Solomon Key

Chapter 4

Agnes Baxter, the widow of the deceased Charles Baxter, lived in a small cottage on a residential street in Glastonbury. It hadn’t taken much searching for Isla to track her down. It had been a simple matter of getting her name from her husband’s obituary, then looking her up in the local directory. Bless old people and their devotion to landlines.

She had decided not to call ahead. It was easier to tell someone “no” over the phone than in person. She’d simply do her best to charm the old woman. Painting on a smile, she rapped twice on the door.

“Who’s there?” a sharp voice called.

“Isla Mulheron,” she replied.

“You’re a heron?” the voice asked. “What foolishness is that?”

“My name is Mulheron.” This time she spoke slower and louder. “I’m here about your husband’s research.”

Silence.

Bloody hell. I’ve made a botch of it already. But then doorknob turned and the door opened a crack.

Rheumy blue eyes, unnaturally magnified by thick eyeglasses, peered up at her. “You say you’re here about Charlie?”

Isla nodded. “I’m a writer for Scottish Adventure magazine. I’m doing a piece about Glastonbury Tor and Arthurian legend. I understand your husband was something of an expert.”

Mrs. Baxter pursed her lips, her owlish gaze seeming to penetrate Isla. “I don’t much care for the Scots. Difficult to understand you people.”

Isla resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I understand. I’ve lived in London and in New York, so my accent hopefully isn’t too heavy.”

“Don’t much like reporters, either. Always misquoting you.”

Isla was quickly losing hope. Over Mrs. Baxter’s shoulder, she saw a television flickering. She recognized the person onscreen immediately.

“I’m working in conjunction with Grizzly Grant. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“Grizzly” Don Grant was a television personality known for investigating ancient mysteries, legendary creatures, and bizarre conspiracy theories. Isla had recently written a series of articles about his investigations. Through that process she’d discovered that, in addition to being famous, he was also a buffoon. But Agnes Baxter did not know that.

“You know Grizzly?” Agnes shot a glance back at the television.

“I do. Let me show you.” She took out her smartphone and called up a photograph. It was taken on the shore of Loch Ness. Isla stood by the water, flanked by Grizzly on one side and two men on the other — a handsome blond and a massive Native American. Dane Maddock and Bones Bonebrake. The sight of Maddock’s blue eyes caused the back of her throat to pinch, and she hastily stretched the image so that only she and Grizzly were visible. She held it up for the old woman to see.

Mrs. Baxter’s countenance changed in an instant. She smiled, shuffled backward, and opened the door.

“Please come inside. Grizzly is just wonderful, don’t you think?”

“He is quite the character,” she said.

The house was brightly lit, and smelled of lemon-scented cleaner. Agnes, as she insisted Isla call her, ushered her to a dining room table and busied herself preparing tea.

“How long have you known Grizzly?” she asked. “I have been watching his programs for years.”

“Only a few months, actually. We did an investigation of the Old Gray Man, and another of Loch Ness.”

“Scotland.” Agnes’ tone underscored her opinion of the Scots. After several minutes of preparation, she served up strong tea and a plate of biscuits. Isla hadn’t eaten today and had to restrain herself from devouring them.

“What is it you want to know about Charlie’s work?” Agnes took a sip of her tea and stared intently at Isla.

“My readers and Grizzly’s viewers are interested in local legends that connect King Arthur or any of his knights to the tor. I was told your husband was an expert on such things.”

Agnes smiled. “Some might call it expertise; others called it eccentricity. But yes, he gathered many such stories.”

Isla drank her tea while Agnes summarized the familiar legends surrounding the tor. Arthur once freed Guinevere from a fortress at the summit. Arthur was brought to the tor to heal after the final battle. Glastonbury was the site of Avalon. She had heard all of these before but wanted Agnes to warm up to the subject and hopefully let down her guard, so she smiled, asked a few questions, and took notes.

“Have there been any archaeological finds connecting the site to Arthur?”

“You mean aside from the discovery of the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere?”

The story rang a bell with Isla, but she wanted Agnes to keep talking. “I haven’t heard about that.”

“In 1191, acting on information given to King Henry II by an elderly bard, the monks at Glastonbury excavated a spot between two stone pyramids. Far below the surface they uncovered a hollowed-out log containing two bodies. One was a large man with a severe head injury, the other a woman with long hair. Along with it they found a stone slab, or a cross, depending on which story you believe, naming the deceased as Arthur and Guinevere.”

