The Spirit Well

CHAPTER 5

Archibald Burley walked, as he walked everywhere these days, with a sprightly spring in his step. Life, in all its unique and unqualified splendour, stretched before him in glittering vistas of happiness, success, and unstinting prosperity. As the-man-alsoknown-as Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, his acumen in finding and securing the best artefacts and passing them on to London’s elite collectors had established him on the upper rungs of London’s social ladder. His eye for authenticity was extraordinary and his judgement second to none. As the premiere purveyor of the finest antiquities and objets de desir for the aristos and would-be upper-crusties, Burleigh’s prices were as breathtaking as the artefacts were exquisite and beautiful and, with the current craze for all things classical, the young earl was squirreling away the dosh by the cartload.

If business was good, his personal life was even better. In fact, he could not recall a time when he had ever felt such joy: confident, optimistic, and so brimming over with good cheer he all but sloshed as he walked. Following the untimely demise of his guardian, mentor, and benefactor, Lord Gower, Archie had been at liberty to be, do, and go as he pleased, and he luxuriated in the freedom. He did not squander either his wealth or opportunity like so many of his ilk-the poor barrow boys, ragamuffins, and street urchins who, by one means or another, occasionally manage to rise above their station and gain a toehold on a higher rung of society’s ladder.

His rising fortunes notwithstanding, topping Archibald’s list of Reasons to Be Cheerful was the gladsome fact that he was in love. The object of his affection was the estimable beauty Phillipa Harvey-Jones, daughter of the notorious empire builder Reginald Harvey-Jones, whose roster of industrial conquests was precisely as long as his inventory of enemies. Truth be told, the Earl of Sutherland was not the man Harvey-Jones would have chosen for his beloved Pippa. Ever the shrewdly calculating businessman, Reg considered young Burleigh a jumped-up Northern bounder with a dubious title. Yet, for reasons he could not fathom, Phillipa loved the dark-haired lord, so there was nothing to be done about it but pour the champagne and announce the nuptials.

That this had not yet happened was not for lack of trying on Pippa’s part. She nudged and coaxed her paramour as sweetly as any maid ever coaxed a beau, but there always seemed to be some excuse why this or that close date could not be countenanced. The latest obstacle was an urgent business trip to Italy to collect certain promised objects for an influential client.

“We will be married as soon as I return,” Burleigh declared; he stroked her hand in the hope of making his words more palatable.

“You said that last time,” she pointed out, her lower lip protruding in a pout.

“The situation is quite different this time,” he insisted, not ungently. “If I win my way with Lord and Lady Coleridge, our future in society is secured. Clients will beat a path to my door. You’ll want for nothing.”

“All I want,” she replied petulantly, “is you.”

“And you shall have me, my sweet.” He raised her hand and brushed it with his lips. “One more trip and you shall have me all to yourself forever after.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Only as long as it takes the ship to sail there and back.”

“Must you really go yourself? Can you not send someone to collect these trinkets for you?”

“If only I could,” sighed the young lord. “But no, the thing must be done by me in person. There is less risk of anything going wrong, and I dare not hazard the loss of this sale.” He patted her hand. “When I return we shall be married with unseemly haste, I promise.”

“We had better,” she replied, accepting his assurances at last. “I shall content myself with picking out my trousseau in your absence.”

“And all the rest-china, linens, crystal, silverware, everything. Choose whatever you like, my love, for if you like it, then I am sure to like it too.”

They talked about where they would like to honeymoon and other pleasantries, and this carried them up to the day of Burleigh’s embarkation. He called on her a few hours before sailing time and made his final farewell. They shared a kiss or two, and then he departed. No one but the coach driver saw him walk onto the dock to board the waiting ship. And that was the last that anyone in London saw of him for a very long time.

