Lucifer's Crown (3 page)

"I left my notebook there yesterday. At least, I think that's where my notebook is."

"But you didn't collect your book?"

"No."

"Our lads haven't turned one up. Can you describe it?"

"It's an ordinary spiral-bound notebook with a red cardboard cover. My name's inside."

"Did you see anyone in the Abbey grounds?"

"Yes,” answered Rose. “A man—at least, he walked like a man—was standing next to the north transept, maybe thirty yards away from me. He made eye contact for just a second, then—well, he just melted away into the mist."

"Description?"

"Hard to say. He was wearing a loose coat or a cloak—you know, there was cloth fluttering behind him. A dim light shone around it, like he was carrying a flashlight."

"A torch."

"No, a flashlight."

"Same thing, here,” murmured Maggie.

"An electric torch.” Gupta's teeth flashed in a quick grin. “And?"

"His eyes were weird,” Rose added. “Shiny, like a cat's."

"The custodian didn't see anyone enter or leave,” Gupta went on, “but climbing the wall's no trouble. The Abbey attracts all sorts, toe-rags, travelers, layabouts. People looking out a place to kip."

And people looking for a Story, Maggie thought.

"We saw a couple of weirdoes in sleeping bags up on the Tor yesterday morning,” said Sean. “They must've been whacked out on something to spend the night in the cold."

"Perhaps they felt the holiness, not the cold,” Gupta told him.

"Is holiness in the eye of the beholder?” asked Anna.

"Not necessarily,” he answered. “Now, Miss Kildare, was the man standing just beside the dead woman?"

"No, but close enough he must've seen her."

"You saw only this one man?"

Rose shifted uneasily. “Right after I found the—I found her—I heard a noise. I thought the guy had come back, but it was just a bird. I think."

The cold shiver already tightening the back of Maggie's neck started to drip queasily into her stomach.

"We'll make inquiries,” said Gupta. “The man might could come forward on his own. If nothing else, perhaps
he
saw something or someone."

"How long had she been dead?” Rose asked. “Do you know?"

"Our best guess just now is that she died between one and four this morning."

"You couldn't have helped her.” Maggie patted the young woman's arm.

Rose sighed acceptance. “Do you at least know who she is?"

"Not yet,” replied Gupta. “You told P. C. Barnes you thought you recognized her?"

"I think I saw her at the Abbey yesterday afternoon."

Gupta reached into his pocket, pulled out an instant photo, and laid it on the table. “Take your time."

Rose's clear blue eyes narrowed in something between thought and pain. She bit her lip and released it. “That's her. She was doing yoga exercises where the altar used to be."

"She was?” Maggie reached for the photo.

Her glasses were upstairs, but still she could see this picture altogether too well. A human body rendered every courtesy, painted and permed and displayed on satin cushions, still seemed cruelly empty. This woman's poor neglected flesh was obscene. Even so, Maggie recognized the woman's dark hair and eyes and heart-shaped face. “I saw her walking into the Abbey with a man. Later I saw her sitting on the site of the altar, but I missed the yoga poses. My back was turned. As usual."

Gupta drew himself to attention. “She was with a man?"

"A middle-aged man with a Scottish accent. He said something to her along the lines of, ‘No good will come of this, Vivian.’ And she answered, ‘Nothing wrong with having a giggle with the group tonight, Calum. I'll get a story for the paper.’ He came back, ‘You and your stories,’ and she came back, ‘I'm a journalist. Writing stories is what I do.’”

"They were arguing?"

"Disagreeing. He seemed to be worried about this group gathering, while she wasn't. I would've thought he was her father except for the difference in accents."

"Hers was English, then?"

"Yes. I've been to the U.K. often enough I can pick up the regional accents,” Maggie explained.

Gupta didn't quibble. “This is all very helpful. Thank you, Ms. Sinclair."

"You're welcome,” Maggie said. Funny, people usually didn't think her curiosity was at all helpful.

"Did the man—Calum—have odd, shiny eyes at all?"

"I didn't notice.” Maggie looked again at the photo. What had Vivian been holding in her hand that now curved so suggestively around thin air? Shaking her head, she handed the photo back to Sean.

