Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Sean sat down on the arm of the chair and patted her shoulder. “Go ahead and cry, it relieves stress.”

  Alf stood by the fireplace, knocking back the hooch. It was all his fault, he should’ve watched Mum, he should’ve locked up the liquor, he should’ve seen to her pills. It was all his fault Mum wouldn’t listen to reason, he’d polluted her mind with his prejudices.

  The room was hot and close with the pong of winter coats, perfume, and coffee. The moggie, Dunstan, crouched in the shadow beneath a chair, only his white breast and gleaming eyes visible. Voices buzzed like insects inside the empty vault of Ellen’s skull.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Maggie. “A cup of tea?”

  “I’ll get it,” Sean said. “Be right back, Ellen. Hang in there.”

  And there was the traitor. He went down on one knee in front of her and took her hands. His hands were large and strong, not so soft as Mum’s. His voice rasped against her senses. “Ellen, I must ask your forgiveness. I was unable to help Bess.”

  She frowned. Only the weak asked for forgiveness. Only the weak forgave.

  “Sometimes we wish for strength so that others will admire us. But God makes us weak so we can learn wisdom. So we can know his grace. Do you know the root of ‘grace?’ It’s gratitas, or thankfulness.”

  Thankful for bloody what? Mum was dead and Robin hadn’t come and They were getting at her. She tried to pull her hands away but he held onto them. The brown eyes in the tired face were clear as windows. “You betrayed God,” she muttered.

  “Not quite, no, although I most certainly committed a grievous sin.”

  That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say.

  “Through such trials, Ellen, we become strong enough to be humbled and wise enough to surrender. Not submit, but surrender, in loving trust of God.”

  I trust Robin. Robin said it, I believe it, and that’s that.

  Thomas pressed her hands and released them. Maggie and Sean set a cuppa and a sandwich down beside her. Rose took the glass from Alf’s fingers and handed him a cuppa of his own. Perfect Rose, who never doubted. Who knew nothing about darkness.

  Anna wiped Ellen’s hand with a cool bandage. The fresh smell of the salve made her giddy. “Monday I’m taking you to the doctor. That cut’s infected.”

  Ellen should be telling them all to bugger off. But she was too knackered even to think. Nothing was sensible, not any more.

  She lay her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. In the darkness she saw her mother’s face and heard was her mother’s voice. You’re scaring me to death.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Mick stepped into the warehouse and switched on the lights. The odor of wool and camphor filled his head and for a moment he was a child again, playing at Lancelot, Robin Hood, Aladdin, Luke Skywalker, Bilbo Baggins, hunting treasure and fighting battles amongst the shelves.

  He leafed quickly through the pattern book hanging just inside the door. Nothing complicated about the MacNab tartan, green and red squares crossed by red and black lines. He’d recognize it straightaway.

  The shelves ranged down the room were stacked with boxes and bundles. Bolts of tartan wool in glorious colors lay beside lengths of tweed in muted browns, grays, and heathers. The floor was swept, the shelves were dusted, the packing goods were stacked beside a table. Two step ladders stood like sentries in the corner. It was all familiar, and yet it was also strange, as though he was seeing it for the first time.

  These last weeks the sgian dubh had worn a rut in Mick’s side like “First Rites” had worn a rut in his mind. He felt naked when he set it aside to bathe or tucked it beneath his pillow when he tried to sleep. But the knife had only—spoken—the nights someone or something tried the doors of the flat, and the morning a car darted toward the curb as he walked to the grocer’s, only to speed away when he jinked to the side. Now, though, at long bloody last, he had work to do. He had to find a real treasure the day.

  There, “MacNab” and “MacNab Ancient.” Mick unfurled each of three bolts of cloth, making a cascade of color and pattern but finding nothing inside save the cardboard stiffeners.

  Something scrabbled in a distant corner. A mouse or rat, most likely. In his grandfather’s day they’d kept cats, and sleek, well-fed beasties they’d been.

  He folded the fabric back onto the shelf, then stepped off down the one row, and up the next, until he’d walked by each and every bolt of wool. None of them was marked with a label reading, “Holy Relic,” more’s the pity.

