The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  She was still sure. Anxiety was beginning to grow.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She was aware of Veronica beside her letting out a sigh of relief.

  The grey-haired assistant Caroline spoke up for the first time.

  ‘If you really need to see her, I can give you her address. She lives just round the corner from me. Here, I’ll write it down for you.’

  ‘Caroline!’ Beth Harkness began to object. Then she shrugged one shoulder. ‘Oh, well. I don’t suppose there’s any harm.’

  Caroline pushed the slip of paper across the counter.

  ‘I don’t know what you want her for, but if it’s to help with finding whoever did that in the High Street, good luck to you.’

  ‘I’ve no idea if she can help or not, but it’s worth a try.’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘No, but they’ve asked us to help them.’ Hilary smiled.

  It was an older terraced house tucked away behind the High Street. Hilary rang the bell. A comfortable-looking woman in a flowered dress and cardigan answered the door.

  ‘Is Mel in?’ Hilary waved the box of chocolates in her hand. ‘We heard she wasn’t well. Is it possible we could see her?’

  Mrs Fenwick looked them up and down. ‘You’re nothing to do with that Honeydew bloke, are you?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  The woman peered along the street in either direction with a worried expression. Her voice dropped to a murmur.

  ‘She isn’t here.’

  ‘Really? To tell you the truth, we’re worried about her. We came to see if we could help.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘Hilary Masters and Veronica Taylor. She may have spoken about us. We found the bomb at the Chalice Well.’

  ‘That was you! I remember now. You were on the telly!’

  Hilary tried to shut out the memory of that experience.

  But the imprimatur of the BBC seemed enough to satisfy Mrs Fenwick.

  ‘It’s upset her that much, she didn’t want to stay here. She’s gone to her granddad’s. He’s always had a soft spot for her. She said she’d feel safe there.’

  ‘Safe from what?’

  ‘How do I know? All these bombs. Two in the same week. And that Honeydew fellow making her go dancing in the streets like it was May Day. It wasn’t respectful. But she went. The first time, anyway. It’s in the papers they were out again at midnight. Dressed up like animals and all. But not my Mel. She’d taken herself off by then. And I wasn’t for telling that Honeydew fellow where she’d gone.’

  ‘Was he here?’ Hilary asked in alarm.

  ‘About an hour ago. Demanding to know where she was. Poncey beggar!’

  ‘And this grandfather?’ Veronica asked. ‘Is he your father? Can you tell us where he lives?’

  Hilary held her breath. Could they strike lucky for the second time?

  Mrs Fenwick paused for an excruciating time. ‘Well, if it was you that found the bomb, there can’t be any harm in it. His name’s Ben Hardiman. He’s out at Straightway Farm, just this side of Meare.’

  ‘Thank you! Here.’ Hilary thrust the chocolates at her. ‘Since Mel isn’t in, you’d better have these.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘You are going to tell Inspector Fellows, aren’t you?’ Veronica’s voice rose in anxiety. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

  ‘Tell him what, exactly? We’ve already told him we were worried about three young women. Mel was one of those. We said we thought she was frightened. Probably of Rupert Honeydew. What do we know more than that?’

  ‘Where she is.’

  ‘Hmm. Veronica, DI Fellows is a very busy man. So are the rest of the team. An unexploded bomb at the Chalice Well. A real explosion in the High Street, killing seven people. And now Amina’s murder, if that’s what it is. Unless he thinks Mel Fenwick is a prime suspect for all of that, what would he do? Can you imagine the hatchet-faced DS Petersen sent out to Straightway Farm to get Mel to open up and talk? No, I don’t think it would work, either.’

  ‘So you’re going to employ your own well-known skills of empathy and a motherly shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘No. You are.’

  The road from Glastonbury ran straight towards Meare. Hilary drove.

  They were down on the Levels again. Meadowland stretched away on either side of them, flat as a billiard table, and as green. Here and there, the uncertain sun glinted on water channels, ruler straight. Ribbons of oilseed rape gilded their banks.

  ‘It’s recovering,’ Veronica said, wondering. ‘The floods of last winter seem to have gone.’

