Lucifer's Crown (11 page)

No. Waking or sleeping all he'd hear was his father's voice, begging for help he couldn't give. All he'd see was the road ahead, empty.

Mick hirpled back down the stairs, his feet clumsy on the misshapen treads, and stopped. The lass climbing the stairs also stopped, two steps below him. Her face turned toward him like a daffodil toward the sun. He'd once read an essay saying that flowers proved the grace of God. He must have died and gone to heaven, then, and here was an angel come to welcome him.

But she was staring as though she were the one peeking through the Pearly Gates, her eyes blue as wee bits of sky or sea. Her lips parted. “Hi."

She was one of the Americans Gupta had mentioned. “Hello yourself."

"I'm Rose Kildare."

"Mick Dewar."

"Oh, you're Calum's son. I found—uh—I'm sure you'll find him real soon now. Sorry, I'm in your way.” Without taking her eyes from his she edged toward the narrower side of the staircase and lost her balance.

He grasped her hand to steady her.

"Thank you,” she said.

"No problem.” Even after he released her hand its warm shape nestled in his. Her fragrance teased his nostrils. He inched past, until he was one step below her and they stood nose to nose. “I'll be seeing you later, then."

"Oh yes.” She smiled.

Blinded, Mick managed to walk himself down the stairs and into the dining room without falling.

Thomas London sat at the table, stirring a cup of tea. The man's expression was that grim he might as well have been digging a grave with his spoon. Gupta had told him about this chap London as well. He might help sort this business about relics. Mick had already sorted Gupta—no, his dad wasn't jealous and possessive of women.

A plate of roast beef sandwiches and crisps waited. So did a black and white cat, sitting beside his chair. Mick tore a wee bittie of beef and held it out. “There you are.” The cat nipped it from his fingers.

He sat down, bit into the sandwich, and chewed. His jaw felt heavy.

London pushed a steaming cup toward him. “Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all,” Mick returned thickly.

"I believe I'm a friend of your family. That is, I am if the most recent Malise Dewar of Glendochart was your—great-grandfather, I suppose?"

"That was my great-grandad's name right enough. And his grandad's. But my dad's the family genealogist."

"There's no news of him, I take it?"

"No.” Mick forced the wad of beef, bread, and mustard down his throat and gulped tea, burning his tongue.

A woman stepped through the doorway. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt depicting a cartoon armadillo, tire tracks a grid across its body. Her auburn hair swept back from a high, clear forehead. She frowned at London, not in anger, Mick thought, but in puzzlement. Her dark eyes suggested that she was frequently puzzled, and the tilt of her chin that she made a habit of asking questions.

"Maggie,” London said, “this is Mick Dewar, Calum's son. Mick, Maggie Sinclair. She's here with a group of students."

"I'm sorry,” Maggie said, and for a moment Mick thought she was apologizing for being there. “I saw your father and Vivian Morgan Sunday afternoon. My student, Rose, found Vivian's body Monday morning."

"Rose? I met her on the staircase. Thought I was hallucinating."

With a short laugh, Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Gupta asked me if I knew Vivian Morgan, But I dinna ken her from Adam. From Eve.” Mick forced down another bite of sandwich.

"Your father's an amateur historian?” London prodded.

"Aye, like old Malise, right keen on history and tradition."

"Could you tell me what he said when he rang you?"

Mick had repeated the words so many times they played counterpoint to “First Rites” in his gut:
From the world, the flesh, and the hounds of hell
... “He was havering about not believing something and then finding it was true. He said the hounds of hell were after him, and they'd be after me if he told me. Then he was going on about a relic."

"A relic?” Distant lightning flickered in London's eyes.

"He didna give it a name. It was the Bruce's, he said, at Arbroath Abbey. His friend Sinclair's father came to his—dad's—father and they shifted it."

"Sinclair,” repeated Maggie, with another pucker at London.

He said, “King Robert the Bruce. And Alexander Sinclair of Stow, near Melrose, am I right?"

"Oh aye, same name for father and son both."

"Was the son killed in an automobile accident fifteen years ago?"

"Aye. He's gone, and his dad, and my grandad and his dad—they're all gone.” Mick's breath caught in his throat. He washed it down with tea. “Dad said that it's our duty to protect it—the relic, I reckon. From, he said—if I understood the Gaelic—
Am Fear Dubh
. ‘Dubh’ is ‘black,’ but—ah, he was off his head, going on about time coming to an end."

