by Joan Lambert
Laura winced. It seemed impossible to escape the issues that took so much of her time and attention. Everywhere she turned some poor woman was being abused, which spoke volumes about the extent of the problem.
“Spousal abuse is a terrible problem,” she agreed, “and not just in that culture. It’s everywhere, I’m afraid. I’m a researcher in the field, so I understand.”
Relief flooded the woman’s face. “Oh, I am glad I told you, then. You’ll know what to do, how to help her. Poor woman, she looks so exhausted all the time.”
“I’ll do my best,” Laura promised, but she left the store feeling oppressed. She had no idea what resources were available to the mother in England. Then she realized that the police would know. She could report the spousal abuse problem when she signed her statement, and leave the rest to them.
********************
Feeling a little lighter in spirit when she had accomplished that unpleasant task, Laura hurried to rejoin the group. She found them gazing up at Bath’s most famous buildings, a crescent of impressive white homes that overlooked the city. Once again, she tried to concentrate as Elise provided background, but even as she surveyed the gleaming facades, Laura was conscious of a slight prickling in her back, as if someone were watching her. Twice, she turned to look behind her, but no one was visible.
Angry with herself for being so easily distracted, Laura pulled out her camera to take pictures of the various sights Elise was describing. Mrs. Takara seemed amused by her belated desire for a photo and snapped a picture of her taking a picture. No doubt she would giggle over it as she showed it to relatives, Laura thought indulgently. The silly American lady who never remembered to bring out her camera must be quite a novelty.
Still giggling, Mrs. Takara turned her camera on other members of the group who were taking pictures. Laura shook her head, wondering what could possibly be so funny about other people taking pictures. Violet seemed less amused, and turned her back as the ubiquitous camera pointed in her direction.
“Rather an idiot, isn’t she?” she grumbled to Laura. “I hate having my picture taken, and I can’t help wondering what they get out of all this. How can anyone see anything when they only look through a lens?”
Laura looked at her in surprise. Violet had struck her as imperturbable. Perhaps, though, the ever-present cameras and jostling hordes of visitors who kept snapping away at them got on the nerves of English people.
“Where do you come from, Violet?” she asked, aware that she knew very little about Violet except her name and occupation.
“Oh, here and there,” Violet responded casually. Laura gave her an exasperated look and waited.
Violet laughed, her good humor restored. “Actually, that’s true,” she replied. “I grew up in Scotland in a town no one has ever heard of, but I’ve moved about a lot since then. France for a while, then London and a few other European cities – all too busy and noisy for me. I’ve done stints in Ireland and, as I said, Saudi Arabia.”
“Is all the travel job-related?” Laura asked curiously.
“Almost all job related,” Violet replied. “My field is languages – I just have an ear for them I guess - and I can get along in quite a few. A lot of what I do is translating at conferences. Basically, I go wherever people will hire me.”
Laura was fascinated and wanted to know more, but just then a sleek minibus pulled up and Alan Mansfield jumped out.
“Off to Glastonbury,” he announced. “All bags loaded, never fear,” he reassured the worried looking Japanese couple. “Our fine driver, Abdul, takes care of the baggage. First, we will go to the Glastonbury Tor, a local landmark, then into the town. It’s a place you have to take in through all your senses – ears and nostrils as well as eyes.”
“All that pot swirling around,” Violet quipped, and everyone laughed.
Alan laughed with them. “Could be,” he agreed. “Still, there’s a more serious side to the town. It is reputed to be the birthplace of Christianity, and those marvelous Avalon and Arthur legends may be based on more than fantasy. I like to think so, anyway.”
Laura saw the silhouette of the Glastonbury Tor, a steep conical hill above the town, long before they reached it. Smooth and green, it rose against the blue backdrop of the sky like a child’s drawing of a hill. All the land around it was flat – the Somerset Levels, Alan called them, which had long ago been flooded. That was why the area was known as the Isle of Avalon. It really had been an island in the past, and the legends that had built up around it were based on that reality. Avalon was the Celtic paradise, where fruits and vegetables grew in abundance, and fairies lived.
