Time Enough to Die

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  “You,” said Gareth, looming up from the shadows. “You’re the berk who stabbed Caesar.”

  Ashley added, “I saw him at the traveler’s camp.”

  “He’s never named Bob.” Watkins, too, appeared in the circle of torchlight. “This here’s Clive Adcox. Where’d you come from, lad?”

  “He’s been at the camp for months,” said Nick. “I reckoned he was working with Reynolds.”

  “He and Linda were both in Howard’s class,” Matilda said. “I didn’t recognize you with the beard, Clive. You’ve been Sweeney’s muscle all along, haven’t you? He sent you to London to keep an eye on me, maybe even to give me a scare. Not that that was necessary to his plot, he just had to see himself in complete control. . . . Nick, you’d better let go of his collar, he’s turning blue.”

  Reluctantly, Nick let go. Clive looked from face to face. Only Emma’s showed any affection. “He told me to watch you,” he wheezed. “I wasn’t after giving you a push. The crowd pushed me. It was an accident.”

  “Killing me would hardly serve Sweeney’s purpose,” Matilda admitted.

  “That’s as may be,” said Watkins, taking firm hold of Clive’s arm. “But what about trying to force Dr. Gray off the Manchester road?”

  “What?” asked Clive.

  Nick stepped back a pace. “That,” he said with a grimace, “was me.”

  Every face turned toward him. “You tried to kill Matilda?” Gareth demanded.

  “Not a bit of it. I was after Reynolds, wasn’t I? He drives a red car. I saw him leave that afternoon, and I was waiting for him in a lay-by. In the rain I thought it was him.”

  “Your judgment being a bit impaired at the time?” Matilda asked.

  “I’d had a couple of beers and a puff or two, yeh.” He hung his head. “I never meant to kill him, just scare him. I never meant to scare you. I’m sorry.”

  She sighed. Nick had turned out to be not James Bond but Charlie Brown. “Apology accepted.”

  “You, too, come with me,” said Watkins. “We’ll need a statement. And then there’s a little matter of Adrian Reynolds’ corpse.”

  “Corpse?” Ashley asked.

  “He was killed in an accident this morning,” said Gareth.

  “Oh. Well. Sweeney would’ve had a hard time framing him for killing me, then, wouldn’t he? Not that that would’ve helped me any.” Ashley shuddered. Bryan tightened his grip.

  Nick pulled his eyes away from them and gazed around the ledge. “I’ll call in tomorrow, Constable. I promise.”

  “He’s learned his lesson,” affirmed Gareth.

  Nick nodded vehemently.

  Shaking his head, Watkins steadied his grip on Clive’s shoulder. “You’ll be helping the police with their inquiries, won’t you, lad? Hanging about with a murderer. Just think what your mum will say.”

  Clive’s reply was truculent and explicit.

  “Now, now,” Watkins remonstrated, “there’s ladies present.”

  Emma glanced at Gareth, more confused than resentful, and trotted away behind the two men. Matilda shook her head sadly—how had the mighty May Queen and her less-than-chivalrous knight fallen. Maybe if they’d been forced into a shotgun marriage. . . . No, she thought.

  Gareth patted his breast pocket. “Ashley, your mobile was lying amongst the weeds, beside the driver’s side door of Sweeney’s car. It works much better if it’s switched on.”

  “But I didn’t. . . . Oh,” Ashley said. “He turned it off, didn’t he? He probably picked it up right after I got into the car, as soon as I looked the other way.”

  “I’m sure,” said Matilda, groaning again.

  Gareth went on, “We’ll need a statement from you, too, Ashley. Thanks to you we caught Sweeney in the act. And you don’t mean to say he actually told you his plans?”

  “Yeah, I kept talking to him and he pretty much told me everything.” The girl’s smile was more wry than smug.

  “Oh good, a confession as well!” Gareth beamed down at her.

  “Nice bit of play-acting,” Nick told Matilda.

  She couldn’t mistake the bitterness in his voice. “All rites were play-acting at one time. Here, let me help you set the altar up again. You know where everything goes.”

  She started bustling about. Slowly Nick responded, arranging the trinkets—excuse me, Matilda chided herself, the ritual items—on the altar. What had St. Peter’s altar in a Roman cellar looked like? she wondered. The young peoples’ half-baked religious impulses might in time lead them to an epiphany.

