c 2014 by Rebecca Yount
ISBN: 978-1-4675-8010-6
Other books by Rebecca Yount:
A Death in C Minor
The Erlking
The Ravenhoe Cauldron
To David,
My Melody, My Song
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Christina Rossetti, Goblin Market
Chapter 1
The most puzzling aspect of Rosalinda Evelyn's suicide was that she had shot herself in the head with a Magnum 8mm automatic just five hours after having won the Critics' Choice award for best actress.
Her Hedda Gabler, which played for three consecutive seasons at the Drury Lane, was praised by critics as "a pure embodiment of Ibsen's character -- coltish, sexy, and dangerous." At age 46, Evelyn still had what it took to bring the occupants of the cheap seats to their feet and the groundlings to their knees.
At 3:32 that Friday morning, Detective Inspector Michael "Mick" Chandra's cell phone shrilled, prompting him to paw the night stand next to his bed.
"Sweet Jesus," he moaned. "What now?"
"Mick, meet me at the Millennium Bridge. There's been an apparent suicide."
"Anyone we know, Elizabeth?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. At least, we know her from considerable press coverage: Rosalinda Evelyn."
The voice at the other end of the phone belonged to Detective Sergeant Elizabeth Chang of New Scotland Yard, Mick's partner.
"The actress? Didn't she just win some sort of coveted award?"
"Spot on."
Mick puzzled for a moment.
"Why would a celebrated actress at the pinnacle of her career kill herself?" he asked, trying to keep his voice down lest he awaken his wife, Jess.
"'Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
Jess stirred, causing Mick to look over at her. With her abundant honey blond hair fanned over the pillow, she appeared to be sleeping like a stone. Gazing upon Jess always made Mick weak in the knees. The last thing he wanted to do was abandon his marriage bed, but duty called.
"Okay, sergeant. I'm on my way."
Thanks to the light traffic of the early morning hour, Mick made good time from his Stoke Newington home in north London to the City. Within thirty minutes he was standing with Sergeant Chang on the Millennium Bridge watching the forensic pathologist making notes as he knelt next to the corpse of Rosalinda Evelyn.
Chandra and Chang had been colleagues on the Metropolitan Police Force for fourteen years, starting off together as Bobbies on the Beat. Elizabeth Chang was one of the Met's first WPC's, or Women Police Constables. When Mick was promoted to the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) as inspector, he insisted that Elizabeth, who by then had achieved the rank of sergeant, be assigned as his partner.
The Hong-Kong born Chang and Anglo-Indian Chandra were rare commodities on the Met, which claimed a mere ten percent minority make-up on the entire force, including the CID. Although they shared the common bond of their minority status and were both in their 30s, their relationship had always remained strictly professional, despite the fact that Elizabeth Chang, by anyone's estimation, would be considered attractive.
When it came to good looks, Mick wasn't exactly a slouch either. From his Kerala Indian father he had inherited his straight nose, inquisitive onxy-black eyes, dark hair, which he wore cropped short, and dusky complexion. His 6'1" height and muscular build were assets from his Welsh mother's side of the family.
As always, Mick's gold St. Francis of Assisi medallion was concealed under his shirt, a testament to his Kerala Catholic faith. Elizabeth, a Buddhist, was considered a curious oxymoron at the Yard but, then, as she explained, "Life is full of contradictions." Despite their considerable differences, the two police officers functioned together in precise counterpoint.
"The upper left portion of her skull is blown away," Mick observed glumly.
"Anyone who uses a Magnum 8mm automatic to blow her brains out is serious about killing herself," Elizabeth said.
"This is definitely not a case of the proverbial 'cry for help,' that's for damn sure."
From the narrow, modernistic footbridge, Mick gazed across the Thames to South Bank, where the Tate Modern gallery stood dimly illuminated by a smattering of anemic security lights hardly sufficient to deter any determined art thief. On the north bank, the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral was softly lit -- a talisman against the foreboding darkness of the pre-dawn morning in the financial district. From both banks flashed the blue lights of police cars, refracting off the dark waters of the Thames like jittery heat lightning.
