“I wonder why I saw her death in the crystal ball,” I murmur, watching as the police officer finishes taking photographs of my watch, lifts it with a gloved hand, and puts it into a clear plastic bag. I look up at Arthur. “Do you think she was murdered?”
“The barrier from the viewing platform is waist high,” he says. “It should stop anyone falling over it. She could have jumped, I suppose. But the presence of the watch…” He frowns.
I look down at Merlin. His big brown eyes study me with concern. He’s worried for me, I can tell.
Someone wanted to place me at the scene. I’m sure it was coincidence that I was one of the first people to find Valerie. Thankfully, Imogen won’t jump to any conclusions. But it makes me very uneasy to think that someone wants to implicate me in Valerie’s death.
Chapter Five
A police officer drives us to the station, and Arthur, Merlin, and I wait for Imogen to arrive.
I worry that Arthur’s going to get bored, but I don’t think the word is in his vocabulary. He seems to find everything fascinating. He watches the police officers doing their work, and the general public coming and going, and occasionally asks me questions to clarify his understanding.
I’m impressed at how he doesn’t seem at all nervous or anxious. I suppose his whole situation is so weird that this is all normal for him. But he doesn’t appear worried about making a mistake or saying something wrong in his strange new environment. He takes it all in his stride.
Looking out of the window, I watch the light rain that’s started to fall and try not to think about it landing on Valerie’s face and dress. I wish I could be as confident and untouched by the world around me as Arthur is. I’m still shaking from the shock of finding Valerie’s body. I can’t believe I found her, just a week after discovering poor Liza.
I look back at Arthur, expecting to find him watching the scene before him, but instead I find his gaze on me, a frown line between his blue eyes.
“Are you okay?” he says.
I nod, even though I’m not.
“Want a hug?” he asks.
More than anything in the world, I want this man’s arms around me, but I’m afraid of seeming too needy. Arthur just smiles, though, obviously seeing it in my eyes, and lifts his arm. I move a little closer to him, and he lowers his arm around my shoulders. He’s warm and solid, his touch grounding me. It’s only then that I realize I’m terrified he’ll vanish, the way he used to when he was in the suit of armour.
“Will you stay?” I whisper.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
I swallow and nod, then rest my head on his shoulder, and we sit there like that for a long time, until the doors part and Imogen finally comes into the station.
“I’m so sorry.” She walks up to us. Her brown hair in its tight bun is wet and shiny, like glossy melted chocolate. She has dark shadows under her eyes, and she doesn’t comment on the fact that Arthur has his arm around me, so I know she’s distracted. It was only last night that she brought Mary Paxton in, and I know she would have worked late, interviewing and writing reports. I feel guilty to have brought her a new case, then scold myself. It was hardly my fault.
“Would you like to come through?” Her eyes meet mine then and she gives me a small, mischievous smile, so I know she’s spotted our hug, but she doesn’t comment on it.
Arthur and I stand and, with Merlin at our heels, we follow Imogen as she punches in a code and goes through the double doors into the main part of the station. She leads us through the busy office to her room at the back, and we sit in the two chairs facing her desk as she takes her seat behind it.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she says. “I went to Valerie’s home to speak to Bradley.” She pulls a face.
“That must have been awful.” I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have to tell someone their partner has died.
“She’d only left home about an hour before. He’d just taken the kids to school.” She shakes her head. “He called his mother to ask her to pick them up. I could hear her crying over the phone.” She sighs and leans on her desk, looking around at the piles of paper and folders littering the surface. “I suppose I’d better start a new set of files.”
“I’m so sorry, Immi.”
She smiles at me then. “It’s hardly your fault.” Her gaze slides to Arthur, and her lips curve up a little more. “How are you doing?” she asks softly.
“I’m good, thank you,” he says.
“Did you sleep well?”
He gives a small shrug. I have a feeling he didn’t sleep at all.
“Okay.” Imogen pulls her keyboard toward her. “Bradley’s coming in soon to identify her body, so I’d better take your statements.”
We tell her what happened this morning—how we decided to walk to the abbey, and what happened when we got to the Lady Chapel and went up the stairs.
“What made you decide to go to the abbey?” she asks. “Why not just walk through the town?”
I glance at Arthur. He doesn’t look at me. “That was my fault,” he says. “I asked Gwen to take me there. It’s a special place for me. I wanted to look around.” He doesn’t mention Merlin, so I don’t either. Imogen is extremely open-minded and seems to believe everything I’ve told her, but I’m sure even she’d blink at the notion of a psychic dog.
“So you saw Valerie’s body from the viewing platform,” she continues. “What were your initial thoughts?”
“I assumed she fell,” I reply. “Her head was at a strange angle…” I stop and clear my throat. “Anyway, that’s what I thought happened. Then we went down to look at her. That’s when we found my watch in the grass. It looked as if someone had stood on it and pushed it into the mud.”
“You definitely didn’t drop it this morning?”
“No. I lost it a few weeks ago.”
“And you’re sure it was yours?”
“Definitely. It’s the same brand, the same strap, and it has a red paint mark on it, from Beatrix’s artwork, that I hadn’t got around to cleaning off.”
