Time Enough to Die

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Sweeney had listened with flattering attention to her tale of antiquities theft, Adrian Reynolds, Linda and Nick. “I’m delighted our intrepid detectives are making such good progress,” he’d said when she finished, and turned into a small grocery store on the outskirts of Corcester. “It’s a grand evening. Let’s indulge ourselves in the sunset. Do you prefer red or white wine?”

  They’d watched the sun sink below the horizon and disappear, all the while chatting about the dig and the murder investigation, munching sandwiches and drinking a way too expensive chardonnay. Sweeney, too, voted for Reynolds as the murderer. “The sooner he’s behind bars,” he’d proclaimed, “the better for all us law-abiding folk.”

  Now, as the car purred over the rutted roads atop Durslow Edge, he said nothing. The deserted mines were bits of wasteland in the fading light, and the gnarled oak trees rustled mysteriously. Several other sets of head- and tail-lights winked through the dusk, converging on the ledge.

  Sweeney pulled into a hollow among the trees. He opened Ashley’s door and locked it behind her. In the shadows his car was ghostly pale, like Rhiannon’s white horse, she thought. A faint strain of music filtered through the trees, a flute and harp playing a slow melody. For just a moment she thought, if something seems too good to be true. . . .

  Sweeney opened the trunk of the car. “We must wear the proper attire, my dear. That’s part of the game. I always carry a spare costume, one never knows when one will encounter a neophyte. There you are.” He handed her a garment that resembled Jennifer’s bed sheet toga and a shapeless white headdress. “And a garland of flowers—flower children and all that, eh?”

  Well, if he could dress up she could, too. Although he could lose the patronizing “my dear.” Ashley pulled on the gown and settled the headdress on her head—yeah, like the early Celts had had elastic. Sweeney placed a wreath of spring flowers around her neck. She felt like a Klanswoman on her way to a luau, and hoped no one would recognize her. Far from being a moving religious event, this, like the festival in town, was fast turning into a farce. But then, Sweeney’s motive in participating was to point up the absurdity of religious expression. It was kind of sad he thought he had to do that. Skeptics could be just as arrogant as believers.

  Sweeney’s robe was stitched in pleats beneath a wide fabric yoke and snugged at the waist with a sash. His headdress was a hood, casting a shadow over his face. He pulled something from the blackness of the trunk and tucked it into his sash. Placing his hand politely on Ashley’s back, he guided her among the dozen or so cars parked in the mud. She stumbled over loose leaves and branches. Her cheeks burned in the chill air. Great, a little wine and she went red in the face.

  At least twenty white-robed people milled along the wide ledge. Judging by the beer cans and whisky bottles piled beside the trail, the party had already started.

  Beside the well stood a box covered with yet another white cloth and oddments of greenery and crystals that glinted in the light of several candles. A torch in a bracket sent shadows dancing up the cliff face. A pile of brush looked like a hulking hairy animal at the far end of the ledge. The trees beyond were black shapes against a sky swiftly darkening to indigo. High overhead hung a crescent moon, like an enigmatic celestial smile.

  Whoa, Ashley thought. This place had been spooky enough in daylight. Now, after dark, it was downright sinister. The white-robed figures stepped silently aside, forming a double line through which Sweeney strolled, steering Ashley in front of him. She couldn’t see anyone holding a flute or a harp—no, there was a boom box beside the—the altar? That’s what they meant it to be. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees. The lights of farms and cars and the twenty-first century flickered nervously through the waving branches.

  She squinted from side to side. The faces beneath their floppy white headdresses weren’t quite human, let alone male or female. There, a pair of dark eyes glinted as she walked past—that must be Nick, even though she was reminded, weirdly, of Gareth.

  Had Gareth and Matilda been planning to come here tonight? She wasn’t sure. Again she stumbled. Succeeding waves of patchouli and marijuana, sweat and beer filled her nostrils. Something tightened her shoulder blades and made her stomach wriggle uneasily. If it feels wrong. . . . This place would make anyone feel creepy, she assured herself.

  The torch cast a glow over the spring. The water shimmered as though something smooth and silky swam just beneath its surface. Sweeney’s piloting hand eased her down on one end of the altar-box. Some of the greenery poked her and she inched away. He began speaking.

