The Laighburn Abbey Affair by Phineas Redux

‘The Laighburn Abbey Affair’

By Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— Periwinkle ‘Peri’ MacIntyre and her lover Maude Clarke are investigators of the Supernatural in 1880’s Britain. They visit an ancient Abbey and its nearby modern estate House, Cairncrag, to help in an esoteric and mysterious investigation; with significant appearances by Xena, Gabrielle, and Aphrodite.

Disclaimer— Laighburn Abbey is fictional.

Caution:— There is some light swearing in this story.

—O—

Dr Grahame stepped down from the Hansom cab with some relief, and a few muttered curses. Fine equipages no doubt but damned uncomfortable for riding along a country lane, with the wind whistling through the chinks of the double-doors and high wheels bumping uncomfortably over the ruts and stones. Now here he was at his destination—and a damned bleak spot it was, too. Damn the authorities—he never thought of them as simply his superiors—at the British Museum for sending him on this wild goose chase. A series of letters from a desolate corner of South-West Scotland had harassed the Directors for some few months, from late December 1885 till the early Summer of the following year, before they finally capitulated in May 1886, ordering the redoubtable Doctor to investigate the wild claims contained in the missives.

He had left ‘The George Inn’ at Dumfries that morning, though only after having something in the line of a philosophical exchange with the cab-driver about the distance involved in reaching his proposed destination. Damn all cab-drivers, especially Scots one’s, Dr Grahame glowered finely at this thought. He had imagined that the driver, like his meek and mild counterparts in London, would simply have accepted his fate, touched his cap respectfully, and climbed up to his high driving-seat. Not this Scots person, however. Staring the Doctor (BSc., M.A., Oxon.) straight in the face; slowly and carefully unburdening himself of the pair of thick gauntlets he wore; and leaning comfortably back against the body of his vehicle, the reprobate had spat casually to one side, then engaged his erstwhile passenger in a discussion which—with its detailed facets and by-ways—almost partook of the conceptual beauty of a Platonic Dialogue. And all for a mere 8 mile journey South from Dumfries!

Dr Grahame, in his innocence, had started by being offended; jumped the first hurdle of the argument’s race by cursing fluently; continued by making brusque demands; been stolidly overwhelmed by logical arguments that would have made Descartes proud; and finally surrendered, after ten minutes, with the docile assurance that the driver could expect double wages for the journey. And so the argu—debate ended. Indeed it felt to Dr Grahame’s heated temper, for some time after the bumpy journey began, that he himself had been at the mercy of the Empire’s varied and multitudinous foes and not his brother John (an officer in the British Army, now presently serving abroad).

And all for a bundle of old parchments which the finders, in their letters to the Museum, had ridiculously titled ‘The Gabrielle Scrolls’. Bosh, Tosh, Nonsense, and Damned Stupidity!—so thought Dr Grahame as he stood ankle deep in heather at his journey’s close; with the massive beautiful ruins of Laighburn Abbey soaring magnificently into the stormy cloud-ridden sky a few hundred yards away to his left, while the wet scented low-growing weeds (as he, with studied deliberation, catalogued them) soaked his socks. It then began to rain, again. At which point his host—he who had called on the Museum’s services—approached cheerily, wreathed in a welcoming grin.

“Dammit, sir, it’s raining!” Was the Doctor’s somewhat irascible greeting.

“Dam’ me, so it is.” The youthful gentleman, comfortably clad in a thick tweed coat, heavy boots, and a wide-brimmed hat eyed his visitor with innocent astonishment. “This is Scotland, y’know. If there’s one thing you’ll have to accustom yourself too, it’s suffering the rain. It virtually never stops, y’know!”

“Oh God.” Dr Grahame was defeated. “What did I do to deserve this?”

—O—

“You can see the roof of my home, Cairncrag House, just about a mile over there, above the trees. The estate is quite large, but wanders about a bit.” The young man made no further apologies for the weather, but instead extended a large hand to his visitor. “I’m Donald MacAndrew, as you’ll already have guessed, the chappie who sent all those demanding letters to London. I’m surprised the authorities at the Museum took such quick notice. Only expected a reply next year, to tell the truth.”

The learned Doctor impatiently suppressed the reply he thought this asinine remark demanded; then obviously thought better of his gentlemanly conduct. After all, his feet inside his soft leather shoes, were now already distinctly wet through. He squelched as he took an experimental step forward.

“Damned inconsiderate of you to make an appointment out here, eh, eh!” When the Doctor was angry he liked to let fly with gay abandon. “Why drag me into this—this morass, when there’s a perfectly dry house available? Do we have to be here? In the rain. And this damnable wind. And those damned black clouds, above that damned black-looking hill over there, seem like they’re preparing a full-scale storm. What? What?”

Without reacting in any way to this avalanche of criticism Donald merely glanced into the distance at the dark shadow of the high rolling hill in question, and smiled quietly. “That’s Driffel, Doctor. I believe it has the honour of being the ninth highest Hill in Scotland. I just thought that as—”

“Then I have no wish to view any of the other eight, Mr MacAndrew.” Dr Grahame was not to be steered into the shallows of good humour so easily; especially when he was still so warmed by his righteous anger. “Pitiful countryside; pitiful hills; damned pitiful ruin over there; and a damned pity I have not yet been invited into the, hopefully, dry environs of your House, sir!”

On first meeting the distinguished traveller from the South Donald had taken off his hat revealing, a detail which the angry Doctor had not yet noticed, thick dark-red hair allied to his somewhat pale complexion. Showing no outward sign of igniting temper, however, the Scotsman carried on with his explanations in an even tone.

“Have no fear of the storm.” The local estate-owner nodded knowingly, as he took the elder man’s arm and resolutely steered him in the direction of the Abbey. “It’ll arrive, you are perfectly correct there, Doctor. But not for an hour or so. Meanwhile I’m sure this mere drizzle that’s falling will not inconvenience a well-seasoned man of the world such as yourself. The main entrance, if you follow in my steps, is just here to our right.”

Staggered by his failure to create a suitable attitude of apologetic subservience; or to rile the younger man in any visible way, Dr Grahame allowed himself to be quietly but firmly dragged through the wet heather. In a moment they reached the solid surface of a gravel path and from there a short walk brought them inside the high red walls of the great ruin. Here, to the Doctor’s surprise, was a relatively deep old doorway-arch which gave a modicum of shelter to the intrepid explorers. The rain no longer fell on them, but the wind still tended to whistle round the corners of the stone walls with chilling effect.

“Thought you’d like it here, once you’d felt the atmosphere of the place.” Donald grinned in innocent pleasure; completely unaware that liking was the furthest thing from his guest’s mind. “Huge red sandstone walls. Magnificent central tower, though the roof’s long gone of course. Quite makes me feel like Dr Livingstone every time I come here, y’know. Knew you’d want to get a grasp and feel for the atmosphere of the place before anything else, Doctor.”

“Mr MacAndrew, I hardly think—”

But the irate historical expert was not to be allowed unopposed scope to express his anger. Perhaps the not entirely naive Scotsman was learning as he went along.

“And the reason for all this palaver, and your uncomfortable journey, Doctor, is right over there. Or, at least, the place where it was found is, anyway.” Donald gave a sort of vague wave in the direction of the open roofless nave which could be seen through a series of intervening pillars. “That’s where the underground vault with the tombs, and the scrolls written by Gabrielle of Potidaea, were discovered.”

—O—

They had, much to Dr Grahame’s relief, finally taken the waiting gig and reached the warmth, dryness, and whisky-burdened tables of Cairncrag House. The Doctor was shown, by a butler of the purest ancestry, to a high-ceilinged room with a four-poster bed; where he unburdened himself of his wet clothes; re-aligned himself in dry clothes from among his luggage, which had been laid out in the room earlier; and came down to the remarkable wainscoted dining-room where his host, hostess and other guests awaited the great man’s arrival.

On seeing the presence of a Lady, three really with the two other women at table, Dr Grahame was somewhat put out; he had, after all, spent the time in dressing for dinner in composing a diatribe of ruthless disapproval and censure of the whole sorry expedition, that would have laid Donald MacAndrew low. Now all that would have to be set aside while the Doctor engaged in the single, most distressingly difficult, social activity it was ever his unlucky fate to have to struggle with—talking polite dinner-table inanities with members of the opposite and lower sex.

Donald’s sister Fiona was a couple of years younger than her brother but had many of the same physical attributes, including a mass of wavy red hair that shone in the candle-light. Her eyes were that lustrous brown of the chestnut in Autumn, and her teeth were white as snow. She stood as tall as her brother, over-topping the Professor by some four inches; and she stared him straight in the eye, as if daring him to be rude. Professor Grahame quivered under this silent assault for a few seconds, then surrendered.

“Good evening, ma’am. A fine house you have here.” The Professor could prevaricate with the best, when necessary. “I was just saying to your brother what a splendid building and setting you have here. Quite, er, magnificent.”

“Yes, it’s a fine old Georgian mansion, with bits of an older building still extant in the interiors.” Fiona proved an excellent hostess, pouring calming nectar on the Professor’s grumpiness. “This dining-room, with its linen-fold wainscoting, dates from the 1690’s. We’re just going to have a light meal this evening, Professor Grahame; nothing heavy, just some salmon, followed by venison with a few trimmings. Do you like roast potatoes? And the boiled kale is delicious with venison, I always think. May I introduce our other guests? Miss Periwinkle MacIntyre and Miss Maude Clark. Ladies, Professor Doctor Alastair Grahame, of the British Museum.”