As for Burleigh, the trip began as routine and uneventful as any traveller could wish. The ship-a fair-sized packet steamer christened Gipsy — called on ports along the French, Spanish, and Italian coasts; she was tight and seaworthy, the captain a capable and conscientious seaman who had served in the Royal Navy. The steamer made its appointed rounds, collecting and delivering mail and freight and passengers to their destinations, and picking up the same for return to England. When asked later, the captain did remember dining with the young earl during the voyage. The purser even recalled seeing Burleigh drive off in a hired coach at Livorno-this he remembered because the earl had made a point of booking the same cabin for his return journey when the ship was to call back in ten days’ time.

In any event, the young lord failed to appear, and Gipsy returned to England without him.

After disembarking, Burleigh wended his way to Florence, where he acquired a small painting of the Duke of Montefeltro, two cameos from the time of Emperor Trajan, and a marble bust of Cicero. From there he went on to the capital to conduct his principal business. Somewhere between Florence and Rome, so far as anyone was able to figure out, disaster struck. The coach had put up for the night in Viterbo, and Burleigh checked into the inn. He had a fine supper of fresh river perch and a mushroom rissole, and went to bed early. The next morning the coach continued the journey, but a mile or so outside town, one of the horses threw a shoe and pulled up lame. This necessitated a wait while a blacksmith was fetched.

Burleigh and the only other passenger-a talkative Italian lawyer by the name of Lorenzo de Ponte-decided to stretch their legs. They began walking. The day was pleasant and the rural countryside a veritable medieval painting come to life.

“Have you ever seen one of the old Etruscan roads?”

“I cannot say that I have,” replied Burleigh.

“I am not surprised,” said the lawyer. “They are not well known beyond the region. Would you like to see one?”

The young lord regarded the rough-cobbled road on which they stood. “Am I to take it that this is one of them?” He indicated the bumpy, stone-flagged path stretching before them across the countryside.

Lorenzo chuckled. “By no means, my friend. This is a Roman road. Etruscan roads are far older. Also, they cannot be seen.” At Burleigh’s dubious expression, he laughed again and explained, “They are below ground, you see.”

Burleigh’s Italian was not as good as his French or German, so he asked, “Below ground? Underground, do you mean? Subterranean?”

“No, not like a tunnel.” The affable lawyer pointed off across the landscape and said, “This way. I will show you.”

As they walked the fellow explained, “I grew up in Tarquinia- not far from here. It is in what was once known as Etruria, which is called Tuscany now. The Etruscans were very clever people, yes? They invented many useful things. But they were also very mysterious. They invented many mysteries too, I think.”

Lorenzo led them off the road, across a shallow ditch, and over a stubble field towards what appeared to be a cleft or fold in the landscape. “They built houses of stone with red clay tiles and running water. They built wonderful temples and palaces and tombs-many, many tombs. You never saw people who built so many tombs. They also built roads-two kinds. Ordinary roads they made for travel, and secret roads for their secret ceremonies.”

“How very odd,” replied Burleigh, his sense of interest quickening. The mention of tombs and palaces brought the possibility of antiquities instantly to mind. Etruscan art was an area he knew little about-which meant it was an arena ripe for exploration and plunder. “Tell me more.”

“These Etruscans carved their secret roads deep into the tufa stone-the soft volcanic rock, yes? And they carved for miles and miles.” He waved his hands at the low hills around them. “Sometimes these roads connect the ancient towns and villages, but most times they simply connect one strange place with another. And”-he raised a finger for emphasis-“they are always, always lined with tombs also carved in the tufa stone.”

“Extraordinary,” said Burleigh. “These tombs-are they ever explored?”

“Always.”

“And are there objects? Artefacts?”

“But of course. Wonderful things. They were very good craftsmen, and they made fine ceramics-and tiny little figures in iron. We find these things all the time.”

“Fascinating. I would be most interested to see some of them.”

“That could easily be arranged,” Lorenzo assured him. “I have a friend in Firenze who can oblige.” He stopped walking. “But now… Behold!”

