac. That will make up for it.”
The two friends sat by the fire, discussing what the day's experiences and swigging cognac from the bottle. Both were embarrassed at the irrational feelings of discomfort they had experienced, particularly Mel, but neither could offer a logical explanation for them. After a time Mel suggested they call it a night, and they bedded down in the tent. Both women were on the verge of sleep when something sounding like an unearthly cackle rent the air.
Janice reached for her revolver and Mel for the chakram but, once the weapons were acquired, both sat where they were, paralysed with fear and indecision. There was no repeat of the noise, and after what felt like an eternity but which was in reality probably less than fifteen minutes, they gradually relaxed enough to lie down again, if not sleep.
“Probly just a critter of some kind,” Janice muttered, hoping to convince herself as much as anyone.
“Janice.” Mel had adopted a very serious tone. “I think there is something in these woods. And I think we're very close to finding what we came here for.”
“Really?” Janice propped her head up on one hand. “How come?”
“It's a feeling. I can't explain it and so I know it sounds a little crazy. But I think we need to go back to where I was earlier today.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dawn broke, and Janice lit a fire before heating water for tea and washing. For her part, Mel identified the least stale slices of bread before impaling them on forks for toasting. Breakfast complete, they washed, dressed and sorted their supplies for the day.
Janice's daypack contained a canteen of water; some crackers and apples; a flashlight; and a hip flask filled with whisky. Her revolver, she secured in her inside pocket and her hunting knife was in its usual home, strapped to her left calf.
Mel packed her maps, a compass and a hairbrush. “Oh, I look such a fright Jan,” she moaned as she gazed at her reflection in her compact mirror.
“Ah, ya look like a doll, honey,” Janice said without looking up. “You taking the chakram?”
“Yes. I think it's safer that way.” Mel took a deep breath before stretching and adopting her determined face. “Alright. Let's go.”
They retraced Mel's steps from the previous day, and before too long found themselves where the pheasant had spooked the Southerner. The area was gloomy and traces of mist were visible, although not to the same extent as the day before. Janice surveyed their surroundings. “Bit grim, isn't it? No wonder you got a fright with that bird.”
Mel could feel her cheeks colouring. “I know. I'm so embarrassed! But, it wasn't just the bird. I thought I could hear… voices. Someone following me, but then there was no one!”
“Well…” Janice touched a nearby tree, which seemed to be of a different variety to any of the others she'd seen elsewhere in the forest. Its trunk was also coated in a variety of mosses and lichens, all of which were oddly slimy to the touch. “There is something odd about this place, sweetheart.”
They continued to make their way through the woods, skirting round a gully full of wicked looking rocks – doubtless a hazard for hikers in fog. A little further along they became aware of a distinctive looking rocky outcrop looming out of the trees. “Whaddya reckon to that place, Mel?”
“I think we should look more closely. It looks… unusual.” Mel walked purposefully towards the edifice, before giving a cry of alarm as she felt the ground beneath her give way. She gasped in pain and relief as Janice's iron grip took her upper arm and pulled her to safety. “Oh my goodness! What just happened?”
On seeing that her partner was unharmed, Janice squatted down to investigate the ground beside them. “Well I'll be damned.”
“What is it?” Mel asked anxiously.
“Looks like ya stumbled on some kinda underground passageway. Guess the wooden hatch rotted away.” Janice lulled away what was left of the covering and shone her flashlight into the hole. A stone path was visible, sloping very gently underground and in the direction of the overhang. “Look at that. A secret chamber.”
“Oh my goodness!” Mel squeaked again, leaving Janice to wonder if the Southerner was capable of any stronger exclamations. “Are we going to explore it?”
“Ya know, I should say no. We'll secure the site and wait for a proper dig team to come with ropes and blocks and all sortsa gear. But…”
“But?”
“But I'm Mad Dog Covington and I'm on the verge of another ground breaking discovery.” Janice grinned and winked at her friend. “So, to hell with all that. C'mon Melinda Pappas. Let's turn some more myth into history.”
With that, Janice climbed through the hole where the hatch had been and made her way along the narrow passage. Mel followed, finding it necessary to bend slightly to accommodate her tall frame. The flashlight illuminated the passageway, which ultimately opened up into a circular room perhaps twenty feet in diameter. “Reckon we're right under that outcrop,” muttered Janice as she entered the chamber.
Behind her, Mel gasped. “Look!”