A light tinkling of the usual acknowledgemnts having passed swiftly round the table, and introductions thereby concluded satisfactorily as per social regulations, everyone settled to more relaxed conversation.

“I do hope your journey here passed smoothly?” Fiona playing her Hostess role to the hilt, and secretly rather enjoying doing so.

Faced with the choice of either telling the cold truth or else lying blatantly through his teeth, Doctor Grahame again prevaricated instead.

“Rather difficult weather you have round these parts, ma’am. Waited till my train crossed the Border, then started raining, rained in Dumfries, rained all the way here in a dam—er, uncomfortable Hansom driven by a local who must be some form of mutant, rained when I met Mister MacAndrew here and, yes, raining still! Does it ever da—er, stop?”

Fiona laughed gently.

“Only sometimes between Lammas and Michaelmas, I’m afraid.”

“Hope you like this soup,” Donald playing the amiable Host to the best of his ability, rapidly changing the subject. “a creation of our worthy Cook, mixed vegetable and spices; calls it mulligatawny, but I don’t know! Might take a bit of getting used to; but delicious if you persevere.”

There were various wines served with each course, as the meal progressed. Professor Grahame was no connoisseur, by any means, but he knew an acceptable wine when it rolled smoothly across his palate. He found himself, remarkably quickly he thought, coming to a different opinion of his present circumstances than that with which he had set out that morning. If only he could persuade the idiot, Donald, to give up his ridiculous idea of investigating those dammed ruins so industriously, in all weathers, he might begin to enjoy this short break from the dusty confines of the Museum back in London.

After the pleasurable meal was over the diners, abandoning the tradition of the Ladies leaving the men to their cigars and dubious stories for half an hour, all retired to another room, designated as the drawing-room by the Hostess. Here, surrounded by more dark wainscoting, and heavily-curtained high windows, there were comfortably deep leather armchairs set in front of a satisfyingly glowing wood fire laid in a deep fireplace with a curved stone surround like an archway. Several sets of candles gave the corners of the wide, high-ceilinged, room an air of being beset by wildly flickering shadows in the dim light. All-in-all a most comfortable chamber and atmosphere. The butler arrived with a silver tray on which sat a coffee-pot from which Fiona helped herself; then took up the glass decanter beside it to pour the men brimming tumblers of an old amber-tinted single malt whisky; which Grahame found, on first tasting, to hit the spot nicely. Things, even he could not help supposing, were certainly looking up. Peri and Maude, aiming for a middle course, took glasses of pale sherry each.

“So Donald has caught you in his talons, eh, Professor Grahame?” Fiona laughing in her deep rich contralto. “The Abbey is the darling of his eye, at the moment; especially so after his wonderful discovery a few months ago. I’ve even found myself inveigled into the whole thing. These scrolls—but, I must let my brother tell the tale. Donald?”

“Nothing to it, really.” Donald cradling his whisky glass with the air of an expert. “Seeing as the ruin of the old Abbey’s on my estate, been in the family for generations uncounted, I felt it my duty to see it is kept up properly. Some Council people from Dumfries tried to elbow their way in a couple of years ago, talking about Government restrictions on antique buildings, but I saw them off without trouble, they not wanting the expence of legal proceedings in Edinburgh, the which I very properly insinuated would be the only outcome of the argument—so they gave in and have left me to my own devices since.”

Doctor Grahame clearly had reservations about this high-handed policy but, being a guest, could hardly vociferate them without being in the wrong, as he felt.

“Uu-umph! What would this keeping-up amount to, if I may ask? Not trying to rebuid the ruin into a modern family home, I hope? That would be far beyond acceptable limits, I opine.”

Fiona broke in with a tinkling laugh.

“No, nothing of the sort. Just a matter of keeping the weeds down, taking out those bushes and weeds that insist on finding root in high nooks and crannies, laying some level of walkable paths in and around the site, that sort of thing.”

Maude entered the conversation with a tight smile; she not finding the worthy Doctor particularly amiable on this first acquaintance.

“Peri and I have strolled around the place on numerous occasions recently; quiet and peaceful aura about it, we find. Pity it’s not so well known to the Public.”

“Ahh!” Grahame stirred to something like energetic life. “The da—that is, the Public, the bane of a scientist’s life, ma’am, believe me. Many’s the time I’ve arrived at sites of important Scientific and Archaeological interest only to find the Public have turned-up ahead of me to wreak havoc on the site in all sorts of childish and destructive ways. It is my avowed policy to have the Law on any member of the da—the Public who come within twenty yards of one of my sites when I am in charge. Send ‘em all to the local Sheriff Court an’ make ‘em pay for their trespass, I say!”

Peri, quiet till now, turned to her Host with a wry smile bordering on contempt for the diatribe just listened to.

“Harsh words, almost Draconian in scope. Would you do the same, Mister MacAndrew?”

“Of course not, overstepping the mark, altogether, beggin’ your pardon, Doctor Grahame, but there you are.”

“Huumph!”

“How many of these recourses to the Courts have you actually won, Doctor?” Maude feeling it necessary to twist the knife in the wound when the chance offered.

Grahame looked somewhat embarrassed as he fiddled with a walnut and nutcracker, none too efficiently.

“Well, to tell the truth, only one out of, oh, around fifteen. Fel’la only got fined in the end because he got into a shouting match with me an’ threatened to punch me on the nose in front of witnesses. The Beak dropped a five pound fine on him, but I have the deepest suspicion some of his cronies, I won’t call them his friends, paid for him, bah!”

Peri spoke up again, obviously having trouble concealing her true reaction to this anecdote of frustrated legality.

“What do you do, down in the Museum, Doctor? What’s your speciality, if you have one?”

Grahame bucked-up at once, on home territory.

“Have to specialise today, ma’am; won’t get ahead otherwise in these modern times. I’m Greek and Roman.”

Both Peri and Maude seemed none the wiser for this ambiguous somewhat all-encompassing statement; Maude most of all.

“-er—?”

“Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities; I’m the Director.”

“Oh! A complex area of interest, taken both together.” Peri covering an obvious detail. “You must have a large number of assistants?”

“Pretty much, yes.” Grahame sipping his whisky with relish, having defeated the obstinate walnut satisfactorily. “Around twenty at any one time, not counting students who come in briefly for one cause or another. We keep pretty busy.”

“Do you have any opportunity of world travel?” Fiona slipping into her Hostess role once more. “Europe perhaps? France?”

“Now and again, ma’am.” Grahame frowning over his late schedule. “France, yes, but not for the last five years. Just last year I spent three months in Greece; Athens, of course.”

“Of course,” Maude picking-up on this revelation. “So, do we understand you have a pretty solid knowledge of the Classical period? The Hellenic?”

Grahame seemed irritated by this question, twisting his lips in a scowl and replying with unseemly coldness.

“Would I be in the position I presently have the honor to preside over if I didn’t?”

“My dear sir!” Donald feeling it high time to intervene.

“Aah—yes—uum! Perhaps I am rather hasty! Accept my apologies, ma’am. Been a long day, y’know.”

“Quite, Doctor.” Peri imbuing this acceptance with just the correct note of irony. “Does your intimate knowledge cover the Late Hellenic in Greece? Say, around Seventy AD?”

Perceiving something curiously focused in this query Grahame paused to consider his options.

“Seventy AD? Round about the Pompeii incident, you mean?”

“Yes, but Greece.” Peri keeping her interlocutor to the point.

“Quite-quite! Well, er, yes, certainly. How may I help, if you have something specific in mind.”

Maude jumped in to take up her companion’s topic.

“It’s to do with Mister MacAndrew’s recent discoveries in the Abbey. Perhaps if he tells us about these you’ll get a clearer idea of the situation, why he wanted you up here, why we, Peri and I, are present, and what was found?”

Grahame, hardly seeming much interested, shrugged his shoulders in defeat, ready to accept almost anything in return for a quiet evening.

“Whatever it is you’ve found, MacAndrew, I’ll listen with interest, of course.”

Aware that he was about to address a hostile audience, if only in the form of one person, Donald nevertheless faced the trial bravely.

“Well, it’s like this—”

—O—

“The whole thing started around six months ago, when I first discovered something strange going on in the precincts of the Abbey—”

“Something strange?” Grahame looking a trifle disgusted. “You mean, begging the ladies’ presence, something untoward by, ah, certain persons. Things of a, er, unusual nature?”

“No-no! Nothing of the sort—rather supernatural, in fact. Really supernatural—ghosts and, er, things of that nature, y’know.” Donald going a little pink in the face as if embarrassed at this admission.

“Ghosts!” Grahame wholly in the opposite camp re such things. “Poppycock, sir. Never been a real ghost in the whole history of the World, from day one to today; fact, sir, fact!”

Maude and Peri exchanged intimate glances before Peri spoke in reply.

“Think we can pretty easily change your mind on that subject, Doctor. Maude and I, as well as Mister MacAndrew, have seen things in and around the Abbey with our own eyes we are yet to find adequate explanations for. This happening over several weeks without respite. Part of the reason why you’ve been called in. The Scientific outlook, y’know.”

Grahame nodded comfortably.

“Science, you will find, answers all and every conumdrum in the Universe, never mind this wholly insignificant world of ours. So, what is the nature of these, ahem, occurences?”

“Just over six months ago I had reason to walk through the ruins; having an idea that a lot of, hardly undergrowth but certainly bushes and weeds, were spreading over several walls and needed taking back.” Donald following his guest’s request. “As I walked through the main aisle, or where it used to be, I distinctly heard voices of a high pitch—women’s voices. They sounded as if talking amongst themselves, but I could not make out the words. Taking a turn around the environs I found nobody present to account for the fact.”

