The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  FIVE

  Hilary was enjoying a full English breakfast, an indulgence which she only allowed herself on Sundays at home. Today was Tuesday, but since it was included in her hotel bill it seemed a shame not to take advantage.

  She was just pouring herself a second cup of coffee when Veronica chortled. ‘She really did make the nationals. It’s here!’

  She passed over the tabloid newspaper which had been laid on their breakfast table as a freebie. She had refolded it so that page five was uppermost. Hilary’s coffee sloshed into her saucer as she saw the headline: BOMB AT BRITAIN’S MOST SACRED SITE.

  ‘Hmm! I’m not sure the Chalice Well is that important.’

  But her heart was sinking as she read on.

  Sharp-eyed holidaymaker Hilary Masters, 61, spotted the bomb in a bag left unattended by the well.

  ‘You told her my age!’

  ‘Come on, Hilary. Only yesterday you said you were enjoying the Crone stage.’

  There were two photographs. The larger was of the Chalice Well, displaying the ornamental cover as they had seen it yesterday afternoon. The smaller one showed Hilary looking belligerent, with a smiling Veronica at her side.

  Hilary rescued her friend Veronica Taylor, 56, from a possible violent death.

  She felt her stomach churn, threatening the breakfast she had just enjoyed. She had a sudden urge to get her hands on Joan Townsend’s throat and throttle her.

  ‘It was never my ambition to get my mug-shot in that rag. She might at least have sold it to the Guardian or the Times.’

  ‘Still, you have to be glad for her, don’t you? She’s been trying to break into journalism big time. It’s not the front page, but they’ve given her a decent spread.’

  Hilary was trying to disguise the curiosity which made her read on. It was not the sort of newspaper which gave in-depth coverage, but there was enough to show that the police had confirmed the finding of an unexploded bomb. She was disappointed that there were no further details about whether it was set to go off at a certain time or whether it was remotely controlled. Would the police tell her if she asked them?

  She scanned the last paragraphs. Her heart sank further. There was, as she had feared there would be, a subheading: MYSTERY ISLAMIST SEEN.

  Below was an account of the woman in the burka. Had Joan Townsend seen her for herself? Or was it just Veronica’s incautious reference to meeting the young woman at the well?

  There was no mention of George Marsden threatening to bomb the well. Did that mean that Joan had dismissed him as being less interesting, or had a sub-editor chopped off her story before the end?

  She threw down the folded paper.

  ‘What really frustrates me is that I have no way of knowing who the police have got as their prime suspect – assuming they haven’t already made an arrest.’

  Veronica’s eyes twinkled at her across the table. She seemed to be enjoying her friend’s discomfiture. ‘How do we know we’re not the suspects? After all, we’re the only people the police saw at the well.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. I was the one who phoned them.’

  ‘Well, you know what you said about George Marsden shouting that he’d like to bomb the place? A double bluff? They might think we were trying to put ourselves above suspicion.’

  Hilary sighed. ‘Veronica. My calling the police meant that the bomb didn’t go off. Would the police really think I was that stupid?’

  ‘No.’ Veronica fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘I suppose not. But we still have no idea what was meant to happen. Or why.’

  Rain spattered the pavements. Veronica stood on the steps of the hotel and frowned up at the lowering sky.

  ‘I was going to suggest a morning at the abbey, but the forecast is for sun this afternoon. Should we switch plans?’

  ‘As long as you’re not going to suggest climbing the Tor in the rain instead. I wouldn’t mind a trawl around the bookshops. You have to wade through piles of New Age nonsense, but there’s likely to be some solid historical stuff hidden away among all the rot. It’s so long since I was last here, I’m out of date with the latest historical and archaeological research on just what Glastonbury was.’

  ‘Do you think it really did have a connection with King Arthur? The real one in the fifth century, I mean, not the Hollywood version of knights in medieval shining armour.’

  ‘If there was a real one. Plenty of people doubt it. Personally, I think there has to be a nugget of truth for the legends to latch on to. Like the grit in the oyster shell which is at the heart of every pearl. Still, it’s the Christian history which interests me more. Whether the abbey church really does date back to Roman times, and whether a Celtic saint like Brigid might actually have come here.’

