Evans to Betsy

Excerpt from The Way of the Druid, by Rhiannon

Druid Holy Places

The Druids did not create the great stone circles, the monoliths, the henges, but it is very possible that they incorporated native religious practices into their rituals and used these holy places for worship and divination. It is possible that they used them as calendars, which is what their builders had designed them to be. The accurate telling of the solstices was of paramount importance to the old Druids as their major festivals were held on solstice dates. Solstices were dates of very special significance when the passage between this world and the other was more accessible. We know, for example, that Druid-era window-tombs allowed shafts of light to fall onto the body only on the morning of the winter solstice.

Over centuries of worship holy places become imbued with power and awe. We sense the power in these holy places today and incorporate them into our ceremonies.

But our true holy places today are not amid standing stones or on mountain crags. We worship wherever we are at one with nature. Druids have always venerated the oak tree. Therefore, we choose to hold our most sacred ceremonies in an oak grove.

Druids have always believed that mistletoe is a plant of mystical powers, maybe because it can live without roots, merely perching on other plants, green all winter in spite of frost and snow. We always incorporate “mistletoe” into our ceremonies.

We hold the hazel important for divination.

The yew has special powers for us.

We are at one with all nature—stone and mater, wood and flower.

We are at one with the animals of the forest and the birds of the air and the fish of the ocean.

By midmorning Evan was riding with Betsy and the American woman back to Llanfair. Betsy had tried to protest that she should be staying to do her job, but even Annabel saw that Betsy was in no condition to work.

“We really don’t need you, my dear,” she had said, patting Betsy’s hand. “Please go home and have a good rest. We’ve all had a terrible, terrible shock—you much more so, because of the psychic forces at work in you. Randy was always so tired after a session with—” She broke off, put her hand to her mouth, and fled into her office.

Betsy allowed Emmy and Evan to lead her to the car. Emmy asked Evan to drive. “I’m in no fit state,” she said. So Evan drove. Emmy sat silent beside him. Betsy huddled in the backseat. As usual on such occasions Evan was amazed to find life going on as if nothing had happened. Women were doing their shopping in Porthmadog high street, pushing prams or dodging in and out of traffic with shopping baskets. Tourists were taking pictures of the bridge in Beddgelert. Children were screaming as they ran around the playground of the Beddgelert village school, causing Evan’s thoughts to turn to Bronwen. He hoped she was feeling better this morning. If it was a twenty-four-hour bug, as the doctor had predicted, she should be up and around again.

“I’ll be sorry to leave Mrs. Williams,” Emmy said as they drove into Llanfair. “Such a nice lady. We had already established a real bond between us.”

“You’re not going, are you?” Betsy asked.

Emmy pushed back her hair in a distraught gesture. “I can’t stay here now. Not after what’s happened. Too many bad vibes. I just wouldn’t feel right working here. And with—Randy gone, there’s no point, is there?”

“So will you go back to America?” Betsy asked.

“I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do at the moment. I’m too upset to think straight. I suppose I might go up to Scotland or over to Ireland. Anywhere to get away from here.”

“So now we’ll never finish testing my psychic abilities, will we?” Betsy said.

Emmy turned around to her and placed her hand over Betsy’s. “Listen, kiddo, you have already proved that you have awesome powers. That dream—you were right on. Don’t give up now, okay? See if they can still work with you at the center. At least they’ll be in touch with others in the psychic community. You’ll need to learn how to make those powers work for you.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” Betsy said. “Couldn’t you stay and help me?”

“Don’t ask me to stay here. I just can’t.” Emmy shook her head violently, then she added, “Besides, I’m an academic. I can test people and measure ability, that’s all. You need to work with another psychic.”

“Don’t go yet,” Betsy begged. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something else bad is going to happen.”

“Do you feel that, Betsy?” Emmy asked.

“Yes.”

“Then stop working at that place, Betsy,” Evan said. “Go back to your old job, for heaven’s sake.”

“Of course she shouldn’t go back to her old job,” Emmy said angrily. “Would you have advised Michaelangelo to stick to painting houses?” She spun around to Betsy again. “But I’ll be here a few more days. I’ll need to talk to my professor and decide what to do next. He’ll understand that I can’t go on working here. I really think the best thing for me right now is to go home, to the States—to regroup.”

Evan parked the car outside Mrs. Williams’s cottage. Mrs. Williams already had the front door open by the time they were getting out of the car.

“What on earth has been happening?” she demanded. “Running off in the middle of the night like that! I’ve been worried sick. Come inside, all of you. You look dreadful, Betsy fach. White as a sheet, and so do you, Miss Court. I’ve got the kettle on the boil and the bacon cooked in the over … .”

She ushered them into the house, like a sheepdog rounding up sheep. Evan turned down the offer of breakfast somewhat reluctantly, claiming that he had to check his messages at the police station and look in on Bronwen. He found that he was glad to have made his escape. This was all too much emotion for him. He went into the police station, found no messages, then set off for the schoolhouse. He could hear the voices of children chanting their twelve times table as he crossed the playground. Was that a good sign? Did it mean she was back in class with them? Then the door of Bronwen’s living quarters—a gray stone cottage attached to one end of the school building—opened and Evan was amazed to see Mrs. Powell-Jones, the minister’s wife, come out.

“Ah, Constable Evans. I don’t think you should go in there now.” She put up her hand to stop him.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“She’s not looking at all well. I heard that she was sick and I thought it was my duty to minister to her, but she was so weak, she couldn’t even lift her head to try some of my nourishing homemade calves foot jelly. And she wouldn’t hear of my making her any soup either. She said all she wants to do is sleep, so I think we should respect her wishes, don’t you?” She put a forceful hand on his arm and attempted to turn him around.

For once, Evan wasn’t about to be turned. “Look, I promised I’d stop in on her this morning, and I was called out really early on a case, so she’ll be wondering what has happened to me. Don’t worry. I’ll only stay a minute.” He gave what he hoped was a winning smile and moved past the minister’s wife.

“Try to get her to take a spoonful of the calves foot jelly,” she called after him. “She needs to build up her strength.”

Evan tapped lightly on the door, then let himself in. The schoolhouse felt cold and empty. He walked softly to Bronwen’s bedroom and pushed open the door. Bronwen was lying quite still with her eyes closed. Her face looked gray and hollow.

“Bron?” He couldn’t resist touching her, just in case.

Her eyes opened and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, it’s you, Evan. I thought it was that dreadful woman coming back. Not only do I feel rotten, but having Mrs. Powell-Jones ministering to me was one affliction too many. Sleep seemed like the only way out of eating her awful calves foot jelly. You should have seen her, Evan. She sat on my bed and kept waving this spoon in my face. And then I wanted to go to the loo again and she told me it was only a question of mind over matter and I shouldn’t let it get the better of me.”

Evan perched on the edge of her bed and took her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you from her,” he said. “How are you really feeling?”

“A little better, I think,” she said, “but awfully weak.”

“Do you think we should call the doctor again? It’s been more than twenty-four hours now.”

“Give it another day. If I’m no better by this evening, I’ll ask him to drop in on his rounds.”

“Is there anything you’d really like—not calves foot jelly, I mean?”

Bronwen shook her head. “I can’t say that the thought of any food appeals to me. Another sip of Lucozade, that’s all.”

He filled the glass for her. She sat up then lay back with a sigh. “I feel as if I’m made of putty. I’m going to have to take Mrs. PJ’s advice and start using mind over matter. I can’t just lie here, being sick!”

Evan bent to kiss her. “You just get a good sleep, all right? I’ll pop round again later.”

As he let himself out, he noticed that Mrs. Powell-Jones was pretending to work on the garden outside Capel Beulah while keeping an eye on the schoolhouse. As he let himself out of the playground, she came running down the street to him.

“It’s all right. She’s sleeping now,” he said. “She’ll probably sleep for hours. We shouldn’t disturb her.”

“That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “I wish to lodge a complaint. You haven’t been here doing your job for the past few days.”

“I was called away on a case,” he said. “I’m a mobile unit now, you know. Not confined to Llanfair.”

“I should have thought your first duty was to protect the citizens here, mobile or not,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said.

“Has something happened?”

“Only that there is a homicidal maniac at large.”

“A what?”

“That lunatic postman,” Mrs. Powell-Jones exclaimed in her booming voice. “Some stupid fool has given him a motorbike. He almost rode me down yesterday. I was crossing the road when he came careening down the hill, completely exceeding the speed limit. I had to leap for my life, Constable Evans. And he didn’t even stop to apologize.”

Evan was trying not to smile at the thought of Mrs. Powell-Jones leaping for her life. “I’m sorry. He hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet,” he said.

“Then he shouldn’t be allowed to ride it, should he? I want you to arrest him for reckless driving. Confiscate the damned thing before he kills somebody or himself.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Evan said. “I’ll try and make him see sense.”

“Talking is not enough. You have to learn to be more forceful, Constable. If you don’t act now, someone is going to get hurt.”

She strode off back to the chapel. Evan sighed and walked down the hill to the police station. Life was back to normal after the excitement at the Sacred Grove, he thought. Then he corrected himself: It wasn’t back to normal. Bronwen was ill.

He wished he could stop feeling so damned guilty. Logically his cooking couldn’t have caused Bronwen’s illness, because he had eaten the same things, but doubt still nagged at the back of his mind. Maybe there was just one piece of tainted meat, one piece that was not fully cooked, and Bronwen ate it. If only the timing hadn’t be so coincidental: Bronwen had fallen ill right after—Evan broke off in midthought and stood there, in the middle of the street—right after Betsy had stopped by to visit.

Disturbing snatches of remembered conversation flashed through his mind. He heard Betsy’s voice—“If Bronwen Price wasn’t around any longer … do you think you might be interested in me then?” And what else had she said? Something about harnessing her powers and how real psychics could just think something and it would happen. He knew that witch doctors in Africa could will somebody to die and that person died. He found that his heart was racing and his mouth was dry. Had Betsy, either knowingly or not, put a similar curse on Bronwen?

He was halfway down the hill, ready to challenge Betsy, when reason took over. What an absurd thing to think—that Bronwen had fallen ill because somehow Betsy had willed it! Everybody got stomach flu at some point in their lives. And Bronwen, exposed to all those children every day, was more at risk than most. She had even said that she was feeling slightly better, hadn’t she? Evan shook his head and strode out in the direction of the police station. All the strange goings-on at the Sacred Grove had started affecting him. He was glad they’d found Randy Wunderlich’s body and he wouldn’t have to go near the place again.

Chapter 14

Life in Llanfair went on smoothly—that is, apart from the occasional motorbike ridden by a screaming postman careening into a row of dustbins. Evan had delivered his stern warning to Evans-the-Post but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Mrs. Powell-Jones rang the police station at regular intervals to complain. She threatened also to ring the postmaster in Llanberis and probably the postmaster general in London, but Evans-the-Post was not to be halted on his morning rides of terror.

There were no phone calls from Sergeant Watkins or Glynis Davies for the rest of that Tuesday or all day Wednesday. If the investigation was proceeding, then Evan wasn’t part of it. Evan gleaned from a phone call to headquarters that the autopsy had revealed no sign of a heart attack; also that the bandaged foot had minimal if any damage. Randy Wunderlich would definitely have been able to walk out of the cave. The death was ruled accidental, if puzzling.

Betsy had gone back to work at the Sacred Grove on Wednesday morning. When Evan tried to dissuade her, she claimed that she liked it there better than at the Red Dragon, where she wasn’t appreciated and had no chance to use her talents.

On Wednesday afternoon a board went up outside the Red Dragon, announcing Friday to be trivia night—Llanfair versus Beddgelert.

“He’s getting desperate, wouldn’t you say, Evan?” Charlie Hopkins muttered as he passed Evan on his way to the pub.

“Hurting for business, is he?” Evan asked.

“Indeed he is. Nobody in there but me and Evans-the-Meat last night. Quiet as a grave.”

“And he really thinks a trivia contest will help, does he?”

“Trying everything, isn’t he?” Charlie sucked through his remaining teeth. “It will be beauty contests next week, sheepdog trials, striptease acts … .” He shuffled on, his old body shaking with laughter as he walked.

It was just like old times when Evan entered the bar on Friday evening. Full of smoke and chatter and familiar faces. Evan was glad. He had had a hard week, spending every spare moment ministering to Bronwen while trying to drive two ministers’ wives away. The moment that Mrs. Parry Davies learned that Mrs. Powell-Jones had been tending to the sick, she had shown up on Bronwen’s doorstep with a bowl of homemade leek soup and some suitable reading material—mostly religious tracts on why everyone was going straight to hell.

Evan had had little enthusiasm for cooking since the Bronwen disaster. He had thrown the mound of spaghetti away, in case it was somehow poisoned, and he had lived on tinned soup and grilled cheese all week. As he made his way across to the pub on Friday, he decided that a couple of bangers and perhaps a meat pie would go down a treat.

“Here he is, the man himself,” Evans-the-Meat greeted him. “We’re going to need you on our team, boyo.”

“Team?”

“The trivia contest. We have to show those blokes from Beddgelert that we’re smarter than they are.”

“I don’t know if I’m much good at trivia,” Evan said, but Evans-the-Meat waved down his protests. “Went to that posh grammar school in Swansea, didn’t you? Of course you’ll know all the answers.”

Evan made his way to the counter. He remembered how nice it had been to see Betsy smiling at him and drawing his usual pint of Guinness. To the right of the counter, the blackboard had some words scrawled on it: “Not serving any food on account of the fact that the landlord only has one bloody pair of hands.”

Evan ordered his Guinness.

“Over here, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat beckoned Evan to join him. “We need to talk strategy.”

As Evan joined the group, Roberts-the-Pump leaned close to him. “We don’t hang around the bar these days. Harry gets that bad tempered. He wants Betsy back but he’s too proud to ask.”

“I don’t think he’ll get her back,” Evan said. “She’s having a good time at the Sacred Grove.”

“What, down among the loonies?”

“They’re loony enough to pay her for doing very little work, as far as I can see,” Evan said.

“Talk of the devil.” Evans-the-Meat nudged Evan in the side. The door had opened and Betsy came in, looking strangely elegant in a long dark coat and heels.

“What are you doing here, Betsy?” Evans-the-Meat asked. “Come to give Harry a hand?”

“Not likely,” Betsy said. “I just popped in to see how things are. I’m meeting Emmy and we’re going to dinner in Conwy. It’s her last night—she’s leaving tomorrow so she’s taking me and Mrs. Williams out for a treat.”

“I hope the restaurant can measure up to Mrs. Williams’s standards,” Evan said.

“She won’t even notice. She’s so upset, she’s been crying all day. She says she lost a son and now she’s losing a daughter. Terrible, it is.”

“Make up your minds. I haven’t got all day, you know,” came Harry’s gruff voice from behind the bar. “Dimple Haig? You bloody would—just because I have to stand on the stool to reach it!”

“He’s not exactly making it fun to be here, is he?” Betsy said. “Still, he brought it on himself, didn’t he?”

“So you like it down there, do you?” Owens-the-Sheep asked.

“It’s a lovely place. Of course, it’s very sad at the moment because Randy died, but they’re all being so nice to me. Lady Annabel says she’s coming to rely on me and even Rhiannon is being nice to me.”

“Rhiannon? Who the hell’s Rhiannon?” Evans-the-Meat demanded.

“She’s the Druid priestess,” Betsy said, ignoring the chuckles around her. “You can laugh, but you’d be surprised. Rhiannon says I’m a true Celt and all true Celts have the old religion, in their blood. She says we’re bound to the forces of the universe, whether we like it or not.”

“Never heard such a daft …” Evans-the-Meat began.

“You just wait, Mr. Evans, until I’ve got my powers developed. Then you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face. Rhiannon has been telling me about the Goddess.”

“Goddess? Betsy, don’t let the ministers hear you talking like that!” Charlie Hopkins looked around to see if Mr. Parry Davies was in his usual corner.

“It’s a free country, isn’t it? And I think a Goddess might be rather nice after having to pray to an old man in a white nightie all my life.” She gave Evan a challenging look. “She wants me to come to one of her ceremonies. I think it might be fun.”

“Just watch yourself, Betsy,” Evan said. “I don’t like that place. Never did.”

“That’s because you don’t have powers, Evan,” Betsy said.

“Powers!” Barry-the-Bucket came up to join them. “Are you still on about those powers?”

“I’ve already had one psychic dream this week, for your information,” Betsy said. “There’s no knowing where my powers will take me next. Go on, test me.”

“See if you can make that pint of Robinson’s float off the counter and into my hands, will you?” Barry-the-Bucket said.

“Not stuff like that. I’m not a magician. Things like seeing into the future.”

“All right. Predict something that’s going to happen tomorrow,” Barry said, still grinning.

“I won’t be going on a date with you, that’s for sure,” Betsy answered. “Tomorrow, let’s see.” Her face became suddenly serious. “I think it’s going to be a nice day. I can see myself feeling hot.”

“Hot and bothered when I’m near you, Betsy cariad,” Barry said, but she pushed him away, laughing. “Never give up, do you?”

“Can you come up with someone better? And don’t say Constable Evans here, because you’ll have to get rid of Bronwen Price first.”

Betsy tossed back her blond curls. “As a matter of fact I might well have someone in mind,” she said. “A gentleman I work with at the Sacred Grove. He’s a bit shy, but he’s really nice when you get to know him.” A car horn sounded outside. “That’s Emmy. I’ve got to run.” She pushed her way through the crowd, just as a group of strangers entered the pub.

“Here they are now, look you—the team from Beddgelert, come for the trivia contest,” Harry said loudly.

“Come to be soundly beaten,” a Llanfair voice chimed in. Harry ignored the comment and went on, “Welcome, gentlemen. Let’s have the Llanfair team over here, at this end of the bar, and you gentlemen down at that table in the corner.”

“How come we’re put down near the fire?” a Beddgelert man demanded. “It’s too bloody hot down here. We can’t think straight.”

“You lot couldn’t think straight if you were standing on top of a bloody mountain,” Evans-the-Meat said.

“Now, now, boys. Friendly contest, isn’t it, not a bloody war,” Harry interjected.

Evan decided to beat a hasty and well-timed retreat. He was in no mood for trivia contests, nor for keeping the peace between two sparring villages. He stepped out into the crisp night air. From one of the cottages came the smell of onions frying, reminding him that he’d had nothing to eat and wasn’t likely to get anything now. He looked wistfully down the road, wishing he could have gone with Betsy, who was now on her way to a good restaurant with Mrs. Williams and Emmy.

He started to walk up the street. At least Emmy would be gone in the morning, which was a good thing. Evan wished she had never come in the first place and never picked Betsy for her stupid tests. All this nonsense about powers and goddesses—and yet was it all nonsense? Betsy had, after all, dreamed where to find Randy Wunderlich’s body. He recalled her wide-eyed terror of that night, when she had knocked on his door.

A cold wind rushed up the pass, rattling branches and making Evan shiver. He didn’t believe in rubbish like psychic powers, and yet he had been a witness at the extraordinary events that night. Was it also possible that she had used those newly awoken powers subconsciously to bring about Bronwen’s illness? If not, why wasn’t Bronwen getting better?

Chapter 15

Saturday dawned fine, if blustery, with white puffball clouds racing in from the Western ocean and the sigh of the wind moaning up the pass. Evan thought of going for a hike, but somehow the idea lost its appeal without Bronwen. He thought of driving down to the coast and searching for other domestic necessities at the flea market in Caernarfon, but that also lacked appeal alone. In the end he agreed to go and change Bronwen’s library books for her.

