Lucifer's Crown (34 page)

"Jennie,” it read. “Sorry I had to cancel our date. Next time I'll bring you a tartan shawl—you'll look a treat wearing it, if you catch my meaning. Don't worry yourself, I'm well away from the Yanks. Nice enough lot, but not a patch on you. Soon, love—Mick."

Rose felt as though the floor had suddenly dropped away from beneath her. She stared at the phosphor-etched letters until the screen saver came on. She knew how easy it was to send a message to the wrong person—just last month she'd made a catty remark about Faith's new hairdo in a note to Grace and then sent it to Faith. But this ... Tears stung her eyes and impatiently she brushed them away. Relationships started in a crisis didn't always work out—she'd known that from the get-go. Maybe that was why she'd never asked Mick if he had a girlfriend.

She had an adventure with him was all. So what if she'd thought those five minutes behind Melrose Abbey meant something. He'd never lied to her ... Unless the e-mail itself was a lie. Lucifer was the Father of Lies. She could shoot back an e-mail demanding, “Is this legit?” But the last thing Mick needed was her in his face.

Rose clasped the miraculous medal, the net stopping her free-fall. Her biological mother couldn't be here for her. And it looked like Mick didn't want to be. But Our Lady was, and through her the Lady. She had to be, pearl earrings and all.

Walking into the garden, Thomas inhaled deeply of the cold wind with its tang of the sea. Rays of sun broke through vast lumps of white and gray cloud. Maggie stood contemplating the statue of the Magdalene, her reddish-brown hair the same color as the
Spiraea betulifolia
banked below the gallery windows. He called, “A penny for your thoughts."

She grinned. “You've been getting them for free."

"I'm properly appreciative of the honor."

"Yeah, right,” she said. “Thanks for lecturing on the trip to Winchester Monday. Not to mention the expedition to Caerleon last week. I know how busy you are."

"The students’ questions are quite stimulating."

"A shame Ellen's refused to go out with us since the tornado."

"Ellen, bless her, thinks ignorance means safety."

"I wouldn't mind being a little more ignorant. Homeless children murdered in Brazil, a Turkish family bombed in Germany, Christians tortured and killed in Uganda and the Sudan, an evangelist railing about ‘cults’ such as Buddhism. It all makes that incredible election mess back home look tame. I can't see any of it as random noise that doesn't affect me, not any more."

"Good.” Thomas told himself to feel no remorse for opening her eyes.

A human figure moved behind the gallery windows. Bess? No, it was Rose, hanging a Christmas garland. The green, gold, and red were reflected over and over again in the multiple panes of glass.

"Yesterday evening Alf told me Bess wasn't quite the ticket,” said Thomas. “I found her lying in bed, in the dark. I sat with her a few moments, but she seemed unable to articulate what's troubling her."

"Like we haven't all heard Ellen badgering her."

"Bess blames herself for the unfortunate trajectory of Ellen's life. But there comes a point one must accept that what's done is done. The child has gone its own way. Brother David is dead.” He looked toward the Magdalene statue, rising from a drift of saffron-yellow
Linera obtusiloba
like a martyr rising from the flames. “The Magdalene is the first apostle and the great whore, all in one. The bleeding heart of redemption."

Maggie's cheeks were pink. Her hair danced across her forehead. Her eyes evaded his, looking toward the gate. Beside it the
Euonymus europaeus
made a brave display, its leaves scarlet, its pink and red seed capsules breaking open to reveal the bright orange seeds inside. “My mother grows that. It's called ‘hearts a-busting.'” Emitting a vaporous sigh, she turned the subject. “How's your research coming?"

Gravely Thomas replied, “Ian Graham at the Museum of Scotland has searched many an archaeological and geological survey on my behalf. His results, added to what I've gleaned from various texts, make me think my hypothesis about the location of the Stone is worth testing. Next Tuesday, November thirtieth, is St. Andrew's Day..."

Footsteps raced along the path. A wild-eyed Sean burst through the gate. “Thomas, Maggie, come quick.” He spun back toward the house.

Thomas's heart plunged into a cold deeper than any winter day's. He didn't shorten his strides for Maggie, but still she kept at his heels past the archway, through the door, up the main staircase and then the small one.

Alf stood wringing his hands outside his and Bess's bedroom, his usually round face pinched and peaky, his eyes bulbous. “Thomas, ‘twere an accident.” One hand flapped helplessly toward the door.

