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THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Freddie and Evangeline left Perdita in a far better emotional state than the one in which they had found her. Promising to be back as soon as they could, the two departed for Paddington Station. Having received directions from their Arkana allies, the detectives hurried to a platform to board the next train bound for Castle Cary in the southwest of England. Upon arrival there, the agents would meet them, and all four would travel to some unknown ultimate destination.
Once settled aboard the train, Freddie peeked into the Gladstone bag he had parked on the seat beside him.
“Is she still there?” Evangeline asked playfully.
“Hatshepsut remains with us,” he replied, snapping the bag shut. “She’s become quite the world traveler.”
In addition to the bag containing the statue, the detectives had been told to bring enough incidentals for an overnight stay since the roundtrip journey would take more than twenty-four hours to complete.
Eyeing her own traveling bag on the floor of the compartment, Evangeline asked, “I wonder where they’re taking us?”
“And who we’re going to meet once we get there,” Freddie muttered darkly.
“I’m sure it’s all above board. It isn’t as though they’ve proven themselves untrustworthy.”
“I’d hate to think they’re luring us to an ambush where they plan to steal the artifact for themselves.”
Evangeline regarded her partner appraisingly. “You’ve grown suspicious of late.”
“A dual occupational hazard.” Freddie shrugged. “Reporters and detectives learn the hard way that most people lie.”
“Ah, I see your days of wide-eyed innocence are past,” the lady detective said with mock wistfulness. “I’m going to miss that.”
“Well, I won’t,” he grumped. “These days, I don’t leap so readily into the verbal traps you set for me.”
Evangeline stifled a yawn. “I’ve noticed. You’re making me work far too hard to ensnare you in my schemes.”
“I don’t need to be ensnared to be cooperative anymore.” The reporter flashed a rueful grin. “I’ve discovered that your schemes usually work to my advantage in the long run.”
With that, Freddie unfolded a London newspaper and immersed himself in the journal while Evangeline transferred her attention to the countryside whizzing past their compartment window. Beyond the city limits, the landscape transformed itself from charcoal grey stone into green rolling hills under a sunlit summer sky.
Less than two hours later, the detectives disembarked at the station of Castle Cary, which was situated a mile away from the village of the same name. As planned, Mrs. Featherstone stood waiting for them on the platform.
“Right on time,” she said with great satisfaction. “Merriweather is in the coach.”
“We aren’t walking?” Evangeline asked in surprise.
“Oh, heavens no. We still have some distance to travel.” Mrs. Featherstone led them through the station to the road where an open carriage waited.
Merriweather tipped his hat and climbed down to assist the ladies inside. “The day is so fine that we thought an open vehicle would allow you Americans to enjoy our English countryside.”
“I’ve enjoyed it so far,” Evangeline said. “The scenery from our train window was most pleasant.”
Once everyone was seated, Mrs. Featherstone instructed the coachman to “Drive on.”
He snapped his reins, nudging the horses into a steady trot, and, with a jolt, the carriage was off.
“Where are you taking us?” Freddie asked the agents.
“To the land of legends,” Merriweather replied enigmatically.
Mrs. Featherstone rolled her eyes. “No need to keep our allies in suspense any longer, sir.” Turning her attention to the detectives, she said, “We are off to Glastonbury, which is sixteen miles away from here. Since we are unlikely to conclude our business by the end of the day, I have made arrangements for both of you to stay at an inn in the village tonight. You will be driven back to the train station tomorrow morning.”
“Very considerate of you,” Evangeline said approvingly.
“What’s in Glastonbury?” Freddie asked.
“The Arkana Vault, among other things,” Mrs. Featherstone informed them.
“But the other things to which my colleague alludes are worthy of your interest as well,” Merriweather said. “Glastonbury is a place with mythic associations. It is, after all, the home of King Arthur.”
“How fascinating!” Evangeline exclaimed. “The actual spot associated with Camelot, Guinevere, Lancelot, Merlin, Morgan Le Fay, and the Knights of the Round Table.”
“Not to mention the Holy Grail,” Merriweather offered.
“But those are all just stories,” Freddie objected.
Mrs. Featherstone bridled at the comment. “Mr. Simpson, you will find that most myths contain a grain of historical truth.”
“She’s right,” Evangeline agreed. “Everyone thought Troy was a myth until Heinrich and Sophia Schliemann excavated the ruins of the city twenty years ago. I’m sure the same can be said for Arthurian legends related to Glastonbury.”
