The Clark's Tale

By John Cadden

The Clark’s Tale
John Cadden

A troubled academic, a confused psychologist, a militant activist, a Vivien Westwood-obsessed hitman, a shadowy presence in cyberspace.....and a mystery going back to King Arthur’s last battle at Camlann.
The Clark’s Tale has more twists than a schizophrenic corkscrew. The vibrant narrative moves between Biblical Judea, Roman Britain and the present day – driven by a style of writing that is dramatically arresting and darkly comic.
Described as “a thinking person’s page-turner”, this is a world of smoke and mirrors, coincidences and contradictions, illusions and delusions. It weaves seductively through the arcane and the mystical – but is finally resolved by a truth that is shockingly and grimly mundane.
Ultimately, it is a book about secrets – especially those we keep from ourselves.......

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Cadden
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301980086

Book preview

The Clark’s Tale

John Cadden

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 John Cadden

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of Contents

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

FINALE

Other titles by John Cadden

There is no such thing as chance, and what seems to us mere accident springs from the deepest source of destiny

(Schiller)

.

Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous

(Einstein)

PART ONE

Professor Joe Clark stared in surprise. A birthday card? From Simon? He opened the envelope. It was a cheap card, the sort a five year-old might choose - vintage sports car and a For My Dad banner on the front, a perfunctory Happy Birthday printed inside. Underneath was scrawled the handwritten message: Thanks for the sperm and fuck all else, you hapless bastard.

The spidery script could also have been that of a five year-old. Joe Clark suspected alcohol had probably inspired both content and calligraphy. He sighed - but seemed reluctant to put the card aside. It was his first communication from Simon in over two years - and though hardly a cause for celebration, it felt strangely precious. He remembered his Catullus - odi et amo. At least fierce anger showed some feelings remained.

He finally put the card down on the kitchen table, next to the small wooden box he had just brought home. Not for the first time that day, he considered what he had done. He had never before attended an auction. Never spent more than half a year's salary in half an hour. Never indulged so irrationally - almost compulsively - in such a fanciful whim.

Slowly, he emptied the contents - all of which were neatly and protectively wrapped in transparent packaging. He read again the from Bill of Sale:

Item: Ring. Silver. Roman (probably Augustan)

Entwined laurel engraving.

Inscription (worn/illegible)

Probably a 'paternus' (ring given by father to son)

Provenance certified.

Item: Fragment - 14x6x1.5 cm. (presumed sword-hilt decoration)

Possibly Celtic.

Asymmetric design.

Date unknown. Material unknown.

No provenance.

Item: Manuscripts x 2. Victorian.

MS1 - copy of Latin original dated at c.40-45 AD

MS2 - copy of Latin/Celtic(?)/Gallic(?) original dated at c.100 AD

Provenance certified as only extant copies.

Item: Manuscript. Victorian.

Poem (?) draft.

Possibly Tennyson.

No provenance.

He picked up the package containing the manuscripts - the items that had so fueled his interest. Given the punitive indemnities against breaches in provenance, he had every faith in their authenticity and unique status. He began opening the package, when the phone rang.

Professor Clark....

"Professor.....Jane Cathcart here, from Drury's. It's about the lot you purchased this morning - number 86 - Historical Artefacts...."

Yes....

"Well, strangest of things.....We had a telephone bidder from overseas who had connection problems - who got through to us too late. It seems the gentleman has a very serious interest in the items. We told him the lot had been sold - and he told us what he was prepared to pay for it. The sum he quoted was considerably more than you paid - and, Professor, I do mean considerably. He understood that we could not give out your details - but he did ask me to contact you, with an offer to purchase in the region of £250,000...."

The woman paused to let the figure register.

I hope you don't mind me contacting you like this, but I thought you should be informed. It would represent a most significant - and immediate - return on your acquisition....

Well, thank you....Look, let me think about it....I'll get back to you.....

He made a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table. God knows he could do with the money. The auction purchase had drained all his savings. He gazed around the room. His Regency house was reaching a stage of shabby decay that required serious attention. Much like his own life, he thought grimly. Passing fifty a couple of years ago now felt like a point of no return. It's only a number, said the consoling cliché. Yes - and a rather large one, laden with guilt, regret and frustration, said the mirror.

