End of the Century (44 page)

The facts were simple. For most of the decade, Arthur Bulleid had been involved in an ongoing excavation of Glastonbury Lake Village. Late the previous year, he had visited a dig being carried out on Glastonbury Tor by one Peter R. Bonaventure. Assisted only by a man named Dulac, Bonaventure was investigating ancient legends of Gwynn, son of Nudd, which he proposed had some origin in historical fact. Excavating not far from the ruins of St. Michael's Church, at the Tor's summit, Professor Bonaventure failed to substantiate his claim, the labor of weeks producing only some evidence of ancient sub-Roman fortifications dating to the early sixth century. His only discovery of note was a crystal, perhaps some type of milky quartz, which had been carved in the shape of a slightly tapering cylinder, giving it almost the appearance of a cup or chalice, though solid throughout. Whether it was of some ritual significance, or simply an ancient
objet d'art
, was unknown, but hardly seemed of monumental significance.

On completing his excavations, Professor Bonaventure filed a report with the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, at Bulleid's request, and then he and his man returned to London, taking their crystal oddity with them.

That night, Blank and Miss Bonaventure dined at the inn in Taunton. They were eager to return to London but had missed the last train and so had to remain in town as they'd originally intended.

“Tell me, Miss Bonaventure,” Blank said while their bowls of soup cooled. “Is this namesake of Bulleid's report any relation, do you suppose?”

She paused for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I don't recall any ‘Peter' around the family table at the holidays, I'm afraid.”

Blank nodded. “Ah, well, I suppose it would be one connection too many in an investigation that has already produced more that I find seemly. We now have Arthur Bulleid to add to Arthur Carmody…”

“To say nothing of Arthur Pendragon,” Miss Bonaventure put in.

“Quite so. Too many Arthurs around, if you ask me.” He sipped at his soup and made a face. “And not enough cooks.”

“I think you're conflating the line about cooks in kitchens and Indians and chiefs.” Miss Bonaventure sampled her own soup, and pulled a face of her own. “But I don't think you're far wrong.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

“I can't help but wonder if the fare at the Tudor Tavern might not be an improvement.”

“It could hardly be a declination.”

“Come along then,” Blank said, pushing back his chair and then stepping around to offer Miss Bonaventure his arm. “And on the way, I'd like to find a bookshop still open, if possible. I want to see if we can find anything concerning the legends this Professor Bonaventure was investigating.”

So it was that a short while later the two sat opposite one another across a pitted and ancient table, rougher but far more palatable fare on the platters before them, studying the books they had bought.

“Here it is,” Miss Bonaventure said, flipping through the pages of Lady Guest's translation of
The Mabinogion
, while Blank contentedly chewed a hunk of fish. “In the tale of ‘How Culhwch won Olwen,' our boy is mentioned thusly: ‘Gwynn son of Nudd, in whom God has set the energy of the demons of Annwvyn, in order to prevent the destruction of this world, and Gwynn cannot be let loose.'”

Blank washed his fish down with a gulp of porter and leaned over to see the passage for himself. “Now, that
is
interesting. I can only imagine that Annwvyn is the same as Lady Priscilla's Annwn.”

“The Unworld,” Miss Bonaventure translated.

“The very same.”

“And I've found another mention here, in a footnote. Lady Guest reports
that, according to legend, St. Collen, the seventh-century Abbot of Glastonbury, once ‘heard two men conversing about Gwynn ab Nudd, and saying that he was king of Annwn and of the Fairies.' He admonished these men, who said that Collen would soon receive a reproof from Gwynn. Three times a messenger came to Collen and summoned him to come and speak with Gwynn at ‘the top of the hill,' by which I suppose she means the Tor. On the third visit, Collen agreed to go. Our boy Collen is no fool, though, and takes holy water along in a flask, just in case. On reaching the top of the hill, he finds himself in the fairest castle he had ever beheld, amidst all sorts of music and song. There is a man at the top of the castle in a golden chair, the king, Gwynn himself, who tempts Collen with all manner of treats, but Collen refuses them all. Then, and this is the interesting bit, Gwynn asks him whether he has ever seen ‘men of better equipment than those in red and blue?' Which men these are, and precisely what is their equipment of red and blue, Lady Guest doesn't report. Collen then responds that ‘their equipment is good enough, for such equipment as it is.' The king asks ‘What kind of equipment is that?' whereupon Collen proves to be a poor guest. Here's how the translator puts it.”