He went a bit pale around the gills, then recovered himself with a grimace worthy of John Wayne. “Yeah, that's the woman from the altar. She was hard to miss, contorting herself like that. And she was wearing a tight sweater under her coat, she was really..."

Stacked
. Maggie finished for him. Yes, Vivian had a voluptuous figure. She'd probably spent years dieting, and now look at her.

Sean passed the photo on to Anna and shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that Maggie, through long and often grim experience with the male species, had learned to interpret as embarrassment.

Handing the photo back to Gupta, Anna said solemnly, “Yes. She was exercising on the site of the altar."

"Did she seem despondent at all?” Gupta looked around the room.

"No,” Maggie replied. “She seemed very pleased with herself."

"Yeah,” said Sean. “She was kind of grinning up at a guy in an overcoat—I guess that was Calum—like she was coming on to him."

Rose shook her head. “No, not like that. Like she was showing off for him. But he just looked serious and kind of sad."

"Suicides,” said Anna, “can be very cheerful once the decision is made, believing peace to be at hand. If that's why you asked, Inspector."

Maggie visualized the agonized ghosts of suicides in the
Inferno
and thought,
peace
?

"Yes,” Gupta said, “that's why I asked."

"You think she lay down out there on purpose, so she would die of exposure?” Rose asked faintly.

"She could have done. Although now that you tell me she was after going to a party, I'm thinking she could have been drunk or drugged, and didn't know what she was doing."

Samhain, Maggie thought. When the Unseen becomes visible. When the spirits of the dead walk the Earth. A night that in the twentieth century had become an excuse for role-playing and trick-or-treating. “She could have been killed somewhere else, and her body dragged into the Abbey."

Rose's eyes widened. Sean's brows rose. Anna tilted her head. A spark danced through the depths of Gupta's dark eyes and vanished. “No one's said anything about murder, Ms. Sinclair."

"No, of course not. I've got too good an imagination,” Maggie said quickly, and wondered just what that spark signified.

"Did you find her clothes?” asked Sean.

"Yes, piled in the corner of the chapel. Ordinary undergarments, tights, a long white dress. No coat. No handbag. And the one curious item, the sheath of a small knife. But we didn't find a knife anywhere about."

Maggie asked herself,
why not?
And she didn't like her answer.

"But she wasn't stabbed?” asked Sean.

"Not a mark on her, so far as I could tell, but the pathologist will be drawing his own conclusions. I'll issue a bulletin for this Calum chap and ask Vivian's friends to come forward. Did you take particular notice of anyone else at the Abbey yesterday?” Gupta looked from face to face. Every pair of eyes looked back at him, but it seemed to Maggie that only hers showed apprehension.
Too good an imagination
.

She remembered the two priests. The Druids. The guy with the leather jacket and the kid with the boom box. Assorted tourists. She shook her head. No one else had anything to offer, either.

Gupta clicked his pen. “Right. If you would be so good as to call in at the station and give us statements before you relocate?"

"No problem,” Maggie answered.

"I knew travel was broadening,” Rose said, “but I'm going to have stretch marks on my brain."

"Believe me, this was not supposed to be part of the curriculum."

"One of my roommates found a body while he was playing paintball,” said Sean. “The cops said he'd been shot in a drug deal. Probably deserved what he got."

"All life,” said Anna, “deserves dignity."

Gupta knew a good exit line. Pocketing his note pad, he stood up and started for the door. “Thank you. I'll keep you informed."

The students murmured various courtesies. Maggie, too, stood up. “I'll see you out."

Gupta held the doors for her and they walked out into the morning. Even though the sky was still lidded with gray, the mist was thinning. Nearby buildings looked almost like solid structures. A sign on one read, “Moon Child Shoppe. Candles, crystals, aromatherapy, aura soma readings, vegetarian meals. Credit cards accepted. Discounts for Bodhisattvas.” The window was filled with bright, shiny baubles and beads. Just what a Bodhisattva, a being who turned away from nirvana to help humankind, would want with baubles and beads Maggie couldn't say.

Gupta folded his hands behind his back. His eyes, gleaming jet on mother of pearl, surveyed the Moon Child Shoppe without the least spark of amusement or condescension. It was Maggie's suggestion of murder that had kindled a response.