  ‘Well then, that’s settled. I might do some shopping myself. Holidays are a good time to pick up birthday and Christmas presents for people, don’t you think? More time to drift around looking at lovely things, and less pressure.’

  ‘If what you want is a healing crystal, you should be OK. I just hope not too many people here have seen that picture in the paper.’

  ‘Hilary, don’t be so conceited. It was just a small photograph on page five.’

  ‘Hmm. We’ll see.’

  They walked along the main street of Glastonbury. Hilary’s eyes went to the newsagents’ stands. The billboards announced what she knew they must, but dreaded to see:

  GLASTONBURY BOMB

  It seemed to be only that one newspaper, so far. Joan Townsend really had got her scoop.

  As they walked past, she surveyed the shops selling incense and sacred gemstones, the notices announcing séances and healing sessions, the rune stones and witches’ balls.

  She chuckled. ‘You know what they say about Glastonbury: it’s a great place for shopping if you want a pack of tarot cards, but if you need a pint of milk, you have to go to Bristol.’

  ‘It’s always like that. People falling over themselves to make money out of sacred places. It’s the same at Lourdes, with shop after shop of religious tat; or Tintagel, where every other commercial outlet is named after Merlin. But you need to get beyond that – the real sanctuary at Lourdes, or the real castle at Tintagel. Once you leave the commercial bit behind, it’s all still there.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope the abbey lives up to my memories of it this afternoon.’

  They turned into the largest of the bookshops. Hilary made for the section on the early history of Glastonbury.

  Veronica tugged at her sleeve. ‘He’s here again,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Rupert Honeydew.’

  Hilary looked up in dismay, but Veronica was pointing to a book on a shelf they were passing. ‘His book. Dancing with the Divine.’

  ‘Hmm! I’ve seen enough of that already. You were looking at that when George Marsden accosted you. It seemed to set him off.’

  Veronica looked slowly round at the other customers. ‘I wonder if he lives here. That Marsden man, I mean. He must do, mustn’t he, if they know him at the Chalice Well shop?’

  ‘Well, he’s not around this morning. He must have a home life. He’s probably tending his roses. I’m assuming he’s retired.’

  Veronica touched the book again. ‘I’m surprised Joan didn’t put him into her article. Rupert Honeydew. He’s such a colourful character, he’d make brilliant copy. And we were there when she took his photo.’

  ‘She probably did write about him,’ said Hilary. ‘They’ll have decided how many column inches to give her and chopped off anything that didn’t fit. That left just us and that poor woman in the burka.’

  Veronica turned from the bookshelves to give her a quizzical stare. ‘You’ve changed your tune. When we first saw her, you were worried because you didn’t want to stereotype her just because she was a Muslim in conservative dress, but you did suspect her.’

  ‘Yes, well. We’ve met a few other possibilities since then.’

  For a while, she busied herself among the books she had come to see. Veronica tra
wled the greetings cards and calendars and made some small purchases. They met at the cash desk.

  ‘You know,’ Hilary said as they stepped outside, ‘the rain’s blowing over. There isn’t time to do the abbey before lunch, but I wouldn’t mind a walk back to the Chalice Well. There are a few questions I’d like to ask that shop assistant. The one who told you about the Marsdens.’

  ‘Hilary!’ Veronica exploded, ‘I keep telling you. Just because you found the bomb, it doesn’t mean you have to find the bomber. You’ll have half the police in Somerset following up the forensic evidence and the people they interviewed. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘Humour me. You talked to the shop assistant. I didn’t.’

  They retraced their steps from the day before, out towards the Tor. Cars swished past on the wet road. But by the time they reached the Chalice Well, the sun was breaking through.

  Hilary stiffened. The entrance had changed. TV vans were parked outside: Sky, BBC. There was still a solitary police officer on duty, but the gatehouse was no longer cordoned off. Hilary marched up to it.

  ‘We don’t want an entrance ticket. We were here yesterday. We’d just like another look at the gift shop.’