  Ashley frowned. He’d paraded in here like a priest down the aisle of a church. And now he was saying something pompous, with lots of big words, about welcome and dedication. If he wanted to make fun of these people, why was he directing them? That hardly seemed fair.

  The gentle harp music stopped. A clash of electric guitars segued into lilting cadences played in the minor keys of the Celtic Fringe. A vocalist sang of Odin and his crows and the blood of the Gael. Someone began thumping a—no, not a drum, a bodhran, a skin stretched over a circular frame. The rhythm quickened Ashley’s blood but clarified nothing. She thought of Dionysus and his crazed maenads. Of whirling dervishes. Of Viking berserkers. Of the ancient Celts drunk on mead, poetry, and blood. Her shoulders tightened even further and she glanced behind her. Nothing was there except rock and shadow.

  The people formed a line behind the bodhran-player and began to dance, weaving in and out with sudden dips and spins. Each face in turn was illuminated by the torchlight and then plunged again into darkness. From the boom box came the high, clear notes of a bagpipe, playing counterpoint to the pulse of the electric guitar. Every follicle on Ashley’s body tightened into gooseflesh. The hair on the back of her neck waved in time. This was no farce. The ceremony was compelling her to dance, too, to leap the ambiguous boundary between light and darkness. This was what brought Nick here. This was the spiritual version of a daredevil sport, where the risk of death made life all the sweeter. Matilda was right, there was always time enough to die.

  With a satisfied sigh Sweeney sank down onto the altar beside her. His hand traced a slow caress down her back. His eyes glittered in the shade of his hood. Oh for the love of God, she thought in disgust and disbelief. He couldn’t turn out to be a dirty old man. Not Sweeney. She respected him.

  “So you’re another clever little girl,” he said quietly into her ear.

  “What?”

  “Thought you could catch me out, didn’t you?” he went on. “But even Madame Gray won’t catch me out. There’s no one as stupid as an educated woman, my dear. No one.”

  Isn’t he working with Matilda? Ashley asked herself. She didn’t like the answer that annoyingly practical part of her mind returned. That part of her mind that informed her she’d better sober up. Fast.

  “Matilda and her Scotland Yard git have been dancing to my tune all this time. My trick with the Italian girl and the inscription went down a smashing success, didn’t it? It’s a shame Adrian Reynolds won’t be dancing on air, but a nice long sentence at Pentonville should turn the trick.”

  Ashley grimaced, trying to work that out.

  “Fools, the lot of them. There’s nothing so easy to manipulate as a man’s faith, is there? Dig up the artifacts, bring them to the kindly old Druid, do your religious duty. . . .” He laughed.

  Sweeney? Good old eccentric, so obnoxious he was a joke, Sweeney? He was behind the antiquities thefts? And she’d trusted him. She’d even compared him favorably to her father!

  Matilda, Ashley thought. Matilda’s going to flip out. . . . She leaped to her feet. Sweeney’s hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. The music lilted on. The dancers danced. There seemed to be more of them now. Maybe they were dividing, like amoebas. “Let go of me!” she demanded, yanking at her arm.

  Sweeney held on.

  “Here’s another clever little girl.” His breath was foul and Ashley gagged. She yanked again at her
arm, this time breaking free. Sweeney’s hand seized the back of her gown and jerked her down with a thud. Crystals and leaves went rolling away across the altar.

  The night was dark and the music was loud. No one realized what was happening. No one would help her. She had to help herself. She made fists, raised her elbows, and wished she’d taken a self-defense class.

  Something glinted in the corner of her eye. Glancing around, she saw Sweeney’s other hand resting on her shoulder. Light reflected from the object he held, something long and sharp. A knife blade. It pricked her neck with an icy kiss. Another clever little. . . . As surely as though she’d plunged her head into the chill depths of Brighid’s well she realized what he meant. Linda.

  Ashley’s mind dissolved into static. She heard a quick whimper, realized it was her own, and closed her teeth on it. Her body deflated like an empty balloon and she swayed in Sweeney’s grasp. “Why?” she asked. “Why?”

