“I think you may have misunder—”
“And if that isn’t bad enough, Libra isn’t seen—if it’s seen at all, which I take leave to doubt—as a pair of scales the way everyone knows it. Oh, no. Not a balance, but a bird—a dove, for pity’s sake! And Cancer, the crab, is a boat—a boat! Why?”
“The tradition of the hobby-horse—”
“It’s all nonsense, I tell you!”
Octavia managed another smile. “But intriguing nonsense, wouldn’t you say? You’ve clearly read everything most thoroughly and found it all of interest, whether or not you agree with the ideas expressed. I hope you’re not going to ask for your money back. My second-hand section—”
“It’s not the money.” He waved a hand, winced, and scowled. “It’s the—the barefaced lunacy of the whole ridiculous concept that you peddle to unwary fools more easily gulled than I am! How you can sell this rubbish with a clear conscience, I don’t know.”
“I do sell other books.” Octavia likewise waved a hand. “For instance, there’s Richard Muir, Riddles In The British Landscape—it has a wonderful teddy-bear produced by using an Ordnance Survey map in just the same way as the Zodiac figures were found.”
“Supposedly found,” sniffed the middle-aged man, yet found himself following her across to the appropriate shelves. Miss Seeton, who could hardly regard it as eavesdropping when the conversation had been so very public, hid a smile. Miss Callender seemed to know exactly what she was doing. It was a pleasure to watch an expert at work.
“Or Lesley Vibert’s Tangled Tales: Fact Or Fiction? which has chapters both for and against the idea of Glastonbury Tor as an entrance to Annwn, the original Celtic underworld, and the Maltwood proposal that her Zodiac could have been the Cauldron of Wisdom before it became King Arthur’s Holy Grail.” Octavia pulled a third book from the stand. “And here’s The Secret Strength of Seven in which Septimus Hepton examines the relevance of the number of stars in the Plough, the days of the week, the five main planets with the sun and moon, and the supposedly druidic labyrinth that girdles the Tor with seven earthwork semi-circles—my goodness, only wait a couple of years for the seventh of July 1977 ...”
As she spoke she was piling books, one at a time, into the man’s fascinated hands, and he was not refusing them. Miss Seeton, similarly fascinated, continued to observe.
“This Tor,” the near-hypnotised customer managed to bring out, even as he accepted yet another title from Octavia and did no more than glance at the cover. “I’ve climbed it. If it’s so sacred and special in all this mythology of yours, why isn’t it right at the centre of the Zodiac Circle rather than out on the edge? Why’s the centre some place called Butleigh nobody’s ever heard of?”
“To keep it safe,” said Octavia, “until the time was right for the secret to be revealed. Which is where we—you—came in.” She retreated behind the counter and reached for the eight or ten books he carried, having refused not a single one. She nodded and smiled. “There are some well-reasoned arguments and counter-theories in all of those books, and if you want to make a detailed study of the subject I have plenty more, but they should be enough to be going on with. Shall I ring them up for you?”
Miss Seeton, an admiring observer, was not in the least surprised to see the hitherto testy customer leave Bedivere Books clutching a brown paper carrier containing a dozen expensive volumes, with another tissue flower in his hand.
Chapter Seven
Miss Seeton regarded Miss Callender with approval, even as the younger woman sank back on her chair to brush a hand across her forehead. The beads of her many long strings clattered together; the little bells of her necklace tinkled. Miss Seeton smiled.
“My dear, you are not exactly as you seem to be, are you?”
Octavia sat up, regarding her with a wary eye. “The flowers,” enlarged Miss Seeton. “The—forgive me—the language, or perhaps one should say jargon; the fancy dress. You have a part to play, and you play it very well.”
Octavia let out a long breath, glanced towards the door, saw no-one there, and laughed. “Don’t you dare let on to a soul, but you’re right. I’m a Callender, remember—Callender’s Coats, you may have seen the family shop in the High Street—but I didn’t want to go into the family business even though I seem to have inherited the family business brain. Tourists do expect the weird in Glastonbury, that’s why they come. As a born-and-bred local I’d hate to disappoint them, so you see it’s no more than good business sense to act the part. Which I try to do, and thank you for the compliment.”
