by Fay Sampson
But Hilary found it hard to concentrate. The TV camera, the justly accusing stare of those blue eyes through the slit in the burka. The day was not going as she had planned.
She felt a stir of remembered longing for the predictability of the school timetable: the lesson bells, the ordered pattern of weekly classes. Yes, some of the pupils could be horrors, but by the end of her teaching career she had got things pretty much under control.
Now she was cast adrift in a world which was turning out to be a great deal more unpredictable than she had imagined. Veronica wanted to cast her as a hero, but Hilary felt she was not handling it as well as she should have done.
Veronica’s silvery laugh came from where she was reading the guide book. ‘They think there was a gallery up there, where the head cook could stand and direct operations. Like a medieval Gordon Ramsey.’
Hilary looked up at the metal gantry, which now housed a row of lights. ‘Just as well they don’t play a recording of what he might have said to his scullions.’
Even as she laughed, she had a sense of someone standing close behind her. A woman’s voice spoke. Hilary recognized the tone of authority.
‘Mrs Masters? If you wouldn’t mind stepping outside for a moment.’
She turned. The woman wore a navy blue jacket and skirt and sensible shoes. Her black hair was caught back at the nape of her neck with a discreet ribbon. With a sinking heart, like a guilty schoolgirl, Hilary did not need to see the warrant card to know that she was being summoned by a police officer.
Her cheeks flamed as the other visitors in the kitchen turned to watch her follow the straight back in the navy jacket. She was glad of Veronica’s presence behind her.
In the greater privacy of the outdoors, the woman held up the expected ID. ‘Detective Sergeant Olive Petersen. Now, would you mind telling me what you were doing questioning Amina Haddad just now?’
‘I wasn’t questioning her! I happened to see her at the Chalice Well yesterday. Given the circumstances, it seemed only natural to acknowledge the fact when I met her again today.’
‘Mrs Masters, we are conducting a highly sensitive enquiry into a major security incident. Miss Haddad is a key witness, to put it no higher than that.’
‘You mean you suspect her of planting that bomb because she’s a Muslim.’
‘That’s none of your business. As I said, she’s a witness. As are you. I should be extremely grateful if you could refrain from muddying the waters by trying to carry out some amateur investigation of your own. Do I make myself clear, or do I have to take you in for questioning and a formal warning from my DI?’
‘Point taken,’ Hilary replied through clenched jaws.
Veronica’s voice came innocently over her shoulder. ‘Does that mean you were outside the Lady Chapel listening to what Hilary and I were saying? If you’re a detective on the case, that must mean you’re following Amina. Did you think she was going to plant another bomb somewhere?’
An expression of annoyance crossed the detective’s face, like a thunder shower sweeping across the sky.
‘Thank you, Mrs Taylor. I see we have a second Miss Marple wannabe.’
Ouch. It was too near the bone. Hilary’s sharp intelligence had certainly wanted to solve the puzzle, ever since the startling discovery of the knapsack at the Chalice Well. Her rational mind told her it was no more likely to go off when she and Veronica were there than at any other time, but there had seemed something personal about being the one to see it. She could hardly be expected to put it behind her and get on with normal life. Somewhere, in Glastonbury or beyond, there was still a potential killer who had threatened her own life and Veronica’s.
‘I think you’re being unfair,’ Veronica defended her. ‘Hilary was the one who found the bomb. If she hadn’t spotted it and called you, it might have gone off and killed people.’
‘We are always grateful for the assistance of members of the public.’ DS Petersen seemed to be speaking through stiff lips. ‘But the matter is in police hands now. Not only do we not need your no doubt well-intentioned help, it could actually prejudice our enquiries. Interfering with a witness is an offence.’
‘I wasn’t interfering with her!’ Hilary snorted. ‘If you were listening, you must know I hardly needed to ask her any questions, even if I’d wanted to. She was the one volunteering information about herself.’
‘And about Rupert Honeydew,’ Veronica put in. ‘The Guizer, she called him. Did you hear that?’
Hilary watched the detective sergeant’s face keenly. There was no sign of a reaction.
‘Is that it, then? Can we go?’
‘If I have your word that you’ll keep your curiosity to yourself in future.’
‘I’ve spent a lifetime encouraging my pupils to be curious about everything around them.’
‘As far as you’re concerned, this investigation is out of bounds.’
Veronica took Hilary’s arm. ‘Really, I think you’ve made a mistake. Hilary was scolding me for stereotyping Amina just because she’s a Muslim. It was meant to be a friendly conversation with her, nothing more.’
‘I’ve made my point. I trust you’ve grasped it,’ said DS Petersen.
As they walked away, Hilary was surprised how churned up she felt. She was used to being the one who reprimanded others. It wounded her self-image to be on the receiving end of reproof. She hadn’t been questioning Amina Haddad like a suspect, had she? It was intended to be just a sociable recognition that they were caught up in the same situation.
Amina hadn’t seen it that way.
And Hilary was not entirely sure she was being honest with herself.
Back in their hotel room, Veronica switched on the television for the early evening news. More trouble in the Middle East. Hilary listened intently for any mention of Gaza. There was none. She began to relax.
