Lucifer's Crown (7 page)

"St. Dubricius,” said Thomas, “also known as Merlin."

"Who's the guy carrying his own head?” asked Sean.

"St. Denis."

Maggie protested, “But he's affiliated with Paris."

"I lived for a time in France, in my youth.” Thomas's strong but graceful hands chose a brush from a tray of art supplies.

"You show Bridget with her cow and everything,” said Rose, “but you don't show Joseph holding the Holy Grail."

Thomas smiled gently down on her. “The story of the Holy Grail begins in the mists of pagan antiquity. Now we identify it as the vessel of the Last Supper and Passion of Our Lord. In some stories, though, it is not a vessel at all, but a plate, a reliquary, or even the emerald that fell from the crown of Lucifer when he was cast out of heaven. Some say the Grail was brought to France by Mary Magdalene, or here to Glastonbury by St. Joseph. Churches in Italy and Spain claim to hold the Grail, and it is also reputed to be in a private home in Wales. Some even say it is the philosopher's stone."

"Indiana Jones lost it down a crevasse,” said Sean with a grin.

"Even the Nazis exploited the story,” Anna said.

"Like all demagogues, they perverted the true story to serve their greed for power.” Thomas squeezed tubes of blue and green and mixed the colors. Crouching, he painted a streak of teal below Mary's tranquil face.

The color of a peacock's tail, Maggie thought. The peacock, symbol of Roman Juno, like Mary Queen of Heaven. But Thomas would know that already. No need to point it out.

"Funny,” Rose said, “that Mr. Puckle caters to pilgrims and what he calls loonies when he himself doesn't believe in the supernatural."

"The supernatural? Vampires, witches, demons?” demanded Sean.

"'Supernature’ is a very recent concept,” Maggie said in her best professorial voice. “Most people throughout history have regarded magic as a natural phenomenon. Even if most of us go our entire lives without encountering any magic, mystery, whatever."

Thomas asked, “Would you recognize mystery if you did encounter it?"

The hair rose on the back of Maggie's neck. It was chilly in here, she rationalized. Both physically and psychically. Was he jealous of his academic turf? She sure wasn't a threat to him. “Off we go, y'all. We're looking forward to your lectures, Thomas."

"Maggie. Rose, Sean, Anna.” He bowed slightly, in regal dismissal.

Shooing everyone outside, Maggie reminded herself that she was going to have to work with Thomas London. He would set very high standards for her, let alone the students. His lectures would be delivered in a resonant voice with rounded vowels that made her own American accent sound like a quack ...
Don't let him make you feel inferior
.

She wondered again if she'd bitten off more than she could chew by taking this trip, and not just because one of her students was already involved in a—murder, she articulated. None of Gupta's assurances were going to change her leap of faith—or her leap of fear—that that's what it was.

Maggie dawdled outside the garden gate, letting the others go on ahead, and told herself that her academic paranoia wasn't important. Especially in the face of murder.

The sun poured a reddish-gold radiance over ancient house and modern town. The cold air scoured Maggie's lungs of the odors of paint and mildew and something else—the odor of sanctity, maybe, in this saint-haunted place.

A car turned into the parking area, stopping next to the Puckles’ Range Rover and Maggie's leased mini-van. It was so small it was almost a toy, the sort of transportation you bought for the second family car. Inspector Gupta emerged from it like a hermit crab from its shell. “Good evening!” he called to Maggie. “Are you settling in, then?"

Think of the Devil and he appears
. “Yes, thank you. How's the investigation going?"

"We're making progress. I've a photo to show you, but first I'll have a word with Thomas. You've met him, have you?"

"Yeah. He's in there.” She fluttered her hand over her shoulder.

"Right.” Gupta strode on across the grass and into the bloodshot eye of the sun.

Maggie trudged into the house and gathered her charges in the lounge, a long low room overlooking the courtyard. The cat, Dunstan, was already ensconced on the sill of the bay window. Rose sat down next to him. Anna dealt herself a hand of Solitaire. Sean turned on the television. “Hey, we're on the news!"

The screen filled with quick images, fluorescent orange mesh draped over ruined stone walls, a police car next to the Abbey gate, Gupta intoning a noncommittal statement that did not, thank goodness, mention Rose.

