The Orpheus Trail (2 page)

‘I can see I’ll have to brush up on all this stuff.’

‘If I can help at all…’

Hilary Caistor wasn’t conventionally beautiful, in fact she had more the look of a librarian, or primary school teacher after a long time at the chalk face: comforting, dependable.

‘I’ll take you up on that if I may. Now when can we have them back?’

‘That’s difficult.’

‘I need to have something to show to the bosses.’

‘Maybe we could arrange to let you have a sample collection for a while. There’s insurance to sort out, and security of course. You see they’re not just yours. You’ve unearthed a national treasure, I’m afraid.
But I’ll see what I can do with the trustees, and the ministry. They’ve already been on the phone asking what it’s all worth, as if anyone could say, especially at this stage.’

‘Do we have any idea who it might have been?’

‘It’s definitely male. My money’s on Saebert.’

‘Saebert?’

‘Prince or king of the East Saxons, under his overlord Ethelbert of Kent. He died in 616. It’s all in Bede’s
History of the English Church and People
, along with the story of Caedmon.’ I nodded as if I knew. She went on: ‘I had to look it all up too when I began to realise what we’d got. Bede says he was the first Christian king in Essex and that ties in with these.’ She pointed to the two tiny filigree crosses. ‘Maybe they were laid on his eyelids so he would be able to see his way into the kingdom of heaven guided by the cross. Bede also tells us that the great attraction of Christianity was its doctrine of life after death. He has a pagan Anglo Saxon priest say man’s life under the old religion is like a bird flying out of the darkness, through the warmth and light of the great hall into the dark again.’

My head was beginning to reel. There was so much to take in. ‘I think I’d better pick up a copy of Bede on the way home.’

‘There’s a translation in paperback. Bede of course wrote in Latin.’

‘Not English?’

‘No. He had to wait for King Alfred to come up with an English version.’

I picked up the book in my favourite high street shop that still sold real writing to a dwindling public. My own speciality had been the nineteenth century which fitted in well with charting the town’s rise as a royal watering place when Queen Caroline started the fashion for sea bathing here, a craze taken over by east Londoners as the nearest bit of coast straight down the railway line. Now I had to venture on to something new.

Ever since I’d found myself at the bottom of Harry’s ladder with the dust-shrouded funerary objects all around I’d felt a strange sensation as if I wasn’t alone, as if I was being watched. I’m not a superstitious man as a rule but it was as though someone had come into my life. While I stood there, my eyes following the beam of my torch as it lit
on one object after another, I felt an empathy with this vanished king or prince, as if some of his dust had entered my bloodstream, as if I’d breathed him in.

Since Lucy died I’ve lived alone, almost. We had a good but
supportively
unremarkable marriage for eight years with Lucy working at the central library, me at the museum, two decent local government salaries, security, and pensions on what seemed distant horizons. Then she found a lump and, after a rollercoaster two years of
alternating
hope and anguish, I was alone.

Or almost. We had no children and at first I thought I’d find a home for Caesar, the cat, and close the whole episode of a married life that had once fitted like a slipper. But instead I found myself looking for him after a day’s work when I came home to an otherwise empty house, listening for the flip-flop of the cat door when he came in
demanding
food and attention while I worked at my desk in the evening or slumped in front of the television. I think he saved my reason and if sometimes I could laugh at myself, leading the life of an old maid with her cat, I had a job I loved and someone at least warm and breathing who cared whether I came home at night, if only to spoon out a tin of cat food.

Now I settled down with him stretched out in front of the fire and opened Bede’s
History
at the index and looked up Saebert, hoping I’d remembered the name correctly. There he was on page 108. As I began to read I had that strange sensation again of not being alone or of being outside myself with someone else inside.

