The Greenstone Grail (25 page)

It wasn’t until Wednesday that the detectives came to Riverside House. Michael opened the door to an inspector from the CID and a uniformed sergeant who identified themselves politely, presented warrant cards, and requested a brief word.

The sergeant, a woman, was black, burly and six feet tall; the inspector was about the same height but much slimmer, with a narrow, intent face that looked both pale and dark,
hard eyes and a secretive mouth. His name was Pobjoy. It didn’t suit him. He declined coffee for both of them in the voice of one who would decline any such offer as a matter of principle.

‘The inquest is next week, isn’t it?’ Michael said. ‘I was told my attendance wouldn’t be required.’

‘No, sir. We only need evidence from the man who found the body. We just wanted to confirm a few small points.’

Michael studied the officer consideringly, absorbing the significance of his rank and plain-clothes status. ‘There’s nothing suspicious about the death, is there?’

‘You think there might be?’

‘Well – no,’ Michael responded, slightly nonplussed. Old woman walking by the river, presumably after dark, falls in, drowns … It’s an unhappy accident but surely nothing more.’

‘What makes you so sure she was walking after dark?’ the inspector said.

‘Easier to miss your footing, I suppose. Unless she had bad eyesight.’

‘Her eyesight was excellent.’

‘Maybe she had an attack of dizziness,’ Michael speculated. ‘She must have been getting on a bit. She was a great-grandmother, I gather.’

‘The autopsy confirmed she was exceptionally fit for her age,’ the inspector said noncommittally. ‘Whatever that was.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘There is no record of her birth, and her relatives seem to be – uncertain – about it. Did you see her walking along the riverbank on a regular basis? Living here, you must know everyone who uses this route.’

‘Not really,’ Michael said. ‘Our strip of the bank’s private. People walk further up – that way – and the path isn’t good, so it doesn’t get used as much as you would expect. I’ve seen
the old boy with the dog a few times, but I don’t ever recall seeing Mrs Carlow before. In the village, yes, but not by the river. What exactly are you getting at, Inspector?’

But Pobjoy wasn’t giving anything away. ‘Merely trying to establish the facts. The lady was strong and healthy, and in full possession of her faculties. She also had a reputation for being extremely acute. If she was in the habit of strolling along by the river we thought you might know; otherwise it seems an unlikely thing for her to do. You said yourself, the path isn’t popular. And she had no dog.’

‘Did she fall or was she pushed?’ Michael asked. ‘Is that the idea?’

‘There is no evidence of foul play,’ Pobjoy said repressively. ‘But we would like to know if you saw anyone frequenting the area in the days preceding the discovery of the body.’

‘Acting suspiciously? I don’t think so.’

The inspector proceeded to take Michael through every encounter of that week, no matter how trivial. The postman, a courier with a consignment of books, a delivery from Sainsbury’s in Crowford, a couple of schoolboys fishing without a permit, another dogwalker. ‘And your wife?’ Pobjoy concluded. ‘I’m afraid we’ll need to talk to her as well. When do you expect her back?’

‘In a month or so,’ Michael said. ‘She’s in Georgia.’ This time, it was the policeman’s turn to look nonplussed. ‘She’s an actress. She’s been on tour for a while. I doubt if she could tell you anything useful; she doesn’t spend much time here.’

Pobjoy threw him a swift, hard look, curiously devoid of expression. ‘I see,’ he said, in a tone that made Michael wonder exactly what he saw. ‘That will be all for now, but I may need to come back to you.’ He offered no thanks, departing on a curt nod, leaving Michael thoughtful and vaguely disquieted.

Outside, Sergeant Hale asked: ‘Well, sir? Do you really think there’s something wrong?’

The inspector shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ Evidently he wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter. As they headed back to the village where they had left the car, he said: ‘I’ll meet you in the pub in half an hour or so. I want to take a look around. Get yourself some lunch.’