Miss Seeton expressed genteel dismay at any hint of family discord, but Octavia was quick to reassure her.
“Oh, we all rub along pretty well together, but my brothers and sister are a lot older than me, and after college—I’m the only one who went—I thought I should try striking out on my own. My sister Val has, too. She works with wool—spinning, weaving.” She laughed again. “Valentine. She was born on the fourteenth of February.” She contemplated Miss Seeton with a twinkle, inviting her to share the little joke.
“Callender,” said Miss Seeton, after a pause. “Dear me, yes. And your brothers?”
“Crispin, whose birthday is the twenty-fifth of October. Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George! And Bill—definitely not William. He came at the end of the month, as they always do. New Year’s Eve, in fact. And I,” she prompted, “am Octavia ...”
Miss Seeton envisaged the year-at-a-glance page of her pocket diary. “The eighth of August?”
Octavia laughed again. “You can guess how the purists worry about me, the same way they do about poor Bill. They ask what the other seven are called, and get upset when I say I’m the youngest of four—but then, our whole family is used to explaining names. My cousin Susan, now. She’s asking to be called Brenda in future. Brenda means '‘sword’, and she’s trying to write a book on the Three Swords of King Arthur. She sees herself as a reincarnation of the Lady of the Lake, the one who presented him with Excalibur—only she calls it Caliburn.”
Miss Seeton’s interest had quickened at the mention of King Arthur—after all, was he not the reason for her visit to Glastonbury?—but she was puzzled. “My reading around the subject has not as yet been extensive,” she admitted, “but I never realised that Arthur had any sword other than Excalibur.”
“Oh, Susan—I mean, Brenda—has read all the texts and done a Katherine Maltwood, looking at maps and aerial photos and following roads and features in the landscape. She swears she’s found a giant sword nobody else knows about.” She smiled. “If you like I’ll show you, but cousin or not there’s no obligation to buy.”
Octavia moved to a shadowed corner, rummaged on the bottom shelf, and pulled out a handful of papers edge-stapled together. “She’s going to work up this little pamphlet into a full-sized book one day, she says.” She sighed. “How many times have I heard that! If I had a pound ... Still, I agreed to keep this in stock and tell people about it, and now I’ve told you.” She riffled through the dozen or so photocopied pages until she found a map. “Look at this. Near Taunton, that’s our county town, is a place called Thornfalcon. A falchion is a type of sword—and everyone knows about the Holy Thorn planted by Joseph of Arimathea when he came here after the Crucifixion. Our Susan looked for other places named Thorn and they lined up, as you see, pointing to the prehistoric Sweet Track the history people discovered just a few years ago. It’s the oldest wooden walkway in the world.”
Miss Seeton, accepting the photocopied pages, followed the line joining Thornfalcon with Thorngrove, and on towards the black-and-white line that was the disused railway. Doubtfully, she looked at Octavia.
“The Sweet Track has been covered up again to preserve it, but its position forms the hilt of the landscape sword,” said Miss Callender, keeping a straight face. “The blade, you see, is a dead straight line pointing to Pomparles Bridge.”
Miss Seeton continued to look puzzled. Octavia shook her head. “For a friend of Lyn’s y
ou don’t know much about the place you’re visiting. Didn’t she tell you how Pomparles is a corruption of Pons Perilous, the bridge where Sir Bedivere stood to throw Excalibur—sorry, Caliburn—into the lake? Didn’t you know—” her finger stabbed at the blurred photocopy map in Miss Seeton’s hands—“there’s a village called Meare which, before the rhynes and drainage channels were dug, was the original Lake?”
Miss Seeton caught the twinkle behind the sorrowful tone, and smiled. “No, I didn’t, but it sounds ... interesting. Your cousin is clearly an enthusiast, and of course I should be happy to buy the booklet even though,” honesty made her add, “I cannot promise to be converted to her ideas.” She glanced down. “I notice a Thorney Moor on the map, and a place called Thorne Coffin, but neither of these is anywhere near the others.”
