End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  Miss Bonaventure saw him set the book aside and closed her own book on her finger. “Not Stoker's best, I take it?” she asked, knowingly.

  Blank recovered himself and shook his head. “No, it's not that. Not to my personal tastes, perhaps, but for a reading public that hungrily devours the exploits of Varney and Sweeney Todd, I'm sure it will be quite appetizing. But I'm afraid that I find myself longing for the more dulcet arabasques of his earlier work. Did you ever read ‘The Crystal Cup’?”

  Miss Bonaventure shook her head.

  “Published in pamphlet form by the London society some years ago. A charming little dream fantasy, though, as Oscar later observed, it could have used quite a bit more fantasy and a touch less dream.”

  Miss Bonaventure raised her eyebrow, and Blank realized that he'd said more than he intended.

  “Wilde, do you mean?” she asked. “Oh, yes, he and Stoker were both betrothed to the same woman, weren't they? At different times, of course.”

  Blank nodded. “And she's married to Stoker still, as I understand it.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Bonaventure mused. “You know, I've always wondered something and never thought to ask. I know that you've served as inspiration for fiction a time or two, with bowdlerized versions of your exploits finding their way into the work of Conan Doyle and Hal Meredith, but it's always seemed to me that there was a little something of you in Wilde's Dorian Gray.”

  Blank stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but managed to keep his expression neutral, only pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Really?”

  “Well, there's his surname, which is certain suggestive of your habitual shade.” She indicated his suit coat, vest, trousers, and hat, all of a uniform gray. “And the description of Gray's rooms is certainly reminiscent of your own in York Place. Come to think of it, you've both got locked rooms in your upper floors which you refuse to allow anyone to see.” She grinned. “Admit it, Blank. Do you have a portrait secreted away up there, which makes plain all the sins your smooth features conceal?”

  Blank knew she was only joking, but he couldn't help shifting uncomfortably on his seat. “My dear, I'm sure any portrait of me would be perfectly hideous in any event, without the addition of the marks of sin.”

  She playfully swatted his knee with her closed book. “There's a little too much of the dandy in your character for you to wear modesty easily, I'm afraid. But joking aside, you mention Wilde by his Christian name. Were you acquainted?”

  Blank's gaze slid to the corners of their compartment and found something of interest in the countryside streaming past their window. “We knew each other,” he said at length. “Distantly. For a time.”

  Miss Bonaventure took him at his word. With a shrug, she returned to her book, reading about the little girl who heard voices that drove her to do great things. Blank leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes, trying to forget that any such voices had ever existed.

  It was early afternoon when they arrived in Taunton, and after depositing their overnight bags at the inn where they'd secured rooms for the night, Blank and Miss Bonaventure made their way to Taunton Castle.

  On this site in the eighth century, or so the Anglo-Saxon chroniclers recorded, the Queen Etherlburge overthrew Taunton, which Ina had built. Later, in the twelfth century, Henry de Blois, the Bishop of Winchester and warlike brother of King Stephen, had constructed a mighty Norman fortress. The gatehouse with its drum towers was built at the close of the thirteenth under Edward I but restored with additions two centuries later in the days of James IV. In the civil war, it had been a stronghold of forces loyal to the Parliament, and in the aftermath of the Monmouth Rebellion of the late seventeenth, it had been the scene of many of the trials of the Bloody Assizes, when hundreds were sent to their deaths by Judge Jeffreys. There was some irony in the fact that, having been the site of so much history, it was only saved from destruction by the intervention of the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, who purchased it for use as their headquarters and to house the society's museum and library.

  Ivy had begun to creep up the castellated walls and turrets and left unchecked would cover the structure entirely.

  “After you, my dear,” Blank said, bowing and holding open the immense castle door. Miss Bonaventure gave him an abbreviated curtsey and stepped inside.