  Beyond the stacks of cloth sat boxes of souvenirs, Tshirts, Loch Ness monsters, tins of shortbread. Jumpers, shawls, blankets, socks. The sgian dubhs, good quality knives. But no mysterious bolts of cloth. If needs must, Mick told himself, he’d have a look at every ell of wool in the place … Wait. On a shelf behind two broken teapots and a headless doll lay several paper-wrapped parcels and a large volume he recognized as another sample book. Was this Calum’s catch-all corner?

  He set a step ladder by the shelf, climbed up, and opened the parcels. Two Paisley shawls, fringes twisted into knots. A portion of heavy tweed. A bolt of MacNab tartan wool, stamped Soulis Estates Ltd. All right!

  The parcel was gey heavy, and hard inside the give of the cloth. Mick hugged it to his chest and inched his way down the ladder. Standing at one end of the packing table, he unrolled the cloth.

  Tartan wool. And a coarse bit of wool it was, too, reeking of dye. Calum had glanced at a foot of it, maybe two, and set it by as a bad job. But Mick kept unrolling. Come on then, show yourself … The ragged end of the cloth came away, revealing a length of plain cotton. And wrapped in that was the Lindisfarne Gospels. The Book.

  Mick pumped his fist in the air, joy and triumph mingled. Then, gingerly, he turned a few vellum leaves. Vivid colors, decorated initial letters, fretwork, knotted interlace, birds and beasts—and the reason for it all, lines of meticulously formed letters, a translation by a less precise hand filling in the spaces. He’d expected to feel some sort of electric current transmitted to his fingertips. But the pages were just painted lambskin, cool and smooth. The current was in his own mind and in the sgian dubh, which chimed against his skin, feeling like a peal of bells sounded. Grinning, he reached into his jacket for his new mobile.

  “Michael Dewar,” said a man’s voice from the doorway.

  Mick spun round, his hand still inside his coat. Like water bouncing off a hot griddle his joy spattered and evaporated. He should’ve known. He bloody well should’ve known.

  Inspector Mountjoy’s thin smile had no humor in it, only satisfaction. Behind him stood a uniformed constable. In the doorway waited a red-haired man in a posh overcoat, whose smile showed every gleaming tooth. Robin hadn’t heard a joke this good in ages, had he? He hadn’t known where Calum put the parcel, not until Mick showed it him.

  The trio walked toward the table, steps echoing hollowly. The sgian dubh. No. He mustn’t let Robin know he had it on him. He moved his hand so that it pressed his mother’s cross into his chest. “God help me,” he whispered. “Lady help me.”

  Robin stopped dead, his eyes narrowing, the smile dashed from his face. He didn’t disappear, more’s the pity. But then, this time he had lackeys to give him strength.

  Mountjoy and the constable kept right on. “Let’s see both your hands, sir,” said the younger man.

  Swallowing a four-letter word that wasn’t “amen,” Mick raised his hands. “This here’s my property. You canna just come walking in here.”

  “No fear, Mr. Dewar,” said Mountjoy. “We have a warrant to confiscate any stolen art objects found on the premises, and to take you into custody for conspiring in their theft.”

  “Art objects?” But why should Robin think of a new bit of flannel, when the old worked so well?

  The constable’s clear blue eyes were apologetic, but his probing hands missed nothing. He pulled the cross from inside Mick’s jumper and laid it on his chest. He took the mobile. He plucked the sgian dubh
from Mick’s waistband. “He’s carrying a weapon, sir.”

  Mountjoy tucked the mobile into his own pocket and took the knife, slipping it in and out of its sheath curiously. His face grew even more dour. “Is that the book, Superintendent Prince?”

  Robin circled the table, his hands folded behind his back. “I’ll have it analyzed, of course. But it certainly fits the description of the book stolen from the British Library.”

  “Looks like the Book of Durrow or the Book of Kells,” said the constable. “One of those old decorated Bibles.”

  “Never mind what it is, Constable. Use that paper to make a parcel of it.” Mountjoy slapped the knife against his hand, sending echoes into the depths of the building. Again Mick heard what sounded like an animal scurrying. He shifted from foot to foot. Even if he could outrun the three of them, he couldn’t leave the relics behind.