  “Why kill you like Linda? Now, now, let’s not fail our final exam. Think about it.”

  “I know too much, right?”

  “Very good!”

  “But I . . .” She did know too much. She’d asked to know too much.

  He laughed. “It’s too late for protests, my dear.”

  Keep talking, Ashley ordered herself. Maybe if she went along with him, he’d loosen his grip and she could get away. “You want to frame Reynolds. Everyone suspects he murdered Linda, so you’re going to make sure they think he—got me too.”

  “Just too clever by half, aren’t you? Yes, all I have to do is wait until they light the fire and get on with their foolish dancing. Then you and I, my dear, like so many others after a bit of fornication, will retire to the side. No one knows who is here and who isn’t. Why shouldn’t Reynolds be having himself a bit of a giggle here as well? All I have to do is tuck your headdress and this knife, suitably wiped of fingerprints, into a corner of the Fortuna Stud stable. And presto! Mr. Reynolds is inside.”

  And I’m dead, Ashley told herself. “What if Reynolds is hanging out with fifty other people right now?”

  “I had a mutual friend send him a message asking him to meet her at her shop in Manchester tonight. He’ll take the bait, no fear. Not that she’ll be there herself, not at all.”

  Ashley could swear she’d seen Reynolds’ car in his driveway when she’d left Corcester with Nick. Whether or not the man had an alibi didn’t matter now.

  “Linda presents herself to me at Imbolc,” Sweeney went on. “You’ll excuse my mordant little joke with her, I hope. I simply couldn’t resist. And here you are at Beltane. I thought I was going to have to choose someone at random. But no, I can eliminate a threat and fit Reynolds up all at once. It’s almost enough to make one believe in the gods.”

  She was going to scream and fight, Ashley told herself. Even if he stabbed her anyway, she’d trade a flesh wound for freedom. . . . Her stomach heaved. Maybe if she threw up on him he’d drop her in disgust and she could make a break for it.

  She’d trusted him. How could he do this to her?

  With a last brilliant skirl of the pipes the music stopped. The air rang hollowly in the sudden silence. And then, down the wind, came the sound of slow, steady, hoofbeats.

  The dancers broke ranks. With a collective gasp, they turned toward the entrance to the ledge. The torch guttered in a cold breeze. “What the hell?” Sweeney dragged Ashley to her feet and stood close behind her. The knife was a small one, she saw, but it was tucked beneath the angle of her jaw, just beginning to prick. No surprise she was hallucinating.

  Along the ledge clopped a white horse, its coat an unearthly shimmer in the dim light. On its back sat a woman, crowned with gold, gold glowing at her throat. Her face was only a pale blur.

  “Rhiannon!” whispered someone, and others took up the murmur, “Rhiannon! The great goddess Rhiannon!”

  She reined up. She lifted her hand and scattered stars like gold dust on the upturned faces of the crowd. “Be at peace,” she said in a low, vibrant voice. “Blessed be.”

  Ashley felt her mouth drop open. Beside her Sweeney gobbled. “What the hell—someone’s playing me up. . . .”

  “As it was in the beginning,” proclaimed the figure of the goddess, “is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”

  “No!” shouted Sweeney. “No, it’s a trick!” He stepped forward. His grip on Ashley’s robe loosened. The knife slipped away from her throat.

  Do it! In a hot rush of anger she jabbed her elbow back into his stomach. His breath escaped in a gratifying gasp. Turning, she lifted her foot, raked her boot down his shin and ground it into his classy leather loafer. He howled with pain. She spun away from him and realized she was grinning with glee—oh God, that felt good. That felt really good.

  Three of the white-clad figures leaped on Sweeney. All four fell struggling to the ground. A kick sent the altar flying. Crystals clattered. Candles winked out. Male voices shouted incomprehensible words. The knife went spinning across the stone and bounced off the basin.

  Ashley’s grin faded. The heat drained from her body, leaving her cold and trembling. “It’s all right,” said a familiar voice. She blinked. Bryan’s freckled face peered earnestly at her. “It’s all over now.”

  “How’d you get here?” she croaked.

  “They came running into the hotel and said you were in trouble. I don’t think I was invited, but things were pretty confusing and I kind of jumped into Matilda’s car as she was pulling out.”