"Not a bit of it.” London's eyes were growing brighter, shot with light. “Calum was, to use the old Scots word, fey. Facing his doom or his destiny. He'd just seen the old family stories in a new light. As for
Am Fear Dubh
, it means ‘the Black Man.’ The Devil."

That's daft
, Mick thought But still a chill oozed down his back.

"Did your father tell you where they hid this relic?"

"Not so's you'd understand. Take the A68 and the A7, he said, to Fairtichill and Schiehallion, the fairy mountain—'sidhe’ means ‘fairy’ in the Gaelic, so that's sensible, at least. But he said ‘the mountain with the triple peak,’ which is dead wrong. And both the A7 and the A68 run south from Edinburgh, not northwest. There's no Fairtichill at all. He started singing, ‘you take the high road and I'll take the low road, past Ercildoune and into the gates of hell.’ Then the line went dead."

"The A7 and the A68,” repeated London. “Ercildoune."

"He was confusing some of old Malise's tales, I'm thinking.” Light footsteps came down the staircase. Rose, a vision in denim, walked past the doorway. She sent Mick another smile. His rigid lips softened in a reply. Then she was gone, her steps absorbed by the distant beat of the music. Or else by the beat of his own heart ... Now wasn't the time to be eyeing the lasses. “My dad's in trouble."

"I'm afraid he is,” said London. “And so are you."

"Why? He didna tell me anything.” Mick shoved his empty plate away.

"Oh yes he did. Several things, amongst them that your grandfather and Alex's father relocated a relic that was associated with Arbroath Abbey. He also mentioned ‘Fairtichill,’ the old Gaelic name of the village of Fortingall, which lies at the mouth of Glenlyon as Schiehallion lies along its course."

"Fortingall, is it? Dad and I always stopped there on our way to see his folk in Killin. We'd view the old yew tree in the churchyard and have a piece at the hotel."

"That's supposed to be the birthplace of Pontius Pilate,” said Maggie. “Wrong time period, but a good story."

London nodded. “Robert Campbell, who directed the massacre at Glencoe, was indubitably born in the area. The story is a morality play, I should think, of the hazards of simply following orders."

"From fairies to Pilate,” Mick said, “there's a leap for you."

"It's not so vast a leap as all that. A little alchemy at work, you might say.” London's smile almost reached his ash-brown eyes. “Do you know the etymology of your own name?"

"A Gaelic word meaning ‘guardian’ or ‘keeper,’ my dad says."

"Yes. Like ‘Baker’ or ‘Fisher,’
deoradh
is an occupation used as a surname. You may have heard of the relics of St. Fillan of Glendochart. The caretakers were named Dewar."

"And Killin's at the head of Glendochart, aye, but how, but why...” Mick's brain ached. London's words ebbed and flowed like the tide. “My dad and I've been on our own for three years now, since my mum died, you'd think I could help him when he was wanting help."

"You may yet be able to help him, Mick. So might we all."

"We?” asked Maggie.

"Sinclair,” said London. “The etymology is French, ‘Saint Clair,’ holy light. The St. Clairs have long been knights in service of holy relics in France and in Scotland both. There's no such thing as coincidence, Maggie."

Her brows arched. So did Mick's. “My dad said that."

"Did he now? He'd realized, I expect, that he—and you—are chapters in a long and very old story. Just yesterday my friend Ivan O'Connell told me that the relic he's been guarding has gone missing. I should think that relic you guard is threatened as well."

"We're no guardians of anything."

"Your family has reduced your knowledge to rumor and quaint custom is all. And your alliance with the Sinclairs has confused the issue. Do you by any chance have a
sgian dubh?
One with a black stone chipping in the hilt?"

"Oh aye, that I do. It's upstairs."

"Yes!” London smiled again, this time a fierce, bright smile that swept from his mouth to his eyes and flashed like a brandished blade.

Mick stared. “The knife's the relic, is it?"

"It's a memento of the relic. I should keep a keen eye on it, Mick. Keep it with you."

"Let me guess,” said Maggie. “This has something to do with the sheath for a little knife that Gupta found in Vivian Morgan's things."

"He showed it me. It might could be one of the souvenirs we sell in the mill slop. Shop.” He burped mustard. “I've never heard tell of this Morgan woman. And there's another one—Dad's been making checks over to an Ellen Sparrow."