He could take an unpaid sabbatical - one, maybe two, years. Sort things out, he thought vaguely. At least finish the book on Roman Britain - The Oak and the Eagle. He had extended so many deadlines on the commission, through lack of time and (more truthfully) a waning interest, he had started calling it The Joke and the Albatross.

Or he could help Simon. The sum of money he had just been offered would be more olive grove than olive branch. Yet he could already see the withering scorn in his son's eyes. Simon was the least materialistic person he had ever known - and the most sensitive to perceived manipulation.

He looked again at the Latin manuscripts. They related directly to his research on the Roman occupation of South-East Britain around 50 AD. The description in the catalogue and pre-sale inspection had fired some of his old enthusiasm. He had felt nervous and intimidated during the auction - then bemused by the post-sale secrecy. Both seller and buyer had to remain undisclosed and anonymous. Who was hiding what? And from whom? Money and taxman came to mind as probable answers. Short of accosting any new owner of the manuscripts in the auction room itself - and pleading for a copy of something whose only financial value lay in its uniqueness - his only real option had been to buy them himself.

It had been a curious business from the start. The auction catalogue had been casually given to him by Carl Evans - a hulking, sports student who had sat in ill-concealed boredom through all the professor's lectures on the Ancient History elective option. Rugby, girls and beer seemed the limits of his interest - and certainly not Ancient History, auction houses or showing consideration for his teachers. Then there was the pre-condition of sale - stipulating the items had to be sold as a single lot and could not be offered separately - which was particularly strange given the random nature of the pieces. Collectively or individually, they should all have been destined for archives or museums - but were all certified as outside the provenance of the Antiquities and Artefacts Commission - and therefore eligible for private sale.

Finally, there had been the auction itself. He had been the only interested party in the crowded room. He opened - and closed - the bidding at the reserve price - and could not have gone a penny higher had this been required.

Without being able to say why, Joe Clark knew he would not be selling. He called Drury's and informed them of his decision.

Later that afternoon, he ventured out into the driving sleet. He was carrying an overnight bag and his wooden box. Struggling against the bitter, February wind, he opened the boot of his weather-beaten Saab and put the bag and box inside. Behind the wheel, he wiped the rain from his face, smoothed the flop of hair from his brow and started the engine. He drove south out of Leamington Spa and picked up the M40. He smiled as he thought of the evening ahead. Professor Roland Sinclair vastly outshone Professor Joe Clark in the firmament of Academia, but he remained his oldest friend. In truth, his only friend. Roly's opinion of his little box of delights would be interesting, informed and - best of all - amusing.

.

That same night, a man stood by the front door of a house in Islington. He hesitated - key in hand - dealing with the customary feelings of guilt and anxiety that always accompanied his return home from an evening with Claire.

He opened the door and entered as quietly as possible. Usually, when he came home so late from 'work', his wife was in bed and asleep.

This time, she was neither.

She lay slumped in the chair by the computer, in a small alcove off the lounge - her eyes staring wide and unseeing, her neck chafed red.

The man froze.

He began muttering, Oh my God....no....

Slowly, he crossed the room and stood by his wife, still muttering, not knowing what to do. With a trembling hand, he touched the right cheek.

Cold. So cold.

Rousing slightly, he took out his mobile phone.

Emergency....which service do you require?

Police, he answered, his voice quivering.

He waited for the connection.

You're through to the police....please give your name and the nature of your emergency.

My name is Paul Cathcart....I've just come home.....My wife, Jane.....I think she's dead....

.

Roly - for Christ's sake....

Joe Clark gazed in disbelief as his host sloshed several large glugs of whisky into a saucepan of glutinous gruel.

Jura Porridge - Wallace's favourite. Want some?

He shook his head. Not after last night....

"O noctes cenaeque deum - though it was hardly a feast of the gods. Couple of beers, a pastis or two.....bottle of Chardonnay....the Hermitage....and the Margaux - which, frankly, was disappointing.... - here he shrugged, dismissively - Just a normal Tuesday evening chez Sinclair...."

And half a bottle of brandy.

