Daughters of Fire (31 page)

‘I’ve been crass,’ Pat said as she followed her in. ‘I admit it. I got so excited by the story I went into rough-shod mode. A fault of mine and I know it. Mea Culpa!’ She put her briefcase down on the sofa and flung herself down beside it. ‘Can we start again?’

Viv studied her face for a moment in silence before seating herself on the rocker. ‘No Medb?’

Pat opened her mouth then closed it. She put her head on one side. ‘Less Medb?’

‘No Medb. There’s no space for Medb. No actual place for Medb!’ Cartimandua had vetoed the woman’s part in the play.

Pat exhaled sharply. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘So, where do we go from here?’ She left her briefcase unopened.

Viv shrugged. ‘I’ve got the TV programme this evening. I can’t really think straight until that is over.’

‘Live?’

Viv grimaced. ‘Live.’

‘But you’re good at this sort of thing, right? I’ve heard you’re a natural.’

‘I don’t know. I’m nervous.’

Pat shook her head. ‘That’s a good sign. You’ll be terrific.’ She stood up. ‘Tomorrow, OK? We’ll slot some scenes together with the narrative and see how it reads.’

She left Viv both doughnuts.

In the TV studios late that night Viv found herself seated opposite the presenter, Selwyn Briggs. She had placed the Perspex box
between her glass of water and the small bowl of flowers which stood on the low table between them.

A grey-haired man, with a craggy face and eccentric taste in luminous shirts, Selwyn eyed it. ‘When do you want to produce it?’

‘About halfway through my segment?’ She shrugged. Behind the spotlights the cameras were lining up. Cables snaked across the floor into the distance. Someone was checking the small mike pinned to her blouse. ‘I’ll lead into it naturally if that’s OK with you, when I talk about Cartimandua’s life style.’

‘That’s fine.’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t forget you’ve only got about ten minutes in all. Don’t go into too much detail. Keep it general.’

On the studio wall the clock ticked round towards the hour. Listening to the signature tune Viv found her mouth had gone dry. Selwyn was smiling at her now, engaged, his professional persona in place, his introduction as always word perfect.

‘This evening our programme comes to you from Edinburgh and in it we have three practical historians who are here to talk about their work. First up we have Dr Vivienne Lloyd Rees who is a Celticist at Edinburgh University. Good evening, Viv.’ His smile broadened. ‘Your new book,
Cartimandua, Queen of the North
will be on our shelves any day now. Can you tell us briefly what it’s about?’

The camera crept nearer, focussed on her face. Viv smiled back at him and her nerves disappeared. She made a couple of passable jokes. She flirted with the lens. She was a natural; relaxed; charismatic. The camera adored her. The first few minutes seemed to fly. At last she reached for the box. ‘I have something here, Selwyn, which I think will interest the viewers.’ She removed the lid and picked up the pin, holding it on her palm. ‘This brooch - technically it’s called a fibula - a safety pin, if you like, came from a place called Stanwick in Yorkshire, the site of one of the largest Brigantian settlements, the place which many people think was their capital. In Celtic times I believe it was called Dinas Dwr, which means the castle on the water. The river there is tiny now, no more than a brook, a tributary of the Tees but in earlier times it was larger. As you can see, this is a beautiful object, made of gold and the most exquisite enamelling.’ She moved her hand in front of the camera so the brooch caught the light. Even here, in the heat of the studios it was cold. ‘By rights, it should be in the museum, of course,’ she paused, eyebrow raised,‘and it will go back there straight after the
programme, but its owner, Professor Hugh Graham, allowed me to borrow it especially for tonight.’ She glanced up at the camera nearest to her and grinned. ‘There’s no way of knowing if it really belonged to Cartimandua, but that’s what it has come to be called. The Cartimandua Pin.’

Selwyn leaned forward. ‘A very talented craftsman made this.’ He held out his hand and reluctantly she placed the brooch on his palm.

