by Fay Sampson
‘Go on.’
With a feeling of reluctance, Hilary told them about the woman in the blue burka. She felt a stab of guilt. ‘I hate to think I’m perpetuating a stereotype. “Islamic dress equals terrorist suspect.” But I was surprised to see her there. The Chalice Well attracts a pretty eclectic clientele, but it’s not really a Muslim thing. And to be honest, she could have been carrying anything under those robes. But you can ask her for yourself. She’s in the shop.’
‘Was it after she’d gone that you spotted the rucksack?’
‘No. Well, not immediately.’
Hilary’s evidence was interrupted by a uniformed officer who came and whispered something in the detective sergeant’s ear. DS Wills in turn passed it on to his constable, sotto voce.
Then he turned to Hilary with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘It seems the bag did contain explosives. Well done, Mrs Masters.’
She felt her face flush with gratification. So she hadn’t been making a fool of herself, springing to melodramatic conclusions. People really had been in danger.
‘Now, you were saying …’
‘You asked if I noticed the knapsack after the woman in the burka left. I said no. What I meant was that it wasn’t right away. We stopped at the well for a while, then took a roundabout way back. When we got to the gift shop there was a man blowing his top about all the pagan connotations of the place. New Age pendants, books on Goddess worship. He thought it should be a purely Christian sanctuary. He even said he’d like to put a bomb under it.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ The two detectives exchanged glances.
‘My friend, Veronica Taylor, said she didn’t think that was significant. If he really was the bomber, he would have kept quiet about it.’
‘Do you know this man’s name? Is he in the shop now?’
‘His wife called him George. That’s all I can tell you. A big man in a tweed jacket. With a loud voice. And no, he’s not there now. He must have left before we found the bag.’
‘So how did you find it, if you’d come back from the well?’
‘My friend was rather upset. This character was arguing with her over a book she was looking at. It shattered the peace she’d found beside the well. She’s been through a bad time recently. She lost her husband. She asked if I’d mind going back to the well. It was then that I noticed it. But only just. There was a strap poking out from behind the open lid of the well. The knapsack itself was almost out of sight.’
‘Well spotted. Tell me, on your way back to the well, did you notice anyone coming away from there who might have been suspicious?’
‘Lord, no. I mean, you don’t really look at everyone you pass in a place like this, do you? Not unless they stand out from the crowd. Like Rupert Honeydew.’
‘Who?’
‘You’ll know him when you see him. Feathers in his hat and a jester’s shoes.’
‘Oh, him. The one dressed like a clown.’
‘That’s the one.’
The detective sighed. ‘We have the pleasure of interviewing him to come. It should be an interesting experience. Did you see him anywhere near the well?’
‘He was coming towards it as we were leaving, the first time.’
‘Was he, indeed?’
‘And if you want to know whether he was carrying a knapsack on that occasion, the answer is no. Not that I remember. But with all those fantastic rags and tatters he’s wearing, I might have been mistaken.’
‘Thank you.’
The detective constable at his side laid down his pen.
Hilary felt an obscure disappointment. ‘I can go?’
‘Unless you can think of anything else that’s relevant. I’ll have this typed up for you to sign, then you’re free to leave. And thank you for your vigilance. We don’t know yet how it was set to go off, but you’ve certainly saved one of Glastonbury’s chief attractions and possibly lives as well.’
‘My friend was kneeling right beside it,’ Hilary said quietly.
She got up to go. She should have been feeling elated. Her keen eyes had spotted a potentially lethal bomb and had averted a disaster. But considering all the visitors who had roamed the paths and visited the well that afternoon, how was it possible to identify the one who had planted the bomb?
When her statement was ready, she signed it.
Veronica was next.