Octavia winked. “It’s a secret, but that’s what they do—pick and choose to suit their argument, and to hell with logic and common sense.” She shrugged. “But it’s a harmless enough hobby, I guess, and helps keep me in business. If Susan ever does finish her book, I dare say it will sell—but really, you don’t have to buy the pamphlet. You seem an unlikely candidate, to me.”
“I must buy a guidebook too.” Miss Seeton, holding firmly to Susan/Brenda’s stapled pages, moved back to the shelves she had been studying when the middle-aged Zodiac scoffer had entered the shop. “I am unable to make up my mind between these two. Which would you recommend?”
“A trip to the local library and save your money,” Octavia told her frankly. “There’s an excellent reference section, and the museum people down at the Tribunal—one of the oldest buildings in town—are very helpful, too. Borrow a couple of books for a few days and take notes, and with some tourist leaflets you’ll be fine.”
Miss Seeton, who could see very well how cleverly Miss Callender was teasing her into further purchases, nevertheless remained impressed by the bookshop owner’s commercial expertise. “A library card from Kent will be of little help in Somerset, I fear. And you have been so helpful that I have no wish to take advantage of your kindness by buying nothing beyond your cousin’s ... unusual publication.”
“You’ve talked yourself into it,” said Octavia, “but don’t say I forced you! There’s little to choose between these two, I’d say. This one would fit better in your handbag, but the index to this one is rather more comprehensive.”
As Miss Seeton made her purchases she noticed a pile of raffle tickets beside the till. Octavia followed her glance. “I’ll bet Lyn’s already sold you some.” Miss Seeton nodded. “Then I wouldn’t dream—” began Octavia, but broke off as a shadow darkened the open doorway. A stout young man with a heavy beard, wearing jeans and a tie-dyed teeshirt, came in with a brass bell on a ribbon round his neck, a plaited cord encircling his throat, and his face, arms and bare feet as brown as the leather of his sandals.
“Peace and pleasant reading, friend,” said Octavia, slipping Miss Seeton’s choice in a paper bag and handing it over. “May you find enlightenment here.” As the man with the beard studied the contents of the shop she found time to favour Miss Seeton with a quick wink, then sobered. “A flower for you. Your spirit will blossom as your heart will sing.”
Miss Seeton left Bedivere Books with a high opinion for the professional skills of Miss Octavia Callender.
As she adjusted her handbag and umbrella she considered the sky, heavy with clouds. There had been, Miss McConchie had explained, a lot of rain over the past few days. This was England; it was more than likely to rain again. Miss Seeton’s shoes, stout enough for walking round the town, or for exploring the Abbey ruins on their level site, might not be sufficiently stout for climbing the Tor as she planned to do the following day, once she had found her bearings. How strange that, though she could see it clearly as her taxi approached the town, she had as yet been unable to see the Tor from Glastonbury itself. The buildings and trees blocked the view, she supposed.
Over five hundred feet high, steep and grass-covered, with wandering sheep to nibble the turf where a machine could not safely mow, Glastonbury Tor, with its ruined church tower at the very summit, dominated the countryside for miles around. It was a popular climb, Miss McConchie had said. One day there might be concrete steps or an asphalt path, but for the moment there was nothing but grass. In wet weather this could soon turn to mud, and of course would be slippery even before it became muddy. Miss Seeton sighed with regret for the heavier shoes in which she had tramped the Scottish moors and Lakeland fells during her recent northern holiday—and had left behind in Plummergen. It would be wise, before climbing the Tor, to find a local shop that specialised in outdoor equipment. Extravagant, of course, and she would not tell Martha, who was likely to scold her not just for extravagance and forgetfulness, but even more for climbing steep hills by herself. According to Miss McConchie, it was a popular climb and there were sure to be other climbers to assist her should she encounter any difficulties.