“Hmmph!” Grahame no way convinced. “Voices? Take it there was something of a wind that day? At least a breeze of some significance?”

“Perhaps, something like.”

“There you are, sir!” Grahame happy to have cut the Gordian Knot so easily. “Nothing like the merest wisp of wind amongst old ruins to give the appearance of crowds of folk chatting together. Experienced the same curious effect in many places round the world, sir. Nothing to it, nothing to it at all, take my word for it.”

Maude sat straight, pinning the Doctor with her eagle brown eyes.

“That’s precisely where we can’t agree, Doctor. You see, Peri and I both have experienced the same effect, on several occasions; and the wind, we are quite sure, has nothing at all to do with it.”

“And you base this decision on what hard facts, ma’am?” Grahame looking as if he wouldn’t believe Maude if she suggested the sky was blue, whenever visible in this benighted region.

“Personal experience, Doctor.” Peri coming in with her own take on the matter. “It’s easy to criticise from afar; but when you find yourself in the heart of the matter, then things take on a different aspect, as we’ve found.”

Grahame, in reply, cast a longing glance at a nearby cigar-box but in deference to the ladies’ instead made do in re-filling his coffee cup and attacking the walnut dish once again.

“Ho-hum! I suppose I had better hear what these dam—I mean, what these experiences were precisely. But make no mistake, your explanations will probably have no effect on my attitude to the situation in the whole as well as the detail. Please continue.”

Raising a quizzical eyebrow at Grahame Peri nonetheless went ahead with her explanation.

“Mister MacAndrew, and Miss MacAndrew to a lesser extent, had been suffering these noises for a few weeks when they called us, Maude and I, in to assist—”

“If I may interject here,” Grahame frowning suspiciously. “may I ask exactly what your presence or expertise consists in? Are you accredited scientists of some kind or form? If so, what is your subject?”

The two women glanced at each other, as if well aware of what was coming.

“Scientists? No.” Peri speaking quietly. “We concentrate on the Supernatural. The Unexplained. The border territory between this World, and various others which abut our existence.”

Grahame looked suitably confused at this, frowning over the explanation for several seconds.

“Are you saying that you investigate ghosts, bogles, witches and will o’the wisps? That sort of thing. Things that go bang in the night!”

“Essentially, yes!” Maude attempting to stand up for her companion.

“Tosh, bosh, rubbish, and nonsense!” Grahame well started on a pet complaint. “You’ll be telling me next the Art of Phrenology is the best thing to happen in Science since—since—I don’t know what! Well, it ain’t! Neither’s this drivel about ghosts; no such things. It says so in the Good Book, and for further evidence and confirmation you only need examine the varied allusions to such over the centuries—all explicable by mere reference to the complicated psychological nature of the Human mind. Psychology, ma’am, Psychology! The answer to everything mentally based within Human actions everywhere.”

Donald, who had been listening quietly this while but becoming more and more irritated as he did so, now broke his silence.

“Sounds to me mighty like a closed mind, if I may say so. Doctor! Surely the most important aspect of any enquiry, especially when formally explored by a Scientist, is to cover all aspects, however esoteric they may seem or sound? Or am I wrong in this assumption?”

Grahame dropped his nut-cracker on the table in response to this criticism, blowing out his cheeks as if attempting to impersonate a balloon.

“The logical aspects, certainly; but what good would investigating mere dreams and illusions have on a scientific study, sir? None at all!”

“Might provide the missing solution?” Maude coming forward bravely against this stone-walling. “Show the subject in a new light; one that can be explained outside or beyond mere ordinary Physical Rules of Life or the Universe?”

“Never happened in my experience, ma’am; nor ever likely to, if you ask me—”

“I do!” Maude not giving an inch.

“What?”

“Are you really saying that, in all your varied experiences and travels round the world to some of the most important historical sites worldwide, you have never been involved in incidents of an unexplained or unexplainable nature? Not one?”

Grahame looked as if about to reply peremptorily, then changed his mind.

“There are, I will admit, instances of curious occurences coming to pass that are still to seek for any reliable explanation. I recall several such in Upper Egypt; and then there was the curious case of the-ahem, something that happened ten years since in Northern India. But these are simply objects or actions of a purely physical or natural construct that, seemingly, are yet to seek for a correct scientific explanation. Once such is provided, by some enterprising scientist, then it becomes an ordinary topic of general scientific discussion. Happens all the time; seen and experienced several such instances myself, I admit. But, if brought to a halt for any scientific explanation I don’t go pre-supposing a Supernatural one; that would simply be the height of childishnmess, especially for a Scientist or Professor of my standing.”

Seeing argument was useless, at least at this time, Donald sat back, pursuing a different line.

“Would you agree, at least, to accompanying myself and the ladies tomorrow morning in a tour of the Abbey? To show you round, discuss the layout and plan of the original building, and show you where I discovered what I did discover?”

Having exhausted the contents of the walnut dish, coffee-pot, and whisky decanter to a lesser extent, Grahame pursed his lips in a satisfied manner, apparently willing to allow this was, at least, a logical request.

“Seems to be the reason why I was invited down here in the first place. Must examine the locale, of course; will ten o’clock be reasonable?”

“Certainly, see you then.”

“Meanwhile, having had a full day, and a da—er, that is, a very wet one, I intend to go to bed now.” Grahame rising from his chair as if his knees ached. “Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, ladies!”

“G’night.”

Several times repeated this acknowledgement accompanied the retreating back of the irascible scientist out of the room, leaving Donald, his sister, and Peri and Maude in splendid isolation.

“Leaves us a lot to think about.” Peri addressing everyone round the table.

“Yes, quite.” Fiona nodding in reply. “Bit of a hard case, Grahame. Begin t’wish he hadn’t come, after all. Wonder if there ain’t a more friendly specimen hiding somewhere in the vaults of the Museum we could have cornered instead?”

“Luck of the draw, I suppose.” Donald rising himself. “Well, I for one am going to bang on the door of the Land of Nod, if you will all excuse me.”

“Think we should all call it a day.” Fiona taking charge. “Breakfast somewhere around nine o’clock, ladies. Goodnight.”

“-’night.”

“G’night.”

—O—

Peri and Maude had been allocated two separate bedrooms but, they being lovers of long standing, they had made do with Peri’s alone; taking the attitude that the servants would not quail at the sight of two innocent visiting ladies sharing the same bed in the morning—a ploy which had worked on many previous occasions.

“So, what d’you think?”

Peri stopped brushing her long hair in front of the dressing-table mirror to address this question.

“About what?”

“Everything, of course.”

“Oh, just that?”

“Idiot! Come on, what d’you think?”

“Well, Grahame’s a clown; made his mind up about almost every question in the Universe while still at University, however long ago that was, and refuses to change his mind or accept new ideas now as a matter of principal.”

“We won’t get far with him in that frame of mind.” Maude acknowledging the reaility of this. “But the Gabrielle Scrolls are real enough, stuffed in those old amphorae Donald and Fiona found in that underground vault under the Abbey, beside those two empty stone tombs inscribed with the inmates’ names—Gabrielle of Potidaea and Xena of Amphipolis! He had part of one scroll translated by a local teacher and it seems to be authentic. What’ll Grahame say when he sees and reads those?”

Peri resumed combing her hair, twisting round to study the effect in the mirror.

“Something derogatory, no doubt. Have a feeling it’ll take more than a handful of suspicious looking scrolls to change his mind.”

“What about the, ah, presences? The sounds, the voices, the figures we’ve all seen? Those aren’t illusions, no matter how hard you might wish them to be. All of us have seen and experienced them in too much of a realistic mode to think otherwise.”

“Point is, ducks, whether they take the trouble to appear to Grahame, in a way he can’t ignore?” Peri hitting the important point. “Come on, let’s go to bed; I’ve had a long day an’ want my beauty sleep.”

“Oh well, in that latter necessity I’ll be right there t’hold your hand, just give me a mo’ to get my slippers off.”

“Fool!”

—O—

The morning light, the Sun having deigned to appear after a rainy few days, bathed the ruins of Laighburn Abbey in a golden aura showing its reddish sandstone to the best. Standing, just after 10.00am, a few yards to one side the investigating party had an excellent view of the main building, or what was left of it.

“As you see the majority of the structure is relatively complete, except for the roof, of course. The right and left aisles of the nave are still in position as are all the interior pillars holding up the clerestory on both sides, except for the last two bays on the right which are gone.” Donald giving forth with the technical data for Doctor Grahame’s benefit. “The High Altar end has gone completely, though the position of the altar is still visible on the ground slabs. This place still being protected to some extent by the left aisle being complete along its side.”

“It’s still possible to climb to the clerestory on each side, isn’t it, Mister MacAndrew?” Maude asking mainly again for Grahame’s benefit.

“Yes, except for the last few bays on the right side. There is a small tight passage allowing you to walk along from one end to the other pretty safely if you watch your step. The clerestory passage being about forty feet above the ground. The window embrasures are complete on the left side, though the glass has long gone. On the left the windows are complete till about three-quarters along where, as you see, the clerestory wall disappears at that point on that side.”

Doctor Grahame had meanwhile been taking great interest in every detail as they walked up to the building itself.

“But you still have the complete central tower, I see; roofless and floorless as it is. A fine example of, what, Early English?”

“I’m told the body of the building is Decorated Gothic.”

“The main aisles, nave, choir, and High Altar, yes; but the Tower is certainly Early English, and a fine example of its period.” Grahame positive on a subject he knew a great deal about. “So, where is the entrance to the underground vault you found last year, Mister MacAndrew?”