  Mountjoy’s sharp black eyes looked Mick up and down and found him wanting. “So you thought you could cosh P. C. Armstrong here and blame a Scotland Yard officer? Stupid, lad. Dead stupid. Only a fool would credit that, and I assure you I’m no fool. You wasted your time handing that diskette in to Mackenzie. It’s easy enough to rewrite a computer file, isn’t it? Spreading rumors and lies about the Freedom of Faith Foundation—well, you’ll find yourself answering not only to a judge, but to God himself.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mick exclaimed, and was chuffed to see Robin jink like he’d been skelped. “Next you’ll be accusing me of murdering my own father!” And to the constable, “You’re Armstrong, are you? If I’d known you were lying there at Housesteads, as God is my witness I’d have helped you.”

  Armstrong looked up from his task, his eyes moving inquisitively from face to face.

  “Murdered your own father?” said Mountjoy. “Not quite. But you’re protecting the man who did do, the head of your theft and slander ring, Thomas London. He bought off that detective in Glastonbury, I expect. Gupta. Some sort of foreigner. But then, Glastonbury attracts the inferior elements.”

  “You’ll be banged up in prison, Mick,” Robin added. “But we can bargain about the terms. All you have to do is shop Thomas London.”

  “The younger American woman will likely get by with deportation. The older—well, if you’d like to testify against her, too…” Mountjoy kept on slapping the knife across his palm.

  The flat sound of leather against flesh, hinting of petty violence, would have been maddening had Mick not already been in a fine rage. He whispered Rose’s words, “Blessed St. Bridget,” to Robin’s smug face.

  Robin turned his back and paced off toward the door.

  “Here it is, Sir.” Armstrong had made a very neat parcel of the Book and the cloth, wrapping it in a length of paper and tying it up with twine.

  “Put it in my car,” said Robin over his shoulder. “I’ll drive Mick to the station myself. I’m sure I can reason with him.”

  Mick saw the scenario in the cold green eyes. The car turning down some dark alley. An “escape attempt.” His body turfed out like an empty paper bag. Even if he could hold the man off by faith or by force, Soulis or some other toady would be waiting.

  Armstrong picked up the bundle. With the knife, Mountjoy gestured toward the door. Robin turned the knob. Now! Mick lunged. He tugged at the parcel, almost pulling it from Armstrong’s hands. But Armstrong tugged it back again. It popped from Mick’s grasp and Armstrong crashed against the table.

  Damn! Mick’s momentum carried him toward Mountjoy. He lowered his shoulder and hit the man in the chest, sending him sprawling. The knife spun away across the floor. In one fluid movement Mick snatched it up. Turn back and have another go at the parcel? No, three against one, they’d have him, then. He kept on as he was going, sprinting toward the back of the room. Footsteps scrambled behind.

  Had Armstrong left the parcel on the table? Mick doubled back. The table was empty. The man was either sodding lucky or sodding clever.

  The loading dock doors were locked. By the time Mick pulled out the keys, they’d be on him. He ducked down another aisle, heading for the fire door that opened from the inside. The footsteps pounded close behind him. There! He pushed at the step ladder as he ran by and it crashed onto its side. At the end of the aisle he dared a quick glance back.

  Armstrong had tangled himself, parcel and all, in the ladder. Neither Mountjoy nor Robin could pass. They were swearing at him, vicious filthy words. Then Mick heard the ringing smash of the ladder falling against the shelving, and the footsteps coming on fast.

  Something was standing in front of the door, a great rat-like creature, all teeth and claws. “I dinna have time for this!” With his teeth Mick pulled the sheath from the knife. He could hear his parents’ voices, the hymn book shared between them, Christ Jesus it is he, Lord Sabaoth his name, from age to age the same, and he must win the battle…. He mouthed the words round the mildew and salt taste of the leather. His knife held like a lance before him, he ran straight through the beast. A reek of stale sweat and piss and dank dungeon depths filled his nostrils but his body met no resistance save that of the door.

  Mick catapulted into an icy wind that cleared the stink from his nose. He pushed the door to, seized his keys, and threw the dead bolt just as a thud made the door shudder beneath his shoulder.