Burleigh looked around, but saw nothing. They had come to the edge of the cleft, and so he took another step closer and looked down into a deep trench that, as the lawyer had said, was carved into the underlying tufa. The trench was perhaps twenty feet deep and no more than eight or ten feet wide, and it ran along the natural fold of the hill.

“The local people call them Spirit Roads-or Ghost Roads.” He shook his head gently as he peered into the shadowed trench. “They were considered sacred, but how they were used no one knows. It is one of the Etruscan mysteries.”

“Can we go down there?”

Lorenzo hesitated. “Getting down is no difficulty.” He smiled. “Getting out again-that is the problem.” He looked down the length of the Sacred Road. “You might have to walk many miles before you find a place to climb out again. I would not advise it.” He stepped back from the edge. “Perhaps another time.”

“I did not hear that!” came the shouted reply. “You’ll have to speak up!”

When de Ponte turned back, Burleigh was nowhere to be seen. He stepped to the edge of the trench and saw the young earl’s face smiling up at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.” He looked around. “This is extraordinary. Might as well explore a little as long as I’m down here.”

“I would not take too long,” the lawyer suggested. “We do not wish to delay the coach.”

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that,” Burleigh confessed casually. “I’ll just walk along here a little way and see if I can find a place to climb out.”

“Yes, that would be best.” Lorenzo cast a hasty glance in the direction of the road, still empty. “Perhaps I should go back and wait for the coach. I don’t see it yet, but it could be along any minute.”

“Right-o,” Burleigh agreed. “We don’t want to miss it.”

“Unless you think you will need help climbing out.”

“No, no, I should be able to manage that easily enough,” Burleigh said. “I’m just going to walk along here a little way and find a good place. I think I see one a little way ahead. You go on and hold the coach.”

“Very well, if you insist.”

“I do insist,” Burleigh told him. “You run along now. I will join you in a moment.”

Lorenzo hurried off and returned to the roadside, where he spent an idle twenty minutes watching the highway for the horses and carriage and searching the countryside for the earl. As he feared, the coach, with its newly shod lead horse, appeared first. The driver slowed the carriage as the Italian gentleman hurried to meet it.

“Signor de Ponte,” called the driver as he brought the horses to a halt. “Where is our other passenger?”

“He will be coming along shortly,” answered the lawyer, and went on to explain about the earl wishing to explore the sunken Etruscan road. “Please wait here, and I will go and bring him now.”

“By all means,” said the driver. “But hurry, please, or we shall be late arriving in Florence.”

“Don’t worry. He is just over there. I will fetch him at once.”

Lorenzo began walking rapidly along the side of the trench, calling out for Burleigh as he went. When he failed to receive a reply one way, he turned around and walked a fair distance the other, calling for Burleigh every few yards or so. There was never any answer to his repeated cries.

“I fear something ill has befallen our friend,” de Ponte announced upon his return to the coach. “I called as loudly as I could, but there was no answer. He might have fallen and struck his head. I think we must go down and search for him.”

This is what they did. The driver and his assistant climbed down into the deep-cut road and proceeded to search for the lost passengerone going north, the other south along the ancient pathway. They ended up searching the entire two-mile length of the sunken causeway, but failed to turn up so much as a muddy footprint.

So, after leaving word of the young man’s disappearance with local farmers, Lorenzo reluctantly agreed that there was little more to be done, and allowed the coach to continue on to Florence, where he immediately informed the authorities of his companion’s strange disappearance. To be sure, a formal investigation was begun at once. The next morning a search party was organised, the ancient Etruscan road scoured end to end, and flyers distributed throughout the area in case anyone should stumble upon a lost or injured foreigner. None of these efforts met with any success. And although the case remained officially open, without any new evidence there was nothing more to be done-save inform the British Embassy. This they duly did, allowing for the more relaxed attitude of the Mediterranean temperament. Then the polizia and carabinieri, and Lorenzo de Ponte, settled back to await further developments.

Sadly, no news was ever forthcoming. No one involved in the whole curious affair ever learned what had happened to the Earl of Sutherland.