“Nothing too heavy, please,” she said as she handed him the books she had finished. “I don’t seem to have the strength for more than the lightest books—I can’t concentrate or hold them up either.” She gave a sweet smile that twisted Evan’s insides. She looked like a pale shadow of herself lying there. Why wasn’t she getting better?

“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he said. “Maybe we could play Scrabble later and I’ll let you beat me as usual.”

Bronwen nodded. “That would be nice, although you might even win for once.”

He was just putting the books in the front seat of his old bone-shaker when his pager sounded. With a muttered damn he went back inside and dialed HQ.

“Constable Evans?” It was Megan, the witty dispatcher. “D.C.I. Hughes would like a word with you. One moment, please.” He heard her say, “I’ve got Evans on the line for you, sir.”

Then Hughes’s clipped, high voice. “Ah, Evans. Good man. I want you to meet me at that place—the Sacred Grove—in half an hour.”

Evan could hardly remind a newly appointed D.C.I. that it was his day off. Besides, if something was going on, it was a miracle that he was being included.

“Has something happened, sir?” He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“Interesting development. Look, I understand there is a young woman who claimed to have had a dream that led people to the body. And I’m told she’s working at the Sacred Grove as well. So I’ll find her down there, shall I?”

“I think she has the weekend off, sir,” Evan said, tempted to add, “like me.”

“Then I’d like you to find her and bring her down to me, so that I can ask her some questions. Let’s say—ten o’clock.”

The phone went dead. Evan stared at it for a second, then replaced the receiver and went in search of Betsy.

“What’s it all about then?” Betsy asked. “He wants to hear about my dream, does he? How exciting. Do you think he might want to use me as the police psychic someday? The police do use psychics, don’t they?”

She grabbed her coat and ran out of the house. “Can we go on your new bike?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to ride a motorbike.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to give rides,” Evan said.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport,” Betsy pleaded. “It’s official police business, isn’t it? And you’re taking me along as a witness. And that’s your official police transportation.”

“I suppose it is,” Evan said. “All right. Jump on.”

Betsy let out little yells of delight as they went around each of the hairpin bends down the Nantgwynant Pass. Evan had picked up some of Betsy’s excitement. He had suspected that Randy Wunderlich’s death hadn’t made sense. Now maybe he was going to find out the truth.

The security gate swung open for them. As Evan pulled up in the car park, D.C.I. Hughes appeared from the security post. As usual he was immaculately dressed in a well-cut suit, a royal blue bow tie, and a white handkerchief showing in his top pocket. Not an iron gray hair out of place. Neat little moustache trimmed to a slim line on his upper lip. He always looked as if he should be working in a high-class gentlemen’s clothier’s, not a police station.

“Evans!” He strode across to the motorbike. “What do you think you’re doing, man? Giving joyrides on a police motorbike?”

“Sorry, sir, but you did ask me to bring the young lady down here, and this is my only official police vehicle.” Evan stared the D.C.I. in the eye.

“Oh, yes, well, I suppose it is.” Hughes gave an embarrassed cough at the back of his throat. “Well, I’m glad you got here so quickly. I’ve spread the word that I want to question people up at the main house. Come along then, this way.” He set off with quick, mincing strides, like a large windup toy. Again, as Evan watched him, he found himself wondering how such a person could rise so easily to the rank of detective chief inspector, while he, Evan, was still firmly planted on the very bottom rung.

“Rum sort of place, isn’t it?” Hughes slowed to let Evan catch up with him. “Not quite real, if you know what I mean.” Evan did know. He nodded.

“Still, I suppose there are enough people interested in New Age kind of things these days for them to make a go of it,” Hughes commented.

Evan kept his views to himself.

“I’ll need you to take notes, Evans,” Hughes continued. “I thought Watkins and his team would be here to assist me, but there was a nasty hit-and-run outside Caernarfon this morning so I’ve sent them over there instead.”

“Very good, sir.” Evan tried to hide a smile. For once he wasn’t being dismissed as soon as things got interesting. That was hopeful.

“And you, young lady.” Hughes addressed Betsy for the first time. “I think we’ll start by talking to you. A most interesting case, by the way. Fascinating.”

“Excuse me, sir, but have they found out anything more about Randy Wunderlich’s death?” Evan asked. “Is that why we’re here?”

“What have you heard so far?” Hughes asked.

“Only that it wasn’t a heart attack, there was no sign of external injury, and cause of death was drowning,” Evan said. “But I always suspected there had to be more to it.”

“Why was that?”

“A young, fit man doesn’t wait in a cave to be drowned.”

“Ah.” Hughes gave a satisfied little nod. “Quite perceptive of you, Constable. As it turns out—” he moved closer to Evan so that Betsy couldn’t overhear “—the lab has done a splendid job of hurrying through the toxicology, and we got the report this morning. It indicates that Mr. Wunderlich stayed in the cave, waiting to be drowned, because he was fast asleep at the time.”

“Fast asleep. You mean in a trance?”

“No, I mean a damned great dose of flurazepam.”

“What’s that?”

“Sleeping pills. Sold under the name of Dalanine. Either he took them intentionally, to kill himself, or someone made damned sure he didn’t wake up when the tide came in.”

“I’d be inclined to go along with the latter,” Evan said.

“Oh, and why is that?”

“I met Mr. Wunderlich. He thought a lot of himself. He acted the part of the famous psychic. He wasn’t the sort of man to die in a cave where his body might never have been found. If he was going to commit suicide, he’d make damned sure he staged a good one.”

Hughes nodded. “Interesting. I’ll bear that in mind. So if he didn’t kill himself, then someone else fed him enough drugs to knock him out.”

“And then put him in the cave?” Evan asked. “It would take a strong person to carry him the length of the beach and up the rocks, besides its being damned risky that they would be seen.”

“That’s something we’ll have to find out, won’t we?” Hughes gave his birdlike nod again. “Interesting case, Evans. Come on then. Let’s get started.” They had reached the former stately home that now housed administration and reception. Hughes went up the front steps, pushed open the swing door, and walked through as if he owned the place. Evan and Betsy followed. “I’ve taken over Lady Annabel’s office,” Hughes said, as if this were a perfectly natural thing to do. “Let her know that I’ll be ready for her in about half an hour. We’ll start with you, my dear. I’m sure you’ve got some fascinating things to tell us.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Betsy blushed with pleasure.

“Right. Then let’s get to it, shall we?” Hughes sat himself at Lady Annabel’s desk and indicated an upright wooden chair for Betsy. He didn’t motion for Evan to sit. “Your name is?”

“Betsy Edwards, sir. Well, Elizabeth Edwards really, but I’ve always been called Betsy.”

“And you come from the village of Llanfair?”

“That’s right, sir. Llanfair born and bred, as they say.”

“And what sort of work do you do, Betsy?”

“Until last week I was working at the Red Dragon—that’s the pub in Llanfair. Maybe you know it.” Hughes nodded. “But then I started working here at the Sacred Grove.”

“What made you change jobs? I’d imagine it’s a long complicated journey each day for someone who doesn’t have a car. You don’t have a car, do you?”

“Well, you see, sir, until now Emmy has been driving me to work each day.”

“Emmy?”

“The American lady. She’s the one who discovered my powers, sir.”

“Emmy?” The D.C.I. consulted his list. “How does she come into this? She’s not on my list as working here.”

“No, sir. She doesn’t work here. She’s a university lady, studying about people who have psychic powers. And she was living up in Llanfair until—well until this morning.”

Hughes looked across to Evan. “I don’t think we should let this woman go without having a word with her first. Do you know where she is living, Constable? Get her on the phone and tell her that she’s not to leave the area until I’ve spoken with her. Tell her I want her down here right away.”

“Very good, sir.” Evan picked up the phone and dialed Mrs. Williams’s number, noticing that the D.C.I. looked impressed that he had the number down pat. He didn’t mention it was his former landlady’s house.

“You’ve just caught her,” Mrs. Williams said. “You’re lucky she’s still here. She was planning to leave right after breakfast but her clothes were still wet on the line. She didn’t realize there wasn’t a clothes dryer in the village. ‘Nobody has a dryer around here,’ I told her. ‘We don’t go in for such things,’ I said. ‘Nothing wrong with a good old clothesline out in the wind, is there? You’d have to go down to Bangor to the laundromat if you want fancy things like clothes dryers,’ I told her. So she said …”

“Mrs. Williams,” Evan interrupted. “Would you run outside and bring her to the phone before she drives away?”

“Oh—or gore, right you are, Mr. Evans. Important, is it?” Mrs. Williams was startled by the abruptness of his interruption.

“Very,” Evan said. “The chief inspector wants to speak to her.”

“I was just heading out of the door,” Emmy said as she picked up the phone. “What’s up? I’ve got an afternoon flight to catch, so I don’t have much time.”

“The chief inspector wants a word,” Evan said and handed the phone to Hughes. Let him be the one to tell her that she wasn’t going to catch her flight. He didn’t think Emmy was the kind of woman who would have her plans disrupted without protest. Sure enough, he heard the raised voice escaping from the phone and saw Hughes’s pained expression as he held the phone well away from his ear.

“Just a minute, my dear young lady. I’m sorry if it’s disrupting your plans,” he said when he could get a word in edgewise, “but there has been a development concerning the death of Randy Wunderlich and you will be required to make a statement.”

“That set her straight,” he said as he put down the phone. “Damned American women always have to have the last word.” He turned back to Betsy. “Now tell us how you came to be involved with this woman, Betsy.”

“Well, sir, it was like this,” Betsy said. “She came into the pub and started asking questions. When she heard about my old nain having the second sight and seeing the Cannwyll Corff—ohh, I just remembered!” Betsy put her hand to her mouth. “When I went into Mr. Wunderlich’s office for the first time, what do you think I saw? There was a candle burning on his table. I should have known, shouldn’t I?”

“I’d imagine that candles are a fairly normal occurrence for a New Age center,” Chief Inspector Hughes said dryly. “Go on with what you were telling us about this—Emmy person.”

“Well, when Emmy heard that I was an only daughter of an only daughter, she said it was very possible that I had the second sight too and she’d like to take me to get tested. That’s when she brought me to the Sacred Grove, sir. And she did some tests with cards. She picked out cards with shapes on them and I had to guess what shape she was looking at and I got them nearly all right. So she said she wanted me to meet Mr. Wunderlich because he was a very famous psychic. So she took me down to see him and he tried a couple of tests, too, and then he said he wanted to work with me—to help me with my powers. Only …”

“Only what, Betsy?”

“Only he wasn’t there when I went for my first session alone with him. He’d said four o’clock right enough, but he wasn’t there. Well, sir, I was a little upset because I’d been looking forward to it. I just went home and I didn’t think no more about it. But when I got to work in the morning, I found the whole place in a tizzy. It seems nobody had seen Mr. Wunderlich since I’d taken him his coffee after lunch the day before.”

“So you took him his coffee, did you?” Hughes scribbled in his notebook. “And what did you think of Mr. Wunderlich, Betsy.”

“If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, I thought he was ever so sexy. Like a film star, just.”

“Did any flirting go on between you and Mr. Wunderlich? Did he come on to you at all?”

“Oh, no, sir. He’s a married man, sir. And anyway, Emmy was in the room with us, helping with the testing.”

“So you liked him, did you?”

“I didn’t know him well enough to like him, sir. He was nice enough to me when we met—and he did give me a job at the center so that I could be there when I was needed. That was kind of him.”

“So let’s move on to the dream,” Hughes said. “Tell us about this dream you had, Betsy.”

“The dream, sir? Well, it was like this—I went to bed that night and suddenly I dreamed I was standing outside this cave. I went in and it was all dark and it smelled wet and seaweedy, if you know what I mean. I could see something white lying there at the back of the cave. As I got closer, I saw it was Randy. I thought he was asleep and I went to touch him, but then I woke up. I ran to find Emmy and she said, ‘You’ve had a pyschic dream, Betsy. We’ll have to go and wake Constable Evans and get straight down to the Sacred Grove.’ Betsy glanced up at Evan for confirmation. “It was about four in the morning, wasn’t it, Evan?”

Evan nodded.

“When we got to the center, Lady Annabel said she knew where there were caves on the property, so Michael led us down to the beach and we found Randy’s body in the cave, just like I’d dreamed it. It was horrible, sir.”

“I’m sure it was, Betsy,” the chief inspector said. “Tell me, do you often have dreams like this?”

“Oh, no, sir. This was the first one. Leastways, it was the first one I knew about. Maybe I’d been dreaming about things that had really happened before, but I never realized it until Emmy told me about my powers. I’ve always had vivid dreams, sir. But I thought they were just dreams … .”

“Look, why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of tea and wait for us in the foyer,” Chief Inspector Hughes said. “I have to talk to a lot of people and then Constable Evans can take you home again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Betsy said. “Glad to have been of help.”

“Well, what do you think?” Hughes looked up at Evan.

“About what?” Evan asked.

“Did she do it?”

Chapter 16

Evan stared at Chief Inspector Hughes. “Kill Randy Wunderlich, you mean?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a murderer has claimed to have dreamed where the body could be found—and she admits bringing him the cup of coffee, which could easily have contained the sleeping draught.” The chief inspector was looking rather pleased with himself, Evan thought.

“With all respect, sir. That’s bloody stupid,” Evan said. “I’ve known Betsy for a couple of years now. Not the brightest girl in the world, a bit naive, easily impressed, but …”

“She could have been working with someone else then. ‘Easily impressed,’ you say. Maybe someone else put her up to it.”

“I can’t think who,” Evan said. “She only met these people a few days ago. And I said she wasn’t the brightest girl in the world, but she’s not stupid either. She’s got enough common sense not to go poisoning someone or claiming she’d had a dream. I saw her that night—she was shaking with fright. It wasn’t put on.”

“I don’t believe in powers myself, Constable. If you say Randy Wunderlich didn’t kill himself, then someone had a good reason for wanting him dead. Let’s see which of them, shall we?” He glanced at his list. “I think we should start with Lady Annabel. Always look nearest to home when it comes to murder—that’s my number-one rule. Ten to one the spouse or next of kin did it! Tell Lady Annabel I’m ready to see her now.” He raised his hand in an imperious gesture that somehow looked right as it came from Lady Annabel’s chair.

Evan was tempted to bow. “I’ll tell her, sir,” he said.

Lady Annabel had dressed for the occasion. No warm-up suits today. She was wearing an expensive navy dress with a Hermes scarf at her throat and a large diamond on her finger. Her hair was lacquered into a perfect twist and her face was a serene mask of makeup. Even Hughes was a little taken aback as she swept in. He got to his feet. “Of course, you must have this chair, Lady Annabel.”

“Thank you.” She took it without protest. Hughes perched himself on the wooden upright.

“Now just a few questions about your husband’s death, if you don’t mind.”

“Must we? This has been very painful for me, as I’m sure you understand, Inspector. All I want is his body returned to me for burial, and to be left alone in my grief.”

“We’ll do all we can to return the remains to you, Lady Annabel, but I’m afraid your husband’s death can no longer be ruled accidental.”

A little gasp came from Lady Annabel and she put her hand to her throat in a dramatic gesture. “Are you saying that somebody killed him?”

“Or that he killed himself.”

“Oh, no. Not Randy. Randy loved life. He had so much to live for. He’d never, ever kill himself.”

“Then the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better,” Hughes said. “With your cooperation, Lady Annabel?”

“But of course. What would you like to know?”

“Your name is Lady Annabel Bland-Tyghe? Is that correct?”

“Actually my name is Mrs. Randal Wunderlich,” she said. “People around here have known me as Lady Annabel all my life, so I decided to keep it. Randy thought it created the right image for the place.”

“And how long had you been married?”

Her face creased in pain. “Not even a year. We were married last summer, in Las Vegas.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so—” Hughes cleared his throat “—you seem a very unlikely couple. How did you meet?”

“Randy saved my life,” she said simply.

“He did? How?”

“I went through a stage of intense depression. My father had died and I didn’t know how I was going to be able to pay the death taxes to keep the property that I loved so much. I was just drifting. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. I was visiting friends on the East Coast and my friend Dodie had become a real disciple of the New Age. She told me about this marvelous psychic hot line. So I called and Randy was wonderful. He told me so many things about myself and when he heard all my troubles—about trying to hang onto the property—he was so positive and supportive. I called him again and again and one thing led to another. He flew across from California to meet me and it was incredible. He told me his vision for a center he wanted to build—a place that would encompass healing and spirituality and psychic gifts. And when he described it—you won’t believe this—it was my property he was talking about!”

Her face had become alight with joy. “When I showed him pictures, he was as flabbergasted as I was. It seemed as if we were meant to be together, didn’t it? So we flew to Las Vegas, got married, and came here to put Randy’s vision into action.”

“When did you say that was? Last summer?” Hughes asked.

Lady Annabel nodded. “Our timing was poor, unfortunately. We had wanted to have the place up and running for the summer holidays, but by the time everything was in place, it was already mid-September—too late to attract many guests. We’ve had a pretty grim winter, actually. It’s not inexpensive to operate a place of this scale. But we were so hopeful for this summer season. Bookings were coming in. We were starting to get some publicity. Everything would have been wonderful.” She pressed her lips together and composed herself. “Now I don’t know anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Hughes said. “Do you think you’ll have to close the place?”

“Not if I can help it,” Annabel said. “It was Randy’s dream. I can’t let his dream die, can I? I’m going to soldier on, I suppose. I come from a long line of fighters.”

She gave him a brave smile.

“If I could just ask you a couple of questions about Mr. Wunderlich’s death, Lady Annabel.”

She nodded.

“You say that things weren’t going well. You were experiencing financial difficulties. And yet you don’t for a moment consider that your husband’s death might have been suicide?”

Annabel shook her head violently. “I’m sure of it, Chief Inspector. Randy was the eternal optimist. He was actually very excited this past week. He told me that good things were just about to happen. He saw the Sacred Grove as the center of lots of publicity and the bookings rolling in. He was a well-known psychic, you know.”

Evan thought of the man he had seen coming up from the beach. He had certainly looked like someone who was relaxed and confident—rather full of himself, in fact.

The chief inspector cleared his throat. “Which brings us to the next question, Lady Annabel. Can you think of anyone who wanted your husband out of the way?”

“Nobody—everyone adored him. He was a likable man.”

“So you’ve no idea of who might have slipped him a powerful drug and left him to drown?”

Annabel looked horrified. “Is that what they did? Monstrous, absolutely monstrous. You have to catch him, Inspector.”

“You sound sure that your husband’s killer was a man.”

“Well, yes. It never occurred to me that it could be a woman, but …”

Evan was watching her closely. Something had crossed Lady Annabel’s mind, “But surely a woman couldn’t have got Randy into that cave? Over all those boulders?”

There was a tap on the door and the middle-aged man Evan only knew as Ben came in. “I don’t think it’s right that Annabel should be questioned alone, in her delicate mental state,” he said. “She’s not herself at the moment, Inspector.”

“It’s chief inspector, sir,” Hughes said, “and who might you be?”

“I’m Benedict Cresswell, Annabel’s good friend and financial adviser.”

“Do you live here too, sir?”

“No, I was just down for a few days to discuss financial matters, then this happened, so I stayed on because Annabel needed me.”

“So you were here when the—tragedy—happened?”

“Oh, indeed, yes. Poor dear Annabel. I’ve never seen anyone so stricken with grief before.”

Hughes got to his feet. “That will be all for now, Lady Annabel. Thank you. If you could notify your entire staff that I’d like to speak to them all later this morning. Can you have them assembled, say, at eleven-thirty?”

