Beneath the Tor (18 page)

He gave a tiny smile and I knew I'd hit the spot. “That's what I can't work out. Glastonbury Abbey is a tranquil place. People come to be quiet. That's why I love volunteering there.”

“D'you recall someone who might have been … I dunno … accusatory … aggressive … suspicious?”

“I get these flashes. Like I'm remembering a dream. It was odd, that day. I remember that.” He reached to his table and took a sip of water, moistening his mouth. “Sometimes, you feel out of sorts, don't you? With your day. Like someone up there has it in for you. I remember feeling that. Bad feeling. Something out of place.”

I tried a grin. “We are talking about Glastonbury, y'know. Odd things happen.”

To me, Glastonbury was a core of power. Those energies were neutral and the overwhelming majority used them for good. But someone out there, calling herself Morgan le Fay, was using that power with malicious intent.

“Occasionally I remember some little snippet, then realize it could be something from another day.”

“Has anyone talked to you about the weapon that was used?”

“They said it was a loose stone—a piece of masonry from the abbey. Normally that would be almost impossible. We make sure everything is safe for the general public. We don't have loose bits of masonry. So much building work is going on right now … I don't know.”

“Did your assailant bring it with them, perhaps?”

He looked at me through the bloated tissue around his eyes. I got a sense of finally being assessed. “You're not police, are you?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“What d'you want from me, then?”

I wasn't going to deny I wanted something. I just wasn't sure how to explain. “Did you hear about the death on the Tor? Midsummer Eve?”

“I read about it. A girl collapsed.”

“I was there. The girl who died—her husband's been getting what amounts to anonymous emails from a woman called Morgan le Fay. Does that ring any bells?”

“I don't know punks like that.” He closed his eyes and appeared to doze for sometime.

I knew he wanted me to leave. I rested my fingers on the back of his hand, being careful not to touch the drip he had in his arm.

He felt the pressure and looked at me,
bleary-eyed
. “I don't think they'll want me back,” he said, as if he'd been dreaming this thought.

“Maybe you won't want to go back anyway. After this … after what happened.”

“I loved volunteering. I loved it better than my job, if you understand that.”

“Talking to people?”

“Yes. I like to give something back. And I'm a graduate in medieval history.”

“The abbey's so full of history, isn't it?”

“Certainly. Starting in the early medieval period, of course, what people call the Dark Ages—a misnomer because plenty of writing went on at that time, mostly in monasteries like Glastonbury Abbey.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I guess.”

“I'm wondering if I did anything to provoke.”

“From what I've heard, you aren't the sort to goad anyone.”

“It's my job as a guide to be chatty, but sometimes I can go on a bit.”

“That's what you are, a guide?”

“Yes. I'm Sir Walter of Somersetshire. We all have names, but to be honest we're not asked for them a lot. I usually get called Dragon Man by the kids.”

“Why?”

“There's a dragon on my tabard. At the centre of the red cross.”

“So … you dress up.”

“We do. I'm a knight at arms. Jenny is a serving wench called Maid Myrtle, and Tyrone is a peasant. Then there's the monks. The punters like the monks.”

“You're a knight? In red?”

He closed his eyes again. “Sir Walter of Somersetshire.”

I was staring at my shoulder bag, in which was my phone. The image in my mind of Gerald in his red knight's costume confirmed to me that Morgan le Fay had been at the abbey. Had she witnessed something? Or been involved in something?

“You might have seen her,” I whispered. “The terrible attack has blocked it from your mind.”

I stood up and put one of my cards on his bedside locker. Gerald opened one eye. “You off? Thanks for coming in. Kind. Sorry.”

“You're exhausted. Of course. I just wanted to say … well … memories can grow. Flashes, yeah? They might grow. Would you tell me?”

