A Finer End (33 page)

She typed “goddess worship” into the search engine on
her computer. The results were overwhelming, but she started through them resolutely, scanning articles and pagan sites. A name caught her eye. She ran the cursor back, highlighting a monograph on “The History of the Goddess in Celtic Mythology,” by a Dr. Erika Rosenthal.

She had met an Erika Rosenthal a few weeks ago in the course of an investigation—surely the name was not that common. An elderly woman in Arundel Gardens had been burgled, and, concerned about the professional quality of the break-in, Gemma had gone herself to view the scene and interview the victim.

Erika Rosenthal had turned out to be in her nineties, sharp as a tack, and highly incensed at the theft of several valuable antiques. Gemma had been immediately taken with her—and with her home, a lovely place, filled with books and beautiful paintings and, most temptingly, a baby grand piano.

Today Gemma only had time to skim part of Dr. Rosen-thal’s article before she was interrupted, and it was half past five by the time she cleared her desk for the day. On an impulse, she stuffed the report in her briefcase and rang Hazel, telling her she might be a bit late.

There was a fine mist in the still air and the wet pavement gleamed. She loved this weather, as she loved autumn in all its guises, and she took greedy breaths of the cool dampness as she walked to Arundel Gardens.

Erika Rosenthal’s house wore its age gracefully. Its pale-gray stucco was comfortably faded and it did not boast satellite dish or alarm system … though it was probably the lack of the latter that had contributed to Mrs. Rosenthal’s loss.

The old woman answered Gemma’s ring, her face lighting up in recognition.

“Inspector James. You’ve found my things.” She was a tiny woman, with white hair swept into a smooth twist and bright shoe-button eyes in her finely wrinkled face.

“No, I’m sorry to say we haven’t. I’ve come about something else entirely, Mrs. Rosenthal, if you have a minute.”

“Of course. Come in, dear, and warm yourself by the fire.”

Gemma stood in front of the electric fire and looked round with pleasure. She resisted the temptation to go over to the piano, but for a moment she let herself imagine living in such a house. Then she chided herself for being unrealistic, and said, “Thank you, that’s lovely,” as she accepted a glass of sherry.

“Now, what can I do for you?” asked Mrs. Rosenthal, lowering herself into an armchair. There was a book open on the table beside her chair, an account of Mallory and Irvine’s ill-fated expedition to Everest. Seeing Gemma’s interest, she added, “I’ve become an armchair adventurer, now that I no longer feel guilty for not attempting such things myself.”

“Are you the Dr. Erika Rosenthal who wrote a monograph on pagan Goddess worship?”

Mrs. Rosenthal chuckled. “That I am. But why on earth would you want to know about that?”

Gemma noticed, as she had not on their first meeting, that Dr. Rosenthal had the faintest trace of an accent—German or Eastern European. “I’ve been, um … assisting in an investigation of a murder in Glastonbury. The victim seems to have had some knowledge of Goddess worship, and we’re not certain whether this has any bearing on the case.”

“So you started researching and ran across my name. Clever girl. Or young woman, I should say,” the doctor apologized with a twinkle. “But from my perspective, anyone under seventy is a girl.”

“I had the impression from your article that you were quite a respected authority on paganism,” Gemma said.

“I’m an historian, my dear, and I’m not sure that anyone is ever entirely respected in academe. But, yes, I have devoted a good deal of my life to the subject.”

“It seemed to me, from the things I read this afternoon, that for the most part Goddess worship is a fairly harmless—even positive—thing. All that getting-back-in-touch-with-the-earth stuff. And I can’t say that men have done a terribly good job of running the world, so maybe the matriarchal society is not a bad idea either.” Gemma left the fire and sat in a small chair across from Dr. Rosenthal. “What I don’t understand is why those beliefs could have motivated someone to kill this woman.”

“Ah, well, even the most benign aspects would provide motive enough. ‘Getting in touch with the earth,’ as you put it, usually evolves into actively opposing those who abuse our natural resources for their own ends, and there you encounter great greed. And there are men—and a few women—who cannot abide the idea of women in power. But I’m certain you know that from your own experience.” Dr. Rosenthal studied her shrewdly. “Paganism, like any system of belief that is world shaping, can easily inspire fanaticism. You could say that Christianity is a basically benign belief, and yet it has been responsible over the centuries for enormous suffering in the world.