“If you wish,” Annabel said, “although I really can’t think that any of my staff …” She left the sentence unfinished and went out. Ben Cresswell went to follow, but Hughes held up his hand.

“A few questions first, sir, if you don’t mind. Seeing that you were here on the night of the tragedy.” He motioned to the upright chair as he walked around to resume sitting at Lady Annabel’s desk. “Now, sir. You say that you are Lady Annabel’s friend.”

“Old and dear friend, yes. We used to play together as children. Our mothers were friends from finishing school days.”

Evan had a chance to study the man for the first time. His was a formerly handsome face that, like Lady Annabel’s, had gone to seed. There were bags under his eyes and too many chins, while the red nose indicated either a life of fox hunting or too many whiskies. He was wearing an Aran sweater one size too small for him. The sort of man who would call people like Evan “my dear chap”—or even “chappie.” Probably ex-army.

“And you are now her financial adviser?”

“That’s right. Went into the City right after my army days. I took over the affairs of this estate when the old man started going— how shall I put it—rather peculiar. Of course, he was always eccentric, but what old family doesn’t have an eccentric now and then? What a boring old world it would be if everyone was sane and sensible, what?”

Hughes, who had never been anything other than sane and sensible, coughed in reply.

“And then the old Lord Bland-Tyghe died?” he asked.

“Actually he was Sir Ambrose. Knight. Not lord. Slight difference.”

Evan noticed Hughes bristle at the condescension.

“Sir Ambrose then. Lady Annabel inherited on his death?”

“Yes. She was the only surviving Bland-Tyghe. That was two years ago now. The property is so huge that the death taxes were horrendous, as you can imagine. Annabel begged me to come up with a way to keep her property. But I had no idea she’d get this crazy notion of turning it into a New Age center.”

He leaned forward in his seat. “Between you and me, Chief Inspector, Annabel has always been very gullible. One day she was going to be an actress, the next she was going to fly out to Calcutta and help Mother Teresa. They were all passing whims. This would have passed too if that dreadful man hadn’t latched onto her.”

“Mr. Wunderlich, you mean?”

“Of course. When Annabel poured out all her troubles on that wretched psychic hot line, he realized he was on to a good thing.”

“You think he only married her for the property?”

“Of course. Why else? Young, fit men don’t often go for chubby middle-aged women, do they? The other way around, I admit, but …”

“I take it you didn’t approve.”

“It was a disaster. The man had big ideas but no capital to back them up. I warned them to get the enterprise up and running first and then put in amenities with the profits, but he wouldn’t wait. He wanted the spa and the meditation center and the gourmet kitchen all at once. It has drained the very last of Annabel’s inheritance, I can tell you that, Chief Inspector.”

“Didn’t Lady Annabel try to stop him?”

“She wouldn’t listen to me. She was still at the infatuation stage. Everything Randy did was wonderful. It would only have lasted another month or two and then she would have tired of him anyway.”

“So all in all, you’d say that Randy Wunderlich’s death is a blessing?”

“As her financial adviser, I’d say it has come too late. She may well have to auction off the property. But as a friend I say better late then never.”

“Do you take sleeping pills, Mr. Cresswell?” Hughes asked.

“Sleeping pills? Good lord no. I was in the Guards, man. I don’t mamby pamby myself.”

Hughes got to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Cresswell. You’ve been most helpful. Can I ask you to stay around a few more days until we’ve got this matter sorted out?”

“Sorted out? What is there to sort out? The fool went into a cave and got himself drowned.”

“Not exactly, sir,” Hughes said. “Someone made sure he was asleep when the tide came in.”

Ben Cresswell took a moment to register this. “Someone made sure—Good God! So that’s why you asked me about sleeping pills … . Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” His red face flushed even redder. “Listen, old chap. All that I said about not liking him and Annabel being better off without him—I don’t want you to think …”

Ben Cresswell blundered out of the room.

Chapter 17

“Interesting.” Chief Inspector Hughes looked up at Evan. “We’ve already come up with one person who didn’t adore Randy Wunderlich.”

“I don’t think he’ll be the only one, sir, from what I’ve observed,” Evan said.

“Really? Well, let’s bring in the next contestant, shall we?” He chuckled at his little joke.

Mrs. Roberts sat stiff and erect on the straight-backed chair and eyed the chief inspector coldly.

“You’ve no right to be putting Miss Annabel through this after what she’s gone through already,” she said. “The poor man is dead. Let him be. What good can come of asking questions over and over?”

“The truth, I hope,” Hughes said. “Now, if he killed himself deliberately, for example …”

Mrs. Roberts gave a brittle laugh. “Kill himself—that man? I’ve never seen a person who thought more of himself. Never passed a mirror without stopping to check how he looked. Vain as a peacock. No, if he was going to kill himself, he’d want to be found lying somewhere special, looking lovely.”

Evan nodded to himself. Mrs. Roberts was nobody’s fool.

“You’ve been here long, Mrs. Roberts?” Hughes asked.

“Since Lady Annabel was born. I was only a housemaid at the time, of course, but I rose to housekeeper and I’ve stayed with her ever since—even though I never imagined I’d be running this kind of establishment. Sir Ambrose would be turning in his grave if he could see them cavorting on his lawns. Heathens! Devil worshippers, that’s what they are.”

“So why didn’t you leave?”

“Leave Miss Annabel to him? I should think not. She might look hard on the outside, but she’s as soft as marshmallow. He had her wrapped around his little finger, you know.”

“So you didn’t like Mr. Wunderlich?”

“I did not, sir. I couldn’t stand the man. Quite wrong for Miss Annabel, he was. Not that she had much success in picking men after her first husband. Colonel Hollister was a proper gentleman. The rest have been ragtag and bobtail, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.”

“So his death is a relief to you?”

“I wouldn’t wish anybody dead, sir. That’s not Christian, is it? But if you want my real feelings, yes, I’m glad he’s gone. Now maybe things can get back to normal again, and she can marry someone suitable.”

“Like Mr. Cresswell?” Evan couldn’t resist asking.

“At least he has her best interests at heart,” Mrs. Roberts said. “He wouldn’t be turning the place into a fun fair.”

“That will be all for now, Mrs. Roberts,” Hughes said. “Would you please ask Michael Hollister to come in?”

“Very good, sir. And may I bring you in a tray of tea or coffee?”

“Thank you. Most appreciated.”

She gave a curt bow before she closed the door behind her.

Hughes turned to Evan. “What made you ask that question about Cresswell?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I just wanted to prove to myself that Cresswell was sweet on Lady Annabel.”

“Good lord. What made you think that?”

“Just a feeling. Why else would he stay on here? And she asked for him when she found out the news about Randy’s body.”

“Ah. Did she? So that gives Cresswell a real motive for wanting Wunderlich out of the way. And Mrs. Roberts too—she was frank enough, wasn’t she? Clearly loathed the man. I’m afraid Annabel was sadly deluding herself when she said that Wunderlich had no enemies. It’s fairly obvious that—” He broke off as there was a tap at the door.

Michael Hollister poked his head around the door, then came in reluctantly, blinking owlishly behind his glasses.

“Ah, come in. You must be Michael.” Hughes waved him to the chair. “Take a seat. Now, if you don’t mind, we’re trying to fill in the background on Randy Wunderlich.”

“S-something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Michael asked. “You’ve d-discovered something or you wouldn’t be back here. Did he kill himself or did somebody do it for him?”

Again that interesting mixture of shyness and arrogance. He was stuttering more than usual, Evan noted, but that could be a shy person’s response to facing D.C.I. Hughes.

“We are only at the beginning of our investigation. Just asking a few questions. Now, I understand that you are Lady Annabel’s son. Is that correct?”

“Although she has often denied it, that is correct, yes.”

“Why would she want to deny it, Michael?”

“B-b-because I make her look old, of course. How can she be thirty when she has a twenty-year-old son?”

Hughes smiled. “I also understand that you grew up with your father, not your mother.”

“That was because she ran out on us when I was very small.”

“And yet you are with her now.”

“We met up again when I left school. By that time I could understand why she had run out on my father. She liked life—not being stuck in some grim old fortress and only shooting and fishing for entertainment.”

“I also understand that you were at university until recently.”

“Until last Michaelmas Term actually.”

“So you haven’t completed your degree?”

“No. I broke off my studies because I was worried about my mother. When I heard what was happening to the place—well, I thought someone ought to be keeping an eye on her—and on my inheritance.”

“So you didn’t like Mr. Wunderlich?”

“I can’t say I disliked him as a person. He was always pleasant enough to me, although we didn’t have much in common. I think he thought I was a poor specimen, because I play the cello and like poetry and don’t like sport much. Randy was very into the body beautiful—healthy mind, healthy body, always pumping iron and jogging.”

“But his death is very convenient for you. Now your mother is free of him and you get your beloved home back.”

“I wouldn’t call it a beloved home. I hardly know the place. I only came here a couple of times in school holidays to stay with my grandfather. But it is family property. It should stay in the family.”

“Well, now you’ll be able to go back to uni and finish your degree, won’t you? I expect you’ll be happy to be with your friends again. It must be rather dreary to be in a place with nobody your own age around.”

“Oh, absolutely—although I’m not a particularly social kind of chap. Not exactly the life of the party, like Randy was.”

Hughes consulted his notes. “I see from what Sergeant Watkins has written that you were out on the afternoon Randy Wunderlich went missing.”

“Yes. My mother asked me to run some errands for her, so I took her car after lunch and drove into Porthmadog. Not exactly a shopping metropolis, is it? But I had to pick up a prescription for her and mail a couple of parcels—that kind of thing.”

“And you got back when?”

“Not exactly sure. I stopped off at the harbor to see some chaps who sail with me. I like to sail, you know. I spent most of the afternoon there. They were laying the tables for dinner when I got back here, so it must have been around five. You can check with security; they log cars in and out.”

“Michael—did your mother take sleeping pills?”

Michael grinned, making him look suddenly very young. “She wouldn’t admit to it, because Randy went in for alternative healing, but she popped quite a few pills. Mogodans, tranquilizers, diet pills.”

“And what was the prescription for that afternoon. Do you remember?”

Michael grinned again. “It was some sort of vitamin A cream for her wrinkles.”

“I see. Thank you, Michael. You’ve been very helpful. Let me ask you one last thing. Do you think anybody at the Sacred Grove wanted to see Randy Wunderlich dead?”

“I should have thought the question would be who didn’t,” Michael said. “Mrs. Roberts couldn’t stand him. Ben loathed him and Rhiannon—”

“Ah yes, the famous Druid priestess. I’m looking forward to meeting her. Would you ask her to come in next, please.”

Michael swallowed hard so that his large Adam’s apple bounced up and down. “She sent a message to say that she wasn’t to be disturbed during her meditation. You can come down to her when you’ve finished up here.”

“Damned cheek,” Hughes muttered. “Does she always behave like this, Michael?”

“Oh, she fully believes this is her center,” Michael said. “Or it should be. But you have to speak to her yourself. Then you’ll get the idea. So there’s nothing more you want from me now?”

“Make sure you check with security that he really was gone all afternoon that day, Evans,” Hughes said as Michael shut the door behind him. “I’d imagine he’d be happier than anyone to be rid of his stepfather and get back to university life.”

“Yes, but you don’t go around killing people just to get back to uni, do you, sir?” Evan chuckled. “Or just because you don’t like somebody. You have to be pretty desperate to kill in my experience—back against the wall.”

“Yes, quite,” Hughes said crisply, reminding Evan that it was probably rather tactless to talk about his experience in solving murders. On the whole he had been rather more successful at it than Inspector Hughes.

“So what do you want to do about Rhiannon, sir?” he asked quickly. “Do you want me to go and fetch her?”

Hughes gave a little half smile. “I don’t want to risk your being turned into a toad or a tree stump, Constable. If we’ve finished up here, then I suggest we pay her that visit. The mountain will go to Mohammed.”

Chapter 18

The Druid Ceremony

We believe in the concept of circularity.

Life is a circle.

Death, life, regeneration, and rebirth.

The soul does not die, but is reincarnated.

Death is merely a point of change in a perpetual existence.

Therefore, we use the circle as our symbol. It symbolizes wholeness and eternity.

In the center of the circle is the still point of being and not being.

The place inside the circle is the sacred area in which humans can reach the spiritual plane. In the center of the circle is the cone of power, creating a link between natural and supernatural, reaching to the otherworld.

This is why we cast the circle at the beginning of our ceremonies.

This is why our sacrifices take place within the circle, where the Gods can reach down to accept our offerings.

Evan expected to find Rhiannon sitting lost in contemplation on the floor of her mediation room. Instead, she came out to meet them before they had reached the building. She was dressed again in jeans and a black sweatshirt with a silver Celtic knot design. She looked like any middle-aged woman about to go hiking or even shopping.

“You’ve found something, haven’t you?” she asked, in her deep, rather masculine voice. “I knew you would. It was only a matter of time. Please, come inside. I’ve made conee—good and strong, not like that revolting decaf nonsense they drink up there.”

Hughes gave Evan a quizzical glance as they went inside.

“Why did you expect us to find something?” Hughes asked as she went ahead of them to a little kitchen. There were three hand-thrown pottery mugs waiting on the table. One of them had sugar and milk in the bottom. Rhiannon poured coffee without answering.

“Did you have a premonition or some sort of psychic message that something had happened to Randy Wunderlich?” Hughes insisted.

Rhiannon handed him a coffee cup. “I assume you take it black.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And the constable here no doubt likes coffee only when it is disguised with milk and sugar.”

Evan laughed. “Yes. I do. Thank you.”

Rhiannon ushered them out of the kitchen to a small sitting room with comfortable chintz-covered armchairs.

“Now,” she said. “To answer your question—it had nothing to do with intuition or second sight. It was merely observation. The man was incredibly fit. I used to watch him jogging along the beach, swimming in the sea. He was a powerful swimmer. There’s no way he’d have let himself be drowned in a cave—without outside intervention.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Hughes asked in a rather subdued manner for him.

Rhiannon nodded graciously.

“Your full name is?”

“Rhiannon.”

“And last name?”

“Just Rhiannon. Having a last name implies owning or being owned or belonging to the tribe. I don’t subscribe to that idea. I am my own free person, belonging only to the universe.”

“So when you file your income tax forms, you just put ‘Rhiannon’ on them?”

“I don’t file income tax forms. I don’t believe in money. Useless commodity. Nothing good ever comes of owning it.”

“So you’re not paid to be here?”

“I made what I thought was a good agreement. My own cottage on the grounds, my meals, and running expenses in return for my presence here and my endorsement of the center.”

“So that’s what made you come here?” Hughes asked.

“When I first heard about it—a center for Celtic spirituality and myself a key part of it—I thought I’d died and gone to what you Christians call heaven. Later I found that the reality didn’t exactly measure up to the promise.”

“It wasn’t what you’d hoped for?”

“It was all a sham. They were playing at these things. Not a serious New Age believer among them. It was just another way to attract tourism.”

“But Randy Wunderlich was a world-renowned psychic.”

“Randy Wunderlich was a charlatan, or a showman, if you like. He wanted me to hold weekly ceremonies on the lawn for the guests, and could I throw in some more visually dramatic elements—a chalice or two, flaming brands, swords, probably sacrifice a white cockerel, for all I know. I asked him if he’d suggest the same to the minister of the local chapel. He looked surprised—stupid man.”

“So you didn’t like him?”

“I disliked him, if you must know.”

“But you didn’t leave.”

“If true seekers came here, I wanted them to find at least one person who could guide them. And I do get a chance to hold my ceremonies in a real sacred grove. We have one of the most important ceremonies of the year approaching, you know. Galan Mai, we say in Welsh. In English it’s called Beltane. The spring festival of the new fire. You should come to it. I hope I’ve already persuaded Constable Evans to come—since he’s one of us.”

Hughes glanced at Evan.

“A Celt, she means,” Evan said quickly.

“To get back to Randy Wunderlich,” Hughes said. “Can you think of anyone who wanted him dead? Apart from yourself, of course.”

Rhiannon did not return Hughes’s grin. “What makes you assume that I wanted him dead? Negative thoughts are never productive, you know. They surround the thinker with her own negativity until it stifles her. I have never wished anyone dead. I wished him enlightenment—and a few brains wouldn’t have hurt either.”

“And if others were less charitable than you?”

“I wouldn’t presume to read the intentions of others.”

Evan noticed that Hughes was getting agitated.

“On the afternoon that Randy Wunderlich vanished—can you account for your movements?”

“I can. I was out and about, wandering over the property, looking for the perfect site for our ceremony on the First of May. There must be oak trees, you know, and enough space for a bonfire and a large circle. I expect a good crowd.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“If you mean did anyone see me, the answer is probably no. Although I did hear somebody or something.”

Hughes looked up from his notes.

“Some large presence was moving through the woods, out of my range of vision. It could have been an animal, of course—a large dog—but it could have been a person in a hurry.”

“About what time was this?”

“I have no idea. After lunch and before dark. I have little idea of time when I’m contemplating.”

“Thank you.” Hughes got to his feet. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“I should say I’ve probably been most unhelpful, but I’ve told you all I know. Randy Wunderlich invited his own death, you know. The universe will not be mocked. The Goddess especially will not be mocked. Good day to you.”

They had been dismissed.

“Well, that about rounds out the principal players, doesn’t it, Evans?” Hughes asked as they climbed the stairs. “What a strange woman. It’s amazing how odd some unmarried women get after fifty, isn’t it?”

Evan decided that Hughes would never win a medal for tact. It was amazing that a similar comment hadn’t managed to offend someone of importance on his way up the promotion ladder. Lucky that the chief constable wasn’t a woman.

Hughes checked his watch. “They should have the staff assembled by now. I’ll give them a little speech and then you can take their statements after I’ve gone. I have a luncheon appointment in an hour, so I’m in a bit of a rush. We just need to find out what they remember about the afternoon Wunderlich disappeared, whether they noticed anything unusual, and whether anybody saw him after two-thirty. See if you can pick up any gossip as they talk to you. I’d be interested to know whether Annabel adored her husband as much as she claims. Just let them chat, Evans. They’ll probably feel comfortable with you. They might even want to speak Welsh and I know that’s your forte … .”

“Very good, sir,” Evan said. Again he wondered how Hughes could have risen so easily through the ranks when even his compliments managed to turn into insults. He attacked the flight of steps at a good pace. He noticed that Hughes was huffing and puffing by the time they reached the top.

“Where have they assembled the staff, do you suppose?” Hughes managed to gasp when the front doors were swung open and Emmy Court came striding out to meet them.

“How much longer exactly am I to be kept waiting?” she demanded. “I’ve got a flight to catch, you know, on a nonrefundable ticket. Do you guys plan to buy me a new ticket if I miss the plane?”

“And we have a possible murder investigation to conduct,” Hughes said. “We’ll let you know when you are at liberty to leave the area.”

“Murder?” The bluster left her and for once she looked as young as the image she tried to project.

Hughes nodded. “So we’ll need to ask you a few questions.”

“Hey, wait a second.” Emmy’s eyes darted nervously. “What has this got to do with me? I hardly knew the man. I only came to the place a couple of times, you know, and I had Betsy with me. Ask her. She can tell you.”

“We have already questioned her, and everyone else,” Hughes said. “There are just a couple of points I’d like to check on.” He went to usher her back into the building.

“We can talk out here,” Emmy said. “I hate being cooped up inside.”

“As you wish.” Hughes nodded. “Your name is Emmy Court, is that correct?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do I take it that is an affirmative?” Hughes asked dryly.

“Yes.” She looked away.

