One Dark and Stormy Knight

by Hermione Moon

  But then I get a swell of panic and feel as if I want to open the door and run out and just keep on running. The way he looked at me… as if he knew me intimately… The wife I adored and who adored me…

  “Gwen!” Delia reaches out and stops my hand. I look down and realize I was about to pour chocolate chips into my cheese and bacon muffins.

  “Eek.” I put the bowl aside hastily. “I like chocolate, but that’s ridiculous.”

  “Why don’t you go for a walk?” she asks helpfully, trying not to look at Allison and Joss, who are laughing behind us. “Clear your mind? It’s quiet at the moment. Plenty of time to get ready for lunch.”

  “Yes, all right.” I give them a wry look. “And you two can stop sniggering.”

  “We’re just unused to you being so distracted,” Joss, the young cheeky one, says. “Don’t tell me… you have a man on your mind.”

  My face fills with heat, and they all grin with delight. “Who’s the lucky guy?” Allison asks.

  “He’s not… I mean… No one.” I blush even more. “Okay, I’m outta here.”

  Leaving their laughter behind, I grab my coat, call Merlin, and head out of the back door so I don’t have to walk past the knight.

  It’s a cool, fresh spring day. Tulips, hyacinths, and peonies fill the gardens of the houses I pass. Normally I love this time of year, but I don’t feel as if I can appreciate its beauty at the moment.

  I walk around the building and cross the car park toward the Abbey. There’s an entrance fee to the grounds, but I have a year pass because I go in so often. Oscar, the guy on the gate, lets me through with a smile. I walk through the Lady Chapel and out the other end. This was once the nave of the main church, but it’s now open to the air, the floor covered with grass. The blue sky reminds me of Arthur’s eyes.

  I’m going to have to talk to him tonight. I should have asked him more questions last night, but I’m not going to be harsh on myself for panicking and needing to get away. Today, even though I feel anxious about the outcome, my head is clear. Beatrix has put my mind at rest, and I don’t feel as frightened of him. I have lots of questions to ask. And she’s right, if he’s a good person, if he truly is the knight the legends speak of, he will understand and be patient with me.

  Free the ruby, and I’m convinced you’ll be able to free the man. Is Beatrix right? Is it truly possible to release Arthur from the suit? What will happen then—will he be able to leave the café and go out into the world like a normal person? And if he is able, will he want to leave Glastonbury?

  The suit of armour could stay in the café where it always has. Nothing would change.

  So why do I feel such a sharp sense of loss at the thought of Arthur leaving?

  I stop walking. Without meaning to, my feet have led me up the nave to the site of King Arthur’s tomb. It’s a rectangular grave, facing east-west the way all graves do in Christian churchyards. The plaque reads:

  “Site of King Arthur’s Tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On 19th April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the Dissolution of the Abbey in 1539.”

  It’s said that medieval monks invented the discovery of the bodies to encourage more visitors to the abbey after it was burned down in 1184. That would certainly make sense, especially as the legendary Arthur was growing in popularity at that time, due to two writers, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Chrétien de Troyes. Between them, they turned the Romano-British leader into a romantic medieval-style king, inventing the legends of Excalibur, Merlin, the Knights of the Round Table, and the Holy Grail. No doubt followers of the stories would have travelled from far and wide to see the graves of the famous king and queen.

  The evidence for the ‘real’ Arthur is shady, buried beneath layers of myth and legend, in the aptly named Dark Ages. If he did exist, he was almost certainly a warrior who fought against the invading Anglo-Saxons in the late fifth to early sixth centuries. The man in the suit of armour told me himself, “I was never a king. I was a warrior. It was a long time ago, and things get twisted over the centuries.”

  But what if he did exist, and if he is buried here? With his queen?

  A cold shiver like an icy finger trails down my spine. I do believe in reincarnation, and like many people, I’ve often experienced déjà vu, and felt as if I’ve been to places and done things before. But could it really be possible that I was once married to the legendary Arthur of Britain?

  I close my eyes and feel the spring breeze blowing across my face. I think about my mother, and how we used to sit curled up on the sofa, reading The Tales of King Arthur. At that point, I knew nothing about the real Arthur, only the legend of him as king with his knights and Merlin and the sword in the stone. I remember looking with Mum at the drawing of Arthur and Guinevere’s wedding. They were in the throne room in Camelot, and she was dressed in a glittering golden gown, with a gold crown on her red hair. Arthur was dressed in a richly embroidered blue tunic and wore a crown, and he stared lovingly into her eyes.

  Of course, there are also all the stories about her falling in love with Lancelot, tales I disliked immensely, as I hated the thought of her being unfaithful. I wanted her to be in love with Arthur, and I wanted the two of them to be happy. I’ve never really thought about the intensity with which I wished this, but if I were her, it would all make sense…

  I open my eyes and turn away from the grave. I can’t let myself get caught up in fanciful dreams. That’s not reality. Real life is Liza, strangled with fishing line, and the murderer who’s still on the loose. Not knights in shining armour, and gold crowns…

  I exit the grounds in a dream, then blink, startled, as someone calls, “Gwen!” Turning, I gasp as I see who it is.