I think he nodded a reply. He might just have been nodding off to sleep.

eighteen

yew

The trustees kept the
Chalice Well gardens neat as a pin by taming nature, as all gardeners do. That set it apart from other Glastonbury sites like the Tor and Wearyall Hill, which had powerfully wild aspects. At the Chalice Well, the lawns were clipped and the flower beds weeded to within one centimetre of their lives. The red spring bubbled beneath an ornate metal cover and its flow was landscaped via flumes, little waterfalls, and still pools. There were quiet corners where one could meditate and light a votive candle.

It was not a place where violence could happen. But then, neither was the abbey. Neither was the Tor.

On Friday morning Freaky and I drove to Glastonbury, where Brice had arranged to meet everyone from the
shape-shifting
workshop.

Brice and Shell were standing on the forecourt of the Chalice Well when we arrived. Freaky strode up, dreadlocks flying behind him, and hugged them both. “We are early, my friends, thanks to clear roads and the lure of my hometown.”

In fact, we were early because I wanted to grab Brice before anyone else arrived. I'd sent him a long email yesterday bringing him up to speed on my visit to Gerald Evens and explaining my worries about the third Morgan le Fay email. He hadn't responded, and now I was wondering if he'd read it.

He looked as if he'd been strung up by a windlass. He did not even smile a greeting. Shell was pale around the mouth, which accentuated her
pillar-box
lipstick. I swooped forward, taking Brice unawares, and wrapped my arms round them both. “How did it go at the coroner's?”

“You don't actually get to see the big man himself.” Shell glanced at Brice as if for confirmation. “It was a bit of a shocker.”

“I'm still processing it.” A muscle in Brice's cheek moved as he ground his teeth. He'd wait until the full party was assembled before spilling his news.

I felt my belly screw and couldn't help look away from him; from his pain. The Chalice Well lay quietly behind its fencing, dulled by the grey July day, and a frisson of chilled darkness moved through me. “Please? Brice? I emailed you to say we should not go into the Chalice Well.”

“What?” said Shell. “Why?”

There was a silence. “I've had a hate email, Shell.” Brice flashed me a glance, as if to warn me not to mention the other two emails. “Sorry, I didn't want to tell you. But we might as well show it to them both, Sabbie.”

I passed across the printout of the third email. Freaky and Shell bent their heads over it, Freaky doing a very good job of pretending he'd never seen it before.

“What the hell is this?” Shell snapped.

“Some punk, some pond scum who gets a fancy kick from winding me up.”

“When you sent the email about today to everyone on the workshop list, did it occur to you that Morgan le Fey would read it?” I asked.

“Let me tell you, this woman is fucking with my mind.” He gestured towards the entrance gate. “She's in there, isn't she? Morgan le Fay. If she's in the gardens, I want a fucking look at her.”

Shell took him by the wrist. “Let's take a moment to think about this.”

“Please, Brice. Don't let's go in. She dangerous.”

“She's a crazeball. D'you think that makes me scared of her? Quite the opposite.”

“No one is saying you're scared, Brice.” He didn't want Shell to know about the other emails, but he surely could see the connections I was making. “In a few minutes, everyone will start arriving, expecting to go into the Chalice Well. I'm asking you to tell them—somehow—that we should not go into the gardens. Must not go in.”

Brice nodded, his chin jerking with determination. “I have things to say to them.”

“We could just go to a pub, instead, I suppose,” said Shell. “Doesn't have to be here.”

“Feels cowardly,” said Brice. “Not to go in.”

“I think Sabbie's saying that it would only mean trouble,” said Freaky.

“Who cares? It's just …” He found a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He'd dressed as casually as he knew how, in blue jeans and a powder blue jumper. “We never got to see the Chalice Well when we were here. Shell said Alys would have loved it.”

“It's glorious,” I agreed. “Do spend time in there. Just not today. Something is shouting at me—this thing—shouting at me.”

“I don't want anyone else knowing about this.”

“Then we'll concoct a good reason,” Shell said.

Freaky put out the flat of his palm. “Looks like it's going to chuck it down, eh?”

“It won't, though.” I peered up at the thin layer of clouds.

“Yeah, but who else is gonna to know that?”

