Out There- Riviera Affair

OUT THERE- RIVIERA AFFAIR

NEAL K. SUTTON

To Claire, Boo & Max

Arrr!

Copyright © 2017 Neal K. Sutton

Published at Smashwords

Table of Contents

1. Encounter Upon The Headlands

2. The Visitor

3. X Marks The Spot

4. Exes

5. Appointment In Pimlico

6. The Cabinet Of Curiosity

7. Ball Pien Hammer

8. Marker 15

9. Maddriato

10. Thule

11. Trillo

12. Dark Descent

13. Nocturn

14. Passage Out

15. Incident At The Lakeside

16. Prepare To Set Sail

17. Brittlestar Point

18. The Yellow Reverie

19. Marooned

20. King Me

21. Return To The Island

22. Island Excursion

23. Chateau Rendezvous

24. The Vigil

25. An Untrustworthy Crew

26. Chase Gun

27. Homeward Bounder

28. The Hurlyburly's Done

Acknowledgments

1. Encounter Upon The Headlands

Within an overgrown cemetery that sprawled before a squat Norman chapel, an ancient gravestone stubbornly endured the aeons. A macabre skull and bones stood proud of its lichen-mottled surface. Beneath which, its epitaph read:

'I did not stealeth ergo mine purse did not abound'

In contrast to the surrounding gravestones, the diminutive memorial appeared stunted, a decayed facet within a row of gnarled angled teeth, thrust up from the earth, illuminated by a waxing moon and the lights of a nearby tavern.

Ira Bowhead knelt to study the ivy plagued headstone whilst rubbing his stubbled chin. He wore canvas trousers, sturdy boots, and a biking jacket that shielded him from the cold wind that intimated the onset of autumn. Parting strands of grass that obscured the lower section of the stone, revealed a barely legible name -'Ezra F___'. Time had eroded any further inscription.

Ira stood and left the graveyard via the lichgate then made his way across a single-track road towards the tavern. He passed beneath a gibbet post from which a sign hung displaying the image of a galleon with sails in bloom and bold text that proclaimed 'The Vanguard Inn'.

He entered a courtyard to rejoin his companion who sat at a table bathed in the orange glow of a patio heater. Beyond, a lawned beer garden held further tables about which groups of patrons gathered in the late evening beneath the canopy of a large oak tree, sparkling with sporadic fairy lights.

'An unusual epitaph don't you think?', the woman inquired.

'I didn't steal, but then I didn't get rich.' Ira said, interpreting the words carved upon the small gravestone.

'Or perhaps, Poverty is the curse of the honest?', the woman suggested.

'An unusual epitaph I'll grant you.' Ira concurred. 'So, who was Ezra what's-his-face?' The woman shook her head which caused her silver hooped earrings to glint.

'No one really knows. Some say a monk; some say a beggar. My favourite story is that he was a local peasant murdered by a highwayman, frustrated that Ezra possessed nothing worth stealing. The village took pity on poor old Ezra and paid for his burial.'

Ira resumed drinking his pint of beer whilst from beneath a heavy brow, his keen dark eyes studied the woman's attractive wide face, flanked by a bushel of dark unruly hair that gathered in a red polka dot scarf. Her name was Webley, they had met when Ira had entered the town hall to escape a downpour and unwittingly wandered into a metal detectors seminar. Webley had encouraged Ira to take up the art, persuading him with stories of notable archaeological finds that appeared in the news from time to time. Consequently, Ira had decided to give metal detecting a try. However, his interest soon waned; he found it hard to summon enthusiasm for the laborious legwork that far outweighed the infrequent discoveries signalled by the infernal 'bleep' of the detector. Despite having initial aspirations of discovering a Roman horde or cache of ancient weaponry, Ira's finds had largely consisted of a relentless stream of empty cans, ring pulls, cutlery, horseshoes and countless other forms of metal refuse. Whilst his more worthy finds had amassed to three Civil War era musket balls, an assortment of contemporary coins and a cheap necklace. None of which had been much cause for celebration, falling short of expectations, incited by the likes of Terry Herbert and his hoard of Anglo-Saxon gold and Basil Brown's excavation at Sutton Hoo.

Despite his diminished interest in metal detecting, Ira still found time to attend The Detector's Club meetings held at The Vanguard, to see what new finds had been unearthed, but essentially, to meet with Webley. After tonight's meeting she had asked Ira to join her for a drink with the promise of something special to show him. Ira was quietly optimistic that this was a euphemism.