They were in what was clearly a burial chamber. Skeletons lay on raised earthen platforms, many with weapons, pieces of armour or jewellery on display. What was attracting Mel's attention however was not the catacomb itself but the large rock in the centre and the corroded blade sticking out of it.
“Oh my God,” breathed Janice, trying hard not to sink to her knees. “I can't believe it.” She raised her voice. “Is this another goddamned game, Ares?”
When no answer came, Mel gently rested her hand on the blonde's shoulders. “I think this is the real thing, honey.”
“Christ.” Janice bit her lip. “How do we get the damned thing out of the stone?”
Mel circled the stone while Janice gripped the flashlight in shaky hands, trying to illuminate the artifact as best she could. The translator paused when she spotted a worn inscription. “Bring the light here, Jan. There's something carved in the rock.”
“What's it say?”
“It's in Latin. ‘Whoever pulls this from the stone saves our islands.' There's some other stuff too, but it's so worn away I can't read it.”
“There's something else on the walls over here.” Janice shone the light on what was left of a fresco. “A picture… looks like a dark haired woman pulling the sword out of the stone. And some more stuff. I dunno, fighting, soldiers…”
“Xena?” asked Mel excitedly. “Fighting the Romans? Helping defeat Caesar's invasion?”
“Maybe. There's not much left of it. Let's look at the sword again.” Janice examined the weapon, taking care not to touch it. “Early Iron Age, by the looks. Unusual design.”
“It's still in the stone,” Mel said, suddenly.
“Yeah, well you said Xena put it back.”
“Yes, but,” Mel spoke with just a hint of impatience. “Does this mean it just stayed there? That there was no later warrior to remove it and defeat the Saxons?”
“Right, gotcha. Well… I guess not. I mean, the Saxons won, didn't they? And the Romans before that… a century or so after Xena helped beat them.”
“Oh, how sad.” Mel sounded close to tears. “It's been here all this time. Waiting for someone who could save the country. Save the people.”
“Look… I dunno whether this ancient sword is gonna be much use against heavy artillery. But let's see what we can do to help. Can we move the whole thing, stone and all?”
Both struggled with the artifact for a time but to no avail. Mel stood up and rubbed her back. “It's not budging.”
“Whew,” Janice used her jacket sleeve to wipe her brow. “Even Xena couldn't move that thing. Any ideas what we do next?” When no answer came, she looked over to see the other woman standing stock still, a distant expression on her face. “Mel? You okay?”
Mel breathed deeply and tried to stay in control of herself. She could feel the curious sensation that she'd experienced only twice before - in the Macedonian tomb and the time Janice had been wrongly arrested for murder - bubbling up inside again. It was unmistakable and it meant that Xena was, somehow, once again within her. She did her best to relax and attempt to read what her ancestor and the former vessel for her soul was trying to tell her. Of course. Now I understand . With a new sense of purpose she turned to face the artifact and gripped the hilt of the sword in her right hand. Somewhere, Janice was calling out in alarm. She ignored it. She ignored everything except what her soul was telling her about the task in hand.
“Wait, wait! Mel! What you doing? You can't… you might break… oh, Jesus Christ almighty.” Janice watched in astonishment as her friend told hold of the hilt and pulled. Excalibur slid out of the rock like the proverbial knife through butter.
Disoriented and blinking in confusion, Mel looked curiously at the ancient weapon in her hand. “What just happened?”
“What just happened?! Ya pulled Excalibur outta the stone, that's what just happened!” Janice was whooping. “Guess ya're gonna save these islands now!”
“Oh,” said Mel in an embarrassed voice, gazing at the blade in wonder. “I think I must have had a little help from Xena.”
A slow, deliberate hand clapping caused both women to whirl round to face the entrance. Stood there, with an amused look on her face, was Ingrid Taylor. She looked a little different to the last time they had seen her… her platinum blonde hair was loose and cascading wildly down her back and shoulders. The horn rimmed glasses were gone and the shapeless beige outfit replaced by a tailored dark suit which accentuated her curves. An expensive looking leather handbag completed the look. Of more immediate interest, however, was the small pistol in her right hand.
Mel decided to take the lead. “Miss Taylor! Can we help you?”
The blonde gave a mirthless laugh. “Help me? You certainly can, Miss Pappas. By handing over that piece of junk you're holding.”
“Hey!” Janice yelled. “This is our goddamned discovery, lady. Back the hell off.”
“Urgh,” sighed Ingrid. “Miss Pappas. How do you tolerate her. So vulgar.”