The sergeant set off pubwards and Pobjoy wandered down the High Street, apparently aimless, dropping in on the deli to buy some cheese, observing Lily Bagot, whom he had not yet interviewed, without telling her who he was. While he was there Annie came in, exchanged a friendly word and bought half a dozen eggs. When she left he watched where she went, and after a few minutes followed her into the bookshop.

He leafed through a volume of military history – a subject in which he was genuinely interested – and murmured a couple of preliminary courtesies before identifying himself. Clearly she wasn’t the type to offer casual gossip about the Bagots, so he had nothing to lose by putting his inquiries on a semi-official footing.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘Surely … surely Mrs Carlow’s death was just an accident. Why should anyone harm her?’

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ he said. He let the remark hang, sensing the trace element of doubt in her voice and knowing the value of silence with a possible witness; but Annie didn’t react. She looked almost fragile, he decided, with her sensitive mouth, her soft eyes, the filmy halo of her hair – a gentle creature whose warmth of heart showed in her face. But there was strength under the softness, and evidently a capacity for reserve. ‘I get the impression she was a sharp old lady,’ he resumed. ‘No one gains financially from her death, as far as I can tell, but she might have made enemies.’

‘She could be outspoken,’ Annie conceded.

‘So she must have upset people.’

‘Not particularly. You know how it is: everyone makes allowances for the very old and the very young. They can get away with all kinds of cheek. I expect Effie traded on that. She tended to say what she thought, but nobody really minded. It wasn’t as if she was a gossip or a scandalmonger, always stirring up trouble. Actually, she kept herself to herself most of the time. Until …’

‘Until she moved in with Mrs Bagot?’ Pobjoy suggested.

‘That was just a temporary measure. Lily’s broken up with her husband; she needs support. Effie just came to help.’

‘And how did the husband feel about that?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ Annie met his eyes full on. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I expect I shall.’

He tried a few more inquiries, but without eliciting any interesting results, bought the book he had been studying, and left, a little reluctantly. A nice woman, he thought, and crime rarely brought him in contact with nice women. He had recently moved from Hastings, which had a major drug culture and all the depressing fallout which invariably accompanies that. His marriage had fallen by the wayside some years earlier, the pressures of his job taking too heavy a toll on his homelife. A notorious failure on his watch – the fault, in fact, of an arrogant colleague who had planted evidence, leading to repercussions which had affected him – had led to his removal to the relative backwater of Crowford. There was little serious crime in the area and only the occasional murder, usually domestic in origin. Fellow coppers had raised eyebrows at his interest in the death of Effie Carlow, but despite the scandal in his past he had the reputation of a talented detective and his superiors had allowed him the leeway to
investigate. He couldn’t define precisely what he thought was wrong, just a collection of niggling details which didn’t fit in. There was the curious statement of Lily Bagot and her daughter that Effie had shut herself in the attic and never emerged, for instance. And now the possible hostility of Dave Bagot. He rang the CID office and got someone to check his record. Two convictions for drunk and disorderly, one for driving under the influence. Plus an ABH which had been dropped for lack of evidence. All of which, though far from conclusive, at least suggested further lines of inquiry.

And then there was the question of the anonymous letter.

At Thornyhill, Eric was improving his English by reading the newspapers. He had done his quota of work at the café but had accepted a small cash payment instead of lunch, since Bartlemy had managed to imbue him with the idea that it was an offence against local custom to eat out when you were staying somewhere as a guest. He had slept out only once so far, lured indoors by the comfort of the bed and the restful atmosphere of the house. In the evenings, he and Bartlemy talked about poetry, and politics, and the alternative world which had been his home, but his host studiously avoided any discussion of Nathan’s dreams. The newspapers had been Bartlemy’s suggestion; he had returned from shopping at Sainsbury’s in Crowford with an armful of the quality press. Reading one of the multiple supplements, Eric gave an exclamation in his own language. Hoover, who had been watching him with the air of a schoolmaster surveying a promising pupil, pricked his ears and gave a short bark.

‘What is it?’ Bartlemy asked, emerging from the kitchen.

