by Rhys Bowen
“Could we have the staff assembled so that we could question them about Mr. Wunderlich’s whereabouts after lunch that day?”
“The staff don’t sleep on the property,” Mrs. Roberts said. “The first of them will be coming on duty at eight. I’ll send word to the gatekeeper that they’re to report in here first.”
“So do we have any idea at what time Mr. Wunderlich was last seen?” Watkins asked. “Did he have appointments that afternoon?”
“He was supposed to be meeting with me at four,” Betsy said. “But he didn’t turn up. I waited in his office but he never came.”
“Did any of you have contact with him after lunch?” Watkins asked, looking around the room. His gaze fell on Emmy, who had been sitting silent and withdrawn.
“Me? I wasn’t here,” Emmy said. “I’m not attached to this place. I’m a grad student, doing research work, and I brought Betsy here because I’d heard about Randy Wunderlich and the advanced methods he had developed for testing psychic ability.”
“And I wasn’t here,” Michael said. “I went into town after lunch to run some errands for my mother.”
“I saw Mr. Wunderlich after lunch,” Betsy said. “I was asked to take him down a cup of coffee—around two-thirty, that would have been. I took it down and he was on the phone and he said, ‘Thank you. Leave it there.’”
“You took his coffee?”
Betsy nodded. “And the empty coffee cup was still there on his desk when I went into his office at four. I was planning to take it away and wash it up, but I forgot.”
“Rhiannon might know something,” Lady Annabel said. “We should have her here.”
“Rhiannon?” Watkins asked.
“Our resident Druid priestess,” Lady Annabel said. “She runs our meditation center and directs our Celtic spirituality classes. She might well have seen Randy that afternoon—his office is in the same building.”
“And where can we find her now?”
“She lives in one of the cottages, right behind the meditation center,” Annabel said. “I can send Michael to find her for you.”
“No, I think we’ll go down that way ourselves and take a look,” Watkins said. “If one of you would be kind enough to direct us.”
“Michael will take you down, won’t you, dear?”
“If you say so.” Michael got to his feet. “This way, please.”
Watkins followed him out through the etched-glass front doors. Glynis looked back at Evan and nodded that he should come too.
“A resident Druid priestess,” Glynis muttered to Evan. “This place is too much, isn’t it? Do you think they really believe in all this stuff?”
“Wait until you meet the priestess,” Evan said. “She takes herself very seriously.”
“So I might not have been so far off with my suggestion of black magic down in the cave?” Glynis said as they descended the flight of steps.
Evan remembered the bone-chilling dread of that cave. Now, with the early morning sun sending steam rising from the grass, it seemed laughable that it was caused by anything more than inadequate clothes and an empty stomach.
They were halfway down the steps when they saw a figure walking up to meet them. It was wearing a white, hooded, floor-length cloak.
“Ah, Rhiannon,” Michael called. “I was sent to find you.”
“And I was coming to you.” Rhiannon threw back her hood to reveal the striking gray hair. “They’ve found Randy, haven’t they? I was awakened while it was still dark. I felt a tremendous disturbance in the cosmic forces.”
Michael nodded. “Yes. They’ve found him. Dead, I’m afraid. Drowned.”
“I knew it.” Rhiannon said. “I sensed it all along. Not that one would have ever picked up vibrations from him, but the universe told me.”
“Why wouldn’t you feel vibrations from him?” Glynis asked, moving up beside Watkins. “Were you not on the same wavelength?”
Rhiannon’s penetrating stare held Glynis until the young woman blushed and laughed awkwardly.
“What we do here is not to be taken lightly,” Rhiannon said. “Randy Wunderlich took it lightly and see what fate awaited him. The universe will not be mocked.”
“So—uh—do you remember when you last saw Mr. Wunderlich?” Watkins asked. “So far, the last time any person had contact with him was around two-thirty in the afternoon that day.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Inspector. I was out and about all afternoon.”