The mood in the shop was growing restive. There were at least twenty people waiting to be interviewed and the space in the shop was narrow. A number of them had slipped outside, to take refuge on the seats by the Vesica Pool. Hilary wondered whether Wills and Fielding were the only detectives on the job. The harassed shop assistant and the man from the ticket office were doing their best to keep the visitors calm. Rupert Honeydew was attempting to entertain them by singing a folk song about a fox and a blackbird while dancing to his bells. No one seemed to be appreciating this. People were trying to back out of range.
Hilary took advantage of a pause as he drew breath at the end of yet another verse. Her voice rang out above the hubbub.
‘If it’s any consolation, this is not a hoax. There really was a bomb at the well.’
The room fell silent. A mother drew her two little girls closer to her. The blonde shop assistant sucked in a sharp breath. The Japanese tour leader began talking in a low and urgent voice to his group.
There was no need for Hilary to stay. She made her excuses to the uniformed police guarding the exit and stepped outside towards the road.
At once, she regretted her decision. She should have waited on the other side, where there were benches with vistas of water and flower beds. She stood forlornly in the car park, watching the traffic hurrying past. Not far away, the distinctive slopes of Glastonbury Tor rose above the treetops, topped by the tower which was all that remained of St Michael’s Church. Churches on hilltops, she recalled, were usually dedicated to St Michael, the warrior archangel portrayed in stained-glass windows with his mailed foot on a dragon. Perhaps these hilltops had once been pagan shrines, and St Michael was celebrated as conquering what Christians saw as the dragon of the old religion.
She looked behind her again. A building she had not noticed on their way in announced itself as Little St Michael’s Retreat House. The gentleman in the tweed jacket had been unduly dismissive of this place’s Christian associations.
The Chalice Well advocated Many Paths, One Source. It invited Christians and other faiths, including pagans, to enjoy it side by side. Was the person who had planted the bomb Christian or pagan? Or neither? Might an Islamic terrorist destroy anything held dear by a Western imperialist culture? She sighed. She had found the bomb, but it seemed unlikely that she would find the answer.
FOUR
‘Excuse me! Have you just come from the well? Is it true what they’re saying? There’s a bomb inside?’
Hilary found herself looking into the eager face of a young woman with long untidy hair falling to her shoulders.
‘I was in town, and all these police cars came racing past. They’ve cordoned off the place and they won’t let me in.’
A uniformed police officer stood impassively within hearing.
‘It has to be a bomb, hasn’t it? Unless it’s a murder.’ Her eyes widened on the word. She looked almost as though she might be hoping for an even more sensational reason.
‘No one’s dead, thank God,’ Hilary said shortly.
‘But you were there. Why have they let you out? Did you see anything?’
‘I’ve just told everything I know to the police. I’m not sure that I need to undergo a second interrogation.’
‘Look, give me a break. I’m a reporter.’ She fished in her capacious bag and drew out a dog-eared business card. ‘Joan Townsend, journalist. At least, I want to be.’ The plump face grew wistful. ‘I’ve got a first-class degree in media studies. Couldn’t get a job on the local rag, though. The nationals in London don’t want to know. TV, useless. But I keep sending them stories. One day I’m going to make
it big. This could be my chance.’
‘An unexploded bomb?’ Hilary said sceptically. ‘Yes, all right, there is a bomb. It might make an inside column, but it’s hardly front-page headlines …’
She flinched away as Joan Townsend’s camera flashed in her face.
‘Did you have to do that? You nearly blinded me.’
As her sight cleared, she recognized the offending camera as one of professional quality.
‘One good picture is worth a page of text.’ The young woman was looking happier now as she dropped the camera on its strap and scribbled in her notebook. ‘Your name is?’
‘I don’t see what that has got to do with you. I’ve made my statement to the police. That’s enough for one day.’
‘Please,’ begged Joan. ‘I need a story.’
‘Thank goodness that’s over. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’
Hilary was relieved to hear Veronica’s voice. Her friend was looking flushed and rather nervous.
‘Honestly, I felt such a fool. All those people we passed in the gardens, and I couldn’t describe more than half a dozen of them. And as to whether any of them was carrying a rucksack …’
Joan seized on this new information with delight. ‘A rucksack, was it? It had the bomb inside it? Could you describe it?’