  ‘Keep your eyes open for the turning. According to the OS map it should be somewhere along here on the left.’

  Veronica craned forward and wiped the mist that was beginning to form on the windscreen.

  ‘Hang on. There’s something ahead. Slow down while I read the notice at the gate.’

  The wire fence was broken by a gap. A metal five-barred gate hung somewhat drunkenly ajar. Its rungs were plastered with dead grass and weeds. Veronica strained to decipher the name board.

  ‘It’s still smeared with mud. It looks as though this was underwater in the floods. But I think … yes … it says “Straightway Farm”.’

  ‘Very appropriate. There’s not much here for a road to bend around. No hills.’

  She eased the car through the gateway. The track was unpaved. It led between low hedges to farm buildings glimpsed some distance ahead.

  ‘Are we just going to drive up to the door?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. The outcome’s likely to be the same, whether we arrive on foot or by car.’

  The farmyard was deserted. It had a sodden look, that might not all be due to the recent rain. Hilary got out of the car and thought she could smell rotting hay.

  ‘I hope to God we get a hot dry summer. The water’s gone down, but the place is like a saturated sponge.’

  They walked up to the front door of what looked like a mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse. Hilary looked in vain for a doorbell and in the end rapped loudly on the door.

  An unwelcoming silence hung over the house.

  ‘There’s nobody in.’ Veronica sounded almost as if she wanted it to be true.

  Hilary knocked again. This time the noise provoked a storm of barking from the back of the house. Round the corner raced a black-and-white collie, shouting defiance at them. Veronica backed away round the car.

  Hilary held out her hand, palm open. ‘Good boy. Yes, you’ve got visitors. Any excuse for a good shout, eh? Where’s your master?’

  The collie sniffed her hand and wagged its back end. The barking subsided, but now and then the animal could not resist letting out another strangled yelp.

  Hilary looked up from stroking its chin and stiffened. From the rear of the farmhouse came another, larger figure.

  Ben Hardiman was dressed in clothes the colour of his muddied farmyard. His chin sprouted the beginnings of a curly beard. In his hands he held a long-barrelled gun.

  ‘What are you doing on my land? Who are you?’

  Hilary held up her hands placatingly, almost as she had to the dog.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mr Hardiman. We’re not from DEFRA, or anything like that. This is a personal matter. We need to talk to Mel.’

  The angry challenge of the farmer’s eyes grew wary. ‘Who? There’s nobody of that name here.’

  ‘Your granddaughter. Mel Fenwick.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. She lives in Glastonbury.’

  ‘But she’s not there now. She’s here. It’s all right. Her mother gave us this address. Mel’s not in trouble, but we do need to speak to her.’

  Hilary crossed her fingers as she spoke. She had no idea how much trouble Mel might really be in.

  ‘I told you, I’m on my own. Lord knows I’ve enough troubles, without some nosey parkers banging the door down.’ He glanced down at the shotgun, as though unsure how it came to be in his h
ands. ‘I’m a peaceable man, but the best thing you can do is to turn that car round and get back where you came from.’

  Her luck was running out. It had been too good to hope that the help she had been offered in the gift shop and at Mel’s home would follow her here. It was still exasperating to know that the frightened Mel was inside this house, needing help, and they would have to go away without speaking to her.

  Reluctantly, they turned to go. Ben Hardiman lowered his gun.

  Hilary was just opening the driver’s door when a movement in the barn alongside stopped her. The collie ran forward, wagging its tail frantically. Around the corner of a stack of dank-smelling straw came a slight figure with ash-blonde hair.

  ‘Mel!’ Veronica cried. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Who are you? Oh, I remember. You were in the gift shop. You were the ones who found the … bomb.’ Her voice shook. ‘Did my mum really send you?’

  ‘Yes, she did. Mel, I don’t know why you’ve run away, but you need to know that Rupert Honeydew has been round to your house looking for you.’

  The girl gave a violent shiver.

