“One of my roommates found a body while he was playing paintball,” said Sean. “The cops said he’d been shot in a drug deal. Probably deserved what he got.”
“All life,” said Anna, “deserves dignity.”
Gupta knew a good exit line. Pocketing his note pad, he stood up and started for the door. “Thank you. I’ll keep you informed.”
The students murmured various courtesies. Maggie, too, stood up. “I’ll see you out.”
Gupta held the doors for her and they walked out into the morning. Even though the sky was still lidded with gray, the mist was thinning. Nearby buildings looked almost like solid structures. A sign on one read, “Moon Child Shoppe. Candles, crystals, aromatherapy, aura soma readings, vegetarian meals. Credit cards accepted. Discounts for Bodhisattvas.” The window was filled with bright, shiny baubles and beads. Just what a Bodhisattva, a being who turned away from nirvana to help humankind, would want with baubles and beads Maggie couldn’t say.
Gupta folded his hands behind his back. His eyes, gleaming jet on mother of pearl, surveyed the Moon Child Shoppe without the least spark of amusement or condescension. It was Maggie’s suggestion of murder that had kindled a response.
Better to be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt, she reminded herself. But since when had looking like a fool ever stopped her? “Vivian could have intended to die. Maybe she saw herself as Ophelia or the Lady of Shalott, beautiful and pitiable. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that Vivian was no suicide. Last night was Samhain, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes. The Wicca group held their bean-feast and bonfire out beyond Baltonsborough. Had a bit of a row with another group, I hear.”
“Not so long ago your job would’ve been to make a bonfire of the Wiccans themselves, to the greater glory of God, of course.”
“I believe in England witches were hanged,” Gupta said equably.
Persisting, Maggie curled her fingers against the breast of her sweater, miming the dead woman’s pose. “The sheath you found with Vivian’s clothes. Was she holding in her hand the knife that went with it?”
“It’s likely, yes.”
“What if the man Rose saw this morning took it?”
There was that spark again, many sparks, a meteor shower flaring in Gupta’s eyes. “You’re thinking the man in the cloak is involved with Vivian’s death and was trying to conceal evidence when he was interrupted by Miss Kildare?”
“He knows she saw him.” Maggie exhaled through pursed lips. “Please tell me I’m just going overboard. That Rose isn’t a witness. That she’s not in danger from this guy.”
“I can’t tell you that. You may be right. Even though,” Gupta cautioned, “this is all conjecture.”
“Then here’s another conjecture for you. Iron was once considered to be a talisman against evil spirits. It still is, in some circles. Maybe the same circles that believe spirits, good, bad, or indifferent, were out for a stroll last night. What if Vivian died as the result of a ritual? That would still be murder, wouldn’t it?”
“It certainly would,” he said. “If there are any local groups capable of murder, though, they’re keeping themselves well hidden.”
“They would, wouldn’t they?”
“Most of the neo-pagans—and some others I could name—are harmless loonies. On occasion one group or another will overdose on psychologically potent symbols, yes, and create an unhealthy situation, but you can say that of any group searching for meaning.”
“No kidding. Since the beginning of 2000 didn’t bring anything but a few computer glitches, the apocalypse crew has gotten even louder.”
“Most of the world believes in neither the millennium nor the apocalypse,” Gupta pointed out.
“Like that Zen tree that’s forever falling in the forest—if you don’t believe in it, does it exist?”
“Mind over matter. Scientists tell us the Ganges River is teeming with lethal bacteria, but when the faithful bathe in its sacred waters, they come away purified.”
And that is evidence of things unseen, thought Maggie. Faith.
A truck passed, changing gears as it struggled up the rising ground to the east. Up what had been the coastline of the Isle of Avalon—if you believed the Matter of Britain, the stories of Arthur, the quest for the Holy Grail. There were worse things to believe.
The wrinkled, green face of Glastonbury Tor loomed through the mist. Supposedly the terraces on its sides were the remains of an ancient ritual pathway, a labyrinth. The tower on its top did resemble a monolith marking a place of power. Or a tiny stone spear impaling the hump of a huge dragon. Churches dedicated to St. Michael the dragon slayer often occupied ancient high places considered gates to the Underworld. The Otherworld.
