Lucifer's Crown (32 page)

Mick gritted his teeth. “You'd be wasting your time, Inspector. If I were you I'd be looking out Robert Prince."

"Would you now?” A voice murmured in the background. “Very good then, Mr. Dewar. You have my number if you'd like to be a bit more cooperative."

Pulling a face, Mick put the phone down. When Thomas phoned Sunday he'd said Mountjoy was a real policeman, not like Robin playing at Robert Prince—no worry there. But being a policeman often meant having a poor opinion of human nature, and suspecting lies in the midst of truth. “Not,” Thomas had added apologetically, “that we're being entirely truthful just now."

Needs must when the Devil drives
, Mick thought, and turned back to the screen. “...Robin called in at the office and I gave him a tour ... told him about my dad and Alex's dad and the old stone, the one they pretended was the Stone of Scone. I thought it was the sort of story Robin would dismiss as dangerous superstition but now he's going on at me about it ... Robin is stinking rich, but when I asked him to help Ellen out he said a stupid cow like her deserved her lot ... he goes on about self-reliance but seems to have inherited his brass."

Shouting at the computer will not help
, Mick told himself.

"...he asked if I had any family heirlooms about, saying the old errors need correcting and such old things should be destroyed for the good of the faith. I remembered a mathom—old Malise's
sgian dubh
...” Mathom, Mick repeated. When had Dad read Tolkien?

"...but the way Robin went all over funny when I mentioned it put me off. In any event, I haven't seen it for donkey's years. I'd ask Mick's advice but he has his own life now, he wouldn't care. And Robin says we can't trust our families unless they're believers as well."

The
sgian dubh
pressed into Mick's ribs. “I'd have cared,” he said. But he wondered if he would have done, with his classes, his friends, the pub crawls, and the girls. He swallowed what tasted like acid.

"Robin's always at me for reading, saying he'll tell me what I need to know. He's the power behind the scenes at the Foundation, I reckon ... Vivian's only staying with the ‘inner circle’ so she can expose him in her newspaper. She thinks he's creaming off the donations even though he says giving money to the FFF is doing God's work.” Mick's brows went up. Now that was a motive for murder even Mountjoy could credit.

The last entry was dated the day before Calum went away on his trip to the South. His last journey. “...Vivian's off to a pagan ceremony that night. But I'm worried about Reg and the others, Robin's been going on about witchcraft and the like ... he's been at me again, wanting to see the
sgian dubh
. I found it in Maddy's kist amongst the blankets. They smelled of her. It was like she was standing at my back telling me there's no harm in the knife. And it's all I have of old Malise."

Thank God. Calum must have taken the knife, then decided when he stopped by the office not to give it to Robin after all.

The journal ended, “...Robin's flannel about FFF members being the only sort worth knowing. When I get back home I'll look out some old chums. I've neglected Mick as well. Maybe I'll break it off with the FFF, but Ellen is still there, and Vivian—if I stay, I can help them."

Mick minded all the times he'd neglected his dad, and again the tears welled in his eyes. This time he let them flow, searing his cheeks. If only Calum had confided in Mick. If only Mick had asked him questions.

If only. With a shaky exhalation Mick found Gupta's business card and forwarded the entire file to his e-mail address. Tomorrow he'd take a copy of the diskette to Superintendent Mackenzie.

He stared blankly at the window above the desk. In the slit between the drapes he saw a dagger-shaped reflection of his own face, dim and indistinct ... Something slithered through his reflection, outside the window. A kite? Who'd be flying a kite on such a filthy night? A large bird, like the ravens at Housesteads? He switched off the lamp, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out. He saw nothing save the shapes of buildings and lights mirrored in the slick streets.

From the bedroom behind him came the tinkling notes of “The Bluebells of Scotland.” He sprinted into the room. The box was closed.

The
sgian dubh
in his hand, he searched the flat, but he was well and truly on his own. The back door was locked tight. The front door was blocked by the kist ... Someone knocked. “Who is it?"

He heard a soft laugh. Something slid across the outside of the door and shuddered gently against the hinges. Again, louder. And again, so that the thick wooden panels seemed to bow inward. From behind him came the crash of broken glass. Mick spun round. But the window above the computer wasn't broken. Nor were any of the others.