“It’s not inspector, it’s sergeant,” Watkins said.
“Ah. Not inspector yet. I’m sorry. A little premature.” Rhiannon’s fixed her intense gaze on Watkins. “I try to shut Randy Wunderlich from my mind. I find his presence very disturbing, so I wouldn’t have noticed him even if he were in the next room.” She gave a curt little nod. “Good day to you. I expect I’m required at the great house.”
She continued on up the steps.
“What a strange woman,” Glynis muttered.
Watkins glanced back over his shoulder. “How did she know I was going to be promoted?”
“Rhiannon is a law unto herself,” Michael said, watching her go up the steps, the white cape flying out behind her. “She’d like people to think she is in constant contact with the forces of the universe—whatever that means. You should go to her ceremonies some time. P-pretty impressive stuff. She knows how to put on a good show—I’ll say that for her.”
“I gather you don’t go along with all the things they do here?” Evan asked the young man.
Michael laughed. “If you want my honest opinion, it’s a load of cod’s wallop. But if enough misguided people are willing to pay to have their auras put back into shape and find out that they were Cleopatra once, who am I to rock the boat?”
“Yet you choose to work here. The money must be good,” Evan said.
Michael looked surprised. “Didn’t anyone tell you that I’m Annabel’s son? Rightful heir to the Bland-Tyghes, come home to claim my inheritance?”
“No, I’d no idea,” Evan stammered. “You don’t exactly look like …”
“The lord of the manor? No, I’m not exactly treated like it either, am I? And believe me, being here is not my idea. I should be back at university, finishing my degree, but someone had to keep an eye on my mother.”
“Why was that?” Evan asked.
“I didn’t trust Randy Wunderlich, if you really want to know. He had to have had some motive for marrying her, other than her charm and good looks. I rather suspect it was to get his hands on her property.”
“In which case, his death should come as a relief to you, I’d imagine.”
Michael gave an uneasy grin. “Put that way, I suppose you’re right, Constable.”
Chapter 13
Excerpt from The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon
Druid Holy Places
The Druids did not create the great stone circles, the monoliths, the henges, but it is very possible that they incorporated native religious practices into their rituals and used these holy places for worship and divination. It is possible that they used them as calendars, which is what their builders had designed them to be. The accurate telling of the solstices was of paramount importance to the old Druids as their major festivals were held on solstice dates. Solstices were dates of very special significance when the passage between this world and the other was more accessible. We know, for example, that Druid-era window-tombs allowed shafts of light to fall onto the body only on the morning of the winter solstice.
Over centuries of worship holy places become imbued with power and awe. We sense the power in these holy places today and incorporate them into our ceremonies.
But our true holy places today are not amid standing stones or on mountain crags. We worship wherever we are at one with nature. Druids have always venerated the oak tree. Therefore, we choose to hold our most sacred ceremonies in an oak grove.
Druids have always believed that mistletoe is a plant of mystical powers, may
be because it can live without roots, merely perching on other plants, green all winter in spite of frost and snow. We always incorporate “mistletoe” into our ceremonies.
We hold the hazel important for divination.
The yew has special powers for us.
We are at one with all nature—stone and mater, wood and flower.
We are at one with the animals of the forest and the birds of the air and the fish of the ocean.
By midmorning Evan was riding with Betsy and the American woman back to Llanfair. Betsy had tried to protest that she should be staying to do her job, but even Annabel saw that Betsy was in no condition to work.
“We really don’t need you, my dear,” she had said, patting Betsy’s hand. “Please go home and have a good rest. We’ve all had a terrible, terrible shock—you much more so, because of the psychic forces at work in you. Randy was always so tired after a session with—” She broke off, put her hand to her mouth, and fled into her office.