Webley looked about at the Friday night revellers amassed in the beer garden, then leant across the table conspiratorially, her eyes wide with excitement.

'You know Jessy Musgrave, right?' she whispered.

Ira nodded.

'Well, I have permission to detect upon his fields with the usual proviso of a fifty-fifty split if I discover anything of value.’ Webley looked about before proceeding. ‘You've seen my run of luck with the coins?'

Again, Ira nodded whilst recalling the week's finds presented by the Detector's Club members which had consisted of an assortment of buttons, thrown horse shoes, civil war period musket balls, a lone Victorian earring. Not forgetting Merle's excited announcement that he had discovered a broken sword, that turned out to be a plough shear. In contrast to these items, Webley had brought along a Roman coin and an ancient clasp-buckle which had caused a stir amongst the group. Her finds of Roman coins had become consistent, although she had refused to say where she had found them, which was not unusual amongst the club’s secretive members.

As Webley leant in closer to Ira, he caught the aroma of her earthy perfume and became distracted by her red painted lips.

'The coins led me to something bigger, Ira!' she said excitedly. 'I've been dying to show it to someone and I figure I can trust you, I'll show you tonight.' Following this, Webley had refused to answer any of Ira's questions regarding the matter, ‘to avoid dulling the surprise’ she had explained, adding that she was confident that her discovery was sure to make the cover of Detector's Monthly. Hell, maybe even the pages of National Geographic? It was obvious to Ira that Webley was convinced she had discovered a significant find. Ira decided not to press the subject whilst hoping that Webley wasn't setting herself up for disappointment. He stood and entered the aged doors of the inn to procure more drinks, an exercise that he repeated several times as the evening rolled on. The patrons who sat about chatting in the dimly lit shadows slowly diminished until eventually the last of them, a man in a wax jacket and tweed hat, left to enter the pub for a late refill.

Webley looked about to ensure that she and Ira were alone, drained her glass, then said 'Let's Go!'

She stood an impish five feet tall in her black Dr. Martens boots. She wore a pair of holed jeans held up by a sizable studded belt and a waist-length anorak over a shapeless black shirt. Ira accompanied her as they proceeded in silence upon a single-track road that cut through fallow fields. They climbed a wooden stile onto a path adjacent to a hedgerow. Once they were out of sight of the inn, Webley visibly relaxed.

'I have to act quickly, Ira. Musgrave came across my discovery. Musgrave likes a drink, and when he drinks, he talks.'

Ira was aware of Jessy Musgrave's fondness for alcohol. Musgrave was a local farmer who had recently been telling all and sundry about 'The little secret' hidden within his fields. As far as Ira knew, Musgrave had not revealed what that secret was, nor to which field he referred. Anybody curious enough to find out, had only to search within the confines of his thirty or so acres of well-defined land.

The moon was low and lit the distant headland blue when Webley and Ira reached the far end of the field. They proceeded to clamber through a small copse which eventually thinned.

Exiting upon the brow of a hill, they clambered over a further style into a recently harvested field. Reaching the ridge of the hill they crossed a small lane that past an abandoned, haunted looking pump house built into the side of the rise. The sound of waves washing shale upon a distant beach became pronounced as Webley, who was walking a little way ahead of Ira, took his hand. Ira thought this a moment to steal a kiss when she suddenly whispered 'Get down!' and dropped to a crouch pulling Ira with her.

Ira knelt upon the damp grass and followed Webley's gaze to the field before them. Approximately fifty yards ahead, next to a small copse of trees and bushes he could see three figures pointing torches at a wide square hole cut into an incline of the ground next to where a small tent was pitched.

'Friends of yours?' Ira whispered.

'No, they most certainly are not!' Webley replied curtly whilst her eyes glinted in the darkness, fixed upon the figures. 'This is Musgrave's fault, that bloody blabbermouth!' she whispered angrily.

Webley stood decisively, then proceeded to stride towards the three figures as she pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and held it aloft.

'Gentlemen!' she announced loudly 'I have in my hand a piece of paper. This document bears the signature of the owner of this land, one Jessy Musgrave. It grants me sole permission to excavate this field. All those not in possession of said paper and who are not here at my invitation, are trespassing and must therefore leave!'