“Do you mind?” On one level Mel knew she should be more afraid of the gun toting woman in front of them. But at that point she was feeling more annoyed than frightened. “We don't appreciate your rudeness. Now, please excuse us. We need to leave now.”
“Oh, no no no. I don't think so.” Ingrid put her head to one side as if contemplating something. “You two have exhausted me. Following you around. Talking to your acquaintances. But it's amazing what people will tell a sweet librarian, isn't? Take your fence, dear Doctor. Happy to tell me how you kindly offered to track down this sword which had been causing him so many problems. Or that silly American pretending to be a diplomat. A little bit of flirting and he told me all about your antics in… Macedonia, was it? And what about dear Tilly, pouring her heart about her boring driving job for some ‘Professor' who, I have to say, doesn't feature on any official university records.
“Oh, and I almost forgot. Those boring old dons in that horrid pub you're so keen on. Writing their silly stories. Happy to tell me all about the two American ladies who try to give them ideas for their plots. Daft ideas, they said, about women warriors in ancient times. But it all fitted together. I knew it was worth cutting that old fool's brakes. Getting to see who was ordering the interesting books.” With this, Ingrid threw back her head and cackled maniacally.
Mel and Janice exchanged looks. So that was the noise they'd heard the previous night.
“Anyway,” Ingrid continued, “That's enough about my brilliant sleuthing. Hand over the sword. My patrons are becoming impatient.”
“Patrons?” yelled Janice. “You're a goddamn Nazi agent?”
“Ah, yet more vulgarity. I'm strictly freelance, my dear. I work for the highest bidder and yes, in this case that winning bidder just happened to be based in Berlin. I don't worry about petty nationalism. I'm a citizen of the world, after all. The money our Teutonic friends are paying me will set me up nicely for life. And trust me, the first thing I'll be doing is getting off this dreary little island.”
With an incoherent roar of fury, Janice launched herself at the platinum blonde. To her surprise, the woman reacted with complete calm, sidestepping slightly before grabbing Janice in a neck hold. Ingrid was unusually strong and Janice struggled in vain against the vice like grip. “You silly, silly girl. No subtlety. Telegraphing every move. I'm surprised she's survived so long. Aren't you, Melinda?” She jabbed the pistol into the archaeologist's exposed threat.
“Let her go,” commanded Mel.
“Oh, I don't think so, Miss Pappas. Not until you give me the sword.”
“Don't listen to her Mel. She'll kill us anyway. She's crazy enough!” Janice shouted.
“Oh, I'm getting so tired of you!” Ingrid smashed the pistol across the shorter woman's face. “Urgh, now you're bleeding on my suit. She transferred the gun to the hand also securing Janice and began rooting around in her handbag for handkerchief.
Mel seized the opportunity and hurled the chakram at the crazed librarian. To her horror, she saw the blonde simply raise her hand and catch the weapon mid-flight, a faintly amused expression on her face. “Well, I never. What a fascinating little toy. And so sharp!” Ingrid slipped her pistol into a holster at her side and brought the edge of the chakram to Janice's throat. “All the better to cut you with!” She giggled at her own joke.
“Wait,” Mel said, as calmly as she was able. “Miss Taylor, please stop this”
“It's up to you, sweetie. You can give me that piece of rusting metal or you can watch me slit your irritating little friend's throat. And then I'll take the sword anyway.”
Mel hesitated, torn between her desire to free Janice from the maniac's grip and her commitment to the greater good.
Sensing the American's dilemma, Ingrid adopted a matter of fact tone. “Come now, Melinda. You're an educated woman. A rational person. You know this sword is just an old weapon. The business with the stone – an unusual weapons rack! Maybe even a Bronze Age practical joke. The sword has no magical powers, but if some superstitious idiots are prepared to pay for it, who cares?”
“Don't listen to her!” groaned Janice again, struggling to no avail against Ingrid's iron grip.
The crazed blonde drew the chakram against her captive's throat causing a thin red line to appear. “Last chance, Melinda.”
Enough. Mel balanced the sword on her palms and spoke in what she thought to be a pacifying tone. “Very well, Miss Taylor. Let Janice go and the blade's all yours.”
Still gripping Janice's neck, Ingrid backed up the passageway. “No further. Put the blade down there and back away. Keep going until I say.”
Already questioning her judgement, Mel did as instructed. Apparently satisfied that the Southerner was far enough away, Ingrid released Janice and shoved her forward violently in one smooth motion. The archaeologist landed face down on the floor of the chamber, and Mel rushed forward to check on her.