Arthur, king of the Celts, was brought here on a barge as he lay dying from a mortal wound, Laura remembered. She could imagine the boat making its way through the mists to the island while the women wept and called upon the Lady of the Lakes to help them in their time of need. Arthur had been buried in Glastonbury, believers said, though other more cynical historians thought the monks had started the rumor to attract pilgrims and money so they could rebuild their Abbey, which had been gutted by fire. Whatever their motives, they succeeded, and the resulting edifice was reputed to have been one of the finest in the medieval world.
The bus came to a stop half-way up the Tor, and they climbed the rest of the way. Laura lingered to study the intricate terracing on its steep sides, which was thought by many scholars to be the remains of a three-dimensional labyrinth created by Neolithic people to honor the Goddess. It seemed to her that she could almost see the long lines of worshippers stepping carefully along the sacred ceremonial way, their arms raised in reverence. It made a haunting picture.
They went into Glastonbury next. Laura didn’t notice an unusual scent, but the town did have a looser, more flowing feeling than other English towns she had visited, which showed most in the women’s clothing. Instead of the jeans or neat suits favored elsewhere, many women here wore layers of dingy and rather bedraggled skirts topped by shawls, and had clogs on their feet. Their hair was part well-tangled dread-lock, part braids so fat and heavy they looked unreal.
Either they all had exceptionally thick hair or they had hairpieces woven in, Laura thought skeptically. Still, they looked healthy and happy. Many had a plump, contented baby on their chest or back, African style, and another trotting beside them; often a third skipped ahead. The small groups made their way haphazardly along the street, stopping every few moments to chat with acquaintances or shopkeepers.
It was refreshing, she mused, this gathering of women who had reverted to an almost tribal way of life. Far better than so many of the women she knew, segregated in their separate suburban houses or dashing frantically from house to job.
“Maybe I should get a long skirt and a pair of clogs, too,” she remarked to Violet as they sat down at a sidewalk cafe table and ordered lunch. “My hair would do that all on its own if I let it.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Violet confessed, “until I looked over there.”
Laura followed her gaze and saw two young people slumped against the side of a building, each holding a begging cup. Their eyes were lifeless, glazed over with an absence of emotion she couldn’t imagine. Was this the fate of the happy, rosy-cheeked kids she had just seen?
“At least there’s a cure here for every ailment, of the mind as well as the body,” she murmured to Violet as she ran her eyes along the row of tiny stores across the street. Crystal shops and psychics abounded; other shops offered treatments from herbs and scents to yoga, to more esoteric practices of which Laura had never heard.
Her attention was diverted by Dr. Bernstein and Claudine, who were arguing in front of a sign that advertised a psychic called Elena. Dr. Bernstein started up the stairs to the psychic’s room, but Claudine pulled at his arm to keep him from going. Dr. Bernstein shrugged her off and went up anyway.
Claudine stared after him angrily; then she stomped into a nearby store. When she came out again about half an hour later clutching a
big shopping bag, her face was so downcast that Laura felt sorry for her. The least she could do was to ask Claudine to join them for some tea or coffee.
Laura rose and hovered at the edge of the narrow street, waiting for a car to pass so she could cross. At just that moment, she felt a strong push on her shoulder, and she was propelled into the path of the approaching car.
She stumbled, fighting for balance, lost the fight and fell heavily just as the car reached her. She saw the driver’s terrified eyes staring at her through the windscreen, but it was too late for him to stop, too late for her to crawl away.
Lurching into a tight, defensive ball, Laura tucked her head under her arms and tried to remember how to pray.
CHAPTER SIX
The car slammed on its brakes, slid sideways with a screech of tires, and missed her by inches. The driver’s face was a mask of horror. Then, as he watched Laura get shakily to her feet, apparently unharmed, his fear turned to anger.