Juke and Ricky were first to arrive, Juke striding ahead of his mate. His face was dark, almost tinged with grey. Moments later Ricky wandered into view. I think he would have walked past the gateway if Shell hadn't run to him, her hands stretched to touch his. She drew him into the group.

He gave a brief nod. “Everyone's grim.” He'd picked up the atmosphere hovering round us like bonfire smoke. “Everyone's in pain.”

Shell put an arm tight around his waist, under his unbuttoned raincoat, a
full-skirted
affair last seen on a funeral director. “We're together,” she announced. “Me and Ricky. We're keeping it quiet, though.”

“You haven't told Wolfsbane,” Freaky stated.

I didn't comment. Although I'd never stop a girl from running two guys side by side—I'd probably done it myself
pre-Rey
—it felt a like a murky thing to do to someone as exceptional as Wolfs.

“There is a reason we're so grim, Ricky.” Shell was staring hard at Brice. She wanted Ricky to know about Morgan le Fay. Brice shook his head, a strong double jerk, his mouth a thin line.

“It's the results isn't it?” Ricky put in, too eagerly. “They've done an autopsy. You've got the cause of death.” Ricky shook his head as if something had flown into his ear. “I don't want to think about it. The cutting …”

A hush fell. The tick in Brice's cheek returned.

“Honey …” Shell whispered.

Ricky stared at his feet. “You won't need gifts, at least.”

“What?”

“It's what Aeschylus said. Only the god of death does not desire gifts.”

“Ricky's a philosopher,” said Shell.

“I am not. Only the great thinkers can call themselves that.” He scuffed at the gravel with his glossy boot. “But I did see her spirit rise.”

Moments later, Wolfsbane and Yew arrived. Ricky and Shell sprung apart, Shell offering a secret smile, but Ricky was still staring at the ground, where his boot had made a pattern in the gravel. Shell slid her arm through Brice's and hung on to it in a supportive manner.

Wolfs thumped Brice on the back with a consoling fist. “How are you?”

“Work keeps me busy. Shell's been a godsend, Wolfsbane. She's in touch most days.”

“Right. I'm glad. Glad.”

Wolfsbane didn't look glad, and it made me wonder if Shell had been using her friendship with Brice as a smokescreen for when she was with Ricky. She knew how to throw out a confusion of messages.

Brice stuck out a hand towards Yew, clearly not keen on any further pagan hugs. “It's good that you could all come. I wanted to tell you some things—ask you some things. We're going to find a pub—not sure where …”

“We'll go to the Rifleman's Arms,” said Freaky. “I know them in there, I'll swing us a discount.”

“I thought we were going in the Chalice Well,” Juke snapped.

“You okay, Juke?” I asked. He'd been standing slightly outside the small group, unsmiling. With attention moving between Shell and Ricky's news, and Brice's
clammed-up
posture, maybe he felt a bit unwelcome.

“I've had to pull a sickie to get here. Exhausted before I begin, that's all. And I was looking forward to a bit of peace in the gardens, not a
cider-swilling
dive.”

“I was looking forward, too,” said Ricky. “I've never been in. But perhaps it's nothing special. Like
The Phantom Menace
.”

Brice gave him a dagger look. “What?”

“
Star Wars: Episode One
. I'd seen the DVDs of all the others and I was dead keen when it came out. It was rubbish.”

“The Chalice Well isn't like that,” said Shell, softly. “It's the sacred red spring of Glastonbury Tor.”

“Wherever we go … this has to be good, yeah?” said Freaky. “Find some closure.”

Brice gave a robotic nod, reminding me that he might not be here for closure at all. “Is anyone else is coming?”

As he spoke, Esme Hall maneuvered her heavy car in through the Chalice Well entrance, stuck a “permission to park” card on her windscreen, and peeled herself out of the driver's seat.

“Juno's peacocks,” I heard Yew mutter.

Esme was resplendent in a prism of colours—a shoulder cape of rich teal over a tight turquoise basque top and
blood-red
sateen crop pants. Her hair was backcombed into purple spikes and her earrings glittered as they coursed the distance from earlobe to shoulder.