As she did so, Ingrid reached into her bag and threw something into the chamber before grabbing the sword with her free hand. Laughing maniacally, she threw the chakram and dislodged a fall of rocks into the entrance. “Night, night, pretties!”
“What the hell?” Janice pulled herself up. “That crazy broad! Oh crap.” With that, she barrelled into Mel and pushed her down against the far wall of the chamber, doing her best to shield the taller woman with her body.
“Janice! Janice, what are you doing?”
“Hold on sweetheart! Hold on!” Janice screwed her eyes shut as she waited for the inevitable…
…Which never came. After a few minutes, she cautiously opened one eye and turned her head. “Hmmph. Didn't go off?”
“What are you talking about Jan? What's happening?” Mel watched, baffled, as her friend stepped, cautiously, towards the object Ingrid had tossed at them.
“Grenade,” said Janice. “Some bit of junk from the Great War, by the looks. Guess we got lucky… oh shit! It's still live!” Quickly, she grabbed the thing and hurled it at the rocks currently blocking their exit. “Mel! Get down!”
Both women lay on the floor and covered their heads, as a loud boom rang out in the enclosed space and dust and debris flew everywhere.
“Woah,” mutters Janice after a while. “Lucky escape, huh?”
Mel looked up to see that the grenade blast had cleared a hole through the fallen rocks. “Um, I don't know about lucky, Janice. That horrid woman has Excalibur! And we can't fit through that hole! And oh I must look a fright!” Realising how she must sound, Mel clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I'm so sorry Janice! I was scared! But you're the one covered in blood! Are you…”
“Relax, honey, I'm fine. Anything with the face always looks much worse than it is. And these are little rocks, we'll clear ‘em away no trouble.”
“Oh, alright. That's good. Thank you.” Mel snivelled a little then stood up straight. Get a grip, Melinda. Or Xena, or whoever you are .
“Ah, you're not gonna be thanking me in a second darling.” Janice's green eyes twinkled. “Gimme your cardigan.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Janice used her hunting knife to slice off the sleeves of Mel's cardigan and then halve each one to provide some protection for their hands as both women worked to dislodge enough of the fallen stones to enable escape through the hole. Once done, they made their way to the surface, savouring the sunlight on their faces and the solid ground beneath their feet.
“Well,” said Mel at length, “What now?”
“I guess we get back to camp, grab the truck and try to figure out which way Ingrid went.” Janice sighed. “She's got a forty minute head start on us. I'm not hopeful.”
They retraced their steps in silence until they reached the gully and Mel gave a little cry of shock. At the bottom of the depression lay Ingrid Taylor, her body twisted into an unnatural shape.
Janice peered over the edge. The gully was not very deep, but Taylor appeared to have fallen awkwardly. “Hm. Looks like she's a goner. I'm gonna check it out – I can see a route down I think. You stay here in case I take a tumble as well.”
The route Janice had identified was a steep slope on the opposite side of the gully. Before attempting the climb down she found a long stick to use as a makeshift walking pole, and was surprised how natural and comfortable it felt in her hand. “Huh. Memories of Gabby,” she muttered as she picked her way down the narrow path.
On reaching the bottom, she drew her revolver and approached the figure before her with caution. But she need not have worried. Ingrid's neck was broken and in any case the lethal rocks on which she had landed made survival an impossibility. Janice examined the area around the body and saw to her dismay that the fall had also shattered Excalibur. The sword lay in seven pieces on the ground. Carefully, reverentially, Janice collected the remnants of the artifact and secured them in her backpack. She also picked up the chakram, which was of course undamaged, taking care not to slice her hands with its lethally sharp edge. Settling the pack on her back, she began the climb back up.
Mel greeted her partner with a hug. “What do you think happened?”
“Hard to say for sure. My guess is she was running and not looking where she was going. That gully kinda comes up on you.” Janice shook her head. “Can't say I'm too sorry, but nasty way to go.”
“And Excalibur?”
“In bits. Can't see how it's much use to anyone, now. Such a shame, but it was so fragile… anyway, here's your chakram.”
“Thanks.” Mel attached the weapon to the hook on her belt. “How do you think she was able to catch it like that and use it?”
“That was weird.” Janice scratched her jaw. “The scrolls are pretty clear that the weapon was unique to Xena. You can only use it without cutting your hand off because you… ya know, are her. Kinda.”