“But the worship of the Old Gods can go further. It has a dark side to it, an element of chaos, and there are those who aspire to tap that, to release it again into the world. And there are those who are caught up in it unawares. You say this murder happened in Glastonbury?”

“Yes, very near the Tor.”

Dr. Rosenthal frowned. “Glastonbury has always been a pivotal point, an energy focus. Dion Fortune understood that. Have you read her books? You should. Fortune was a practical woman with the soul of a poet, and she understood that the balance between the old forces and the new was quite a delicate thing. Some believe that the old powers give the earth its vitality, but that those powers must be kept in check, or chaos would overwhelm us.”

“But if that were true, why would anyone want to upset the balance?”

“Just as there are children who cannot keep their hands from the hot stove, there are always those who court the flames. It may be that your victim was one of them.”

Gemma thought of what Faith had told her about Garnet—and of the power she herself had sensed in the Tor. “Do you believe such things are possible, then?”

“I am a Jew, my dear. During the war, I lost every member of my family to the camps. If you ask me what I believe, I can tell you that those atrocities were an incontrovertible example of the power of chaos, magnifying and abetting a very human evil.”

Kincaid was waiting outside the bookshop a half hour before opening time on Monday morning, having dropped Faith at the café on his way.

After ten minutes of watching the passersby, he saw Nick go past on his motorbike, then turn the corner into Benedict Street. A moment later, Nick came round the corner on foot, walking fast, but when he glimpsed Kincaid, his stride broke for an instant. Recovering, he came on, a determined expression on his handsome face.

Kincaid pushed away from the wall when Nick reached him. “We need to talk.”

“I have to open the shop.”

“Then I’ll come in with you.”

Nick hesitated, then shrugged and unlocked the door. Kincaid followed him in and Nick turned the “Open” sign face-out.

“Jack and Faith have been worried about you.” Kincaid picked up a book on the Glastonbury Zodiac from the front table.

“I couldn’t … after the police … I was bloody humiliated, if you want to know the truth.”

“Well, it seems you’ve lost first place on the suspect list, if that makes you feel any better. DCI Greely has now moved Jack up in the running, but he still likes Faith as accessory.”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not. Perhaps if we all cooperated, we’d make some progress finding out who
did
kill Garnet, instead of working at cross-purposes. If you tell me, for instance, what you found out about Garnet yesterday, I might be able to put it together with something else. That’s the beauty of an investigation.”

“How did you—”

“Faith had me look for you. I had a chat with the nice lady at the Assembly Rooms café.”

“Oh … Janet. I never thought …”

“It sounds to me as if you put your contacts and your knowledge of the town to admirable use.”

“It seemed a good idea.”

“Tell me why.”

Nick moved round the table, absently straightening books. “I’d been worried for a long time that Garnet’s intentions towards Faith weren’t as altruistic as everyone seemed to think. But I knew anything I said, especially to Faith, would just be put down as jealousy.”

“So you kept quiet, and watched.”

“Listened would be more like it. I hear things in here.” Nick gestured around the shop. “Gossip. Rumors. Bits of conversation. All pointing in the same direction—that this year is a window of power, a time when the forces of the Old Religion are near the surface.”

“Millennial hysteria?”

“Maybe. But I think Garnet meant to use Faith somehow.”

“And the people you talked to yesterday—did they corroborate that?”

“They wouldn’t go that far, no. But they did mutter rather furtively about Samhain.” When Kincaid raised an eyebrow, Nick explained. “That’s the Celtic name for All Souls’ Day, or Halloween.”

“And it’s just a few days away,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “When you say you think Miss Todd meant to ‘use’ Faith, are you talking about a sacrifice of some sort?”

“I—I don’t know. But it can’t matter now, can it?”

“I don’t see how. But I wouldn’t go broadcasting these theories to Inspector Greely.”

“Because he’ll think I’m crazy?”

“Because it gives you a stronger motive to murder Garnet. You have to admit you’ve made no secret of your desire to protect Faith. Who else would go to such lengths—” Kincaid broke off abruptly, realizing that he knew.

