Solomon Key

Chapter 6

Beneath the cover of darkness, Isla crept about the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey. Founded in the seventh century, the abbey was destroyed by fire in 1184 and rebuilt in the fourteenth century. It had once numbered among the richest and most powerful monasteries in England, controlling large swathes of land and exerting great influence over the local populace until its dissolution under King Henry VIII. Isla had seen replicas in miniature of Glastonbury in its glory and found it hard to believe that so little remained of the once-great monastery.

The ruins stood in the midst of a wide swathe of manicured green space. She crossed it hastily, feeling vulnerable out in the open, until she reached the site of King Arthur’s grave. She had to confess it was something of a disappointment — a rectangular area marked by a sign. Kneeling before it, dew soaking the knees of her jeans, she read the words lettered in white. The sign marked this as the spot upon which the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere had been excavated and gave a few details of the treatment of the remains. There was nothing here that Agnes had not already told her.

She sighed. This was a dead end. If there had been a tunnel here, it was buried long ago. It could not possibly be the spot Baxter had found. The entrance had to be somewhere among the ruins.

She made her way toward the dark, hulking outline of the old monastery. As she walked, she felt an itch at the center of her back, and the feeling someone was watching her. She knew it was foolish. This wasn’t the sort of place that required high-level security, and on a foggy night such as this, she was nearly invisible as long as she didn’t turn on her torch.

She started with the ruins of the Great Church, where only a few sections of masonry survived from the nave and transepts of the old structure. It didn’t take long to satisfy herself that there was nothing to find here. Next she moved on to the Lady Chapel.

Built immediately after the fire that consumed the abbey in the late twelfth century, the chapel remained largely intact. Despite her anxiety, Isla could not help but take time to admire its design. The ornate capitals that crested the various columns, the arches adorned with chevrons, and the portals with elaborate floral sculptures made it a striking example of Early English architecture. As she wandered the ruin, however, she couldn’t shake the perpetual chill that soaked her to the bone. It was more than the cool, damp air. In the scant light, the shadowy ruin felt like a haunted house. She half expected the ghost of a headless nun to come floating around the corner. The mental image made her laugh, the sound unnaturally shrill in the quiet night.

Get a grip on yourself. You’ve got a job to do.

She descended to the lower level of the chapel’s interior. Here, below ground level and shielded by stone walls, she felt comfortable turning on her torch. Though she walked softly, the sound of her trainers treading upon flagstones sounded like a steady drumbeat. She wished she had someone keeping a lookout. Even a moron like Grizzly would provide a measure of comfort. Perhaps she wasn’t as self-reliant as she’d always believed.

She took her time exploring the chapel’s dark recesses, searching for anything that might be an entrance to a secret tunnel. She tested the walls and floor for hollow spaces, looked for unusual markings that might point the way. Nothing. Finally, she was forced to admit that this place, too, was a dead end.

She checked her watch. It was after midnight; several hours of darkness remained. Unfortunately, she was running out of places to search. Unless, of course the entrance was in some obscure location, like beneath one of the nearby ponds. If she didn’t find something soon, she’d have to go back and try to prise some more information out of Agnes. Or maybe Mr. Baxter had left records of his research behind. If Isla could slip into the house unnoticed…

What was she thinking? Breaking into an elderly woman’s house in order to try and steal something that might not exist? What was wrong with her?

“That’s an ironic train of thought, considering you’re presently trespassing on a scheduled monument in hopes of finding a secret path that will lead you to a magic ring owned by a figure out of legend.” She said the words aloud, savoring the absurdity. Then again, she had recently taken part in a search for relics that had proved to be exactly as legend described them.

Exiting the chapel, she paused to look around. She still appeared to have the place to herself. If there was a security guard on duty, he was most likely somewhere inside where it was warm and dry. Probably enjoying a nice cuppa. She imagined sitting before a cheery fire, a piping hot mug in her hands. The thought made the night seem that much colder. When had she become so weak? Annoyed, she stalked out onto the grass, looking around for a likely spot to search.

Her eyes fell upon the Abbot’s Kitchen, an octagonal building that abutted a small section of the ruined wall that had once been a part of the opulent Abbot’s Hall. Unlike the other sections of the abbey, the structure remained intact. It was considered one of the best preserved medieval kitchens in all of Europe. Isla didn’t consider it a promising possibility. She knew from research that the interior had been set up to replicate a functioning kitchen, and that the site saw significant foot traffic every day. It seemed to her unlikely that a secret passageway could go undiscovered in such a spot.

Sighing, she gazed at the dark outline of the kitchen. A sliver of moonlight peeked through the clouds, casting a silver glow upon the buttresses that supported the walls, each leading up to a cornice adorned with grotesque gargoyles. It was certainly mysterious-looking, with its blocky, fortress-like base and pyramidal roof.

She froze. Pyramids had once flanked Arthur’s burial site. Add in the Middle Eastern connection to Joseph of Arimathea, and it suddenly seemed possible that the kitchen could, in fact, be the place she was looking for. Heart racing, she made her way over to the dark building.

The door was locked. Why this came as a surprise to her she had no idea. She jiggled the handle, as if that would make a difference, and even tried throwing her weight against it. All she got for her trouble was a sore shoulder and bruised ego. Damn! She should have learned how to pick locks. Bones had boasted about his skill, said it was easy to learn. She couldn’t let her attempt be foiled by one locked door. There had to be another way in.

She rounded the building, searching for another point of ingress. She was halfway around when her foot struck something solid. She stumbled, barely catching herself before she fell on her face.

“What the hell was that?”

Not willing to risk using her torch, she took out her smartphone and tapped the screen. The faint glow was sufficient to reveal what lay in the grass before her. A cellar door!

“Now, that seems like just the thing.”

She released the simple latch that held the door closed, raised it, and shined her light inside. She could tell immediately that this was part of the original structure. It had been converted to a storage space at some point in the past, but not too recently, considering the layer of dust that coated everything. Smiling, she climbed down into the cellar and closed the door behind her.

She flicked on her torch, the sudden burst of light stinging her eyes. It was a small space, the ceiling only a few inches above her head. Sagging cardboard boxes were stacked against the wall to her left. Cobweb-coated rakes and shovels stood on her right. A cursory inspection of the space revealed nothing promising. But then, something caught her attention.

Where most of the boxes were roughly stacked, most collapsing from the weight of those above them, one section stood out. Here, the boxes were in better condition, arranged in straight columns, and even a bit less dusty than their counterparts. It was almost as if they’d been arranged that way for a specific purpose. Holding her torch in her teeth, she began moving the boxes until finally, at the base of the wall, she uncovered a roughly hewn stone, circular in shape, the faint image of a dragon carved in its surface. A rusted iron ring hung from the dragon’s nose. She took hold of it, its pitted surface cold against her flesh, and pulled.