Again the front door rattled. A distinct tap-tap-tap came from the kitchen, like dripping water or bony fingers against the back door. The lights went out. Mick ripped the knife from its sheath and held it before him. It shone like a tiny flame, casting a rosy glow across the room. Shapes, distorted, twisted shapes, moved in the shadows. He smelled the stench of decaying flesh. In the distance a voice screamed and sobbed.

"Leave it, Robin! Your tatty wee tricks will not be scaring me now.” Pulling his mother's necklace from his jumper Mick clasped it in his left hand. “I gird myself today with the power of heaven! With the faith of my fathers in all its themes and variations!"

The lights shone out. The shapes vanished. He heard the traffic passing below his window and the distant mutter of a telly. The air was scented with coffee and smoke.
Well then
. Catching his breath, he put Nevermas's CD into the player. The guitar solo at the beginning of “First Rites” filled the room. He'd spare his neighbors the full set of pipes—the chanter would do nicely.

Mick sat down and played along with the music, “...of one substance with the word, of one mind with the flesh, begotten not made by grace out of blood...” The music filled his head, overflowed his chest, trembled in his limbs.
The last shall be first and the first shall be meek when I open my heart to you.

The iron had entered into his soul, right enough, and it wasn't the sort of iron tears could rust. No, he wasn't frightened, not any more.

Maggie parked the van at the south end of the village, beside the sign pointing to Camelot. “Everybody out. This is going to be a quick visit—those clouds are fixing to cut loose."

Rose and Anna climbed out and looked dubiously up at the overcast sky, followed by Sean and Ellen, who looked dubiously up at the massive hill of Cadbury Castle. “Yeah,” Sean said. “And we'll be a mile away from the car when they do."

"Then we'd best carry on.” Opening a gate, Thomas led the way onto a dirt track winding its way upward through stubbled fields.

Maggie fell in beside him, going around the muddy patches he simply stepped over. “Thanks for coming. I know you wanted to get some more work done on the chapel, what with it being—whose day?"

"November fourteenth is the feast of St. Dubricius. In his avatar as Merlin he's associated with Caerleon, but he might have come here as well."

The air was thick and damp. Sudden puffs of wind shook the trees encircling the hill, sending leaves scudding away to the northeast. “We could've left earlier if you and Rose hadn't gone to church,” Maggie said.

"You went to St. John's with Bess."

She'd meant that as a joke. “You had their car, so she asked me to drive her. No big deal."

"No, I suppose not,” Thomas said with studied neutrality.

Ducking his scrutiny, she glanced back at the students. Rose was using Sean's camcorder to videotape him and Ellen posing in front of several sheep. He was expounding, “Maybe Arthur was successful because he revived the old Roman cavalry—I mean, what did the Saxons have? Foot-soldiers. So today we think of Arthur and his knights. Ta da!"

"Old stories. Rubbish.” Ellen grimaced at the camera, maybe thinking her expression was a smile.

"Thank goodness she's lost the hooker outfit,” Maggie said as Anna walked up. “I've got to hand it to Sean, he doesn't seem to miss it. He's really protective of her these days."

"He says Ellen is dysfunctional,” replied Anna, “but with the proper environmental conditioning maybe he can pull her through."

Maggie dared hope that Sean had absorbed something of her riposte to his “That's just the way it is” comment. By Thomas's approving nod, she supposed he did, too.

Just where the track bent upwards and disappeared into the trees, Thomas indicated a circle of brick clogged with dead leaves. “This has been called Arthur's Well since the fifteenth century, when the folk identification of Cadbury with Camelot was first recorded."

Maggie prodded them all into the gloom beneath the trees. After a steep but short climb over roots and around muddy spots, they emerged onto another high place, an expanse of grass that glowed bronze in the uncertain light. They jogged around the rampart, the strengthening wind blowing Thomas's lecture into sound bites. “...Neolithic, Late Bronze, and Early Iron Ages ... the hill fort begun in the fifth century B.C.... Romans destroyed it during the first century A.D.... human remains ... a large temple ... defenses rebuilt at the end of the fifth century against Saxon invasion..."

"When it was Camelot,” said Rose. “Sweet."

"Archaeologists found what they believe to be the foundations of a cruciform church,” Thomas concluded.

To the northwest a forest covered the slopes, branches tossing and creaking. Brambles choked the depressions between the concentric embankments. Maggie squinted. Yes, barely discernible on the shadowed horizon rose Glastonbury Tor. At this distance the tower of St. Michael's was no larger than an apostrophe—a punctuation mark in the language of history. Even as she looked the sky darkened to charcoal and the Tor disappeared.