“Look where you’re going! You’ll get yourself killed!” he yelled at her, and drove slowly away, shaking his head.
Laura looked down at her arms and legs, astonished that they were still there and that she could move them without pain. Maybe even an attempt to pray helped.
Alan Mansfield was suddenly beside her. He looked appalled, which wasn’t surprising. Having his customers run over wasn’t good for business. And then a large group of people was standing around her, gaping. Where had they all come from? Laura struggled to think coherently. Who had been nearby when she was pushed – or had she been pushed? Maybe someone had stumbled into her and sent her sprawling. The streets were thronged with people.
“Are you all right?” Alan asked.
“I’m fine,” Laura assured Alan. “Just a bit shaken.”
Mrs. Tamara’s wails distracted her. “It is my fault,” she moaned in her accented English. “My fault… I did not mean to bump into her only I was pushed and I could not stop…” She staggered to her husband and leaned miserably against him, but he shoved her away in disgust.
“Foolish woman,” he expostulated. “Foolish woman, to say such things!” He looked as if he was about to shake her or even slap her, and Alan Mansfield intervened.
“No harm done,” he assured Mrs. Takara, insinuating his tall body deftly between her and her husband. “I expect someone must have jostled you. Not your fault at all, I am sure. The streets are very crowded.”
Lady Longtree, who had been watching the scene with interest once her initial alarm faded, came over to Laura. “Are you all right, my dear? If you are, I shall take Mrs. Takara back to the bus and sit with her until the rest of you come. I might get her to talk, you know. Besides, my legs need a rest.”
Laura nodded, and the indomitable old lady gathered up the still moaning Mrs. Takara, to Alan’s obvious relief, and escorted her to the bus. Mr. Takara stared after them stoically, and then disappeared down a side street. Everyone watched him go, and in most faces Laura read disgust. Margaret’s face, however, twisted with intense loathing, and her eyes were almost murderous. Laura was astonished. She wouldn’t have thought Margaret capable of such hatred.
Violet touched her elbow. “How about another dose of the restorative cup before we head out?” she asked, her voice gruff with anxiety. “Or maybe I need one this time. You do have a way of attracting trouble.”
Laura agreed with relief. She badly wanted to sit down. “I can’t figure it out,” she grumbled to Violet. “Mrs. Takara isn’t tall enough to bump into my shoulder, so why did she say it was her fault? And anyway, it felt more like a shove.”
Violet paled. “Are you saying that it wasn’t an accident, that someone pushed you into the street deliberately?”
“It felt like that,” Laura conceded reluctantly, “although someone the right height could have bumped my shoulder by mistake. Did you see anything?”
“No, worse luck,” Violet replied gloomily. “A woman came and stood right in front of me exactly when you fell into the street and I couldn’t see past her. Still, what I did see was rather interesting.”
“What was that?”
“The person in front of me was one of the women with the long skirts and all those beads, except I got the distinct impression that she wasn’t a woman. I wish I knew who it was,” Violet went on in frustration, “but I couldn’t see the person’s face. He or she could easily have pushed you, though, and then melted back into the crowds.”
Laura stared at her. “But that is incredible! A man dressed like a woman? Why would anyone do that? And why push me?”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty obvious, I should think. Finding a baby in the Baths and taking it to the police has made you persona non gratis to someone.”
William appeared and took a seat beside them. “I saw her too, or him, I guess,” he announced laconically. “It was Dr. Bernstein. Or his lady double.”
“But that’s impossible,” Laura sputtered. “I saw him going up the stairs over there to visit that psychic.” She pointed to the doorway.
As if on cue, Dr. Bernstein emerged. His gloomy face looked less harrowed than it normally did, and Laura wondered what the psychic had told him until she remembered that according to William, Dr. Bernstein hadn’t talked to the woman at all. He had been busy attacking her. He might even have borrowed the psychic’s clothes for that purpose. He could have come back down the stairs as a woman, given her a shove, gone back up and put his own clothes on again, and reappeared exactly as he had.