  “Luke,” I whisper.

  He walks up to me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched. His face is pale, his hair unruly.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Luke…” Without thinking, I move close and put my arms around him.

  He holds me tightly for a long time. Then he finally releases me. There are tears on both our cheeks when we part.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I say softly.

  “Thank you.” He wipes his face, then runs his hand through his hair. “Imogen said you were the last person to talk to Liza.”

  I nod. “She came into the café before she went to the library. She bought a cake to celebrate getting the promotion at the field unit.”

  “She told you, then.” He gives a short, humourless laugh.

  I resist the urge to say, Of course she did. “She was very excited about it,” I say instead. “It’s such a terrible shame.”

  He looks away, over at the Abbey. He’s a handsome man, but his features look ravaged with grief. He won’t be the same after this. “How could anyone do that?” His voice is hoarse. “She was so beautiful, so full of life… I loved her so much…”

  Even after all this time, I feel a little twist inside me at his words. I loved him once, and it still hurts to think about him loving someone else. But I feel no pleasure at the thought that he’s lost Liza. Nobody deserves to lose their partner in such a way.

  Briefly, I think of Guinevere being at Arthur’s side when he died, and the knight’s words, I remember lying in her arms, looking up at her. I push the thought away.

  “I saw her,” Luke says. “I had to identify the body.”

  I frown in sympathy. “Oh, how awful.”

  He swallows hard. “It was so odd. It was as if it wasn’t her. Do you think she’s in heaven now?”

  A couple of thoughts whip through my mind—the rather wicked thought that she wasn’t a very nice person, so she might not have made it that far, as well as the memory of seeing her ghost, which means she’s almost certainly bound to this plane. But I don’t say either of those. Instead, I say, “I’m sure
she is, Luke.”

  He rubs his nose. “Her pendant was missing,” he says distractedly.

  “What do you mean? What pendant?”

  “The one she always wore. It was a Tudor rose. Her mother gave it to her. She never took it off. I don’t know where it went. Imogen thinks the murderer might have removed it.”

  My gaze slides across to the library building as something flickers in my mind. Christian, who’s working on a Tudor exhibition, and clearly has a love of the period. Surely not…

  “I’d better go,” Luke says. “I’m going to the funeral home, to make arrangements.”

  “I wish I could say something to make it better,” I tell him.

  He meets my eyes. “Tell me who did it,” he says. “That’s the only thing that would make me feel better at the moment.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He sighs and studies his shoes. “I know. I’ve just got to wait and see whether the police can work it out.” He gives me a brief smile. “See you later.”

  “See you. Take care of yourself.”

  He doesn’t reply to that, just walks away, his shoulders hunched against the breeze. My eyes fill with tears, but there’s nothing I can say to ease his pain, so I remain silent.

  I turn and look across at the café. The knight by the door is clearly visible.

  Suddenly, more than anything, I wish it was late and the café was closed, and I could talk to him.

  I cross the car park and go into the café, pause in front of him, and look up at the visor.

  His blue eyes look into mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I stare into them for a long time. Then I turn and walk across to the kitchen, and carry on making the cheese and bacon muffins.

  Chapter Nine

  Imogen calls in mid-afternoon to pick up a latte.

  “How’s the investigation going?” I ask.

  She blows out a breath and leans on the counter. “I’m supposed to say we’re making significant progress.”

  “Are you?”

  “Nope. Not really.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” Cooper asks.

  “I can’t really go into specifics,” she apologizes. She glances at me, and I know she’s thinking about Christian. Has she had to interrogate him any further? I think about what Luke told me about the Tudor Rose pendant and shift awkwardly.

  “By the way,” she asks Cooper, “I’m sorry to have to ask, but where were you on the evening of the seventeenth?”

  “Me?” Cooper stares at her. “Am I a suspect, then?”

  “It’s important to rule everyone out.”

  “Okay…” His gaze slides to me, then back to her. “I went fishing with my dad. Gwen saw me go.”

  Imogen looks at me, and I nod. “Just before five o’clock,” I tell her.

  “You went straight to him at the field unit?” she asks.

  “I met him out by the car.” His brow creases. “I hope you don’t think I did it. I mean, I didn’t like Liza that much, she wasn’t very nice to Gwen, but I didn’t hate her. I’d never kill anyone.”

  Imogen’s expression softens. “I know. It’s important that I have the full picture, that’s all. That I know who was where. You didn’t see anyone coming in or out of the building at that time?”

  “Patience and Bernard came out together.” Patience is the head librarian, and Bernard works with her. “And Christian,” he adds. “He came running out to his car. He waved and said he’d left something in there.”

  Christian told us he was in his office from five until six p.m. He didn’t mention leaving at all. I look at Imogen. She doesn’t look at me.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  “Well, Dad came out, obviously. I don’t remember anyone else.”