  ‘Did you get caught up in the bomb incident?’ the ticket seller asked. ‘That was a real picnic! They herded us up like cattle. I didn’t get home until eight. As if I had time to go sneaking round the gardens planting bombs. Did you …?’ He leaned closer, his eyes sparkling. ‘My gosh! It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one in the paper. You found it!’ He was holding out the same newspaper they had seen at breakfast.

  Hilary backed away. ‘I was only doing what anyone else would have done. I’m glad the police got there in time. So, it’s OK if we just pay another visit to the gift shop? Things weren’t exactly normal yesterday.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Anything we can do to help you.’

  ‘There, you see,’ Veronica whispered as they walked away. ‘You’re famous.’

  ‘I’d rather not be.’

  There were two women behind the counter in the gift shop this morning. Veronica nudged Hilary and said softly, ‘The older one wasn’t here yesterday. But that’s the young one I talked to.’

  The assistant was a slender young woman in her twenties with a cap of smartly coiffed blonde hair. She stood examining her frosted fingernails as they approached.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Hilary said. ‘You were here yesterday afternoon, weren’t you?’

  The young woman’s eyes shot up to meet hers, startled. They were a surprising light green. Hilary wondered if they were natural, or tinted contact lenses. There was something about the assistant which resembled a glamorous doll.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind …’ Hilary made a sudden decision. ‘I’m Hilary Masters. I was the one who found the bomb at the wellhead. I know the police will have asked you all sorts of questions, but, well, as you can imagine, I’m rather keen to find out a bit more myself.’

  The woman’s eyes went to her colleague, who stood nearby listening avidly.

  ‘Go on, Mel,’ the older woman said. ‘She saved the Chalice Well, didn’t she? The least you can do is tell her what she wants to know.’

  ‘Thank you. Is there anywhere we can talk?’

  ‘I can’t leave the shop, can I?’ The blonde young woman looked unhappy. ‘And Beth’s due for her lunch break.’

  ‘I can wait,’ said her colleague. ‘I’ll mind the till while you talk.’

  From the look in her eyes, Hilary thought, she probably wants to listen in.

  The shop was quieter than yesterday. There had been clusters of people watching curiously at the gatehouse, but it seemed the sensation of the day before had kept more people away from the gardens than it had attracted. The place had a subdued feel, as if still waiting for something to happen.

  ‘I don’t know what there is to say.’

  The younger woman, whom her colleague had called Mel, interested Hilary. She sensed a reluctance to talk which surprised her. She would have expected the sales assistant to be falling over herself to talk about the dramatic happenings of day before. It was not every day one got caught up in a plot to blow up one of the major tourist attractions in a place like this. Yet Mel did not seem to want her fifteen minutes of fame.

  But then, Hilary reminded herself, neither did I.

  ‘Well then,’ she took a deep breath, ‘what can you tell me about George Marsden?’

  SIX

  Mel shot an appealing look past Hilary at Veronica. The assistant was a small-boned girlish figure who reminded Hilary of a shrew cornered by a cat and desperately seeking a means of escape. Hilary sensed something frightened in those light green eyes.

  It seemed strange. From what Hilary remembered, the assistant had merely been passing on the news to Veronica that George Marsden was known at the Chalice Well, and that this was not the first time he had made a nuisance of himself by sounding off his views against the eclectic nature of the place.

  So why does he keep coming? Hilary wondered.

  And why does this young woman look as though she is afraid she has said too much?

  The brightly painted pink lips twitched nervously. There was a sullen tone in the girl’s voice as she replied.

  ‘I can’t really tell you that much. Only that he comes in here now and then with his wife. She never says much. Only “George!” or “Keep your voice down.”’ Her own voice rose. ‘But he won’t, will he? It’s like there’s something here that really gets under his skin. He’s always banging on about it being a Christian place, only there are all these hippies and pagans and Buddhists, like, taking it over. He’d like to turn the lot of them out. Well, you can’t, can you? I mean, live and let live. This is my job. The more of them that come, the better it is for me.’

