The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

  Part of her mind was protesting that she was betraying Mel and her grandfather. Through her rear-view mirror she could see Rupert Honeydew getting back into his car. He was reversing, to take a wider turn into the gateway. Surely he wouldn’t risk doing anything to Mel now that he had been seen approaching the farm?

  She thought of the unexpected hatred she had seen in his eyes on Glastonbury Tor. Rupert Honeydew was the bomber. She had no idea what he might do next.

  She had barely brought her mind back to the road ahead when she was aware of a column of cars racing towards them. Police cars, sirens wailing, lights flashing. An unmarked car she hoped was DI Fellows and the redoubtable DS Petersen. She found herself relishing the idea of the sergeant clapping handcuffs on Rupert Honeydew. She drew over to the verge and glided to a stop.

  ‘Thank the Lord!’ she said. ‘They were quick.’

  They were too far away to make out what was happening behind them at the gate. There was a knot of vehicles there. Hilary lowered the car window. There was no sound of sirens now. If a car was making its way down the track to the farm, it was doing it without fanfare.

  ‘We ought to go back,’ she said. ‘Who knows what Mel may do if she feels cornered. Let alone her grandpa with that gun.’

  ‘Hilary, it’s out of our hands now. Mel’s a criminal, however sorry we may feel for her.’

  ‘The Chalice Well bomb didn’t go off.’

  ‘We’ve only her word for it that she had nothing to do with the one that did.’

  ‘I believed her. I thought you did.’

  ‘All I know for sure is that she’s terrified. Of Rupert Honeydew. Of what she might be blamed for. Or of what she’s done?’

  ‘It’s too late, anyway. Fellows will be there by now.’

  She sat there for a long while. Then she sighed, wound up the window and drove on.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Detective Chief Superintendent Janet Allenby had dyed blonde hair that did not quite cover the grey roots. Not for her a screened-off cubicle in the church hall. She had taken over a smaller room at the back of the building. She steepled her hands and looked at Veronica and Hilary with steely eyes.

  ‘I suppose you think I should commend you for leading us to Melanie Fenwick and Rupert Honeydew. But may I remind you that this is not a game. We are dealing with some ruthless people here. People who have not hesitated to kill.’

  ‘Not Mel,’ Hilary objected. ‘I’m sure she believed him when he told her that the Chalice Well bomb wouldn’t go off. And it didn’t.’

  ‘But the second one in the High Street did. Whether she planted it or not, Rupert Honeydew is the one you should have feared. He now knows that it was you who turned him in.’

  ‘But you’ve got him in custody?’ Veronica’s cry of surprise was close to a question.

  ‘For the moment, yes. But I’ll be honest with you. All we have at present is Melanie Fenwick’s evidence against him. And that only relates to the Chalice Well. Hearsay, his lawyers will argue. And anything else is pure speculation. If we can’t find any stronger proof, we may have to let him go.’

  ‘But you’re searching his house?’ Hilary demanded. ‘You’ll find evidence there, won’t you? You can’t go around assembling bombs without leaving traces. And what about the terrorism laws? You can stretch a point with those, can’t you?’

  ‘Mr Honeydew strikes me as a clever man. It would not surprise me if the evidence is somewhere else. I don’t want to alarm you, but I would still recommend that you leave this town in the next twenty-four hours.’

  ‘We plan to, anyway. But are you saying that if he can’t be proved to be responsible for the High Street bomb you’re unable to protect us from someone you know to be a killer?’

  ‘That’s just the point, Mrs Masters. We don’t know he’s the High Street bomber. Even Miss Fenwick couldn’t testify to that. She just assumes he is, because of the first bomb. All any of us has is a gut feeling. While that remains the case, all our efforts have to go into finding who did bomb the Spiritual Sphere. Yes, we’ll keep a discreet watch on Mr Honeydew, but we can’t afford you twenty-four-hour protection. I think it’s best if you quietly disappear and don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Except us, of course. It would have been a great deal better if you had left it to DI Fellows to question Miss Fenwick at Straightway Farm.’