"Digestif - doesn't count. He finished stirring, tasted, nodded - then lifted the saucepan to show his guest. Sure?"

Joe Clark was not sure about the normal colour of his gills, but he knew they were currently green. "Please, Sir, can I not have some more....."

Coffee, then - over there on the filter.

He poured himself a cupful and sat at the table. Roly's kitchen was a spacious, light-filled room at the back of his Georgian house. It was appointed in a warm, rustic-chic, French farmhouse style - hand-crafted terracotta tiles, scrubbed oak table and bench seats, armoires with hanging pots. It looked out on a broad expanse of quirkily cultivated garden - with its miniature maze, walls and mosaic paths that went from nowhere to nowhere and an eclectic assortment of small statues. With the mid-morning rain lashing mercilessly outside, the view lacked its usual splendour.

He watched as his host transferred some porridge to a bowl. Roly Sinclair was a breed apart. He was tall and angular, lean almost to the point of emaciation. The head was skull-like - a grizzled, balding pate, sunken cheeks and thin lips. The features were softened a little by the delicate curve of the nose. Yet the first - and lasting - impression was the eyes. They were the darkest of brown - at times, black - with a restless, dancing, darting intelligence. They were eyes that could blaze with passionate concern, glint with amused cynicism and twinkle with impish delight.

As a child of privilege - his family owned, or part-owned, an extensive variety of factories and companies - Roly had been slightly worse than an imp. A succession of exclusive private schools had felt obliged to ask him to leave. From birth, he had been somewhat fragile, very obese and blatantly 'different'. Any one of these attributes would have guaranteed any child a miserable time in any boys' boarding school. All three ensured Roly-Poly suffered endless Purgatory. He was constantly mocked, teased, tormented and abused. Yet that was not what prompted the regular invitations to leave his various schools. These establishments had no problem with such 'character-building', 'make-a-man-of-you' activities taking place on their premises - indeed, they were the 'hidden curriculum'. No, the problem lay with Roly's reaction to this treatment - a reaction which revealed levels of calculating, skilful malevolence that were shocking in one so young. It was Roly's capacity for revenge - so boundless, not to mention creative - that resulted in the inevitable expulsions.

He once told Joe Clark that the only way he could remember the number of schools he had attended was by recalling the number of investigations - most of which had involved the police. There had been the gymnasium fire (obvious and unimaginative, but he had only been six at the time); one case of food-poisoning (a midnight visit to the kitchens that had closed St. Alfred's for two weeks); one of actual poisoning (even aged ten, he had got the dose of toxic phosphate just right, causing Harold Masterson maximum - but non-lethal - damage); one incident involving a tarantula in a bed and another a viper in a toilet.....The list ran on, all the way up to planting child pornography material in the headmaster's office of his final school.

Keeping Roly's scholastic achievements out of the courts, the press and police records cost the family a fortune in compensation payments, conciliatory donations and outright bribes. It was only when they spent some of their money on John Hicks - a gifted, if maverick, private tutor - that Roly's education truly began. Hicks - a working-class lad on a scholarship - had just graduated cum laude from Oxford with a double first in Philosophy and History. He had the only mind Roly ever deemed truly exceptional. As a tutor, he was disorganised, even unstable - alternating between sympathetic, severe and just plain stoned. He was, however, unfailingly inspiring - and it was with Hicks that the restless, volatile intelligence of the fifteen-year-old Roly finally found a focus. Amazingly, given Roly's merchant-industrialist genetic inheritance, this focus was the Classics - specifically Ancient Rome. Perhaps it was not so amazing. The response of the irate father - Latin? - What the fuck possible use is that? - had probably been deeply gratifying to the irrepressible 'imp' in Roly.

Hicks never taught - he introduced - ideas, possibilities, alternatives. And he not only introduced Roly to the world of the Ancients, he also introduced him to the world of alcohol and drugs. (He would also have introduced him to the world of women, but Roly showed little interest or appetite. Over the years of their friendship, Roly's sexuality had been a moot - and, as far as Roly was concerned, mute - point. Asexual, Joe Clark had decided - prone to occasional campness, but not practising on either the hetero or homo front (or back). It was an opinion he had always kept to himself.)