“And you are a student?”

“I’m a Ph.D. candidate—paranormal psychology. University of Pennsylvania. My thesis is on second sight among the Celtic populations. Which is why I came here to do my research.”

“And what is your connection to the Sacred Grove?”

“I read about it when it opened last year. Randy Wunderlich had a great reputation, so I thought I’d use him to verify my findings if I came up with a truly psychic person. Betsy seemed to have strong psychic potential, so I called Mr. Wunderlich and asked if he’d test her independently. He agreed to do so. I took her down to the center. We met with him once for testing. He was impressed and wanted to work with her … and then he vanished. End of story.”

Evan detected a veiled bitterness in her voice. Was she annoyed that her potential thesis material had been ruined?

It was past one o’clock when Evan finished interviewing the staff. His stomach reminded him that it was a long time since breakfast. He found himself longing for the meals at Mrs. Williams’s house. He had complained that she was overfeeding him, but right now he would have given anything for a generous helping of steak-and-kidney pie.

He came out into bright sunshine and stood on the terrace with the wind from the ocean blowing on his face. The pseudo-Italian village below him glowed in the sunlight. It was hard to believe he was still in his own corner of Wales. It was hard to believe much about this peculiar case. If you wanted to kill someone, wouldn’t there be easier ways than drugging him and then leaving him to drown in a cave? Why the cave? Annabel was the only one who mentioned that Randy had gone there before for its fantastic vibes. Had somebody known he was planning to go there that afternoon, or had the murderer somehow dragged him, unconscious, to the cave and left him to die? What sort of person would have done that?

Evan glanced at his list of notes from the staff. One or two interesting things had emerged: Several of the staff reported that Randy and Rhiannon had had disagreements. The day before Randy disappeared, the groundsman had heard his raised voice yelling, “And if you don’t like it, you can always leave, you know.”

That same groundsman had been mowing the lawns on the fateful afternoon. He remembered seeing Annabel coming down the steps toward the meditation building, then returning shortly after. He also remembered seeing Ben Cresswell striding out across the property.

Not one of the staff remembered making the cup of coffee that Betsy took to Randy Wunderlich, or telling Betsy that Randy wanted a cup of coffee. Evan frowned. This wouldn’t look good for Betsy. She had admitted taking him the coffee, which might have contained the sleeping pills, but she had nobody to corroborate that she had been instructed to do so. No one even remembered seeing her in the kitchen after lunch.

Not one of them had seen Randy Wunderlich after he went into his office in the meditation building around two.

Most interesting of all—Bethan reported that Lady Annabel and Randy had had several arguments recently. She had overheard things when she was making beds in the big house.

So there had been plenty of friction at the Sacred Grove. But arguments didn’t always lead to murder, did they? Well, it wasn’t any of his business. D.C.I. Hughes and his team would be handling the investigation from now on and Evan would be lucky if he heard how it was progressing. He should take Betsy home, make his report to D.C.I. Hughes, and get on with the task of changing Bronwen’s library books. But he found he was looking down toward the meditation center and the path beyond, leading down steps to the swimming pool and then the beach. He had to go and take another look at that cave for himself.

Evan hurried down the long flight of steps. As he passed the pyramid, a pale-faced woman in a turban and robe came out and stood blinking in the sunlight.

“Amazing,” she said to Evan. “I’m a new person. Even my skin feels younger. Amethyst, you know.”

Evan nodded politely and went on his way. Down the last steps and onto the beach. The tide was still quite high at this time of day and Evan had to pick his way along a thin strip of beach. Where the tide had receded, the sand was still waterlogged and each footstep sank in with a deep sucking sound. How could anyone have possibly dragged an unconscious man this way—unless there was more than one person. He paused to consider this thought. Was it possible that several of them had conspired to get rid of Randy Wunderlich—Rhiannon and Mrs. Roberts, Mrs. Roberts and Ben Cresswell, even Annabel and Michael? All of the above? Such alliances seemed highly unlikely when he considered them, but desperation has driven people to even stranger alliances.

After five minutes of slithering along the water’s edge, he came to the rocks before the cave. He scrambled up nimbly and stood at the entrance. He knew that forensics had given the cave a thorough going-over, and the sea had been in and out a number of times since the body was discovered. Even so, he ducked his head and went inside, wrinkling his nose at the dank, rotting smell. He found himself shivering as he looked around. As he had expected, he found nothing and was thankful to step out into the sunlight again. He couldn’t imagine that Randy Wunderlich would have chosen to meditate there.

Now the higher, dryer cave definitely looked more inviting—a wide hole above the waterline, the sort of cave that would have attracted a boy wanting to play at smugglers. He scrambled up to it, using all fours over the precariously loose rocks, and stood peering into the darkness. He could see where the sea level reached the entrance. There was a line of seaweed and jetsam about three feet into the cave. Beyond that, however, the floor was sandy and dry. He noticed footprints in the sand, but they were indistinct and there was no way of knowing how long they had been there. As he turned back to face the entrance, he was met with a stunning view. The whole estuary of sparkling blue water spread before him, with the green hills rising on the other side to Cader Idris, second in height only to Snowdon.

He could see that somebody would want to come to this cave to get away from it all and think. In fact, Emmy Court had assumed the same thing. He remembered how she had tried to convince Betsy that she was heading for the wrong cave. Well, anyone would have assumed the same thing, wouldn’t he? He then realized something else about Emmy Court. When she had woken him that night, she had been bubbling with excitement as if the whole excursion was a grand adventure. But that had changed when they discovered Randy’s body. He remembered her wail of horror, “He can’t be dead!”

And yet today, in her interview with Hughes, she had acted as if Randy’s death was merely a nuisance, a hitch in her plans. Evan turned and carefully skirted around the edge of the cave, examining every inch of the floor. There was really nothing to see. There was no jetsam above the high tide line, just sand and rocks. Toward the back of the cave his eyes strained in the darkness and he wished he had brought the flashlight he kept in the glove compartment of his car. He could see something on a small rock ledge. Evan reached for it. It was a wrapped granola bar. Half-buried in the sand beneath it was a full bottle of water and beside that a miniature torch. Using his handkerchief, Evan retrieved the torch and wrapped it carefully before tucking it into his pocket. It might be nothing more than kids playing at camping out, but it could also mean that someone recently intended to spend some time in this cave.

Chapter 19

By the time Evan returned to look for Betsy, he found her with Emmy Court. Emmy seemed calmer and resigned to missing her plane.

“If I’ve got to stay on a few days, I might as well give Betsy a ride home,” she said. “I hope Mrs. Williams hasn’t let my room yet.”

Evan accepted her offer. He was glad he wasn’t about to incur anyone’s wrath by giving Betsy a ride home on the motorbike. Instead, he drove straight to drop off the torch he had found at the forensics lab. Then he remembered he had promised to change Bronwen’s library books for her. That was the very least he could do. He felt that he should have been taking better care of her. Instead, he’d been running around all week—doing his job, to be sure, but still not there when she needed him.

When he finally reached Llanfair and pulled up outside the police station, the clouds had closed in and the formerly bright day was now heavy with the threat of rain. The first drops of rain spattered onto the tarmac as he climbed off the bike and wheeled it into the shed. No hiking today then! On the ride home he had decided to take a stiff hike up to Crib Gogh and back. He had noticed his muscles complaining at all those steps at the Sacred Grove. That’s what happened after several weeks without exercise—he was getting soft and needed some conditioning. Also, walking in the high country had a wonderful way of clearing his head. Up above the rest of the world, he was able to see connections that hadn’t been obvious before, and Evan was a great believer in connections. Find the missing links and you were well on the way to solving the case—if he was going to be given the chance of future involvement. Evan kicked at a pebble and sent it skidding across the wet street. Then he tucked Bronwen’s books under his jacket and plodded up the hill to the schoolhouse.

He was about to open the gate to the school playground when he heard his name being called and sighed as Mrs. Powell-Jones came bearing down on him, her unbuttoned cardigan flying open like the wings of an avenging angel.

“Constable Evans! Stay right where you are. I wanted a word with you, urgently.”

Evan was in no mood to be forbidden to see Bronwen again. “I’m taking Miss Price the library books she wanted,” he said quickly.

“It’s not Miss Price I’m concerned about. It’s Betsy Edwards,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said.

“Something’s happened to Betsy?”

“To her immortal soul, if we’re not careful. I was speaking to her not an hour ago, and what I heard has appalled me, Constable. Absolutely appalled me.” She pushed a rain-sodden wisp of hair from her face. She wasn’t wearing any kind of raincoat and her pea green hand-knitted cardigan was giving off a strong odor of wet sheep. “I had my doubts about this so-called healing center since I first heard about it,” she went on, wagging a finger at Evan. “Pagan spirituality indeed! As if pagans can have any spirituality. But now I’ve had a chance to question Betsy thoroughly and what I’ve heard is worse than I feared. Did you know there is Druid worship going on at that place? Betsy says there is actually a Druid priestess who holds her ceremonies there. No wonder someone has been murdered. The Druids were a most bloodthirsty sect, you know. They went in for human sacrifices. It must be stopped, Constable Evans. Stopped now, before it’s too late!” She thrust her face into his, peering at him with her sharp, pale eyes. “I take it that the police will be shutting it down, after what has happened?”

“I don’t know, madam,” Evan said. “I’m just the local constable. I don’t make the decisions.”

“Then I shall call your superiors immediately. And if the police don’t close it, then steps will have to be taken. We Christians have a moral obligation. I’ve told young Betsy that I forbid her to go there again.”

“She has a good job there, Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Evan began, but the minister’s wife peered into his face again.

“A good job, you say? No good can come of cavorting with the devil, you must know that. You must stop her, Constable Evans, before it’s too late. Good day to you.”

She stalked back to her house, her shoes making an unpleasant squelching sound as she walked. Evan watched her go, then pushed open the schoolyard gate.

“Goodness, you’re soaked,” Bronwen greeted him from where she was sitting, wrapped in her eiderdown in the armchair by the fire. “Were you caught in the downpour when you were on your bike?”

“No, I got caught by a belligerent Powell-Jones,” Evan said. “I’ve been told to close the Sacred Grove immediately, or else steps will be taken. And she’s forbidden Betsy to go there again.”

“Oh, dear.” Bronwen managed a weak smile. “I wouldn’t like to be the people at the Sacred Grove if Mrs. Powell-Jones gets her teeth into them.”

“So how are you feeling?” Evan crossed the room and gave her a little kiss on the forehead. “You’re sitting up. That’s a good sign.”

“I hope it is. I still feel as weak as a newborn kitten.”

“You need building up again.”

“Not Mrs. Powell-Jones’s calves foot jelly, please.”

Evan smiled. “I’d offer to make you some soup, only my cooking doesn’t seem to agree with you too well.”

“Don’t say that. This obviously wasn’t anything to do with your cooking. Just an unluckily timed bug, as the doctor says.”

“I hope so. But most bugs I’ve seen don’t linger on as long as this. I’ve got you some new library books, by the way. I hope you approve of my taste.”

“In women at least.” She gave him a weak smile, reached for the books, and let them flop onto the eiderdown beside her.

Evan gave her a worried glance. The hands that took the books from him seemed frail and transparent as alabaster and belonged to an ethereal creature, not the Bronwen he knew.

“So what’s the latest excitement from the Sacred Grove?” She patted the arm of her chair and he perched beside her. “Has Betsy had any more psychic dreams and found any more bodies?”

“Plenty of excitement,” Evan said. “It turns out that Randy Wunderlich’s death wasn’t an accident. It looks as if someone drugged him so that he was asleep when the tide came in.”

“What a horrible thing to do!” Bronwen shuddered. “Any suspects?”

“Plenty, it seems,” Evan said. “He wasn’t very popular with several residents of the Sacred Grove, and one of the maids said he argued with his wife a lot too.”

“So what do you do next?”

“Me, nothing, I expect. Hughes will no doubt bumble his way through, insulting everybody, unless he puts Watkins and his partner on the case.”

Bronwen reached out and touched his hand. “You know you’re cleverer than any of them, and they know it too. What are your thoughts so far?”

Evan shrugged. “It could be any of them. His wife took sleeping pills, but not the same kind as were used on him. Betsy took him a cup of coffee that could have contained the sleeping pills but she doesn’t know who poured the coffee.”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be any of them, does it?” Bronwen asked. “I mean, you said this man was a famous psychic in America. I’d imagine men like that make enemies.”

“Someone came over here specifically to kill him, you mean?”

Bronwen laughed. “It does sound rather ridiculous when you put it like that, doesn’t it?”

“No, but …” Evan paused, staring at the flames dancing in the fire.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” she asked gently.

“Emmy Court is American,” Evan said. “She just appeared over here, right before this happened. Why pick this place to start doing her research?”

“I’d have someone look into this man’s background in America,” Bronwen said, “and maybe check out Emmy Court too, while they’re at it.”

Evan kissed her forehead again. “Smart girl,” he said. “I’ll suggest it to Watkins if I can catch him between his training sessions.”

“Training?”

“They’re promoting him to inspector, didn’t I tell you?”

“Oh.” Bronwen looked up. “Does that leave a vacancy, do you think?”

He stared past her, into the fire. “Not that I’ve heard. They’ve just taken on Glynis Davies, haven’t they?”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Your turn will come. And there’s really no hurry, is there? You were quite content here to start with. You said you liked the quiet life—and your hiking and climbing.”

“Yes, that was before …” He paused. Before I thought of supporting a wife and family, he didn’t finish out loud.

That evening Evan was attempting to cook a leg of lamb. Rather stupid really, he thought, to cook a whole leg for one person. But he liked leg of lamb on weekends, and he was considering using the bone to make Bronwen a lamb stew. His mother always served him lamb stew with dumplings when she wanted to build him up. Maybe he’d have a go at dumplings tomorrow and take some over to Bronwen.

The lamb was beginning to smell appetizing and Evan was just putting frozen peas into a saucepan when there was a tap at his front door.

“Ooh, smells good. What are you cooking?” Betsy asked.

“Roast lamb.” He saw her eyes light up. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, and there’s nothing in the house except baked beans. The old man’s down at the pub already and I didn’t fancy baked beans on my own.”

“You’re welcome to join me. I can’t eat a whole leg on my own.” Evan stood back to let her in.

“Lovely! Diolch yn fawr, Evan bach.” She gave him a beaming smile as she came in. “Do you want me to lay the table?”

She had opened the kitchen drawer and was taking out knives and forks without being asked, laying them swiftly on the table in the living room. Then she went back into the kitchen and perched herself on the counter again as Evan took the roast from the oven. “I’ve never carved one of these things before,” he said. “Where do you think I should start?”

“Absolutely clueless, aren’t you?” Betsy slid from the counter. “Your mam must have spoiled you something rotten. Look you—this is how you carve a leg. You make a vee in the top like this and then you work backward. Got it?” Her hands covered his and he was conscious of how warm and real her hands felt after Bronwen’s fragile icy ones.

“All right. I’ve got it now.” He laughed her off awkwardly. “Let me try it. I’ve got to learn.”

Several large and not very elegant chunks of lamb were put on each plate, followed by roast potatoes and a generous spoonful of peas.

“I’ve got a jar of mint sauce on the shelf, I think,” he said, “but I’m not sure what to do about the gravy. Mrs. Williams used to make lovely thick gravy with lamb.”

“I make mine with gravy mix,” Betsy said, “but I’ll do what I can with the drippings.”

“You’re quite handy in the kitchen,” Evan commented.

“I’ve had to be, haven’t I? With my mam gone all these years and my tad only good for staggering to the pub? And I’m learning a lot by watching the way they do things at the Sacred Grove. You should see how lovely they make the food look. Little swirls of color and bits of flowers and things on the plate. Ever so pretty it looks.” She sat down opposite Evan, took a mouthful of meat, then looked up. “That crabby old cow wants me to stop working there,” she said.

“Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan smiled. “Yes, she gave me a long lecture about it this afternoon.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Betsy said. “Going on about devil worship and all that nonsense. I think Rhiannon makes a lot of sense. Why shouldn’t the spirit of the universe be all around us in nature? She’s asked me to help her with the ceremony this week—you know, the Galan Mai? It’s going to be so exciting—lots of people coming from all across Britain, all wearing white robes and then the fire and everything. I always did love Guy Fawkes Night when I was a little kid.”

Evan watched her as she spoke, her face alight with excitement like a small child’s.

“This is cozy, isn’t it?” She beamed at him. “I’ve waited a long time to be asked to dinner alone with you, Evan bach.”

Evan couldn’t think of the right thing to say and went on eating.

“So Bronwen’s no better yet, is she?” Betsy asked suddenly.

“A little better, but not much,” Evan said. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long. Those bloody doctors just say it’s an unknown bug and leave it at that. I hate to see her as weak as this. She still won’t eat—” Suddenly a picture formed in his head of Betsy sitting on the counter as he carved the lamb. She had sat on his counter like that on the evening that Bronwen became ill. She had been in the kitchen as he prepared the meal. And she had asked him that question—if there was no Bronwen, would he notice her then? Was it too absurd to think that she might have put something in Bronwen’s food? Was it also too absurd to think that she might have spiked Randy Wunderlich’s coffee?

Chapter 20

Excerpt from The Way of the Druid by Rhiannon

The Cycle of the Druid Year

We believe there is a deep and mysterious connection between our individual lives and the life force of our planet. Therefore, we recognize eight occasions during the yearly cycle that are significant to us and we mark them by special ceremonies.

Four of our special ceremonies are solar, four are lunar—a balance between the feminine and the masculine, the Goddess and the Sun God.

At the solstices the sun is revered—in the glory of its maximum power in midsummer and in the quiet of its near-death in midwinter. At the equinoxes day and night are balanced. These are the times of planting and of harvest. In spring we sow and in autumn we reap the fruits of our toil.

Then there are four more ceremonies, during the year. This is the cycle of the land of planting and harvest.

At Samhuinn, on October 31st, livestock used to be slaughtered before the winter when there was no fodder. At Imboic, on February 2nd, lambs were born. Beltane, on May Ist, was the time of mating and purifying. Lughnasadh, on August 1st, was the time of harvest.

We celebrate these festivals to remind us that our lives are intervowen with the cycle of the year. We see them as more than festivals of farming. On October 31 time stands still. The veil between this world and the other is lifted. The spirits of the dead walk among us. We make contact to share their wisdom and inspiration. The dead are honored and feasted as guardians of the tribe.

The winter solstice, called in the Druid tradition Alban Arthan—the Light of Arthur—is the time of death and rebirth. In the darkness we throw away those things that have been holding us back. One lamp is lit from flint and raised to the East. A year is reborn and a new cycle begins.

On February 2nd, called Imboic in the Druid tradition, is the celebration of the first snowdrop, the melting of the snows. Lambs are born. It is a gentle festival in which the Mother Goddess is honored with eight candles rising out of the water at the center of the ceremonial circle.

It is interesting to note that the Christians have adopted our ceremony as Candlemas. Our aspect of the Goddess is as inspiration of poets and healers. We celebrate in poetry and song. It is a good time for the eisteddfod.

At the spring equinox we celebrate the equality of night and day, the flowers of spring, and the time of snowing.

Beltane, which we Welsh call Calan Mai, is the feast of fertility, fire, and purification. We light the twin fires. In former times cattle were driven between them to assure fertility. Those who wish to conceive a child jump over the fire. Those who wish to be purified walk through it.

At the summer solstice we hold our longest ceremony. On the eve of the solstice we hold a vigil throughout the night. We mark the coming of dawn with a ceremony to celebrate the Sun God at his most powerful.