  She sat back in her chair, indicating that the interview was over.

  Veronica and Hilary threaded their way through the hall. It was as active as ever, with officers busy at computers, wall charts and telephones. But Hilary detected a feeling of weariness. They had been working flat out for much of the week.

  Out on the street, Hilary grumbled, ‘What beats me is how Rupert Honeydew knew where we were. I’m sure he wasn’t following us. We’d been at the farm quite some time before he turned up. So how did he know where Mel was hiding? Her mother certainly didn’t tell him, by the sound of it. She seemed more likely to send him away with a flea in his ear.’

  ‘It might have been one of Mel’s friends. That Fran she mentioned. The one whose mother’s cancer went into remission after she drank the Chalice Well water and they danced for her. If she was besotted with him, she might have told him that Mel was close to her grandfather and pointed him to the farm.’

  Hilary shook off a shiver. ‘That DCS is right. I don’t like the thought of Honeydew out on the streets again. He has to be the High Street bomber, evidence or not. And even if he isn’t, he glared enough hatred at us to curdle milk.’

  They found themselves walking back along the High Street, which was gradually coming back to something like normality, in a more subdued way. Tarpaulins still shrouded the most damaged buildings.

  ‘We seem to have missed lunch, what with all the excitement,’ Veronica remarked.

  ‘I could murder a sandwich.’

  ‘We could go back to the Copper Kettle.’ Veronica paused as she saw Hilary’s face. ‘Or perhaps not. Too close to where the bomb went off.’

  ‘You could say that. Every time I look at the damage I think about that poor boy Baz. Whether he’s died. Whether he’s come round enough to be questioned. Whether he did have anything to do with the bomb. Sonia Marsden’s shaken my faith in Amina. Could I be wrong about Baz too?’

  ‘If they’ve arrested Rupert Honeydew, it should mean the police think Baz is innocent, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘They’ve nothing to connect Honeydew with the big bomb. And since we don’t know why they suspected Baz in the first place, I can’t answer that.’

  They found a pleasantly historical-looking hostelry which offered comfortable easy chairs in the bar. Hilary ordered a plate of barbecued chicken sandwiches with lime pickle and a pot of Earl Grey tea.

  ‘Will you excuse me a moment while I make a phone call?’ Veronica asked.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  While Veronica was gone, Hilary sank back into the upholstery, feeling the energy drain out of her.

  Her companion was quickly back.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Hilary asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘I hope they go easy on Mel. It can’t have been easy to confess what she did. Little idiot!’

  ‘She should have spoken up straight away. After the High Street bomb went off.’

  ‘You’ve got more judgemental over your three chicks.’

  ‘Not Amina. I don’t buy the idea that she bombed the High Street and then committed suicide in the abbey.’

  There was an awkward silence. Hilary put down her half-eaten sandwich.

  ‘Where does she fit into all this?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. All we know is that we last saw her following Rupert Honeydew to Glastonbury Tor. Maybe she got too close. Found out things she wasn’t meant to. Busily scribbling them down in the little notebook of hers.’

  ‘But what became of the burka? We still don’t know whether the killer removed it, or whether she went out later without it.’

  ‘We’re probably never
likely to.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pessimist, Veronica. If the police solve the bombings, it’s pretty sure to lead them on to Amina’s murderer. I can’t believe they’re not related.’

  Veronica sipped her tea. ‘It’s out of our hands now. Which reminds me, we haven’t decided where we’re going to stay tomorrow night.’

  ‘Do we need to? We’re free agents. We can just take off and stop wherever we fancy. Come to think of it, that might be better. Forgive me if I sound paranoid, but the Detective Chief Superintendent might be better pleased if we didn’t leave any clues.’

  Veronica’s shoulders twitched in distaste. ‘I wish I could be sure that what we did wasn’t enough to bring down Rupert Honeydew’s revenge on us. It all sounds a bit melodramatic, but …’

  ‘But he’s a melodramatic character. With a streak of nastiness underneath. And if it hadn’t been for us, Mel might not have shopped him.’

