The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  ‘Don’t! They were just folk dancers! Rupert Honeydew may be odd, but you can’t think …’

  ‘Sorry. But very little of this is making sense.’

  Or if it is, Hilary thought, it’s a sense I don’t want to contemplate.

  The clouds were low. The street lights had not yet come on, but dusk was thickening early. There was a glimpse of a car park through an arched stone gateway. Otherwise, the tree-hung road alongside the abbey grounds was deserted.

  ‘It’s as if the whole town is in mourning,’ Hilary said.

  ‘It probably is.’

  ‘I dare say the holidaymakers are keeping away. They may come and stare in the daytime, but they don’t want to stay here overnight.’

  A solitary car swept by, leaving a deeper silence behind.

  Presently, the hairs on Hilary’s skin began to prickle. She listened carefully. Above the sound of her and Veronica’s footsteps she thought she heard a third pair following them. She glanced at Veronica, but her companion seemed not to have noticed.

  It’s probably nothing, she thought. We can’t be the only people in Glastonbury out this evening, even if it felt like that a few minutes ago.

  But there had been no one in the road when they rounded the corner from the residential estate. There were a few houses ahead to the right, and the long grey stone wall surrounding the abbey on their left. She was having to fight hard to prevent herself from turning her head and confronting her fear.

  The footsteps were coming nearer. Not loud, but steadily determined. Whoever was following was gaining on them. Hilary wished the street lights would come on.

  She could stand it no longer. She stopped dead and swung round.

  The figure overtaking them in the half-light was one she recognized.

  ‘Sister Mary Magdalene!’

  The nun looked startled. Then she smiled.

  ‘Mrs Masters? Mrs Taylor. I’ve got that right, haven’t I? I’m glad to see that we haven’t scared you away from Glastonbury altogether.’

  ‘We’ve been in on so much, we thought we ought to see it through. Not, mind you, that there’s anything more that we can do.’

  ‘No. We must trust the police to find the truth.’

  Sister Mary Magdalene fell into step beside them. Hilary looked at her curiously.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, where did you spring from? We had the street to ourselves, and suddenly there you were behind us. For a few moments, it gave me the creeps.’

  The nun gave a gentle laugh. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. There’s a retreat house in the abbey grounds. For people seeking a spiritual quiet time. They sometimes ask me to lead a meditation session for their guests – or pilgrims, I prefer to call them. You obviously didn’t notice, but you passed the gateway to it when you turned on to this road.’

  ‘That big stone arch, with the carvings over it?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Sorry. Now that you mention it, it rings a bell. But tonight I must have walked straight past it,’ Hilary said.

  ‘A few moments later, and you’d have seen me coming out of it.’

  Hilary’s strung nerves were beginning to relax. A nun on her way back to her convent after a session of spiritual counselling had not been what her imagination had feared.

  ‘If we’d known the abbey had a guest house, we might have thought of staying there ourselves.’

  ‘It’s simple, but there are forms of comfort they do better than the best hotel, and the food’s actually rather good. Plus, if you join one of their retreats, you get private access to the abbey ruins. They have their own gate in their back garden, so you can come and go as you please, even after closing time. Tonight, though, was different. I was sharing in a prayer vigil for the lives that have been shattered this week.’

  The three of them walked on in silence.

  As the houses closed round them again, Sister Mary Magdalene said, ‘I must leave you here. My community house is down this road. God go with you.’

  ‘And with you,’ they both replied.

  The lights were coming on now, the traffic more frequent, as they reached the centre of the town. Their hotel was at the other end of the High Street, but first they turned away towards the police incident room.

  The commandeered church hall was less frenetic than the day before, but there were still a number of officers at work.

  The outcome was what Hilary had feared. DI Fellows was unavailable. Instead, they were ushered into a cubicle to meet Detective Sergeant Petersen. She looked them up and down with a scornful resignation.

  ‘Oh, spare us! What now?’

  Hilary explained, as firmly and succinctly as she could, about Amina’s disappearance and the varied reasons they had to fear for her.

  Petersen sighed. ‘You really are the story-book detectives, aren’t you? Of course we know about Miss Haddad. She was one of the witnesses at the Chalice Well. And of course we know about Mr Honeydew. Did you think twenty people could go dancing through the streets of Glastonbury after a bomb attack and the police wouldn’t notice? And they were back at midnight too. You didn’t mention that. Are your detective skills switched off after lights out?’

  ‘Amina wasn’t there then,’ Hilary said curtly.

  The detective sergeant’s eyes narrowed with sudden interest. ‘But you were? My, you have been busy.’

  ‘We were woken up. They passed right under our window with their drums and pipes.’

  ‘And their animal masks,’ Veronica put in. ‘It was scarier that time.’

  ‘And you went out to investigate? Why?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Hilary said. ‘The point is, as far as we know, no one has seen Amina since we left her heading for the Tor about five-thirty yesterday.’

  ‘Since you’re evidently so concerned about her, you haven’t thought to check whether she simply left Glastonbury and went home for a break? After everything that’s happened, that would hardly be surprising.’

  ‘No.’ Hilary coloured. ‘I suppose I could have got back to her professor and asked for her home address.’