Imogen nods, leans an elbow on her desk, and rests her chin on her hand as she studies us. “What do you think it means?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Arthur said Valerie could have been wearing it, and it came off when she fell.”
“But someone stood on it,” Imogen replies.
“Maybe she rolled on it.”
“There’s a footprint in the mud,” she announces. “Over the watch. We’re making a cast of it.”
“Oh.” I rub my nose. “Then obviously, it implies somebody else was there.”
“It doesn’t mean foul play,” Arthur points out. “The person could have come across her body before us, gone up to have a look, been frightened, and run away.”
“Possibly,” Imogen says, in a tone that suggests she’s convinced that’s not the case. “We’ll have to have a post-mortem, and we’ll see if SOCO comes up with any evidence from the scene.” She pulls out her phone, taps a few buttons, then turns it around and offers to me. “What do you make of that?”
I take the phone and show Arthur the screen. He stares at it, fascinated—not so much at the subject of the photo that’s on there, I think, but more that the screen has a picture on it.
“The phone has a camera built in,” I tell him.
“Amazing,” he says.
“I suppose it is,” Imogen replies.
I study the photo, conscious of Arthur looking over my shoulder. It’s of a tattoo on the underside of a person’s wrist. It’s obviously Valerie’s arm; it’s lying on grass, palm up. Imogen must have taken it at the scene. The tattoo is a triangular shape, made of three interlaced arcs. And underneath there are the letters M and S. “It’s a triquetra,” I say, and hand back the phone.
Imogen frowns. “What’s that?”
“It’s a design found in architecture, like the Anglo-Saxon frith stool at Hexham Abbey, and illuminated manuscripts
like the Book of Kells.”
“I’ve not seen it,” Arthur says.
“It dates from about the seventh century, so you wouldn’t have.”
“What does it mean?” Imogen asks.
I frown, thinking. “It’s also found on runestones and early Germanic coins. It sometimes represents the Christian trinity, and it’s used in Buddhism, in Japan. It’s also found in Celtic knotwork, to represent the Triple Goddess.”
“What’s the Triple Goddess?” she wants to know.
“In Paganism it’s a representation of the three phases of a woman’s life—the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone or Wise Woman. And it also represents the phases of the Moon—waning, full, and waxing.”
Imogen taps her pen against her lips as she thinks. “Hmm.”
“This was on Valerie’s wrist?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What does the M and S relate to?” Arthur asks.
“I don’t know,” Imogen replies. “Marks and Spencer?”
I stifle a nervous giggle. “I can’t imagine she’d have a tattoo of that.” I feel a little light-headed. “You definitely think she was murdered?”
She sits up in her chair at that and shuffles her papers around. “It’s far too soon to say yet. Let’s wait and see what the evidence says.”
“Of course.” I know her well enough to see that she’s embarrassed at speculating in front of Arthur.
We finish off our statements and then stand to leave. She comes around the table to give Merlin a kiss on his nose, laughing as he licks her face.
“Ring me later?” I ask her. “When you get home?”
“Of course. And call me if you think of anything you haven’t mentioned.”
“I will. See you later, Immi.”
Arthur nods at her, and we leave her office and head out. The police officer who drove us here kindly offers to drive us back the ten minutes or so into Glastonbury, and before long we’re walking back up the high street.
“I feel awful,” I tell Arthur.
“Valerie was a friend of yours,” he says, “and she met a violent end. You’re in shock.”
“You must have seen a lot of death in your time,” I say softly. He would have fought in many battles, and of course there would have been no antibiotics in his time, no understanding of germs. If a person received a cut or caught a chill, they could easily die.
“Yes,” he replies. “It doesn’t get easier, but I suppose it’s not quite as shocking when it’s part of everyday life.”
“I—” Whatever I was going to say vanishes as the door of the building we’re passing opens, and Matthew Hopkins comes out.
I stop walking, and my heart bangs against my ribs. Arthur looks at me, then follows my gaze and stops as Matthew sees me.
It’s obvious that Matthew has heard about the death of his sister. All colour has drained from his face, and his lips are set in a hard line.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he kissed me a few days ago without my permission. I dislike this man intensely, and from the frown on Arthur’s face, he feels much the same way, but even so, my upbringing forces me to be polite.
“Matthew,” I say, “I’m so sorry about Valerie.”
He walks a few steps toward us, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, and stops. He looks at Arthur, standing just a foot away. “Who are you?” he demands.
“Arthur,” says Arthur.
Matthew waits for more, and when more obviously isn’t forthcoming, he turns back to me.
“He’s an old friend,” I tell him.
“Boyfriend?” he asks.
I’m so embarrassed, heat floods my face. I have no idea what relationship Arthur and I have, so how can I explain it to anyone else, let alone someone like Matthew?
“That’s none of your business,” I snap, annoyed that he’s made me angry.
His cold green eyes narrow. “Imogen told me you found Valerie.”
I nod. “I just happened to be at the abbey.”
He narrows his eyes. “Really? It’s getting to be a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? The bodies are piling up around you.”