On August 1st is the ceremony of hay gathering. It is a ceremony of gathering together, of marriages. A wheel is passed around our circle to symbolize the turning of the year.

Last in our year is the autumn equinox, September 21st. In this ceremony we give thanks for the fruits of the earth and for the goodness of the Mother Goddess.

And what do these ceremonies truly mean for us? We no longer plant and sow, most of us. They represent the cycle of our lives. In the spring ceremonies we rejoice in youth. Spring makes us feel young again. The fires give us new life and vitality. In summer we celebrate the fullness of our blossoming into maturity, of parenthood, and our place in society. In autumn we rejoice in the harvest of our lives—be it creative works, children, or material success. As winter comes, we approach our declining years without fear and rejoice in the wisdom of age.

On Monday morning Evan opened up the police station at nine o’clock sharp and started on his report for the previous week. He hadn’t slept well last night. He knew he was being ridiculous to suspect Betsy, but the nagging doubt wouldn’t go away. He remembered how devious she could be when she tried—how she had shown up in her bikini and even dressed herself as a grandmother to try and get a part in a film when a film crew had come to the area a few months ago. She was a person who would take strong measures to get what she wanted, that was for sure. But to go as far as hurting somebody, even trying to kill somebody? Evan had always thought that Betsy had a kind heart. Now he didn’t know what to think, or how to follow up on his suspicions.

Wait and see, he decided. Let the detectives do their work and see what they come up with. He had only been working for a few minutes when his phone rang.

“Evan, this is Glynis. How are you?” As always she sounded bright and cheerful, full of energy and enthusiasm. Before he could answer, she went on. “Listen, I had to call you right away about that torch you found. That was brilliant of you to find it and to wrap it so carefully in your handkerchief like that. We got some super prints, not smudged at all.”

“Do you know whose?”

“Oh, yes. They all belong to Randy Wunderlich. His are the only prints on the torch.”

“Interesting,” he said. “So I was right in my hunch. He did intend to do his meditating in the upper cave, not the lower one. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would even go in that horrible place, especially not when the upper cave has such a fantastic view and is high and dry.”

“So what do you think happened? Why did he change his mind?” Glynis asked.

“I really don’t know … .”

“Oh come on, Evan. You’re really good at this. Your hunches are always spot on. What made him go down to the lower cave?”

“My guess would be that he didn’t go there. If we know that he fell asleep before he drowned, then it’s logical that the person who drugged him could drag him down to the lower cave. It’s a pity that the rocks and cave floor get so thoroughly washed over by the tides or we might have found scraps of fiber on some of the rocks.”

“So somebody knew he was planning to have a long meditation session in that upper cave and made sure he was drugged enough to put him to sleep. That’s right. You don’t have any hunches about which of them it could be?”

“That’s the tricky part. Everyone we spoke to had a good reason for wishing Randy Wunderlich wasn’t there—including his wife, I might add. But I wouldn’t go jumping to any conclusions if I were you,” Evan said. “My girlfriend had an interesting observation. She said he’d been a famous psychic in the States and people like that make lots of enemies.”

“So you think it could have been someone from outside?”

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to look into his background in the States.”

“Brilliant. I’ll run a computer search and see what comes up. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Evan smiled to himself when he hung up. At least Glynis was grateful for his help and happy to keep him updated on new developments, even if she did get the credit and he didn’t. He tried to concentrate on adding up figures for the last week. Then, some half hour later, the phone rang again.

“Evan, you’ve got to get down here and see this,” Glynis’s excited voice echoed down the phone.

“Your search engine turned up good stuff?”

“I’ll say. I’ve put in a call for Sergeant Watkins to come over and see it too. The D.C.I. is out at a regional meeting or I’m sure he’d want to see it.”

Evan ran straight to his motorbike. He was in on the action at a meeting where there would be no D.C.I. Hughes to ask him what he was doing there and to remind him that it was none of his business. He took the bends faster than he ever had before, now more comfortable with leaning inward and feeling the pull of gravity. “Next year, Isle of Man TT races,” he said to himself and laughed.

Glynis was sitting at the computer, printing out Web pages as he came in.

“This search engine has turned up over seven hundred mentions of his name.” She looked up excitedly.

“Popular man.”

“Or unpopular, as the case may be.” She handed him some sheets of paper. “Look what I’ve printed out so far.”

Evan took them from her and read the top headline: “Psychic Hot Line Guru Sued for Five Million.” His eyes scanned down the page. “Randy Wunderlich, whose psychic hot line has made his face familiar to every TV viewer in the country, is being sued in a Florida district court by Mary Sue Harper of Dade County. The suit alleges that Randy Wunderlich duped her out of her life savings by encouraging her to keep in daily contact via the 900 number and that his advice made her make disastrous life changes.”

“Five million,” Evan said. “So he must have been wiped out financially.”

“He won the case.” Glynis handed him another sheet of paper. “The jury decided that nobody forced Ms. Harper to keep running up phone bills by consulting him every day. But the judge warned him that what he was doing was morally wrong and he was going to recommend that the hot line be investigated by a federal commission.”

“And was it?”

“It’s all here.” Glynis waved papers excitedly. “He was investigated, the hot line was shut down, and he had to pay restitution to a whole lot of angry people who claimed he had tricked them out of money and wrecked their lives.”

“Not that great a psychic then.” Evan flicked through the pages she had given him.

“Not a legit psychic at all. No kind of credentials, anyway. Did some undergraduate work at a state college in California but that’s about it. A con man, actually.”

“Fascinating.” Evan continued to read case after case of people, mainly women, telling stories of how Randy had kept them dependent on his advice, which often turned out to be bad.

“Do you think one of them could have tracked him down over here and then killed him?” Glynis asked.

Evan stared at the computer screen, thinking. “The person who killed him had some inside knowledge of his routine. That person knew he was planning to go and meditate in a cave. I can’t imagine he’d have announced that fact to the whole world.”

“So it still comes back to those closest to him—someone else who works closely with the center.”

“Maybe the next step should be to find out who had a prescription for the right kind of sleeping pills,” Evan said. “If it was someone from the center, they wouldn’t have had the prescription filled too far away, would they? We know which chemist handled Lady Annabel’s prescriptions. Her son went to pick one up for her that afternoon.”

“Too late to drug Randy.”

“Yes, and according to Michael, it wasn’t a drug he picked up. It was some kind of medicated face cream to get rid of wrinkles.”

Glynis grinned. “If she’s so vain, you’d think she’d go on a diet, wouldn’t you?”

“I get the impression that—” Evan broke off, staring at the computer screen. The Web page was a report of the federal commission’s investigation into the psychic hot line. Names of a lot of women registering complaints filled the page. Evan had been scanning them idly. None rang a bell. But at the bottom of the page: “Also indicted for fraud is Mr. Wunderlich’s partner, Mary Elizabeth Harcourt of Philadelphia, Pa.”

“That’s it!” Evan stabbed excitedly at the screen. “I knew something about her didn’t add up.”

“Do we know her?” Glynis asked.

“Emmy Court. It has to be. Her name wasn’t Emmy. It’s M. E. Short for Mary Elizabeth.”

“Oh my goodness. You’re right.”

“I’ve been wondering about her all along,” Evan said. “It always struck me that something didn’t add up about her. Let’s look her up on your computer.”

Evan watched in admiration as Glynis’s skillful fingers tapped in information. The only time Emmy’s name appeared was in conjunction with Randy Wunderlich’s.

“She’s a pretty good actress,” Evan said. “Pretending not to know him. Why did she come here, I wonder?”

“Obvious,” Glynis said. “He married someone else, didn’t he? I can’t imagine she’d be Randy Wunderlich’s partner without being romantically involved with him. She expected him to marry her, but he was broke and he latched onto someone with money.”

“He probably thought Lady Annabel had money, but she didn’t,” Evan said.

“Even so, she had the property. Once the center got going, I’d imagine it would have been very lucrative—and safely far away from his former enemies.”

“So you think Emmy came here to kill him because he ran out on her?” Evan asked.

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? And it’s the most compelling motive we’ve had so far, especially if he left her behind in the States to face the music.”

Evan nodded. “Do you want me to go and bring her in?”

Glynis looked up at him. “Just make sure she doesn’t go anywhere in a hurry, while I alert the airlines, just in case she’s already done a bunk on us.”

Betsy found it strange going to work at the Sacred Grove that day just as if nothing had happened. She wasn’t even sure she was still employed there now that Randy was gone and Emmy Court was planning to go too. When Lady Annabel passed her just as she was taking off her jacket in the staff cloakroom, she fully expected to be asked what she was doing there and to be sent packing. But Lady Annabel drifted by like a ghost and hardly seemed to notice her.

All in all, Betsy hoped she could stay. For one thing the work was so easy and, for another, it was like living in a fantasy world, with all those fountains and pools and the beautiful view across the estuary. It was sad that Randy was gone, but she hoped that Rhiannon might be able to help her with her newfound psychic powers. Rhiannon had already told her that the ancient Druids were also seers. They had all kinds of ways of looking into the future. She often saw the future herself. It was just a question of harnessing the power of the universe. In a way Rhiannon scared Betsy. She was so intense, as if there were a fire burning inside her. But she was also being very kind at the moment, taking time to answer Betsy’s questions. “We’ll make a Druid of you yet,” she had said when they last spoke. “You’re going to be a great help to me at the coming ceremony. I’m relying on you.”

Betsy helped clear away breakfast then went down to the meditation center to bring up any dirty crockery waiting to be washed. As she went in, she heard a low humming sound coming from the main meditation room and wondered what it could be, until the door opened and she saw that it was Bethan, with a vacuum cleaner.

“Hello, Betsy,” Bethan called cheerily. “How are you then? I’ve been thinking about you, having that dreadful dream and seeing poor Randy lying there and then actually finding him just like you’d dreamed. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“It was,” Betsy said. “I couldn’t stop shaking all day.”

“Did you really dream the whole thing?” Bethan asked. “They’re saying he was murdered now. Did you see the murderer in your dream?”

“No, just Randy lying there.”

“Perhaps you’ll have another dream and see the murderer,” Bethan said excitedly.

“I hope not. It was horrible.” Betsy hugged her arms to herself. “It’s funny, but it already seems as if it wasn’t real. I know it happened, but it’s like something I saw on TV, you know.”

Bethan nodded. “It’s funny how life has gone back to normal, isn’t it? Lady Annabel is the only one who looks upset. She doesn’t seem herself at all, poor thing. She wasn’t even wearing makeup today and I’ve never seen her without her makeup on before. They say people can die of a broken heart, don’t they?”

“She’s a bit old for a broken heart, isn’t she?” Betsy moved closer to Bethan as the latter maneuvered the heavy vacuum cleaner out of the room and into the passage. “I mean she’s got a grown-up son. Middle-aged people don’t die of broken hearts, surely?”

“Oh, I think she was gaga for him.” Bethan moved closer to Betsy. “You should have heard her shouting and crying when she found out he’d been paying attention to another woman. ‘I trusted you and you let me down,’ she was yelling. I was up making the beds and I was embarrassed to be caught up there with them yelling outside the door. ‘I thought I was the only woman in your life,’ she said. ‘And now I find out about her.’ And now he’s gone. Funny old life, isn’t it?”

Betsy nodded.

Bethan coiled up the vacuum lead and started to wheel it down the hall. “You know, I never expected to find him dead, did you? When I heard he was missing, I thought to myself, well, here we go again.”

“What do you mean?” Betsy asked.

“Well, he was the second person who’s been missing here, isn’t it? And both Americans too. They say there’s been no sign of that American girl Rebecca since she left here. I often wonder what happened to her. I was just getting friendly with her, you know, when she went. And you know what was so strange? It was her coat. I often wondered about that coat, I mean—”

A door opened on their left and Rhiannon appeared. “Will you girls stop gossiping and get back to work?” she snapped. “Bethan, put that thing away and get about your duties. Betsy, would you come into my office? I’m going to need you to help me prepare for the ceremony.”

Betsy spent the next hour helping Rhiannon assemble a collection of objects she needed for the ceremony. They included robes and tools—a cauldron, a dagger, a pentacle, a large stone that Rhiannon said was sacred. “And now,” she said, “you are going to help me to build a very large basket.”

It was noontime when Betsy was finally released, and she rushed up to do her job at the spa. She was supposed to have wiped down the walls of the sauna and steam room by now. The spa was scheduled to open again at twelve-thirty. She hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for being late. Luckily she didn’t pass anybody as she went through the foyer with its lovely underwater murals. She gave the sauna a quick once-over, then she went into the steam room. That was a harder job. Mildew grew so easily in the hot damp conditions and Betsy had to stand on tiptoe on the tiled bench to reach the corners at the very top. She was on the bench with her back to the door when she thought she heard a noise outside. Immediately the steam came on in a great rush. That’s funny, Betsy thought. She was supposed to trip the switch to turn the system on when she had finished. The room filled quickly with hot steam so that by the time she picked up her cleaning materials and climbed down from the bench, the door was hardly visible.

Betsy experienced a brief moment of panic and disorientation. Don’t be so daft, she thought to herself. People pay a lot of money to come in here and sit in this steam and you can’t wait to get out of it! She laughed at herself as she located the door and turned her shoulder to push it open.

It wouldn’t move.

Betsy put more effort into it and tried again. The door was stuck fast. She put down the cleaning rags and spray and tried with both hands. Behind her the steam kept on hissing as it poured out, filling the tiny room and raising the temperature. Betsy coughed. It was getting hard to breathe.

Not to worry, she told herself. The steam was on a timer. It came on, then a thermostat shut it off after a few moments. She’d seen it working. Seconds ticked by but the steam didn’t go off. The room was now so full of steam that the glass panel in the door was the only real thing in the world. Betsy could feel sweat and steam running down her face into her eyes. She hammered on the door with both fists, realizing that nobody was likely to hear her. The spa wasn’t scheduled to open for another half hour and Bethan had obviously done her share of the work and gone by now.

Half an hour. Could she hold out that long? The heat was overpowering. Betsy could feel the blood singing in her head. She was starting to feel dizzy. Help! she tried to shout. Help! But every breath she took only resulted in a fit of coughing. With the last of her strength, she pounded on the door again.

Suddenly the door was wrenched open. Bethan and Michael stood there, staring at her with frightened faces. “Betsy, what on earth were you doing in there?” Bethan demanded as a gasping, sobbing, red-faced Betsy staggered out.

“I—I couldn’t get the door open,” Betsy said.

“Oh, no.” Michael took her arm and led her to a chair in the foyer. “That damned door must be sticking again. Remember it stuck once before, Bethan? I thought the janitor had fixed it. I’ll get onto him again this afternoon.”

“It was horrible,” Betsy said. “The steam came on and it wouldn’t go off. It just kept on coming. I would have passed out if you hadn’t heard me.”

“Lucky I’d just gone to get Michael to show him a crack in one of the tiles,” Bethan said.

Michael gave Betsy an encouraging smile. “I think you probably had a bit of a panic attack, don’t you? I know what it’s like when the steam comes on—it is rather frightening. But it only lasts a minute or two, honestly.”

“It was much longer than that,” Betsy said. “The whole place was full of steam.”

“It only seemed longer, I’m sure.” He put a hand on Betsy’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go and get some lunch. I’ll make sure the janitor fixes that door properly this afternoon. We don’t want any panic-stricken guests, do we?”

Betsy allowed herself to be escorted up the steps between Michael and Bethan. Had she just panicked? she wondered. Had it not been as long as it seemed in there and would the steam have gone off by itself? She felt a bit of a fool.

“Thanks for rescuing me, anyway,” she said. “Sorry if I was making such a fuss.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Evans, but she’s not here,” Mrs. Williams greeted Evan at the front door.

“She’s left, you mean?” Evan’s heart lurched at the thought of arriving too late.

“Oh, no. She just drove young Betsy to work at the center. She said she didn’t want to sit around doing nothing and she liked visiting the center.”

“So she’s down there now?”

“I expect so. She told me not to cook lunch for her, she’d be eating out, but she’d be back for dinner. I’m making her a steak-and-kidney pie tonight. You remember my pies, don’t you, Mr. Evans? I’m a dab hand with pastry, although I shouldn’t say it myself.”

Evan did remember her pastry. Vividly. He could almost taste the thick brown gravy with tender morsels of steak and kidney buried in it and the light, flaky crust on top. He sighed. “I’d better go and look for Miss Court then.”

But as he turned away from the front door, a car drew up and Emmy Court got out. Evan noticed a momentary flicker of alarm on her face before it became an expressionless mask again. “What do you want now?” she demanded.

“I’ve been asked to bring you down to headquarters to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. I’ve already told you everything I know. I’ve already missed my flight home. Do you know what kind of penalty they charge to rewrite a ticket these days? I’m a student, you know, trying to live on a grant. I sure hope you guys are going to write some kind of letter to the airline for me.”

“I’m sorry, miss. I’m just doing my job. It shouldn’t take long and the sooner we get things sorted out, the sooner you can go home, isn’t it?”

Emmy glared at him, but she allowed herself to be shepherded to the squad car that Evan had borrowed from Sergeant Watkins.

“It’s harassment, that’s what it is. I’m going to complain to the U.S. embassy.” Evan said nothing and Emmy remained silent all the way down the pass. When they reached the Caernarfon police station, Evan ushered Emmy into one of the interview rooms.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while I tell them you’re here?” Evan asked as Emmy sat defiantly with her arms folded across her chest.

“Your British tea is disgusting and your coffee is even worse. I haven’t had one decent cup of coffee since I got here. Mrs. Williams’s idea is to put a spoonful of instant in a cup and then fill it up with hot milk. Don’t you people have a clue about anything?”

At that moment D.C.I. Hughes came into the room, followed by Watkins, who had clearly just arrived. Watkins was still wearing his wet raincoat and there were droplets of rain on his sandy hair. He grinned at Evan.

“Thank you, Constable,” Hughes said, waving him away. Evan retreated, but only as far as the door. Hughes took the only other chair in the room, leaving Watkins standing also.

“I take it you don’t mind if our conversation is recorded?” Hughes leaned across the table to turn on the portable recorder. “For your protection as well as ours.”

Emmy shrugged. “Do what you like. I’ve already told you what I know. You’re just wasting your time as well as mine.”

“Not quite all you know, I think,” Hughes said. He spoke into the machine. “Detective Chief Inspector Hughes, interviewing Emmy Court, Monday, April twenty-ninth. Now let’s go back to square one, shall we, Miss Court? Would you mind repeating your full name for us?”

“I told you. It’s Emmy Court.”

“And you are a student?”

“I told you. A doctoral candidate at the University of Pennsylvania.”

“Now that’s odd, isn’t it?” Hughes looked across to Sergeant Watkins. “I understand, Sergeant, that your search of the records at the University of Pennsylvania came up with no doctoral candidate by the name of Emmy Court.”

“No student of any kind registered under that name.”

“Well, I took a quarter off for this fieldwork, didn’t I? If you’d checked back …”

“Ah, but Sergeant Watkins did check old records. He found only one similar name. Mary Elizabeth Harcourt, who took a bachelor’s degree in psychology ten years ago. And a woman of the same name shows up in the records of the federal commission looking into Randal Wunderlich’s psychic hot line scandal. This Mary Elizabeth Harcourt was mentioned as Randal Wunderlich’s partner.”

There was utter silence except for the hiss and whir of the tape recorder and the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall.

“Do you still maintain that you are Emmy Court, a student at the University of Pennsylvania?” Hughes asked. “I can always send to America for fingerprints.”

She turned to glare at him but said nothing.

