False Witness (35 page)

“Yes, Druid.”

Hardcastle threw down her pencil. “Now I’ve heard everything. As trial judge, I have an overriding duty to prevent irrelevant
evidence wasting the court’s time and—”

I got to my feet. “Doctor Blythe
is
reaching the relevant evidence. I don’t object.”

Emma was incredulous.

“Make it short, Doctor,” Hardcastle said.

“These indigenous peoples were suppressed and persecuted by the Romans because they practiced human sacrifice.”

“How?” asked Justine.

“They used to sacrifice enemies or sometimes their own maidens.”

“Maidens?”

“Young girls. Maidens. They sacrificed them to the gods. But before death they used to stab them in the back—to release the
omens during the death throes.”

Hardcastle was still confused. “To release the what during the which?”

“They believed that a sacrificial victim would tell prophecies, predict the future, as she was dying. She would pass on messages
from the gods.”

“But what, Miss Wright, has all this to do with the murder of Molly Summers?” Hardcastle cracked her dry knuckles. “I mean,
we’re talking about two thousand years ago.”

Blythe answered. “I have inspected the… should I say, alleged?… murder weapon. It’s an exact replica of a Druid ceremonial
knife excavated at the Stonebury Sepulchre by the Victorian archaeologist Aloysius Blythe—no relation. Found very close, I
understand, to Mr. Kingsley’s house.”

Reporters rushed out for the telephones. But I remembered what Emma’s friend had said:
Falce aurea
, the golden sickle, the sacrificial knife.

“Anything else?” asked Justine.

“I understand straw was found at the murder scene. The Children of Albion—that’s what the cult was called—used to place the
dead body in a straw effigy, a Kolosson, but I won’t bother you with the details. Then they would burn it. However, I understand
it rained heavily on the night of the murder.”

“What about this cult of Albion? Does it still exist in some form?” asked Justine.

This went further than the report and I objected. “The doctor is an expert on
ancient
religions,” I said. “Not the outer fringes of the Church of England.”

Hardcastle, leading light of various societies of Christian lawyers, was appalled. “You may answer.”

He bowed a little toward the judge. “With the much lamented decline of our main religions, there has been a revival in ancient
cults, including, it seems, the Children of Albion. In my opinion, this murder is in all respects consistent with the sacrificial
rites of a localized cult.”

“See what you’ve done,” whispered Emma.

Justine flicked through the report and said she had finished. “Your Honor, might I have just a moment to speak to m’ learned
friend?”

Justine and I huddled together, our gowns intertwining.

“What is it, Justine?”

“We’ve got the girl,” she said.

A
S
I
ROSE TO CROSS-EXAMINE
, B
LYTHE STOOD THERE
with unbearable smugness. Emma warned me to be careful as the jury clearly liked him.

I began, “You say you are Professor at the University of Cambridgeshire. Has it another name?”

“Cambridgeshire University, I suppose.”

“Until last year, wasn’t it known as something else?”

“Yes, but I don’t really see—”

“Just answer my question. What was it known as?”

“Peterborough Poly.” He blushed a little.

“And you weren’t a professor but a lecturer on a—what is it called?”

“A sandwich course.”

“And did Peterborough Poly have an international reputation for expertise in the ancient world?”

“No. But Peterborough was a glorious Roman town and—”

“And now is a glorified railway junction?”

It was time to see what he really knew. I glanced around the court trying to gauge how far I could push it. “I imagine, Doctor,
that you were at Stonebury on the night of the murder?”

“No.”

“You mean you
weren’t
?” I feigned surprise.

“No,” he said in a so-what fashion. “But my opinion is based upon years of research. And I think—”

“We’ll come to what you think, Doctor. Let’s investigate what you
know
, shall we? The fact is, from your personal knowledge, you don’t know what happened?”

“No.”

“So what you say is speculation?”

“It is an informed reconstruction cross-referenced with scientific data.”

“Does that mean speculation in plain English?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is the answer, Yes?”

“Yes.”

The taxi-driver was unimpressed. He turned to the man next to him and shook his head. No doubt he spent his life tearing around
the streets of London speculating about the state economy and the England football team, and wanted something more concrete
in a court of law.

“You testified about the significance of straw at the scene of the murder?”

“Yes. What I would call the Kolosson dimension.”

“This Kolosson is an effigy—made of straw? To look like a human being?”

“Yes.”

“Like a Stone Age scarecrow?”

“Certainly not.”

“Might there be another explanation for the straw?”

“Such as?” he asked defiantly, pushing out his chin. His ego was bruised and he was not prepared to be reasonable.

“Look at this, please.” I handed Norman a card which he conveyed, grumbling all the time, to the witness. “What is it?” I
asked.

“A postcard which says, ‘Historic views of Stonebury.’ “

I had kept it from the village shop and had Tipp-Exed out the messages from Molly. “Do you see the inner stone circle? Tell
us, what else is shown?”

“Well, you can see…” He held up the card reluctantly. “You can see for yourself.”

“No.
You
tell us—for the record.”

“Well, it shows some cattle grazing among the stones.”