  ‘Yes, he scares me too,’ Hilary assured her. ‘Look, can we go inside and talk about this? You’ve got yourself into something that could be very dangerous, haven’t you? I don’t know what you’ve done, or what’s been done to you, but you need to talk to somebody.’

  Mel bit her pale lips and nodded. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s terrible. I don’t know what to do.’

  They sat on the flowered settee in the front room of the farmhouse, which looked as though it was rarely used. Copies of the classics in leather bindings stood in rows in a glass-fronted cabinet, but no newspapers or magazines littered the floor or furniture. The television was obviously in the big farmhouse kitchen behind.

  The armchair Mel sat curled up in looked too big for her. She had dismissed her grandfather with a nod of her head. ‘It’s all right, Gramps. I want to talk to them.’

  Now she sat chewing her lip and looking up at them from under pale-lashed eyelids. Her face had the bruised look of one who has not slept well.

  ‘You said he’d been to the house?’ Her voice was still no more than a whisper.

  ‘Yes. I’ve only met Rupert Honeydew three times, but I’d say he could be a dangerous man.’

  ‘I thought he was wonderful.’ She twisted the cord that edged a cushion. ‘He told us all about how his Goddess could heal people. My friend Fran’s mum had cancer, and he gave her some of the water from the well, and they did a dance for her, up on the Tor, and she got better, just like that. At first I thought it was a bit of a laugh, all that dancing and stuff, and putting flowers in your hair. I only did it to back Fran up. But then … well … when he looks right into your eyes, it gives you a sort of shiver. He makes you feel, like … special. As though you were the only one in the dance who was important to him.’

  She stared into the empty fireplace for a long time.

  ‘But then,’ Veronica suggested gently, ‘the bomb at the well? Why would he do that? It was him, wasn’t it?’

  Mel raised wide, tear-bright eyes to them. ‘It was me.’

  ‘Mel!’ The shocked exclamation escaped Veronica. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he told me to. He said not enough people knew how sacred the Chalice Well was. That it had the power to heal all England. Only nobody cared about that sort of thing nowadays. So we had to do something. Something that would get it in the papers and on TV. So nobody could say they’d never heard of it. And then he could tell people about his book. And there wouldn’t just be hundreds of people coming to see the well and drink the water, there’d be thousands.’

  ‘But you didn’t make the bomb yourself, of course,’ Hilary said.

  ‘What, me? I couldn’t tell one end of a Bunsen burner from another. I got an F in General Science. No, he brought the knapsack in under his costume and left it for me in the bushes. All I had to do was slip out in my lunch break and put it in place, so Rupert wouldn’t be seen up there beforehand.’

  ‘And you made sure no one saw you either.’

  ‘That’s right. It usually goes a bit quiet about lunchtime. Well, except for people picnicking on the lawns … But he said it wouldn’t go off! Somebody would find it, and we’d still get the publicity. And you did.’ She was almost pleading with Hilary.

  ‘And then, two days later …’ Hilary prompted.

  At that, Mel burst into tears.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that! I swear to God it wasn’t me! I wasn’t anywhere near there. All those poor people!’

  Veronica went to put her arms around the sobbing girl.

  ‘There, Mel. I’m sure you didn’t. Nobody believes that.’

  ‘But was it him? Was it because of me? There wasn’t all that much stuff in the papers and on telly about it. Just the local news and a few bits and pieces in the inside pages. It wasn’t like he meant it to be. Do you think … if the first one didn’t work …? And now I’m the only one who can tell them it was him who made the first bomb. Only I’d have to tell them I put it under the lid of the well. They’ll blame me for the one in the High Street. I know they will.’

  Sobs racked her body.

  ‘Mel. Trust us. No one but us, your mum and your grandfather know you’re here. The best thing you can do is come clean to the police. If Rupert Honeydew did plant the bomb in the High Street, then you’re in very real danger. You need protection. Look, stay here. Veronica and I will go straight away and tell a very nice policeman we know. He’ll look after you. Nobody will blame you for the second bomb. I promise.’

  She got to her feet.

  ‘Now, you’ve done the sensible thing. Your grandfather isn’t going to let anyone else in. Just stay here out of sight until Detective Inspector Fellows gets here. Can you remember that name?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Fellows,’ Mel gasped between sobs.