To her astonishment, Dr. Bernstein came toward them with an expression that resembled eagerness. “Those people are really quite good,” he reported, sitting down beside Laura and turning his penetrating eyes full on her face. “She told me a number of things she could not have known except through some mystical source.”
“A crystal ball, no doubt?” Violet contributed sarcastically.
Dr. Bernstein shot her a hostile look. “Yes, she did have one as I recall,” he answered stiffly. “I don’t think they actually use them, except to help concentrate their attention on another reality they are seeing.
“More is out there than we understand,” he added portentously. “Yes, the world is filled with mysteries.”
Laura tried not to laugh. His German accent got stronger as the gravity of his words increased. It made him sound impossibly pompous – and gullible. Could a man like that really have attacked her only ten minutes ago?
“Has anyone seen my lovely wife?” Dr. Bernstein craned his neck up and down the streets, looking for her. “I must find her. The bus is in five minutes. She always forgets her watch, though I bought her a beautiful one last year.”
“I saw her in that shop some time ago,” Laura answered, pointing across the street. “She came out just before I tried to cross the street.” She said no more, wanting to test Dr. Bernstein. If he had been with the psychic all this time, he shouldn’t know anything about her near-accident.
Apparently he didn’t, since his only reaction was dismay at Claudine’s whereabouts. “I was certain she would be in one of those shops,” he lamented. “She is angry with me because I went to see that psychic, so now she will spend money, a good deal of money. It is her way. I do not try to stop her. That is a small price to pay for marital harmony, is it not?”
Quite a big price in this case, Laura suspected. The shopping bag in Claudine’s hand when she emerged from the shop had been very large.
Dr. Bernstein leaned closer. His balding head was right in front of Laura, and she noticed that it shone with perspiration, which was surprising since it was a cool day. Perhaps, after all, William was right. A wig might have made his head perspire like that.
“Do you not agree?” he demanded, turning his eyes full on her face again and stroking his beard rhythmically. Mesmerized by his intense gaze and the monotonous strokes, she could only nod mutely.
With a sigh, Dr. Bernstein rose to his feet. “Well, I shall start in that shop then. Goodbye, ladies. And William.” He no
dded politely and trotted away.
Laura grimaced. That little interchange hadn’t told her much – except that Dr. Bernstein was either a superb actor as well as an expert liar, or that William hadn’t seen him, or her, properly. But which version was correct?
She glanced at William. He seemed puzzled but not convinced by Dr. Bernstein’s performance. He also looked different today, she realized. His neatly combed hair was brown instead of purple, and his dark pants and striped shirt were quite conventional. The results were startling. He no longer looked like a teen-ager, but like a young professional. He seemed vaguely familiar like this, which Laura concluded was due to the fact that he now bore some resemblance to most other people.
He noticed her stare and grinned. “Don’t like to look like everyone else.” Laura laughed. In Bath, he went hippie; in Glastonbury, he did the opposite.
“I still think it was him,” William insisted. “I couldn’t see if he was the one who pushed you, but he was there. Or someone who looked just like him.”
“What I want to know,” Violet contributed, “is how he managed to disguise his beard.”
William regarded her in stupefaction. “Of course,” he exclaimed. “I knew something was missing; I just couldn’t think what it was. But it still looked just like him without the beard. Do you suppose it could be a fake, and he can take it off? I wear one sometimes. Prickles like crazy.”
“That’s possible,” Violet agreed, “though as you know, it takes a bit of time to clean up the face.”
“Yeah,” William agreed fervently. “That glue stuff is a pain to get off.”
“We still don’t know if anyone actually did push me, at least on purpose,” Laura reminded them. “Did either of you happen to notice who was nearby?”
William nodded and rattled off an answer. “Most of the tour members were. The Japanese couple was pretty close to you, though I don’t think she was close enough to do the job. That confession is nonsense. I’m pretty sure he was in front of her, so it could have been him - which may explain the confession, though why she would want to protect that creep is beyond me.”