“The Archdeacon is coming to lunch,” Winnie informed him when he returned to Jack’s. “She says the Vicarage is going to overflow with covered dishes if we don’t eat some of them. But I thought I could at least set the table.” She gestured at the clutter covering the oak surface.

“You direct; I’ll clear,” Kincaid offered. “Where’s Jack?”

“He had to give some attention to his practice, poor man. He’s done nothing for almost a week but run back and forth to hospital and wait on me.”

“No luck in the attic this morning?”

“No, but Simon stopped by to see how we were doing. What about you? Did you find Nick?”

“Yes. He’s fine, just doing a bit of investigating on his own.” He had no intention of sharing Nick’s suspicions about Garnet.

Seeing Winnie grasp a chairback as if for support, he suspected she was still more wobbly than she liked to admit.

“Okay, you sit,” he ordered. “Now, where are the knives and forks?”

Suzanne Sanborne was an attractive, intelligent-looking woman, slender, with silver-threaded, curly hair. “So you’re the famous cousin from Scotland Yard,” she said, when she had hugged Winnie.

“Archdeacon.”

“Call me Suzanne, please. And help me with these casseroles.”

They were soon settled round the table for a convivial lunch, aided by the bottle of Bordeaux Kincaid had discovered in Jack’s pantry. Winnie was anxious about her parish obligations, but the Archdeacon was quick to reassure her.

“The last thing you need to do just now is worry. I’ve asked Miles Fleming to fill in when he can, and I’ll take some of your duties myself.”

“But I could at least—”

“Next week we’ll talk about your taking the services,” Suzanne interrupted in a tone that brooked no argument. “But you’re going to have to be patient with yourself.”

“Suzanne,” Winnie said hesitantly. “I know this sounds a stupid question, but have you any idea what I did on Wednesday? I had Jack bring my diary from the Vicarage last night, and I’d written in two sick visits for the morning, and a Deanery Chapter meeting after lunch. This morning I rang everyone up. It seems I kept the morning appointments, but I missed the Chapter meeting altogether.”

“Of course I know what you did!” Suzanne answered with a chuckle. “Why didn’t someone ask me sooner? I asked you to take a bereavement visit.”

“You did?” Winnie said blankly.

“In Pilton. You know the vicar was on holiday last week.” Turning to Kincaid, she explained, “I’d have gone myself but I had a Diocesan meeting, so at Winnie’s party I asked her to take it for me.”

Winnie moaned. “This is dreadful. Why can’t I remember?”

“I’m sure you will,” Suzanne reassured her. “My prescription for you is a rest. It looks to me as if you’ve done far too much today.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “I’ve a meeting, but I can help get you settled, then Duncan can see me out.”

Very smoothly done
, Kincaid thought as they escorted Winnie into the sitting room. When she was comfortably
situated on the sofa, Suzanne gave her a last admonition. “Now, don’t you worry. Your parish will tick along without you for a few more days.”

“But I’ve a wedding—”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Get some rest.”

“But …” Winnie’s protest trailed off as her eyelids started to droop. The wine and pasta had done their work well.

Kincaid and Suzanne stole quietly out and he walked her to her car.

“She really is doing remarkably well,” Suzanne said.

“Yes, but that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“You don’t miss a trick, Superintendent.” She gave him a quick smile, then sighed. “I hate to be alarmist, but I’m quite worried about Andrew, Winnie’s brother. He hasn’t been to see Winnie since she left hospital, has he?”

“Not since she regained consciousness, as far as I know.”

“He refused to go into the ICU—were you aware of that? And every time I saw him in the waiting area, he seemed progressively overwrought. I’m afraid that his silence doesn’t bode well.”

“You may be right. Can you see him? Have you any influence?”

“When I tried to reason with him in hospital, he only became more agitated. But we’ve been friends for a long time. Perhaps David and I should both talk to him.”

“I take it you’re worried about more than Catesby’s mental health. Do you think he would hurt Winnie?”

“Andrew cares for Winnie so much, I can’t imagine … but sometimes love can get twisted.” Suzanne met Kincaid’s eyes. “Until we’ve at least tried to sort things out with Andrew, I’d feel better if you kept a close eye on Winnie
and
Jack.”

As soon as Fiona finished one canvas, another image coalesced in her mind, giving her no peace until she brought it to life.