The story was fascinating enough. Ethelbert of Kent who’d been converted by Augustine and his monks, sent by Pope Gregory as missionaries to the still pagan Anglo Saxons in
AD
597, had married a Christian princess. Saebert, his nephew, had been won over in his turn by Bishop Mellitus, charged by Augustine with taking on the East Saxons, but ‘when he died his three sons who were still pagans,’ Bede said, ‘were quick to profess idolatry and encouraged their people to return to the old gods.’ Mellitus was sent packing and it was another generation before Saebert’s grandson was brought back to
Christianity
by St Cedd who founded monasteries at Tilbury and Bradwell-on-Sea. As I read, a whole world was opening up in my imagination, of
petty kings and great halls where harpers sang stories of dead heroes, and firelight fell on gold, enamel and jewelled sword hilts or flashed from the blue glass jars whose use I couldn’t even guess at unless it was for holy oils to anoint a dying king. Beside the king a queen might have sat, wearing the gold pendant with its star of red garnets from the 1920s Saxon dig that we kept in pride of place on display at the museum but that had never really moved me until now. I knew that I would look at it with newly opened eyes tomorrow.

Hilary Caistor had told me a story by Bede about a bird flying out of darkness through the hall into the dark again, and now I found that in the account of Ethelbert’s own conversion. It was a powerful image of our brief lives but I thought too I could see another meaning, that people themselves were like birds flying into our lives bringing light and music, as the dove descends from heaven shedding sunbursts in the moment of creation, and then night closes in again, leaving only an empty darkened theatre.

Three months after my visit to the London Museum the story of our find was released to the press. Hilary warned me this was about to happen. I tipped off the local papers and made sure they covered the press conference. Then the phone began to ring. Members of the public wanted to know ‘when the king was coming home’. I had to apologise to Jean and Harry Bates for not keeping them up to date on
developments
. ‘Do you want me to tell people, the press for instance, how you two found the grave?’ I asked Harry. ‘It’ll probably mean a lot of
intrusion
in your lives, reporters doorstepping you, that sort of thing.’

‘We’ll talk it over,’ Harry said, ‘and let you know.’

Then it was the chairman of the council’s publicity and tourism committee wanting to know why we couldn’t have ‘our king’ back.

‘You’d need to make special, very secure arrangements. As it stands the museum couldn’t cope. These objects would fetch a lot of money on the internet black market in antiquities.’

‘Local people have a right to know what’s been found under their feet.’

‘I’ll see what I can do and keep you informed,’ I tried to soothe him.

‘I hope you have the town’s interest fully at heart, Mr Kish.’ And the receiver was slammed down.

I rang Hilary Caistor. ‘I’ve been looking into it,’ she said, ‘because we did discuss this before. How about a limited selection, including some of the more spectacular pieces of course, for a short period, say a month, while we study the long-term needs? Would that satisfy your people?’

‘It would certainly help.’ I hoped it might galvanise them into, at least, increasing my funding.

‘Should I come down and look at your facilities?’

‘Please do.’ I smiled at the unintended innuendo, glad that we weren’t using videophones.

Over lunch at the Pier Hotel we discussed the problems. It would mean clearing a room of its existing exhibits, tightening up security, getting in some extra staff who would have to be carefully vetted. I wondered aloud if the chairman would provide the funds. ‘I’m
grateful
to you and the MOL,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on. I’ll pop up and see you, if I may.’

The chairman would find the money. ‘It’s only right for the town.’ I made it an excuse to see Hilary again; we were on first name terms now. I set about the arrangements ‘to bring home our king’ as the local press put it. It was to be a gala opening. I felt myself growing more excited each day at the thought of having those beautiful objects with their patina of a life lived, and a death, fourteen hundred years ago, still on them. At last the security van drew up in front of our
building
and the packing cases were carried inside. I left them as they were overnight. We would open them in the morning. I had the explanatory material, the postcards, booklets and leaflets all ready but I drew back from putting my hands on the things themselves. I needed a night’s preparation as if for some religious ritual, a time of purification.

Caesar’s presence, his demands for attention and food, helped to calm me down. After all they were only artefacts like those I handled all the time. There was nothing, apart from their intrinsic value, any different about them from my beloved royal dancing pumps with diamond buckles a queen had worn. And yet I felt there was.