“Well…” Mel racked her brains for an explanation. “There was one scroll, the one about the warrior woman we were talking about the other night. She was conducting some sort of vendetta against Xena and went on to murder Gabrielle's husband.”
“Callisto? She was one crazy broad.”
“That's the one. And she was, indeed quite crazy. But at one point she caught the chakram and was able to use it. So maybe some people just have that skill. Although…” Mel hesitated. “Now I think about it, Gabrielle's description of Callisto's physical appearance… well, let's just say it's not too dissimilar to the late Miss Taylor.”
“Huh. This is getting weirder. Come on, let's get back to camp and figure out what the hell we're going to tell Bolton. “Something like, ‘Do ya want the good news or the bad news'…”
*
Back at the camp, it was starting to rain. They quickly packed up the tent and both women clambered into the front of the truck. Janice turned the ignition and listened to the engine start, sputter and die. Puzzled, she tried again. Same result. Third time. Same. “What the…” She got out and opened the bonnet. “Huh.”
“What is it, Jan?” Mel leaned out of the passenger window, a concerned look on her face.
“Not sure.” The archaeologist walked around the pickup before noting that the fuel cap was unscrewed. “Wouldja look at that. Psycho dame.”
Mel got out and came round to stand next to her friend. “Ingrid tampered with the truck?”
“Looks like it.” Janice sighed and pushed her hat back on her head. “Sugar in the tank, maybe. I'm not sure. Crazy broad musta used a month's ration. Or maybe something else. Anyways, it's not driveable.”
“Urgh.” Mel shuddered. “Imagine her creeping around our camp and we didn't even know.”
“Seems like she was pretty darn good at creeping around and getting information. Well. It didn't work out for her in the end.” Janice pulled her kitbag out of the back of the pickup. “Let's carry what we can. There's a pub a coupla miles down the road. Try and call Mr B from there.”
Mel found her rainjacket and tied a plastic scarf over her hair in a desperate attempt to keep it dry. Janice, meanwhile, ditched all unnecessary gear from her kitbag including, regretfully, the cognac. Between them they were able to carry the majority of their clothes and personal items, along with the remains of Excalibur. Janice also retrieved her shotgun and fishing rod, shouldering them along with the kitbag. “C'mon, let's roll. Forty five minutes, max.”
It was a very wet forty five minutes, but at last they came upon the pub Janice had recalled from their drive from the original campsite the previous morning. Mel did her best to put her embarrassment at how bedraggled they looked to the back of her mind as she pushed open the pub door.
The handful of lunchtime patrons looked up at the new arrivals, and a faint ripple of laughter emanated from one table. Janice glared at the drinkers at said table and matched up to them, tipping her head forwards as she did so to allow the water pooled in the brim of her fedora to splash all over them. “Oops,” she smirked, before stomping up to the bar, where a bald middle aged man with a sallow face, presumably the landlord, put down the glass he was wiping and looked at his new customer with interest. Taking in the shotgun and fishing gear, he grunted. “You been poaching, miss?”
“No. Goddamnit no!” Janice slammed a fist into the bar. “What the hell is it with this country? You're in the middle of a world war and all anyone's bothered about is whether someone has a damned angling permit.”
“Alright, calm down, miss.” The bartender slung the towel over his shoulder. “Just thought you might have something to sell, that's all.”
“Well. We don't. But we had a few mishaps out hiking and we really need to make a call. Do you have a phone we could use?”
“Not for customer use, I'm afraid.” The man shook his head. “Do you want a drink, anyway?”
Janice pulled a ten shilling note from her pocket. “Sure. Gimme a beer and a gin and tonic. And this note might change your mind about your phone policy.”
“Hmmph. You got that one right.” The man opened the bar to allow Janice through. “This way, miss.”
A couple of hours later, Mel and Janice sat outside the pub, on seats sheltered from the weather by an overhang. Bolton had assured them he was on his way, but it would take some time to drive down. The pub had closed for the afternoon, but the landlord had been happy for them to wait for their ride in the outside seating area. Both women had attempted to clean off the worst of the dust and grime in the pub toilets. Looking in the mirror above the sink, Janice had been a little surprised at quite how battered her face appeared. Still, she told herself, no harm done.
“Excalibur,” said Mel suddenly. “I have an idea.”
“You do?”