“This might be a good point to have my sergeant read you your rights, Miss Harcourt, and to ask you whether you would like to have a lawyer present.”

Until now Emmy had been aggressive but composed. Now suddenly her face flushed. “Hey, wait a second. You don’t think I had anything to do with his death, do you? I loved him.”

“Of course you did,” Hughes went on smoothly. For once Evan was impressed. “But he married someone else, didn’t he? He left you behind in the States to face the music while he came to live in luxury in Wales. What more perfect motive for murder?”

“Bullshit,” Emmy said. “You British cops are really stupid, do you know that? If you really want to know the truth, we planned the whole thing, Randy and I.”

“Planned his death?”

“He wasn’t meant to die.” For the first time her voice had a desperate edge to it. “It was meant to be a stunt—a publicity stunt.”

“Go on,” Hughes said.

“Okay, this is what was supposed to happen. Randy was in deep shit at home. The feds were watching his every move. He decided to get out for a while. This Englishwoman had been calling his hot line and in talking to her he found out that she was a lady with a tide and a stately home. He’d always dreamed of opening a New Age center someday and he thought this woman was loaded. She was also looking for a new guy in her life. Randy’s great at that kind of thing. He can have any woman eating out of his hand in seconds. He told me what he was going to do and I agreed. He said it wouldn’t be more than a year, two years, max. So he married her and then he found that she wasn’t loaded at all. She had the house and all these debts. She hadn’t been quite honest with him, it seemed.”

That was poetic justice, Evan thought. Randy Wunderlich had been a little less than honest with her too.

“So now he’s stuck with this bloody great house and he’s just started work on the center but there’s no money to get it going properly. You need publicity to launch a project like that. So he decided we needed a crazy stunt to make headlines. If you want to know the truth, I thought it was a little too crazy, but once Randy gets an idea, it’s hard to stop him.”

“And what was this idea?” Hughes asked.

“He decided that he’d go missing and he’d make psychic contact with some complete stranger and she’d find him. Great story, huh? World-renowned psychic vanishes and is found through psychic message. The plan was supposed to work like this—he’d go down to meditate in a cave he’d found. He’d fall into a trance and only wake when it was dark. It would be hard to get out of the cave because the rocks were slippery by this time. He’d try and twist his ankle so badly that he couldn’t walk then he’d spend a miserable night in the cave, cut off by high water. In the morning his ankle would have swollen so that he couldn’t put any weight on it. So he’d have to sit it out and wait to be found—but he would send out psychic messages because he was getting desperate. One of them would be picked up by a young girl who would lead the search party to find him.”

“Wait a minute,” Evan interrupted, before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be in the room. “How was he so sure that Betsy would get the message and find him?”

Emmy gave him a withering stare. “We picked the right girl.”

“You detected her strong psychic powers?” Evan asked.

“We detected gullible and suggestible. We’ve done enough psychic work to know how to plant an idea in someone’s mind. You know—hypnosis. While I was working with Betsy, I suggested to her that she would have a dream and I told her exactly what she was going to dream about. The only thing was—she went to the wrong cave. And he was there. And he was dead.”

She covered her face in her hands and lowered her head. A great heaving sob escaped from her. Hughes shut off the tape recorder.

Chapter 21

In the middle of that night, a storm broke over Llanfair. The thunder echoed, alarmingly loud, in the narrow confines of the pass. Lightning illuminated the mountaintops before more clouds rushed in to hide them again. Evan had woken in the still-unfamiliar room at the first rumble of thunder and had lain there, unable to sleep, counting the pauses between each flash and the following crash. Not more than a second or two. The storm was almost overhead and moving closer. Rain started drumming on the roof, almost drowning out the thunder. He was glad he wasn’t out in this one. A real drencher.

He certainly wasn’t going to be able to fall back to sleep until the storm was over, so he lay there, mulling over the events of the previous day. Emmy Court was being held in custody now, not having the funds to post bail. D.C.I. Hughes was satisfied that they’d got the right person, but Evan wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure what to make of her at all. Usually he was a pretty good judge of character but Emmy Court had got him stumped. Scheming. Manipulating. She showed no remorse about using Betsy so shamelessly. Apart from that one outbreak she had shown little emotion. Evan could easily imagine her dragging Randy Wunderlich to the sea cave and leaving him there to die if it suited her purposes. But then he though back to the night when they had found Randv’s body. All the way down to the Sacred Grove, Emmy had seemed keyed up, but excited, like a child setting out on an adventure. She had tried to persuade Betsy that she was going to the wrong cave and then there was the anguished outburst: “He can’t be dead!” Surely there was true shock and despair in that wail. Randy’s death had taken her by surprise. But it was no use expressing his doubts to D.C.I. Hughes at this stage. Hughes would want a better suspect before he’d let Emmy Court go.

The thunder crashed, louder than ever before. It went on and on, growing in intensity. It took a few moments for Evan to register that the noise wasn’t thunder, but someone banging on his door. He grabbed his dressing gown and ran downstairs.

Betsy was standing outside the front door, wearing her anorak and nightdress, exactly as she had that previous night. She stared at him with terrified eyes and then flung herself toward him.

“Betsy, what on earth is it?” Evan asked.

“I’m so scared and my dad’s passed out, as usual, and I’m so frightened that the murderer will come and get me.”

Evan took her inside and shut the door. “It’s all right. Calm down. You’re safe now.” He took the trembling girl into the kitchen and sat her down. “Look at you. You’re soaking wet.”

“I know. I didn’t want to stay in the house any longer,” she said. “I thought I could hear someone coming up the stairs so I just grabbed the first coat and ran.”

“Take that wet coat off. My cardigan is hanging on the hook in the hall,” he instructed. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.” He put the kettle on and Betsy came back, her hair still plastered to her forehead. She looked like a lost orphan in Evan’s oversized cardigan.

She came to stand beside him, holding out her hands to the flame under the kettle. “I’m chilled right through,” she said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“So tell me what happened,” Evan said. “What frightened you?”

“I had another dream,” Betsy said. “Only this one wasn’t clear like the other one. It was just that I knew someone was after me. It was someone in a cloak and hood and I couldn’t see the face but I knew it was the real murderer. Then I woke up and the storm was horrible and I thought I heard noises outside my door. I was so sure it was the murderer come to get me.”

Evan patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You just had a bad dream. Nobody’s after you.”

“But look what happened last time I had a bad dream. It all came true!”

Evan poured the boiling water into the pot. “Betsy, there’s something you should know. It might stop you from worrying like this—” He paused, wondering how to phrase what he was going to say. “Betsy, all that rubbish about psychic ability, that’s all it was—rubbish. The police are holding Emmy Court right now. It seems she planned a hoax with Randy Wunderlich. They worked together at this psychic hot line in America, you know. He was going to disappear and some unknown person was going to find him through a psychic connection. They picked you. They set you up. You didn’t have a psychic dream. You were hypnotized. Emmy Court put those images into your head.”

Betsy was staring at him, a bewildered look on her face. “You mean I’m not psychic at all? I don’t have powers?”

“I’m afraid not,” Evan said.

“You really mean I’m not psychic after all? They only pretended I had powers?”

Evan nodded. “It was a cruel trick to play.” But she did get the cave right, he thought. Was that just coincidence?

“But why did they do it?”

“Publicity, that’s all. They wanted to generate publicity for the Sacred Grove because it wasn’t going very well. They thought this kind of thing would capture the media’s attention.”

“That is so unfair.” Betsy’s voice cracked. “How could she do that? I thought she liked me. And I was so excited about my powers. I really believed I was special at last.”

“Look on the bright side of this,” Evan said. “The murderer has nothing to fear from you. You won’t be seeing his face in another psychic dream. You can’t give him away—or her away,” he added.

“Do they think that Emmy killed Randy?” Betsy asked. She picked up the mug of tea that Evan had poured for her and took a hesitant sip.

“They seem to. But that doesn’t mean that I do, Betsy. I really think you ought not to go to that place again.”

“But I want to. Even if I’m not psychic and they won’t be helping me to develop my powers after all. The people are nice to me, honestly. I really don’t feel I’m in danger there … except that …”

“What?”

“Something happened to me yesterday. I thought it was just a horrible accident—”

“What was it?”

“I got shut in the steam room by mistake. The steam came on and I couldn’t get out. I nearly passed out before Bethan and Michael came to rescue me. They said the door had stuck before and they didn’t seem at all worried. In fact, I get the feeling they thought I was being silly and hysterical.”

Evan looked at her sharply. “So who knew you were going to be in the steam room?”

“I’d just left Rhiannon, so she knew. But then anyone only had to look at the staff schedule to see that I was supposed to be cleaning the spa at that time. I almost didn’t make it to the spa. Rhiannon kept me doing other things. I had to rush.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t go back there, Betsy. Take that scare as a warning. If somebody does want to get rid of you, there are plenty of easy ways to do it at that place.”

“I’ll let them know about Emmy Court tomorrow and how she tricked me. It won’t be easy to admit that I’m just ordinary after all, but I’ll do it. When they hear that I’m not psychic, I’ll be safe, won’t I?”

“You’ll be safer if you don’t go back at all.”

“No. I’m being silly again. I’m sure that steam room thing was just an unlucky accident. Michael said the door had stuck before, didn’t he? And he was going to get it fixed right away. ‘Can you imagine how one of the guests would freak out if it happened to them?’ he said. He can be funny if he wants to, can’t he? A bit shy, of course, but sweet. And Bethan’s nice too. Those two will take care of me.”

She took another sip of tea. “And you say you don’t think that Emmy killed Randy. Then that’s all the more reason for me to keep on working at the center. I can be your eyes and ears for you, can’t I? I’ve always wanted to help you with your work. Maybe I can track down the killer for you and you’ll get all the credit for once.”

“Betsy, you’re something else.” He ruffled her wet hair. “I’m going to get a towel to dry you off. You’re dripping like a wet dog.”

When he came back, Betsy was sitting on the chair, hugging her knees to her. She looked about twelve years old.

“Come here.” He flung the towel over her head.

“Ow,” she yelled playfully. “Let me out. You’re suffocating me!” She pushed the towel back from her face and looked up at him. One minute they were both laughing, the next she was somehow in his arms and he was kissing her. Her lips were icy but her mouth was warm and inviting.

“I’m sorry—” He broke away and stepped back from her. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said, still looking up at him adoringly. “I liked it. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to kiss me, Evan Evans.” She slipped her arms around him, pulling herself close to him again. “Hold me. I’m still so cold.”

He could feel her slender body shivering. He wrapped his arms around her. “You should never have come out in this storm, you dafty.”

“I know. I didn’t stop to think. I was in a real panic again. Don’t make me go home again tonight. I’m scared of going back there alone.”

As if on cue the room was lit with blue light and a great crash of thunder shook the house. Hail bounced off the pavement outside.

“No, I can’t send you home in this.” Evan hesitated. Part of his brain was whispering that this whole thing might have been one of Betsy’s famous schemes. But he could feel her body shivering against him. He glanced up the stairs. “All right. You can sleep in my bed. Come on.”

She allowed herself to be led up the stairs and scrambled into the bed, pulling the covers over her. “I’m still freezing,” she muttered.

“You’ll soon get warm. That Welsh quilt is terrific. Half a dozen sheep have been stuffed into that.” He grinned at her.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m not rightly sure. I don’t have an armchair or a sofa yet.”

“Don’t go, Evan. Stay here with me. Come on, there’s room.”

Evan gave an embarrassed laugh. “Look, Betsy, I’m only human.”

“No, it will be all right, honestly.” She patted the bed beside her. “I just want to feel warm and safe.” She sat up, hugging the quilt to her. “I promise I’ll behave myself,” she said. “Honestly, Evan. I mean that.” She looked up at him, her big, blue eyes holding his. “Look, I know I’ve tried everything under the sun to get you to notice me, but now that I’m here and I could have what I wanted—I know you love someone else. It’s okay. I’m quite trustworthy. And if you really want to know and promise not to tell another soul in the whole world—I’m still a virgin. I’m not going to lead you astray.” She gave him a little smile.

Cautiously Evan climbed in beside her. He hoped that he was quite trustworthy too. He wasn’t at all sure of it. He was sure Betsy didn’t realize how many times he had thought about being with her and what it would be like. Now she was here and all he could think of was Bronwen.

“Goodnight, Betsy.” He leaned over and gave her a little kiss on her forehead.

He woke early to find himself alone in bed and wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing. Then the smell of frying came to his nostrils. He went downstairs to find Betsy in the kitchen, the tea already in the pot and eggs and bacon sizzling in the pan.

“Toast just popped up,” she called. “If you hurry up and butter it, the eggs are ready.”

He sat down to his best breakfast in weeks.

“I thought I’d better get going early, before too many people are about,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“What about yours?” Evan laughed.

“Me? Oh, they all think I’m a loose woman anyway. And what do I care? Let them think what they like.”

“Too late,” Evan said. There was a tap on his front door. He went to answer it.

“Oh, good, you’re up.” Bronwen breezed past him into the hallway. “I felt so much better this morning that I thought I’d come over and surprise you. Look, I’m walking again. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Oh, yes,” he managed to say. “That’s wonderful.”

“Do I smell bacon frying, on a workday?” she demanded. “Evan Evans, what about that healthy diet you were promising. When I’m not around to keep an eye on you, you go—”

She broke off. Through the half-open kitchen door she had just caught a glimpse of Betsy in her nightdress, standing with a frying pan in her hand, looking trapped and guilty.

“My God, you didn’t wait long, did you?” Bronwen demanded. “Did you think I wasn’t going to recover and you were going to hedge your bets?”

“Bronwen, wait. It’s not—”

“Did she spend the night here?”

“Yes, but—” He tried to grab her but she pushed him off and ran out of the house again.

“Bronwen, please—stop. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that at all …”

“Go away,” she shouted. “Go away and leave me alone. I never want to see you again.”

Without warning she teetered and collapsed to the ground.

The next moments passed as if in a nightmare. The ambulance seemed to arrive in no time at all. Evan watched the medics scoop Bronwen up and cart her off on a stretcher as if she were a piece of meat. He tried to go with them and was pushed back.

“Are you next of kin? Well, then ring the hospital later and they’ll let you know when you can see her.”

He stood there in his bare feet, in the street, watching it go, hearing the siren as it disappeared down the pass. He had only felt this bad once before in his life, and that was when he sat beside his father in the Swansea hospital and watched the life ebb out of him. The words of guilt screamed through his head: “You did that to her. It’s your fault.”

Chapter 22

It was still raining when Betsy arrived at the Sacred Grove. For the first time she had had to take public transportation and was out of breath after the long walk from the nearest bus stop. She had run all the way from the gate, not wanting to be late. Her heart was thumping as the electric security gate swung open—and it wasn’t just from running. She had tried to seem brave to Evan, but truly she was scared about coming here now. Yesterday’s incident in the steam room had unnerved her more than she cared to admit. The morning’s incident with Bronwen had unsettled her even more. She knew that she had done nothing wrong, but she couldn’t help blaming herself. She got the feeling that Evan blamed her too. What if something awful happened to Bronwen because of her? The stupid thing was that she had fantasized over and over about something happening to Bronwen and Evan turning to her for love and support instead. But now that something had happened to Bronwen she just felt sick and scared.

She reached the main house and went to hang up her coat in the cloakroom. Evan had made her promise that she’d not be caught anywhere alone again. “Stay in public areas and if you’re sent anywhere, get another girl to come with you,” he had instructed. If Evan was worried for her, then she should definitely be on her guard. She decided she’d go around with Bethan all day, just for safety.

“Where’s Bethan?” she asked as she went into the kitchen. Bethan usually cleared up after breakfast with her and the dining room looked like a disaster area.

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “She was looking for you a little while ago. I think she must have gone on down to the meditation center. Rhiannon wants you down there too, as soon as you can.” He leaned closer to her. “I’ll warn you that she’s in a bad mood. It’s raining on her bonfire and she had absolute confirmation from the universe that it would be fine tonight. But you’d better get on with clearing up in the dining room first. Chef’s in a bad mood this morning, too. Must be the weather. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”

Bethan put down her bucket as she pushed open the main door of the health center. Rhiannon had them all in a tizzy today, because the big ceremony was tonight. She’d almost snapped Bethan’s head off when she had tried to be helpful.

“Get your other tasks done and come back here as quickly as possible. I want you and Betsy together. We need to carry all this stuff across to the ceremony site and attempt to keep it dry. And tell the groundsman that I want him to find me dry wood too. The fire can’t be allowed to smolder. It must flame up instantly.”

Bethan thought it was a lot of fuss about nothing. She’d been to a ceremony before and thought they all looked pretty silly, dancing around the grove in their long robes, calling on the East and West and the spirits of animals. But she was afraid of Rhiannon. There was something about her, the way she looked at you, that made you not want to get on her bad side.

She decided to get her share of the spa cleaning done right away, then she wouldn’t get in trouble with Annabel. She paused and looked up at the main house. It wasn’t like Betsy to be late. And why did it have to be today, when Bethan really wanted to talk to her? She’d had a bad night last night, wondering who to tell—because Rebecca’s disappearance had been playing on her mind. At the time she hadn’t thought much about it. They’d told her Rebecca had gone and she’d accepted it. And when she had found Rebecca’s raincoat still hanging in the staff cloakroom, she hadn’t thought twice about that either. Rebecca was American, after all. They were all supposed to be rich. She probably didn’t care that she’d forgotten her raincoat. She’d just buy another one.

But now that Randy had died, things were different somehow. She remembered that it had been cold and rainy the night Rebecca had left. She began to wonder what had made Rebecca run off, leaving her raincoat behind. She had inquired, innocently, of Mrs. Roberts whether Rebecca ever wrote and asked them to forward her raincoat. Mrs. Roberts said she hadn’t heard a peep out of Rebecca since she left. So Bethan decided to do some snooping of her own.

Betsy finished up in the dining room and went down to Meditation to see if Bethan was down there. The sooner she teamed up with Bethan, the easier she’d feel.

“Ah, good, you’re here,” Rhiannon said in greeting. “Now where’s that lazy child Bethan? Go and find her, will you? It will take two of you to carry the Wicker Man and I don’t want him damaged.”

Betsy went back up the steps. Bethan was nowhere in the main building. She wasn’t in any of the cottages. Then Betsy opened the health center door and saw a bucket sitting in the hallway.

“Bethan?” she called. “Are you in here?”

That’s when she was aware of the hiss of steam. She rushed to the steam room and struggled with the door. Finally she was able to wrench it open. Steam rushed out to meet her. She forced her way through it to the shape that lay huddled on the floor.

“Bethan!” she screamed, and dragged the lifeless figure out into the fresh air.

By midday Evan had completed his morning patrol of the area and was back at the station reporting in to HQ. It had been horrible feeling so powerless and cut off from Bronwen. He had followed the ambulance down to Bangor, only to be denied admission to the casualty ward where they had taken her. He’d called the hospital twice since but the news was the same both times. Miss Price was resting comfortably and they were conducting tests. He’d be able to see her during visiting hours that afternoon if she was done with her tests and back in the ward. What could it be? He asked himself over and over. It must be something terrible to make her collapse like that—cancer, heart attack, stroke. A terrible fear overtook him that she might die before he’d had a chance to explain and say he was sorry.

He looked up as the door opened and Glynis came in. “Hello there, Evan. How are you?” she asked, bright as ever. “I hope you don’t mind my popping in, but I’ve got Rebecca’s parents with me and you said you’d help me out with them. They are so devastated, poor people. Worried out of their minds. Terribly earnest types. God-fearing and all that.”