Webley was immediately illuminated by torch beam. One of the figures ran into the copse from where, after an ignition cough, a diesel engine roared to life. Twin headlights simultaneously illuminated the area, temporarily blinding both Webley and Ira. The sound of an unseen barking dog added to their confusion.

Ira got to his feet and began running towards Webley, he heard cracking branches and in his clearing vision could make out a large shape behind the headlights breaking through a covering of bushes as it tore into the clearing. The shape revealed itself to be an agricultural vehicle fronted by an enormous rectangular digging bucket bearing rows of serrated teeth. The scoop began to lower and with a mechanised grunt the vehicle lurched forward towards the hole in the ground that the three men had been studying.

Webley screamed and began running towards the agricultural vehicle that was moving across the open ground, crushing a portion of the tent, now translucent in the vehicle's headlights, revealing the silhouette of a large rousing figure within. The figure stood with both arms raised and tore through the membrane of tent cloth, revealing itself to be a huge man. Over the noise of the diesel engine Ira heard the man cry out something that he thought sounded like 'Too much potato!'

‘A baffle cry?’ Ira mused, whilst shouting 'Brennon! Is that you?'

The large bucket at the front of the vehicle began to lower as the machine proceeded forward, tearing a hole in the earth with a grating shriek. Then the vehicle reversed as the bucket rose, lifting out a section of earth from which soil and debris spilled to the ground.

A solitary figure who was guiding the machine with torchlight was caught off guard by the giant denizen of the tent. The giant head-butted him to the ground with a fluid motion, then strode towards the vehicle and proceeded to slam his fists upon it.

Ira ran to intercept Webley whilst observing the pantomime playing out before him. He heard the dog barking again and in the darkness, could make out the form of a fast-approaching shape that collided with him, knocking him off his feet. He next found himself frantically fighting off lashing paws and snapping vicious teeth that ultimately clamped upon his arm. Ira rolled into an earthen rut and rammed his boot beneath the animal's body propelling it into the air. It landed several meters away, shook itself then came on again. Ira got to his feet and raced towards the dilapidated pump house that he had passed earlier. He slid down a grassy hillside and arrived at the entrance of the pebble dashed building. He entered the open doorway and slammed the door shut, causing a pane of the glass panelled door to shatter. Ira paused to gain his bearings, breathing hard in the interior darkness as the dog repeatedly leapt at the aged door, cracking the remaining glass panels that rattled in their slats. Ira decided that the concrete staircase before him was his best option and bolted up the stairs. He had made halfway up when a crash of breaking glass emitted from below, followed by animal snarls amplified by the interior of the building. Ira arrived at a first-floor landing and looked about at a gutted expanse that was clearly undergoing restoration work. Boards and building materials lay stacked upon wooden beams that spanned the length of the first floor at metre wide intervals. Through the ground floor windows Ira could see the diesel vehicle roaming outside the building as its headlights cast slatted light upon the ceiling and walls of the upper floor, revealing a doorway at the far end of the building beyond the rows of horizontal wooden beams.

The slathering hound emerged from the stairwell, it’s appearance provided Ira encouragement to leap the gap to the first wooden beam whilst momentum carried him across the open expanse to land upon the next. The beam creaked disquietingly beneath Ira’s boots as he balanced precariously upon it. It was then that the dog leapt up into the divide, striking Ira and forcing him to leap to the next beam where he pirouetted, waving his arms erratically to remain upright. He heard a crash from below and looked down at a cloud of pale dust, amid cement bags and building materials he observed the dog regaining its composure. The now pale hound appeared undeterred, shook itself, then began to leap at Ira, who had regained his balance, straddled upon two beams directly above. Ira discerned that the creature was clearly the result of an unholy union between an alsatian and the Hound from Hell. The dog began turning circles in frustration, snapping its exposed teeth, spattering dark droplets upon the dusty floor. The animal appeared suddenly distracted by a view through an open doorway that accessed the building, the floor of which was now covered in sparkling shards of broken glass. Struck by inspiration, the dog ran through the passageway and raced back up the stairway in a bid to repeat the whole performance. Its echoed barks persuaded Ira to leap to the next beam which creaked in protest beneath his weight, he leapt to the next and repeated the process in a bid to reach the door whilst the aged beams emitted a disconcerting chorus of creaks and groans.

Ira finally made it to the end of the room having landed upon a stone ledge that jutted before a metal door. He grasped the door’s handle for support then shouldered it, forcing it ajar. Briefly looking over his shoulder, he saw the dusty dog inexplicably balanced