A Crown of Lights

38 The Real Thing

MERRILY FLASHED HER headlights twice and then pulled out to the end of the car park and waited for the young woman to come over.

‘Funny how things turns out, ennit?’ Gomer said mildly, from the back seat.

‘You think this is a terrible mistake?’

‘Bit late to worry ’bout that, vicar.’

The blonde came warily out of the short alley leading to the Black Lion’s yard, and got into the Volvo. Merrily eased the car into the main street, glancing into her wing mirror; nobody was following them.

‘Just put my mind at rest,’ Betty Thorogood said. ‘You’re really not from the media, are you?’

‘I’m really not.’ Merrily felt deeply uneasy about this now but, at the same time, curiously elated. She drove carefully along the village street, past all the little candles glowing brightly. ‘Actually, Betty, it’s much worse than that.’

She was getting uncomfortable, anyway, driving with the scarf on.

Jane had called Eirion back. ‘I’m getting obsessed about this. The more you think about it, the more things occur to you.’

‘Then stop thinking about it. Go to bed.’

‘I’d just lie awake, getting spooked. I keep thinking how keen they were to get Mum on that programme, all those calls from Tania. Why would they go to all that trouble for just one person who’s not very controversial.’

‘Nice legs, nice face – tabloid television?’

‘But they told Bain about her – or somebody did – well beforehand. So they’d have plenty of time to prime Kali Three.’

‘I doubt anyone at Livenight’s even heard of Kali: the Web site or the goddess. When you’re putting a programme together you must make all kinds of deals to get people to come on. I don’t really think we’re looking at any kind of big conspiracy – it’s just the way things turned out. However...’

‘What?’

‘Just I hit on another site. It’s called Witchfinder. It’s for people who want to contact a coven. Wherever you are in Britain, it’ll put you in touch with your nearest group: e-mail addresses mainly.’

‘Any around here?’

‘Loads... well, two. But that’s not the point. From Witchfinder, I clicked on another site, which was a kind of pagan Who’s Who?’

‘The Which Witch guide?’

‘Very good, for somebody with brain damage.’

‘It’s because of the brain damage. Normally I’m serious and pedantic.’

‘I got it to search for Ned Bain. Turned up a surprising amount. I assume it’s true, but anybody can put anything on the Net.’

‘Unflattering stuff?’

‘Not particularly. Biographical stuff, mainly. He’s a writer and publisher, now in charge of Dolmen Books, the New Age imprint at Harvey-Calder. Been married twice, high priest of top people’s coven in Chelsea. A champagne pagan, that’s what he gets called.’

‘Sham-pagan?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, since he’s been into it a long time – since he was at university and possibly before. But what’s really significant is that we suddenly have an explanation of why he hates the Church so much.’

‘He never said that,’ Jane said crossly. ‘He insisted his lot were an alternative to Christianity. He didn’t say anything about—’

‘Well, it’s pretty obvious, when you read about his background. His father was an academic – a professor of English literature at Oxford, and also a fairly acclaimed poet, though I’ve never heard of him. Edward Bainbridge?’

‘Bainbridge?’

‘That’s also Ned’s real name. His father died back in the mid-seventies. He was... I wish you could see this stuff. I don’t want you to think I’m jumping to the wrong conclusions.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘It’s just that his father was stabbed to death.’

Jane gripped the phone. ‘Ned Bain’s father was murdered?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Spill it. No, hang on a sec.’ She pulled the phone from her ear. Sound of a car in the drive. ‘Mum’s here. I’ll call you back – if not tonight, first thing tomorrow.’

‘I’ll go back online,’ Eirion said. ‘See what else I can discover before midnight.’

‘Anorak.’

‘Don’t lie there getting spooked, Jane. Think of me, think of my strong body.’

‘In your dreams, Welshman.’

The headlights exposed Ethel trickling across the lawn – a black cat, witch-friendly, crossing the beam of the sensor which then activated the lantern on the porch, spraying light up the 400-year-old black and white facade of Ledwardine vicarage.

Merrily switched off the engine. How would Nicholas Ellis react if he could see her giving sanctuary to the spawn of Satan, a child of the dragon, a worshipper of profane, heathen deities... filth, scum, spiritual vermin. How, come to that, would the bishop react? The pagans’ll have you down as a jackboot fascist, while Ellis is calling you a pinko hippy doing the tango with Satan.

The elation was long over. Merrily’s head was choked with contradictions. The twenty-five-minute journey through deserted country lanes had been, at best, awkward, their conversation sparse and stilted. It was evident that there was far more wrong in the life of Betty Thorogood than Nicholas Ellis and the Daily Mail, but very little had come out. What was she supposed to say to this woman: ‘Trust me, I’m a priest’?

Gomer, sensing the tension, opened his side door. ‘How ’bout you gives me your key, vicar? I could put the ole kettle on, and explain a few things to young Jane first, if she’s still up.’

‘Brilliant.’ Gomer could be uncannily perceptive.

They watched him let himself into the vicarage. When he opened the door, a light came on in the hall.

‘I promise I won’t be sick as I walk in,’ Betty Thorogood said drily.

Merrily leaned her head on the back of her seat. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘I can tell you’re having second thoughts.’

‘Being psychic.’

‘I’m not psychic that way.’

At the first sight of the dog collar, Betty Thorogood had not screamed or hurled herself at the passenger door. This was not a Hammer film. This was not Livenight.

‘I’m sorry,’ Merrily said. ‘It was a stupid remark.’

‘Aye, well. Nearly as stupid as mine about being sick.’ Something – tiredness, probably – had brought out a Northern accent. Yorkshire? ‘Look, I realize what you did was a spur-of-the-moment thing. You couldn’t have known I’d walk into that pub.’

Merrily said, ‘What actually brought you there?’

‘Couldn’t go back home.’ Mirthless laugh. ‘Place was full of witches.’

The porch light went out. Merrily could no longer see Betty’s face.

‘Also,’ Betty said tonelessly into the darkness, ‘I’d just been virtually accused of murder.’