Evan got to his feet. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take them around the places you went before, maybe, and then I thought we’d run them down to the Sacred Grove so that they can see for themselves.”

“All right.” He sighed as he reached for his coat.

“What’s the matter?” Glynis asked. “You look terrible.”

“Bronwen’s in the hospital. She collapsed this morning and they don’t know what’s wrong with her.” It just came out, even though he hadn’t meant it to.

“Oh, I am sorry. How rotten for you. Look, it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to do this and then you can sneak away to the hospital if you like. I’ll cover for you.”

“Thanks, Glynis.” He managed a smile. “All right then. Let’s go and meet Rebecca’s parents.”

“By the way,” she said as they walked out to the waiting car, “the hostile American woman posted bail this morning. We’ve had to let her go.”

“Emmy Court, you mean?”

Glynis nodded. “She had the money wired to her. It’s all right, though. She can’t go anywhere. We’ve got her passport. Not that we had enough to keep holding her anyway.” She opened her car door. “Mr. and Mrs. Riesen. This is Constable Evans I told you about. He was the one who went around with Rebecca’s picture.”

The couple sitting in the backseat of the squad car looked like a typical American couple to Evan. The husband was wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap. The wife was dressed in colors brighter than the average Welshwoman would wear. They both looked gray and haggard, but they shook Evan’s hand warmly and thanked him for his trouble.

“I just wish there was more we could do,” Evan said as he climbed into the passenger seat beside Glynis. “So you’ve still heard nothing from her. There’s no possibility she went home to the States but hasn’t contacted you yet?”

“Oh, no, Rebecca would never do that,” Mrs. Riesen said. “She was a real homebody, if you know what I mean. We had the hardest time persuading her to go away to college, and my, was she homesick that first year! She really didn’t want to come over to Britain for the semester, but she was awarded the scholarship and my husband told her, ‘Honey, it’s a wonderful opportunity. It might never come around again,’ so she went.”

“I encouraged her,” Mr. Riesen said in a voice that cracked with emotion. “I made her go.”

“Honey, you thought you were doing the right thing.” She put her hand on his. “We all thought we were doing the right thing. We didn’t worry about her once. She was never any trouble, all the time she was growing up. Other kids went through the rebellious stage, but not Rebecca. Didn’t have to set her curfews or anything. She was never out late. All she cared about were her studies and her music. Only ever had one or two close friends—never the partying kind, you understand.”

Evan nodded. “Do you have any idea at all what would have made her come to the Sacred Grove?”

“None at all. A place like that just wasn’t Rebecca. She was always very involved in our church—she’d never have been led astray.”

“Do you think that maybe she wanted to convert the people at the Sacred Grove?” Evan asked. “Someone mentioned she did some of that kind of thing.”

“I can’t see Rebecca doing that either.” Mrs. Riesen looked to her silent husband for confirmation. “She was too shy. And she was tolerant too—live and let live. No, that doesn’t sound like our Rebecca.”

They had reached the top of the pass and Glynis pulled up outside the youth hostel. “Constable Evans asked about her here, but nobody recognized the photo,” she said.

“I don’t know why she’d come to a place like this,” Mrs. Riesen said. “I can’t see her wanting to hike with a backpack. How would she have carried her violin? She never went anywhere without it.”

“Then maybe we should go straight down to the Sacred Grove,” Evan said. “I don’t know what good it will do, but there was one of the maids who had become friendly with Rebecca. You could talk to her and see if there was any clue she could give you.”

Mrs. Riesen looked at her husband and nodded.

“Another thing I’ve been wondering, Mrs. Riesen,” Evan said as the car swung around to the right and started to zigzag down to Beddgelert. “What made Rebecca stay on after the end of her course? Had she made friends she didn’t want to leave? If she was the homebody you describe, wouldn’t she have wanted to spend Christmas with you?”

“You know, we were rather surprised about that,” Mrs. Riesen said. “I was quite upset at the time, wasn’t I, hon? ‘She doesn’t want to spend Christmas with her family anymore,’ I said to Frank. She had a couple of fellow American students who were taking an apartment in London and she spent the holidays with them. But they’re both back home again now and neither of them has been in contact with Rebecca since the first of the year. She stayed on alone in London for a couple of weeks, apparently, then she went touring. She said she wanted to see something of the countryside—which is understandable. But we were surprised she was doing it alone. She was always a little cautious, our Rebecca.”

“And I take it you’ve been to Oxford and seen where she lived?”

“Oh, yes. That was one of the first things we did. She lived in a dormitory for American students who were attending the institute. It wasn’t actually part of Oxford University, you know. It was a separate program just for Americans. They got the chance to audit lectures with the Oxford undergraduates, but they did their assignments for the AIAO. That stands for the American Institute at Oxford, I believe.”

“Everyone who knew Rebecca was gone, except for the faculty and staff,” Mr. Riesen said, leaning forward in his seat. “It’s only a one-quarter course, you see. All new students each quarter. Nobody had anything to tell us at all. The faculty hardly remembered her. ‘She was quiet and shy and hardly ever spoke up’—that’s what that one professor said, didn’t he, Margaret?”

“And she didn’t make any friends among the Oxford undergrads then?” Evan asked.

“She lived with other Americans, of course. And from what she told us, the British students were not particularly welcoming. Not that she was the social kind but she went to concerts and lectures with girls from back home. She loved her concerts, didn’t she, honey? Crazy about her music.”

Evan noticed they were using the past tense, as if they had mentally already accepted that she was gone from them.

Mrs. Riesen rummaged in her purse and produced a photograph. “That’s her, playing with the orchestra at home. Second from the left. She was assistant concert mistress. Very talented. You should have heard her play—it brought tears to your eyes sometimes, didn’t it, Frank?”

Mr. Riesen merely nodded.

As they reached the gate of the Sacred Grove, they saw that their way was blocked by an ambulance. Evan jumped out and ran ahead.

“What’s going on?” he yelled.

The security guard went to yell something back, then noticed his uniform and recognized him. “Nasty accident, Constable. One of the girls got trapped in the steam room. She was dead by the time they found her. Poor little thing.”

“Betsy?” Evan pushed past the guard, ready to run down the path.

“No, not Betsy. That wasn’t the name. It began with a B though—Bethan. That was it!”

Evan was back in Llanfair by early afternoon. He was sure that it hadn’t been an accident and had hinted as much to Glynis. Fortunately, she was ready enough to believe him. She had the spa area cordoned off and the body sent for immediate autopsy. Again Evan was impressed with her coolness under stress. He had to admit that she had been promoted ahead of him not because she was female or dating the chief constable’s nephew, but because she was bloody good.

Glynis had asked him to drive the Riesens, visibly shaken, back to their hotel in Bangor, while she stayed on and waited for D.C.I. Hughes to join her. Evan paced around his tiny police station, unable to settle. The hospital was still maddeningly uncommunicative about Bronwen and he was also worried sick about Betsy. In the light of today’s tragedy, Betsy’s incident in the steam room the day before had most probably not been an accident either. He wished she would have let him drive her home, but Rhiannon had interrupted when he was talking to her. “She is needed for a very important ceremony tonight. There is no question of her leaving early,” she had said. “But don’t worry. I’ll see she is taken good care of. We don’t want anything to happen to her.”

Rhiannon’s assurances had done little to still Evan’s fears. He had no reason to trust her any more than the rest of them. But he had to admit that Betsy was probably safe for the rest of that day. There would be a forensic team arriving from police headquarters at some stage, and lots of people due for a big ceremony that evening.

At least he would have a chance to go to the hospital, as soon as he finished his day’s work at the police station. He tidied the papers on his desk before leaving. Rhiannon’s book, The Way of the Druid, was lying on his desk, as yet unread. Evan fingered it uneasily. It had a picture of a robed figure standing in an oak grove on the front cover. He couldn’t make out what the figure was holding but it could have been a knife. He picked up the book and stuffed it into his pocket. Something had made Rebecca interested enough in Druids to seek out the Sacred Grove. Maybe the book would give him the insight that had been lacking. It would also help him pass the time down at the hospital if they wouldn’t let him see Bronwen straightaway. Knowing hospitals, he’d have some waiting to do.

“She’s resting at the moment.” The starchy ward sister blocked his access to Nightingale Ward, where he had been told he’d find Bronwen. “We’ll let you know when she wakes. She was severely dehydrated, you know. It took us ages to get a vein up enough to put the IV in.”

“Do they know what’s wrong yet?” Evan asked.

She looked at him as if he were a visiting worm. “Patient records are entirely confidential,” she said. “Now please take a seat. We’ll let you know.”

Evan sat. The chair was orange vinyl and not big enough for him. Did they actually design hospital chairs to be uncomfortable, just so that people wouldn’t hang around too long? he wondered. Part of National Health cost-cutting measures, maybe. He looked around for a magazine. There was a choice of Golf Digest and Woman’s Weekly. Then he remembered the book in his pocket. He took it out and started to read. An hour later he still hadn’t been called and he had reached chapter 10.

Chapter x. Sacrifices.

Sacrifice as a usual part of Druid ritual, although most sacrifices involved animals, not humans. Human sacrifice, greatly exaggerated and distorted by ancient Roman observers, did take place, but only in exceptional circumstances. Prisoners were ritually sacrificed so that their death twitches could be observed and the way they fell could provide divination answers to the oracles. Oracle Druids also disemboweled living victims so that their entrails could be read for answers from the gods.

Small numbers of ritually sacrificed bodies have been found throughout Britain, showing that ritual sacrifice was only performed in very special circumstances. Several bodies have been discovered, perfectly preserved, in bogs. The way they were decorated and the fact that their arms were bound with leather thongs show that they were put into the bog to die, although whether this was meant as punishment or as an appeasement to the gods is not certain.

In times of extreme emergency, or when the high priests felt that the gods were displeased or unapproachable, a perfect specimen from the tribe would be selected as an appeasement sacrifice—usually a young warrior or a virgin. In some locations they would be killed on a stone table with a ritual knife, but this does not seem to have been the preferred method in Wales or Ireland.

The more curious phenomenon of the Wicker Man has been reported by many ancient observers and was surely a part of the fire rituals, although whether on a regular basis or only in times of war is not known. The Wicker Man described in ancient literature was a figure made of willow branches and stuffed with straw. It was burned rather like our Guy Fawkes, on a bonfire to insure prosperity, fertility, or the success of the crops or as an offering to the gods in war. It is suggested that live victims were at times placed within the Wicker Man, although whether these were captives or victims selected from the tribe for a specific tribute is not clear.

As he read, Evan had been experiencing a growing uneasiness. Why was Rhiannon suddenly showing such an interest in Betsy? “She needs me to help her with the big ceremony.” Evan flipped back to the chapter on Beltane. “Beltane, the ceremony of new fire. Sometimes sacrifices were performed to ensure success of the crops and fertility of the herds.” He heard Betsy’s soft whisper from the previous night: “Promise not to tell another soul in the whole world. I’m still a virgin.”

The big ceremony tonight! Evan jumped to his feet. “Oh my God!” he gasped as he ran down the echoing tiled hallway. Beltane was tonight. The Wicker Man. He had to get to the Sacred Grove before it was too late.

He hadn’t ridden down on his motorbike this time, because there was still a chance of rain, and his own old bone-shaker didn’t do more than fifty miles an hour without protesting groans. He pushed it as hard as he dared along the expressway to Caernarfon, then on the coastal road to Porthmadog. Across the estuary, where the setting sun streaked the outgoing tide with pink, then into the twilight of the oak woods, and finally to the gate of the Sacred Grove.

As he approached the security gate, figures loomed out of the gloom and surrounded his car. They were waving placards and Evan soon recognized the song they were singing. It was ‘Cwm Rhondda.’ “Strong redeemer, strong redeemer, I will ever cling to thee!”

“Go back, Satan. Back to the place God has ordained for you!” shouted a voice and Evan saw Mrs. Powell-Jones brandishing a sign as if it was a weapon. The sign read, DRUID WORSHIP IS DEVIL WORSHIP. Other signs proclaimed, PAGANS GO HOME. KEEP WALES

CHRISTIAN. NO HEATHEN CEREMONIES.

Evan wound down his window. “Let me get past, Mrs. Powell-Jones. It’s me. Constable Evans.”

“Constable Evans! Well, I never … I hope you don’t intend to participate in the heathen orgy?”

“No, I want to try and stop it! Let me get past.”

“Good man. Good luck to you! I hope they’ll let you in. They closed the gate as soon as we got here.”

Evan pushed the intercom button. “Let me in. It’s Constable Evans. It’s very urgent.”

“I’m sorry, Constable,” came the scratchy voice through the intercom. “I’ve had orders not to open this gate. There’s a lot of raving loonies out there. If you can radio for police backup to keep the loonies out, then I’ll let you in, but until then it’s more than my job’s worth to open this gate.”

“The ceremony?” Evan shouted over the hymn singing and chanting going on around him. “Are they going ahead with the ceremony?”

“Oh, yes, that will have started by now. They were heading down to the oak grove about an hour ago.”

“Where is it? Where is this oak grove, man?”

“Not exactly sure. Over toward the point, it must be. That’s where they were heading.”

“Send someone over there and stop it before it’s too late!” Evan shouted.

“I can’t do that. There’s only me on duty and I can’t leave my post.”

“Call someone. Get someone over there, man, do you hear?”

“All right. All right. Keep your hair on, Constable. I’ll call them at the big house. What’s all this about then? What will I tell them?”

“To stop the bloody ceremony before somebody gets hurt, that’s what!” Evan shoved the car into reverse and backed through the milling crowd, making them scatter before him as he sounded his horn. Then he drove a mile or so back along the road, parked the car on the muddy verge, and ran through the woodland. He had to be able to reach the point from here. The property was on a narrow strip of land between two estuaries. It couldn’t be very wide at this point. It was just a question of cutting across at the right place. Darkness was falling rapidly now and trees loomed like ghostly figures, reaching out spiky arms to grab at him as he ran past. His breath started coming in gulps as he reached the crest of a hill and got his first view of the estuary beyond. At least he couldn’t see the glow of a bonfire yet. Maybe he was in time and they hadn’t started the ceremony.

He plunged down the other side of the slope, his feet swishing through unseen bracken, stumbling over tree roots, and tearing through gorse bushes. Then he heard the voice. It was colder and deadlier than ever before, but he recognized it and made for it through the darkness.

“I have cast the circle. The seen and the unseen are now one. Now I call the four quarters. I call the East, quarter of the air. I call all winged things, inhabitants of the air, to our circle. Come birds, come angels, be one with us. And I offer up the blade, tool of the East.”

The voice echoed through the woodlands. Still there was no fire and Evan could only push on, guided by the voice.

“I call the North, quarter of the Earth, quarter of winter, midnight, darkness, and death. I invite anything that walks on the earth, two legged, four legged, to join us. I invite rocks, stones, leaves, branches to be one with our circle, one with us, and I offer up the sacred stone to be part of our ceremony.

“I call the West, quarter of water. Come tides, come dolphins and whales and fishes. Be one with us. And I place in the center of the circle the cauldron, tool of the West.”

The cold, clear voice rose in pitch. “And last I call the South, quarter of fire, quarter of today’s feast. Come lions, come dragons, salamanders and be with us. Be one with us. Be one with us as we make the new fire. Fire that purifies and cleanses and strengthens.

“I take the flint and I light the new fire.”

Suddenly a glow appeared in front of Evan and he could hear the crackling as the bonfire came to life.

“Twin fires for Beltane—for Calan Mai. Whoever passes between the two fires will be purified and made fruitful for the coming year.

“I stand at the middle of the cone of power. We are all one in the cone of power and our power rises to be one with the power of the universe. A bridge has been made between natural and supernatural, between human and divine.

“This is Calan Mai—time of new plantings, new fruitfulness, and young womanhood. Tonight is the festival of fire—the union of the Goddess with the Horned God. I call on them to come down among us and accept our sacrifice, just as our ancestors sacrificed to them back until the dawn of time.”

Evan was close enough to see them now—a group of shadowy figures in white robes stood around twin bonfires. Between them there was something on a pole. It looked like a large basket, but as he came closer he saw that it was fashioned in the shape of a crude human. The central figure, who had to be Rhiannon although she was hooded and robed, plunged a torch into the fire, then held it up above her head. She threw back her hood. She was wearing a torque around her neck, which shone in the firelight.

“Accept our sacrifice!” she intoned. “Cleanse your people. Make us fruitful. Let our religion be fruitful and grow and prosper. We give you what is living and perfect. Take it. Make it yours!”

Evan, watching in horror as he ran, didn’t see the tree root until too late. He went sprawling, feeling the scratches on his hands and face as he went into the gorse. He staggered to his feet again just in time to see the Wicker Man go up in flames. An unearthly scream came from it.

With a great cry “No!” Evan pushed aside robed figures, threw himself into the circle, and knocked the burning wicker structure to the ground. It crashed down from its pole, scattering sparks. As he tried to put out the fire with his bare hands, he heard a horrified voice shouting, “Evan! What are you doing? Now you’ve ruined everything!”

Betsy, robed like the other figures, stood behind him, holding a chalice in her hands.

Chapter 23

The next morning Betsy went to work as usual at the Sacred Grove. It had taken a lot of courage to go there again after Bethan’s death, but if Evan was being so clueless, she decided, then somebody ought to be on the spot, solving things. His disruption of the ceremony last night had been the one funny incident in a series of terrible, tense days. Of course, it hadn’t been funny at the time. She had been really embarrassed and Rhiannon had been furious.

“You have spoiled the whole atmosphere of our ceremony,” she had yelled at him. “You have driven away the gods! What on earth put it into your head that I would consider using a human sacrifice? If you had read my book, you would have known that Druids only resorted to human sacrifices in the most extreme circumstances. And since we are not in the middle of war, plaque, or famine, I hardly think that now would be an appropriate time.”

Evan had apologized, of course. He was obviously embarrassed about the whole thing. In fact, it was lucky that he’d discovered that Rhiannon had put a live rabbit into the wicker cage. That gave him grounds to cite her for cruelty to animals, which made him feel a little better and at least gave him an excuse for his action.

Now that she looked back on it, Betsy was rather flattered that Evan had been willing to risk so much to rescue her. It proved that he did care, after all. Not every girl had a champion who was willing to dash into a fire for her. He’d got nasty burns on his hands and would be off work for a few days for his trouble. All the more reason for Betsy to do some snooping of her own at the Sacred Grove.

One of the conclusions she had reached was that Bethan’s death was not an accident. If the door had merely stuck, then how could she, Betsy, have wrenched it open after a few tugs? Bethan was bigger and stronger than she was. Why couldn’t she have pushed it open? She decided to go down to the spa building and take a look for herself. The actual spa area was cordoned off with yellow police tape. That was good. It meant that the police weren’t treating this as an accident either.

Betsy started looking around outside the building. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but there was no lock on the steam room door. Something had to have been used to prevent it from opening. After several minutes of looking she found something promising. In the flower bed across from the spa building, she found a wedge-shaped sliver of wood. It wasn’t large, but it might have been enough to slip under the door. Carefully she picked it up and put it into her overall pocket.

“What are you doing there, Betsy?”

A voice behind her made her jump with fright. Lady Annabel and Mrs. Roberts were coming down the steps together. Lady Annabel was looking at her suspiciously.

“I—I saw a weed in the rose bed,” Betsy stammered. “I thought I’d better pull it out.”

“That’s why we employ gardeners,” Lady Annabel said coldly. “Your job is to help out in the buildings. Please leave the grounds-keeping to the professionals.”