"Also in Glastonbury last night,” the newscaster went on, “on a farm outside Baltonsborough, a group celebrating a pagan holiday got into a row with several Christian missionaries. This is Reginald Soulis of the Freedom of Faith Foundation.” A heavy-jowled individual, hair slicked back and lips pursed in disapproval, said, “We were sharing the word of God with the Devil-worshippers when they attacked us."

Maggie had read about the Foundation in the
Times
. It sounded like yet another in-your-face holier-than-thou group that was more political than religious. She'd never figured out why believing in one version of God meant you had to stamp out all the other versions. Were believers that insecure in their faith?

"Whoa,” said Sean. “Devil-worshippers."

"Technically,” Rose said, “you have to believe in the Bible to believe in the Devil."

"Although ‘Devil’ with a small ‘d’ includes a variety of beings, depending on which Dreamtime you're evoking,” added Anna.

Without getting the other side of the story, the news announcer segued into a commercial. A hyperthyroid actress chirped, “Mood Crisps! Crisps dusted with St. John's Wort satisfy your mind as well as your body! The new snack food for 2001!"

Maggie had paused in her pacing long enough to mutter, “Bah humbug,” when the sepulchral thud of the iron knocker made everyone jump. A moment later Alf ushered Gupta, live and in person, though the door.

"Alf, Bess, if you'd join us?” the detective asked. “Could you switch off the telly, lad? Thank you. Sorry to be in a bit of a rush, but I need to get myself back to the station as soon as may be."

So much for the dog and the slippers in front of the family hearth
, Maggie told herself. But other than a loosened tie and the whisker-shadow on his cheeks, Gupta didn't seem too much the worse for wear. He pulled two photographs from his jacket, one the all-too-familiar instant, the other an image on a sheet of fax paper, and handed them to Bess.

"Oooh-er,” she said. “What a pity, that."

Gupta said, “We've identified the dead woman as Vivian Morgan, an investigative reporter for the Oxfordshire
Observer
."

A murmur ran around the room “Who's this other, then?” asked Bess.

"Calum Dewar, a wool-merchant from Edinburgh. He's gone missing, and this time there's suspicion of foul play.” Gupta handed Maggie the paper, his dark eyes not shying away from her silent
why am I not surprised
? “Is this the man you saw?"

Maggie held the black and white photo far enough away she could focus on it. She recognized the man's dark hair gone gray at the temples and his forehead creased by worry. What she hadn't noticed yesterday were the upturned lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth which implied humor, even imagination, although in the photo they emphasized the dour respectability of his expression. His eyes were light-colored—they might reflect oddly. Passing the photo on to the students, she said, “Yes, that's him. Why do you suspect foul play?"

"Calum rang his son from Carlisle this morning, cutting up rough, saying someone was chasing him. I thought Thomas might recognize him or Vivian from some conference or other, but he doesn't.” With a thoughtful frown, Gupta collected the photos and tucked them inside his jacket.

A telephone chirped and Bess hurried off to answer it. “And?” Maggie prompted.

"We traced Vivian to the Shambhala Guest House. She left late last night, wearing a green cloak with gold embroidery, away to the Samhain ceremony at Baltonsborough, or so she told the proprietor."

"A cloak,” repeated Rose.

"The ceremony that turned into a riot?” Maggie asked.

"The very same."

Sean asked, “Did you find a knife to go with that sheath?"

"No."

"And you don't know how Vivian died?” asked Anna.

"Not as yet."

Alf clucked his tongue. “Nice young lady like that. And the Scotsman—well, he'll turn up right as rain, just you see."

"I hope so,” said Gupta. “We're expecting his son here tomorrow. Don't you have a single room empty yet, Alf?"

"That we do. The lad's welcome to it."

Maggie opened her mouth, then shut it. The Dewar boy didn't have an infectious disease. They owed him some sympathy, already.

"I don't suppose we can tell him anything more about his father and Vivian,” said Anna “but he might feel better if he tells us about them."

"Perhaps,” returned Gupta. “Save the lad's never heard of Vivian."

"Oh...” Rose's voice trailed away, as she no doubt visualized half a dozen possible scenarios.