“This way.”

Donald led the group along the central aisle, towering stone walls on either hand, intersected by now empty window embrasures every few yards, making them almost feel as if the Abbey was far more complete than it was in reality. Towards the far end, which was open, the wall behind the High Altar having long disappeared, he came to a halt.

“You see the rectangular slab here? About seven feet long by three wide? The settting for the lost altar; and here, this other large slab? It appears to be made of green-veined marble of high quality, curiously out of place in its present setting. Disguised all these years by accumulated filth and moss.”

Grahame stepped up to it and leant down to gaze with a gimlet eye.

“Hmm, clearly not its native environment by any means. What brought it to your attention in the first place?”

Donald, so hustled to the heart of the matter, hesitated.

“Might as well tell the truth; be exact, that is, Mister MacAndrew.” Peri giving moral support. “After all, all of us here can back you up from our own personal experiences.”

“Just over six months ago,” Donald facing the necessity. “I was walking idly here late one afternoon—”

“How late, which month?” Grahame suddenly taking on the aspect of a police officer interrogating a suspect. “Excuse my abruptness, but the point is of some importance.”

“Well, around three-thirty, middle of October.”

“So, quite dark, one would hazard?”

“Yes, middling twilight, more or less.”

“You had a light, a lamp with you?”

“No, wasn’t that dark; anyway I like walking in the grounds in the twilight and even darkness.”

“Hmmph!” Grahame returning to the slab at his boots. “So, what drew your attention to this particular slab on that occasion?”

Grahame, who was wearing a commodious Ulster overcoat with a waist-length cape, a dark wide-brimmed Homburg hat, and sturdy boots on this occasion, waited patiently for Donald to answer, taking no notice of his Host’s apparent hesitation in doing so.

“Ah, well—here we go!” Donald hawing if not actually humming under this pressure. “Well, you see, it was quite late, quite dark; well, no, not quite dark, it was sort of nearly dark, if you get my drift—”

“Mister MacAndrew?”

“Yes-er-yes?”

“Take a deep breath, better make that two, then start again.”

“Ah, yes, quite.” Donald did as requested, looked even more embarrassed than ever, and broke into speech as if it was going out of fashion and he had to use up his quota as quickly as possible. “I was there,—that is to say, I was more or less here! The shadows were lengthening, nearly dark under the side aisles and behind the pillars. And outside, of course; in fact I was in two minds whether to give the whole thing a pass and go in to dinner—”

Grahame began to crumble under this meaningless diatribe going nowhere.

“Mister MacAndrew, excuse me, but I am not so much interested in your, somewhat variable, state of mind but rather in whatever the dam’,—I apologise, ladies,—whatever it was you actually saw—if anything! Please continue along those lines, if you can.”

So severely reprimanded Donald looked suitably contrite and continued, somewhat subdued the while.

“Well, what happened was I happened to trip on a root lying on the surface just round here somewhere. I could find the exact spot, if you think that necessary?”

“No, I do not!”

“Ah! Well, as I was saying, I tripped and, in regaining my balance—I tend to lose my balance pretty easily you know in tripping over anything. Ever felt that? What happens is—”

“Mister MacAndrew?”

“—er, yes?”

“You begin to bore me. May I ask when the next train from Dumfries to London sets off?”

“If I may, perhaps?” Peri stepping in to take command of the rapidly deteriorating conversation. “Mister MacAndrew is, accountably, a little nervous of bringing the exact circumstances which you require to memory. If I may speak for him, repeating what he told myself and Maude on an earlier occasion, it may illuminate the scene for you?”

“A climax sincerely to be wished, ma’am!” Grahame waxing what he took for a lyrically sarcastic attitude but which Peri chose to ignore with open disdain.

“As I was saying, Mister MacAndrew was standing almost where we stand today.” She taking up the tale with calm assurance, gazing into Grahame’s face as if challenging him to stop interrupting. “His attention taken up with some fleeting detail for a few seconds, when he again looked along the main aisle towards the position of the High Altar he saw, quite clearly he tells us, a young woman of small stature standing looking at him.”

Grahame was unimpressed.

“So? An idle visitor roaming the grounds, no doubt?”

“She was dressed in a small skirt hardly reaching to her knees; in fact failing in this standard completely by a shockingly wide margin, while for her upper dress this consisted of a top or halter merely large enough to cover the moral necessities of dress—”

Grahame, on hearing this, returned to the attack in no uncertain manner.

“Oh, Dear God! MacAndrew, in the throes of a dark night, sees a naked woman on the grounds of his estate! Can I believe my ears?”

“Dressed, certainly in rather loose garments, but dressed, all the same, I assure you!” Donald sticking-up for himself rather late in the day. “Well, nearly so!”

“Had you by any chance been drinking intoxicating beverages, sir?” Grahame thinking he was on the trail of the obvious answer. “You no doubt had your flask with you on a chilly afternoon in Autumn and had imbibed, perhaps too frequently, from same?”

Donald was affronted at this supposition.

“Sir, if you had spoken thus in the day of my Grandfather we would now be discussing the manner and setting of our duel, sir!”

Grahame snuffled loudly, raising a hand to set his hat more firmly on his head.

“Poppycock! This is not the age of the dam’ Georgian Dandies’, sir; this is the Modern Age, with men of Science and integrity!” Grahame losing his patience altogether. “You say, if what Miss MacIntyre repeats is true, that you saw a naked, or half-naked, or semi-naked, or partially unclothed woman standing somewhere amongst the present ruins? Why, sir, are you not aware that if you stepped into the Dock in the Assize Court in Edinburgh with such a tale the youngest legal tyro would tear that story in tatters instantly, leaving you and your reputation broken in pieces, sir!”

Maude by this time, never one with a large excess of the virtue Patience, stepped forward at this point ready for battle.

“it’s true! I saw the woman, so did Peri, and so did Miss Fiona; all of us on several differing occasions. All we women here can attest to the sincerity and truthfulness of Mister MacAndrew’s testimony.”

“Yes,” Fiona, speaking for the first time, adding her own approval to the matter. “I have seen the woman my brother saw; she was dressed as he described, and she was not real! By which I mean it became clearly and powerfully obvious to all of us here that she was some sort of image, spirit, phantom if you will; certainly some figure of a Supernatural origin; there is no doubt of that. And, as far as we can tell, there is no reason why she should not still present herself to our sight even now—even to you, Doctor Grahame!”

Grahame snorted unpleasantly through his nose again.

“I should be most surprised if such took place, I avow, ma’am. I shall not set my alarm clock in any hope of the incident occuring, thank you. Can we return to the material aspects of the matter in hand? This da—this stone beneath our feet? What does it hide, if I may ask? The same apparently being at the heart of your stance, I take it, MacAndrew?”

Impelled to action in this arbitrary manner Donald finally took on the character of an Army officer who had spent a couple of years on the North-West Frontier and had benefitted by the experience.

“Over here, in this corner, I’ve left a couple of crowbars. Will you help, Miss MacIntyre?”

Two minutes later the large slab, wide but remarkably slim in thickness, had succumbed to the instruments and strong efforts of the man and woman, being dragged aside to reveal the top steps of a narrow staircase leading down into black depths.

“There are about twenty steps, leading to a chamber about thirty feet long, twenty wide, and eighteen high; all stone-lined.” Donald giving these details as they stood contemplating the as yet impenetrable space beneath their feet. “If you follow me, Grahame, with the ladies in the rear we shall see what we shall see—come! You have the lanterns, Miss Clarke?”

“Yes.”

“Right, thank you; yes, you keep the other. Follow me.”

As they descended their footfalls took on that curiously cold echo only occuring in a large unfurnished space lined with solid stone. The light from the admittedly small lanterns only tending to accentuate the darkness all round than provide any real illumination for forward progress of more than a couple of feet in front of the explorers. Then they had reached the lower floor, strange echoes reverberating all round as they stepped away from the stair into the unknown, at least for the worthy Doctor.

“A very respectable Church vault.” Grahame seemingly little put-out by the experience. “Built at the same time as the Nave, for sure. Probably would have been used for burials of respectable and noble members of the community. Are there any tombs or whatnot within?”

“Only two, both empty but showing some curious details of interest.” Donald speaking in a low tone to combat the surrounding echo which seemed to fling any spoken word, however quietly pronounced, into a far unknown distance in reverberating ripples of sound.

“A most interesting aural circumstance; heard much the same in some Egyptian tombs—the Bent Pyramid, for instance.” Grahame bringing personal memories to mind as they advanced into the centre of the dark room.

“Here are the tombs I spoke of, both together.” Donald holding his lantern high to illuminate the stone structures.

Grahame stepped forward eagerly, now in his natural element.

“Yes-yes, quite. Quite. Of course. Never thought any different. One could say—yes, one could, but would it be reasonable. Hmm!”

“What do you make of them, Doctor?” Fiona standing by her brother’s side, waiting impatiently for any new revelation.

“Medieval, no doubt.” He nodding to himself as he bowed over the topless empy sarcophagi. “Made of local stone, I take it; granite of some form. No sign of any interior decoration, but why would there be? However, these markings on the outside of both—Greek letters, eh?”

“Yes, they transla—”

“I know what they say!” Grahame defending the heart of his expertise with alacrity and his usual lack of politeness. “This one, to the left, ‘Gabrielle of Potidaea; the one on the right, ‘Xena of Amphipolis’. Well-well!”

“Mean anything to you, Doctor?” Peri daring to ask the question.

