'When they hanged Whiting, stripped the Abbey, it took centuries to recover, and when the spirit came back it was in different form. A recognition of the pagan element. But a kind of coming together.'
'This was the original message of The Cauldron,' Verity said. 'A convergence of goddess worship and the Marian tradition. I suppose this was what encouraged many of us to go to the lectures.'
'That and a chance to see inside Dame Wanda's house, perhaps.'
Verity smiled.
Right at the end of Avalon of the Heart, Powys thought, DF describes herself as an 'impenitent heathen' but she's got a soft spot for the Catholic Church, expresses the hope that Glastonbury will one day become the English Lourdes. This was over ten years before she summoned Pixhill.
EIGHT
When the spotlight came on, it made the Mini look older and shabbier and the whole idea like a non-starter.
Too late to turn back now.
The man in the leather cap he presumed was Rankin looked deeply suspicious, especially when he saw the dog in the back of the car.
'It gets even worse, mate,' Powys said cheerfully. 'The only Department of Transport ID I've got is a driving licence.'
All you have to do is con them long enough to get into the Presence.
'Tell you what, let's forget it. I'll be back at the Ministry on Monday. I'll ring Lord Pennard from there. If you get any trouble before then you'll just have to ask the police to sort it out. We don't work weekends since the cutbacks. Oh, and if the Press ring just tell them no comment and hope for the best.'
Powys smiled blandly and got back in the Mini. 'Cheers, then.' He slammed the door.
Rankin opened it again. 'Look, hang on. You can understand
… I mean, turning up in an old car with a dog in the back.'
'Sure, sure, I probably look like the local poacher.'
'I know all the local poachers,' Rankin said.
'Of course you do. Sorry. No, as you can imagine, after Newbury and Batheaston and Twyford Down, we've learned that going around in a Ministry Rover wearing a pinstripe suit and carrying a briefcase is rather asking for trouble.'
Rankin nodded tentatively. He was a hard-looking bastard m his fifties. A man with one boss.
'At Newbury,' Powys said, 'colleague of mine had all four tyres slashed and the words Green Power scratched across his bonnet in letters about a foot long. No bloody joke, especially as we're now obliged to keep a staff car for three years or eighty thousand miles, whichever…'
'All right,' Rankin said. 'I'll call the house, tell my wife you're on your way. Mr…'
'Powys. '
Had to give his real name in case they checked his ID. But he pronounced it Poe-is. No basic reason why the name should put Rankin or Pennard on their guard, but you could never be sure.
He drove up the straight drive, bare trees gathering snow either side, Rankin watching the gate. The road surface was pitted, an indication that Pennard had no money to throw away.
The house was as he'd imagined it, possibly even grimmer. Jacobean or earlier but shabbily Victorianised. No finesse. Didn't even look like local stone. Not many lights – economy again.
'Any thoughts, Arnold?'
Since his ordeal at Meadwell, Arnold had been a little diffident. Lying on his rug, slightly cool with Powys, not even glancing at Rankin.
Should have warned me, Powys.
'OK. I didn't know about that place. I really didn't know.'
Know now, though.
He parked the car directly in front of the house, at the foot of a flight of six steps, already slippery with trodden snow. There was an unattractive double-glazed porch. A light came on behind it; inside the porch, a door of heavy new oak was already open. A weathered-looking woman stood there. Tweed skirt and jacket, hair tightly braided.
'Mrs Rankin?'
Housekeeper. A tight ship. There was a son as well, training to be the Huntsman, in charge of the hounds, according to Verity who knew these things.
'Follow me, please.'
Inside, it looked and felt like an old-fashioned office complex. Heavy panelled doors in walls of butcher's shop white. All the interior lights had low-wattage bulbs on show through clear shades.
'Lord Pennard will see you in the gun room.'
Not the old, mellow kind of gun-room with racks of Purdeys and the heads of victims on shields. There wasn't a single gun on show, only steel fronted cabinets. There was a practical-looking desk with a stack of copies of Horse and Hound and Shooting Times under a bright, white shaded metal lamp. A leather chair and a straight-backed leather sofa of the kind you round in solicitors' waiting rooms. An electric fire was on.
If the only woman's touch at Bowermead was applied by Mrs Rankin, all of this figured. She didn't invite Powys to sit down and he didn't. He was in; that was what mattered. Lord Pennard kept him waiting for ten minutes. Plenty of time for nervousness to develop. Well, nobody had said this was a good idea. There just wasn't another one. Juanita was ill, Diane was missing and Verity… little Verity was bearing up. Under the circumstances.
'Mr Powys.' He filled the doorway. He did not say Poe-is.
Juanita awoke feeling sodden and soiled. The duvet limp on her like a tarpaulin. She couldn't bear it any longer, needed to get out of the bed into the shower, blast away the half-dried sweat which coated her like soured cream cheese.
Matthew turned on the shower for her.
'How long was I asleep?'
'No more than an hour, I'm afraid. You were rather distressed, Juanita, I shall have to go soon. I have to see Wanda Carlisle. I'm taking her to the Tor before dawn. To meet the Bishop. Need to get to bed early. Got an alarm call arranged for five. Sorry.'
'You've done too much for me already.' The water was hurting Juanita, coming down on her like hot nails; her flayed thighs were stinging like a very bad nettle rash. She held her arms out in front of her like a sleepwalker, to prevent contact with her precious hands. Only the pain kept her this side of hysteria.
When she could take no more she stepped out and into a towelling robe with wide, loose sleeves. She couldn't dry herself.
Matthew turned off the shower. She sat in front of the biggest radiator, drying inside the robe, afraid to ask him.
'Did I… while I was asleep?' She was just so exhausted.
'Juanita.' He pulled over a dining chair. 'A lot of women consult me now. They want a herbal alternative to HRT. Perhaps they find it easier to talk to me because I'm gay. But I do think I help them. It's just…'
'Matthew, I had none of these symptoms. Not even yesterday. Can shock bring it on? Is there – I mean it's not even overnight – but is there such a thing as an overnight menopause?'
His lips tightened like the thin red line in Jim's painting. 'I think you should see a doctor. I have to say I've never encountered anything like this before. I'm sorry, Juanita, I'm out of my depth.'
Powys had declined Pennard's offer of a whisky. Could have done with the courage, but a clear head made more sense.
'Our information is that it could happen anytime,' he said. 'We just thought you ought to be warned.'
'Why? They won't get in.' Lord Pennard snapped out a bunch of keys. He was dressed as though ready to stop them himself, khaki shirt, moleskin trousers. His eyes were piercingly blue, his hair a kind of gunmetal grey. 'Almost a pity. Haven't had a siege here in centuries.'
He crossed to the metal-doored cupboard, fitted a key into it, turned it anticlockwise twice. Both doors fell open. A line of shotguns like black organ pipes. Pennard took one down.
'You shoot, Powys?'
Powys shook his head. 'Not much need for it in the, um, DTIB. Not yet, anyway.'