‘Indeed. These were sophisticated, artistic people.’

Selwyn nodded sagely, staring down at it for a few seconds before hastily handing it back. She saw him surreptitiously rub his palm on his knee as he smiled at her again. So, he felt it too. ‘You obviously have amazing pull, Viv. People aren’t usually allowed to ‘‘borrow’’ things from museums. Professor Graham must look on you with great favour. Not to say trust.’ He gave her a wolfish grin.

Viv met his eye, startled. ‘He’s certainly taken a great interest in my book,’ she said cautiously. He knew.

‘And has been very supportive, no doubt?’ He left the question hanging.

‘He has backed me in his own inimitable way,’ Viv commented dryly. ‘Professor Graham and I have different ways of pursuing our research. Ways which I think complement each other very well.’ She gave a wry smile. Did he know about the row, or were his comments merely shrewd? She put the pin down on the table. ‘In fact he’s probably sent an armoured car to collect this and make sure it gets back safely,’ she commented. She managed a humorous shrug.

Selwyn laughed. ‘I’m sure he trusts you, Viv,’ he said. ‘So, where next?’ He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Another book, perhaps?’

‘Indeed.’ She looked straight into the camera. ‘I’ve been doing further, tremendously exciting research and I have already started on a sequel. I am also working on a radio drama documentary about Cartimandua.’

‘So, we should watch this space?’

Viv smiled. ‘I hope you will.’

There was a pause. The floor manager made a thumbs up sign and taking off his headphones, slung them round his neck. It was time for the break. Selwyn sat back with a grin. ‘Great. Thanks, Viv.’ There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘You believe in living dangerously!’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hugh was on the phone to me about that pin.’

She waited while the mike was unfastened from her blouse and then stood up. ‘Thanks for not relaying the full force of his fury to the nation.’

‘I wouldn’t call it fury.’ Selwyn reached across to shake her hand. ‘A touch of professional jealousy maybe? Go carefully, sweetie!’

The next guest - a TV presenter from Glasgow whose new series on rescue archaeology would start in a couple of weeks - was waiting for her chair. Viv picked up the brooch, put it back into the box and made her way off the sound stage, past the cameras towards the green room where she had left her jacket as the show restarted behind her. What had he meant by ‘go carefully’? With a shiver she zipped the brooch into the inner pocket of her bag and put the strap over her shoulder.

It was almost midnight. The studios were for the most part in darkness. The reception desk was unmanned, the corridors deserted. Only the one studio was in use tonight. At the outer door she paused to let herself out, half expecting her prediction to be right, but there was no one around. No armoured car. No police. No heavies - she gave wry grin at the thought. No one at all.

The car park was nearly empty, the tarmac between the rows of small neatly planted cherry trees reflecting the rain under the tall security lights. Pulling her car key out of her pocket she headed for the Mazda which she had left on the far side of the car park, which when she had arrived a couple of hours before, had been nearly full. She stopped abruptly, listening to the rain hissing down on a bank of laurels nearby as she narrowed her eyes in the glare of the lights. There was a figure standing near her car. She glanced round nervously. It was Carta. She was sure of it. She could feel the terror tightening her throat as she looked back towards the studio. The door had clicked shut behind her. She was completely alone.

Vivienne!

She could hear the voice above the sound of the rain.

Vivienne. Come back!

It was the voice of her narrator. The voice of the ghost. The hair was standing up on the back of her neck. With a moan of fear she broke into a run and headed back to the building behind her, splashing through puddles, water soaking her shoes. Banging on the locked door frantically she glanced behind her. The car park was deserted once more. She could see no sign of the figure. ‘Please. Let me in!’ She searched desperately for a bell or a buzzer. There
seemed to be nothing. Once again she banged on the glass panels with her fist. There was no response. With a cry of anguish she turned, her back to the door. There was no one in sight. Her car stood alone in the rain beneath the bank of lights.

Her mouth dry with fear, she took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. She had to go. Running as fast as she could she headed for the far side of the car park and the safety of the little car.