  “You came to help me? Thank you!”

  “No problem,” Bryan said, with the most open and honest smile she’d ever seen.

  A few last heaves and the flailing white robes resolved themselves into four separate bodies. A pair of handcuffs caught the light. Two figures stood up, holding Sweeney, bare-headed now, between them. The third retrieved the knife and said, “I’ll take this to the lab straightaway, Inspector. And the professor here to jail.”

  “You needn’t be too gentle with him, Constable.” Gareth pulled off his headdress and threw it down. His red hair glowed in the torchlight.

  The other man removed his headdress much more slowly. Nick’s dark hair spilled over his forehead. “Ashley, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was him.”

  She stared at them. So they were here, too, both of them, working together. Cool.

  From along the ledge, past the confused knot of spectators, came Matilda’s voice. “Emma, hang onto the bridle for me—carefully, he’s a bit spooky—my robe is caught on the saddle.”

  Like she hadn’t known all along it was Matilda. . . . Ashley’s knees gave way. She sat abruptly on the edge of the basin. Bryan sat beside her and draped his arm across her shoulders. Good old Bryan, she thought. The one person in all this mess who didn’t have a hidden agenda. The one person she could’ve trusted all along. She leaned gratefully into his embrace.

  * * * * *

  Gingerly, Emma held the bridle. Matilda pulled away the thin scarf that had covered her face, hitched her long velour bathrobe over her jeans and clambered down. Her legs wobbled in opposite directions. She clung to the saddle until she regained her balance. The pulse in her mind that had been beating, Hurry! was now whispering, Thank God. Thank God.

  She brushed the sparkling metallic confetti from her hands and took the first deep breath she’d taken in hours. Two uniformed constables appeared from the car park to meet Watkins going the other way with a limping Sweeney.

  “Filthy bitch,” spat her erstwhile colleague.

  “You have only yourself to blame,” Matilda told him.

  Watkins and his minions hustled Sweeney away. Gremlin snorted and pranced sideways. Emma squeaked, released the bridle, and dodged. Gareth, divested of his robe, appeared from the darkness, seized the bridle, and cooed reassurances. “Good show,” he said, as much to the horse as to Matilda. “Dead brilliant.”

  “Thank you for riding Gremlin out here for me,” Matilda returned. “I was every bit as scared of him as he was of
me.”

  “A shame he’s the only light-colored one on the farm. After this morning. . . .” Gareth stopped. “You’re all right. So is Ashley. It’s over.”

  Matilda laid one hand on his arm. She couldn’t tell which of them was trembling the harder. His dark eyes searched hers. The corners of his mouth tucked themselves into a tight smile. “I’ll tie Gremlin in the car park. He doesn’t like it here.”

  Matilda released his arm. “I’ll check on Ashley.”

  The celebrants clustered dispiritedly by the pile of brush. Beyond them, in the trees, faces smeared in and out of existence. Eyes blinked. The green man, Matilda thought. The great god Pan. The ancient powers of the Earth itself. Only she could actually see the faces, but she knew that more than one of the celebrants could feel the indifferent, almost amused, gaze of those otherworldly eyes.

  Ashley sat close beside Bryan, in the no doubt comforting circle of his arm. If this didn’t make her take notice of Bryan, then nothing would. Groaning, Matilda sat down beside them. “Good move, Ashley, stomping him like that. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Even though I must be the world’s biggest idiot.”

  “You’re not half the idiot I am,” Matilda assured her, adding to herself, if not for Howard’s mania for self-dramatization, the girl would already be dead.

  Bryan was less shy about voicing his thought. “I was afraid we weren’t going to get here in time. When we drove up and I heard the music I was really scared.”

  “So was I,” Ashley confided.

  From several yards away Emma squealed, “No, wait, he didn’t mean anything!”

  The white-robed figures swirled and parted. Nick dragged a big bearded man forward by the back of his collar and deposited him at Matilda’s feet like a cat offering its human a mouse. “Do you know this bloke? Bob, his name is.”

  “I’m not sure,” Matilda said. “Maybe I’d recognize him without the beard.”