“Christianity,” Gupta said, “has a spot of bother excusing the existence of evil if God is wholly good, although Thomas London tells me that evil comes from within man, not from God. The great Hindu gods combine benevolence and malevolence, creation and destruction, in the same beings. Pagans think that supernatural forces are inherent in the earth itself, forces that are never impersonal, but are very much involved, intelligent, even ironic.”
“And which have to be placated?”
“Acknowledged. The sort of thing that was going on last night.” Gupta’s smile was lopsided, angling his moustache upward. “Here, we could discuss the nature of faith all day if we’d no jobs to go to.”
Shows where my mind is, Maggie thought.
“I’m a policeman, not a philosopher, certainly not a holy man. But I’m telling you this: I’ve lived here fifteen years. My wife’s a native. Glastonbury is one of the world’s great holy places. Odd things happen here, and no mistake.”
Was Gupta, the Glastonburian, making fun of a gullible tourist-cum-pilgrim? No. He was dead serious. So was the woman Rose had found in the Abbey.
All Maggie had wanted in coming here was a chance to visit Britain again. To teach—and to remind herself—that intelligence wasn’t something to be ashamed of. To make a start, however feeble, at the rest of her life. And now? “So I get to play bodyguard as well as teacher, chauffeur, and mother. Great.”
“It’s early days yet,” Gupta said reassuringly. “We’ll have it sorted soon as may be. As for Rose—well, you’d better be cautious is all.”
“I’ll try to contain myself. Thank you.” Maggie managed a smile.
Touching his forefinger to his eyebrow, Gupta strode away up the street.
Her smile crumpling, Maggie started back into the hostel. She’d better call Bart Conway, the coordinator in charge of all the seminar groups, before he saw a newspaper using “SMU” and “mysterious death” in the same sentence. And they were expected not only at the police station but at Temple Manor. Plus Rose needed to get to St. Mary’s for the All Saints’ Day mass. At least she’d be safe there…
Maggie told herself not to worry about Rose or the Lady of Shalott, about pilgrimage and belief, about faith and credulity and what might crawl into the cracks in between. But she knew she would.
Chapter Three
Thomas London watched as the mist at last grew silvery, then transparent, and then in ephemeral strands was sucked into the blue afternoon sky like Dante’s blessed souls ascending into heaven. He liked Dante, even though the Italian poet had made a more compelling story of the Inferno’s torments than of Paradise with its unfolding rose of angels.
Gulls squawked overhead. A car sped past. To the west a quarter moon sank toward the horizon. To the east, beyond the lichened slate roof of the manor house, Glastonbury Tor gleamed in the sun. At this distance the tower looked little larger than a pin.
In the seventh century Pope Gregory had ordered his missionaries not to destroy the ancient temples of Britain, but to set up altars and relics and replace pagan sacrifices with church festivals. Some of the old gods had then been named demons. Some had been named saints. With a wry smile at God’s sense of humor, Thomas ducked through the narrow doorway into the c
hapel. In the cold, musty shadows his breath resembled a wraith.
Today pilgrims were returning to the holy place of Glastonbury, reclaiming their roots. Today mankind stood in the center of the labyrinth and contemplated its path out again. Today, All Saints’ Day, the new year overlapped the old as the new millennium overlapped the old. The End Time had come at last.
Switching on a light bulb, he gazed searchingly up at the rood. The crucifix, flanked by two carved figures, stood above the ancient screen dividing the tiny nave from an even smaller chancel. The faces of Our Lord, St. John, and St. Mary Magdalene were deeply shadowed, and revealed nothing of the future.
Very well then. He had his work. Below the desiccated wooden lace of the screen seven canopies—three on one side of the opening into the chancel, four on the other—marked niches for the portraits of saints. So far he had completed St. Joseph of Arimathea, St. Bridget, and St Denis, the fresh colors of the new paintings glowing amongst the ghosts of the old. Now Thomas squeezed out a blotch of lapis lazuli and dabbled his brush in it. Kneeling, he touched the brush to the blue cloak of Mary, Queen of Heaven.
The sound of footsteps made him spin around. “Ah—Alf. Good afternoon.”