  ‘She’s not answering her phone,’ Veronica said. ‘I tried.’

  ‘Unfortunately, not everyone is switched on twenty-four/seven.’

  Ouch, Hilary thought. That could be me.

  Detective Sergeant Petersen laid down her pen. ‘This is not a matter for CID. All we need now is a missing-persons enquiry in the middle of a terrorist bomb case. Amina Haddad is a grown woman. Don’t you think it’s a bit early to get the search dogs out?’

  ‘She’s not just any young woman. You must know that. She’s a woman in a burka at a time and in a place where a bomb went off. We know she’s in danger. I shudder to think what would have happened if she’d been in her digs when that vigilante mob got there this morning.’

  ‘I thought you were afraid she’d been sacrificed by some New Age cult on Glastonbury Tor?’

  ‘Yes, well.’ It was Hilary’s turn to sigh. ‘It’s complicated, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a mass murder to investigate. We’re working round the clock.’

  Hilary had turned to go. ‘That man you’re guarding in the hospital. His name isn’t Basil, is it?’

  ‘I’m sure Detective Chief Superintendent Allenby will disclose that information to the public when she sees fit.’

  Hilary was not used to feeling like a scolded child. She set her lips in a grim line and strode for the door.

  ‘Well!’ said Veronica, visibly relaxing on the steps of the Baptist church hall. ‘That’s us told. It doesn’t sound as if she’s going to take Amina’s disappearance seriously. And if she’s not, is there anything we can do?’

  NINETEEN

  Rain had washed the town overnight. It beaded the rose bushes outside the dining-room windows.

  Veronica turned the pages of her complimentary copy of Friday’s newspaper and gave a cry of delight.

 
; ‘At last! She’s made it!’

  She swung the paper round so that Hilary could see the double page of the tabloid with its startling photographs and column of text.

  OCCULT CEREMONY IN MURDER TOWN the headline screamed. Beneath it, the byline read: Joan Townsend, exclusive.

  The main photograph was certainly striking. It showed the animal masks of Rupert Honeydew’s followers swinging round to confront the camera’s flashbulb, and the startled eyes of the white-clad dancers behind.

  Hilary ran her finger over the women’s faces crowned with flowers. ‘You’re right. Mel from the gift shop’s not here. Or at least, not within camera shot.’

  Veronica folded the newspaper happily. ‘I’m so glad for Joan. She’s not only got the credit this time, she’s got an exclusive. No other reporters were on the street at midnight. And the public love all this black magic nonsense. She’ll probably be able to sell her pictures in other places too.’

  ‘Not if it’s an exclusive.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there are ways round that. It must mean she managed to salvage the memory card from her broken camera. This will pay for a new one, and a lot more besides, I should think.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t know why you’re sounding so pleased. I thought we’d agreed she was a self-centred little brat. And the last thing the police will want is to get a serious bomb enquiry mixed up in this New Age occult business.’

  ‘Perhaps it is mixed up. I know I was sceptical yesterday, but nobody’s come up with an obvious motive yet, have they? How do we know it’s not connected with Rupert Honeydew and his followers?’

  ‘I hardly think he’d be sticking his neck out by prancing through the streets the next day, drawing attention to himself.’

  ‘He might have enough cheek. Hiding in plain sight. Besides, I’m not sure he’s … normal.’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t get rid of the memory of his eyes, that evening on Glastonbury Tor.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to see what the police make of this. Though it’s not as if they didn’t already know about it. There were officers on the spot.’

  Veronica opened the pages again. ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Who were the dancers behind the masks? There are people here, men in particular, who we didn’t see in the daytime, dancing out to Glastonbury Tor.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out. The police may wring it out of Rupert Honeydew, but they won’t tell us.’

  ‘It’s creepy. We could be walking through the streets of Glastonbury and brush past one of them, and we’d never know.’

  ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. It would be very handy if good and evil signalled themselves as clearly as that. But we’re not talking good and evil here, are we? Just New Age flummery. I still think it’s nothing to do with the bomb.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Though having said that …’ Hilary grew thoughtful. ‘I am scared for Amina Haddad. This had put her out of my head for the moment, but she’s missing, and we last saw her following Rupert Honeydew’s dancers towards the Tor.’

  ‘Do you think the police will find her?’

  ‘Will they even take us seriously? You heard what the detective sergeant said. She’s a grown woman. There are any number of reasons she could go AWOL.’

  ‘Leaving all her possessions behind?’

  ‘Hmm, well. We’re not the police. For us, it’s likely to remain just another of those maddening loose ends.’

  ‘Which leaves us with the question: what would you like to do today? We’ve covered just about all of Glastonbury’s sights.’ She gave a sudden peal of laughter. ‘That is, except the obvious one, as far as my children are concerned. When they heard I was coming here, the first thing that entered their heads was the Glastonbury Festival. I don’t suppose you want to see the hallowed site? Didn’t they say the Rolling Stones were there last year for the first time?’

