Choosy. Or maybe no male authors.
On a plinth at the far end of the room sat an enormous, rude goddess-figure, not unlike the thing in the Goddess shop window but carved out of oak with bangles and necklaces of mistletoe.
It was all very tidy. No smells of herbs or incense. But for the goddess, it might have been a conference suite in a hotel. There was another door, between bookshelves.
Powys found himself in Wanda's Home Temple.
'It didn't make sense,' he told Juanita outside, it was done up like Tutankhamen's tomb, only more comfortable. Sofas, drapes, nice coloured pillars. A stone altar, fat candles. It felt as phoney as that woman looks. Why did she come here?'
'Fell in love with the whole Avalon bit,' Juanita said. 'That's the official story. The truth is, she went to dry out at a discreet New-Agey sort of health hydro a couple of miles out of town. Ceridwen's friend Jenna worked there, realised that here was a woman with unlimited wealth in need of a Cause. The reason I know this, my reflexologist, Sarah, was doing sessions there two days a week. Jenna wasted no time introducing Wanda to Ceridwen. Who administered a little psychic psychotherapy. Next thing, Wanda's bought this house and is spending a bomb on it.'
'I don't claim to be heavily attuned to this kind of thing,' Powys said. 'But if there's ever been a heavy ritual in that house-'
'It's somewhere else, isn't it? This place is a front.'
Juanita shivered. She looked ill now; Powys was very scared for her.
'When Wanda set up here, this was when The Cauldron really surfaced.' Over her scarf, Juanita's nose was blue. 'It became the goddess group virtually overnight. All kinds of women who'd never been seen at the Assembly Rooms, attended Cauldron meetings and lectures because of Wanda. Including Verity.'
'The lady with the Pixhill papers. I think we need to collect them, don't you?'
'What about Diane?'
'She's not here, Juanita. She may have been brought here last night, but they've taken her somewhere else. Where does Ceridwen live?'
'Tiny little flat near the Glastonbury Experience arcade. She won't be there. Too obvious.' Juanita walked to the end of the mews, where it led into High Street. 'Time is it?'
'Nearly ten-thirty.'
'Diane's been missing for over twelve hours.'
'We could tell the police.'
'She's twenty-seven. We can't say she's missing from home.'
Juanita's teeth were chattering. Her brown eyes were full of sickness.
'You're going home,' Powys said. 'Now.'
The sleet had eased, but it was very cold and the sky behind the tower of St John's foamed with purplish cloud.
FOUR
For the first time, Pel Grainger had his partner with him, the psychotherapist and sociologist Eloise Castell, a slender; blonde with a mid-European accent who never seemed to smile. Verity had seen her at gatherings of The Cauldron, but they had not spoken.
Shivering, despite her body-warmer, Verity followed the two of them up the garden under a hard sky which sporadically spat out sharp, grey fragments of itself. Verity felt an ominous tug on her hip with every step. It could not simply be arthritis; it had come too suddenly.
It felt like Colonel Pixhill's ghost. Urging her to stop them, bring these foolish people back.
But Dr Grainger was jovial and bulging with confidence. He hadn't even knocked at the door; she'd just seen them both walking briskly through the garden gate.
'See, just because people can't drink this water. Verity,' Dr Grainger called back cheerfully, 'that is no reason to seal the well.'
Against the weather, he wore a thick black cloak like the ones church ministers wore for winter funerals.
'But surely,' Verity ventured, hurrying to keep up, 'if anyone was ill, they could then sue us for some enormous amount.'
'Not if there's a sign specifically warning them not to drink. Hell, you seal off an old well, you're blocking an ancient energy flow. Water – and darkness – must not, not ever, be stifled.'
The garden, extending now to little more than three-quarters of an acre, was well tended by Verity close to the house, a small area of lawn which she kept mown and its hedges neatly trimmed. Then it narrowed, a rockery began and so did the wilderness.
'Do be careful, Dr Grainger. Unfortunately, there are thistles and nettles. We did once have a part-time gardener. But when the well had to be sealed and people no longer came to it…'
'You know. Verity, the more I think about this, the more incredible… See, it's clear from the name that this house was built in this location, all those centuries ago, precisely because of the well. No wonder it lost its identity, turned in on itself. You have a scythe or something?'
'I'm sorry, no.'
'That an old spade over there? Would you pass it to me? Thanks.'
He began to slash at the brambles, laying bare what used be a narrow path. Verity, who hadn't been to this end of the garden in many years, seemed to remember there once being cobblestones.
Ms Castell made no attempt to assist – indeed seemed uninterested in what her partner was doing. She paid no heed to Verity either, but gazed beyond the boundary of Meadwell's land to where Glastonbury Tor hung above them, its base bristling with trees, its church tower black as a roosting crow.
Dr Grainger, his back to Verity, looked disturbingly Neanderthal as he swung the spade like an axe, smashing through a clump of tall thistles. Verity clutched her body warmer to her throat. She saw that Ms Castell was watching her now, with a crooked little smile. I don't like you, Verity thought suddenly. She was not one to make snap decisions about people and wondered if this was another warning communicated to her by the Colonel.
Dr Grainger let out a small yip. 'Hey, I think we found it.' He stepped back. 'Goddam, is this a crime or is this a crime?'
They had emerged into a circle of concrete surrounded by a low wall, bramble-barbed and overhung with twisted brittle bushes, most of them clearly dead or dying.
'Yeah,' said Dr Grainger, 'I feel it. All is cool.'
At the centre of the circle was a raised concrete plinth about four feet in diameter. He stabbed at it; the spade rang dully on the concrete.
Chalice Well, where the Holy Grail was said to have lain, was at the top of a lovely garden by the foot of Chalice Hill, which flanked the Tor. Below the well were circular pools of red-brown water. It was owned by the Chalice Well Trust, and on summer days people would pay an entrance fee and sit or lie on the grass, eyes closed, in meditation.
Verity had always wanted to think the Meadwell had been like this once, a place of ancient peace.
It looked harsh and desolate now, and, in truth, she had never seen it otherwise. When she'd arrived to take up the post of housekeeper, the Meadwell had already been partially scaled and Colonel Pixhill never spoke of it.
'You have a pickaxe someplace?'
'Oh!' Verity stumbled, feeling a sudden, intense glow of pain at her hip. Almost immediately it began to fade. 'Dr Grainger, I really don't think…'
'Hmmm. There may be too much light. There a metal cover under here? Like with the Chalice Well?'
'I believe so, but…'
'Yeah,' he said thoughtfully. 'See, you hit it with harsh sunlight after all these years, the shock could completely negate the effect. Am I right here, Eloise?'
Ms Castell stood back. 'I sink the well should certainly be in shadow when the cover is raised. The emanations will be powerful after all these years of confinement.'