  She laid her hand on the gold crescent she wore. “You’ll want your necklace back. Thank you for letting me borrow it.”

  “Keep it,” Nick told her. “I had it off a bloke at Stonehenge, but it’s never had any magic in it.”

  “Until now?” Matilda asked. She lifted the torch down from the cliff wall and handed it to Nick. “Here. It’s time you lit the fire.”

  “Me?”

  “All these people came out here for the rites of spring, not for a bust. You’re the leader of this group, not Sweeney. He was—well, I guess the word ‘sacrilegious’ isn’t too strong.”

  Nick’s stiff face cracked into a smile. “All right, then.” He thrust the torch into the pile of brush. Fire leaped upward. A sigh of pleasure and relief passed through the audience. The bodhran sounded again, hesitantly at first, then with more assurance.

  Matilda turned. Gareth was standing with his hands in his pockets. His mouth had softened. He’d stepped back from the edge of his own emotion. “We’d better be returning Clapper’s sheets,” he said.

  “Is that where you got them?” asked Ashley.

  “Mr. Clapper was very helpful,” Matilda told her. “With the Festival in full swing, he was able to turn up phosphorescent paint for the horse, the May Queen’s paper crown for me, and shiny confetti at a moment’s notice.”

  “He won’t be half narked we’ve nicked his nephew,” Gareth said.

  “I hope someone’s going to explain this to me,” said Bryan.

  Matilda smiled. “We’ll get around to that real soon now.”

  Through the leaping flames she saw first the white robes of the living celebrants, then, faintly, like tracings on glass, she saw the cloaks of celebrants long gone. Branwen, flowers twined in her red hair, walked as regally as the queen her grandmother to the place of sacrifice. She knelt, smiling, beside the cauldron embossed with images of the gods. The blow fell, the garrote tightened, and the knife sliced, twice, once for the hand, the heavy hand of the Roman conquest, and once for the Celtic faith. Around the throat of each silent watcher a gold torc, symbol of devotion, gleamed rosily in the firelight.

  The spring gurgled at Matilda’s elbow. The fire burned down. A cold breeze scattered sparks across the stone. The bodhran’s heartbeat and the voice of the bagpipes filled the night. Two by two, the celebrants lined up and leaped the embers, robes flying back like the wings of birds.

  Nick led Ashley across the fire. Then Ashley gave her hand to Bryan and together they jumped. Were the girl’s nightmares of uncertainty and loneliness over now? Matilda told herself. Maybe she’d learned tonight how to choose strength and trust and faith. And how to choose a boyfriend. A relationship begun in friendship could be a strong one.

  Down the ledge trundled a chariot. In it rode Branwen’s body, propped against the cauldron. Mistletoe and oak leaves, alder and rowan, draped the wheels. Torches blazed among the trees. Gold shone. The procession wound down from Durslow to Shadow Moss, and there the radiance of fire and gold and smile alike were quenched in dark water. . . .

  “Matilda?”

  She blinked. Gareth, her friend, his eyes bright with his own choices, extended his hand. The fire was warm as his fingertips.

  Together they, too, leaped the gentle flames.

  * * * * *

  “And what is so rare as a day in May?” Matilda misquoted.

  “There’s little can match it,” agreed Gareth. The sun shone, birds caro
led, green growing things shrugged away their blankets of earth, and trees unfurled their leaves to a breathtakingly blue sky. He drove slowly, his head turning from side to side as one vista after another opened beside the road. In the back seat Ashley and Bryan pointed out the sights, here a thatched roof, there a stone dovecote.

  They’d called in at the Greater Manchester station, made their statements, and identified the gold torc found in Celia Dunning’s safe. The transcript of her lengthy statement was already on file. The woman had denied everything until, threatened with implication in the murder of Linda Burkett, she’d turned witness for the prosecution as smoothly as an ice-skater pirouetting down the rink.

  “You can put Dunning out of business,” Matilda said, “but she wasn’t involved in Linda’s murder.”

  “If she’d acted honestly Linda would never have tried a bit of amateur detecting,” returned Gareth. “If Linda had told the police to begin with, instead snooping about looking out for a reward, she’d be alive today.”