“I’ve discovered two, Matthew. I wouldn’t exactly say that’s piling up.”
“In a week?”
He’s right, and I don’t know what to say to that, so I just glare at him mutely.
“Will you be going to the funeral?” Arthur asks.
Matthew throws him a look. “What’s it to you?”
“I just wondered,” Arthur says.
“We understood that you hadn’t spoken to Valerie in a while,” I point out.
“She deserved everything she got.” Twin spots of red appear on his cheekbones. “You witches stir up all kinds of ungodly evil and then wonder why bad things happen to you.”
You witches? I glance at Arthur, and his eyebrows rise. He caught the reference. So Valerie was a witch? That would explain the tattoo. Or is the journalist just channelling his ancestor, the Witchfinder General, and seeing witchcraft everywhere?
Matthew obviously realizes he’s let something slip and fury fills his face. “Stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he yells, moving toward me.
Arthur steps in front of him, blocking his way. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he says. His voice is calm, but he’s a big guy, and he manages to sound menacing. At his feet, Merlin growls. Matthew glances at him, then back at Arthur. Without another word, he turns and walks away.
Chapter Six
Are you okay?” Arthur asks.
I hold out a hand, surprised to see it shaking. “I’m not normally this much of a wuss,” I tell him. “He gets under my skin, though.”
“He’s a snake,” Arthur says, taking my hand in his larger, warmer one. “What can we do to take your mind off it all? Do you want to go home?”
The thought is appealing, but I’m sure I’ll just sit there and stew on everything. “No, we should do something together.” We’re walking up the high street, toward Magdalene Street, and suddenly I have an idea. “How do you fancy going around the Adventure?”
Arthur looks amused. “Really?”
“I think it will be fun. You can see how the legend of King Arthur has evolved over the years.” I’ve read him my childhood book, but the Adventure brings it to life.
“All right,” he agrees. So we walk around the building, past the café where we wave to Delia and her sister. The car park opposite has several police cars, and I can see officers coming and going from the Lady Chapel across the lawn. It occurs to me that they might have closed the Adventure, but when we get there it’s still open, so they’re obviously trying to keep business as usual.
“Stay here,” I say to Merlin, who promptly lies down, and Arthur and I go through the double doors into the building.
We find ourselves in the foyer, with Beatrix’s mural of King Arthur drawing Excalibur from the stone opposite us. Arthur studies it quietly as I approach the reception desk, where my friend Helen Redford is serving a couple of visitors.
“Gwen!” she says once they’ve moved on. “Good morning. Terrible news about Valerie, isn’t it?”
“Awful.”
“Nathan said you found her body.”
I nod, trying not to think about poor, pale Valerie lying on the grass. “It was awful.”
“And after Liza, too. How terrible for you.”
“I’m beginning to think I’m a jinx,” I tell her. “You’d better stop hanging out with me.”
She gives a nervous giggle, then puts her fingers over her mouth. “Don’t make me laugh. It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s really not.” I think of Matthew’s words: It’s getting to be a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? But two incidents are a coincidence. It takes three to make a trend.
Helen’s gaze slides to Arthur, who’s gone over to study the mural close up. “Who’s Mr. Gorgeous?” she whispers.
“An old friend, come to visit,” I advise. “Funnily
enough, his name’s Arthur.”
“Of course it is,” she says. “Wow, Gwen. He’s perfect. Are you and he… you know…?”
“Not yet.” I give her a wry look as she grins.
“Well if you decide you’re not interested, let the rest of us know, won’t you?”
Hoping Arthur can’t hear us, I glance over at him. He’s watching me, and there’s a little smile on his face. Oh, he can definitely hear us.
Mumbling under my breath, I pay for the two of us, and Helen gives us our tickets. “Have fun,” she says.
I stick my tongue out at her, and she laughs.
“Come on,” I tell Arthur, gesturing toward the gate. “This way.”
We go through a small gate onto the platform, and wait with Gaby, the assistant, until the next carriage stops on the narrow tracks. She opens the carriage door, and I climb in and settle myself on the cushion. Arthur then gets in beside me, and Gaby lowers the metal bar that locks us in.
The carriages are large enough for three people, but Arthur’s a big guy, and he obviously has no intention of keeping his distance from me. He holds out his hand again, and I slip mine into it as the carriage shudders, then sets off on its journey. When it gets to the end of the room, the curtains part, and we enter the first section of the Adventure.
The carriage moves slowly through the displays on either side that tell the story of King Arthur’s birth. It’s the same as in the book: Uther Pendragon desired Igraine, the wife of Gorlois, and asked Merlin to cast a spell to make him look like Gorlois. In return, Merlin asked for the child of their union.
“Pure fantasy,” Arthur says, as we pass a model of a grey-haired Merlin in the process of casting a spell with his wand.
“Who was your father?” I ask.
“His name was Ambrosius Aurelianus. He was the descendant of a Roman provincial governor, and when the Romans left Britain, he was determined not to let the country fall to the invaders.” Arthur’s eyes are distant, lost in another time. “He brought me up to be a warrior, and to use Roman military methods to defend our shores. He was a great man.”
A Knight on the Town Page 4