“Grazing on?”

“Grazing on straw.”

There were tuts from the social worker as she put a line through her note of Blythe’s evidence.

To his credit, the professor tried to fight back. “But this photograph was taken… let me see… yes, three years ago.” He beamed
triumphantly. “We don’t know if cattle were allowed to graze there last year.”

“You mean the postcard might be out of date?”

“Precisely.”

“Taken three years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Tell us,” I said. “How many years ago were the Children of Albion persecuted by Caesar’s legions?”

He looked down sheepishly.

“Well?”

“Two thousand years ago.”

Hardcastle had seen enough. She asked whether I had any further questions of “this man.”

“Just a few,” I said. It was time to move in for the kill. “You are a bit of a celebrity, aren’t you?”

“One doesn’t like to boast.”

“Come, come. Don’t be shy. You present a television series?”

“Yes.
Myth and Mystery
. Sunday nights.”

“You were asked because you wrote
this
book?” I held up a thick paperback.

“Where did you get that?” whispered Justine.

“Bought it in Chancery Lane yesterday. After you tried to get the relevance of introducing this—literature.”

“I’m entitled to explore the credibility of this… man.” I stressed it in the same dismissive way Hardcastle had. “I ask for
a little latitude.”

The judge licked her lips and said, “Just this once, Mr. Fawley. But, be warned, what’s sauce for the goose—”

“I understand. What’s your book about, Doctor?”

“Enigmas in England.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Enigmatic England
.”

“An ingenious title. Very… esoteric,” I said, thinking of the woman in the Tate. I then turned toward the public gallery.

“Now, due to your celebrity, members of the public report strange phenomena to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you chronicle them in your book?”

“Yes.”

“And make money from them?”

He was furious. “I add to the body of literature, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah, yes. I’m sure that’s what I mean. And how many people have communicated with you?”

“Literally thousands.”

“I see.” I paused. “And has a single one witnessed a Druid-like sacrifice?”

“No.”

“Have you ever attended a cult sacrifice? Or a rite of any description?” My questions were now aimed at him rapidly, not giving
him much chance to answer. “Have you even seen a group of wandering Druids? A single Druid? A Child of Albion? A… baby of
Albion?”

He had not.

I opened the book, seemingly at random. “I notice you received a report last year that made the tabloids?”

“I was informed of an unsolicited but corroborated manifestation of an extra-terrestrial nature.” He gabbled it out as quickly
as possible.

“Do you mean ET and his chums dropped in for tea?”

Hardcastle slammed her hand on the desk. “Mr. Fawley, remember my warnings—and those of others?”

I was having too much fun to be worried about the conduct committee. “Where did this sighting take place?” I asked.

“Walsall.”

“So your testimony comes to this: you have more evidence of little green men landing in Walsall than you have of Druid sacrifices?”

Hardcastle seethed. “He never said they were
green
.”

“Oh yes. What color were they?”

“No one said.”

“It’s a load of rubbish, isn’t it?”

He did not answer.

“Isn’t it all nonsense?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly like the rest of your evidence.” I then asked the judge if I could exhibit the postcard and finally said, “Thank
you, Professor. I need keep you from your adoring public no longer.”

Justine told the court that after lunch she would call the girl.

E
MMA AND
I
WENT TO
J
OHNSON’S WINE BAR
. W
HEN
I had guided her to an isolated table and ordered two orange juices, she could contain her curiosity no longer.

“What’s going on, Tom?”

“It’s called a trial. It’s what barristers do, Emma.”

She waited for an account executive with his organic wine and pilchard and parsley couscous to pass. “When are you going to
tell me what this trial is about?”

“When I can.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You’re the only person I trust any more. But—”

“But?”

“But I need you to do some more digging. Quite frankly the less you know the better. For—”

“For my own good?”

“For your own safety.” I thought about the heroin planted in my car and my fight with Templeman in the woods.

“Did you say safety? Tom, you’re behaving very strangely.” She put her head in her hands and directed a searching look at
me. “I’ve got to hand it to you. You’ve really done it. I don’t know if you’ve finally gone mad or have sold your soul to
Kingsley.”

“I need you to go to St. Catherine’s House again. Double-check that there is no Molly Summers on record.”

“Why, Tom? Has Kingsley killed someone who doesn’t exist?”

“Possibly.”

“How can you kill someone who… who doesn’t exist?” Emma asked. “Well, I suppose if anyone can, Kingsley can. But how does
it work?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m beginning to have an idea—”

“Which you can’t tell me because I’m a weak defenseless girlie.”

“Which I can’t tell you because I’m worried about you. Will you go?”

We started to head toward the door when Emma stopped. “I’m not going until I see the girl testify.”

“You won’t be missing much,” I said.

“How do you know? Oh, don’t bother. I’ll see the girl and then I’ll go.”

“Thanks, Emma.”

She paused. “You never did tell me, Tom. What was the home like?”

“West Albion?” I asked and she nodded. “Well, imagine the Hammer House of Horror… with a few turnip fields thrown in.”

“You have a thing about turnips, don’t you, Tom?”