Thomas walked into the small, dark, fetid room and switched on the bedside lamp. Beneath it sat two empty tablet containers, an almost empty bottle of sherry, and a glass tumbler. A frame held a photograph of a child with a ribbon in her hair and a wide if wary smile. Ellen, in her earlier life.

Bess lay curled on her side, her back turned to the picture, her ashen face half-buried in the pillow. Her eyes stared into nothingness. Thomas pressed his fingertips into the gelid flesh of her throat. She was long gone. She'd died alone with her distress, rejecting the hands and hearts which would gladly have helped her to carry it.

His voice caught as he spoke. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. May be peace of God be with you always.” He kissed her bloodless cheek, closed her staring eyes, and made the sign of the cross over her. Too little, too late.

He went back into the hall, shut the door, and faced the waiting people. Ellen stood next to Alf, mute, cold, brittle. Sean hovered ineffectually at her side. Anna, looking every year of her age, pressed Rose's shoulder. Rose stood with her hand against her mouth, her eyes huge. Maggie's face was no longer pink but stark white. “What happened?"

"Bess may have intended to alleviate her anxiety, and inadvertently mixed barbiturates with alcohol. Or she may have intended to die.” Thomas forced himself to loosen his knotted fists and clenched jaw.

Alf turned on Ellen. “Here, you've been worrying her with that religious rubbish..."

"I was helping her,” retorted Ellen, her voice thick. “I was trying to save her."

Thomas set his hand on Alf's trembling arm. “You'd best phone Inspector Gupta. The formalities must be observed."

Alf opened his mouth, shut it, and trudged toward the stairs, each floorboard creaking a protest.

With an almost audible crack of her shell, Ellen's face twisted and she charged Thomas. “You, Thomas London, Thomas Maudit, it's your fault, you took Mum down with you and now she'll burn in hell!"

He fended her off with an upraised arm. “She's not in hell, Ellen."

"You're a liar!” And she was crying, in huge, racking sobs.

Sean put his arm around her. “Come on, I'll—I'll fix you a cup of tea. In the kitchen. Downstairs. Okay?"

"There's a good lad,” said Thomas. “Tea for all of us would go down a treat, thank you."

"Yeah, sure” Sean said dazedly. He led Ellen away.

Rose pulled away from Anna. “I'm okay, thanks. I'm just getting tired of people dying."

"As am I, Rose.” The blank face of the door, stained with shadows, seemed to Thomas like an accusing glare. The silence of the room beyond condemned him.
Thomas Maudit
. “Here I am flattering myself I can open the kingdom of God whilst I cannot repair the evil in my own household."

"There are limits to what even you can do,” Maggie stated. “One of your favorite themes is freedom of choice, remember?"

Trust Maggie's astringent manner to mitigate the stench of failure. Thomas raised his chin. “Yes, quite. We must...” He jerked at a sudden beeping noise, almost bashing his head on the slanting roof. Then, foolishly, he realized the sound was coming from the mobile telephone in his pocket. He fumbled for it. “Thomas London."

"Thomas, it's Mick. There's been a right turn-up and no mistake."

"Oh,” Thomas said, wrenching his mind about. “Mick."

"Mick?” repeated Rose, oddly flat.

"One moment, Mick.” Thomas led the three women down the smaller steps and peered over the railing of the large stairwell to the ground floor.

Maggie tiptoed on down the stairs and along the hall to the kitchen. In a moment she was back. “Alf and Ellen are glaring at each other across the table. Sean's making tea and muttering platitudes. I always hoped there was a sensitive New Age guy beneath that macho swagger."

"Very good.” Thomas pressed the device to his ear. “Now then, Mick. What's happened?"

"I'm thinking,” Mick said, “that I know where the Book is hidden."

Thomas wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but that wasn't it.
The Lord taketh away, and the Lord giveth.

"You've seen the entry in Dad's journal about Robin stopping by the office for a tour. Well then, I was having a wee plowter in Dad's files the day, and I found a receipt in his writing: ‘One length MacNab tartan wool rec'd Reginald Soulis 13 May 00'. Dad mentioned a ‘Reg’ in his journal. Kin of that poisonous woman at Holystone, I'm thinking."

"I should think so, yes."

"And clan MacNab, they're kin of the Dewars."

"Yes. The MacNabs are descended from the Abbots of St. Fillan's shrine. When the Bruce was succored there by the Dewars, the MacNabs opposed him."