  “There were several different threads tangled together, and Linda was only one of them.”

  Gareth glanced at her, brows cocked. The aspects of the case he really wanted to discuss would have to wait for privacy.

  “A shame,” said Ashley, “that Linda didn’t listen more closely to Nick’s anti-materialism routine.”

  “He might not have developed that routine until after she died,” Matilda pointed out. “It’s a defense mechanism, to not want what you can’t have.”

  “I thought that was an old Sinead O’Connor song,” said Bryan.

  Ashley laughed. It was an open laugh, with no edge of self-doubt and recrimination. She’d grown up at last, it seemed. “And the rest of the torcs are in Shadow Moss?”

  “I believe so,” Matilda replied. “The peat-cutters may uncover them eventually. Unless I can convince the Home Office to excavate. But I have no proof, no ground truth. And frankly I’d just as soon the torcs stayed there. If word gets out that gold is hidden in Shadow Moss there’ll be a looters’ convention. We have the Snettisham horde to study. That’s enough.”

  “Render unto the gods what is theirs,” murmured Gareth.

  “I’ve often wondered where Boudicca was buried,” Matilda went on. “Maybe I could sell the Home Office on an expedition to find her grave.”

  Gareth pulled a face. “Ring me when it’s over.”

  Matilda laughed.

  “It must be awesome,” said Ashley, “to have ESP.”

  “It has its benefits,” Matilda replied. “It has its drawbacks.”

  Sweeney’s statement had looked like the manuscript of a novel. He had, to no one’s surprise, blamed Celia Dunning, Adrian Reynolds, and Linda Burkett for creating the situation. He’d been merely an unwilling participant, he’d insisted at first. And yet, not wanting anyone think him no more than a dupe, he’d gone on to boast about his cleverness in hiring Matilda to find the torcs for him, in selling a dummy to Scotland Yard’s finest, in spiriting away Reynolds’s statuary from beneath the man’s nose. “If Reynolds had managed to stay on his horse you’d never have been able to queer my pitch,” Sweeney had concluded. “I’d have had him fitted up good and proper.”

  Gareth disagreed. Evil will out, if rarely soon enough.

  “Reynolds,” said Matilda, “like Nick, managed to throw a spanner or two in the works. If he hadn’t been so intent on inflating his own importance in the antiquities trade Linda might never have fastened on him.”

  “Reynolds played into Sweeney’s hands,” said Gareth. “He was intended to take the rap for Linda’s death and the thefts as well.”

  “But Reynolds suspected Sweeney was behind the theft of the statuary,” Matilda said. “He may even have known Sweeney was working with Dunning. He couldn’t go to the police, though, when his own activities were hardly open and aboveboard.”

  “Poor Mr. Reynolds,” said Ashley.

  Bryan nodded. “What goes around comes around.”

  “Sweeney kept giving Reynolds hints about the artifacts,” Gareth pointed out.

  “All the more rope for Reynolds to hang himself with.”

  “All the more jollies for Sweeney. He had us on a proper string, didn’t he? And the nutters out at Durslow on a string as well. He was tossing off. . . .” Gareth stopped abruptly and glanced an amused apology at Matilda.

  She looked into the back seat. The kids were joking about a herd of Holsteins and their calves. They probably hadn’t heard the expression, appropriate as it was to accuse Sweeney of masturbation. “Della and Emma were innocent bystanders,” she said. “Emma kept returning to the area to see Clive. She didn’t know what he was up to, she’d never have talked so freely to you if she had. There’s a tatty little love story for you.”

  “Almost as tatty as Nick and Della’s?”

  “I imagine Della got as good as she gave. The attentions of a younger man can do wonders for a woman’s self-confidence. . . .” This time it was Matilda who stopped abruptly.

  Gareth kept his eyes forward, but didn’t quite manage to conceal his grin. Was that the way of it? he wondered. And answered, no, Matilda would never use him or any other man to shore up her self-confidence.

  “I hope Nick will go back to his father, now that this is over,” she said.

  “He’d do well to let the judges and juries do their own work in the future,” added Gareth.

  “Poor Nick,” said Ashley. “He’s got real problems, doesn’t he?”