Hilary groaned inwardly as the wannabe reporter turned her enthusiasm on Veronica.
‘It was more of a knapsack, really. Quite small. Plain black canvas. It was Hilary who spotted it. She’s the hero of the day. If it hadn’t been for her, goodness knows who might have been blown up, besides the Chalice Well.’
‘You found it?’ The reporter turned her delighted face back to Hilary. The loose lank hair swung over her eyes. She pushed it back as she grabbed her camera again. ‘I really have got to get a good picture of you. Perhaps the two of you. You were there when she found it?’ she asked Veronica.
‘Indeed I was. Kneeling on the stones beside the well, almost within touching distance of the bag. I hadn’t noticed it, you see. It was hidden behind the lid of the well.’
‘The one with the fancy design on it? The circles and the lance and the leaves of Glastonbury Thorn?’
‘That’s right. They turn it back, so that it makes a decorative background to the pool.’
‘Names, please.’
‘Veronica Taylor. And this is Hilary Masters. Don’t look like that, Hilary. If you must go around discovering bombs, you must expect a bit of limelight. It’ll be on the TV next.’ She laughed.
‘I sincerely hope not. I want to get away from here before we encounter any more of this sort.’
‘Just let me file my story before anyone else gets in on the act.’ Joan Townsend was still scribbling frantically.
‘I know how you feel,’ Veronica sympathized. ‘My daughter Morag is doing English and Media Studies at uni. She’d love to be a reporter like you.’
‘She might not if she knew how tough it is. A good degree gets you nowhere. It’s either luck or who you know. I’m just hoping this could be my piece of luck. Of course it would have been more of a front-page story if the bomb had actually gone off.’
‘And killed a few people, you mean?’ Hilary snapped.
The reporter paled. ‘I didn’t mean that. Of course not. It’s just that bad stuff makes news. It’s what people want to read about. I don’t make the news. I just report it.’
Veronica laid a soothing hand on her arm. ‘Of course you didn’t mean that. We all know how it is. No news is good news, isn’t that what they say? Is there anything else I can tell you?’
Hilary sighed exaggeratedly. The shock of the day was beginning to get to her. She would have welcomed a strong coffee, or something even more stimulating. She had been standing in the car park rather longer than she wanted to.
Other people were dribbling out of the gatehouse in ones and twos. There must indeed be other officers taking statements. The mother with the two little girls appeared. Both of them carried diminutive knapsacks, one pink, one purple. For a few dazed moments, Hilary imagined them stuffed with explosives. She shook herself. She had seen the actual bag that contained the bomb. Not very big, but black. She could not help a shudder. She and Veronica had been so close. What would it have taken to set it off?
She turned briskly. ‘Veronica.’
But her companion was busy racking her memory for anything more she could tell the aspiring journalist. Hilary would have to wait for her coffee.
She looked up to see Rupert Honeydew prancing his way from the gatehouse.
‘Cheer up, my lovelies! The Goddess triumphs over death. An unexploded bomb. The Chalice Well survives.’ He made to grab Hilary’s hand, but she snatched it away.
‘And who are you?’ Joan Townsend’s camera flashed at the extraordinary sight: the colourful tattered clothes, the soot-smeared face, the feathered hat. ‘Were you at the well, too? Did you see the bomb? How did people react?’
Hilary took a firm hold of Veronica’s arm. ‘That’s quite enough of that for one day. Let’s make our escape while we can. I’m sure Mr Honeydew will welcome the publicity more than I do.’
‘She’s only trying to get her career off the ground. In a couple of years Morag will be doing the same. It seemed only kind to help her. It’s not every day you can tell an out-of-work journalist that you’ve seen an unexploded bomb at one of the sacred sites of England. My good deed for the day.’
‘I’ll remind you of that if I see my face plastered over the papers tomorrow morning.’
