Lucifer's Crown

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Yes, Thomas thought, that is hard to say. The pride that was self-respect all too easily became the pride that was arrogance.

  Again she spun round, her enthusiasm loosening the defensive set of her shoulders. “I doubt if Henry meant for his knights to kill Becket, let alone inside Canterbury Cathedral, he was just so frustrated he went into one of his rages—the story was he was descended from the Devil—and off they went, swords drawn, thinking they’d make points. No pun intended,” Maggie added. “There’s only one imprint of Becket’s personal seal known, no one’s ever found an official one, and you’ve got both. These are genuine, right? As the kids would say, that’s too absolutely cool for words.”

  Any moment now Maggie would notice that she was performing a monologue. Clearing his throat, Thomas said, “One of the joys of owning an old house is that the most amazing objects turn up in the lumber rooms.”

  Maggie tucked her eyeglasses away. With a positively post-coital sigh she collapsed into a chair. “So what else do you have? The Holy Grail?”

  Thomas’s face relaxed into a most unaccustomed grin. With a flourish he set the teapot on the table. Yes, by all things holy and a few that are not.

  Maggie’s body was tautening, again taking offense at his manner. “Nothing like telling a scholar what he already knows. Less than he knows—I don’t have a doctorate.”

  “Nor do I.” He sat down, poured the tea, strong and fragrant, into her cup, and pushed the sugar bowl toward her. “You’re the first person to recognize those seals for what they are. Memento mori—souvenirs of death.”

  “My Ph.D. dissertation was on the tangle of politics and religion in twelfth-century England. I never finished it, though. I got married. You wouldn’t think those would be mutually exclusive, but they were.” She spooned sugar into her cup. “In Mexico today is El Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead.”

  “All Souls’ Day,” Thomas said. “A time to remember that death is not in and of itself evil.”

  “The bell-ringing last night was—evocative. So was the music you played.”

  “Music? I rang St. Bridget’s bell is all.”

  “Oh. I thought I heard a flute or … Never mind.”

  Yes. He chose his words carefully. “Perhaps the ringing of the bell serves less to drive away evil spirits than to attract good ones.”

  Maggie looked up. Her brown eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate. He was reminded of what Rose had said about wanting romance and magic. But what in the girl was an exciting itch of possibility had in the woman become the ache of needs unfulfilled. What in the girl was a desire for knowledge was in the woman a desire for truth. Did she, too, have need of a new friend? Even when he bent his head over his own cup he could feel her gaze probing him. She thought he was a bit cracked. Yet her bearing was more bemused than critical, and her posture was almost relaxed, like a sentry setting his sword to the side but still close at hand.

  The tea filled Thomas’s mouth with hints of new-mown hay, blackberry jam, caramel. “Yes, Anouilh’s Becket was too cool, never revealing the passion and the pride searing the man’s soul. I prefer Eliot’s version.”

  “Murder in the Cathedral, yes. How does it go? The last temptation is the worst treason, to do the right thing for the wrong reason.”

  Closing his eyes, Thomas felt his heart swell painfully, like a long dried fruit at last blessed with moisture. Patterns of coincidence and harmony. Rose, faith, and grace. Thanks be to the merciful hand of God, and to the quick tongue of Magdalena Sinclair.

  He opened his eyes. She was watching him, demanding the truth. He inhaled … And was interrupted by a smart rap at the door. Thomas exhaled. “Come in!”

  “Ms. Sinclair,” said Jivan Gupta, closing the door behind him. “Thomas.”

  “It’s Maggie,” she told him, and added sugar to the cup she’d already sweetened.

  Thomas said, “Good afternoon, Jivan. Sit down. Have a cuppa.”

  “Thank you.” Jivan sank into the third chair at the table. His moustache drooped, and a faint gray tint to his complexion hinted of too many meals eaten from takeaway containers and too little sleep anywhere, let alone in his own bed. He accepted the cup of tea and drank deeply. When he spoke, his consonants were tightly clipped. “A preliminary toxicology report shows no drugs and only a trace of alcohol in Vivian Morgan’s body. There are, however, petechia, broken blood vessels, in her eyes, and very faint bruising about her mouth and nose.”