After Hicks, Roland Sinclair went up to Oxford - where the first person he met was Joseph Clark. From then on, his quest had been to 'overcome all the disadvantages of his advantages' and find his own way. He had cocked snooks - and a couple of fingers - at family expectations and forged a highly-respected, academic career. This now included his return to Oxford as Emeritus Professor in Classical Studies. He had kept in touch with John Hicks for a time- but this had become increasingly difficult. Hicks suffered some form of breakdown and was institutionalised for a while. He was never the same thereafter - and as Roly had developed into a convivial, urbane adult, his old tutor had become increasingly - and irascibly - reclusive.

Thinking about it, mused Roly, as he settled at the table and began gingerly sipping his porridge, that piece of sword-hilt might be the one possible gem from your little....... - he paused and grinned - having been somewhat derogatory about the acquisitions the night before - ....shopping-spree.

Joe Clark shrugged. Celtic artefacts - dime a dozen..... Roly's lack of enthusiasm had dampened his own.

Shit! growled Roly, scalding his mouth on a scorching spoonful. No - not Celtic - Roman, I'd say. I'll take another look at it.....after I've fully incinerated my mouth on this....

.

It was mid-afternoon before Joe Clark found himself back on the M40, struggling to get home from Oxford. Far from relenting, the rain was now heavier - curtaining visibility and resting in pools across the motorway. A careful crawl was the only speed possible.

The slow haul offered too much thinking time. Seeing Roly always reminded him of the past. Those heady days at Oxford - when life shimmered with new sensations, experiences, possibilities, when he felt alive in all his being, when things mattered. Even allowing for the selective, rose-tinted shading of recollection, it had been a different world. A different life. And one that seemed totally disconnected from his life and world now, both of which were so suffused with disappointment and regret.

And loss. He had lost Annie. And probably Simon. He had lost Francesca - though, in truth, she had never really been his to lose. His career, such as it now was - Head of History at one of the new metropolitan universities that was really just one of the old polytechnics with a new letter-head - felt stale and stagnant.

He gazed in the rear-view mirror. The eyes that greeted him were those of a stranger - dead eyes, their once gleaming emerald now tired and cloudy. The thick, collar-length shock of black hair flopped in unruly dishevelment. The once-chiseled, gypsy features sagged in careworn lines and bloated flesh, etched now with greying stubble. He had once been strikingly handsome - but had moved from young Greek god to ageing Greek kebab-seller.

He thought again of his little box. From the moment he had entered the auction room he had felt a strange tingle, a frisson of expectation - that somehow this would get his life moving again. Roly's dismissive attitude now made it all feel like an aberrant, expensive folly. His friend had perused the items in silence, over his second beer and first pastis - then given his deliberations.

"The ring - probably is a paternus. Not the best quality....might be worth a bob or two if the inscription could be made out.....there's an f and I....probably filius....M....and looks like ar.....

Marcellus, perhaps....."

He put the ring back on the coffee table then waved at the manuscripts

"As for these.....hard to say...journal of a Roman officer, supposedly in Britain in 42....43 AD.....

The other....some sort of account of a journey from Britain to Rome....different writer, later period...

in quite execrable Latin..... He paused, shrugged. Of course, neither of us has read them properly yet.....Provenance seems a little dubious.....copies of copies. As for the other one, Tennyson's unlikely......it's more pastiche, cod Victorian mysticism.....What is it, anyway? Poem? Prophecy?"

He shook his head, then picked up the sword-hilt fragment. Then there's your little bit of military memorabilia. Here the gaze became more pensive - though again the pronouncement was far from encouraging. Curious....but still wouldn't count on any real worth, either intrinsic or historical.

And that had been it. True, there had been mitigating circumstances. He had been invited to dinner to celebrate the fact that Roly's latest book - a revisionist biography of Tiberius - had just been awarded the National History Society's Gold Medal. He was on something of a triumphant high - the book had attracted serious criticism from other scholars - and was in 'cocking snooks' mode again. Joe Clark was prepared to make the necessary allowances to indulge his friend, even though he had been disappointed by the off-hand response to his artefacts.