Betsy allowed Emmy and Evan to lead her to the car. Emmy asked Evan to drive. “I’m in no fit state,” she said. So Evan drove. Emmy sat silent beside him. Betsy huddled in the backseat. As usual on such occasions Evan was amazed to find life going on as if nothing had happened. Women were doing their shopping in Porthmadog high street, pushing prams or dodging in and out of traffic with shopping baskets. Tourists were taking pictures of the bridge in Beddgelert. Children were screaming as they ran around the playground of the Beddgelert village school, causing Evan’s thoughts to turn to Bronwen. He hoped she was feeling better this morning. If it was a twenty-four-hour bug, as the doctor had predicted, she should be up and around again.
“I’ll be sorry to leave Mrs. Williams,” Emmy said as they drove into Llanfair. “Such a nice lady. We had already established a real bond between us.”
“You’re not going, are you?” Betsy asked.
Emmy pushed back her hair in a distraught gesture. “I can’t stay here now. Not after what’s happened. Too many bad vibes. I just wouldn’t feel right working here. And with—Randy gone, there’s no point, is there?”
“So will you go back to America?” Betsy asked.
“I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do at the moment. I’m too upset to think straight. I suppose I might go up to Scotland or over to Ireland. Anywhere to get away from here.”
“So now we’ll never finish testing my psychic abilities, will we?” Betsy said.
Emmy turned around to her and placed her hand over Betsy’s. “Listen, kiddo, you have already proved that you have awesome powers. That dream—you were right on. Don’t give up now, okay? See if they can still work with you at the center. At least they’ll be in touch with others in the psychic community. You’ll need to learn how to make those powers work for you.”
“But I don’t want you to go,” Betsy said. “Couldn’t you stay and help me?”
“Don’t ask me to stay here. I just can’t.” Emmy shook her head violently, then she added, “Besides, I’m an academic. I can test people and measure ability, that’s all. You need to work with another psychic.”
“Don’t go yet,” Betsy begged. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“That something else bad is going to happen.”
“Do you feel that, Betsy?” Emmy asked.
“Yes.”
“Then stop working at that place, Betsy,” Evan said. “Go back to your old job, for heaven’s sake.”
“Of course she shouldn’t go back to her old job,” Emmy said angrily. “Would you have advised Michaelangelo to stick to painting houses?” She spun around to Betsy again. “But I’ll be here a few more days. I’ll need to talk to my professor and decide what to do next. He’ll understand that I can’t go on working here. I really think the best thing for me right now is to go home, to the States—to regroup.”
Evan parked the car outside Mrs. Williams’s cottage. Mrs. Williams already had the front door open by the time they were getting out of the car.
“What on earth has been happening?” she demanded. “Running off in the middle of the night like that! I’ve been worried sick. Come inside, all of you. You look dreadful, Betsy fach. White as a sheet, and so do you, Miss Court. I’ve got the kettle on the boil and the bacon cooked in the over … .”
She ushered them into the house, like a sheepdog rounding up sheep. Evan turned down the offer of breakfast somewhat reluctantly, claiming that he had to check his messages at the police station and look in on Bronwen. He found that he was glad to have made his escape. This was all too much emotion for him. He went into the police station, found no messages, then set off for the schoolhouse. He could hear the voices of children chanting their twelve times table as he crossed the playground. Was that a good sign? Did it mean she was back in class with them? Then the door of Bronwen’s living quarters—a gray stone cottage attached to one end of the school building—opened and Evan was amazed to see Mrs. Powell-Jones, the minister’s wife, come out.
“Ah, Constable Evans. I don’t think you should go in there now.” She put up her hand to stop him.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“She’s not looking at all well. I heard that she was sick and I thought it was my duty to minister to her, but she was so weak, she couldn’t even lift her head to try some of my nourishing homemade calves foot jelly. And she wouldn’t hear of my making her any soup either. She said all she wants to do is sleep, so I think we should respect her wishes, don’t you?” She put a forceful hand on his arm and attempted to turn him around.