For a moment she couldn’t slot the key into the lock. She could feel the panic mounting. Her hands shaking, her fingers wet with rain she stabbed at the lock, and then at last felt it slide in and turn. Pulling open the door she dived in and slammed the locks shut. Only then did she take a deep breath and look round, wiping the rain from her eyes. The car park was still deserted. The shadows were empty.

She had been very watchable. He had to give her that. Standing up, Hugh went over to the sideboard to replenish his whisky. She was relaxed. Attractive. Charismatic, that was probably the word. Enthusiastic about the wretched book and, God help us, already writing another. He raised the glass and took a swig. That old sod Selwyn had been a damn sight too tactful about the brooch. He had had the chance to pillory her and all he had done was make a joke of it. Hugh walked over to the window. He hadn’t drawn the curtains and outside the world was black and wet. He could hear the rain on the glass above the sound of the adverts. The wind had whipped some brown and dying rose petals into the air and plastered them against the panes. The larches at the bottom of the garden were thrashing up and down, their branches sounding like waves on the beach. With a shiver he pulled the curtains across and turned back to the TV where Selwyn was already smiling benignly at his next guest.

It was after midnight when Hugh finally turned off the set. He returned his glass to the sideboard, contemplated another top-up
and realised that he was already slightly unsteady on his feet. Too much whisky would negate the desired effect of a quick and deep sleep. If one wasn’t careful there was that uncomfortable transition state before unconsciousness when one lay awake, the room beginning to spin unpleasantly when the regret set in. He never used to drink so heavily. He didn’t like being drunk. Firmly putting down the glass he walked out of the room and turned the lights off in time to see the sweep of car headlights through the hall window as someone drew up on the gravel outside the front door. He heard a car door slam. Seconds later his doorbell rang.

Viv was standing on the doorstep, her hair plastered flat by the rain, the shoulders of her jacket soaked. Under it she wore the cream trousers and rust-coloured blouse she had worn on TV and the sexy pointed shoes.

He stood back and let her in without a word. It was the first time she had been in the house since Alison had died.

‘Here you are.’ She groped in her bag as they stood there, facing each other in the hall. ‘I’ve brought it back as promised. Perfect. Undamaged. The loan much appreciated!’ She managed a small smile. ‘Did you watch?’

‘I did.’ He found himself grudgingly returning the smile. Her presence in the dark lonely house was like a breath of sunshine. An unsuitable simile perhaps in view of her rain-soaked state, but apt, nevertheless. ‘You were good. I have to admit it.’

‘But hopelessly inaccurate and shaming to the department?’ She was still smiling. Just. Behind the smile her face was white and strained.

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t spot anything too controversial.’

She had produced the box and was holding it out towards him. Ignoring it, he turned towards the kitchen. ‘Come in and have a drink. It’s a foul night. You needn’t have come straight here, you know.’ Turning on the switch he flooded the room with cold light. The window beyond the sink looked out at the black rain-soaked gardens and the drive. He made no attempt to close the blind before he filled the kettle.

Viv followed him in and put the box carefully in the centre of the bare table. She was still feeling scared and shaky after her ordeal in the car park. ‘You’re not going to the police, then.’

He gave a grim laugh. ‘As long as it’s not a replica.’ Plugging in the kettle he pushed the switch.

She grimaced ‘I never thought of that.’

‘Then we’ll leave it at that.’ He glanced up. ‘Did you take it out of its box? But of course you did. I saw you. And anyway, how could you resist?’ He sighed as he answered his own question. ‘I’ll take it back to the museum as soon as possible. They want it for a special display.’

She shrugged. ‘It seems a shame to lock it away behind glass forever. It’s such a personal thing. Someone must have loved and admired it very much.’ She glanced at it doubtfully, then at his face. ‘Holding it in your hand,’ she paused, cautiously,‘you can almost feel the last person to wear it is watching you.’