Against the backdrop of the cathedral, Mick noticed a lone woman standing several yards away from them, grasping the bridge's railing for support. Though she appeared to be gazing out at the river, it was apparent her shoulders were quaking with sobs.
"Who's she?" Mick asked, jerking his head in the woman's direction.
"Evelyn's daughter."
"Have you questioned her yet?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "No, she's too upset. I thought it best to give her a little time."
The pathologist rose from his kneeling position.
"A clear case of suicide, I'd say, inspector. I'll know for certain once I get her to the lab and more accurately assess the trajectory of the bullet."
Mick glanced down at the corpse again, mystified as to what possible reason the revered actress could have to kill herself. He could only shake his head in wonder.
There had been a time when Rosalinda Evelyn was regarded as one of the most beautiful women in Great Britain. Society photographers jostled for the opportunity to take her portrait -- Armstrong-Jones, Testino, Parkman, Lichfield, Beaton. With her glossy red hair, alabaster complexion, full carnal lips, and eyes the color of Caribbean waters, she was the modern image of a late 19th-century pre-Raphaelite beauty. Now the fiery hair was matted with her own blood and the Caribbean waters had been stilled forever.
"Was the victim left-handed?" Mick asked.
"That's my guess. Her daughter could confirm it," the pathologist answered.
"Where's the weapon?"
Elizabeth held up a plastic bag containing the gun.
"It's a Magnum all right," Mick said. "Jesus, why would she do it? She had everything to live for."
His query was met with silence.
Efficiently, the pathologist covered the victim with a white sheet, causing blood from the head wound to ooze onto the fabric, creating a bizarre dark-red Rorschach pattern. A team of paramedics that had been vigilantly waiting nearby rolled a gurney next to the corpse. After zipping Rosalinda Evelyn into a body bag, they grunted and hoisted her onto the gurney, then began the long journey up the bridge to an awaiting ambulance on the City bank.
The two police officers observed the scene in silence, waiting until the ambulance bearing the actress' remains wailed off into the dark.
"Elizabeth, you go home and get some sleep."
"Gladly. What are you going to do, Mick?"
"See if I can get anything useful out of the daughter."
"Good luck," she said, launching off toward the City side of the river where her police car was parked. "You've just made Nate a very happy man," she added, looking at her boss over her shoulder. The Nate she referred to was Nate Wyatt, Elizabeth's fiancee who also happened to be a good friend of Mick's.
Seeing Mick approach her, the young woman hastily dabbed her eyes, then smoothed back a unruly lock of hair from her forehead.
"Ms. Evelyn, I'm Detective Inspector Michael Chandra and..."
"I know who you are, inspector," she interrupted him. "I've seen you on the telly. You're quite the celebrity sleuth."
"Not by my own choosing, I can assure you."
"I'm Susan Evelyn," she introduced herself without offering her hand to Mick. "The victim's daughter."
If Mick had not been informed that the young woman standing before him was the daughter of the late actress, he would have never guessed they were related. Whereas Rosalinda Evelyn was considered one of the great beauties of the British theater, her daughter was aggressively plain in appearance -- gangly-tall, neurasthenically thin, with mousey, curly brown hair, small piggish eyes, and pinched, thin lips -- all of which combined to make her appear older than she probably was. Even in the dark, it was evident that she didn't even attempt to enhance her appearance with makeup -- not so much as a spot of lip gloss. Susan Evelyn gave Mick the impression of being a woman who had remained perpetually suspended in the purgatory of awkward age.
"I'm terribly sorry about your mother," Mick said.
Susan sucked back a sob. "Me too. We had just become friends again after a period of alienation. Now...now all I can think about is the time we lost."
"What prompted the alienation?"
"My own stupidity," she answered, dabbing her eyes with a pretty sheer hankie with embroidery on the border. "I rebelled against my mother, but not in constructive ways. It took some time for me to accept the fact that I'd never be as beautiful or gifted as she was."