Miss Bonaventure sipped at her jar of ale, and then read aloud.

“
Then said Collen, ‘The red on the one part signifies burning, and the blue on the other signifies coldness.' And with that Collen drew out his flask, and threw the holy water on their heads, whereupon they vanished from his sight, so that there was neither castle, nor troops, nor men, nor maidens, nor music, nor song, nor steeds, nor youths, nor banquet, nor the appearance of any thing whatever, but the green hillocks.
”

“Hmm,” Blank hummed. He held aloft the book he'd been perusing, a slim volume on the folk tales of the British Isles. “It's here recorded that in Welsh legend this selfsame Gwynn is sometimes said to be the leader of the Wild Hunt and master of the Cwn Annwyn. What are the Cwn Annwyn, you might well ask? The hounds of Annwn, of course, a pack of snow white, red-eared spectral hounds who, with their master Gwynn, lead the souls of the damned to hell. It is said that they are accompanied by a howling wind and that their baying has the sound of migrating wild geese.”

“More Unworld, then,” Miss Bonaventure said thoughtfully.

“More connections. But like our surfeit of Arthurs, to say nothing of our
mbarrassment of Bonaventures, I'm not sure what our surplus of Unworld references tells us.” He flipped through the pages of his book of British folk tales. “The more I read about this business, the less sense it makes. This Gwynn is the son of Nudd. Is that the same as Lady Priscilla says is cognate with Nuada and Lugh and a host of others? And these so-called hounds of the Unworld are in English folklore often called the Gabriel Hounds or Ratchets, and their master, the Wild Huntsman himself, is not always Gwynn, but is alternatively identified as Gabriel, Herne, Bran, or even Arthur.”

“Another link between Bran and Arthur, I suppose.”

Blank set the book aside, wearing an expression of distaste.

“Wait a moment!” Miss Bonaventure raised a finger, an idea creeping. “Weren't there white dogs with red ears in a story of Poe's?” She chewed her lip, searching her memory. “Arthur Gordon…” She trailed off, struggling.

“Arthur Gordon Poe?” Blank asked.

“No, don't be silly. Edgar Alan Poe. And Arthur Gordon…Pym! That's it.
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym
.” She thought a moment, and her smile of victory faded. “But no, now that I think of it, those were actually white creatures with red
nails
, and teeth I suppose, not ears.”

“Well,” Blank said with a shrug, “I can't imagine how it would have made a difference.” Exasperated, he shoved the books to one side with a sweep of his arm. “I can't imagine how
any
of this makes any difference. Unless our Jubilee Killer is motivated by mad flights of fancy which derive from these same dusty myths.”

Miss Bonaventure fixed him with a level stare, and without a trace of humor in her tone, said, “What makes you think he
isn't
?”

THE
G
LASTONBURY
F
ESTIVAL
, it turned out, wasn't in Glastonbury at all, but in Pilton, six miles to the east, on the A361. Whatever that was.

They had to park the Corvette a million miles away and walk, so that even though they'd arrived in late afternoon, by the time they got to the front gate it was early evening. There were a few dozen other latecomers at the gate, and like them the security guys tried to turn Alice and Stillman away, seeing as they didn't have tickets and the event had long since sold out.

Stillman just pulled out his blank badge and calmly explained the situation to the security guys, and before Alice knew it, they were being ushered through the gate, given their own personal escort to the VIP backstage area.

Whatever else happened, whatever her special destiny turned out to be, Alice was sure of one thing. She just
had to
get Stillman to teach her that trick.