  “I’ve just remembered something,” I announce. “Before Delia left that evening, I was looking out of the window, and I saw someone standing in front of the Lady Chapel. But it was dark and raining, and I couldn’t tell who it was. When I looked again, they’d vanished. Sorry, I’d forgotten.”

  “Do you know if it was a man or a woman?” Imogen asks.

  “No, sorry. I thought it was strange because it was raining and they were just standing there.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “Okay. Well, thanks everyone. I’d better get a move on.”

  I walk out with her, trying not to look up at the knight as we pass. Outside, she bends to stroke Merlin, who wags his tail and licks her hand.

  “Where are you off to now?” I ask her.

  She straightens and sips her latte. “I need to speak to Christian.”

  “Oh.” I grin. “Don’t forget to put on a bit of lip gloss.”

  “It’s not a social call,” she says.

  My smile fades. “You’re questioning him?”

  “We didn’t finish our conversation the other night.”

  “You can’t truly think he’s involved with Liza’s death?”

  She shrugs. “Someone killed her. And it was almost certainly someone who knew her. Christian has access to fishing line.”

  “So does half of Glastonbury.”

  “He’s also organizing an exhibition on the Tudors, and Liza’s Tudor rose pendant was taken.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I say softly.

  She hesitates. “Will you come with me?”

  “Of course, if you want me to. Wouldn’t you rather have one of your officers?”

  “I don’t want to seem as if I’m coming on too heavy.” She meets my eyes. “I can’t not question him because I think he’s sexy.”

  My lips curve up. “I knew you liked him.”

  “Of course I like him. But I can’t, Gwen, not until this is sorted out.”

  “I understand. Hold on, I’ll just tell Delia where I’m going.” I nip into the café. When I come out, Imogen’s putting on some lip gloss.

  “Don’t say a word,” she growls.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I hide a smile as we begin walking down the street.

  Within a couple of minutes, we’re entering the library. We walk through to the reading room, then cross it to enter the museum offices.

  Christian is in his office, sitting talking to Francis Sullivan, the Museum’s Chief Executive. Francis looks exactly how you’d think the head of a museum would look. In his late fifties, he wears a tweed jacket and a shirt with a bow tie, and he speaks with a very posh English accent.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Chief Inspector,” he says to Imogen as she walks in, and, “Hello, Gwen,” to me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, it’s Mr. Wheeler I’ve come to see,” Imogen says.

  “Of course,” Francis replies. He glances at her latte. “In the future, I’d be grateful if you didn’t bring beverages into the library.”

  “Oh.” She stares at the cup in her hand. “Sorry.”

  “Sets a bad example for customers, you know?”

  “Of course. I apologize.”

  He heads out. Christian gives us an amused look. “He’s a stickler for the rules,” he says. “He made such a fuss last week at the Brue fishing competition when he discovered the winner had used an illegal bait.”

  “Francis goes fishing?” Imogen says.

  Christian nods. “Most of us in the offices do. It’s a good way to relax. I haven’t been for months, though. I’m terrible at it. I never catch anything.”

  I glance at Imogen, hoping she sees that as a good sign. Her lips are pursed thoughtfully. She wants to believe he’s innocent, but I know she’s wrangling with herself.

  “Do you believe in astrology?” I ask him.

  He laughs. “That I share the same fate as a twelfth of the world’s population? I don’t think so.”

  I glance at her again. That has to be a good sign, right?

  “Hmm,” Imogen says. She’s nervous again. She’s sucked off most of her lip gloss, and she’s clutching her coffee cup so tightly the card
board is bending beneath her fingers. I hover awkwardly, wanting to give her moral support.

  I return my gaze to Christian, wondering whether he’s annoyed that she’s clearly treating him like a suspect, but he’s smiling gently. “What would you like to ask me?” he says.

  “I’d just like to clarify some details about the night of the seventeenth,” she replies.

  “Okay.” He looks over his glasses at her.

  She clears her throat. “You told me you were here from five until six o’clock.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t mention that you left the office and went to your car.”

  “That was before five o’clock,” he says smoothly. “I didn’t think it mattered, as I came straight back.”

  “A witness saw you running to the car.”

  “That was Cooper,” he says.

  “Yes. You told him you left something in there.”

  “My laptop. I was due to have a conference call at five. I’d been working on photographs for the new exhibition all afternoon, and I didn’t realize I didn’t have my laptop. I was just about to set it up for the call and I realized I’d left it in the car. It was quite an important meeting with the British Museum, and I didn’t want to be late, hence the running.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “I swear I’m telling the truth,” he says, giving her a small smile. “When I came back, I was soaking wet and late. I bumped into the table by the door, and I knocked over the vase on it. Luckily it was empty and plastic, so it just fell off and rolled down between the bookstacks. I didn’t have time to pick it up, and then I forgot about it. You probably saw it when you came in,” he says to me.

  Imogen looks at me. I frown. “I don’t remember seeing it.” I give him an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry.”

  He and Imogen study each other for a long while. I hold my breath, sensing a poignant moment.

  “The flowers were for my sister,” he says eventually.