"When did you reconcile?"
"About five months ago. I've been living with her..." Susan pointed over to South Bank, "...in her flat just a couple of blocks from the Tate Modern."
"Isn't your father the playwright Robert Evelyn?"
"He was my father. Papa died two years ago from bone marrow cancer. Mummy...well, she didn't handle his death at all well. She just...I don't know...went a bit barmy. That's one of things that came between us."
"In what way?"
"Oh...she said she was angry at papa for leaving us...that she was going to quit the theater and go to Africa or the Sudan to help people. And then..." She paused to blow her nose.
"...And then she began talking twaddle."
"How so?"
"A lot about death."
"Specifically?"
"Well, she'd say things like, 'You know, Susan, death is really the final stage of growth. Your father is not only in a better place, but he has become more highly evolved than either of us. Death transforms us into higher beings.'"
"Where did she get that language?"
"I believe...well, I suspect from a New Age self-help group she joined about a year after my father died. She seemed happier, more together after she joined the group, but her incessant references to death were...well, frankly driving me to distraction," Susan admitted. "So I left London and went to Los Angeles to stay with some friends of mine who are in the movie business. Unfortunately, I really got into the LA scene big time -- drugs, sex, booze -- everything but a flourishing acting career." She smiled ruefully. "You see, I never inherited my mother's beauty genes. I take after my father."
"You said your mother was threatening to quit the stage," Mick remarked, ignoring her self-deprecating comment. "What prompted her not to?"
Susan dabbed her eyes again. "Daniel Charles, the prominent theater producer/director, talked her into doing Hedda Gabler at the Drury Lane. Then...she won the Critics Choice Award...my God, just hours ago...and now, this." She broke down sobbing. "I don't understand it."
Mick laid a comforting hand on Susan's shoulder. "Ms. Evelyn, I'm very sorry. I agree. Your mother's suicide doesn't make any sense. But please try to stick with me just a little longer. You're helping a great deal."
Susan raised her head, setting her jaw determinedly.
"Did she seemed depressed recently?" Mick asked. "Did she ever talk of suicide?"
"No. She seemed quite chipper, I'd say. But she had recently begun to make apocalyptic and Old Testament references like...you know...plagues, floods, locusts -- that sort of drivel. She had become so...so different."
"Did she speak of Nostradamus?"
She thought for a moment. "No, not that I recall."
"When did these references begin creeping into your mother's vocabulary?"
"Soon after she joined the Oracle of Baal."
"Pardon?"
"The Oracle of Baal. That's the name of the self-help group."
"The Oracle of Baal," Mick repeated. "What can you tell me about this group?"
Susan shrugged. "Very little. Mummy never would share much about it with me. That was another thing that drove a wedge between us."
"Where does it operate?"
"I don't even know that. Mummy only said that, after she joined the Oracle, it had done wonders in helping her cope with papa's death."
Tugging his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, Mick pondered his next line of questioning.
"Ms. Evelyn, would..."
"Please call me Susan."
"Of course. Susan, would you say your parents' marriage was a happy one?"
"Yes...yes, they were very happy together. Their's was not the typical theater marriage riddled with sturm und drang, competition, and petty jealousies."
"All the more reason, then, why your mother would take your father's death very hard," he concluded.
"Yes. She was utterly devastated."
A nippy breeze ruffled the surface of the Thames, forcing Susan to shiver. Although it was early April, the nights and early mornings were still chilly, while the days, although frequently rainy, were warm enough to allow Londoners to dispense with their heavy winter storm coats and switch to lighter rain gear.
"Just a few more questions, Susan, then I'll let you go," Mick assured her.
Ramming her hands deeper into the pockets of her thin rain jacket, she nodded.
"Did your mother own the Magnum -- the gun she shot herself with?"
"Not to my knowledge," she said. "I have no idea where the gun came from."
"You'd never seen it before?"
"Never," she answered firmly.
Mick believed her.
"Was your mother left-handed?"