“And to you, Thomas.” Alf Puckle squeezed through the door. “Here’s the mobile. Canon O’Connell wants a word.”
Thomas wiped his hands and reached for the tiny device. “I never intended for you to play my secretary, Alf. These modern contrivances that are to be our servants make servants of us.”
“Right you are,” Alf said with a chuckle. “No rush bringing back the phone, Bess and I are laying on a high tea for the Americans. There’s always an extra scone for you.”
“Thank you.” Thomas waited until Alf had paced away, then raised the telephone to his face. “Good afternoon, Ivan.”
Ivan O’Connell’s cultured voice said, “I’m afraid it’s not that good an afternoon, Thomas. The relic has been stolen.”
The relic. The Word as a work of Art. The book known as the Lindisfarne Gospels. Thomas sagged as though an assailant had just delivered a blow to his stomach. So it was happening, then, after all.
“The curators of the British Library moved the Book to the new building two years ago,” O’Connell went on. “Or thought they had done. But Jane Buckley, their authority on medieval manuscripts, noticed that some details of the artwork were wrong. She made tests, and has pronounced their book a forgery.”
“A forgery,” Thomas repeated.
“The thief went to the trouble to use the appropriate parchment and ink, and to copy the drawings line for line and color for color. Save that the copy is perfect.”
“Those details of the patterns the original artist left unfinished, to show his humility, are now complete.”
“Yes, just that. Jane, knowing my keen interest in the Book, rang me this morning.”
“Is the cover of the copy a forgery as well?”
“No, it’s the 1853 metalwork cover. An ordinary thief would pry off the gems and melt down the silver, I suppose, but…”
“…an ordinary thief would not have gone to such great lengths to duplicate the Book. Nor would he have the resources to do so.” But then, Thomas told himself with grim certainty, Robin Fitzroy was no ordinary thief.
“Scotland Yard are interviewing everyone who had access to the Book during the move,” O’Connell went on.
“The secular authorities do excellent work. Even though I doubt if the theft of the Book is totally within their sphere, I trust you’ll keep in contact with them.”
“Of course. Thomas, I must confess that when old Lionel Weston told me a canon of Canterbury has been the guardian of the Lindisfarne Gospels ever since the Book was brought south, and asked me to succeed him in that post, I thought the entire business was one of those English traditions preserved under glass, a quaint custom whose origins have been lost. Thanks to you, I’m no longer certain of that.”
“Thanks to you,” Thomas said, “for bringing me the news.”
Outside, automobile doors slammed. Judging by the cries of “awesome” and “is this cool or what?” the Americans had arrived. Those young, unclouded voices made Thomas feel dreadfully old and tired.
“Well then,” O’Connell said. “How are you getting on with the chapel?”
“I’m just now finishing the portraits on the rood screen.”
“Lovely. I’ll be there December twelfth for the re-consecration.”
December twelfth. Six short weeks away, with the end of the year soon after. Judgment Day, perhaps. Perhaps the Apocalypse, that old Greek word meaning “revelation.” Thomas had intended for this chapel to be his offering to a Glastonbury renewed in faith as well as to God. But now he wondered if his work would, at the end, be naught but mockery.
“I’ll remember you and the Book in my prayers,” O’Connell concluded. “May the blessings of All Saints’ Day be with you.”
“And with you, Ivan.” Thomas switched off the phone and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Odd, how close the air of the chapel had become. Like that of a tomb, dank and heavy with an acrid odor he knew to be that of paint but felt was that of his own dishonored soul.
He’d hoped to slip quietly through the End Time, passion spent, purpose fulfilled, redeemed at last. But that hope had always been presumption. Of course his nemesis would challenge him, now, at the end. Of course he would take up that challenge. As he’d taken up the challenge long ago, and then, at the sword’s point, allowed the consequences to fall upon a bystander? Thomas clenched his jaw so tightly the muscle cramped.
His relic was safe. But the Book, the relic he’d wishfully thought to be safe in plain sight, had been stolen. Would the secular authorities turn it up in time? He doubted it. And what of the others? It was long past time for him to stop assuming they were safe and ask. Ask most especially Alex Sinclair, who was not himself the guardian of a relic but a knight in its service. This secular world regarded many things as nothing more than quaint customs.
