Lucifer's Crown (10 page)

"Probably casing the joint.” Sean scuffed at the path.

Gupta asked Thomas, “Do you know where we can find him?"

"No, I don't know where you can find him."

"Even though you know him?” Maggie demanded.

"No,” Thomas answered, the word round and hard as a hailstone.

"I'll make inquiries,” said Gupta.

Sean eyed the little bush, its yellowed stalks obviously past their prime. “A flower. Blood. Yeah, right."

"I didn't make it up,” Rose told him. “I didn't imagine it, either. It's like I was drunk, only I wasn't."

"No, you weren't,” Thomas said. “To use an old and much debased Scots word, you were ‘beglamoured.’ A glamour is both magic spell and hypnosis."

"A trick,” said Sean. “An illusion."

"The world is nothing but illusion to begin with,” Gupta commented.

Maggie returned, “That's not a particularly helpful philosophy for a policeman."

"I compartmentalize.” Gupta turned to Rose. “If you meet this man again, let me know. He may or may not be telling you the truth of what happened, but he does seem to be trying to gain your sympathy. Perhaps he intends to lure you away."

"If he wanted to eliminate me, he could've hit me over the head when I walked into the garden."

"True enough.” Gupta clicked his pen thoughtfully, then tucked it and the notebook back into his jacket.

"I'm sure Bess wouldn't mind if you joined us for tea,” Anna told him.

"Thank you, but we're expecting the Dewar lad at the station."

Rose compressed her lips. Robin had told her Calum was a bad lot, but he hadn't said anything about Calum's son. Maggie was looking up at Thomas, chin jutting, eyes narrowed. He looked down at her, sad and pale and very still. Just because he knew Robin didn't mean anything was his fault. Did it?

Sean sidled toward the gate. “Tea?"

Everyone turned to follow. Anna asked, “Thomas, is the statue in the knot garden another of your works?"

"Yes, it is,” he replied. “Mary Magdalene, the Beautiful Sinner, beloved of Christ."

"Ah.” Anna, too, tilted her head to look up at Thomas, except her expression was more quizzical than belligerent.

Maggie shot a look at the statue that avoided its maker, and made an about face. “Come on, Rose, let's get you inside."

Let Maggie have a maternal moment, it didn't hurt.
Especially
, Rose thought,
since I seem to have picked up a really off-the-wall stalker
. She glanced back to see Thomas standing stiff and still next to the statue.

Maggie retrieved her laptop from his cottage and Rose rescued her notebook from the bench. Gupta caught up with them as they trailed Sean and Anna toward the courtyard. “I've known Thomas since the year dot,” he said. “He's the elder statesman hereabouts. Quite the chess player. His openings are subtle, but his end games can be right devastating."

"In other words,” Maggie said, “you don't care that he seems to have some sort of prior relationship with this Robin Fitzroy character?"

"Thomas has a wide circle of acquaintances. And whilst he'd be the first to tell you he is his brother's keeper, I don't believe he actually is. Good night.” Gupta went on toward the parking area. Maggie patted her laptop against her hip but said nothing.

More raindrops plopped onto Rose's head. Her hands were so cold she could hardly clasp her book. She was starving. She'd eat tea, scones, a horse, anything. Sexual sublimation, probably, along with all the other sublimated emotions, like confusion. And fear.

She could still hear Robin's voice.
All your prayers, all your beautiful music, they couldn't protect you.
And,
He'll betray you the way your faith betrayed you
.

No, she thought. Faith wasn't supposed to keep things from happening to you. Faith helped you deal with what did. And something was happening to her.

Believe it
.

Ellen's shoes splashed into a puddle amongst the cobblestones. Rain sheeted off the roof onto the hood of her coat. She hunched her shoulders.

The scene inside the lounge was broken to bits by the small panes of glass in the window. The two young Yanks were dancing about to “First Rites,” the single from Nevermas's new album. Naff name, that, and the words were blasphemous.

The Yanks looked to be toffee-nosed ponces like the ones at school. The blond bird was air and grace and other lies. The lad was a bit of all right, if not a patch on Robin. The woman working at a laptop must be the teacher, a sharp-faced trout who held herself like she'd just stepped in dog shit. An old woman sat in the corner reading a book. Alf Puckle stood smiling in the door. A stench in the nose of God, he was, like Glastonbury itself.