"Yes."
"Not ambidextrous?"
"No. She was completely left-handed."
The breeze off the river began picking up, becoming a bone-numbing wind. Hunching against the increasing cold, Susan turned up the collar of her inadequate jacket.
"Inspector, if you don't mind, I'm very tired and stressed. I'd be happy to speak with you again later, like over a steaming hot pot of tea."
Mick extended his hand to her. "Of course. You've been very helpful, Susan. I'll have a police constable escort you home."
Susan handed Mick a card with her phone number and address embossed on it.
"That would be nice," she said, almost smiling as she shook his hand.
It was nearly six in the morning before Mick quietly unlatched the front door of his Stoke Newington Victorian terrace.
In a little over an hour, the house would erupt into a hive of activity. Jess would be up doing her twenty-minute exercise routine while Mick took care of Sarabeth, their eleven-month-old daughter. Then Jess would take their Scottish terrier puppy, Nessie, out for her morning constitutional, while Mick fed the family cat, Pickles, and finished getting Sarabeth ready for her Greek nanny, Ya Ya, who would arrive momentarily to take the second watch.
After they bolted some toast and shared a quick kiss, Mick would then be on his way to New Scotland Yard in Westminster while Jess, a professional musician, crawled through rush hour traffic to the Royal Academy of Music in Marylebone.
An American expatriate, Jessica Beaumont-Chandra was a highly respected concert pianist who held an adjunct faculty position at RAM that afforded her ample time to concertize. Mick had first met her in a small village in Essex more than two years earlier while investigating a homicide. She had fled to the bucolic village from her Washington, D.C. home seeking peace and tranquility after a string of personal tragedies, including a bitter divorce, followed by the tragic death of her ten-year-old son. Following a failed suicide attempt, Jess decided to put her past behind her to become a permanent resident in England.
The lovely petite American in her early 30s instantly captivated the former ladies man. Mick couldn't resist her dark green eyes and flawless complexion, combined with her throaty laugh and wicked sense of humor, subtle sex-appeal, and a profound self-assurance that never tipped the balance over into arrogance.
Too wired from the early morning's events to sleep, Mick quietly padded upstairs to his home office, trying not to wake the two-legged and four-legged members of the Chandra clan. Scanning the books on his shelf, he pulled out a well-thumbed thick paperback entitled The Cult Mystique, authored by Dr. Solomon Deal, a social anthropologist on the faculty of the University of London. Mick had read the book during an investigation of a string of teenage runaways some years ago, knowing that youngsters on the lam were often recruited by cults.
Dr. Deal's opening paragraph immediately caught his attention:
"All cults have five common factors:
1) The claim to be able to transform your life;
2) The insistence on thought-reform; that is, to change your former philosophy of life to that of the cult.
3) A charismatic leader or leaders.
4) The claim to hold the secret to life.
5) The insistence on distancing you from your friends and loved ones."
Plunking himself down in his desk chair, Mick turned the book face down on the desk and pulled out a note pad. On it he wrote:
Primary Factor: Still beautiful middle-aged actress at the pinnacle of her career kills herself.
+ Won Critics' Choice Award
+ Loses beloved husband to cancer
+ Joins New Age self-help group to cope with husband's death
+ Becomes obsessed with death, yet seems happy, content, or "chipper" as daughter describes her
+ Becomes obsessed with apocalyptic references
+ Possesses gun daughter didn't know about
+ Won't share any information with daughter about "The Oracle of Baal," the self-help group
+ Despite recent reconciliation between mother and daughter, mother becomes increasingly secretive, distancing herself from daughter once again
Sum Total: Oracle of Baal = Cult?
Mick looked up from his desk. The sun has risen, bathing the street beyond the window in the buttery-yellow light of early spring. Tapping the desk with his pen as he thought, he scanned his list again then underlined The Oracle of Baal.