Whether through guilt or sincerity, Roly had displayed significantly more interest after his late breakfast. As they sat in the lounge - a room of simple elegance, with its oriental rugs, painted panels and Chippendale furnishings - drinking coffee, Roly looked once again at the sword-hilt fragment.

Intriguing...., he mused. "These people - collectors - go to extensive lengths to verify provenance. How can the date and material not be known?

He looked again at the workings, then inspected the edges. It's not a random fragment....

What do you mean?

Look... - he said pointing - "it is part of a larger piece - presumably the full hilt - but this is a self-contained piece in its own right".

He looked again. The edging around the asymmetrical design - although rough and extended in places - formed a clear perimeter.

"This is such an odd rattle-bag of stuff.....but are they connected in some way? Could just be the whim of the previous owner - wanting it all kept together - but if they are significantly related, my guess would be it is this piece of whatever metal that holds the key".

With this, Roly went to a drawer in the Sheraton console and took out a digital camera.

May I?

Joe Clark nodded.

Roly proceeded to photograph the fragment from various angles. He also took shots of the silver ring.

Let me know if anything interesting turns up in those manuscripts.....

.

The Saab drew up outside the house in Leamington. The rain had now acquired a monsoon intensity. He decided against retrieving his bag and box from the boot for the moment and made a direct dash for the front door.

Once inside, he shook himself free of the wet coat. Within seconds, he had the sense that something was not right. Within minutes, he was surveying the full extent of how not right.

Jesus Christ......

The lounge, the first room he entered from the hall, had been completely ransacked. It was only as he gazed in confused shock that he realised the true meaning of the word ransack. Everything - cupboards, furniture, carpets, pictures, hi-fi system - everything had been pulled apart, turned out, or ripped open. A quick look in the other rooms revealed a similar trail of devastation. Even his Ovation 12-string had had its sensuously curved back broken.

Sickened by the wreckage, he sat at the top of the stairs. What was this? Why? Slowly, his mind cleared on the realisation that he had things to do. There was no need to check if anything valuable was missing because he didn't own anything valuable. Why didn't these bastards do their research properly? He should contact the police. And his insurers. And start cleaning up - as best he could. In what order? What was the procedure?

His confusion was interrupted by the doorbell.

What now? he muttered. If that's Jehovah's Witnesses....

He opened the front door. If the man standing under the large black umbrella was a Jehovah's Witness, they had clearly broadened their recruitment policy. The man had a bleached white crew-cut, violet-tinted spectacles which seemed to defy gravity, as their supports reached only to the temples, and a large, diamond earring. The face was pinched, snub-nosed, thin-lipped - with what his mother would have called a 'weak chin'. Framed by the large umbrella, which was slanted back over the left shoulder, the head seemed altogether too small for the body - especially as that body was swathed in a floor-length, leather overcoat, fastened tight at the neck. The coat was festooned with zips and small chains. If it was striving for a statement, it was something like Gestapo-Punk-Gothic.

Professor Clark?

The man could have been anything between 25 and 40, but the voice carried a boyish lightness.

Yes.....

My name's Nieman... - the visitor felt obliged to spell it out - "....Adrian Nieman. I'm with the National Trust.... A violent swirl of rain had the man struggling with his umbrella. I wonder if I might have a word?"

What was this about? How did he know the name, the address? The day had been unsettling enough.

"Look, I'm sorry - this really isn't a good time....Whatever it is....."

Actually, Professor, it is rather important. And possibly very much to your advantage. It concerns your property here.....It really won't take long, but has to be done in person....and my train back to London leaves in an hour....If I could just come in for a moment....

Joe Clark sighed. Beyond his visitor, he caught sight of a police car, some 30 meters to his left, patrolling the crescent at a slow speed. That settled the matter - he would flag them down and show them the house. Otherwise he might be waiting hours before somebody was sent from the station.

Sorry, I really can't....not now, he said, flicking the door latch to avoid locking himself out.

Now, if you'll excuse me, he said, moving outside.

As he did so, his visitor's right hand emerged from a coat pocket - to reveal a small pistol.

Size isn't everything, Professor, said Nieman, with a weak, almost pained smile. "Now, if we could just leave this dreadfully inclement weather....and move inside".