“Hi all. Were you waiting for us? Stef sends his apologies. He's meeting with the bods from Town Hall this morning, I'm afraid.”

Brice took her hand and I reminded myself that he'd met Esme for brief minutes, during which time both she and Stefan had probably been charming. “That's all of us, then, except for Anagarika. I invited him, but true to form, he hasn't showed.”

Freaky huffed a breath. “Thank the gods.”

“We should carry on without him,” said Yew. “He wants us to wait and be irritated. The same as when a small child is naughty for attention.”

Esme leaned into our rough circle, tucking chummy arms through Freaky and Wolfsbane's elbows so that the bulk of her breasts
half-fell
from her basque. “I found out his real name. It's not Anagarika Dharmapala at all. It's Woody Choke.”

The men shouted with laughter, even Brice.

“Well, I think it's sad,” said Shell. “Most people choose names that mean something to them, that will represent what they've become, not to hide some godawful given name. Like Wolfsbane. That plant is powerful; used carefully, it can heal.”

“It can poison, too,” Ricky mumbled.

“The guy's from Melbourne,” Esme went on. “Before he came over here, he ran a video porn shop in the city.”

Juke's mood had lifted dramatically with this news and he was having a full fit of giggles. “How did you find that out?”

“Sorry, can't reveal my sources.”

I glanced towards the road, worried that Anag would turn up while we were giggling over his name.

“Are we going in, then?” said Esme.

“We're going the Rifleman's Arms,” said Freaky. “Looks like rain.”

“What—are you all made of sugar?”

“I haven't brought a coat,” said Brice. He strode off along the narrow stretch of pavement with Shell still attached to his arm. Wolfsbane hurried behind them. Freaky and Yew walked together in deep conversation. Ricky and Juke followed, seemingly both lost in their own thoughts.

Esme sidled up to me. “How're you enjoying having Freaky in your house?” It was as if she was talking about some vagrant who had pushed his way in.

“He's bloody lovely, if you want the truth. Extremely helpful. Excellent gardener. He even makes bread for us. And gets up early to feed the hens.”

Perhaps it was the reflection from her turquoise basque, but she seemed to go a bit puce in the face, so I carried on joyfully in the same vein all the way to the pub.

The Rifleman's Arms had a strong following among Glastonbury locals. It was a
low-lit
watering hole with a
Hobbit-like
feel and I wouldn't have been surprised to spot Strider smoking a pipe in one of the quiet corners.

Freaky hailed the publican with an ease that came from propping up the bar here for the last forty years and helped Brice get in a round of drinks. Wolfsbane pulled a couple of tables together. I went to grab a seat, but Yew caught my elbow and eased me out of earshot.

“Wanted to say … Freaky just told me about Gerald Evens. I mean … the Red Knight thing.”

I closed my eyes in despair. How could I have forgotten that Freaky rarely resisted the impulse to gossip? “Brice wants it all kept quiet.”

“Lips sealed with superglue. It's just … what happened to this Gerald chappy rang a bell. One of my residents was mugged round that time. Felt a bit similar.”

“A resident? Of your hostel?”

“Yes. Anthony Bale. He was on the Tor, solstice night. I'd invited him; thought he'd enjoy it. On the way back to the hostel, he was attacked.”

I could feel my eyes widen. “What happened?”

“Well, nothing much, to be honest. He was extremely lucky. Someone threw a brick or something at the back of his head. He felt this hard whack—he lurched forward. If he'd fallen onto pavement, he might have hurt himself, but he fell onto the grass verge by the side of the road.”

“This didn't happen
in
Glastonbury.”

“No, but he was there. Anthony had got extremely upset when Alys collapsed. Almost hysterical. Some of the residents have very bad histories; nasty memories. He caught the first bus back to Yeovil.” Yew often talked about his residents, all of whom would be homeless if they didn't have the hostel, and Yew had a passion for his work there. His lavish covering of tattoos and piercings, and the plait that reached down his back, gave him the strong street cred such a job needed.

“Hysterical? Sort of … laughing?”