“Well, apart from them being Greek female names, no, nothing more.” He frowning over the problem. “Nothing in the literature, I believe; though, mind you, something seems to niggle at the edges of my memory, nonetheless. Give me time, I must look up the necessary tomes and Histories; I have brought several with me. But it may well take some time. Did you say you had also discovered some form of written material down here, MacAndrew? Where? Where is it?”

“In some old antique ceramic amphorae; twenty-one in total; medium sized.” Donald frowning in turn as he brought the details to mind. “Several broken in pieces but their contents still undamaged; the others still complete with their contents.”

“Which were, or are?”

“Several scrolls, made of parchment wrapped round central wooden bars: all written in Greek and covering the same general subject.”

“Which was, or is?”

“The life-stories, or one might say, the adventures of two warrior women, in the style of our Queen Boudica, but they being Greek of around the Hellenic period.”

“Any idea of the author?” Grahame standing looking at Donald with a curious expression. “Someone known to us from the Literature of the period?”

“No; apparently, from what the short excerpt I’ve had translated tells us, by this lady named here on the tomb—Gabrielle.”

“Hmm!” Grahame looking for the first time since his arrival as if he was truly interested in something of real consequence. “I must see, examine, and read these parchments as soon as possible. You are aware, of course, they may well most probably turn out to be forgeries—even if of some antiquity?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Donald nodding. “But, what with one thing and another, I don’t believe so; I believe they are authentic genuine documents from the period in question.”

Grahame gave his now accustomed snort, whether of disgust or interest could not be verified.

“There seems nothing further to be assessed down here, and I begin to feel the chill. Shall we return to the House. I wish to examine the parchments as soon as may be, if possible?”

“Of course.” Doanld returning to his Host duties and manner. “Let me escort us all back to the stairs, they can be rather hard to pinpoint in this all-encompassing darkness. This way.”

—O—

The Library was the appropriate place for the party to assemble in order to view the scrolls, and this was the room chosen for the purpose; the three women and two men sitting at a large round table of noble mahoganay looking as if weighing at least a quarter of a ton with beautifully carved legs. For the rest the Library soared almost 20 feet in height to an ornately patterned plaster ceiling.

“Adam, y’know.” Donald answering an interested query.

Nearly 30 feet in length and 15 feet wide, placed on the ground floor facing the rear gardens which could be accessed by two high French windows, the walls were mostly hidden by enormously high wooden bookcases in which resided apparently thousands of volumes. Many were standard sets bound in now deteriorating almost crumbling brown leather, while many others were, in contrast, still in bright new colourful paper or illustrated embossed cloth bindings looking as if they comprised a remarkable collection of modern crime and thriller novels.

“I collect Wilkie Collins first editions, and those of Anthony Trollope, as well as others.” Fiona owning up to her private peccadillo.

In a far corner, in contrast, sat a remarkable collection of yellowish pottery vessels of an unusual form. Squat curved bodies, some with long necks but the majority with no necks at all but wide mouths, many if not all having pointed bottoms making them difficult to set upright; as a consequence they all lay on their sides, looking for all the world like a group of abandoned wine vessels of yore.

“Ah-ha!” Grahame scenting antique curiosities with the nose of a long established connoisseur.

Rapidly crossing to this treasure trove he bent down on his knee to fondle and almost caress the objects, picking one up to examine it in detail.

“I see this one seems to have several scrolls inside, but so tightly packed it would be difficult to prise even one free?”

“Yes, I had part of one scroll, taken from an already shattered amphora, translated by a local school-master.” Donald nodding in return. “Which is where I have gained what little there is to know about what they are all about.”

“Is it to hand, by any chance?”

“Yes, I’ll just get it.”

Another minute found Grahame bowing over the table as Donald unrolled a lengthy parchment from its central wooden axle. He unfurled some three feet, with seemingly another equal length still in reserve; Grahame becoming almost jubilant as he peered closely at the writing so revealed.

“Yes-Yes! Hellenic to a T! Very late Hellenic; Northern dialect, if I am not mistaken. Not written by a scribe; it would be much more compact, lined, and carefully inscribed if so. No, some ordinary person merely writing as they saw fit at the time. Note the rapidity of the flow; the uneven lines, a certain blotting where the quill or stylus was over-inked; the entire looseness of the text. Yes, not a scribe by any means—an ordinary everyday person merely writing as they felt the impulse and with some energy, even excitement. Most interesting!”

“Written by someone naming herself Gabrielle of Potidaea.” Maude adding her knowledge of the matter. “Gives herself the entitlement of being an Amazon Queen in the foreword to this scroll; whether there is any basis to that claim, we do not know.”

“Amazons!” Grahame pondering out loud. “A mythical group, many references in the literature, and a number of statues and monumentary groups made around them; but no real evidence that they ever existed to any known extent. To save the effort of reading through the whole thing, MacAndrew, what, essentially, does the scroll cover?”

“She, Gabrielle, tells us who she is, what and who she is describing in the scroll, then goes on to lay out a series of what can only be described as adventures wherein the two women—she tells of being companion to another warrior woman—fight various criminals and brigands, always succesfully.”

“Yes, quite. One would expect that.” Grahame musing on this information. “Tallies with the most appropriate hypothesis. Is there any indication that the other scrolls contain any further material? By different authors or cover any other information than, er, related adventures?”

“Haven’t read enough to know.” Donald admitting the limit of his knowledge. “Seeing many of the amphorae, as you have noticed, are still untouched, it’s anybody’s guess what their contents may contain.”

Grahame continued to pore over the scroll laid out on the table, moving a finger gently over the written lines as he proceeded.

“Have you translated any others?”

“Only small excerpts from another three, not amounting to more than a couple of A-four pages. Not a great deal, in fact. The content being further activities, adventures you call them, of the two women.”

“This second woman—the person named Xena on the sarcophagus, I presume?”

“Yes,” Peri interjecting here. “From what Gabrielle writes they seem to have had an, er, close companionship and spent many years together, engaged in all sorts of, er, adventures. Xena seems to have had the title of a Princess, perhaps of Amphipolis, perhaps of somewhere else so far unnamed.”

“Just so-just so!” Grahame seeming to take this as grist to whatever mental mill he was grinding forth.

“So, what do you think?” Fiona all eagerness to know the latest view on the arcane matter.

“What do I think?” Grahame still deep in thought over the scroll.

“Yes, Doctor!” Peri pushing, if not downright harassing, a little. “If you please.”

Grahame rose to his full height, regarding his audience with the light of an enthusiast in his eyes.

“I think the whole matter needs much more discussion and examination by experts. These scrolls should be placed in the Museum at once, so that organised study by the relevant experts can begin. They may contain material, information, even knowledge, which could be of the most important nature to the owner; Britain, I mean. Yes-yes! They must go to the Museum at once. I take it, MacAndrew, you do not disapprove of such a move?”

“Well!” He clearly showing that he did indeed have doubts.

“There would be no sense in trying to sell them on the open market.” Grahame sounding like a Minister sermonising. “The Country—the Government,—would only put a hold on such a move, and make sure they went to the Museum anyway; probably at a much lesser price than they would have tolerated to start with. Just some pertinent advice, sir!”

Fiona, having absorbed this and observed the manner in which Grahame almost blustered in declaiming this view towards her brother, took a defensive line.

“What is to stop us, Donald and I, from simply keeping them on the estate, under our private ownership? The Government can hardly send in the police to take them away by force. Or can they?”

Forced onto his back foot so imperiously Grahame pondered the matter, growing darker in the face as he did so.

“One would surely not refrain from letting the Museum—the Country in fact—accept a treasure of the National importance these scrolls may well turn out to have, if properly handled? I see no other responsible course open to you myself.”

Suddenly the loud booming of a bronze gong, handled by an enthusiastic expert, rang through the interior environs of the House, making short work of the closed Library door.

“Lunch in twenty minutes!” Fiona catching at this admirable escape route. “Don’t bother dressing, but I for one intend to brush-up and sort myself out. Shall we?”

—O—

The afternoon had rolled on, the time now being nearly 3.30pm and the group standing by the right side of the ruined Abbey were contemplating their next move and, indeed, their basic raison d'etre for being there at all.

“I hardly see that this futile expedition, and in such foul weather—it is certainly going to rain in the next half hour—can have any positive outcome whatever!”

Having thus unburdened himself of his inner feelings Grahame retracted into a sullen silence, kicking viciously at a clump of heather by his left boot.

“We think it would be useful if you, in person, were to experience the, er, visitations which all the rest of us here have undergone over the last several weeks.” Fiona standing her ground like a heroine. “It can surely do no harm to give the situation its trial?”

Grahame, however, wasn’t having any of it.

“Madame, I have no truck with nonsense of the so-called Supernatural kind. Why should I, a man of Science, trouble myself over Old Wives’ Tales and traditonal stories of bogles? The question is idiotic in itself! Never was such a thing as a ghost, cannot be such a thing, never will be! There, subject closed; can we return to the House for an invigorating cup of coffee now?”

“This is the general time of day when the, ah, visitations most often appear.” Donald carrying on, disregarding his visitor’s anger with Lordly reserve. “They don’t materialise at precisely the same moment each time, but near enough if you are a little patient. We can see the position of the High Altar from here.”

Sighing deeply Grahame chose to take note of his Host’s words, if for no other reason than to pass the time before he, Grahame, was proved right.

“What is the nature of these visions which you all seem certain you have all undergone? May I say that many people are often reported as seeing many things, many of which turn out not to be there in reality? Mental problems, alcoholic dreams, straight lying, mere wish fulfillment; this latter a very strong impulse in itself. Well?”