“I know what needs doing,” Thomas said to the as-yet blank face of the Blessed Mother. “But now, more than ever, I am incapacitated by my guilt.”
Laughter echoed outside. The light bulb flared and winked out. And in that moment, between light and darkness, the portrait of St. Bridget blinked her compassionate blue eyes. The statue of Mary Magdalene looked down at him, her brown eyes gleaming with irony. The cloak of the Blessed Virgin rippled blue and green, like the sea encircling a holy island—St. Cuthbert’s stormy Lindisfarne, or the antediluvian stone of St. Columba’s Iona.
Shadows gathered densely in the corners, but around Thomas himself they lay like gauze. An elusive odor of fresh flowers teased his nostrils. With a sharp inhalation of terror and gratitude mingled he dropped to his knees. “Blessed St Mary, Blessed St. Bridget, Blessed Virgin Mother.” He stared from face to face to face. Bridget’s eyes were flat paint. Mary Magdalene’s eyes were hollow carved wood. The Blessed Virgin’s cloak was streaks of blue paint, incomplete. As the patterns of his life were incomplete.
“Ave Maria gratia plena,” Thomas began, and by the time he concluded, “et in hora mortis nostrae,” his hair was no longer prickling on his neck. “Thy will be done,” he said, and groaning he stood.
How difficult it was to say “Thy will be done” and know it was indeed God’s will and not his own. All he could do was be receptive to signs and portents. He had just been given three. Now what? He limped to the arrow-slit of a window. Crisp air curled through the opening. Outside this chapel, his cell, the garden bloomed in its fall reds and purples. An angelic voice said, “Hello there.”
Startled, Thomas saw a young woman sit down on the bench beside the hedge.
“Come on, come here,” she said. Dunstan, the resident cat, leaped up and settled onto her blue jeans, gazing adoringly into her face as she stroked his sleek fur.
As well he should. Thomas had noticed the same young woman at St. Mary’s on Sunday, as well as at the All Saint
s’ mass only hours ago. How could he not? She was beautiful, with hair like spun gold and cheeks like rose petals. But today the curves of her brows and lips were pinched. Even the fairest flower could feel the frost.
She turned her face to the sun, revealing eyes the same lucid blue as those he’d given St. Bridget. The ache in Thomas’s heart eased. No wonder angels were often depicted as young women. A woman, Mary Magdalene, had been the first to recognize the risen Christ, the Word made flesh. A woman scholar had acknowledged the truth about the counterfeit Book…
Truth. The truth might make him free, hard as it would be to confess outside the seclusion of the confessional. But who would believe his story? Thomas had friends of the intellect, but no friend of the soul. He’d expected to pass through the End Time alone, as always, and to conclude his purpose whether healed or not. And yet, now, he saw that without truth there could be no healing. And without healing he could not fulfill his purpose.
Sunlight poured over the roof of Temple Manor. Glastonbury Tor and its tower reached heavenward. Tautly, Thomas smiled. Of all things, the Tor made him feel young and vigorous again. If never as young as the angelic maiden, brought to his doorstep by the hand of a merciful God—even though he didn’t yet know why.
Telling himself that one must correct Magnificat before learning Te Deum, he stepped from the tomb into the garden.
“Ellen,” said a silken voice. “Wakey, wakey.”
Ellen Sparrow turned over and kicked at the blanket. The gray air stank of diesel and rubbish. From beneath the window came the mutter of engines, voices, and footsteps. Robin stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at her with those brilliant green eyes she found both compelling and uncanny. Even in the shadows his red hair gleamed. She hadn’t heard him open the door.
“Why are you wearing Vivian’s glad rags?” she asked.
“I thought I’d keep the cloak. It’s Scottish wool, after all. It’ll remind me of how easily women can be corrupted.” He spread his arms wide, so that the green cloak opened out into a semicircle like a Romish priest’s robe. Gold stitching in elaborate snaky patterns edged the neck and the front opening. Beneath the cloak he was still wearing the posh suit and tie he’d worn last night. He deserved the best. Wearing the cloak, he’d purify it, and no mistake.
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