Too shocked to speak, he moved back into the hall. Nieman moved inside. Without taking his violet-tinted gaze off his captive, he closed his umbrella, flicked the latch and closed the front door.

Kitchen. The tone was now more clipped, business-like.

Joe Clark turned. It's back here... he said, softly.

I know, came the quietly menacing reply.

They stood in the debris pulled from the opened cupboards, oven, fridge, microwave and dishwasher.

Sorry, the head motioned vaguely around the culinary carnage. Nothing personal. This was followed by a slightly disapproving frown. "Though the place was in desperate - the word was given a high camp emphasis - need of a style shake-up...."

What do you want? He surprised himself with the calmness of his tone. Every fibre in his body was quivering - with fear and disbelief, but also a growing anger.

"To say 'you have something I want' would be so clichéd' - and yet the simple truth".

Joe Clark snorted. Wrong man, wrong house....wrong B-movie. I've got nothing of value, nothing you could possibly....

The doorbell rang.

The sound shot through Joe Clark's entire body. He literally flinched.

Nieman's only reaction was a slight flicker of violet eyes.

That's... - he had to stop to clear his throat - ...that's the police....I called them....

No you didn't. Sang-froid hardly did justice to Nieman - he appeared completely unfazed by the unexpected development.

Okay, I didn't. He had no idea why he was confessing the lie. But it's still the police. They were patrolling the crescent....I was going out to them when you forced.....

The bell rang again - a little more insistently.

And there was no-one else on the road....and they saw us at the door.... He felt he was babbling a little too desperately and fell silent.

Nieman took him by the arm, down the hall, the gun at Joe Clark's back. He leant inside the lounge door and took a quick look outside the window. The patrol car was parked next to the black Saab. He pursed his lips - a momentary 'fancy that' gesture - considered his options, then manhandled his captive back to the kitchen. There, he unlocked the back door, took out the key and moved Joe Clark out into the torrential rain of the small patio garden at the rear of the house. Then, he locked the door from the outside and raised his umbrella - the pistol still trained on the other man.

"This coat will be ruined, he muttered, peevishly. It's a Westwood original...."

He gave a pensive, knowing look.

Professor, we really do have to continue this conversation. Again, a feeble smile. "Au revoir, then, rather than goodbye".

He turned and walked purposefully to the back fence, opened the wooden gate, walked through - and turned left into the broad alleyway behind the terraced houses.

He was gone.

For all the appearances to the contrary, Nieman was a professional. He knew his terrain - he had a clear exit strategy and had left Joe Clark with a 50 meter stretch of alleyway to the right before the nearest passage between the houses to the crescent at the front. And he knew his man - a man who now stood in the rain, numb with shock and sudden relief, for several minutes before finally scurrying off down the alley.

By the time he reached the front of his house, the police were about to drive off - and Nieman was nowhere to be seen.

.

Westwood? What? - like a cowboy coat?

No - Vivienne - fashion designer - for women... answered Joe Clark, correcting an assumed confusion of Clint and Western.

DC Wilkinson was struggling with this. Burglary and vandalism he understood. A quick trawl of local villains and addicts, a word here, a word there, a touch of wheeling, dealing and leaning - and you had it. Sorted. Case closed. Or not. Either way, it was all comfortable, familiar territory. Gun-toting transvestites taking respectable academics hostage in their own home was something else - something way beyond the scope of his twenty years of stolid, provincial policing.

The detective looked again at his notes. He was a bear of a man - six feet tall, dressed in a bulky brown suit, overweight, jowly features, rheumy eyes and a bushy, brown-grey moustache. He didn't really have time for this - whatever it was - not at the moment. He had weightier matters on his mind - like the Area Darts Final against The Crown from Daventry. Wilko had been the hero of the semis - with a spectacular out of 167 to beat The Dog 'n Duck. The final was at 8.00 pm. It was now 7.10 pm - and he was buggered if he was going to miss it.

But how to wind this up - at least for tonight? It made no sense. The patrol car had arrived in response to a call from the next-door neighbour - an 80 year-old grande dame called Mrs Masters. She had been woken in the early hours of the morning by noises in the professor's house and had gone to complain at around 11 am. When there was no answer, she had peered through the downstairs window and seen the ransacked lounge.