Where Vivian died. Ellen had always thought the woman was a gormless cow and that proved it, falling asleep in the ruins. She'd been shagging Calum, Robin said. Ellen thought Calum had better taste.

The cat leaped onto the windowsill. Its shining golden eyes stared at her standing in the rain and cold, shut out. She trudged across the yard, climbed the stoop in front of the kitchen door, and knocked.

It opened. Bess's round face peered out. “Ellen?"

"Here, Mum."

"Come through, love, come through."

Ellen ducked inside and stood dripping on the slate floor. The corridor was a white-painted tunnel, the only light caught in the rectangle of the dining room doorway at its end. The beat of the music reverberated in Ellen's stomach. “How are you keeping, Mum? Are you sleeping any better?"

"No I'm not, but the doctor gave me some tablets.” Somewhere in the house the telephone went. Bess pulled a face. “Another reporter, I reckon. They've been at us since the American lass found the body."

"Don't talk to reporters, Mum. The media are part of the secular, Satanic conspiracy. Visit one of the Foundation-approved web sites, there's the truth for you."

"You've gone over the top with this Foundation business, Ellen."

"I'm better off now than I've ever been, Mum!"

"Squatting in that filthy loft?"

"Robin says you have to reject the world and its evil if you're to be saved in the End Times."

"Live here with us,” Bess insisted. “I know you don't always get on with Alf, but he looked after me and you both after your dad left us."

"It's Robin who looks after me. Who'll look after you, too, if only you'll let him into your heart."

"Robin's a fine inspirational speaker, I'll give him that, but I joined St. John's church here in Glastonbury..."

"The Anglicans aren't true Christians. They've been corrupted like the Romans and the others.” Ellen lowered her voice. “That's why Robin sent me here, to warn you."

"Warn me?” Bess asked.

Ellen whispered the name. “Thomas London. He's an evil man. He betrayed God. He hasn't even given you his true name. It's Thomas Maudit. That's ‘cursed’ in French. Thomas the Cursed."

"No,” protested Bess. “He's a proper gentleman, he is."

"He's lying. He'll use anyone he can to prevent God's son from coming into his kingdom..."

"Nice,” said Alf's voice. His bulk blocked the light in the door of the dining room. “Here she is with that religious codswallop."

Ellen stood her ground. Robin would be proud of her for standing her ground. “I'm telling you, Thomas Maudit will drag you down with him. You have to hate the sin and punish the sinner to be saved at the end."

"Saved from what? End of what?” Alf demanded.

"Saved from Hell at the end of the world. Less than two months now."

"Tripe and onions!"

"Alf,” said Bess, “please."

He sighed. His chins softened. “Ellen, I only ever want what's best for you. Just like any dad wants for his daughter."

"You're never my dad."

"Please, Ellen,” Bess said.

"Ah, leave it.” Alf pulled several bank notes from his pocket. “Here, lass. This'll tide you over till you find work. You're welcome here, mind you, we can always use another pair of hands."

"Me? Washing up and scrubbing toilets for Yanks?"

"They're nice, well-spoken folk,” protested Bess.

Ellen saw her opening. “Touring the naff old places, are they?"

"Yes, they're off to Salisbury tomorrow."

"But you have one room empty, don't you? My old room?"

"That's for the lad from Scotland, Mick Dewar. His dad's gone missing and he's helping the police. He'll be here tonight.” Bess opened her hands. “They're all off tomorrow. No one'll be here but us. I'll cook a lunch for you, and we'll have a nice chin-wag just like old times."

For a moment Ellen wanted to sit down with her mother so badly she felt sick. But it was too late for that. It was hard, knowing what was right whilst others went wrong, knowing that her own mum might have to be sacrificed ... No. She wouldn't let it come to that. Her faith would save them both. “Thanks, Mum. Some other time. I have to go."

She opened the door. The rain was teeming down, reflecting the lights of the house in shimmering waves. The drumming of the water was almost loud enough to drown out the music.

"Here you are.” Alf pulled an umbrella from a stand behind the door. With a swoosh its black fabric leaped outward into bat's wings.

"Oh. Ta,” Ellen said.
Now why did he do that?

"God bless,” said Bess's voice behind her.

He has
. The door snicked shut. The rain beat on the umbrella. Her feet were wet, the night was dark, but
he
was waiting. Ellen plunged into the shadow beneath the archway and collided with the wall. Pain streaked hot across her left hand. Ripped it on a nail, most like. Damn and blast!