  “She was suffocated?” asked Maggie.

  “It seems likely.” Jivan cradled the warm cup between his hands. “The pathologist also found signs of sexual activity, whilst the forensics chaps turned up three sets of footprints entering the Abbey grounds from Chilkwell Street.”

  “Three sets?” Thomas asked.

  “One set matching Morgan’s slippers crossed a muddy patch in the choir. That was overlaid by the prints of a shoe or boot in a larger size, which was overlaid in turn by the prints of a man’s heavy shoes. They—he—stood there for a time.”

  “So even if the man Rose saw was Calum Dewar,” said Maggie, “someone else was there, too. A voyeur? Maybe a jealous one?”

  Thomas bit his lip. Even though he was quite sure who Rose had seen, offering that intelligence would change the topic of conversation from “who did it?” to “how do you know?” Neither would it explain Dewar’s role, about which he had only implications of guesses.

  “Morgan was seen at Baltonsborough Sunday night,” Jivan went on. “The Willow Band, a neo-pagan group that meets here to celebrate the old Celtic holidays—law-abiding citizens one and all—were interrupted by a dozen or so members of the Freedom of Faith Foundation. A respectable organization, Maggie. You have similar ones in America.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said dryly. “We do.”

  “Neither side will admit to starting off the violence. Some of the Foundations were carrying cricket bats and the like, but only to defend themselves from the ‘unbelievers,’ as they say.”

  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God,” Thomas murmured, and caught Maggie’s caustic glance. “Was anyone injured?”

  “Bumps and bruises. The Willows say the Foundations were after bashing their vases of flowers and such like. The Foundations say the row wouldn’t have happened at all if the Willows had listened to reason.” Jivan drained his cup. “Vivian Morgan was there at the start of the Willow ceremony but no one remembers seeing her after the row began. Two people have tentatively identified Calum Dewar amongst the Foundations, but no one remembers seeing him during the row, either.”

  “I overheard him trying to talk her out of going,” said Maggie. “Maybe he took her away before things went downhill, to protect her.”

  Thomas refilled Jivan’s cup. “Speaking of protection, have you considered the implications of Vivian’s knife, Jivan? Assuming she had one, of course.”

  “Maggie said something about iron protecting one from evil spirits.”

  “The iron-working Celtic invaders,” she replied, “called the indigenous bronze-working population of Britain the little people, the ancient ones. They were conquered by iron, so iron fended off their magic. The tradition survived Roman, Saxon, Dane, and Norman invasions well into Christian times.”

  Jivan nodded. “Some of those old Celtic stories are similar to the ancient Sanskrit texts of India.”

  “Both being survivors of the original Indo-European culture,” Thomas added. “You’re thinking Vivian tried to defend herself with the missing knife, either literally or symbolically.”

  “There’s no way of knowing. Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” Thomas repeated, and went on, “Alf tells me the Dewar lad is coming here. Good—I’d like to speak with him.”

  “The Salisbury force wants to take his statement, as well. Calum and Morgan were there Saturday, touring the area. Calum booked his hotel room for Sunday as well, but never turned up. We found a guidebook from Old Sarum amongst Morgan’
s possessions, with a brochure for the Foundation tucked inside. The tour guide says several Foundation members were there warning the tourists off pagan festivals.”

  “Old Sarum,” said Maggie. “That’s one of the places I’ll be taking the kids. But it’s only open on the weekends this time of year, so we’re just going into Salisbury tomorrow, to the cathedral library.”

  Oh good, Thomas thought. “May I come with you? The cathedral librarian is an old friend. Perhaps we could offer the Dewar lad a ride as well.”

  Maggie threw up her hands. “Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”

  Jivan got to his feet. “We’ll have the matter sorted soon.”

  “You say that like an incantation,” Maggie told him. “Repeat it long enough and it’ll come true.”

  “Our expectations affect the world around us.” Thomas ducked her exasperated look by standing up. “Let me see Jivan to the door, Maggie. Then we can discuss a lecture on the history of Salisbury.”

  “See you later, Inspector,” said Maggie.

