Interr'd with Their Bones

The dying rays of the autumn sun paint golden the tennis courts of Palgrave Manor, Bassethwaite, where a rather unusual game of mixed doubles is taking place. Up on the battlements, young Archie Palgrave, who hasn't been quite the ticket since a rather close thing at Passchendaele, intensely reads the latest weird tale by that strange Yankee author he now favours. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Mrs Blake frowns over the silverware. One of Cook's big knives seems to be missing...

From the butler's pantry, all that can be heard is the gentle clink of bottles. Mr Verity is hard at work as usual, ensuring that plenty of the master's finest Chateau Vanier is on hand for tonight's repast. It would take a very suspicious mind to inquire as to the purpose of the length of tubing leading from his funnel to a mysterious cask under the table, from which a curious slurping noise can in no sense be discerned.

Beyond the ha-ha, on the old Long Barrow, the members of the archaeological team from the Bassetshire Antiquarian Society are waist-deep in their trench. "Remind me again why we have to finish this dig by tonight?" asks a weary Sir Digby Burroughs. His colleague shrugs and indicates the moving-picture crew stationed vigilantly around the site. "They said it would make for a more dramatic show if we were under an artificial time constraint. Seems bally daft to me -- that's no way to do good archaeology!" Just then, there is an eager shout from down the other end of the trench. A precious find!

Lady Helen watches the scene outside through the French windows that lead from the parlour onto the terrazzo. Her mind wanders to happier times on the Italian Riviera, when she still believed that her husband loved her. Well, she had learnt soon enough. And had learnt, further, how to deal with his errant ways. Thanks to her efforts, there is little enough danger that any other woman will benefit from his wayward attentions. And, yes -- if either of her sons show signs of the same bad blood, she has a way of dealing with them, too.

No-one has noticed the crescent moon rising silently up behind the house, but all sense a chill come into the air. The man behind the movie camera turns to his director. "Must be getting close to time now!" She checks her elegant wristwatch. "Nearly... nearly..." Soon enough, it will be time, and she will be repaid for that time long ago -- will have her cold revenge.

But before she can say any more, there is a shrill scream from the great dark house itself. "Murder!"

Veni, Vidi... Bassethwaite?

The Greatest Story Ever Told!

SEE!... Christians^* eaten by lions! ferrets
    (^*E&OE, ONO)

GASP!... at the sinister Wicker Man!

SWOON!... at the touching take of love across the aqueduct!

SCREAM!... for your favourite Gladiator!

MARVEL!... at the Wide Woman of Bassethwaite!

WEEP!... at the fate of the Sacred Spring!

GROAN!... at the dreadful puns!

The year is 150 AD. Britannia is entirely occupied by the Romans. Well, not entirely... in the sleepy fortified encampment of Isca Bassetorum, built alongside the Pictish village of Bassethwaite, there is still something of an uneasy tension between conqueror and conquered.

Perhaps this is because the Battle of Basset Lake, the last reverse the Romans suffered during their grand sweep northwards, was fought nearby here – the XIIIth Legion was destroyed by a British warband, and its legion captured. Or perhaps it’s because the Sacred Spring that feeds the lake is a peculiarly holy place to the Druids, that strange nature-loving cult of whom the Britons are so fond. Or perhaps it’s because the mercantile culture so beloved by the Romans met its match in this prosperous part of Britain, renowned for its produce and its traders. Either way, life is not easy for the Roman provincial administration of Governor Habeas Corpus.

Today is a particularly special occasion. The new Emperor, blessed be his name, who ascended to the purple on a tide of blood unprecedented in the Empire’s history, has decreed that his favourite horse’s birthday should be celebrated throughout Roman lands, with gladiatorial games, feasting, and other spectacles. Not a problem by itself, but today also happens to be the highly holy Druidic festival of Sunreturn, at which the mystic priests carry out the rites necessary to guarantee prosperity in the year ahead. And not only that, but this part of Britais has in recent years fallen partly under the influence of missionaries from Ireland, bearing word of the strange new ‘Christian’ sect – a subversive cult not without its members even in the very heart of Rome.

It may be this upswelling of religious feeling that inspired, last night while everyone was asleep, the carving of a giant chalk figure in the down above the lake. Immediately dubbed ‘the Wide Woman of Bassethwaite’, it depicts a naked woman, spreadeagled for all to see. Speculation is rife as to who was the carver, and who the model.

There are visitors from Rome for the celebrations: the Vestal Virgin, Virgo Intacta, has arrived to officiate, and two renowned gladiators, ‘Slasher’ and ‘Hoppy’, will contest for the right to gasp out their blood on the baking sand (weather permitting). The Governor is hosting the event at his sparkling new villa, constructed by native labour under the supervision of the builder Spatulix: surely this augurs favourable business relations to come? An Egyptian merchant, Imhotep, is in town with all sorts of finery never seen in these parts before. And in the village tavern, run with warm bonhomie by Syphilix and Chlamydia, Roman and Briton drink side by side, whether their preference be for the weak local wine or the even weaker local beer.

What could possibly go wrong?