‘Don’t be so curmudgeonly. You’re a heroine. You deserve it.’
‘It’s the last thing I want. I came here to take my mind off murder and mayhem. All the stuff David has to deal with in that hospital in Gaza.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Veronica squeezed her hand. ‘I didn’t think.’
We came here for you as well, Hilary thought. And if it’s taken your mind off losing Andrew, then maybe it’s not all bad.
‘She gave me this.’ As they turned on to the pavement outside, Veronica held up another of the slightly crumpled business cards with Joan Townsend’s contact details. ‘She said to get in touch with her if we remembered anything else. Or if we saw the Marsdens.’
‘Who?’
‘That man in the tweed jacket who was shouting his head off in the gift shop. He and his wife had gone before the police arrived. The shop assistant knew who he was. Apparently he’s a bit of a local character. Joan thinks there might be a story there. Why some people feel so upset about the well, while others love it. She asked me to ring her if we see him again.’
‘I sincerely hope we don’t. Once was more than enough. You didn’t tell her about the woman in the burka, I hope.’
‘Well, I did just mention it.’
‘Oh, no! I can imagine what sort of headlines that’s going to make. ISLAMIC BOMB THREAT? Woman in burka seen at sacred well. That’s all we need.’
‘You’re really sure she didn’t do it?’
‘I’m not sure of anything right now, except that I’m dying for a cup of strong black coffee, preferably laced with a tot of rum.’
On the way back to their hotel, Hilary found herself scanning everyone they passed on the pavement. Her eyes were seeking that distinctive, quasi-military figure of a large man in a tweed jacket, with a more diminutive wife at his side.
Veronica gave her a sidelong glance and laughed affectionately. ‘Relax, Hilary. You’ve done more than enough for today. It’s not your job to hunt down missing witnesses. You’ve described the Marsdens to the police, and I was even able to give them a name, thanks to that assistant in the gift shop. I honestly don’t think they’re suspects, anyway, just because he talked about planting a bomb, but I’m sure the police will find him and check up on him, just in case. Just let them get on with it. You’re on holiday.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
She let the matter drop and tried to get back into the frame of mind that had brought them both to Glastonbury. It was
steeped in Christian legends, going all the way back to Joseph of Arimathea and the Holy Grail. Yet as she walked its pavements, she could not help visualizing its busy streets and shops, its ancient abbey, the tower-crowned Tor, smashed and defaced by a terrorist bomb.
‘You’re right,’ she said gruffly. ‘I suppose I keep thinking of David in Gaza. A strip of land packed with refugees and looking like a gigantic bomb site. And still they keep lobbing their homemade rockets over the border, into the land their families fled from, and provoking retaliation all over again. I wish I could just get hold of both sides and tell them there has to be a better way to find peace.’
‘Is that why you want to get hold of this bomber, even though it’s nothing to do with the Middle East?’
‘We don’t know that it isn’t. Until they arrest whoever planted the bomb, the police will have no idea of the motive. I certainly haven’t.’
‘I hate to think that it might have gone off. I know the Chalice Well is just a natural spring of water. It would have gone on flowing, and I’m sure it wouldn’t have taken much to restore the setting. But it’s a holy well. It’s been a sacred site for centuries. I would have felt … violated.’
‘What sickens me is that it might not have been just the well. You were kneeling almost within arm’s reach of it. And there was that woman with the two little girls. Or that whole group of Japanese tourists. If the bomb had gone off then …’
‘I’m beginning to see why you’re so keen to put your finger on the bomber. We don’t know whether he meant to kill people as well as damage the well. It makes me shiver to think of it.’
‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? The streets of Glastonbury are full of people flaunting fifty different ways of finding peace. The Chalice Well itself was designated a World Peace Garden. And somewhere in the midst of all this is a bomber who may have set out to kill.’
‘You’ve thwarted him once,’ Veronica said softly. ‘Do you think he’ll try again?’