Better to be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt, she reminded herself. But since when had looking like a fool ever stopped her? “Vivian could have intended to die. Maybe she saw herself as Ophelia or the Lady of Shalott, beautiful and pitiable. Still, I can't shake the feeling that Vivian was no suicide. Last night was Samhain, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes. The Wicca group held their bean-feast and bonfire out beyond Baltonsborough. Had a bit of a row with another group, I hear."

"Not so long ago your job would've been to make a bonfire of the Wiccans themselves, to the greater glory of God, of course."

"I believe in England witches were hanged,” Gupta said equably.

Persisting, Maggie curled her fingers against the breast of her sweater, miming the dead woman's pose. “The sheath you found with Vivian's clothes. Was she holding in her hand the knife that went with it?"

"It's likely, yes."

"What if the man Rose saw this morning took it?"

There was that spark again, many sparks, a meteor shower flaring in Gupta's eyes. “You're thinking the man in the cloak is involved with Vivian's death and was trying to conceal evidence when he was interrupted by Miss Kildare?"

"He knows she saw him.” Maggie exhaled through pursed lips. “Please tell me I'm just going overboard. That Rose isn't a witness. That she's not in danger from this guy."

"I can't tell you that. You may be right. Even though,” Gupta cautioned, “this is all conjecture."

"Then here's another conjecture for you. Iron was once considered to be a talisman against evil spirits. It still is, in some circles. Maybe the same circles that believe spirits, good, bad, or indifferent, were out for a stroll last night. What if Vivian died as the result of a ritual? That would still be murder, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly would,” he said. “If there are any local groups capable of murder, though, they're keeping themselves well hidden."

"They would, wouldn't they?"

"Most of the neo-pagans—and some others I could name—are harmless loonies. On occasion one group or another will overdose on psychologically potent symbols, yes, and create an unhealthy situation, but you can say that of any group searching for meaning."

"No kidding. Since the beginning of 2000 didn't bring anything but a few computer glitches, the apocalypse crew has gotten even louder."

"Most of the world believes in neither the millennium nor the apocalypse,” Gupta pointed out.

"Like that Zen tree that's forever falling in the forest—if you don't believe in it, does it exist?"

"Mind over matter. Scientists tell us the Ganges River is teeming with lethal bacteria, but when the faithful bathe in its sacred waters, they come away purified."

And that is evidence of things unseen
, thought Maggie.
Faith
.

A truck passed, changing gears as it struggled up the rising ground to the east. Up what had been the coastline of the Isle of Avalon—if you believed the Matter of Britain, the stories of Arthur, the quest for the Holy Grail. There were worse things to believe.

The wrinkled, green face of Glastonbury Tor loomed through the mist. Supposedly the terraces on its sides were the remains of an ancient ritual pathway, a labyrinth. The tower on its top did resemble a monolith marking a place of power. Or a tiny stone spear impaling the hump of a huge dragon. Churches dedicated to St. Michael the dragon slayer often occupied ancient high places considered gates to the Underworld. The Otherworld.

"Christianity,” Gupta said, “has a spot of bother excusing the existence of evil if God is wholly good, although Thomas London tells me that evil comes from within man, not from God. The great Hindu gods combine benevolence and malevolence, creation and destruction, in the same beings. Pagans think that supernatural forces are inherent in the earth itself, forces that are never impersonal, but are very much involved, intelligent, even ironic."

"And which have to be placated?"

"Acknowledged. The sort of thing that was going on last night.” Gupta's smile was lopsided, angling his moustache upward. “Here, we could discuss the nature of faith all day if we'd no jobs to go to."

Shows where my mind is
, Maggie thought.

"I'm a policeman, not a philosopher, certainly not a holy man. But I'm telling you this: I've lived here fifteen years. My wife's a native. Glastonbury is one of the world's great holy places. Odd things happen here, and no mistake."

Was Gupta, the Glastonburian, making fun of a gullible tourist-cum-pilgrim? No. He was dead serious. So was the woman Rose had found in the Abbey.

All Maggie had wanted in coming here was a chance to visit Britain again. To teach—and to remind herself—that intelligence wasn't something to be ashamed of. To make a start, however feeble, at the rest of her life. And now? “So I get to play bodyguard as well as teacher, chauffeur, and mother. Great."