She ran, slipping and stumbling, down the road toward Pomparles Bridge. A dark green Jaguar waited there, the glint of passing headlamps trickling like liquid fire down its windscreen. Chucking the umbrella away, Ellen scrambled into the cool leather-scented interior of the car. There.
They
were shut out.

Robin's eyes flashed green in the gloom. “Well?"

"Mum says the Americans are off to Salisbury tomorrow. Calum's son's coming here tonight."

"And?” he asked.

She was his favorite, wasn't she? He listened to her even though he already knew all the answers. To him all hearts were open, all desires known. “The traitor's off to Salisbury as well. Good job, that, we can turn over his chapel and find the artifact."

"He'll not be keeping it in his chapel, although it's close to hand, I expect. Not that it will serve his purposes without the other two."

"We have the Book. Calum's after bringing us the Stone."

"Well now,” Robin said, his voice a low growl, “Calum's not working with us any longer. Vivian corrupted him and turned him away from us. She paid the price for her treason, struck down by the hand of God."

Ellen went even colder. “You told me Calum was a special friend."

"He's gone wrong, hasn't he? See how strong our enemies are, how watchful we have to be? But God is on our side."

"Yes, he is.” A car came along the road from Glastonbury. It stopped, headlamps spotlighting the sign “Temple Manor B&B,” then turned into the car park. The twin red eyes of its tail lamps disappeared behind the wall. Was that him, then, Calum's son? Calum set great store by him. “Mick will be corrupted by the traitor as well!"

"I'll sort him out."

"That's good of you, Robin.” Ellen held her throbbing hand in front of her face. In the dim light she could see blood red against her skin.

"Hurt yourself, have you?” Robin took her cold hand in his and lifted it to his lips. Just the slightest breath, tingling across her palm, and the pain ebbed. “There you are."

Her palm was whole again. “Robin, you're the business!"

"Yes,” he replied. He started the car. It purred up the road. The lights of Glastonbury smeared and ran down the windows, as though the town was drowning and she and Robin alone were saved. Ellen nestled into the seat, safe at the left hand of God.

Mick raised the knocker and let it fall. He was minded of the sanctuary knocker at Durham cathedral. Sanctuary. The word had a good sound to it, solid, like the reverberating thud of iron upon iron.

The door opened. His bleary eyes focused on the man who stood in the opening. “Mr. Puckle, is it?"

"Puckle it is, lad. Come through.” And, over Mick's shoulder as he stepped across the threshold, “Thomas. Filthy night, isn't it?"

"And yet without rain nothing would grow.” The second man was tall, with a stern pale face like the stone effigy of a Crusader. He closed his umbrella and shut the door. “Good evening. Mick Dewar, I presume?"

"Aye, that I am."

"Thomas London.” His handclasp was firm if cool.

"The missus has already gone up to bed—headache—but I can lay on some sandwiches and a cuppa,” said Puckle.

Mick flexed his icy fingers. “Thank you kindly."

The distant beat of Nevermas's newest hit reverberated not in his ears but in his entire body. The lads had done themselves proud—brilliant bit of work, “First Rites.” It had played on the car radio so often the words furrowed Mick's mind:
From the world, the flesh, and the Devil deliver me. From the world, the flesh, and the Devil make me anew
.

"I'll show him to his room,” said London.

"Righty-ho.” Puckle walked toward the rear of the house.

Mick followed London to the staircase. The long triangular treads spiraling upward were bowed deeply on the wider side. Each one groaned in turn beneath his feet. Shadowy corridors led from the landing. London opened the door of a small, spotlessly tidy room close by the stairs. “Thank you kindly,” Mick said again. “And the loo?"

"Just there, across the hall. I'll leave you to it. The dining room's downstairs on the left.” London's footsteps receded down the steps.

Mick dropped his rucksack on the bed. The weight inside his jacket as he draped it over a peg was the
sgian dubh
. All this time it had rested heavy as a bad conscience against his heart.

The face reflected in the mirror above the washbasin wasn't his own—bloodshot gray eyes were cushioned by black bags, stubbled cheeks were creased by hours of gritted teeth. His hair was a mare's nest. He yanked the elastic band from his ponytail and combed the dark waves smooth. He splashed his face with warm water and gargled with cold.
A hot bath
, he thought. Clean clothes. The starched white pillowcase on the bed beckoned him to sleep.