  “Nick’s weird, if you ask me,” Bryan said.

  “Yes, well, that too. But we all have our weirdnesses.”

  “You ought to see my dad, he goes out walking in shorts and black socks and sandals. Not a clue.”

  Ashley laughed. “My mom keeps all her sorority stuff in a corner of her bedroom, like a shrine. She was homecoming queen when she was a senior.”

  “Yeah,” said Bryan with a sigh, “kind of hard to realize they were having lives before we came along.”

  Matilda and Gareth exchanged a grin. “All our expertise,” she said quietly as Ashley and Bryan chattered on, “and it was a twenty-year-old girl who made the breakthrough.”

  “It’s funny, if one looks at it sidewise.” What Gareth looked at sidewise was Matilda’s profile, the slightly arched nose, the strong chin, like an ancient sculpture worn to its minimum but still sound.

  He slowed at the outskirts of Corcester. The traffic going into the village was heavier than it had been yesterday. A lovely May Saturday, the festival, rumors of devil-worship and murder. . . . Clapper was no doubt finding his full cash drawer compensation for having Clive, the black sheep, in the family.

  In the hotel car park Gareth claimed a space reserved for guests of the establishment. “Look!” said Ashley. “They’re going to dance around the Maypole!”

  Everyone tumbled out of the car, Ashley and Bryan running ahead to join the throng of onlookers, Matilda and Gareth lingering in the rear. A band plunged into Holst’s “English Folk Song Suite,” the brass instruments gleaming bravely in the sun. A group of children dressed in antique costumes began to bob and sway round the Maypole, lacing together the long streamers they held. Off to one side this year’s May Queen and her escort sat on their thrones, nodding and smiling. The paper crown, Gareth saw, had survived its adventure.

  Matilda was looking across at the green mound of the Roman fort. Several costumed students struck poses along the battlements. Was she imagining or seeing spectral figures in armor still standing guard?

  “What happened to Marcus and Claudia?” Gareth asked.

  “Ironically enough, Marcus Cornelius Felix is mentioned in Sweeney’s book, as a legion commander stationed at Eboracum—York. Perhaps he requested a transfer from Cornovium.”

  “He can’t have had good memories of the place.”

  “No. I assume Claudia went to York with him. She’s not mentioned in the records specifically, but one of the letters is from a woman, writing relatives in Rome about the trials
of living in Britain among barbarians.”

  “Some of us are still barbarians,” said Gareth. “Keeps me in work, I suppose.”

  The multi-colored threads of the streamers wove themselves about the spindle of the Maypole. The crowd clapped. All the musicians managed to finish the song simultaneously. A delectable odor of meat pies and fresh bread wafted through the late afternoon air.

  “Fancy an early supper?” Gareth asked. “Pub grub at the hotel?”

  “Let me tidy up first. I’ll meet you in an hour in the bar.” Even after Matilda turned and strolled toward the hotel her parting glance lingered on his face, warm as the sun on his back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matilda walked in the door of the bar to see Gareth already seated at the corner table, half a glass of ale in front of him. He was watching the mingled students, locals, and day trippers who filled the rest of the room, his posture one of alert repose. Everyone else shot the occasional wary glance at him, as though, now that his true profession was revealed, he’d leap up and start writing parking tickets. The speakers were emitting a particularly sappy version of “People.”

  “A single malt?” Gareth asked when Matilda sat down beside him. “A ploughman’s?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Watkins leaned on the bar surrounded by an eager audience, no doubt relating his exploits in last night’s capture. Clapper drew beer, served drinks, and shouted food orders through the kitchen door, his face as pink and damp as a rosebud. He took Gareth’s directive with a brisk nod.

  Gareth returned with Matilda’s whisky. “There you are. The food will be along presently.” He sat down and looked at her.

  She was wearing her favorite pink silk shirt, knowing full well that its color flattered her complexion. Its smooth fabric caressed her skin. Gareth’s scrutiny sent a slow flush up her cheeks. With a rueful smile she sipped at her whisky. “This was my first case for Scotland Yard. I sure covered myself with glory, didn’t I?”

  “You told me early on that you could be fooled by a confident manner. You told me Sweeney’s manner was covering up something. I know you feel stupid for not catching him out sooner, but . . .”