For once, Evan wasn’t about to be turned. “Look, I promised I’d stop in on her this morning, and I was called out really early on a case, so she’ll be wondering what has happened to me. Don’t worry. I’ll only stay a minute.” He gave what he hoped was a winning smile and moved past the minister’s wife.
“Try to get her to take a spoonful of the calves foot jelly,” she called after him. “She needs to build up her strength.”
Evan tapped lightly on the door, then let himself in. The schoolhouse felt cold and empty. He walked softly to Bronwen’s bedroom and pushed open the door. Bronwen was lying quite still with her eyes closed. Her face looked gray and hollow.
“Bron?” He couldn’t resist touching her, just in case.
Her eyes opened and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, it’s you, Evan. I thought it was that dreadful woman coming back. Not only do I feel rotten, but having Mrs. Powell-Jones ministering to me was one affliction too many. Sleep seemed like the only way out of eating her awful calves foot jelly. You should have seen her, Evan. She sat on my bed and kept waving this spoon in my face. And then I wanted to go to the loo again and she told me it was only a question of mind over matter and I shouldn’t let it get the better of me.”
Evan perched on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you from her,” he said. “How are you really feeling?”
“A little better, I think,” she said, “but awfully weak.”
“Do you think we should call the doctor again? It’s been more than twenty-four hours now.”
“Give it another day. If I’m no better by this evening, I’ll ask him to drop in on his rounds.”
“Is there anything you’d really like—not calves foot jelly, I mean?”
Bronwen shook her head. “I can’t say that the thought of any food appeals to me. Another sip of Lucozade, that’s all.”
He filled the glass for her. She sat up then lay back with a sigh. “I feel as if I’m made of putty. I’m going to have to take Mrs. PJ’s advice and start using mind over matter. I can’t just lie here, being sick!”
Evan bent to kiss her. “You just get a good sleep, all right? I’ll pop round again later.”
As he let himself out, he noticed that Mrs. Powell-Jones was pretending to work on the garden outside Capel Beulah while keeping an eye on the schoolhouse. As he let himself out of the playground, she came running down the street to him.
>
“It’s all right. She’s sleeping now,” he said. “She’ll probably sleep for hours. We shouldn’t disturb her.”
“That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “I wish to lodge a complaint. You haven’t been here doing your job for the past few days.”
“I was called away on a case,” he said. “I’m a mobile unit now, you know. Not confined to Llanfair.”
“I should have thought your first duty was to protect the citizens here, mobile or not,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said.
“Has something happened?”
“Only that there is a homicidal maniac at large.”
“A what?”
“That lunatic postman,” Mrs. Powell-Jones exclaimed in her booming voice. “Some stupid fool has given him a motorbike. He almost rode me down yesterday. I was crossing the road when he came careening down the hill, completely exceeding the speed limit. I had to leap for my life, Constable Evans. And he didn’t even stop to apologize.”
Evan was trying not to smile at the thought of Mrs. Powell-Jones leaping for her life. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet,” he said.
“Then he shouldn’t be allowed to ride it, should he? I want you to arrest him for reckless driving. Confiscate the damned thing before he kills somebody or himself.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Evan said. “I’ll try and make him see sense.”
“Talking is not enough. You have to learn to be more forceful, Constable. If you don’t act now, someone is going to get hurt.”
She strode off back to the chapel. Evan sighed and walked down the hill to the police station. Life was back to normal after the excitement at the Sacred Grove, he thought. Then he corrected himself: It wasn’t back to normal. Bronwen was ill.
He wished he could stop feeling so damned guilty. Logically his cooking couldn’t have caused Bronwen’s illness, because he had eaten the same things, but doubt still nagged at the back of his mind. Maybe there was just one piece of tainted meat, one piece that was not fully cooked, and Bronwen ate it. If only the timing hadn’t be so coincidental: Bronwen had fallen ill right after—Evan broke off in midthought and stood there, in the middle of the street—right after Betsy had stopped by to visit.