“Reactions which might have some substance, if not for the fact that all of us, a pertinent element in the case, have seen the same visions at the same time in the same place, and that all details of said visions correspond to what each of us have individually experienced.” Peri making the position of herself and her companions eminently clear for the man of Science.

“Dear Go—, My Goodness!” Grahame hardly willing to accept this confession. “And what exactly am I supposed to bow my innate psychological Reason before in order to experience this in person, then?”

Maude had been standing, inwardly uncomfortable that the hem of her skirt was becoming more and more soaked by the close growing heather with every passing minute while she listened to the irate Doctor, and now she let rip with gusto.

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it? We tell you what to expect, you see such, you berate us for putting the idea in your head and so allowing you to visualize something that is certainly not there! You win all ways. No, we stand here till something happens, then you tell us what you saw; that’s the plan!”

Grahame’s lips began moving as if he were repeating every curse word and phrase that had ever come his way in several languages, though under his breath thankfully, before he pulled himself together.

“This farrago has gone on long enough. I refuse to see a ghost, however much you may wish I should or could. I mean—”

“There!”

Fiona’s voice rang sharply among the ruins, echoing from various corners as if shouted by a crowd rather than one person.

“What?” Grahame brought up short in his diatribe.

“There, just behind the High Altar. See it?”

Grahame, so charged, turned huffily to gaze in the direction indicated, peering into the far distance like a man half blind, finally putting a hand up to shade his eyes.

“My God! This is indefensible! You have paid some poor country girl to wander about in these religious grounds in her cutty sark! Have you all no shame? What on Earth makes you think—”

“Look!”

Fiona again cutting through his verbiage to make a point.

Looking again to where he had glimpsed the wavering form of a young woman, partially dressed it is true, standing near the High Altar he now saw the distant figure become evermore transparent until it faded completely from view, though without seeming to move in any particular direction. But, after a minute’s thought, Grahame was up for the problem’s solution.

“An optical illusion, nothing more. Something to do with the way light reflects or refracts around that particular corner of the ruin at a particular time of day with fading light, nothing more. And I still most strongly oppose—”

“Come!” Donald taking charge like the old soldier he was, imperiously and without excuse from any. “Come, Doctor, we must go down into the vault and see how the play turns out. That is what usually completes the performance. And if, after what may be given us to witness in the vault today, you still harbour doubts I shall be very much surprised indeed. Come, there is no time to waste.”

—O—

Inside the vault, now brightly lit by three large storm lanterns brought along for the purpose, the investigators stood by the two stone sarcophagi awaiting whatever might transpire; though Grahame was still wholly opposed to the unravelling drama.

“This is quite preposterous! If that young woman, half naked as she seemed, deigns to give a matinee performance from some hidden entrance I shall be most disturbed. This is not the level of scientific research I came up here expecting. Ghosts, indeed! Bah!”

As if in direct reply to this crushing criticism things began to occur. The lights from the three lanterns, till then strong and steady, now began to flicker and fade until they petered out completely leaving everyone in pitch darkness.

“What the blazes!”

“Stand easy, Doctor; something’s happening.” Donald speaking in a calm voice in the stygian gloom.

Apparently echoing his words another light began to fill the long vault; a light from no visible source in particular but enveloping the whole stone-lined interior till it seemed as bright as day. At the side of the left-hand sarcophagi, opposite to the spectators, a curious multi-coloured glow began to form almost in the shape of a vast bubble. It grew stronger and brighter still till, in a coruscating shimmer, it vanished to reveal two female figures standing there as if in Life.

“What the Devil!”

“Steady, Doctor, let them do whatever they will. There is nothing to be afraid of.” Donald again reassuring his guest, who apparently badly needed such support.

Peri and Maude both especially were eagerly watching, taking in every detail of what was happening; Fiona stood resolute and firm by her brother’s side, while he took on the position of Commander of the troops, standing tall and straight among them all.

“The lady on the left, the shorter one,” Maude, starting to describe what was in front of her like a newspaper reporter and true Investigator, watched every movement of the till now silent new arrivals. “is blonde with short hair; short, very short, skirt; tight halter barely covering her bosom; various silver bangles and trinkets on arms, wrists, and neck; short red leather boots with, yes, daggers attached to the outsides of both. She is pretty, though with a hard expression which might turn to cruelty if pushed.”

Peri, no way behind her lover, came in here with her own description of the scene.

“The other woman is far taller than her friend, perhaps significantly older; darker, long black hair with bangs; a tight-waisted leather corset faced with curious bronze fol-de-rols and an equally short skirt as her companion, though made of separate leather thongs. Longish knee-length leather boots and a sword apparently in a back sheath, I see the hilt over her right shoulder. She too is beautiful, with a hard stony piercing expression; I would not like her as an enemy.”

As Peri finished the shorter female vision glanced at her companion with a wide grin, as if speaking to her, then turned to the watching group, which she could apparently see, and raised her right arm as if gesticualting to them. Before anything could be made of this however, the dual vision shimmered and faded; the multi-coloured mostly pinkish bubble of light which seemed to protect them re-appeared and the whole then faded out once again to pitch darkness. A few seconds later the storm lanterns relit as if never having been impaired in their purpose, flooding the vault with bright light, revealing that the two female visitants had entirely vanished and there was certainly no ancillary entrance or exit through which they might have made a hasty escape.

“Well, Doctor! What do you make of that?” Donald asking the obvious question of the obvious person.

In reply Grahame quivered where he stood, swayed like an aspen in the wind, then fainted; collapsing to the hard cold slabs in a heap.

—O—

The dining-room had been brought into use as an emergency ward; Grahame having been transported there by Donald and a passing Gamekeeper whom they found nearby when the patient had been dragged above ground once more. A bottle of Fiona’s smelling-salts, and a gulp of brandy soon brought consciousness back again.

“How do you feel now, Doctor?” Fiona impersonating a Matron to good purpose.

“Well enough,—much better.” Grahame gasping for breath, passing a hand over his face as he lay on the settee. “More brandy,—thank you. What happened?”

“You saw a ghost!” Maude unable to hold herself in check. “Two, in fact.”

“Damnation!”

Grahame shook his head again and took another, larger, sip of brandy. Attempting to rise from his prone position he found the task at present too much for his weakened state and lay back with a groan.

“Take another minute or two, you have had a shock.” Fiona handing him a damp cloth to wipe his brow. “Ten minutes and I should think you’ll feel much better.”

“You say it was a—a—ghost!”

“Well, yes!” Donald unable to deny the question, and its import.

Grahame continued to shake his head; obviously feeling this, if not a conclusive, at least an adequate method of restoring clarity and lucidity.

“A ghost? I refuse to believe such a thing; it cannot have happened, it simply cannot be. Some form of mental collapse! A psychological shock! I was hallucinating.”

“If you were, so were all the rest of us there.” Peri not standing for this weak get-out clause for an instant. “I and Maude, Miss Fiona and Mister MacAndrew both, we all experienced exactly what you did, Doctor Grahame.”

Grahame pulled himself half up on the settee, glancing round his audience with a pale face.

“Did you all? Did you? Precisely what I saw, or imagined?”

Everyone returned his query with nods of affirmation, Maude speaking for the group.

“It wasn’t imagination, it was real; we all experienced exactly the same thing. Those two women were there, then they dematerialised and weren’t anymore: how and why as yet unexplained.”

“You’ll just have to accept the reality of the situation, Doctor.” Peri striving to convince the man.

“I must investigate. This must be investigated.” He was sitting-up now, back against the rear of the settee. “A most unusual occurrence, never happened to me before—not even in Egypt!”

“Not tonight.” Fiona firm on this point. “As your Hostess I cannot possibly allow you to wander around the grounds in the chill of the night in your, ah, weakened condition. No, what you need is another dram of something hot, strong and comforting, followed by a long night’s sleep. I have a bottle of Doctor Armstrong’s Soothing Elixer guaranteed to knock you—er, that is, give you an honest night’s rest—contains a light solution of something called cocaine, always works for me, I assure you. Come, let me fix a tumbler for you and you can rest for the night and get the benefit of it.”

Harassed on all sides by what seemed an impassable barrier of helpfulness Grahame sighed and surrendered, allowing a strong arm to help him to his feet.

“Let it be so, then.” In a weak, defeated, undertone.

—O—

The space, Hall, room, chamber, even cave, might have been any form of an apartment; but what it was in reality—if such a banal concept is really of any importance in any possible context—was Aphrodite’s Realm; and the Queen of the Night, or Empress of Romance as you will, was in residence and taking appointments.

“Gabrielle, another shot of Nectar? You know you want to.”

“Well, just a splash, ‘Dite, thanks.”

“Xena?”

“Nah, this goblet o’wine’ll do.”

The Warrior Princess had this long time been eyeing the all-encompassing Pinkness of her immediate surroundings; finding them, at last, entirely lacking in interest, style, or Haute Couture; in short she was bored and more than a little turned-off.

“Even the dam’ goblets are pink glass!”

“What, Xena?”

“Only sayin’, you’re a little transfixed on one colour, ain’t ya? There’s other colours than dam’ Pink, surely?”

The Lady Who Knew Everything about Love grinned widely, taking this criticism lightly on her delicately rounded chin.

“Everyone to their own, or wouldn’t you agree?”

“An’ don’t ya wear anything other than flimsy see-through pink négligées? I can see right through, everywhere—everything, what you’re, ha, wearing right now.”

“And very comfortable it is!” Aphrodite completely unconcerned. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, dear!”

“Anyway,” Gabrielle, like a good Amazon, trying to deflect the conversation onto an intelligent topic. “what about those folks in the distant future? We ain’t having much luck breaking through to them, are we? Thought your power, at least, would have enough strength to do the needful?”