  “Cheers,” Jivan said, although his expression said otherwise.

  Thomas opened the door to reveal Sean, his face burnished by the wind and cold, poised on the doorstep. “Oh, hi. Is Rose in there? We were going to play basketball but she hasn’t shown.”

  “Rose?” Maggie materialized at Thomas’s shoulder. “She was sitting on that bench.”

  “Her notebook’s there,” Sean said.

  “She wasn’t there when I walked past,” said Jivan.

  “Okay,” Maggie said, “so I’m paranoid. Let’s find her.”

  Paranoia, thought Thomas, is not inappropriate. Setting his jaw, he said, “I’ll help you search.”

  They walked out into the ragged remnants of daylight. The clouds had thickened into billows and bulges of shadow, muting the brilliant colors of the countryside like a painting coated with layers of varnish and time. The blue copybook lay on the bench, pages flapping in the wind.

  “Yo, Rose!” called Sean.

  Maggie walked briskly toward the garden gate. “Rose?”

  The wind snatched the name away and shredded it to nothingness.

  Chapter Eight

  It was only when Rose penciled two dots above the word “pilgrimage” and closed her notebook that she realized how cold she was. She stood up and stretched.

  Clouds flocked across the sun, tarnishing the bright colors of the landscape. The frosty wind fanned Rose’s cheeks. She smelled smoke and something sweet, like flowers. She heard … A bus drove by, the yew hedge rustled, and a faint but clear voice called her name.

  Rose. If the wind itself had a voice, this would be it, soft and silvery but neither male nor female, making her name less of a word than a sensual sigh. She peered into the garden.

  Bushes with golden leaves and red berries lined the stone walls, bees careening from leaf to leaf. Below the diamond-paned windows of the gallery lay thick banks of purple foliage. Brick paths defined plots holding flowers and plants with neat labels—leek, columbine, hyssop, mullein, yarrow. In the center a low hedge coiled around the statue of a woman. She stood with one hand pressed to her breast, the other outstretched. The pose reminded Rose of Vivian in the Abbey.

  The voice reminded her of nothing on Earth. Rose, it called. Come into the garden, Rose.

  She walked into the garden. A warm breeze stroked the back of her neck and her nostrils flared with the heady scent of May. A smooth, undeniably masculine voice said, “Rose.”

  A man was standing inside the far gate, next to a bed labeled “wormwood” and “angelica.” His casual pose showed off chino pants, boots, and a leather bomber jacket. His red hair was trimmed in a hip buzz cut and a red beard drew a sinuous line along his jaw and chin. A ray of sun spilled through the clouds, striking copper highlights from his hair and a glint from an earring. Neither shone as brightly as his eyes, emeralds gleaming beneath lids chiseled as deep and cold as those of a Roman statue.

  Rose stared. This guy couldn’t be for real—those green eyes had to be fashion contacts … He was the man from the Abbey. Taking a giant step backward she demanded, “How do you know my name?”

  “Thomas London told me about you.”

  “He did? Who are you?”

  “My name is Robin Fitzroy. I worked with Vivian Morgan. You found her body, I hear. Do you know what happened to her?”

  Rose almost retorted, don’t you? “I don’t know anything. You’ll have to talk to Inspector Gupta.”

  “Gupta is probably of these tiresome policeman who makes the evidence fit his solution instead of the other way round. Where would that leave me? A suspect, I should think. When the obvious suspect legged it.”

  “Excuse me?” Rose asked.

  “The Scotsman. I told Vivian she deserved better, but she had to have her giggle. Calum’s a bad lot. When he took her away I went after. I couldn’t bear to watch, though. I might could have helped her, if I’d stayed.” Robin’s voice was the same as the wind’s and yet different, darker and heavier, not chiffon but damask. It poured words into Rose’s senses. “Not properly respectful of the Abbey, were they? And really, a quick and dirty shag on the cold grass when a firelit room with a canopied bed is much better suited to the slow friction of flesh against flesh.”

