Raven's Gate

say?”
    “I was doing a search on Raven’s Gate and he wanted to know why.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “I didn’t tell him anything.”
    “Well you can forget about seeing him.” Richard had found the key. He started the car and they drove off. “We’re not going to London, Matt. I can’t believe I drove all the way here from York just to talk to a woman who was obviously out of her tree. You’re not going to tell me you believed her, are you?”
    Matt looked back and watched as the house disappeared behind them. “I wonder…” he said.

UNNATURAL HISTORY
    The taxi dropped them off at the Natural History Museum in west London. Richard paid the fare.
    “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” he said.
    “I didn’t say anything,” Matt protested.
    “You were the one who wanted to see Dravid.”
    “You were the one who called him.”
    It was true. When they had got back to York, Richard had checked Dravid out on the Internet. It turned out that the professor had an international reputation. Born in the Indian city of Madras, he had become a world expert on anthropology, ethnology, prehistory and a dozen other related areas. He had written books and presented television programmes. There were over a hundred web sites featuring his name, the most recent of which concerned an exhibition about dinosaurs. It was opening at the museum in less than a week’s time. Dravid had organized it and written the catalogue.
    In the end Richard had decided to call him. He’d expected to be given the brush-off. Perhaps he’d even hoped that would happen. But Dravid had been eager to meet them. They’d made an appointment for the following day – at six o’clock, after the museum closed.
    Matt examined the grand Victorian building. It looked like something out of a fairy tale with its terracotta and blue bricks, its Gothic towers and its menagerie of carved stone animals poking out of every nook and corner. There was a stream of people pouring out of the main entrance, down the curved walkways, past the line of wrought-iron lamps and on to the lawns on either side.
    “Let’s go in,” Richard said.
    They went up to the gate, where a security guard stood, blocking their way. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “You’re too late for today…”
    “We have an appointment with Professor Dravid,” Richard told him.
    “Professor Dravid? Yes, sir. Of course. You can ask at the enquiries desk.”
    They climbed the steps and went in. There were certainly plenty of dinosaurs. As Matt entered the museum he was greeted by the black skull of a huge creature. The skull was at the end of an elongated neck, suspended from an arch that swept over the entrance. He looked around him. The dinosaur skeleton was the centrepiece in a vast hall which – with its many arches, its glass and steel roof, its broad staircase and mosaic floor – looked like a cross between a cathedral and a railway station.
    They went to the enquiries desk, which, like the rest of the museum, was just closing.
    “My name is Richard Cole. I’m here to see Professor Dravid.”
    “Ah, yes. The professor is expecting you. His office is on the first floor.”
    A second guard pointed at a stone staircase that led up to a balcony overlooking the main entrance hall. They walked towards it, passing many other dinosaur skeletons, some in glass cases, others standing free. A few last remaining visitors went by, on their way out. The museum seemed bigger and somehow more mysterious now that it was empty. They climbed the stone stairs and continued along a corridor to a solid wooden door. Richard knocked and they went in.
    Professor Sanjay Dravid was sitting in the middle of a room stacked high with books, magazines, files and loose bundles of paper. The walls were covered with charts, graphs and maps. He was typing something into a laptop, working at a desk which was itself crowded with more papers, dozens of specimens in glass cases, bits of bone, and pieces of crystal and stone. He was in his late forties, Matt thought. His hair was black and neatly brushed and he had dark, tired eyes. His jacket hung over the back of his chair.
    “Professor Dravid?” Richard asked.
    The man looked up. “You’re Richard Cole?” He finished typing his sentence, pressed ENTER and closed the laptop. “Susan Ashwood telephoned me after she met you.” His voice was warm and cultured. “I’m glad you decided to get in touch.”
    “How do you know Miss