“You are quite right, Miss LeClair.” Merriweather beamed at her approvingly. “Arthurian history was dismissed as legend until archaeological investigations of the hill fort at South Cadbury reveal it to be a probable location for the real Camelot. In the twelfth century, monks excavating at Glastonbury Abbey found the graves of a man and woman with a stone inscription reading, “Here lies Arthur, king.” The bones are assumed to belong to Arthur and Guinevere. Their graves have been preserved on the abbey grounds to this day. Furthermore, when we arrive in the village, you will notice a distinctive hill on the outskirts called Glastonbury Tor. It has often been associated with the fabled Isle of Avalon.”
“Of course, it isn’t an island today,” Mrs. Featherstone interjected. “But it once was. The water levels around Glastonbury were much higher a thousand years ago, making the highest point in the region an island.”
Evangeline nudged Freddie in the ribs. “What do you say to that?”
“Maybe there’s some truth to the stories after all,” the reporter conceded grudgingly.
“Furthermore,” Merriweather continued, “this same Glastonbury Tor is reputed to be the resting place of the Holy Grail. Medieval historians mention the presence of Joseph of Arimathea in the region. He is said to have buried the sacred cup either under the tor itself or near the Chalice Well at its base.”
“In the Middle Ages, many authors told of the exploits of Arthur’s knights,” Mrs. Featherstone said. “Each tried to outdo the others with fantastic tales, so I am willing to accept Mr. Simpson’s contention that the mythology related to Camelot contains a good deal of poetic license.”
‘But the stories are exceedingly entertaining nonetheless,” Merriweather chimed in. “I know most of Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur by heart. Would you care to hear some of the accounts?”
Evangeline nodded her enthusiastic assent. Even Freddie seemed intrigued by the prospect.
Mrs. Featherstone glanced at her watch. “Since we have at least another hour ahead of us as traveling companions, I suppose the stories might offer a pleasant diversion.”
Merriweather needed no further encouragement to launch into tales of Arthur and his court. He regaled his listeners with stories of Merlin and Nyneve, the sword in the stone, the three knights and the questing damsels, Morgan Le Fay’s plot to destroy Arthur, and the adventures of the mysterious Lady of the Lake. The Arkana agent was just beginning the humorous tale of the conceited and boastful Sir Gawain when their carriage approached the outskirts of Glastonbury.
“Oh, it’s charming,” Evangeline remarked as she observed the church steeples, abbey ruins, and quaint shops. The famous tor was the dominant feature of the landscape as it rose several hundred feet above the surrounding plain.
Without waiting for directions, their driver guided the carriage directly to a three-story gothic structure on the High Street with a placard proclaiming it to be the “George Hotel.”
“This will be your resting place tonight,” Mrs. Featherstone informed them. “The building has stood since the Middle Ages and was once a pilgrim’s inn to house visitors to Glastonbury Abbey. It is one of the oldest public houses in all of England.”
Since they were both used to modern buildings constructed after the Chicago Fire of 1871, Evangeline and Freddie were suitably impressed by the antiquity of their accommodations. Once the detectives had checked in and stowed their belongings in their rooms, they met the agents downstairs for a light repast in the hotel’s modest dining room. Much refreshed after their meal, the detectives and the Arkana agents climbed back into the carriage to travel to their final destination.
Freddie glanced at the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey as the coach made its way out of the village. “That was once quite a church,” he observed.
“Yes, it was the largest and most prosperous abbey in the entire country,” Mrs. Featherstone agreed.
“Why hasn’t it been repaired?” the reporter asked in surprise.
“Its current state is the result of Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries,” Merriweather informed him.
“Ah, yes.” Evangeline nodded. “When King Henry appointed himself head of the Church of England, he seized the wealth of the Catholic Church and deconsecrated all the religious sites in the country.”
“Over eight hundred religious houses were dissolved, and ten thousand priests and nuns were dispersed,” Merriweather said.
“The deconsecration of Glastonbury Abbey is particularly grim.” Mrs. Featherstone scowled her disapproval. “The abbey attracted King Henry’s particular interest because of its wealth and influence. When the king’s men came to seize the property for the crown, the abbot resisted. He was hanged, drawn, and quartered on top of the tor as an example to other clerics of the futility of resisting the will of the king.”
Freddie shuddered involuntarily. “Traitors in America get off more lightly than that. They’re simply hanged.”
The carriage continued its journey beyond the village limits. A few miles into the surrounding countryside, the road paralleled a dense hedgerow on the right. The driver stopped his team at a point where a gravel lane bisected the shrubbery and joined the main road. He climbed down to open an iron gate that barred entrance to the gravel lane. After that, he guided his horses through the gate and up the path. The carriage approached a jumble of partially collapsed buildings that looked much like the ruined Glastonbury Abbey.