Maggie didn't need to visualize any scenarios at all. Her stomach felt hollow, as though she were riding a rapidly dropping elevator. But taking the kids and running back to London wasn't an option. They'd signed up for a course in Arthurian legend and history and that's what they were going to get, even if the syllabus included footnotes in crime and weirdness. It would all blow over soon ...
Yeah, right
said the part of her mind which was like a pebble in her shoe.

"I'm off, then. Thank you,” Gupta said to everyone, without quite looking at anyone, and turned toward the door.

"I'll see you out.” Maggie grabbed her coat and followed him out the door and across the cobbles of the courtyard. When they were past the deep shadow of the archway she asked, “So Rose is still on the hook?"

"If I say ‘no,’ will you stop worrying yourself about it?"

"But I'm living proof worry is effective. Ninety per cent of everything I worry about never happens."

Gupta smiled at that. “Lovely evening,” he commented, and climbed into his car.

That he hadn't answered her question was answer enough. Maggie stood with her arms crossed as he drove away. A scent of smoke teased the frosty wind. The lingering glow of the sunset made the sky a translucent Prussian blue. One bright light hung above the horizon, a planet or maybe even a UFO. Funny, people used to see angels and demons and now they saw UFOs.
Signs and portents, oh my
.

She heard a bell ring, and again, and then again. The pure notes spread outward like ripples in a pond, seeming to still the wind and quiet the noises of the town. Was that St. Bridget's bell tolling the end of All Saints’ Day, the eve of All Souls'? That was pre-Reformation practice, but then, a lot of early rituals and symbols had been revived, to illustrate transcendence for a material and secular age.

Maggie's shoulders loosened. The stars blossomed, one by one, as the clear peal of the bell filled the night. When it stopped the silence echoed. And then from the depths of that silence came a reply, distant music played on some subtle wind instrument. The slow lilting melody was a lament. It was a lullaby. It was unearthly and otherworldly and fingered her spine like a flute. And yet a laughing ripple of harp strings ran through it as well, and she laughed in delight.

Then the music was gone, leaving only a resonance in her mind. A car drove by. The wind gusted so fiercely her hair blew back from her scalp and her nose tingled. Shaking her head—was it Glastonbury's reality that had lost its edge, or her own?—she walked back toward the house and the task in hand.

Thomas shut the door of the manor house behind him, making the knocker creak. Despite glints of sunshine the wind was chill, scented with sea-spray and the tang of cold iron.

The Puckles were doing right by Temple Manor, bless them. They had been only briefly his employees. Now they were friends, eager to feed him sumptuous meals and lend him their electronic equipment. This morning, though, Thomas had purchased his own cellular telephone. He strode off across the courtyard, once again berating himself for believing that he could go through the End Time without incident.

The phone number in his address book for Alex Sinclair had connected him with a fish and chips shop. Alf's Internet terminal had listed several Alex Sinclairs, none of them the right one. Finally, hope failing, Thomas checked the archives of the Edinburgh records office and there found Alex's name. He had died in an automobile crash fifteen years ago.

A series of telephone calls had determined that his other fellow guardians were well, their relics safe. It was Ivan who, through no fault of his own, had lost the Book. And Alex, too, had died without fault, but also without issue, so that the location of the Stone died with him. Although Alex had never been the relic's actual caretaker. Thomas himself only now suspected who was. For a man named
Dewar
, an old Gaelic word meaning “guardian,” to go missing, leaving behind a woman dead in a significant place, was no coincidence. It was deliberate challenge.

Robin Fitzroy
. His enemy's name sliced his mind like a sword.

Just outside the archway a rubber ball flew by his face and bounced off the wall behind him. “Sorry!” exclaimed the MacArthur lad. “I was going in for a lay-up, with that bracket up there as the goal, you know?"

"Hey, Sean!” Maggie's voice came from inside the courtyard. “I'm on the five-yard line!"

"Hail Mary!” Sean returned, and threw the ball toward her.

The American dialect had certainly produced some arresting idioms. “Maggie,” Thomas called, “would you care for a cup of tea? We should discuss your students’ curriculum."

"Oh,” she said. “Sure. I'll get my laptop."

"My cottage is just off the chancel of the church.” As he had feared, Maggie had interpreted his reaction to her name yesterday as dislike, perhaps even professional jealousy. He mustn't become so distracted by his age-old task that he neglected contemporary courtesies.