  ‘Does he live locally?’ Hilary tried to steer Mel back to the Marsdens.

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose he must do. He comes in several times a year. It’s not like he was from Liverpool or London, is it?’

  ‘I’ve seen him a few times in the town,’ the older assistant put in. ‘There was a meeting about what to do about flooding in the Somerset Levels. He was shooting off his mouth about that too. He has some idea that the Bristol Channel used to come all the way up to Glastonbury and we ought to let it come back, not go on fighting nature. Well, you can guess how popular that makes him. There’s people near here have had their homes underwater.’

  ‘So I’m guessing he lives above the flood level.’ Veronica laughed. ‘In Glastonbury itself?’

  ‘Search me. You could try the phone book.’

  ‘Not everyone’s in it,’ Mel objected. ‘Not if they’ve just got a mobile.’

  ‘George Marsden didn’t strike me as the sort who was into smartphones,’ Hilary snorted. ‘I’m not sure he isn’t back in the era of messages in cleft sticks.’

  ‘I did look him up,’ Veronica said quietly. ‘There’s a telephone directory in the hotel. He’s not there.’

  Hilary paused. ‘Hmm. Could have registered himself as ex-directory. Maybe he was getting too many calls from angry people he’d upset.’

  ‘You don’t really think he’d plant a bomb at the Chalice Well, though, do you?’ Mel asked, wide-eyed. ‘I mean, you don’t like to think about it. I didn’t like him very much, but when it’s someone you know …’

  ‘The police must have questioned you yesterday. Did you tell them about him? That he was here, and not too pleased about the Chalice Well?’

  She shifted uncomfortably. ‘I might have.’

  ‘Well, I certainly did,’ the older one joined in. ‘Gave them as much as I could remember about everyone who came through the shop. Including you, I’m afraid.’ She laughed at Hilary and Veronica.

  ‘Fair enough. They knew about us, anyway. But the Marsdens had left before the police arrived.’

  ‘And there was that idiot Rupert Honeybee,’ Beth added.

  ‘Honeydew.’

  ‘Whatever. Prancing about lik
e a clown at the circus, drawing attention to himself. We get all sorts in here, but really! Says the Goddess inspires him and he has to drink the water and dance for her. Poncey twit.’

  ‘Is he another regular?’

  The younger assistant stood examining her fingernails, but Beth responded vigorously.

  ‘I’ll say. He’s what they call a Companion of the Well, so he can come here any time. Says he “needs to drink from the sacred waters to keep his spirit in tune with the divine”.’ Her voice took on a mocking tone, as if she was mimicking him.

  ‘So you wouldn’t expect him to blow up the well.’

  The older assistant looked shocked. ‘It never entered my mind!’

  Mel had taken advantage of her colleague’s intervention to slip away. A visitor was approaching with a sheaf of cards in her hand. Mel took them from her. Hilary watched her go, thinking that she looked glad of an excuse to escape. It seemed odd. She had painted her face and nails and done her hair to draw admiring attention to herself, yet now that she had the chance to be in the spotlight as a key witness, she seemed to be shrinking from it. Hilary had come here to find out more about George Marsden, but now it was the witness herself who interested her.

  ‘What’s her name?’ she nodded towards the till. ‘Mel what?’

  ‘Fenwick. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, just want to get my notes in order.’

  ‘I’m Beth Harkness, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Beth. Has Mel been here long?’

  ‘Ever since she left school, by all accounts. She’s local. A real local, I mean, not like me. I’m just an incomer, but Mel’s family have been in Glastonbury, or on the Levels, since the year dot. Her grandfather’s got a farm somewhere near here.’

  ‘And the Marsdens?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you for sure. It was about six years ago when I first came across him. They were opening up a new shop in the High Street. Well, I say new, but it was only the sort of stuff you see everywhere. Witch balls, tarot cards. You know the sort of thing. He was standing outside holding up a placard saying it was the devil’s work. And then he turned up at the well here, saying much the same things. Well, not exactly. He thinks it’s been a sacred place since the time of Jesus. And everybody else should clear out and leave it for the Christians.’