“Yeah, feelin’ the strain these days, Aphrodite?” Xena getting in a stab when offered. “All this easy livin’, an’ excess intake o’Nectar at every opportunity, catchin’ up with ya at last, eh?”

If not actually riled certainly a trifle discombobulated, Aphrodite frowned and raised her left hand; but before anything out of order could occur Gabrielle came to the rescue.

“Thought you did very well, this last time, Lady.” She speaking with real truthfulness. “At least we got to stay there for an appreciable time longer than ever before. You think you could maybe work it so we can talk to them next time? I think you might.”

“Of course I can!” The Goddess derailed at Central Station. “It only needs a little tinkering, is all. Let me experiment a little more, an’ it’ll come right, don’t worry.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Xena taking, as usual, no prisoners. “When you throw us there, into the immense realms an’ uncharted distances of the unexplored Future, it makes me queasy as Tartarus; and when your power weakens an’ gives up on us it feels as if ten Titans are pulling me back by my internal organs! Can’t ya do dam’ better?”

Criticised where it hurt most, over her personal abilities, Aphrodite expressed her unhappiness in the only way she knew how—she pouted like a child.

“You have no idea at all of what’s what, is all, Warrior Woman! You think it’s easy transporting a couple of Humans aeons into the Future—a Future which hasn’t been determined yet from our point of view? Takes a deal of power, intellectual acumen, an’ sheer luck, I might tell ya! Anyways, that particular Future, if I’ve got the determinants right, is a very dam’ mixed up world—all gone t’Tartarus an’ damnation in a hand-basket, believe me. Ya wouldn’t want t’live there for half a clepsydra, take my word on that!”

“You could try again, ‘Dite?” Gabrielle giving her Hostess her best, strongest, and most unalloyed honeyed smile. “I got faith.”

“Yeah, OK, try again,—the Elysian Fields help me for askin’!” Xena hedging her bets like a good ‘un.

Aphrodite, as appreciative of pure Love as any woman, broke and gave in instantly.

“Sweetikins, ya got it!” To the Amazon Queen.

“Huh!” To the Warrior Princess.

—O—

The next evening, after a quiet day, found them all assembled in the Library once more, pointedly ignoring the stack of amphorae in the far corner as they sat round the large table once again, coffee cups to hand.

“Well, what do you think?” Donald starting-off the conversation. “Anyone got any ideas?”

“All we can do, I suppose, is what we’ve done previously on several occasions.” Maude shooting first for the team. “Go back to the vault and await the outcome, if any.”

“The vault is certainly the centre of these, ah, outré events, you say?” Grahame having more or less fully recovered his composure, or what little of same he had ever enjoyed, by this time. “Visions not appeared anywhere else around the grounds or, indeed, within this House?”

“No, only the vault,” Fiona nodding in reply. “we can be fairly sure it is the epicentre of the forces at work here.”

“Well, in that case it only remains for us to construct a reasonable plan and go there once more, perhaps tomorrow.” Grahame himself hardly sounding particularly enthusiastic about the likelihood.

“What sort of a plan?” Donald too sounding less than enthused over the matter. “What can we do but stand and watch, if not simply wait like the poem?”

“Huumph! Something must be done, that’s all.” Grahame also already recovering some of his late antipathy towards almost everything. “Scientific exploration and examination—must result in a logical explanation in the long run!”

“Ghosts aren’t logical,” Peri taking a page out of the Doctor’s book. “never were, aren’t, never can be!”

“Madam, this is no time for levity!” Grahame stung to the quick. “What we need is some sound common-sense brought to the issue, by someone who is not to be side-tracked by legends, myths, or Old Wives’ Tales.”

“You, in fact?” Maude letting her sarcasm show in bucket-loads. “But you yourself saw the so-called ghosts yesterday! What do you make of that? You can’t sweep that under the carpet and talk of Scientific lectures at the Royal Academy; unless you really want to bury your head in the sand and make strange noises to blot out reality. Or do you?”

“Madam, I must ask you to—”

As if in direct reply to this burgeoning argument the gaslights, six in all set high on the wainscoting around the long room, all suddenly began to dim until the room lay in semi-darkness, only the firelight and moonglow from outside shining through the two French windows giving any level of illumination. There was a flicker from the far corner, which soon increased to a bright pink radiance in the shape of a huge bubble that nearly reached to the ceiling. This increased in brightness then shimmered, finally disappearing entirely to reveal to the stunned silent audience the figures of the two strangely clothed women again.

On this occasion they seemed somehow more physically apparent, with no faint transparency to be seen, almost as if they were actual material visitors standing in the room. They again seemed engrosssed in having some form of communication with the true inhabitants, though once more this seemed to present some difficulty for them; the shorter blonde woman clearly speaking to Donald, or perhaps Fiona by his side, though no faint whisper came across to the eagerly attentive listeners.

“She’s trying to tell us something!” Peri on the ball, leaning forward intently as if this would help.

The vision of the blonde woman moved slightly, raising an arm as if about to indicate something, turning slowly as she did so. But before anything could be made of this movement the two visions flickered once more, wavered in a rather giddy-inducing manner, then vanished; the transparent bubble of bright pink light once more encircling the spot where they had stood before itself fading into obscurity at the same time as the gaslights resumed their duty of lighting the Library from end to end.

“Well, once again!” Donald stuck for further words.

If not a cacophony at least an excited buzz of conversation filled the room as everyone all at the same time tried to make something of this incident.

“Things seem to be moving on!” Grahame taking the fore in a loud voice. “I take it this is the first time such a thing has happened outside the vault? A point of immense importance, if so.”

“Yes.” Donald still having trouble finding his voice. “I can’t imagine—”

“It means, in essence, their power is improving, perhaps exponentially.” Grahame on the ball on a topic which was, perhaps, beginning to make some sense to him. “I still have trouble accepting the overall Supernatural element perhaps connected with current events, but something strange is certainly at play. It needs a great deal of thought—yes, a great deal!”

“And in the meantime?” Peri asking a pertinent question. “What do we all do here, while you’re deep in thought? Just stand and wait, like Mister MacAndrew suggested earlier?”

“Madam,” Grahame showing his late character returned to full advantage. “I wish people would stop bringing Milton into the conversation; a wholly unnecessary side issue. You’ll be telling me next it is all down to Satan, and how much more of a personailty he has than his, ah, co-conspirator in that dam’ poem!”

“A sonnet, really, not Paradise Lost.” Donald attempting to keep his end up, but no-one took any notice.

“What does it mean? This latest manifestation?” Maude bringing everyone back to what little of reality they could still keep a firm grasp on.

“What?” Fiona taking up the query.

“Why did they come here, to the Library?” Maude pursuing her point with determination. “Was it because the amphorae are here?”

This caught everyone’s attention, resulting in a long silence while it was digested in various ways.

“The amphorae?” Grahame, against his better judgement accepting, temporarily at least, the possibility. “Perhaps! Indeed, almost certainly the answer. We, or at least I, thought the visions were connected with the religious contexts of the old Abbey, particularly the two empty tombs with the women’s names inscribed on them. But what if the real focus of their interest is the amphorae? Or, at least, their contents? Yes-yes, a definite possibility. How many of the amphorae have you actually examined, or emptied, MacAndrew?”

Donald pursed his lips in thought at the unexpected question.

“Let’s see, the one we took the first scroll from for the schoolmaster to translate; then the second, of which he only translated a couple of paragraphs, and two more which are yet to be read. I’ve taken four scrolls from the amphorae, all from ones that were all already shattered in fragments, Heaven knows how or when, down in the vault. The rest, about sixteen, are all still pristine; the scrolls in them so tightly packed it will be a devil to get any of them out without damaging either them or their containers.”

“Hmmph, yes, no doubt! I wonder that they all contain only these supposed missives delineating the everyday lives, true to life or otherwise, of the two women?” Grahame pursuing an idea which had been gathering momentum in his mind for the last couple of days. “Is there any evidence that the amphorae may contain scrolls featuring works by other, known, Classical authors? If so, there may be treasures here of immense literary value.”

“Without examining them we cannot know that.” Donald covering the obvious.

“Hmm, yes.” Grahame glancing towards the stack of pottery vessels with an acquisitive light in his eye. “A hammer might prove most useful, in present circumstances!”

Donald reacted to this barbaric suggestion with alacrity.

“Put such entirely out of your mind, Doctor! Any examination of these amphorae is going to take place under my eye, by accredited members of some appropriate Organisation using the most temperate of methods.”

“Yes-Yes, of course! Only a passing thought!”

“Doctor, your dam’ thoughts, in aggregate, aren’t getting us any closer to an answer to this unfolding situation.” Peri deciding that an authoritative response was the only one now of any use. “If you stopped babbling and took to thinking responsibly you may make a contribution to the problem, but I have my doubts! Mister MacAndrew, perhaps looking-up the timetable for the local trains from here back to London isn’t quite the unnecessary action we thought?”

“People, please! It’s getting late; let’s sleep on it and see what transpires tomorrow.” Fiona stepping-in to soothe ruffled egos once again. “A light supper, I wouldn’t recommend alcohol at this late hour, and sandwiches or a biscuit, and we will all feel the benefit. Shall we say our goodnights’? Nothing more will happen here tonight, I am sure.”

Seeing the sense in this suggetion everyone agreed and, two minutes later, the Library was once more empty; gaslights turned off, only moonlight shimmering through the French windows illuminating the old tomes on the many shelves and sweeping across the orange pottery surfaces of the massed pile of amphorae.