The national news was over. She expected Veronica to switch off the set, but the scene had switched to the local news studio. The two presenters were running through the list of stories to come.
‘We have an interview with the woman who found the unexploded bomb in Glastonbury.’
Hilary groaned and threw herself back on the bed pillows.
Veronica threw her a half smile. ‘I told you. You’re famous.’
‘Fame is the last thing I want. This was meant to be a holiday.’
She winced at the sight of her own face filling the screen. She had never bothered much about make-up or hair. If the interview had been in a studio, they might have tidied her up, powdered her shiny nose. But here she was, exposed as other people must see her all the time. She had not realized quite how unkempt she looked. Veronica managed to appear well-groomed, still pretty, even in her fifties.
She hardly listened to what she was telling the reporter.
The item was over. The programme shifted to the threat of local flooding.
Veronica sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Poor Joan. I really thought she was going to get another moment in the limelight. But they’ve cut out the interview with her completely, and screened you instead.’
‘She could have had it, and welcome. It was never my intention to make a public spectacle of myself.’
NINE
‘Are you terribly hungry? I need to calm myself down. Would you mind if we eat later? I’d meant to leave the Tor until tomorrow, but right now I think it’s what I need.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Veronica sympathized. ‘When you’re up there, with the whole of the Somerset Levels spread out below you, you get a different perspective on things. Especially at sunset.’
Hilary retrieved her stout walking stick from the boot of the car and they set out.
‘I wish I could make up my mind about it,’ she said. She lifted her head to the dramatically steep sides of the Tor. From the foot, the church tower had disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill. ‘Religious or secular? Pagan or Christian? A place of ceremonial or a defensive fort?’
When Veronica did not reply, H
ilary drew her gaze from the Tor to look at her companion. Veronica’s own eyes were darting from one side of the street to the other. There was a little frown above her nose.
‘Veronica. You’re not listening.’
‘Oh. Sorry! What did you say?’
‘I was just musing about what sort of people originally settled on the Tor. And why.’
‘Sorry. I missed that.’
‘You were miles away. Or rather, you were more bothered about something in Glastonbury here and now than in what might have happened on the Tor in the Dark Ages.’
‘Yes. I have to confess that I am. I know that detective sergeant said we ought to leave it to the police, but I can’t help thinking that somewhere here there’s a cold and calculating bomb maker. I might brush past him, or her, and I wouldn’t even know it. It scares me.’
‘Me too, if I’m honest. That’s why I wanted to get away from it for an hour or two. Up there.’
‘Besides,’ Veronica sounded almost apologetic, ‘there’s Joan, poor soul. She’ll have been so disappointed not to get her few minutes on the BBC. I know my Morag would have been gutted. I’d like to make it up to her. If I see the Marsdens again, I can give her a ring and she might catch him before he disappears again. I’m sure he’s worth a follow-up story, with his views.’
Hilary forced a grin. ‘You don’t think that would count as interfering with another witness?’
Veronica chuckled. ‘I wasn’t actually thinking of accosting him myself. That’s Joan’s job.’
‘And good luck to her!’
To reach the footpath up the Tor, they had to pass the Chalice Well, closed now for the night. Hilary gave it only a glance and strode resolutely past. She must put it behind her. She wished that yesterday had never happened. Then she pulled her thoughts up short. Did she really wish she hadn’t seen that knapsack almost completely hidden behind the lid of the well? Surely someone else would have noticed it? But they hadn’t, had they? And if Hilary hadn’t seen it …
‘Did you know there are no springs on the Tor?’ She forced her thoughts into different channels. ‘Anyone living up there would have had to send folk with buckets all the way down here to the Chalice spring.’
‘I don’t suppose they washed very often.’ Veronica laughed.
‘No, but a lot of cooking went on. Middens piled high with animal bones. That’s what makes people think it probably wasn’t a Christian monastic site. Celtic monks and hermits lived a pretty frugal life. You can forget about fat Friar Tuck and medieval monks pigging themselves. What happened in the Celtic Church was different.’
‘More like the Gospel in action?’ Veronica suggested.
‘Hmm. Saints are not always comfortable to live with. Still, I guess we’re looking at some secular warlord camped out up there.’
They looked up at the steep profile of the Tor. Terraces seemed to have been cut into its slopes, giving it a stepped appearance.
Hilary grunted. ‘At least we’re spared the sight of New Age women dancing their way up. Some people think those aren’t field terraces but a sacred maze.’
‘I think I’ll stick to the steps, myself.’
For a while conversation flagged as they made their way up the steep ascent. Hilary was glad of her stick. She was finding it necessary to stop and admire the view more often than she did when she was younger. There was only five years difference between them, but Veronica seemed to be tackling it more easily.
She stopped for the third time just below the summit. When she turned, the sun was sinking towards the horizon. Its level rays were flooding the channels of the Somerset Levels with golden light, picking out every river, stream and man-made drain. Hilary felt its beauty pierce her heart. This was why she had come. Now, at this time of day. She had needed this blessing, and now she had it.
She wished, selfishly, that when they reached the top, only a few steps away, they would have the summit to themselves.