  It was cool within the walls of the great, tumbledown castle, and dark. That the society had been able to effect some repairs was evident, as was the fact that they had a great deal of work left to do. The most recent efforts seemed to have concentrated on the newly christened Somerset Room, formerly the great chamber of the castle, which was now crowded with display cases that lined the walls and dominated the floor, and hung with various and sundry antique battle flags. It was here that they found Arthur Bulleid in close conversation with Harold St. George Gray, who was introduced to them as the assistant to the notable Augustus Pitt Rivers, Britain's first Inspector of Ancient Monuments.

  The two men, Bulleid and Gray, both members of the society, were evidently planning a forthcoming archeological expedition to the nearby Somerset Levels which, while they were lowlands of moor and marsh in the modern day, in ancient times appeared to have been completely submerged for long periods of time. To the ancients, the hills and prominences of Somerset—Athelney, Brent Knoll, Glastonbury Tor—would have appeared to be islands, surrounded by waters that stretched all the way to the coast. It might have been possible, in fact, in a boat with a sufficiently shallow draw, to sail all the way from the open waters of the Atlantic to the middle of Somerset County.

  All of which was fascinating, Blank assured them, but unfortunately he and his associate Miss Bonaventure were somewhat pressed for time, and presently more concerned with those more recently deceased, rather than those who passed away millennia before.

  Gray and Bulleid were somewhat humbled, especially considering that the dead man had been their acquaintance, if not perhaps a close friend. The victim in question had been a man named Wilford McCall, who had been employed as a custodian of Taunton Castle by the society. To all appearances, McCall had interrupted the killer in the act of robbing the castle, though when the premises were searched the following morning it appeared that nothing had been stolen but a report concerning a recent archeological dig on Glastonbury Tor.

  Blank raised an eyebrow. “But you say that the body wasn't found until morning?”

  The two men nodded.

  “What were McCall's normal hours of employment?” he asked.

  Gray replied that McCall's schedule was somewhat flexible, but that he was never known to miss a last jar at the Tudor Tavern public house over on Fore Street. Never before that night, of course.

  “So if McCall came upon the killer in the course of his usual rounds, it would have been sometime in the evening, at the latest? In which case the murder would have occurred well before midnight, and the killer would have had the free run of the castle until the morning.”

  The two men allowed that Blank's assessment seemed reasonable.

  Blank looked around the Somerset Room. The antiquities on display, while none of them priceless, included bits of gold and silver, diamond and emerald, any one of which would have been worth any thief's time to pick up and pocket. And yet they all had been left unmolested.

  “Gentlemen,” Blank said with a smile, “I wonder if you couldn't tell me everything, absolutely everything, that you know about this archeological dig on Glastonbury Tor.”

  The facts were simple. For most of the decade, Arthur Bulleid had been involved in an ongoing excavation of Glastonbury Lake Village. Late the previous year, he had visited a dig being carried out on Glastonbury Tor by one Peter R. Bonaventure. Assisted only by a man named Dulac, Bonaventure was investigating ancient legends of Gwynn, son of Nudd, which he proposed had some origin in historical fact. Excavating not far from the ruins of St. Michael's Church, at the Tor's summit, Professor Bonaventure failed to substantiate his claim, t
he labor of weeks producing only some evidence of ancient sub-Roman fortifications dating to the early sixth century. His only discovery of note was a crystal, perhaps some type of milky quartz, which had been carved in the shape of a slightly tapering cylinder, giving it almost the appearance of a cup or chalice, though solid throughout. Whether it was of some ritual significance, or simply an ancient objet d'art, was unknown, but hardly seemed of monumental significance.

  On completing his excavations, Professor Bonaventure filed a report with the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, at Bulleid's request, and then he and his man returned to London, taking their crystal oddity with them.

  That night, Blank and Miss Bonaventure dined at the inn in Taunton. They were eager to return to London but had missed the last train and so had to remain in town as they'd originally intended.

  “Tell me, Miss Bonaventure,” Blank said while their bowls of soup cooled. “Is this namesake of Bulleid's report any relation, do you suppose?”

  She paused for a moment, her expression unreadable. “I don't recall any ‘Peter’ around the family table at the holidays, I'm afraid.”