In the morning I managed to control my excitement long enough to eat the proper breakfast Lucy had always insisted on. The presence of the team of two, responsible for our displays, ensured I appeared
calm and in control. We unpacked the cases and gingerly lifted the exhibits into the light, arranging and rearranging them to show
themselves
at their best. In the small room we had been able to set aside for the exhibition the effect was almost overpowering, even to me who had seen them before.

‘London’s been very generous,’ Lisa, the team manager said. ‘Surely lots of people will want to see them.’

‘Let’s hope we can cope with the crowds,’ I laughed. Already the school visits were booked. That evening there was to be a reception for the press and the friends of the museum, the chairman of course, even the mayor. ‘I think that’s all we can do for now.’

Locking the door behind us I suddenly had the feeling that there was somebody still in the room we had left, but, looking back through the glass door, I knew it was just an illusion brought on by the strange aura thrown off by the things themselves, and the simple beauty of the blue glass jars, the golden crosses, the gleaming buckle as bright as when it had been laid to rest belted to its owner’s waist.

The reception had gone well. Everyone seemed suitably impressed. Jean and Harry Bates, who had decided to come out as the
original
discoverers, had been applauded and interviewed. I hoped they wouldn’t regret it later. The last question had been answered, the last guest gone. ‘I’ll lock up and set the alarms,’ I said to the receptionist.

‘Goodnight, Mr Kish.’

‘Goodnight, Phoebe. See you in the morning.’

Now I could have the exhibition to myself. I went back into the room and began a slow inspection of the glass cases. At the one containing the gold pieces I stopped. A trickle of dust had caught my eye. It seemed to be spilling out of the gold buckle. I got out the keys, unlocked the case and raised the lid. The deposit of fine silt was small but unmistakable. The buckle consisted of a long triangular case, a hasp with the metal tongue attached to it and the oblong rim for the belt to be threaded through. The ornate case had a back and front section held together with three decorated round rivet studs like gold buttons. Perhaps one or more of these had worked loose on the journey, letting the thin trickle of dust ooze out between the plates. With a shock I realised that this might be the king’s own dust but I
pushed the thought aside and went to get the gloves we always wear when handling objects.

Snapping them on I lifted out the buckle. I would need a brush to clear the trickle away before the public were allowed in. I held up the buckle between the fingers and thumb of my right hand. A little more dust spilled onto my glove. I turned the piece over. More dust fell as if from a broken egg timer, only this one had been marking the passing of centuries not minutes.

It seemed best to let as much of the brownish powder seep out as I could before putting the piece back in the display case. I picked up a leaflet and held it under the buckle until there was a little heap of the stuff and the flow stopped. I ventured a gentle shake. I didn’t want to come in the morning and find more earth to be brushed away. As I did so I thought something moved inside. I shook it slightly again and this time there was a sound, hardly more than the broken filament of a light bulb makes when shaken but unmistakable. Something was entombed within the body of the buckle.

For a moment I stood there wondering what to do. Then I put it back on its display stand, blew away the dust and locked the case. My mind seemed to have taken on the sudden blankness of shock.
Switching
off the lights, I locked the door, set the security system and left the building, locking the door behind me; doing all the right things but on autopilot, in a kind of daze.

Caesar jumped down from his preferred chair when I opened the sitting-room door, and the touch of his warm body against my legs as he wound himself about me brought back some feeling of normality. I poured myself a whisky and dry ginger and sat down to think, letting my fingers scratch between his ears and under his chin as he liked best.

How should I handle this? Ask Hilary, came back the answer. Maybe she’s come across something like this before. And when I got through to her in the morning that was her answer.

‘I thought there was something more to that buckle. There was too much of it. After all you only need a tongue and an eye for fastening. Not that ornate body.’

‘What would it be then?’

‘Probably a reliquary of some sort, and hollow.’

‘And inside?’

‘Usually a bit of a saint’s bone or hair.’