Alice had asked why Stillman was sure that this Aria Fox would be found backstage. Stillman had just explained that Aria, in his experience, was hardly the sort to be out front with the groundlings. Alice hadn't been sure what he meant.

Now
she understood.

This wasn't like Lollapalooza turned up to eleven. This was like Lollapalooza
turned up to a hundred, multiplied times the X Games, and divided by Woodstock 99. It was
immense.

There was a field of tipis. Another that seemed to be nothing but mud. There were shelters and temporary buildings and trailers and outhouses. And people. Thousands and thousands and thousands of people. And the noise. Multiple stages, music coming from all angles, people shouting and singing and carrying on.

Their escort was leading them towards an enormous pyramid-shaped stage. Some ways off, in front of the stage, was a tower of scaffolding for speakers or control booths or something, and between the two was a solid mass of people, with more spread out over the immense field around and behind the tower. In the distance, miles away, just barely visible in the fading light, Alice could see a smooth hill with a stone tower on top. It looked like something out of King Arthur days. A princess trapped on top of
that
would have to grow her hair for a good long while to make an escape, that was for sure.

The backstage area was behind the stage, naturally, safely buffered from the crowded of sweaty, blissed-out attendees. This was a different sort of crowd, to be sure. Some of them may have been the boyfriends and girlfriends of the various bands playing the festival, but most looked like bankers slumming on the weekend, or movie and television people. Suits, in a word, even if they were dressed more casually. Stillman, who looked old enough to be the father of any of them, and claimed he was old enough to be their grandfather, slid through the crowd like he was born to it.

“Excuse me. Pardon me, love. Coming through. Ah, watch your drink there, friend, almost had a terrible accident. On your side, love. Ah.” He clapped his hands, smiling in triumph. “Aria Fox, as I live and breath.”

The woman glared at Stillman from beneath her brows and took a long sip of her martini.

“Waters. What the hell do
you
want?”

“Do you know,” he said, sliding onto the seat next to hers, “Hughes asked me the very same thing, just yesterday.”

The woman named Aria Fox looked up and regarded Alice over the rim of her martini glass. Alice regarded her right back. Aria looked to be a couple of inches taller than Alice, though it was hard to tell with her sitting down. She had a slim build, muscled like a dancer, with her dark hair worn long and pulled back into a loose knot at the back of her head. She had a dark olive complexion, her smooth skin marred only by a small L-shaped scar on her upper left cheek. She was dressed in a tight-fitting white dress that came to midthigh, her shoulders bare, with white high-heeled sandals on her feet, the straps lacing up her ankles. She
definitely
wasn't dressed to mix with the hoi polloi out in the mud. For Aria, it was obviously VIP or nothing.

“Who's your friend, Waters?” She practically sneered. Even in the fading light, she wore big white-framed sunglasses over her eyes, making her expression difficult to read.

“Aria, meet another ‘A. F.' This is my friend, Alice Fell.”

“Kind of young for you, isn't she? And lacking the equipment you usually prefer, I'd guess?”

“Charming,” Stillman said, with a smile that lacked all warmth. “Now, I understand you've been a busy little girl lately, our Aria.”

Aria's eyebrow raised behind her sunglasses, and she gave Stillman a cool look. “Something tells me that Hughes won't be getting his commission this time out.” She took another sip of her martini, draining the glass. “If he keeps it up, he won't be getting a Christmas card this year, either.”

Stillman snapped his finger for the roving waitress. “Miss, could we have two dry martinis?” He glanced over to Alice. “Anything for you, love?”

Alice still hadn't quite recovered from Friday, and shook her head.

“Just the two, then, dear.” Stillman slipped her a folded bill, though Alice couldn't tell the denomination. The waitress, though, was clearly impressed as she scurried off to the cash bar to fetch their drinks.

“I don't know how you got Hughes to talk, or what he told you…”

“Hughes didn't tell me anything, dear, trust me. Don't take it out on the poor boy. I just happened to notice that you used your mother's shunt on the air vent alarm, and twigged right away that you were the one I wanted to speak with.”