"Has he now?” London laid his hands on the table, as though contemplating a chess game. He had the long fingers of an artist on the strong hands of a warrior. “I feel certain your relic has something to do with Vivian's death, which in turn is part of a larger pattern."

"How?” Maggie persisted. “I know people all over the world worship relics..."

"We Catholics do not worship relics. We revere the saint they represent. A relic is a bridge between the seen and the unseen, between the flesh and the spirit. A metaphor made tangible."

"Eh?” said Mick.

"Our reverence for relics connects our faith to the much older beliefs from which it sprang, beliefs that revered the natural world."

"Eh?” Mick said again.

"That doesn't answer my question,” said Maggie.

"Suffice it to say that relics—and three relics in particular—give us the chance, allow us to choose, to bring good into this world. But there are those who prefer to bring evil.” London set his hand on Mick's forearm. “Lift up your heart, Mick. You were brought here for a purpose. We were all brought here for a purpose. We're off to Salisbury tomorrow, and you're booked to ride along. I suggest you have a rest."

"Oh aye, Dad was on a tour from Salisbury, but...” At his feet sat the cat, his paws tucked beneath his breast, his golden eyes half closed, radiating sleep. Mick's eyelids felt like sandbags. He was tempted to ask London,
who are you
, but he suspected he'd get no better answer. Yawning, he pulled himself to his feet and turned toward the door. “Good night, Mr. London. Ms. Sinclair."

"Peace be with you,” London said quietly.

The stairs seemed the height of Ben Nevis. Mick stopped halfway to catch his breath. From down the corridor soared a glorious soprano voice, “...the word made flesh, in the world made true...”
Rose
. If he and his mates had a singer like her their band would be as brilliant as Nevermas ... The band didn't matter now.

Maggie's voice said, “What's that supposed to mean? We were brought here for a purpose?"

"You want answers, do you?"

Yes, I do
, thought Mick.

"Yes, I do,” Maggie replied. “You got any?"

"A few. And it's time I acted upon them. Come with me tomorrow to Old Sarum, a place of many meetings and many partings, and I'll share my answers with you."

The house creaked. Maggie said, “Yeah. Sure. Why not? Which is one question I'll answer myself, thank you.” A chair scraped. Footsteps paced toward the back of the house.

Mick had no answers at all. He stumbled into his room, collapsed onto the bed, and landed hard in a pool of nightmare.

Maggie stood in the garden, trying to corral her wits. The morning sky shone a flawless blue, washed clean. Sunlight played across the gallery windows with their tiny panes of glass like fingers playing across a harp.

The gentle flute and harp music she'd heard after the All Souls’ bell was echoed, oddly enough, by the lilt of “First Rites,” the song the kids played over and over again last night. The insistent beat of electric guitars, drums, and bagpipes was not soothing, though, but energizing, throbbing in her gut like a second heart.
No wonder the Scots marched into battle behind a piper
, Maggie thought.

The eyes of the statue of Mary Magdalene, the penitent, were filled with both regret and hope. One hand rejected the past, the other reached toward the future. Was the work sensitive or manipulative? Which was Thomas? What did he want from her?
We were brought here for a purpose
, he'd said, which meant his motive was between pretentious and profound. Something Miltonian, along the lines of justifying God to man? As much as Maggie wanted to respond,
yeah, right
, that old pebble in her mind and that new pulse in her gut whispered,
if only
.

Outside the garden gate, she found Mick just closing his cell phone. He was clean-shaven and neatly ponytailed, but his eyes were haunted and hunted both. “Still no news?” she asked.

"Not one bloody word.” Mick tucked his phone into his jacket. “London's a wee bit daft, is he?"

"He's either crazy or he's saner than anyone I've ever met."

"Oh aye, Inspector Gupta said something like that."

Maggie wondered about Gupta, too, but held her tongue. Together she and Mick walked to the car park, where Rose and Sean waited beside the mini-van. Anna had already claimed a middle seat. Thomas stood with his hands in the pockets of a heavy tweed coat, exuding a warm scent of wool and soap.

His smile was affable, even though something in his eyes reminded Maggie of dark clouds massed on the horizon. “Good morning. I'll sit beside you, shall I, so I can offer the appropriate remark every so often?"