If Dr. Solomon Deal was still on the faculty of the University of London, Mick was determined to pay him a visit later that morning. Reaching for the phone book, he was brought up short by the sound of Sarabeth gurgling in her crib in the room next to his office, prompting Nessie, the Scottie, to bark from her crate in the kitchen downstairs. Pickles, the portly grey tabby cat, sashayed into Mick's office, seductively rubbing herself on his trouser-leg. Jess' footfall could be heard padding down the hallway to the bathroom.
Morning in the Chandra abode had commenced.
Chapter 2
"Elizabeth, type 'Oracle of Baal' into a search engine and see if it comes up with anything," Mick said, speaking into his cell phone as he sat in bumper to bumper traffic on upper Essex Road.
"If I weren't in such a good mood, Mick, I'd ask if your arm was broken."
He laughed good naturedly. "I'm on my way to Bloomsbury to meet with Dr. Solomon Deal, so I'll be late coming to the office."
"Did you manage to cadge some sleep when you got back home this morning?"
"No, I was too wound up."
"You must be really knackered, Mick."
"A little. But the weekend is coming up. I'll catch up on my beauty rest then. For the present, it's important that I speak with Dr. Deal."
"Indulge me," Elizabeth said, "by letting me in on the secret. What the hell is The Oracle of...whatever, and who is this Deal bloke?"
"Rosalinda Evelyn's daughter informed me that her mother had joined a secretive self-help group called The Oracle of Baal and..."
"Ball?" his partner interrupted.
"No, Elizabeth, Baal. B-A-A-L. It may be a cult. That's why I'm meeting with Dr. Deal this morning. He's one of Britain's leading authorities on cults."
"What would this Oracle have to do with Evelyn's suicide?"
"'Don't know yet, but I'm developing a theory."
"Okay, I'll check it out on the Internet."
"Brilliant. See you at the office later."
Dr. Solomon Deal agreed to meet Mick for breakfast at the Russell Square Park cafe in Bloomsbury, which was an easy walk from the professor's University of London office. The clogged, rush-hour streets offered scant parking, so Mick had to squeeze his Yard car into a narrow space on Bedford Place, forcing him to walk the length of the park to reach the cafe.
Over the phone earlier, Deal had described himself as "a tall, burly African male in his mid-fifties who, if weather permits, will be sitting at one of the outdoor tables tucking into a fry-up." He was easy to spot, and as soon as he spied Mick, the professor waved him over to his table.
"Inspector Chandra, this is, indeed, an honor," Deal greeting him as he stood, offering Mick his hand.
Mick shook the professor's hand, marvelling at the physical presence of the Sierra Leone native. The barrel-chested academic stood at least 6'5", virtually dwarfing Mick's 6'1". His black pupils were rimmed in red, rather than white, lending his face a fierce, warrior-like demeanor. Slashed across the blue-black skin of both cheeks were deep scars, which appeared to have been ceremonially rendered. Deal's receding salt and pepper hair was swept back from his forehead, revealing the high, noble brow of an African prince.
Despite his heritage, the professor was dressed to the nines like a proper English gentleman -- tailored dark-blue pinstriped suit, pink shirt with French cuffs sporting gold and mother-of-pearl cufflinks, dark-blue silk textured tie, and bespoke high-gloss black tasselled loafers with pink socks. On the third finger of his left hand, Deal wore a conspicuous gold cigar-band style wedding ring.
"How did you recognize me?" Mick asked, sitting across from him.
"Oh, you're on the evening news quite a bit, inspector. What is it the commissioner calls you? 'The brightest star in New Scotland Yard's firmament,' or some such thing."
Belying his intimidating appearance, Deal's voice was soothing and gentle, modulated with a West African lilt.
Mick groaned. "You have no idea how much grief I've gotten from my mates over that."
"Like the knives I pulled out of my back when my book on cults hit the best seller list," Deal chuckled. "Academics aren't supposed to pen best sellers. We're expected to preach to the choir, not inform the public."
A young waiter came over to take Mick's order. He settled for black coffee and a croissant, figuring he would only vicariously enjoy Deal's full English breakfast of fried eggs, toast, bangers, back bacon, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, topped off with baked beans. Little wonder England logged the highest cholesterol levels in the EU.