  Frenzied blows rang against the door and shouts filtered through its metal panels. I must look a treat, Mick thought, playing at Rambo. He spat out the sheath, replaced the knife, and jammed both into his waistband. The shouts and blows stopped. They were coming round the other way.

  A crumpled crisp packet skidded across the deserted car park. So did a flurry of snowflakes. Mick took the steps in one leap and raced toward his borrowed car, his cousin Rennie’s Fiat, parked at the corner of the building. As he threw himself behind the wheel he saw a green Jaguar and something small and shabby parked in the visitor’s spaces at the front.

  The Fiat’s engine wouldn’t start. Here came Mountjoy out the front, followed by Armstrong’s peculiar hirple beneath the weight of the parcel, and Robin trotting behind in his own good time.

  Mick told himself to send Amy round to reset the alarms. And a word in Rennie’s ear about automotive maintenance wouldn’t go amiss … The engine roared. He threw the car into gear and screeched across the car park just ahead of Mountjoy’s lunge.

  The light at the street was against him. With a frantic look to both sides he turned anyway. A glance in the mirror. Here came the shabby wee car, and behind it the green Jaguar. Which of them had the parcel?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he didn’t have it. He’d led that smirking demon himself straight to it. All he could do now was protect the knife. If Robin got the knife, he’d have the Stone, too. Dad died for the Stone, he’d never known it was the Book actually in his hands.

  God help me, Mick thought, I put the boot in this time—I should’ve done something, anything different … Snowflakes dotted the windscreen. The sky was low and leaden. The headlamps of the cars glinted in the mirror and Mick winced. But the Jaguar was falling behind. Robin had the Book. Why bother himself to chase down the knife? He’d won this round, why not the next as well? God help us.

  There, a short one-way street led to the Queensferry Road. Mick went round the corner on two wheels, accelerated the wrong way up the street, turned again, and shot onto Queensferry well past the speed limit.

  The dreich day, the thickening snow, the lights of the other cars—it was a grand time to be making an escape. Within minutes Mick lost himself in the flow of traffic and started breathing again. Now he’d have to own up to his failure, to Thomas, to Maggie, to Rose-not that Rose could be more than a friend, the e-mail she’d meant to send her sister proved that. Unless Robin…

  All he could do the night was go where Thomas had told him to go. The flat was right out, and Mountjoy had likely taken the Fiat’s number plate—though Robin might not stoop to calling out the Lothian constabulary … Mick sped on, towards the A9 and Schiehallion,
the fairy hill that his father had remembered there, at the end.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Rose peered out into the gathering darkness. Below the highway Loch Tay was the same dull metallic gray as the overcast sky. A thick fog veiled the hills. Back home SMU’s red brick buildings glowed in the sunlight. Her friends were hanging out in the Starbucks or checking out the new videos at Blockbuster. They thought thirties-era Snider Plaza was old and quaint.

  Dallas seemed long ago and far away, not quite real. Real was the cold, dark trip from Glastonbury. Real was Sunday night with Professor and Mrs. Llewellyn in Durham, where the great cathedral on its hill was as much fortress as church.

  She could still hear Thomas’s voice, resonant beneath the heavy Norman columns that tied heaven to earth and brooked no nonsense about it. “The Book rested in Durham’s treasury until the Reformation, when it was looted and carried south. Unlike too many other relics, I was able to prevent it from being burned as an idolatrous object or melted down as treasure. I gave it into the hands of the Keeper of Records of the Tower of London. Some years later it went into the foundation collection of the British Museum.”

  Mick had called them at the Llewellyn’s house. He’d found the Book, yes! And no! he’d lost it again, ambushed by Robin, Mountjoy, and P. C. Armstrong. He was crushed. Well, Rose told herself firmly, he can still use a friend, can’t he?

  A sign read, “Fortingall 1.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder. “Rose, it’s not my business, I know, but what’s with you and Mick?”

  “I got an e-mail he intended for a girlfriend in Glasgow. I didn’t know he already had a girlfriend.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Robin, messing with your mind?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I should have asked Mick the night Bess died, but it all seemed so petty then. I guess tonight’s my chance to ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know.”