“I do. But I've no idea if it will work, let alone if Mr Bolton will go for it.” Mel bit her lip and folded her hands in her lap, before explaining in a hushed tone her proposal. “Oh Jan, it seems foolish to play along with this superstitious stuff…”
“Hell, the sword's in pieces anyway. What else could anyone do with it? Gotta be worth a try. And I reckon Bolton's desperate enough to try anything at this stage.” Janice lit a cheroot before fishing her hipflask out of a pocket. She took a swig and passed it to her friend. “C'mon, Mel. Get some Dutch courage inside ya.”
Mel took a longer drink from the flask than was usual for her, and grimaced as the liquor burned its way down her throat. “Oh, that's a little strong.”
“Just what ya need.” Janice took another swig before returning the flask to its pocket. “It's been a helluva day so far.”
“I didn't know what to do. I know you didn't want me to give her the sword, but I was afraid she would… kill you! Oh, Jan, when she ran the chakram along your neck…” Mel choked back a sob.
“I know. And she was crazy enough to slit my throat, no question about it. And it all worked out okay in the end. At least in the sense that we got outta there in one piece.” Janice took a long drag from her cheroot. “The grenade gave me a bit of a shock, mind you.”
“You showed great presence of mind, Jan. I thought you were very brave.”
“Huh. I was just thinking that if I'd been really brave I'd a thrown myself over the grenade, rather than over you!”
“Well, I'm very glad you didn't.” Mel tutted. “I would not have wanted to be covered in pieces of Janice Covington!”
Janice laughed and stubbed out her stogie. “This Callisto thing. That was weird. Do you reckon it's just a coincidence?”
Mel shrugged. “I just don't know. Strange that she could catch the chakram. Maybe we're fated to run into her every lifetime, as well as each other.”
“Christ, I hope not! One aspect of the scrolls I could definitely live without repeating!”
Their discussion was interrupted by the sound of a car engine and Bolton's vehicle swung into view. As the car pulled up, Mel noted to her surprise that he was in the driver's seat.
Bolton stepped out of the car. “Ladies. Good afternoon.” He took a closer look at the women and frowned. “My goodness. You really have been in the wars, as my old mother would say. Dr Covington, have you been attacked?”
“Yeah. Well, ya should see the other dame.”
“Other ‘dame'? What in blazes has been going on?”
“Ingrid Taylor,” Mel helpfully filled in. “Lady from the Bodleian Library. She's dead.”
“Dead!” Bolton was taken aback. “Oh, is this another murder charge I'm going to have to make disappear?”
“Relax, Mr B. That crazy lady met a fatal accident. Broke her neck falling into a gully. We found her after we'd used her faulty grenade to blast our way outta an ancient burial chamber. But we'll fill you in on the way.”
Bolton stood with his mouth wide open until Mel smiled sweetly and moved to change the subject. “Anyway. We found what we came for.”
“I… had assumed so from the rather cryptic telephone call I received from Dr Covington. But where…”
“Here.” Janice held up the bag with the remains of Excalibur. “It's in bits.”
“Oh.” Bolton looked crestfallen. “Well, I suppose at least it's not in the hands of the enemy.”
“Keep ya chin up, Mr Bolton. Mel has a plan, which we'll tell ya about in the car.” Janice stashed their bags and her hunting and fishing gear in the boot. “How come you're driving yourself, anyway?”
“Ah.” Bolton shook his head. “Tilly told me she wanted to leave just after she'd dropped you off the other day, actually. She's supposed to give four weeks notice, but she was taking a job in a munitions factory and, well, that seems rather more important than driving around some washed up old civil servant. So I said she could go straightaway.”
“Yeah, she was saying something about that when she drove us.” Janice paused. “Ya know what kinda munitions?”
“Aircraft. So, they need all the help they can get.” Bolton held open one of the car back doors to allow his passengers in. “Near her family in Banbury, I believe.”
“Mr Bolton. I do believe we should head towards Banbury.” Mel got comfortable in her seat and smiled as he closed the door. “We will explain everything en route.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the long journey north, the Americans filled Bolton in on Ingrid Taylor's treachery and her methods of obtaining information.
“So she was a German agent, then?” Bolton was curious. “Family connections, boyfriend… what?”
“Not an agent, no. Just someone happy to work for the highest bidder.” Mel bit her lip. “Freelance, she said. What did she call herself, Jan?”
“Citizen of the world,” Janice spat out. “What a load of bull.”
“I can't believe Tilly was so indiscreet.” Bolton sighed. “Hasn't she seen the posters? ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives' and so on?”