“Inside a log, you say?”

“That was not unusual for Arthur’s time period. At least, that’s what my husband told me. There’s a marker showing the site where the bodies were found.”

“What happened to their bodies?” Isla asked.

“No one knows. They were removed sometime before the dissolution of the abbey in 1539.”

“You said the bodies were buried between pyramids? Odd, isn’t it?”

Agnes dismissed the question with a wave of an arthritic hand. “That’s not the oddest bit.” She lowered her voice, as if afraid someone might hear. “My husband says the bodies were not those of Arthur and Guinevere. In fact, they were not human at all. At least, no human he’d ever seen.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“The skeletons were exceptionally tall; taller than the tallest man, and their eyes were huge and widely spaced.”

Isla nodded, her thoughts racing. If the skeletons were alien, then the artifact she sought could be alien in origin. But there was something else that had caught her attention. “At least, no human he’d ever seen.” Charles Baxter had seen these skeletons, and if she did not miss her guess, that meant they were still somewhere in the area.

“Did your husband mention any legends about a secret passageway beneath the abbey? Perhaps one that led to the tor?” When Agnes didn’t reply, she pressed further. “Or any legends about Launcelot?”

Agnes set her cup down on the table and slowly sat up straight. “You are looking for the Sword Bridge.”

Something about her demeanor told Isla to proceed with caution. In the background, the television flickered. She heard Grizzly droning on about a monster in New Jersey.

“It’s just something Grizzly wanted me to ask about. He didn’t go into any detail.”

Once again, the mention of the television host put Agnes at ease. “The villain, Maleagant, abducted Guinevere and took her to an island made of crystal, accessible only by the Sword Bridge. Some legends say Glastonbury Tor was that island. The Celtic name for it translates to Isle of Glass.”

“What happened to Guinevere?”

“Launcelot came to her rescue. He used a magic ring to defeat Maleagant and save the queen.”

It took all of Isla’s will to maintain her composure. This was exactly what she had been sent to find.

“Did your husband ever find a magic ring?” She’d blurted the question out before she’d realized what she was doing. But it had the desired effect.

Caught off guard, Agnes blurted, “Yes, but he didn’t keep it.”

“What did he do with it?”

“He put it back where it belonged. It was a holy object.”

Isla frowned. “Holy to whom? Pagans?”

Agnes shook her head. “My dear, you have the wrong idea. The ring was brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea.”

Isla’s head spun as she tried to connect the legends of the Red Spring with the Arthurian myths. Was Agnes conflating myths, or had Nineve sent Isla off in search of a Biblical artifact?”

“This is all fascinating. Can you tell me where he put the ring? I’d love to see it.”

Agnes shook her head.

“Did he put it with the skeletons?” She hoped another direct question might rattle some useful information out of Agnes, but this time it did not work.

“I will not tell you where it is.”

“I promise I’m not out to steal it. I won’t even tell Grizzly about it if you don’t want me to.” She hated being forced to drop Grizzly’s name, but it was the last bullet in her gun.

“It’s not a matter of trust or secrecy. It’s about keeping you alive. The Sword Bridge killed my husband.”

“What do you mean?”

Agnes took a long time to answer. Tears, magnified to pearlescent marbles, welled behind her lenses and spilled down her cheeks.

“He was a young man when he found the ring, and he managed all right. But when he decided to replace it…” She shook her head. “I told him he was too old, but he insisted. When he came home there was something different about him. Died in his sleep that very night.”

“I’m so sorry.” Isla reached across the table to take the old woman’s hand, but she pulled away. “This probably won’t make any sense to you, but I have to at least try and find the ring. I can’t explain why, but I’m going to do it. Can you tell me anything that can help me?”

Agnes sighed, and then fixed Isla with a pitying look that said the woman expected she’d never see Isla again.

“I only know what my husband said. He used to repeat it, like a mantra. ‘Follow the stony path. The bridge is real. The lions are not.’ That’s all I know. Now I would appreciate it if you would leave.”

Isla thanked Agnes, who saw her to the door in stony silence. Outside, Isla took a moment to consider what she’d learned. The ring was real, and she had a feeling she knew where to look for it.