The two women sailed past Betsy. With her heart thumping she went on up the steps. She was so intent in getting to the safety of the kitchen that she almost ran past Michael without noticing him.

“Hey there!” he greeted her. “What’s wrong? You look terrible. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Don’t tell me there are ghosts here too. That’s all we’re lacking.”

“No. It’s just that my nerves are on edge,” Betsy said. “I keep thinking about poor Bethan.”

“You too, eh?”

Betsy nodded. “Do you really think it was an accident, Michael?” she asked cautiously. She had promised Evan to trust nobody but she had to talk to someone.

Michael looked surprised. “She got trapped by a door that sticks, Betsy.” Then a wave of suspicion spread across his face. “Wait a second. You don’t think that her death had anything to do with …” He glanced around uneasily.

“I don’t know what to think,” Betsy said. Her fingers closed around the piece of wood in her pocket. Better wait until she could show it to Evan before she made any claims. “This place is beginning to give me the willies,” she added.

“Me too.” Michael lowered his voice. “You can’t help wondering who’s next, can you?”

“Don’t say that.” Betsy shivered.

“Look here, Betsy.” Michael swallowed hard. “I’m not going to be here this afternoon. Can you go home early today? I don’t like to think of leaving you here when I can’t keep an eye on you.”

“Yes, maybe I will try to get off early today. Thanks.” She gave him a shy smile.

“Great.” He smiled back. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I’m off sailing, you see. A group of friends from Porthmadog and I sail together every Wednesday, and we use my boat, so I can’t let them down—” He paused. “I suppose you wouldn’t like to come with us, would you? It’s quite fun. We usually bring food and have a picnic.”

“I’d love to,” Betsy said. “I’ve never been sailing.”

“Haven’t you? It’s one of the things I live for.” He smiled at her shyly. “See you around four then. Down at the dock.”

Evan lay on his bed, unable to sleep. For one thing his hands were hurting him. The hospital had dressed them for him and given him painkillers but they still throbbed. But the hurt was nothing compared to the turmoil that was going through his head. He had made such a fool of himself tonight. How could he have got things so wrong? Now he wouldn’t have another chance to find the real killer at the Sacred Grove. The doctor had said he wasn’t to return to work until his hands had healed. So he was stuck home alone, in a barely furnished, cold, and bleak cottage, with more than enough time to brood and worry. And to top everything else he hadn’t had a chance to see Bronwen. By the time he had reached her hospital ward, visiting hours were over and the starchy sister wouldn’t listen. “No exceptions,” she said frostily. “The young lady needs her sleep. You’ll just have to come back tomorrow.”

So another night of worrying about Bronwen and whether or not she would forgive him. The sister wouldn’t even give him a phone number so that he could talk to her.

“The nearest phone is out in the corridor and I’m not having her standing out there, getting cold. I’ve said you can see her in the morning.”

Sleep was impossible, so Evan got up and went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. A beer would have been better, but he hadn’t got around to stocking beer in his pint-sized refrigerator yet. How could he have read all the signs so wrongly? It made such sense that Rhiannon had killed Randy Wunderlich. She had Chief Inspector Hughes’s favorite m words—means and motive. It was just possible, he decided, that he hadn’t got it wrong after all. Maybe Rhiannon’s intention had been to get rid of Betsy as the sacrifice last night, but with all the attention and the protesters at the gate, she had changed her mind at the last minute. Which meant that Betsy could still be in danger. If he wasn’t working, the least he could do would be to go down to the Grove and let them know that he was keeping an eye on her.

Let’s start at square one again, he said to himself. Let’s get back to the facts.

Fact one: Randy Wunderlich was killed. Emmy Court admitted to her part in the hoax, but she said she didn’t kill him. The person who killed him must have overheard enough of the plot to know that Randy would be hiding out in the cave. That could have been any of them, of course. They all disliked him, except for his wife. Most of them had the means, too—except it would need to be someone strong enough to drag his body from one cave to another.

Fact two: Bethan was killed in the steam room. Why? Obviously because she knew something about Randy’s killer. She had seen something and, not being the brightest girl, it had taken her a while to put two and two together.

Had the killer also meant to kill Betsy? he wondered. If she hadn’t been rescued, would it have been too late for her too? He suspected that Betsy had been a trial run—to see if being locked in the steam room with the steam full on really could kill somebody. And also to set up the premise that the steam room door stuck.

Another fact struck him: Bethan was the only one who remembered anything about Rebecca. It was ironic that she was killed just before Rebecca’s parents arrived. Could Rebecca’s disappearance somehow be tied to Randy’s death? How? Something had brought her to the Sacred Grove and that something was to do with Druids—which brought him back to Rhiannon again.

Surely somebody in Oxford must have known Rebecca. You didn’t spend a whole term in a place without making any mark. He took a big gulp of tea and came to a conclusion. If he wasn’t allowed to work, he would drive to Oxford and ask some questions for himself. He wasn’t supposed to drive, but he couldn’t see that holding a steering wheel would make him feel worse than he already did. It took him a while to get dressed—he found it hard to negotiate buttons and zippers with his sore and bandaged fingers—but he left the house as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.

Oxford was just coming into full morning bustle as Evan drove into the city center, past the grand yellow sandstone buildings and the ancient spires. The streets were clogged with students on bicycles, their black gowns flying out behind them, making them look like flocks of penguins. He had never been there before and marveled at how quaint it still was, like a scene from an old film, then felt a pang of regret that he had never had the chance to experience any of this. He parked and got out, savoring the scene. Two serious young women, piles of books in their arms, their gowns flapping out as they walked, passed him. “Are you going to the OUDs thing tonight?” one asked.

“I can’t. I’ve got Stebbins for a Greats tutorial in the morning and I haven’t prepared a thing.”

It was like visiting a different world. He remembered then that Bronwen had once been one of those young women—not here in Oxford but in rival Cambridge. He imagined life would be pretty much the same in both places. The thought of Bronwen generated pangs of guilt and alarm. What would she think if he didn’t show up this morning? He’d have to make sure he was back in time to see her this evening or she’d think he’d given up on her.

He had stopped at a garage just outside of the city to consult a telephone book and get directions to the AIAO. It turned out to be on a ring road at the edge of the city in a building not at all like the old sandstone colleges—all modern concrete and glass. The receptionist looked at him suspiciously and he had to produce his warrant card before she would take him to the institute director. The director was a typical American and very friendly. He went to shake Evan’s hand and Evan only managed to draw it away just in time, explaining about the burns.

“I guess you’ve chosen a tough profession,” the director said. He listened to Evan’s story, checked the records, then shook his head. He didn’t remember that particular student personally but Evan was welcome to talk to her course directors. Half an hour later he was back in the street, not having learned anything. The faculty members he had spoken to couldn’t even put a face to her name. They handled so many students that they remembered very few of them. And there were no students remaining from the fall program. Sorry they couldn’t be of more help.

They did direct him to the hostel where Rebecca had lived. It was a large and rather ugly Victorian on the Banbury Road. It was called the Laurels, although any bushes in the front garden had been paved over to make a parking area. Evan spoke to the hostel administrator, a no-nonsense, middle-aged woman. She remembered the name. Quiet girl. Wasn’t in any kind of trouble. But everyone would have gone now who remembered her, apart from the cleaning staff. He could talk to the maids if he liked, but they usually cleaned during the morning when the students weren’t around.

“What about her violin?” Evan asked, with sudden inspiration. “Did you ever get complaints about her practicing her violin?”

The woman wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember any violin. She can’t have played it here. We do occasionally get students who play the piano in the common room, but I don’t recall any violin practice going on.”

That was odd, Evan thought. Her parents had stressed that she loved her violin. Could she have gone a whole term without playing it? Which had to mean that she played it somewhere else. He got back in the car and drove back to the city center. At the student union building he stood studying the overflowing notice board. Chess club match against Moscow University, rowing eights, drama club auditions …

“Is there a music club or an orchestra?” Evan stopped a young man who was looking for an inch of space to pin another notice to the board.

“OUMS,” the boy said. Then, as Evan looked puzzled: “Oxford University Music Society. They’re the ones who put on concerts. Is that what you mean, or do you mean pop music?”

“No, they’d be the one I’m looking for,” Evan said. “Any idea how I could contact them?”

“Ask at the office. They’d have the yearbook with a list of the society officers.”

Evan did as suggested. A serious-looking young Indian girl peeked at him from beneath a veil of long dark hair. “If you’re interested in joining, why don’t you give them a buzz and find out when the next meeting is?” she suggested in a flat southern counties voice polished with overtones of a good education.

“I’m not interested in joining. I’m a police officer and I need to talk to them about a missing girl.”

The mane of hair was shaken back so that Evan saw two kohl-edged dark eyes. “Katherine Sparks, you mean? But that was ages ago. I thought they’d found her remains at last, haven’t they?”

“Katherine Sparks?” Evan was confused.

“Yes, you said the girl who was missing, so I thought you meant her. LMH Student, disappeared last year, didn’t she, and they never found her. I’m not sure, but I think I read recently that remains on the south coast had been identified as hers. She’s not the girl you’re asking about?”

“No. This one was an American exchange student—not officially part of the university.”

“Oh. American.” She paused for a moment. “Well, I don’t know where you’d contact any of these people during the day. Some of them might go back to college to eat lunch in the refectory if they’re not too far away, but most of us just grab fast food these days. If I were you, I’d leave a note with one of their college porters and have them call you.”

“It’s rather urgent,” Evan said. “I’m just here for the day and I have to get back.”

“Then I’d go round to the president of the society’s college and see if they’ll give you his class schedule. Or you could ask his college servant. They usually have a pretty good idea where students can be found.”

Evan left with directions to Baliol and was asking at the porter’s lodge when an arrogant voice behind him demanded, “Nicholas Hardy? Who wants him?”

“I’m a police officer, making inquiries about a girl who might have been a member of his music club,” Evan said. “Any idea where he is?”

“I left him wolfing down a large plate of spaghetti bolognese about five minutes ago,” the young man said. “Across the quad, through those double doors and turn right. You’ll find it by the smell.”

Evan did as instructed and soon located the pale, fair-haired young man, who eyed him nervously. “Rebecca Riesen? The American girl? Yes, I remember her. Bloody good violinist, isn’t she? She asked if she could sit in on our rehearsals and I think she ended up playing with us in the Christmas concert.”

“Could you tell me anything about her, any friends she had, anything at all?” Evan asked.

The young man wrinkled his nose. “When I’m trying to conduct, I really don’t notice that much. I think she was chummy with some of the other violinists. There’s a group of three or four of them from LMH.”

“LMH?” Evan asked.

“Lady Margaret Hall. Sandra Vessey, Jane Hill, and what is the dark girl’s name? Greene, that’s it. Rachel Greene. I’ve no idea where you’d locate them at this time of day, but we’re having a rehearsal tomorrow night if you’d care to come to that.”

“Thanks, but I have to get back to North Wales. I’ll try their college if you could direct me from here.”

“Let’s see.” The boy wrinkled his nose again. “It’s not that simple. Nothing is around here. I’d better draw you a map.”

Evan found Lady Margaret Hall without too much trouble. A helpful registrar’s office found him a course schedule for each of the girls. Rachel Greene seemed the easiest to locate. She had a tutorial with her history professor starting at twelve-thirty. Evan found the appropriate room, and didn’t have to wait long before the petite dark-haired girl came along the paneled wooden corridor toward him. She stopped abruptly when she saw him blocking the way.

“Nothing’s happened to Professor Overton, has it?” The light from a leaded window threw sunlight onto her black hair and made dust motes dance around her.

“No, I just wondered if I could have a few words with you. I’m a police officer from North Wales and we’re looking for a missing girl. Rebecca Riesen.”

“Rebecca?” she looked at him in alarm. “She’s missing, you say?”

“Her parents have come over, trying to find her.”

“But that’s terrible. Poor Rebecca.”

“You knew her well, did you?”

“Not well, I wouldn’t say. She was only here for a couple of months, you know, but she sat next to us in the orchestra and we went out for a coffee afterward sometimes. A nice girl—and a very good violinist.”

“You didn’t keep up with her after the end of her term here?”

Rachel made a face. “I meant to, but you know how it is. You promise to write but you don’t.”

“So you’ve no idea of her plans when she left here?”

“I think she was staying with friends in London for the holidays. She said she was having such a good time she wasn’t ready to go home.”

“She didn’t mention wanting to go to North Wales?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, never. She wasn’t really the outdoor type, was she? She used to complain about the rain and cold in Oxford. I don’t know what she would have done on Mount Snowdon. Concerts in London I could understand, but not North Wales.”

“And yet she did go there. To a New Age center.”

She gave him an incredulous stare. “A New Age center—whatever for? Wasn’t that against her religion? She wasn’t trying to convert them, was she? She was one of those dreadfully earnest Christian types. You had to be careful not to swear around her, and she’d never come to the pub for a drink.”

“Did she have any boyfriends, do you know?”

“Not that I know of. She was almost painfully shy and like I said, she’d never come to the pub and places where we go to hang out and meet blokes. Although—” She broke off, frowning in concentration.

“Yes?” Evan asked hopefully.

“She was keen on one bloke, I think. I’m not sure actually if she was keen on him or if she merely wanted to help him. I got the feeling she was the type of person who went around wanting to save people—lame ducks, you know. There was this bloke in the orchestra. Like I said, I don’t know if she fancied him or if she just felt sorry for him because people were being unjust.”

“Unjust?”

“Yes, there were rumors circulating, you know, because the police had had him in for questioning—about Kathy Sparks. They were from the same sort of social set, you see. Both titled families and all that, ridden to hounds from the cradle, friends of the royals. All that sort of bosh.”

“Kathy was the girl who disappeared last year?”

“Yes. She was from this college too. It was horrible. I don’t think they’ve ever found her. It must be awful for her family, mustn’t it?”

“And who was this young man who was questioned by the police?”

“He was in the orchestra with us. Rather geeky—socially inept type.”

“Do you remember his name?” Evan asked.

An elderly woman in academic gown over tweed suit came down the hallway toward them. “Ah, there you are Miss Greene. Are we ready to debate the causes of the Hundred Years War, do you think?”

Rachel gave Evan an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I don’t think I ever knew his name. I have to go to my tutorial now,” she said as the professor swept her in through the paneled door.

Chapter 24

Evan turned and ran down the hallway, nearly barreling into another group of female students. He drove straight to the Oxford CID headquarters and was shown to the desk of the D.I. who had been part of the Katherine Sparks investigation.

“No, we’re still no nearer to solving it, I’m afraid,” the inspector said. He was a young man, not much older than Evan by the look of him, but he was already losing his hair. “The girl vanished from the face of the earth. We thought she’d run away to start with, because some of her clothes were gone, but she’s never been seen since, so we have to assume the worst.”

“And you questioned a young man?” Evan could hardly get the words out.

“We questioned lots of young men. The girl was not short of male escorts.”

“This was a shy sort of bloke, who knew her family.”

“Oh, you mean Michael Hollister? Yes, we questioned him, and for a while that lead looked hopeful, but in the end nothing came of it. He had an alibi on the day she went missing.”

“Michael? Oh, my God.” Evan held out a hand, remembered the burns, and withdrew it again. “Thanks for your help. I’ve got to get home.”

“Anything more I can tell you?”

“No, you’ve already told me what I needed to know,” he said. “Sorry but I have to rush. I’ll let you know how if this turns out the way I think it will. We may be some help to you in solving your case. Oh, but I tell you what—can I use your phone?”

Dispatch in Caernarfon told Evan that D. C. Davies and D. S. Watkins were not available at the moment. If he liked to leave a message, she’d see that it was passed to them.

“This is Constable Evans,” Evan began.

“Oh, Constable Evans. I heard you got yourself badly burned last night. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Listen, tell D. C. Davies to send someone down to the Sacred Grove to keep an eye on Betsy until I get back. I’ll explain everything. All right?”

“I’ll pass it on to her,” the dispatcher said. “And we think you were very brave to try to rescue that rabbit last night. Some people are savages, aren’t they?”

Evan hung up and rushed out to his car. He hadn’t eaten all day but he dared not stop now. His old clunker groaned and protested up the M6 and then along the A55 into Wales. Surely Betsy would be smart enough to stay around people, as he had instructed her. He felt a horrible sense of urgency.

He reached the Sacred Grove about twenty past four and rushed down the cobbled alleyways to the main building.

“Betsy? I think she must have gone home,” the girl at the reception desk said. “I saw her getting her coat, about half an hour ago.”

Evan hesitated. Should he drive up to Llanfair and see if Betsy had indeed gone home, or should he double-check the premises first? There was no point in phoning her house. Old Sam, her father, would probably be at the pub by now and he never answered phone calls anyway. And Betsy would take a while to get home if she was taking a bus. He started back to his car, then, on impulse, changed his mind, and ran back into the center. Nobody stopped or questioned him as he searched the spa building, startling an elderly guest as she emerged, clad only in a towel, from the sauna. He reached the meditation building. Rhiannon looked up in annoyance as he burst in. She was sitting, cross legged, with two other people, on the floor of the main room. The two people sitting with her looked as if they were finding the position uncomfortable.

“What is it now, Constable?” Rhiannon asked in clipped tones. “Any more dramatic rescues to be carried out today?”

“I hope not,” he said. “You haven’t seen Betsy recently, have you? Or Michael Hollister?”

“I saw Michael a while ago. He was down at the dock, rigging his sailboat.”

“Thanks. Look, if Betsy shows up, keep her with you. Don’t let her go anywhere.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll explain later. I’ve got to find Michael.”

He ran past the swimming pool, down the steps to the dock. There was no sign of Michael or a sailboat. Betsy had been seen putting on her coat but he hadn’t passed her on the road or at the bus stop. Of course, somebody could have given her a ride home, but it was also possible that she had gone out with Michael Hollister in the boat. She had admitted she was keen on him, after all. And Michael did come across as a harmless kind of chap. The panic was making it hard to breathe or think clearly. He had to get to her before it was too late. It might already be too late … .

He should call for help, call in reinforcements, get the police launch sent out from Porthmadog, but how long would that take? If Betsy had only been getting her coat half an hour ago, the sailboat couldn’t have gone too far. There wasn’t much wind this afternoon. It would take a while to sail clear of the estuary.

Then he noticed the dinghy bobbing at a mooring about a hundred yards offshore. And it had an outboard motor too. He tore off his jacket and swam out to it, gasping for breath as he hauled himself on board. Lucky that he’d just learned to ride a motorbike, he thought. This couldn’t be too different. He pulled the choke full out and then yanked hard on the cord. The engine popped, sputtered, and died. The saltwater was making his burned hands start to smart. He tried it again, then again with mounting frustration. On the fourth try it sprang to life with a satisfying roar. He put in the choke a little and untied the rope as the engine warmed up. He increased the speed to full throttle as he steered the dinghy out to sea. The sound echoed back from the banks of the estuary and wide ripples spread across the flat surface. He reached the point and met the first slap of waves from the open sea beyond. Still no sign of a sailboat. He hesitated, not sure whether to turn left or right. Which way would they have gone? Where would Michael be heading if he wanted to get rid of Betsy? Straight out to sea, obviously. Less risk of her body floating back in to shore. He shuddered as the thought crossed his mind.

“Dammit,” he shouted. Which way?

To his right he could see the channel markers indicating the channel into Porthmadog Harbor. It had been an important port once, during the time of the slate industry. The further—red—marker caught his eye. There was something on it. He turned the dinghy toward it. As he came closer, he saw that it was a person, clinging onto the buoy for dear life.