“Well, it wasn't just Tilly,” reasoned Mel. “She's been talking to – or eavesdropping on – a whole range of people. Us. Janice's contacts. Even Professor Tolkien and his friends.”
“She was a piece a work.” Janice muttered. “But, the good news is that her life was the only one lost by careless talk in this case.”
“Mm, good point.” Bolton paused before changing the subject. “This artifact. You're sure you want to do this? If you're right and it is Excalibur… this could be the archaeological event of the century.”
“It's in bits,” said Janice. “And we'd rather it got to do what it was forged for in the first place. Ya know, defending these islands. Better than sitting in a goddamned museum case, anyway. Especially if it's one of Herr Hitler's museums. Imagine it! The British Museum with a goddamn swastika hanging over it!”
Mel interjected. “Mr Bolton… we have no idea if this will work. There's no rational explanation for it. But I think we should try it.”
“Well. It can't do any harm, I suppose. Just need to convince whoever's in charge when we get there. But my ID usually does it. And if not… well, I'll get the Prime Minister on the line. I think he'd be happy to be interrupted for your latest adventure.”
Once they arrived at the outskirts of Banbury, locating the factory proved easier than it might have been as Bolton recalled the address from the reference he'd written for Tilly. A short while later they pulled up outside of a nondescript building nestled in amongst warehouses and scrap metal yards. A security guard emerged from a booth by the gate. “Can I help you?”
“You may. Edward Bolton, Ministry of War.” Bolton flashed his credentials. “I need to see whoever is in charge. Urgently.”
The guard nodded and pressed an intercom button to announce the visitors. “Go straight ahead. Someone will meet you by the main doors.”
A young woman greeted Bolton and his companions. She did a double take at the sight of the two Americans, but refrained from any comment and led the visitors down a short corridor to an office. “Mr Anderson, the General Manager, will see you now.”
Inside the cramped and cluttered office sat an older man with a greying moustache. He looked at the arrivals with some alarm. “Mr Bolton, I presume. And these ladies are…”
“These ladies are experts from Oxford University who have been working to develop materials to aid in the war effort. They have identified a substance which they believe may have a dramatic impact on the effectiveness of aircraft ammunition.”
“Oh yes?” The manager suddenly appeared very interested. “Well, the foundry is melting down the materials for the next batch…”
“Wonderful.” Mel stepped forward and gave the manager her disarming smile. “The material is highly experimental. But we could perhaps try it right away?”
“Well. I don't see why not. Right now, we're ready to try anything.” Anderson stood. “Follow me, please.”
The foundry was housed in a separate building a short walk across a concrete yard. The manager pointed to a large box of goggles at the entrance. “You'll need to wear those.”
Inside, the wave of heat was overwhelming. Seeing his guests' reaction, the manager smiled. “Just take a moment to get used to it.” He gestured at the machines and the workers scurrying around. “Been running 24 hours, every day, this last week. Three shifts a day.”
“Very well,” said Mel. “I think we are probably alright to continue now.”
“So, what do we do with this stuff?” Anderson asked.
“It just needs to be melted down with all the other materials.” Mel looked at the vat of molten metal ahead. “It can just go in here.”
Janice handed Mel the bag containing Excalibur, marvelling at her friend's composure. “Go on Mel. I reckon you should do this.”
Mel thanked her friend and approached the crucible with some caution. Carefully, gently, she removed each piece from the bag and tossed them one by one into the swirling molten metal, whispering a prayer as she did so. When all seven had been consigned to the flames, she turned and nodded at Anderson. “All done.”
He looked puzzled. “I couldn't really see what that was. It just looked like little…”
“Highly experimental, as I say,” said Mel briskly.
“Let's hope it's a success.” Bolton reached out and shook Anderson's hand. “Many thanks. Now, we should let you get on.”
*
The journey back to Oxford felt somewhat anticlimactic. The legendary artifact had been found and destroyed within the space of a few hours. The idea that its alleged mystical powers might have any impact on the ability of the Royal Air Force to defend the country seemed far fetched. Conversation focused instead on practical matters and Bolton promised to make all necessary arrangements for the recovery of Ingrid Taylor's remains, as well as sending someone to collect the pickup and salvage the supplies left in it. The burial chamber he intended to have sealed, considering that the stone with the inscription might cause excitement in anyone finding it.
Back in Jericho, Janice breathed a sigh of relief as she opened the front door. “Bath, now, I think.”
“Mm, yes I think we'll both feel better afterwards.” Mel walked into the kitchen and groaned. “Not much here for dinner I'm afraid.”
