The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [57]
‘Michael’s there,’ I say. ‘It’ll be under control.’ Perhaps not the precise terminology when pagans are involved, chaos being an important magical principle.
As we’re parking, someone blows a horn, and Michael disappears into the museum. The Druid with the camera is trying to film through the glass doors, though the sun’s too bright and he’ll only catch reflections.
John is leaning against the museum wall, chatting with a couple of white-robed women. When he sees us, he excuses himself and comes over.
‘Any trouble?’ I ask.
‘It’s all peaceful. Michael made it clear they couldn’t have any skeletons, but he’s allowed a few to go in and hold a ceremony of blessing over Charlie’s bones. They’re spinning it out as long as they can.’
The white bulk of the American, moving round inside the gallery, appears briefly through the glass of the museum door. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘Bread and salt. Feeding the spirit.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
John takes me seriously. ‘It’s safe if the American understands what he’s doing. I wasn’t too impressed with his technique at the Cove, though. Reckon he opened a vortex there and forgot to close it again. Magic’s only as good as its practitioner.’
‘Magic?’ It comes out as a snort from Ed. John gives him a sharp look, taking in the tousled dark hair, the hint of got-up-so-late-I-failed-to-shave stubble, and the expensive Gore-Tex jacket.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘John, this is Ed. New part-time warden, also, er, pilot.’
‘Welcome to Avebury,’ says John, who has worked out exactly who Ed is by now. Suspicion crackles between them. It’s a shock to realize there are not so many years separating them: Ed in his mid-to late-thirties, John not yet forty-five. ‘You from round here?’
‘Not really,’ says Ed. ‘I’m borrowing a friend’s place. At Yatesbury Near the airfield. He gives me work sometimes, and it’s quiet for studying.’
Only a mile or two away. My heart sinks.
‘New helicopter pad opened up there, I heard?’ John homes in for the kill. ‘You a family man?’
Ed bends to free the cuff of his jeans, caught up on his cowboy boot. ‘My situation’s a bit complicated at the moment,’ he says, to the cobbles.
The museum door opens and Mr Big and his white-robed cohorts sweep out. Michael is behind them, even more immaculate than usual in a tweed jacket with elbow patches and a striped tie. His brogues are blinding. He flaps a hand in a discreet shooing motion.
‘Let’s go.’ I give Ed a shove, glad of an excuse to escape John. ‘Coffee in the office.’
Wind Rose and Beech Tear are bringing up the rear of the procession.
‘Indy! Merry meet!’ Wind Rose gives me an enormous and faintly rancid hug. Beech Tear, who never washes on the principle that the body is cleansed by its own natural oils, embraces Ed with equal enthusiasm. He manages not to wince.
‘Was that a man or a woman?’ asks Ed. He reaches for the kettle, which is on the verge of boiling. ‘Is there any real coffee?’
The kitchenette next to the wardens’ office only stretches to a catering-size can of Nescafe. ‘You’ll have to bring your own,’ says Graham, wandering in on stockinged feet. ‘And if you’re referring to Beech Tear, none of us are sure. First time I was hugged I was inclined to think female, because of the faint trace of patchouli, but most of the time the predominant whiff is elderly badger.’
‘They’re very good-hearted,’ I say.
‘But smelly,’ insists Graham.
‘So are you when you take your boots off.’
‘Men’s feet are meant to smell. It’s part of our masculine allure.’
‘I’ll go for the hot chocolate,’ says Ed, quickly, to avert bloodshed.
‘Wouldn’t recommend it. Been there nearly as long as the stones.’ Graham frees a biscuit crumb from his blond beard and pops it into his mouth. ‘Those custard creams were tasty.