Ellen pulled the hood of her coat over her head. Sean checked the meters on his camera. A hint of sulfur on the wind made Maggie's nostrils close like gills. Thomas gestured toward the land below. “The ancient track running toward Glastonbury is King Arthur's Causeway. Tradition says he hunts there on winter nights. This ties his story to that of the Wild Hunt—Gwyn ap Nudd, king of Annwn, pursuing a stag with a pack of hounds."

"The hounds of hell,” Rose said, “hunting for souls."

Maggie glanced around. The girl was looking off to the north, probably thinking of Calum Dewar chased down not by Gwyn ap Nudd's minions but by Robin's.

"Let us move on,” Thomas said. They moved on, toward the south edge of the hill, where a gap in the trees revealed four great defensive walls of earth and a depression, the site of the fort's principal gateway. “This is one of Britain's many hollow hills. Like Glastonbury. Like the Eildons. Cadbury's fairy traditions no doubt pre-date the Arthurian."

Ellen was urging Sean toward the path down. Anna, Maggie, and Thomas turned to follow. Behind them Rose said quietly, “Look."

A horse stood where the ancient gateway had been, its mane and tail floating in the wind, its chestnut coat glowing in the gloom.

"Where did that come from?” Anna asked.

Great
, thought Maggie.
Think of the Devil...

In the next instant Robin was sitting astride the horse, wearing a tunic, cloak, and malicious smile. The brass lilies of his crown gleamed dully. Four of them were set with green emeralds, ice-cold as his eyes. The fifth setting, above his brow, was empty. On his upraised wrist, fitted with a leather gauntlet, sat a falcon. It twitched, half opening its wings, jingling the bells on its hood. The horse shook its head, setting its bridle and bit to an echoing tinkle. The sound was not a joyful noise but the harsh clatter of swords drawn and lusting for blood. Or for souls.

"Oh my,” Anna said. “I see what you mean by supernatural."

Thomas stood quietly, not reacting.

Lightning struck suddenly down from the clouds. Thunder rumbled. In one smooth movement Robin pulled the hood off the falcon's head and launched it into the air. It rose shrieking toward the clouds, wheeled, and dived. A mighty rush of wind threw Maggie against Thomas. Anna and Rose ducked. But the bird was gone. So were the horse and Robin.

"As much as I appreciate the natural world,” Thomas shouted over the roar of the wind, “I think the time has come to flee from it."

Close together, they hurried to catch up with Sean and Ellen. Another bolt of lightning hissed down the sky. The eaves of the forest leaped into stark relief, steel etched on steel. So did the human figure standing at the head of the path, a man wearing a leather jacket and boots, hands thrust into his pockets, red head tilted to the side, green eyes glistening.

The light winked out, leaving the darkness tinted green. Ellen fell to her knees, gasping, “He's called down the wrath of the heavens because I've been going about with you unbelievers."

"Oh for God's sake,” said Rose. “He told you to spy on us."

Maggie took one of Ellen's arms while Thomas took the other. They pulled her to her feet and dragged her along. The next lightning flash showed the path like a black tunnel beneath the thrashing limbs of the trees, empty. Maybe Robin was lurking in the underbrush, planning to jump out at them—fine, they could trample him.

The wind howled like a pack of dogs. Hailstones thudded into the ground like hoofbeats. Shapes rushed across the sky, wraiths mingling with and yet separate from the clouds, the flicker of lightning resembling spear points. Like a dense column of smoke a funnel cloud extended almost lazily down from churning sky and struck the farmland below, throwing up a bow wave of debris. “Oh, shit,” Maggie said. A hailstone bounced off her head.

Sean raised his camcorder. Ellen was hyperventilating. Thomas handed her to Rose and Anna and shoved them toward the mouth of the path. Taking firm hold of Sean's collar, he spun the boy around and down. “Maggie!"

"Here I am.” She slid into a drift of wet leaves and lay prone. Thomas threw himself down beside her. The noise of the storm made Maggie suspect a giant reaper was moving through the woods. She didn't look up. If a tree was going to fall on her she'd just as soon it was a surprise. “Let me guess,” she shouted to Thomas. “November is tornado season here."