“Well, I'm starving,” Janice called from the landing. “Let's get cleaned up and go get some fish and chips from somewhere.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan.”
“I've told ya before, I know how to treat a gal.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next few weeks were a seemingly never ending waiting game. Both women continued to work on their text about the scrolls and to prepare for the new term's lectures and tutorials. Janice spent her evenings rabbiting while Mel did her crossword puzzles before meeting up for a drink in one of Oxford's many hostelries. At nights they lay together, sometimes making love with a sense of urgency, that their world might change forever at any moment. Other times they simply held each other, willing their love to protect them. Their focus, however, was on the war and in particular on the heroics of the RAF in what some were already calling the Battle of Britain.
Janice read the newspapers obsessively and Mel tuned in religiously to the radio news programmes. Both would occasionally visit the cinema to watch the Pathe news reels. Media was, of course, heavily censored and it was impossible to know what could be believed.
Following a visit to an RAF station, Churchill made a powerful speech the week after their return from the New Forest where he spoke of “The Few” and the debt the nation owed them. Mel wondered out loud whether the ammo they had helped relate was yet in use by the British planes.
A few days after Churchill's speech, it was possible to discern from the tone of the newspaper reports that the Luftwaffe seemed to have the upper hand. It looked as though the inclusion of the sword in the British defence was having no impact. “Perhaps they just haven't reached that batch yet,” said Janice, but her heart was heavy.
Then, suddenly, things seemed to change. RAF losses continued but there was a sense of a new mood about. Finally, on 15 September, British and Commonwealth airmen fought a climactic battle over the skies of England. Mel and Janice listened to the radio throughout the day and scoured the next day's newspapers. “This is it,” muttered Janice. “Goddamnit, we might just have won.”
Later that week a message appeared in their pigeon holes, requesting a meeting at the Eagle & Child. On arrival at the pub, they found Bolton sitting at a small table in the corner, some distance from other patrons. He looked exhausted, but also exuded a sense of calm. Janice noted with approval that he had already purchased drinks for them.
On seeing the Americans, Bolton waved and then stood to greet them. “Good evening, Dr Covington. Miss Pappas. I am so sorry I haven't been in touch.”
“That's okay, Mr B.” Janice gave a lopsided smile. “We figured you had a lot on.”
“You could say that.” He sat down. “But now, I think it's time to thank you. And so does Mr Churchill.” He handed over a piece of paper. “Telegram. Arrived earlier today.”
Thank our American friends STOP victory is ours STOP make sure they are appropriately remunerated STOP
“Oh my goodness.” Mel folded the paper. “The Prime Minister knows about our… experiment?”
“He does.” Bolton opened a pack of cigarettes and offered them to the Americans before selecting one for himself and lighting it. “He actually seemed more optimistic about it than I did. But either way… looks like it's worked. We believe this to be the end of Operation Sea Lion.
“Not the end of the War, of course. That's just getting going. I fear the bombing may begin in earnest now.” Bolton pursed his lips. “But we should be pleased with what has been achieved here. Now, about that remuneration….” He handed Janice an envelope.
She opened it and gasped. “£5,000! Mr Bolton, this is too much. We can't –“
“Hush,” he said and patted her hand. “I insist. Mr Churchill insists. Britain would insist if people knew about this. Speaking of which… I am sorry that we can't give you both an honour of some sort. But this must all remain secret.”
“We understand.” Mel smiled.
“The real heroes of the last few months have been the airmen. And their ground staff.” Janice frowned. “I think we should donate some of this to them.”
Bolton nodded. “The Government does what it can. And there's various military charities which would be delighted with any donation. But do make sure you keep enough for yourselves.” His tone changed very slightly. “I do have to ask… whether you are both willing to continue here?”
“Ah, I think we're happy to be on retainer.” Janice winked at her friend. “Ain't that right, Mel.”
“It certainly is, my love,” said Mel, unexpectedly taking the blonde's hand. “Now, Mr Bolton. Please allow us to buy you dinner.”
“Well, I don't know if I should.”
“We insist,” said Janice firmly. “You pick the place. Anywhere that's not serving Spam!”
Bolton grinned. “Very well. But the first bottle of fizz is on me.”
They left the pub, Mel and Janice hand in hand and Bolton walking alongside, smoking a cigarette. Mel leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Janice's cheek. “I think we did alright.”
“I think so too honey. Now let's go grab a decent bite to eat.”
THE END