—O—

The cavernous, though comfortable, realm of the Goddess Aphrodite had its own problems; angry voices echoing in the vast space.

“Was that really your best try?” The Princess not convinced by a long stadion. “If so why not try better next time; not that I’ll allow there’ll be a next dam’ time!”

The fact that she had just re-appeared from the side-lavatorium after performing internal re-arrangements of stunning, near panoramic, proportions hardly contributing to a reasonable temper.

“I’ve just thrown up most o’my guts after that last bloody perfomance!” She making sure the Goddess understood her discomfort. “Never felt anything like it. I must be against—unable—what’s the word,—contradictory; no, that ain’t it—”

“Allergic?” Gabrielle ready with the right word, like a dictionary.

“Yeah, that’s it—I’m allergic t’this dam’ Time-Travel lark. Dam’med if I do it again!”

Gabrielle, surprisingly, was of a wholly differing opinion.

“Come on, Princess! I’ve gone through it without any of the symptoms you’ve shown. Sure you ain’t just imaginin’ it all?”

Xena grunted in displeasure.

“Go an’ take a look at the lavatorium! What you’ll find there ain’t imagination, ducks!” The Princess off on an already well-journeyed rant again. “All this for those dam’ poems—”

“Xena!” Gabrielle appalled by this off-hand discarding of one of her favorite authors.

“OK, babe, it’s just so dam’ annoyin’!” Xena looking as sheepish as she could. “I’ve tried, haven’t I; an’ all I get is sick! Is all this really necessary, just to acquaint the people in the future about a mere set of poems you say they’ve somehow imbecilicly lost track of for centuries?”

Aphrodite had, this long time, been reclining on her couch—clad as usual in hardly anything—rubbing her gorgeous chin with a delicate finger, nail varnished a delightful, you guessed it, pink.

“Girls?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Yeah, what? Make it good!”

Aphrodite, pausing only to bestow an admiring smile on one woman, and a glaring scowl on the other—you can figure out which yourselves!,—expounded on a new theory that had just come to her, the Elysian Fields knew from where!

“That might be the answer, after all!”

“What?” Xena still in the dark, never willing to take this particular Goddess at her word on any topic anyway.

“That I’ve been tryin’ to throw you both, at once, into the future.” The glorious Goddess nodding in agreement with herself, always a comforting habit. “Using up a lot of excess power on two, when one would do all the better.”

“What are ya talkin’ about, woman?” The Princess hardly seeing the light still.

But the Amazon amongst them had grasped the basis of her friend’s proposition.

“You’ve been using up too much energy on the two of us, when sending one forward would be so much easier? Probably let whoever it was stay a lot longer, maybe even be able to speak with the folk there?”

“Exactly!” Aphrodite grinning in her charming way at the girl she loved exclusively above many others. “I send you, Gaby, by yourself an’ all’ll be roses an’ lillies. Xena, obviously, just ain’t up t’the task!”

“Oh, thanks muchly; best recommendation I’ve ever had!” Xena being as snarky as she could be at such short notice.

“Right! You up for it, Gaby?” Aphrodite rising to her feet almost in the same manner, and certainly with the same savoir faire, as her Roman counterpart—Venus—rising from the waves.

“She’s always up for almost anything!” Xena still muttering to herself, feeling abandoned. “Jumpin’ in where Warriors from Valhalla would pause to consider the matter. But her—no, straight in!”

“Xena, stop gibberin’.” From you know who.

“Yes, ma’am!”

—O—

While the others were assembling there at their own separate rates Maude had been idly examining the books in the Library, accompanied by Fiona; this being the next evening after their last abortive gathering.

“You collect a lot of modern authors, you say?”

Fiona standing by the fireplace opposite the French windows, glanced at her guest some twenty feet away.

“Yes, Wilkie Collins, Anthony Trollope, Mary Braddon, Christina Rossetti; those sort of people.”

“I really must read more; I don’t read anywhere near what I should, I’m sure.”

“Some like doing so, some don’t.” Fiona laughing quietly. “Some read for certain reasons, and no others. I knew an old lady, a retired servant, who lived in the nearby village; she lived till ninety-four, during every year of which she never read anything other than the Bible—said when asked, there was nothing else she needed to know that wasn’t already contained in the Good Book!”

“Uu-umph!”

The Library door swung open to allow for the arrival of Doctor Grahame, last to arrive for the evening meeting.

“Hallo, Doctor,” Donald taking charge. “As agreed we’re all only here to see if anything out of the ordinary actually takes place here again tonight. If not, we’ll return to the vault on future occasions to see if the visions, or whatever, continue there.”

“I would much rather see the amphorae taken to the Edinburgh Museum, or better still the London!” He not giving way about his own preferences one tittle. “The sooner they are in the hands of experts the better. Who knows what literary secrets they may contain!”

“Or empty or unreadable scrolls!” Peri happy to pour cold water on the Doctor’s fond imaginings. “The few paragraphs we already have maybe being all there is!”

“Madam, you have a propensity towards the negative outlook that might be ascribed to mental laxness!” Grahame, pushed beyond his limits, showing the bear beneath the lamb’s skin.

“Doctor, you are out of order.” Donald making his feelings known with forthright coldness. “The fact you are leaving us anyway in the morning being a fact most delightfully to be considered!”

“Har-rumph!”

No-one else taking-up the matter silence reigned throughout the long room in a most uncomfortable manner for a few minutes, while Time idly pursued its own slow meanderings through the present aeon.

A clock on the fireplace mantel began tinkling out the hour, making everyone turn to examine its respectable but immobile and expressionlesss face.

“Nine-thirty!” Peri answering for them all. “At least an hour after yesterday’s event. Do you think they will come tonight, at all?”

“I would surmise—” Donald began, but was interrupted by the shimmering appearance of the well-remembered pink glow.

The gaslights, as formerly, began to flicker and decrease in power until once again only the firelight and moonshine through the windows provided a faint illumination within the large room. The pink ball-like glow increased in strength until it filled that part of the room, its upper curve just falling short of touching the patterned ceiling. Its colour became deeper until it shone almost crimson in tone before, as with earlier manifestations, suddenly disappearing to show, this time, only one figure at its centre, seemingly standing foursquare on the carpet and as apparently solid as any of the other inmates there.

“She—” Maude impelled to speak up.

“Shush!” from Peri, intent on the short figure of the blonde female who had arrived in their midst so curiously and inexplicably.

She, the figure or illusion, glanced at the group of people, some distance apart from her, all gazing back at her with deep intensity, then raised an arm to point behind her at the pile of amphorae before speaking clearly and precisely so her meaning could not be misconstrued.

“Οι επτά αμφορείς με τις κόκκινες σφραγίδες περιέχουν τα ποιήματα της Σαπφούς.”

There was a pause, then Maude did speak out.

“What did she say?”

“My God!” Grahame making this short exclamation before receding into a shocked silence.

Peri slipped over to the man and shook him by his shoulder.

“Come on, Doctor, what did she say? It may be of the utmost importance.”

Opening and shutting his mouth several times Grahame at last regained his power of speech.

“—er, Oi eptá amforeís me tis kókkines sfragídes periéchoun ta poiímata tis Sapfoús! Uum!, that is, translated, she says that seven of the amphorae, those with red wax seals, contain the works of the ancient poet Sappho!”

Another shocked silence followed this revelation then they all, as one, again turned to stare at the apparition in the far corner. The woman stood for an appreciable time smiling gently in their direction, though with a litle frown apparent on her brow. Peri realised the reason and turned to Grahame once more.

“Quick, what’s the Greek for Sappho?”

“Sappho? That’d be Sapfó, stress on the last syllable.”

Peri turned to face the ghostly woman, speaking clearly the while.

“Sapfó!”

In answer the apparition nodded her head, smiled more broadly still, then flickered and vanished. The ball of pink light re-formed in its spherical-shape, glowed evermore powerfully, then faded out in a handful of seconds to leave the room in darkness once more. Seconds later the gaslights came on again.

“What just happened?” Fiona as perplexed as most of the others present.

“What just happened is the most important literary discovery in modern History!” Grahame almost salivating in his excitement. “If what she, it, the thing, whatever, said is true those amphorae contain one of the literary treasures of any country’s history, of the World, in fact. Sappho’s poems!”

“I’ve heard of, and read, her works, of course.” Fiona musing on this subject. “Thought there were only fragments remaining, most of her work lost to History?”

“Yes, till now, but if what we have just heard turns out to be the actual case, and the scrolls in question are still in good enough condition to be read and translated then, well, the result is beyond imagination!” Grahame almost lost for words himself.

Donald, till now almost silent, now took the utilitarian course.

“Amphorae, with red seals? Let’s go and look, then. Doctor, that idea of yours, about a hammer, may not be as outrageous as I first thought!”

—O—

Aphrodite’s Realm reflected a scene of almost Roman uninhibited licence and abandonment; all three women were jumping for joy, hanging onto each other’s arms and shoulders in a gay dance expressing relief and pleasure at the same time.

“You did it, ‘Dite!” Gabrielle hardly able to contain herself.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I!” She of the Pinkness smiling like a young girl after her first date.

“Not so bad!” Xena trying her best, for the good of the group. “Where’s that dam’ Nectar? Think I could polish off a goblet, after all!”

The End.

Another Peri MacIntyre & Maude Clarke adventure will be along shortly.

Postscript—

The above story, or history, befalls in an alternative universe where such persons and actions can, and do, live and take place. That it is not our universe should perhaps be a sad reflection on what might or could be, but isn’t!

—O—