  ‘That’s right. I need to tell him this in person, but I don’t think it’ll be long before he’s here. Chin up.’

  She grasped the shaking girl’s shoulder. ‘Just tell your grandpa to keep that shotgun handy. He scared the living daylights out of us.’

  The engine roared as Hilary made rather too swift a turn in the farmyard, scattering wisps of straw. They bumped their way up the unmade track towards the road.

  ‘Shouldn’t we phone DI Fellows to let him know we’ve found Mel? And to tell him that, of all the unlikely people in Glastonbury, she’s the Chalice Well bomber?’ Veronica was delving in her handbag as she spoke.

  ‘Never mind your mobile,’ Hilary said. ‘I’ve never liked those things. This is something I need to explain face to face. If he gets the wrong idea and the police come charging round here with sirens blaring, they could send her and her grandpa into a flat panic.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Veronica still sounded doubtful. ‘I suppose it’s only a few miles.’

  Hilary drew up at the lopsided gate that gave access to the road. Some distance in the Glastonbury direction, a car was approaching at speed. She nosed forward, wondering if she had time to swing across the road before it reached them. But it took a moment to ease round the crooked gate. She braked.

  She had expected the silver car to shoot past them, on towards Meare. She was momentarily confused when it slowed as it approached the entrance to Straightway Farm, then stopped. For all his apparent hurry, the driver must have halted to allow her to cross the road. She raised her hand in cheery acknowledgement and put her foot on the accelerator.

  ‘Hilary!’ Veronica hissed beside her. ‘It’s Rupert Honeydew!’

  Startled, Hilary took her eyes off the road ahead and swivelled to peer through the side window. The first thing that registered was that the driver must be unnaturally tall. His head seemed grotesquely near the roof of the car. The long, moon-shaped face wore no Guizer’s marks of soot. There was no battered top hat. But he was unmistakable. This was the undisguised Rupert Honeydew they had met on Glastonbury Tor.
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br />   She had slammed on the brake again without realizing she was doing it. Her car was slewed across the road a hand’s breadth from Honeydew’s bonnet. The two glared at each other.

  ‘Give me that!’ She snatched Veronica’s phone. There was a frantic moment when she fumbled in her own bag for the card with DI Fellows’ number.

  ‘Thank God for mobile phones!’

  ‘Hilary! You hypocrite!’

  But Hilary was tapping in the digits undeterred.

  It was a reassurance to hear DI Fellows’ voice. He, at least, didn’t keep his phone switched off.

  ‘It’s Hilary Masters. We’re at the entrance to Straightway Farm. That’s halfway between Glastonbury and Meare. We’ve just found out that Mel Fenwick from the Chalice Well is the one who planted the bomb there. At the bidding of Rupert Honeydew. Go easy with her. She’s terrified. She’s at the farm and Honeydew’s here at the gate. His car is practically scraping the paint off mine. He can’t get in because my car is blocking his way. Do you think you could send reinforcements?’

  Whatever DI Robert Fellows felt about this bizarre message, he reacted with commendable speed. She heard him shout an order across the room. Then he was back to her.

  ‘Get yourselves out of there. If Honeydew is the bomber, there’s no saying what he’ll do. We’ll be with you in minutes.’

  ‘Mel’s at the end of this track, with her granddad, his shotgun and a collie dog. Our car is the only thing stopping Honeydew.’

  ‘We’ll be there. We’ve got seven dead already. I don’t want you to be the next. Stop playing the heroine. Go!’

  The call was abruptly cut off.

  Rupert Honeydew was opening the door of his car. A long leg appeared on the roadway. Hilary found she was shaking.

  ‘Hilary!’ whispered Veronica. ‘What do we do?’

  Hilary tried to put the car into gear, and stalled. She swore. At the second attempt, the clutch engaged. The car moved jerkily forward, almost into the path of an oncoming car. A horn blared at her and the driver yelled through the open window. Then the road was clear. She swung right towards Glastonbury.