  They finished their sandwiches in silence. Hilary was just pouring herself a second cup of tea when the door of the bar swung violently open and a dishevelled figure burst on the scene. She threw her arms around Veronica and hugged her.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough! I’ve sold the story! That’s a second exclusive in a week!’

  The back of the brown cardigan and the mousy hair told Hilary that this whirlwind was Joan Townsend. Only this morning, she had feared that it might be Joan who was dead. It was odd to remember that pang of compassion now. The reporter was very much alive.

  Hilary watched them both blankly. Veronica emerged from the embrace, her face oddly flushed.

  ‘It was only a little thing, but I thought it might help.’

  ‘Veronica Taylor,’ Hilary demanded, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘Well, it’s bound to come out soon, isn’t it? I just thought Joan might get ahead of the pack.’

  ‘What is bound to come out?’

  ‘That Rupert Honeydew’s been arrested.’

  Joan swung round, her eyes shining. ‘It all fits in with my story about black magic on the Tor. Rupert Honeydew! I mean, what editor could resist a character like that! Veronica, I’m going to buy you the biggest bouquet of flowers you ever saw. You’ve no idea what they’re paying me!’

  ‘I’m glad it worked out,’ Veronica said primly. ‘Well done.’

  Joan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it true that the body they found in the abbey is that Muslim girl?’

  Veronica drew a breath, then caught Hilary’s eyes and hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you about that.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll find out soon.’

  The young journalist swept out of the room on a cloud of euphoria.

  ‘Veronica. I can’t believe you did that,’ Hilary said.

  The blush had not quite receded from Veronica’s cheeks. ‘It’s been such a dreadful week. I wanted something good to come out of it. You can see how delighted she is.’

  ‘Little ghoul. But, in spite of myself, I’m glad she’s still alive. Still, I shudder to think what DI Fellows is going to say about this. Let alone his Chief Superintendent. They’re bound to know it was us. Well, you.’

  ‘Don’t begrudge Joan her moment of glory, Hilary. She’s had enough disappointments.’

  ‘Hmm! If the police have decided not to release Honeydew’s name, there’s going to be hell to pay. It’s just as well we’re leaving tomorrow.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  They negotiated the narrow stretch of the High Street where scaffolding allowed builders to work on the shattered shop front. For some distance around it, the pavement and the surface of the road had been pockmarked by the force of the flying debris. Hilary recalled lying face down in the midst of that storm. It could have been so much worse. She or Veronica might have been one of those seven dead, or gravely injured, like Baz.

  She was brought back to the present by Veronica saying, rather doubtfully, ‘Do you still want to see the Glastonbury Lake Village Museum? We’re almost there. We were on our way there this morning, you remember. Only … poor Amina!’

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve rather gone off sightseeing. I thought I might drop into the church and say a prayer for her.’

  They walked on in silence for a little way. They were approaching the churchyard of St John the Baptist. It was quiet this afternoon, not like the crowded memorial service.

  ‘That sprig of Thorn in her hand, what do you think that was all about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Hilary said. ‘Did she pick it herself, or did someone put it into her hand after she was dead? Either way, it must have significance, either for her, or for them.’

  ‘There are a lot of legends around the Thorn. It’s the sort of thing that would have appealed to Amina, all that folklore tradition.’

  ‘Or was the killer making some sort of statement?’

  ‘Whichever it was, they probably picked it from the tree in St John’s churchyard. I rather fancy having a look at it myself.’

  ‘Don’t you think Inspector Fellows will have had the same idea already? I doubt that you’ll be able to get anywhere near the Thorn. They’ll be looking for evidence. Footprints, or whatever. Maybe a thread of clothing caught on a thorn.’

  ‘You’re right. Damn.’

  As they drew level, they saw what the tall Celtic cross war memorial had hidden from them until now. Blue-and-white police tape lined the path up to the church door. On either side of it, police officers in regulation overalls were combing the grass between the few remaining gravestones. Hilary and Veronica stopped to look.