‘This.’ Eric had evidently paled: his dark skin had a greenish tinge. He indicated a lengthy feature illustrated with two photographs. One showed Annie and Rowena Thorn
wielding a piece of paper in the bookshop; the other, printed ‘by special permission of Sotheby’s’, was the Grimthorn Grail.

‘Yes, that’s Annie,’ Bartlemy confirmed. ‘Not a bad picture-for a newspaper shot.’

‘She’s famous?’ Eric queried, looking inexplicably troubled.

‘Good heavens, no. It’s just because she found a missing document which may prove Rowena’s right to reclaim that cup. It used to be the property of her family.’

‘Not possible.’ Eric made a graphic gesture of dismissal. He gestured frequently and with energy, Bartlemy noticed, perhaps to compensate for his still imperfect grasp of the language. ‘Cup is from my world. Must not be here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I cannot mistake. I never see it – it is too important, you would say, holy? – but I see many pictures. Is first of three. Everyone know of them. Part of religion.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in God?’ Bartlemy murmured.

Eric struggled to explain himself. ‘Religion is not God. Religion is spirit, faith. There is word you use here, in church-salvation. We are not many now, people of my world – even Eos die soon – but we believe will be saved. Maybe just one man, one woman, but they will not be sterile, will have children again, our world will continue. Salvation.’

‘And this cup is part of that?’ Bartlemy pursued.

‘Very important, special, holy. First of three. Cannot be
here
. Is kept in safety, in secret place, guarded by monster from ancient time, until is needed.’

‘What do you mean by the “first of three”?’

‘Three things. Cup, sword, crown. Belong together. All holy. Cup of stone, sword of
stroar
, crown of iron. Make Great Spell to save us.’

‘Sword of
straw
?’ Bartlemy echoed.

‘
Stroar
,’ Eric repeated. ‘Is special metal in my world. Very strong, make sharp edge, sharp point. I not know name here. Maybe not exist on Earth.’

‘I see. The stone, too, would be different – perhaps just slight molecular differences, but it would defeat analysis. And the age … from another universe, another time, impossible to date. That would explain the anomalies. Although iron seems to be iron everywhere.’ He fell silent for a moment, pondering. Eric returned to his contemplation of the newspaper, as agitated as a Catholic might be to find the Turin shroud on Mars. ‘So what is this Great Spell?’ Bartlemy asked at last.

‘Is deep mystery,’ Eric said. ‘If we know, our world is saved; but no one knows it. Maybe Grandir find out. People say, first Grandir make three, long long ago, a million years our time. Cup is sometimes full of blood, sword moves without hand to hold, crown has many powers – I not know them.
His
crown,
his
blood, sword that kill
him
. True story so old, much confusion now. Is forbidden to discuss, because people may invent, lie. Religion must not lie.’

‘That’s a novel idea,’ Bartlemy remarked. ‘What was the first Grandir’s name?’

‘Great secret,’ Eric said. ‘Grandir’s name always secret. I think, name in language of force and has power.’

‘Yes … names have power, language has power, especially the language of magic. I wonder …’

‘How is it here?’ Eric reverted to his former plea. ‘Is wrong, very bad. If cup is here, my world cannot be saved. No hope left. Who steal it? Who bring it here? Perhaps Nathan dream –’

‘
No
.’ Bartlemy spoke with unaccustomed sharpness. ‘There may be a connection, but not that. Anyway, this cup has been here for centuries. Possibly our world is where it was sent
for safekeeping, the secret place you mentioned. The ancient monster could be just a blind, a focus for gossip, a distraction for thieves. It’s an old ruse: you build a vault to challenge and confuse people, and hide your treasure under the bed.’

‘Cup is kept under bed?’ Eric was horrified.

‘Don’t worry, I was speaking metaphorically. At the moment, I promise you, it’s secure. We must arrange for you to see it. The photograph is pretty clear, but we need to be sure. If you
could
see it, would you know definitely if it was from your world? There are many cups and chalices similar to this.’

‘I know it,’ Eric insisted. ‘Patterns there – there – holy, have much power. How can it be here? I think, I am here as chance. Others dream like Nathan?’