Miss Seeton went on her way up the High Street, continuing to marvel at the varied contents of shop windows—one could not, of course, properly call those dragons lifelike, as dragons were mythical creatures, but they certainly looked most realistic—and the colourful costumes worn by so many of the passers-by. The young—so carefree and uninhibited, so quick to smile and so very much ... themselves, approved Miss Seeton, who never thought of herself as anything other than conventional but had in her art college days learned that genius would flourish among spirits that were truly free. Mere talent—she sighed for her own limitations—remained within conventional boundaries, restricted in a way genius, which knew no bounds, never was. Her nose twitched. One could not, of course, condone the taking of drugs to enlarge one’s creative scope—what was the modern phrase? to blow one’s mind—but the general atmosphere of relaxed creativity she could sense all about her was surely to be encouraged. In moderation.
She reached the top of the High Street, and stopped. A signpost, indicating Wells to the left, Shepton Mallett to the right. No mention of the way to the Tor, which she still could not see. An optical illusion, some might say; Miss Seeton, artist, thought at once of perspective, and lines of sight. She smiled. Miss Callender would doubtless inform her customers that the magical hill was visible only at certain times of day, certain phases of the moon—even, perhaps, only to the initiated. And then she would recommend some books ...
Still smiling, Miss Seeton turned, crossed the High Street, and began her slow descent in search of an appropriate shop. Callender’s Coats, perhaps? A coat, after all, was worn out of doors and the shoes she required were surely outdoor wear—
“Ugh!”
“Oh, dear, I am so sorry.” Miss Seeton in her abstraction had drifted across the path of a thick-set man of late middle age, burdened with a carrier bag that, caught by the careless lurch of her umbrella, ripped across one side and spilled its contents on the pavement. “Oh, dear—your books ...”
She had bumped into the very man who, scoffing at the landscape Zodiac, had been sold a further selection of reading by Octavia Callender. Blushing, Miss Seeton bent to pick up a solid volume with a cover depicting a brown horse in the green-field foreground, a white chalk horse carved into the hill behind, under a sky of flawless blue. With horrified fingers she smoothed the paper jacket back in place. “I am so sorry—this book, at least, appears to have suffered no injury, but—oh, dear ...”
“No thanks to you,” said the man, who with an effort had stooped to pick up and was now dusting down the rest of his property. He glared, then seemed to recognise her. “Well,” he temporised, “I suppose my mind was wandering, too. That Zodiac nonsense. I’ve bought some large-scale Ordnance Survey maps and a pocket compass from the outdoor shop down the road. Now I need a stationer’s, for pencils and a ruler.” He contemplated the tattered state of his brown paper carrier. “And some sticky tape as well, I think. I’ve got to carry all this lot back to my hotel.” He crammed the slim card-covered maps into the pocket of his jacket—Miss Seeton
winced for the strain on the fabric—and shoved the compass after them. The books he piled together. He no longer, she was even at this moment faintly amused to see, had the paper flower in his possession.
“No need to laugh,” he grumbled, rubbing his lumbar region. She blushed again.
“I fear there is no suitable shop further up the hill,” she said contritely. “Please allow me to accompany you on your search, and of course I will pay for the sticky tape, but perhaps at the same time you could show me where you made your purchases?”
“Peace, love, and a replacement bag? If I go back to that young woman she’ll only sell me more books. She’s tougher than she looks, for all her bells and beads. There’s a glint in her eye ... She’ll go a long way, that one.”
Miss Seeton, who could not disagree, nodded even as she explained that, more than willing as she was to pay for the sticky tape—indeed, she insisted—or even a new carrier bag, if one could be bought, she was in fact looking for a shop that might sell shoes appropriate for climbing the Tor, which she intended to do tomorrow once she had explored the ruined Abbey and seen King Arthur’s grave.
The thick-set man stared. “And she’s not the only one who’s tougher than she looks,” he observed. “If you don’t mind me saying so.” This little hen talked about climbing the Tor as if it was a stroll in the park. He’d already done that climb, and knew it wasn’t. His legs were tender after yesterday’s effort, his back ached. Did she understand what she’d be letting herself in for? She didn’t look or sound at all dotty or doolally, though she was no spring chicken, but still ... He looked again at Miss Seeton, and decided that she understood very well. “Hope it stays fine for you,” was all he said aloud.
Miss Seeton Flies High (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 23) Page 10