“Ah, we’re here at last,” Mrs. Featherstone gave a brief smile of satisfaction.
Freddie eyed her skeptically. “At another deconsecrated monastery?”
“The crown sold the remaining religious structures to private individuals. This one was bought by the Arkana trust over a century ago,” Merriweather said.
Although the roof of the monk’s cloister had crumbled in places, the church that dominated the complex appeared in good repair. In addition, there were smaller habitable buildings that must once have housed the site’s dormitories, kitchens, and infirmary. The coach came to a full stop before the church’s front door.
Merriweather jumped down. “We can enter here if you will follow me.”
Freddie gazed around the grounds. The entire complex was fenced in by thick hedgerows on all sides, which probably discouraged curiosity seekers. The only access point to the property appeared to be down the gravel lane and through the iron gate that fronted on the village road.
“This way,” Mrs. Featherstone urged, climbing up the few stairs to the church’s huge double doors.
The detectives were unprepared for the sight that greeted them once they stepped inside. They had expected to see wooden pews, an altar, and a pulpit. Instead, they saw row after row of tall bookcases. These formed an eerie contrast to the ecclesiastical remnants of the building’s original purpose. The vaulted ceiling was richly adorned with religious frescoes. The stained-glass windows bore biblical scenes in jeweled colors. Marble pillars supported the ornate ceiling at ten-foot intervals, but the spaces between them were crowded with more bookcases, all of them containing journals and ledgers rather than printed volumes. Even what had originally been the chancel was filled with rows of card catalogs.
“Welcome to the Arkana Vault,” Merriweather said, sweeping his arm wide to indicate the scene.
“These are the records that you told us about?” Evangeline darted a questioning gaze toward Mrs. Featherstone.
“Indeed,” the lady agent confirmed. “Here, we keep accounts of every artifact relevant to our grand endeavor of recovering the lost history of Mother Right. As our knowledge of the planet increases, so does the size of our central catalog. We may soon run out of space here.”
“It’s an odd architectural choice to house a library,” Freddie observed.
“On the contrary, Mr. Simpson.” Mrs. Featherstone gave a thin smile. “It is particularly appropriate. The Catholic Church was known to persecute all the religions that preceded it. The atrocities of the Spanish Inquisition and the witch trials are only the most recent evidence of its intolerance. The sect’s earliest proselytizers deliberately built churches on the sites of pagan temples. They hoped to eradicate the belief in a benevolent mother goddess and supplant it with faith in an overlord warrior god. St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome is built upon a temple to the great Anatolian mother goddess, Cybele. It seems only fitting that the Arkana’s greatest persecutor should be conscripted to the task of restoring what it destroyed through militant religious fanaticism.”
Evangeline raised an amused eyebrow. “Poetic irony, to be sure.”
“But where do your people work?” Freddie asked. “I haven’t seen anyone else here.”
“This church simply holds reference materials. We use the other buildings attached to the property for offices, assemblies, and have also excavated some underground storage areas beneath the structures,” Merriweather explained. “The Arkana is a vast organization, Mr. Simpson. Much like the tip of an iceberg, what appears on the surface is only a fraction of what lies beneath.”
“I believe you,” the reporter replied, sounding impressed.
At that moment, a door in the right transept opened, and a woman entered. She was of medium height and well into her sixties. Her greying hair was covered by a lace veil, and her heavy black eyebrows and piercing dark eyes suggested an attitude of command. She glided down the central aisle to meet the four.
Turning her gaze first to Mrs. Featherstone, she said, “I was just informed of your arrival. Are these our American allies?”
“They are indeed. The redoubtable detectives, Miss Evangeline LeClair and Mr. Frederick Simpson.” Addressing the Americans, Mrs. Featherstone said, “Allow me to introduce you to the lady who will help you solve your final mystery regarding the statue of Hatshepsut.”
The older woman extended her hand to each in turn. “I am so pleased to meet you and have followed your exploits on our behalf with the greatest interest. My name is Madame Olivia. I am the pythia.”
“As in the Oracle of Delphi?” Evangeline inquired in surprise.
Madame Olivia smiled slightly and inclined her head. “That is correct. The Arkana borrowed the title, but I fulfill much the same function for this organization as my historical antecedent did for the ancient Greeks.”
Freddie peered at her in puzzlement. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a pythia?”