“Damn,” Aria cursed under her breath. “I know I should gone with the Maldanato, instead.”

Stillman chuckled. “But that would have tripped the voltage sensors. No, Melody's shunt was the only choice to make.” He shook his head, admiringly. “A marvelous piece of work, love, just marvelous. Your mother'd be proud.”

Aria made a dismissive hissing sound and took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were almost the color of amber. “So you working for the British Museum, is that it? Not a lot of jobs calling for out-of-work ex-spooks these days?”

Stillman shook his head. “No, this one is strictly freelance. The authorities aren't even involved. I just want to take a look at that gem for myself.”

Aria slid a glance Alice's way, her look bordering on contemptuous. “And is she part of your freelance crew, then?”

“Something like that.”

Their drinks arrived, and Aria sipped her martini before speaking again while Stillman just swirled the liquid around in the glass.

“No.” Aria shook her head, lowering the glass. “Nothing doing. The job is done and I've been paid. I'm a professional, and I don't talk out of turn.”

“Fair enough,” Stillman nodded, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Still, it'll be a shame if someone tipped off the FSB about who it was stole the Tsarina's diadem from the Kremlin Museum. I'm sure the boys at Lubyanka would love to get their hands on whoever pulled
that
one off.”

Aria blanched, and her fingers tightened white-knuckled around the stem of her glass.

“You
wouldn't
.”

“Oh, wouldn't I?” Stillman smiled, broadly.

Aria tapped her foot and gripped her sunglasses in her hand so hard that a lens popped out, which she then ground underfoot, irritated.

“Okay, okay. I'll tell you who the client was, but no more. Is that a deal?”

Stillman considered for a moment.

“Come on, Bowie's about to start his first set, and I'll be damned if I'm missing him again.”

Stillman finally nodded. “Yes, I think a name should suit our needs nicely.”

Aria sighed heavily and shook her head, frowning. “I swear to God, if this gets out, I will
kill
you, Waters.”

“You're certainly welcome to try, love.”

Aria leaned in close, looking for all the world like a woman giving her gray-haired father a kiss. Then she whispered in his ear.

As Aria straightened up, Stillman's eyes widened.

“You must be joking,” he said, flatly

Aria tossed back the last of her martini and dropped the empty glass and her broken sunglasses onto the chair. “Nope. Came as a shock to me, as well, but there you have it.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now, are we done, here?”

Stillman nodded, absently, his gaze drifting.

“Fine. Waters, don't come looking for me again. As far as I'm concerned, we're even. Got it?” Then she turned on her heel and marched away.

Alice slid onto the chair next to Stillman, who still sat wide-eyed, looking confused. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Mmm?” Stillman arched an eyebrow and turned to face her. “Oh, certainly, certainly. I'm just surprised is all.”

“Why? What did she say? Who has the gem?”

They could hear the roar of the crowd as Bowie took the stage.

“It's Temple,” Stillman said, and threw back the last of his martini in a single gulp. “Iain Temple.”

It was late when they got back to the car, and neither of them felt like driving all night back to London, so Alice and Stillman decided to stay overnight in Glastonbury and drive back the next morning. They continued up the A361, and at the edge of the big hill with the King Arthur tower on top, they stopped at what looked to Alice like a big house, but that Stillman assured her was a hotel. Or a bed & breakfast, at any rate.

There was a pair of twin beds in the room, covered in floral-print comforters, but no bathroom, only a sink. The shower and bathroom were down the hall, on the other side of the pay phone. Alice was all for room service, not having eaten since midday, but the kitchen downstairs only served breakfast hence the name, Alice decided—so they were on their own.

It was Sunday, and fairly late at that, and one of the only restaurants they could find downtown—Alice called it “downtown,” but Stillman insisted it
was the High Street—was Elaichi Tandoori, an Indian joint. Dots, not feathers. Alice had something called chicken tikka, washed down with several cans of lager.

When they had finished eating, Alice stepped outside to smoke a couple of cigarettes while Stillman settled up with the bill, and she had a chance to get a better look at the town.