Mick went on, “I asked Dad's secretary, Amy Kirkpatrick, if she minded his visit. Oh aye, she says. He was thinking himself no small drink."

"Amy is a woman of great insight."

"That she is. But even so, she was thinking Robin a wool merchant, he was so keen on the work of the shop and the warehouse and all."

"He was, was he?” Rose, Anna, and Maggie stood in a half-circle before him, poised and eager. Thomas gestured patience.

"The next day, she says, a chap named Reginald Soulis stopped by, saying Robin was sending dad a sample of MacNab tartan."

"Did she see this sample, then?"

"No. She says it was a parcel wrapped in paper the size of a bolt of cloth. By the way Soulis was holding it she reckoned it was heavy. And a bolt of wool is heavy, right enough."

"So is a large book of 258 vellum leaves.” Thomas closed his eyes. The Book, the third relic. He remembered the first time he'd come into its presence, on the long road south from Durham. The soldiers had wanted to add it to the fire that cold, bitter night. He'd taken it from them, concealed it in his cloak, and acknowledged one more time that supernal chord.

He could see the pages as though they lay open in front of him, the Word itself in black majuscule script, the Spirit symbolized by intricate decorations in colors that put the autumn garden to shame. The lapis lazuli had come from the foothills of the Himalayas. He liked to think of that lapis, the blue of the Virgin's cloak, passed from hand to hand until it reached Aidan and Cuthbert on their holy island off Britain. Like wisdom and faith passed from mind to mind in the pages of books.

He opened his eyes. Before him waited three women, old, middle-aged, and young. Three fates. Three graces. Three Queens escorting the mortally wounded Arthur to his last resting place in Avalon. He said into the telephone, “I don't suppose Amy knows where the MacNab parcel is now?"

"No,” said Mick. “Dad didna say a word about it in his journal, but he'd not be thinking this sample was out of the ordinary."

"Nor should he. The question is whether Robin knows where your father put the parcel, and whether he's retrieved it by now."

"It's not in Dad's or Amy's offices, I'm telling you that. I'll have a shufti round the warehouse on the Sunday, when no one's about."

"Please do so. I'll speak with you again tomorrow, shall I, when my thoughts are more ordered. Good show, Mick. Very good show indeed. Here's Rose. I fear she has some bad news for you."

He offered Rose the telephone. With a strange, stiff reluctance, she took it and retreated down the corridor. “Hi."

From the lower floor issued the thud of the iron knocker. “I'll go.” Anna started down the stairs.

Maggie's face was inexpressibly weary. “Vivian. Calum. Now Bess. I hear the Gabriel hounds baying...” Her voice broke.

Thomas opened his arms. In one swift movement she was embracing him, her grip so fierce his breath escaped in a gasp. Affection, yes, two grieving hearts attracted each to each. And yet he was very much aware how long it had been since he'd held a woman in his arms.

Jivan's voice echoed amongst several others downstairs. Quickly Thomas bent his face to the top of Maggie's head. “I beg you not to let your guilt rot your spirit as Bess allowed hers to do."

"Suicide isn't in my vocabulary,” she said, half muffled in his coat. “Just doesn't seem sporting, somehow."

"There are many sorts of suicide."

"Yeah? Like martyrdom?"

"No. Martyrdom is a gift given freely."

"Sorry.” She craned up at him. Her eyes were bright but she wasn't weeping. “That was a cheap shot. It's just that I don't know..."

Steps started up the staircase. Thomas broke from her embrace. “I don't know what's going to happen either, Maggie."

Her smile was cramped and cautious, but it was a smile. “Go on. Do your duty by Bess. She needs you more than I do. Right now, anyway."

"Thomas?” called Jivan's distressed voice.

Thomas turned toward him, his hands still holding the shape of Maggie's warm but unyielding flesh.

Ellen hadn't ever been to a funeral before. It was a right bugger to start out with her own mum's. She'd hear the sounds of the dirt clods hitting the coffin for the rest of her life.

She sat in the corner of the Great Hall, looking out of her own body like an animal out of a forest whilst people stood about noshing and nattering. Having themselves a rave-up, and Mum was dead.

By Robin's Word she was damned. Ellen had tried to save her, and failed. She scrubbed her hands on her skirt, scraping away the scab on her palm, uncovering the raw, red, hot skin beneath. It bled, but the blood didn't wash away the dirt of the grave.