‘Do you think it’s teleporting from place to place?’ asked Guleed. ‘Like in Star Trek.’
‘It could have been a trick,’ I said, ‘but it would explain how she got into the Silver Vaults to kill David Moore.’
This possibility was why we were having our little strategy meeting on the landing outside Dame Jocasta’s office while her underlings stole glances at us and occasionally offered us decaffeinated fair-trade macchiatos.
‘We need to finish the interview,’ Guleed had said, ‘before anything else happens.’
‘And ask whether she has a ring,’ I said.
Because to my mind it was obvious David Moore thought, at least, that the ring would protect him.
‘Are you talking about this?’ asked Dame Jocasta when we resumed the interview. She held up her left hand to display the silver band on her ring finger. ‘What’s so interesting about it?’
I wasn’t about to say it was enchanted, so I explained that the theft of a similar ring may have had a connection to Preston Carmichael’s suspicious death.
‘We’d like to rule out that line of inquiry.’
Getting it off Dame Jocasta’s finger involved removing three other rings – including one carved out of black shale that she admitted was literally an archaeological find – and, finally, Vaseline. When I held out my hand, she hesitated.
‘You will give it back?’ she said.
I assured her I would and she deposited it in my hand.
Nightingale had been right – it was too heavy to be silver and was definitely enchanted. As I opened it up it took the form of an astrolabe. I smelt lemon-scented dust and heard, as if a distant call to prayer, a lamentation in a foreign tongue. This time I got a greater sense of age, and over that a sharp crimson tinge like drops of blood in clear water. I put it down on the back of my notebook and took some pictures with my phone.
‘For comparison purposes,’ I told Dame Jocasta when she got restless.
When I was finished she didn’t snatch it out of my hand – but only, I got the impression, through an act of will. She pushed it back on her ring finger, wincing as it went over the knuckle.
‘I don’t dare have it adjusted,’ she said. ‘In case they break it.’
Guleed switched the focus back to the photograph. Dame Jocasta identified David Moore, but only knew his first name. She did know the surname of the last figure in the picture – Andrew Carpenter. Short, plump, with straight black hair cut into an untidy fringe, black-framed NHS specs and a surprisingly engaging smile. He was wearing a quilted blue bomber jacket over a white shirt with big lapels. Flares would have fitted that ensemble but the picture cut off at his knees. To me. for some reason, he looked out of place amongst the others but I couldn’t work out why. Certainly it was all very eighties.
‘I don’t remember very much about him – except his name, of course,’ said Dame Jocasta.
‘Why his surname in particular?’ asked Guleed.
‘Carpenter?’ said Dame Jocasta – as if the answer was obvious. Obviously me and Guleed looked blank because she said, slowly, ‘As was Jesus’s father – a carpenter, I mean.’
‘Got it,’ I said.
‘Who took the photograph?’ asked Guleed.
Dame Jocasta hesitated, her brow furrowed in memory.
‘It must have been Brian Packard,’ she said. ‘He sent me an eCard from America a couple of Christmases ago. I didn’t reply, though – I try not to look backwards.’
‘Did you keep the email?’ asked Guleed.
‘No, of course not,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘I deleted it at once. One must otherwise one drown in long-lost acquaintances.’
Guleed gave her a bland smile.
‘Tell me about the cult,’ I said.
‘We were charismatics,’ she said.
Which, it turned out, meant that they believed that the Holy Spirit imparted special gifts, called charism, to believers in order to build up the Church and, by building up the Church, improve the lot of all humanity.
‘What kind of gifts?’ I asked.
‘There were lots,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘I doubt I can remember them all. Let me see …’ She tilted her head to stare up at the ceiling. ‘There were gifts of grace … prophecy, speaking in tongues – which is not what you think it is.’
‘No?’ I asked.
‘It’s not babbling and making random noises,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘It’s about being able to preach the word of God beyond the constraints of your own tongue.’
‘The better to spread the word,’ said Guleed.
‘Precisely,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘Then there were the gifts of service, which I seem to remember were all about being able to discern God’s wisdom or something. You’re probably going to have to ask somebody else about them.’
I was thinking Professor Harold Postmartin – this seemed his sort of thing.
Then there were the gifts of work – which was the good stuff. Miracles, healing and the faith needed to recognise these things as God’s works.
‘Wouldn’t want the credit to go somewhere else, would we?’ said Dame Jocasta.
‘Did you receive any of these gifts?’ asked Guleed.
‘No,’ said Dame Jocasta, but there was an edge in the way she said it. ‘I was far too lazy to do God’s work on earth. Barely managed my coursework as it was.’
‘So how did you come to join this cult?’ I asked, and Dame Jocasta winced.
‘You shouldn’t call it a cult,’ she said. ‘I know, I know, I started it, but it wasn’t a cult, not really. There’s a difference between being enthusiastic in how you express your spirituality and a …’ She groped for a definition but didn’t find one she liked. ‘A cult,’ she concluded.
‘So when did you join this group of like-minded religious enthusiasts?’ I asked.
Dame Jocasta gave me a long look and then smiled.
‘I’ll bet you’re a hoot down the station, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I met Preston after Mass in Manchester.’ She could remember the date because it was All Saint’s Day, 1 November 1988. ‘He was handing out leaflets,’ she said. ‘He looked at me and said, “I’ll bet you can’t be bothered to believe in anything.” And before I could think of anything to say he said, “If you turn up I’ll stand you a pint.” So I took the leaflet. Don’t laugh, I was a student – a free drink was not to be sneezed at.’
She shook her head.
‘Mind you, I had no intention of going,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘It’s just that I couldn’t be bothered not to.’
It had started much like she’d expected. They sat around in a circle of chairs in a community hall and talked about Jesus. When we asked if she could remember who had been at that first meeting, she named the subjects in the photograph but admitted that there had been a couple more whose names she couldn’t remember.
‘But I don’t think they came back,’ she said.
Which was strange, because Preston Carmichael was very compelling.
‘One of those quiet preachers,’ she said. ‘None of that gesticulating and yelling nonsense. He spoke softly, but with this huge weight behind his words, as if God himself was sitting behind him with his hand on his shoulder. It was irresistible.’
And what he talked about was the power of the Holy Spirit, and how many Christians had tried to push that aspect of God into the background. Preston believed that by embracing the Holy Spirit as fervently as they embraced God and Christ their saviour, Christians could not only strengthen their faith but also get cool superpowers.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘He actually said “cool superpowers”?’
‘Like Superman,’ said Dame Jocasta. ‘He actually said that – “God wants you to be a superhero for Jesus.”’
‘Was he serious?’ asked Guleed.