  Firelight, a canopied bed—that was one of her favorite scenarios. But the right guy with the right attitude hadn’t come along yet. Rose was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

  “I can guess what happened to Vivian,” Robin went on. “I know what happened to you. You thought you were safe in the Abbey. You’ve been told all your life that a holy place is a safe one. But you weren’t safe, were you? Something ugly and frightening got in. No wonder you feel betrayed.”

  She hadn’t thought about it in those terms, and yet…

  Robin took several steps toward her. He raised his hand. His fingers were long and elegant, his nails the pale gleam of mother-of-pearl. He gestured as though spilling flower petals from his palm.

  The scented air caressed Rose’s face and lifted her hair. Magic … The word tripped and fell over the edge of her mind. She wanted magic, but this wasn’t it. This wasn’t real. And yet magic wasn’t real. Was it?

  The bush at Robin’s feet stirred. Purple shoots spread into leaves the same glistening green as his eyes. Buds swelled and opened into deep pink roses. He bent, plucked one perfect blossom, and held it out to her. “A rose for a rose. To show you that you can still trust your own beauty.”

  That wasn’t right—beauty faded quicker than flowers. And yet the amazing eyes compelled her forward. Her stomach was melting down into her abdomen. She wondered what she’d do if he touched her.

  The rosy petals swirled tightly into the heart of the flower. There among the golden stamens quivered a scarlet globule like a drop of blood. Reflected in its surface Rose saw Sleeping Beauty pricked by a thorn, Snow White biting an apple, Eve greedily stuffing the fruit of the tree of knowledge between her lips so that the juice ran down her chin and dripped onto her naked breasts. She clenched her hands, planted her feet, and looked back at the green eyes. “Who are you really?”

  “Your friend. You’ll be needing one. Thomas London defiles everyone and everything he touches. He seems so polite, so wise, but it’s all a fraud.”

  The scent of flowers gathered thickly around her. His voice, the airy wind-voice, the solid man-voice, filled her head. The sensation was so exquisite it was nauseating. She shut her eyes.

  “He’ll speak against me,” said the voice. “He’ll tell you lies. But you can’t trust him. He’ll use you like he’s used so many others, and then he’ll betray you the way your faith betrayed you yesterday.”

  You’re confusing me. Stop it. Go away. And something popped like a bubble, inside her senses rather than outside her body.

  Rose opened her eyes. Robin was gone. The bush was an ordinary bush. Dunstan sat next to the garden gate, paws set primly together. The wind was cold. An icy raindrop plunked onto he
r head and ran down her temple.

  Dunstan trotted away as Sean looked through the gateway. “Here she is, she’s okay!”

  “Why shouldn’t I be okay?” demanded Rose.

  “Hello? You witnessed a murder?”

  “No I didn’t…” Maggie, Thomas, and Inspector Gupta hurried into the garden. Rose said, “The man I saw in the Abbey was here. He knew my name. It’s like he knew me.”

  Thomas’s scowl edged Maggie’s for fierceness, but only because Maggie looked scared as well as mad. “I don’t believe this,” she said.

  “Believe it,” Thomas told her.

  His moustache flaring, Gupta whipped out his notebook the way an American cop would whip out his gun. “What did he say to you, Rose?”

  She shook her head, trying to make sentences out of sensation. “His name is Robin Fitzroy. He said you told him about me, Thomas.”

  “He’s a friend of yours?” Maggie’s head jerked up toward Thomas’s.

  Thomas hesitated a moment before replying. “I know him, but he’s no friend. I most certainly did not tell him about you, Rose. He seemed to know you, I should think, because he reads people like you or I read books.”

  Rose made a face. “That’s it! He found my notebook! There were some poems in the back, personal stuff, and my name and this address inside the cover.”

  “Great.” Maggie knotted her arms across her chest.

  Anna peered around the gate. “Bess sent me to tell you it’s tea time.”

  “The man Rose saw in the Abbey yesterday morning was just here,” Maggie told her.

  Anna joined the group. The accident scene, except Rose wasn’t sure whether she’d just had an accident or not. “He said he worked with Vivian.”

  “There’s no one in her office by that name,” said Gupta.

  “He said he was worried when Vivian went off with Calum and so he followed them. They were having sex so he left. He doesn’t know what happened. He said Calum is your obvious suspect.”