  Blank nodded. “Ah, well, I suppose it would be one connection too many in an investigation that has already produced more that I find seemly. We now have Arthur Bulleid to add to Arthur Carmody…”

  “To say nothing of Arthur Pendragon,” Miss Bonaventure put in.

  “Quite so. Too many Arthurs around, if you ask me.” He sipped at his soup and made a face. “And not enough cooks.”

  “I think you're conflating the line about cooks in kitchens and Indians and chiefs.” Miss Bonaventure sampled her own soup, and pulled a face of her own. “But I don't think you're far wrong.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  “I can't help but wonder if the fare at the Tudor Tavern might not be an improvement.”

  “It could hardly be a declination.”

  “Come along then,” Blank said, pushing back his chair and then stepping around to offer Miss Bonaventure his arm. “And on the way, I'd like to find a bookshop still open, if possible. I want to see if we can find anything concerning the legends this Professor Bonaventure was investigating.”

  So it was that a short while later the two sat opposite one another across a pitted and ancient table, rougher but far more palatable fare on the platters before them, studying the books they had bought.

  “Here it is,” Miss Bonaventure said, flipping through the pages of Lady Guest's translation of The Mabinogion, while Blank contentedly chewed a hunk of fish. “In the tale of ‘How Culhwch won Olwen,’ our boy is mentioned thusly: ‘Gwynn son of Nudd, in whom God has set the energy of the demons of Annwvyn, in order to prevent the destruction of this world, and Gwynn cannot be let loose.’”

  Blank washed his fish down with a gulp of porter and leaned over to see the passage for himself. “Now, that is interesting. I can only imagine that Annwvyn is the same as Lady Priscilla's Annwn.”

  “The Unworld,” Miss Bonaventure translated.

  “The very same.”

  “And I've found another mention here, in a footnote. Lady Guest reports that, according to legend, St. Collen, the seventh-century Abbot of Glastonbury, once ‘heard two men conversing about Gwynn ab Nudd, and saying that he was king of Annwn and of the Fairies.’ He admonished these men, who said that Collen would soon receive a reproof from Gwynn. Three times a messenger came to Collen and summoned him to come and speak with Gwynn at ‘the top of the hill,’ by which I suppose she means the Tor. On the third visit, Collen agreed to go. Our boy Collen is no fool, though, and takes holy water along in a flask, just in case. On reaching the top of the hill, he finds himself in the fairest castle he had ever beheld, amidst all sorts of music and song. There is a man at the top of the castle in a golden chair, the king, Gwynn himself, who tempts Collen with all manner of treats, but Collen refuses them all. Then, and this is the interesting bit, Gwynn asks him whether he has ever seen ‘men of better equipment than those in red and blue?’ Which men these are, and precisely what is their equipment of red and blue, Lady Guest doesn't report. Collen then responds that ‘their equipment is good enough, for such equipment as it is.’ The king asks ‘What kind of equipment is that?’ whereupon Collen proves to be a poor guest. Here's how the translator puts it.”

  Miss Bonaventure sipped at her jar of ale, and then read aloud.

  “Then said Collen, ‘The red on the one part signifies burning, and the blue on the other signifies coldness.’ And with that Collen drew out his flask, and threw the holy water on their heads, whereupon they vanished from his sight, so that there was neither castle, nor troops, nor men, nor maidens, nor music, nor song, nor steeds, nor youths, nor banquet, nor the appearance of any thing whatever, but the green hillocks.”

  “Hmm,” Blank hummed. He held aloft the book he'd been perusing, a slim volume on the folk tales of the British Isles. “It's here recorded that in Welsh legend this selfsame Gwynn is sometimes said to be the leader of the Wild Hunt and master of the Cwn Annwyn. What are the Cwn Annwyn, you might well ask? The hounds of Annwn, of course, a pack of snow white, red-eared spectral hounds who, with their master Gwynn, lead the souls of the damned to hell. It is said that they are accompanied by a howling wind and that their baying has the sound of migrating wild geese.”

