“No. It’s just that my nerves are on edge,” Betsy said. “I keep thinking about poor Bethan.”
“You too, eh?”
Betsy nodded. “Do you really think it was an accident, Michael?” she asked cautiously. She had promised Evan to trust nobody but she had to talk to someone.
Michael looked surprised. “She got trapped by a door that sticks, Betsy.” Then a wave of suspicion spread across his face. “Wait a second. You don’t think that her death had anything to do with …” He glanced around uneasily.
“I don’t know what to think,” Betsy said. Her fingers closed around the piece of wood in her pocket. Better wait until she could show it to Evan before she made any claims. “This place is beginning to give me the willies,” she added.
“Me too.” Michael lowered his voice. “You can’t help wondering who’s next, can you?”
“Don’t say that.” Betsy shivered.
“Look here, Betsy.” Michael swallowed hard. “I’m not going to be here this afternoon. Can you go home early today? I don’t like to think of leaving you here when I can’t keep an eye on you.”
“Yes, maybe I will try to get off early today. Thanks.” She gave him a shy smile.
“Great.” He smiled back. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I’m off sailing, you see. A group of friends from Porthmadog and I sail together every Wednesday, and we use my boat, so I can’t let them down—” He paused. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to come with us, would you? It’s quite fun. We usually bring food and have a picnic.”
“I’d love to,” Betsy said. “I’ve never been sailing.”
“Haven’t you? It’s one of the things I live for.” He smiled at her shyly. “See you around four then. Down at the dock.”
Evan lay on his bed, unable to sleep. For one thing his hands were hurting him. The hospital had dressed them for him and given him painkillers but they still throbbed. But the hurt was nothing compared to the turmoil that was going through his head. He had made such a fool of himself tonight. How could he have got things so wrong? Now he wouldn’t have another chance to find the real killer at the Sacred Grove. The doctor had said he wasn’t to return to work until his hands had healed. So he was stuck home alone, in a barely furnished, cold, and bleak cottage, with more than enough time to brood and worry. And to top everything else he hadn’t had a chance to see Bronwen. By the time he had reached her hospital ward, visiting hours were over and the starchy sister wouldn’t listen. “No exceptions,” she said frostily. “The young lady needs her sleep. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow.”
So another night of worrying about Bronwen and whether or not she would forgive him. The sister wouldn’t even give him a phone number so that he could talk to her.
“The nearest phone is out in the corridor and I’m not having her standing out there, getting cold. I’ve said you can see her in the morning.”
Sleep was impossible, so Evan got up and went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. A beer would have been better, but he hadn’t got around to stocking beer in his pint-sized refrigerator yet. How could he have read all the signs so wrongly? It made such sense that Rhiannon had killed Randy Wunderlich. She had Chief Inspector Hughes’s favorite m words—means and motive. It was just possible, he decided, that he hadn’t got it wrong after all. Maybe Rhiannon’s intention had been to get rid of Betsy as the sacrifice last night, but with all the attention and the protesters at the gate, she had changed her mind at the last minute. Which meant that Betsy could still be in danger. If he wasn’t working, the least he could do would be to go down to the Grove and let them know that he was keeping an eye on her.
Fact one: Randy Wunderlich was killed. Emmy Court admitted to her part in the hoax, but she said she didn’t kill him. The person who killed him must have overheard enough of the plot to know that Randy would be hiding out in the cave. That could have been any of them, of course. They all disliked him, except for his wife. Most of them had the means, too—except it would need to be someone strong enough to drag his body from one cave to another.
Fact two: Bethan was killed in the steam room. Why? Obviously because she knew something about Randy’s killer. She had seen something and, not being the brightest girl, it had taken her a while to put two and two together.
Had the killer also meant to kill Betsy? he wondered. If she hadn’t been rescued, would it have been too late for her too? He suspected that Betsy had been a trial run—to see if being locked in the steam room with the steam full on really could kill somebody. And also to set up the premise that the steam room door stuck.
Another fact struck him: Bethan was the only one who remembered anything about Rebecca. It was ironic that she was killed just before Rebecca’s parents arrived. Could Rebecca’s disappearance somehow be tied to Randy’s death? How? Something had brought her to the Sacred Grove and that something was to do with Druids—which brought him back to Rhiannon again.
Surely somebody in Oxford must have known Rebecca. You didn’t spend a whole term in a place without making any mark. He took a big gulp of tea and came to a conclusion. If he wasn’t allowed to work, he would drive to Oxford and ask some questions for himself. He wasn’t supposed to drive, but he couldn’t see that holding a steering wheel would make him feel worse than he already did. It took him a while to get dressed—he found it hard to negotiate buttons and zippers with his sore and bandaged fingers—but he left the house as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.
Oxford was just coming into full morning bustle as Evan drove into the city center, past the grand yellow sandstone buildings and the ancient spires. The streets were clogged with students on bicycles, their black gowns flying out behind them, making them look like flocks of penguins. He had never been there before and marveled at how quaint it still was, like a scene from an old film, then felt a pang of regret that he had never had the chance to experience any of this. He parked and got out, savoring the scene. Two serious young women, piles of books in their arms, their gowns flapping out as they walked, passed him. “Are you going to the OUDs thing tonight?” one asked.
“I can’t. I’ve got Stebbins for a Greats tutorial in the morning and I haven’t prepared a thing.”
It was like visiting a different world. He remembered then that Bronwen had once been one of those young women—not here in Oxford but in rival Cambridge. He imagined life would be pretty much the same in both places. The thought of Bronwen generated pangs of guilt and alarm. What would she think if he didn’t show up this