  ‘The Thorn tree’s set rather back from the road, behind that bigger tree,’ Veronica mused. ‘It would have been in shadow at night.’

  ‘So what was Amina doing here after dark? It must have been at night, mustn’t it? Or if she wasn’t killed here, it must have been in the abbey grounds. How did she get in? And why?’

  ‘Maybe she had an assignment to meet someone,’ Veronica suggested.

  ‘Or she was stalking someone, and got caught.’

  ‘That would explain the lack of a burka, wouldn’t it? She must have thought that if anyone saw her, it would be all too obvious who she was, dressed like that. But a young woman in black jacket and leggings … She could have been anybody.’ She paused. ‘But what about her religious scruples?’

  ‘She was an intelligent young lady,’ Hilary answered. ‘She made a conscious decision to adopt strict Islamic dress. She could just as well have made the decision to abandon it for one night. She wouldn’t have expected anyone to see her, if it was really late.’

  ‘But who was she meeting … or following?’

  ‘If they’ve been clever enough, we may never know.’

  They walked up the churchyard path, between the lines of tape. To their right, there was a curious labyrinth marked out by stones in the grass. Hilary stopped to study it.

  ‘It’s meant as a means of meditation. Walking the labyrinth. But I can’t help being reminded that the path around the Tor is also supposed to be a maze.’

  The nearest two police officers lifted their heads from their search and watched them enter the church.

  In the south transept of the spacious interior, tea-lights burned on a stand in memory of the dead. Hilary walked slowly forward and lit another. Her mind silently framed a prayer for Amina.

  She sat in a pew trying to calm her thoughts. Veronica wandered a little further away, looking thoughtfully up at the stained-glass windows and carvings. Then she chose another pew and did the same.

  Hilary’s mind told over all the troubled people she had encountered this week. Mel and Beth at the gift shop. What was happening to Mel now? Was she in custody? Sonia and George Marsden. She had taken a dislike to them, but she had seen a different face to Sonia today. And what had George actually done? Just ranted because the world was not as he wanted it to be. Joan Townsend, desperate for success. Rupert Honeydew. He was harder to pray for. She still remembered the malignant look in his eyes.

  The
n the lives shattered by the bomb. The injured. The grieving relatives of the dead. Those who had, at least temporarily, lost their homes. Baz. Why were the police mounting a guard over him? What was it she didn’t know?

  And now Amina. Clever, righteous Amina, defying the norms of the society around her for her faith. But still engaged in the world of academic research and pursuing with enthusiasm the project she had set her heart on … until now. Just when and how had her life ended? It had to be Wednesday night. She had been missing for more than twenty-four hours before Hilary and Veronica had called at her digs. The night Rupert Honeydew and his masked crew had wound their way through the streets under the full moon. Hilary and Veronica had followed them. They had seen no sign of Amina then, but they had been looking for a woman in a burka. Amina could have slipped by them in her leather jacket and they would never have guessed.

  Or had she been watching the dance from here, on the raised graveyard of St John the Baptist? Hidden by that spreading tree? Only a few steps away from the Glastonbury Thorn.

  She shuddered. Had someone seen her, and had reason to fear her presence? It would only have taken a few seconds for one of those masked men – Hilary was almost sure they had been men – to leap through those sculpted pillars at the gate and deal with her. Had Amina retreated in fear, grasping the Thorn in the last moments of her life?

  Hilary sighed. But what had happened in the intervening day and night? Why had a second morning dawned before Amina’s body had been found in the corner of the Galilee of the abbey church?

  She got up. There was no way she was going to find the answers to these questions. She would have to leave it to the police. Only when she turned to go, and Veronica silently rose from her pew to join her, did they see that a policewoman was watching them from the back of the church.

  ‘There’s nothing left for us to do,’ Veronica said. ‘I’m beginning to think we should have left when we told our families we would.’

  ‘Inspector Fellows asked us to stay around. He seems to think we might still have information he needs. I wish to God we did, but I can’t imagine what it is.’