  “More Unworld, then,” Miss Bonaventure said thoughtfully.

  “More connections. But like our surfeit of Arthurs, to say nothing of our mbarrassment of Bonaventures, I'm not sure what our surplus of Unworld references tells us.” He flipped through the pages of his book of British folk tales. “The more I read about this business, the less sense it makes. This Gwynn is the son of Nudd. Is that the same as Lady Priscilla says is cognate with Nuada and Lugh and a host of others? And these so-called hounds of the Unworld are in English folklore often called the Gabriel Hounds or Ratchets, and their master, the Wild Huntsman himself, is not always Gwynn, but is alternatively identified as Gabriel, Herne, Bran, or even Arthur.”

  “Another link between Bran and Arthur, I suppose.”

  Blank set the book aside, wearing an expression of distaste.

  “Wait a moment!” Miss Bonaventure raised a finger, an idea creeping. “Weren't there white dogs with red ears in a story of Poe's?” She chewed her lip, searching her memory. “Arthur Gordon…” She trailed off, struggling.

  “Arthur Gordon Poe?” Blank asked.

  “No, don't be silly. Edgar Alan Poe. And Arthur Gordon…Pym! That's it. The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.” She thought a moment, and her smile of victory faded. “But no, now that I think of it, those were actually white creatures with red nails, and teeth I suppose, not ears.”

  “Well,” Blank said with a shrug, “I can't imagine how it would have made a difference.” Exasperated, he shoved the books to one side with a sweep of his arm. “I can't imagine how any of this makes any difference. Unless our Jubilee Killer is motivated by mad flights of fancy which derive from these same dusty myths.”

  Miss Bonaventure fixed him with a level stare, and without a trace of humor in her tone, said, “What makes you think he isn't?”

  THE GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL, it turned out, wasn't in Glastonbury at all, but in Pilton, six miles to the east, on the A361. Whatever that was.

  They had to park the Corvette a million miles away and walk, so that even though they'd arrived in late afternoon, by the time they got to the front gate it was early evening. There were a few dozen other latecomers at the gate, and like them the security guys tried to turn Alice and Stillman away, seeing as they didn't have tickets and the event had long since sold out.

  Stillman just pulled out his blank badge and calmly explained the situation to the security guys, and before Alice knew it, they were being ushered through the gate, given their own personal escort to the VIP backstage area.

  Whatever else happened, whatever her special destiny turned out to be, Alice was sure of one thing. She just had to get Stillman to
teach her that trick.

  Alice had asked why Stillman was sure that this Aria Fox would be found backstage. Stillman had just explained that Aria, in his experience, was hardly the sort to be out front with the groundlings. Alice hadn't been sure what he meant.

  Now she understood.

  This wasn't like Lollapalooza turned up to eleven. This was like Lollapalooza turned up to a hundred, multiplied times the X Games, and divided by Woodstock 99. It was immense.

  There was a field of tipis. Another that seemed to be nothing but mud. There were shelters and temporary buildings and trailers and outhouses. And people. Thousands and thousands and thousands of people. And the noise. Multiple stages, music coming from all angles, people shouting and singing and carrying on.

  Their escort was leading them towards an enormous pyramid-shaped stage. Some ways off, in front of the stage, was a tower of scaffolding for speakers or control booths or something, and between the two was a solid mass of people, with more spread out over the immense field around and behind the tower. In the distance, miles away, just barely visible in the fading light, Alice could see a smooth hill with a stone tower on top. It looked like something out of King Arthur days. A princess trapped on top of that would have to grow her hair for a good long while to make an escape, that was for sure.

  The backstage area was behind the stage, naturally, safely buffered from the crowded of sweaty, blissed-out attendees. This was a different sort of crowd, to be sure. Some of them may have been the boyfriends and girlfriends of the various bands playing the festival, but most looked like bankers slumming on the weekend, or movie and television people. Suits, in a word, even if they were dressed more casually. Stillman, who looked old enough to be the father of any of them, and claimed he was old enough to be their grandfather, slid through the crowd like he was born to it.