One last heave, and she stood at the base of St Michael’s tower. It was all that was left of the medieval church. Veronica had got there ahead of her and had moved on to stand looking out over a landscape washed with light.
She turned as Hilary came up. ‘It’s terrible to think that last winter all this was water, almost up to the Tor. All those poor people whose homes were flooded or their livestock marooned.’
‘It’s a miserable business, having flood water in your house. And it wasn’t even clean water.’
‘It looks so lovely now. Magical.’
‘People don’t believe in magic now. Fools!’ came a masculine voice.
Both women started. Hilary had seen no one else enjoying the enchantment of Glastonbury Tor at sunset, and neither, it seemed, had Veronica. Her keen eyes sought the source of the voice, but she could find nobody.
‘Oh, good evening!’ Veronica said suddenly. ‘I hope we haven’t ruined it for you. I know what it’s like when you’ve found the perfect place all by yourself and then some strangers come charging into it, breaking the spell and chattering away. We’ll be quiet, I promise.’
She was looking down over the precipitous edge of the summit. On a grassy ledge just below them, an incredibly long-legged man in khaki shorts had folded his limbs into an angular crouch as he gazed out over the Levels. Rather like a grasshopper waiting to spring, Hilary thought.
‘No problem,’ he said, without looking round at them. ‘As you say, magical. If you annoyed me, I could snap my finger and, hey presto, you’d be over the edge. Spellbinding.’ His long mouth smiled, rather mirthlessly.
For a moment, Hilary felt cold inside. Glastonbury was full of nutters. It was the esoteric capital of England. This strange man might genuinely think he was a magician, with the power to cast two annoying women off the Tor if he chose. She drew Veronica gently back by the sleeve and nodded towards the other end of the summit platform.
‘Leave him,’ she mouthed.
‘You think I’m mad.’ With terrifying suddenness, the man was on his feet and up the slope. Alarmingly tall, he towered above them on his bare spindly legs. His eyes were cold, accusing. For a moment his features twisted into something very like hatred.
Veronica’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘I know who you are. Rupert Honeydew.’
The cogs of Hilary’s brain clicked into place. Of course. Gone were the motley garb and the prancing gait that went with it. This was Rupert Honeydew without his costume. Amina’s Guizer, she suddenly thought. You would never have known what lay behind the disguise. Now here he was, revealed like a hermit crab without its shell.
No, there was surely something more malevolent. She took a step back. She knew that she was genuinely afraid.
Veronica said soothingly, ‘No one who comes up here to enjoy the sunset is mad. What could be saner?’
As Hilary watched in apprehension, a disconcerting change transformed Rupert Honeydew’s face. It was as though he had passed his hand over his features and whipped away a mask. What he showed them now was a face in which his grey-blue eyes danced and the new moon of his mouth curved in what looked like genuine laughter.
‘Well said! I see I am addressing someone who is in tune with the spiritual.’ He swept her a profound bow. ‘In today’s world, believe me, that’s uncommon. Be pleased to share my small domain.’
His long-fingered hand gestured regally around the summit of the Tor, with its sentinel tower behind them.
Hilary and Veronica exchanged uncertain looks.
‘Thank you,’ Hilary said. ‘Veronica’s right. We won’t disturb you.’
‘Go with the peace of the Goddess.’ The eyes twinkled. ‘You might even be inspired to dance for her. I shan’t watch.’
As if to prove his assurance, he turned away from them, stepped down the steep slope to the ledge where he had been sitting and resumed that angular crouch. His eyes looked out over the evening plain, to the hills where Arthur was once said to have had his fort, and the glimpse of the western sea, bright along t
he horizon. It was as though he had turned time back and they were not there. As if they had never come, or as if he had indeed cast a spell and made them disappear.
Hilary had a strange feeling of insubstantiality, as if she doubted her own existence.
But the scary moment when she had indeed thought they were confronted by a madman had passed. She let out a long shuddering breath which told her how frightened she had been.
With a penetrating look at Veronica she turned and led the way to the other end of the narrow summit, where a compass pointed to landmarks in every direction. It was as far from Rupert Honeydew as it was possible to get.
Hilary settled herself on the low stone rim of the compass. Veronica stood with her back to her, above the precipitous drop to the plain.
‘What a strange person,’ she said softly.
‘That’s an understatement.’ Hilary kept her own voice low.
‘I thought he was just one of the more colourful characters of Glastonbury. Now I don’t know what to think.’
‘The Guizer. That’s what Amina called him. But which is the real Rupert Honeydew? The laughing clown, who really believes he can dance with his Goddess? Or that horrible face he let us see for just a few moments?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pure hatred.’
‘You were very brave. And luckily you seemed to say the right thing. At least, it had the right effect. He turned back to – well, in his case you could hardly call it normal, but more like the Rupert Honeydew we first met.’
‘You told me then he must be more than a fool to have a properly published book.’
‘A professional fool, perhaps.’
‘But with something terrifying underneath?’
Hilary looked over her shoulder. She could not see him from here. Was he still sitting where they had left him?
‘I’m not going to let it spoil my evening,’ she said with determination. ‘I came here to enjoy the sunset, and I will.’
