Read Online Lucifer's Crown by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online

Devil and he appears . “Yes, thank you. How's the investigation going?"
    "We're making progress. I've a photo to show you, but first I'll have a word with Thomas. You've met him, have you?"
    "Yeah. He's in there.” She fluttered her hand over her shoulder.
    "Right.” Gupta strode on across the grass and into the bloodshot eye of the sun.
    Maggie trudged into the house and gathered her charges in the lounge, a long low room overlooking the courtyard. The cat, Dunstan, was already ensconced on the sill of the bay window. Rose sat down next to him. Anna dealt herself a hand of Solitaire. Sean turned on the television. “Hey, we're on the news!"
    The screen filled with quick images, fluorescent orange mesh draped over ruined stone walls, a police car next to the Abbey gate, Gupta intoning a noncommittal statement that did not, thank goodness, mention Rose.
    "Also in Glastonbury last night,” the newscaster went on, “on a farm outside Baltonsborough, a group celebrating a pagan holiday got into a row with several Christian missionaries. This is Reginald Soulis of the Freedom of Faith Foundation.” A heavy-jowled individual, hair slicked back and lips pursed in disapproval, said, “We were sharing the word of God with the Devil-worshippers when they attacked us."
    Maggie had read about the Foundation in the Times . It sounded like yet another in-your-face holier-than-thou group that was more political than religious. She'd never figured out why believing in one version of God meant you had to stamp out all the other versions. Were believers that insecure in their faith?
    "Whoa,” said Sean. “Devil-worshippers."
    "Technically,” Rose said, “you have to believe in the Bible to believe in the Devil."
    "Although ‘Devil’ with a small ‘d’ includes a variety of beings, depending on which Dreamtime you're evoking,” added Anna.
    Without getting the other side of the story, the news announcer segued into a commercial. A hyperthyroid actress chirped, “Mood Crisps! Crisps dusted with St. John's Wort satisfy your mind as well as your body! The new snack food for 2001!"
    Maggie had paused in her pacing long enough to mutter, “Bah humbug,” when the sepulchral thud of the iron knocker made everyone jump. A moment later Alf ushered Gupta, live and in person, though the door.
    "Alf, Bess, if you'd join us?” the detective asked. “Could you switch off the telly, lad? Thank you. Sorry to be in a bit of a rush, but I need to get myself back to the station as soon as may be."
    So much for the dog and the slippers in front of the family hearth , Maggie told herself. But other than a loosened tie and the whisker-shadow on his cheeks, Gupta didn't seem too much the worse for wear. He pulled two photographs from his jacket, one the all-too-familiar instant, the other an image on a sheet of fax paper, and handed them to Bess.
    "Oooh-er,” she said. “What a pity, that."
    Gupta said, “We've identified the dead woman as Vivian Morgan, an investigative reporter for the Oxfordshire Observer ."
    A murmur ran around the room “Who's this other, then?” asked Bess.
    "Calum Dewar, a wool-merchant from Edinburgh. He's gone missing, and this time there's suspicion of foul play.” Gupta handed Maggie the paper, his dark eyes not shying away from her silent why am I not surprised ? “Is this the man you saw?"
    Maggie held the black and white photo far enough away she could focus on it. She recognized the man's dark hair gone gray at the temples and his forehead creased by worry. What she hadn't noticed yesterday were the upturned lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth which implied humor, even imagination, although in the photo they emphasized the dour respectability of his expression. His eyes were light-colored—they might reflect oddly. Passing the photo on to the students, she said, “Yes, that's him. Why do you suspect foul play?"
    "Calum rang his son from Carlisle this morning, cutting up rough, saying someone was