  ‘It was certainly not on my itinerary. What would there be to see anyway? Just a lot of muddy fields. For my money, I’d rather join the Glastonbury Pilgrimage, when the town is flooded every June with worshippers from all over Europe. They process down the High Street with banners flying and gather in the ruined abbey church. No, the weather looks a bit dodgy this morning, and there’s something I’ve been saving for a rainy day. We’ve passed it several times, as it happens. It’s in the Tribunal, that rather fine fifteenth-century merchant’s house at the start of the High Street. The Glastonbury Lake Village Museum. We saw a bit of that at the Avalon Marshes Centre, but if you could bear to spend another hour or so on our ancient marsh dwellers …’

  ‘Not at all. I find it quite romantic, really. The idea of most of the Levels covered with water and just those few villages built up above the floods.’

  ‘Yes, well, if we have a repeat of the rains of last winter, we’ll be back to that way of living again.’

  As they moved away from the table, Veronica gathered up the tabloid with Joan’s photo-spread. ‘You know, I really ought to ring and congratulate her. She must be feeling so pleased, after all those frustrations.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Personally, I’ve had as much of the little madam as I want.’

  Hilary sauntered across the lobby and ascended the stairs. She was just opening the room door when Veronica caught up with her.

  ‘No joy, I’m afraid. She’s not answering her phone. Rather odd, in a way. You’d have thought she’d have been keen to field every call, in case it was another big offer for her pictures.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just you she isn’t picking up on. She’ll get your name on that little screen, won’t she? Sorry, I’m still a bit vague about how these things work.’

  ‘Yes. If she’s keyed in my number to her contacts, she should know it’s me ringing. Do you really think that? But I’ve done my best for her. Ringing her about George Marsden. If it hadn’t been for me, she wouldn’t have been in the High Street seconds after the bomb went off.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what she’s blaming you for. She could have been killed. And her big story never happened, did it?’

  ‘About the bombing, no. She did try to get another crack at George Marsden after the memorial service, but it all went haywire. He was making so much noise that all the other reporters came crowding round. They didn’t realize it was meant to be another of Joan’s exclusives.’

  ‘Hmm. In the end, I don’t think he had much to say, even if he does have a tendency to say it at the top of his voice. Right then, umbrellas at the ready. Glastonbury Lake Village Museum it is.’

  ‘I feel as though I should have brought my wellingtons.’

  As they set out through the drizzle, Hilary’s eyes were going ahead towards the High Street. It seemed odd to find it busy with morning traffic, with shoppers and sightseers on the pavement. The bomb-damaged houses ahead had been sheathed in green tarpaulins. Scaffolding gave access to workmen busy on repairs.

  ‘It’s good to see things getting back to normal,’ Veronica remarked. ‘Though I dare say there will be wounds that can’t be repaired that easily.’

  ‘It’s shaken me,’ Hilary admitted. ‘Last night, coming back up that street past the abbey grounds, I let myself get properly scared when I heard those footsteps behind us. And the assailant I feared turned out to be Sister Mary Magdalene, of all people. I must be getting neurotic in my old age.’

  For all her laughter, she could feel again how that sound in the thickening dusk had made her skin crawl. She was reminded, not for the first time, that the shocking events of the week had affected her more deeply than she liked to admit.

  In daylight, even on a dull damp morning, it was a pleasure to look down the road to the welcoming gateway of the abbey’s main entrance. She tried to picture the similar grey stone arch which led to the retreat house on the far side of the grounds, through which Sister Mary Magdalene had emerged last night.

  It was a pity they hadn’t known about Abbey House before. As Sister Mary Magdalene said, the retreat house m
ight have been a good place to stay, with access to the Abbey ruins after hours. She could have done with spending more time wandering round the remains of the magnificent medieval abbey, and imagining that older wattle church, dating back even earlier than the Saxons, and all the changing churches of the centuries which followed it.

  Her daydreams were broken by Veronica’s cry. ‘What’s happening? Hilary! Something’s wrong.’

  They had reached the market place, not far from the museum. Hilary followed Veronica’s eyes back down the road that led to the abbey. Only a short way down it, there was a sudden flux of people out of the gateway on to the pavement. From their body language, it was evident that something dramatic had happened. Hilary’s mind snapped back to the reality of the present.

  ‘That’s the entrance to the abbey!’

  Even as they watched, more people were being shepherded out to form a sizeable crowd on the street. She could make out the dark bulk of a uniformed police officer. She had hardly spotted him before the air was rent by the wail of emergency sirens. Two police cars tore down the High Street and rounded the corner by the market place. Seconds later, an ambulance followed. The crowd at the entrance parted hastily to let them through. All three vehicles disappeared into the abbey grounds.

  Hilary felt a cold sinking of her heart. ‘Dear God! What now?’

  Veronica was striding ahead, past the pillared market cross, to reach the fringes of the crowd on the pavement.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked the nearest person. ‘What’s happened? Is it another bomb?’

  The harassed-looking man in the wet anorak shook his head. He glanced down at the two young girls at his side, who were looking up at him in scared enquiry. ‘No. Nothing like that. Can’t really tell you what it was. We were too far away. Sounds as if they found someone in that big church thing. Someone must have phoned the police. Next thing we know, they’re herding us out of the gate. We’ve only been there twenty minutes. I hope they’re going to give us our money back.’