The house was in darkness, with only a single light showing upstairs, candle-like behind the small window – probably the bathroom. The place was comfortably asleep. And so it should be, Dracup thought. It’s 3.30 in the morning. He held his breath as he moved slowly forward towards the object. He realized he was grinding his teeth, as he used to in his parents’ home when he wanted to creep down the old staircase without alerting the grown-ups to his presence; he imagined the noise of his teeth rubbing together would obscure any noise issuing from his own movements. Dracup shook his head. Nuts. You’ve always been a bit nuts. Now the stillness had a volume all of its own which seemed more unsettling.
Something rustled in the hedgerow and he dropped to his haunches, crouching low. He waited thirty seconds. Nothing jumped out at him. No lights flicked on. Keep moving. He took a breath and went forward again. Sara would be home by now, fast asleep in her own bed. Or maybe not. Maybe she’s somewhere else altogether. He shook his head, unable to sustain the thought. He felt diminished without her, as if some central process inside him had been shut down.
Enough. Concentrate. He reached the object and squatted next to it, running his hands over the stone column. Relief washed through him. The sundial still presided over the garden, a solid connection between now and the past. He traced the Roman numerals. Five, six, seven. Dracup looked to see the direction of the angle created by the VII. He measured seven reasonable paces from the dial and found himself by the herbaceous border. With some misgivings and considerable sympathy for the owners he began to dig. The noise jarred his senses, and he worked the shovel as cautiously as he could into the stiff earth, keeping one eye nervously on the Farrell corner of the property.
After a few minutes he had succeeded only in creating a superficial hole, no more than a hand’s breadth into the stubborn soil. He bit his lip in frustration. He couldn’t even be sure he was digging in the right place. Dracup retraced his steps to the sundial and measured out another seven paces. It brought him to the same spot. With a sigh of resignation he resumed the laborious task of softening the earth with the edge of the spade. Sweat ran down his back as he worked, and soon his shirt was soaked through. To add to his discomfort it began to rain, lightly at first but then more persistently. Dracup cursed as he toiled away until he realized the rain was beginning to work for him, rather than against him. The more soil he exposed, the more effective the softening rain became.
Thirty minutes later he was standing at the side of a muddy pit several feet deep. Panting, he stood back to assess his handiwork. He heard the thrum of an engine accelerating past the house. Somewhere out towards the city a siren’s wail rose and fell. Dracup returned to his work, probing with the spade into the thick mud. Farrell remained out of sight. Dracup hoped he was awake, then realized he had never actually seen the American sleep; he seemed to be on perpetual alert.
The spade hit an unyielding portion of his hole, returning a hollow sound that made Dracup jump in surprise. He threw the spade aside and got down on his hands and knees, scrabbling to clear the detritus away from whatever he had uncovered.
Five minutes later he had exposed the rectangular shape of what appeared to be the lid of a metallic container. Several minutes’ more effort and he had cleared space enough to get his hands under the container and free it from its bed of earth. It was heavier than he expected for its size, but eventually he gained enough purchase to lift it out and set it down carefully beside its former resting place. Dracup sat, exhausted on the damp grass, feeling the rain trickle down his mud-spattered face. He was about to signal Farrell to give him a hand when some intuition made him change his mind.
The box opened easily, and Dracup shone his pencil torch into its depths. Within lay the object from Theodore’s sketch. Elated, Dracup pulled the perished covering aside. Beside it, also wrapped in what appeared to be some kind of waterproof cloth, was a smaller square parcel. Dracup stole a furtive look towards the house. He flashed the torch in a prearranged signal. For a moment there was nothing, then Farrell’s torch pierced the darkness. Good. He had time. Dracup uncovered the smaller parcel and extracted the contents.
He peered at it, running the beam across its surface. It was a wax writing tablet, similar to those he had seen in museums and on boyhood excursions to Roman villas, but clearly modern because it was inscribed with that familiar hand he knew belonged to Theodore. But now was not the time for a lengthy perusal. He rewrapped the tablet and placed it carefully in his coat pocket, then quickly replaced the lid and signalled to Farrell for assistance. As he waited for the agent he marvelled at Theodore’s provision; he was gaining a healthy respect for his grandfather. What better way to preserve a buried message than to inscribe it on wax? Theodore had been neither fool nor lunatic, but something had happened to him, something destabilizing. Dracup watched Farrell’s noiseless approach. He patted his pocket protectively. Whatever Theodore had intended to communicate, Dracup wasn’t prepared to share it with Potzner’s team. Not yet.