Cape Wrath by Paul Finch Read Free Book Online Page A

… just check it out!”
    The professor took the torch and a camera and went in next, Clive following close behind. The others would have to wait their turn as Nug reckoned that only two people could fit inside the burial chamber at any one time and preserve the integrity of the find. But they all got their chance.
    Once they’d crawled along the access tunnel, and squeezed through the freshly dug circular hole at the end of it, they found themselves inside a rectangular, even-sided compartment formed by interlocking slabs of stone set up like a box. At roughly six feet by four, and with a ceiling only three feet from the ground, it was incredibly claustrophobic, while the stuffy, putrid atmosphere, though breathable, was still fairly revolting. All these discomforts, however, were more than made up for by what the compartment contained.
    Their first thought was that it was the most important archaeological discovery in modern times; their second, that they’d need a full research team here on Craeghatir and that a few weeks this summer would not be nearly enough to complete what was potentially the most sensational project of any of their careers.
    At first glance, the whole place was thick with drapes of web, while a dense shroud of grey dust lay over a variety of objects on the floor. This shroud was perfectly smooth, like an undisturbed blanket, but it didn’t conceal the objects’ worth. For example, towards the far end of the chamber, the intruders’ torchlight immediately picked out the corroded iron nose-piece and cheek-guards of a full-head Dark Age helmet. Then it glittered on the hoard of silver coins laid out all around it … on ingots and bangles, on brooches, pins and scattered gemstones, evidently all spilled from sacks which had long ago rotted to nothing.
    Exhilarated, barely able to speak, the team recorded everything on film and then went hurriedly to work with their brushes. They’d hardly dared hope for more, but they found it nevertheless, and within a matter of minutes. Below the helmet there was a skull … it lay in desiccated fragments, but it was clearly identifiable as a skull. Further down the body, the relics of ribs and folded arm-bones were visible, still clad in tarnished ring-mail. On top of these, the iron boss was all that remained of a circular linden-wood shield, but there was also the skeleton of a once-fabulous broadsword, the blade now crooked and coated in rust, but still fitted into its decorative cross-hilt.
    To a man and woman, the team were so shaken with the trove, each member so absorbed in what he or she was doing that at first they worked entirely in silence, the only sound the steady dripping of sweat as they cleaned and polished feverishly. But when they came out into the open air again, their glee gave way like an over-laden dam; they whooped and screamed, danced wild jigs with each other, threw themselves around in wild and manic abandon until Craeghatir’s highest ridges and deepest, darkest groves of woodland fairly rang to the echoes.
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    Alan and Linda stared at each other breathless across the crushed straggle of marigolds. As the morning had worn on, insects had come to life around them. There was now a faint humming of bees, a shrill whine of midges. Linda ignored them all. Her gaze bored into Alan like a drill-bit into stone. There was guilt there, that was true … but there was also a gleam of angry accusation.
    â€œYou’re a son of a bitch,” she said quietly.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Linda …”
    Alan leaned over and offered her his hand, but she chose to ignore it. In fact, she flinched away. “Don’t come near me again!”
    â€œYou were as keen as I was,” he protested.
    â€œI’m not denying it.” Hurriedly, she started to dress. “But it’s over now, definitely.”
    Alan watched helplessly as she climbed quickly into her trousers, then pulled her