"So how can I help you, inspector?" Deal asked, cutting into a banger.
Mick salivated but resisted temptation. Lately he had been eating far too many sausage roll breakfasts on the run, and fish 'n chip or shepherd's pie lunches. With Jess' encouragement, he had resolved to embrace a healthier diet.
"Have you ever heard of a New Age self-help group that calls itself The Oracle of Baal, Dr. Deal?"
With the forked piece of banger suspended halfway between his plate and mouth, Deal frowned, then shook his head.
"No. It doesn't ring a bell." He thought for a moment. "Baal is an ancient middle eastern pagan god as I recall. Do you think The Oracle might be a cult?"
"Possibly. I'm investigating the motive into the suicide of Rosalinda Evelyn and...."
"The actress," Deal interrupted. "Yes, I read about that in this morning's Times. Dreadful. And she had just won the Critics' Choice award."
"Her suicide makes absolutely no sense to me," Mick continued. "I questioned her daughter earlier this morning. She informed me that her mother had joined a secretive self-help group as a way of attempting to cope with the recent death of her husband."
Having already consumed both bangers, Deal set his fork on his plate then leaned back in his chair.
"Hmm. Yes, Robert Evelyn, the playwright. He died of cancer. It was all over the papers and telly. But what makes you think this group could be a cult, inspector? After all, it's perfectly normal, if not commendable, for a grieving widow to seek professional counseling."
"Because Rosalinda Evelyn was very tight-lipped about the group. She shared nothing about it with her daughter, Susan, who was living with her mother. In fact, the daughter didn't even know what part of London The Oracle worked out of. Also, Susan Evelyn informed me that she didn't know her mother possessed a gun -- the Magnum she shot herself with."
"That is strange."
"Furthermore, Susan told me that of late her mother had become obsessed with apocalyptic references and death."
"How so?"
"Well, she'd talk about the end of the world -- plagues, locusts, floods -- that sort of thing," Mick explained. "But she talked drivel, like...umm...death takes us to a higher state of being, or some such thing."
"Now you have my full attention," Deal said, returning to his fry-up. He forked a slice of fried egg into his mouth followed with a substantial bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing.
"Let me ask you a question, Inspector Chandra."
"Fair enough."
"Are you a religious man?"
"Yes."
"Hindu?"
"No, Roman Catholic. My father hailed from the Kerala state, where a group of enterprising Portuguese Jesuits happened to accompany Vasco Da Gama on a tour in the sixteenth century and effectively, if gradually, converted my ancestors."
Deal arched his eyebrows. "Interesting. Then you're a God-fearing man."
"Let's just say I have a healthy respect for God, Dr. Deal. However, I wouldn't want Him to think I'm sucking up to Him."
"Good, I like that," he said, laughing appreciatively. "Then tell me this, inspector. What's the difference between a cult and a religion?"
The waiter finally brought Mick his order, setting his coffee and croissant in front of him. Mick waited for the young man to leave before attempting to address Deal's question.
"I'm not certain," he admitted, sipping some coffee which was already tepid.
Deal leaned across the table. "The difference between a cult and religion is about a million members."
"But that would make the Church of England a cult, professor. From what I've read, the Anglican Church has fewer than a million regular attendees. And what about the Quakers? They have fewer than half a million members worldwide. By your definition, that would make those two legitimate religious institutions cults."
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," Deal said, wagging his finger at him, although Mick couldn't quite see where the conversation was going. "You could say that one's man's church is another man's cult, yes?"
Mick pondered that. "No. From reading your book, I know that cults keep their members distanced from their previous lives, cutting them off from family, loved ones...whatever. Churches don't do that -- at least, not intentionally."
"What else?"
"Well... cults brainwash their members."
"But some religious mavens think the Evangelicals brainwash their members. And what about the Mormons? Pentecostals? The Jehovah's Witnesses?"
"There's a big difference between proselytizing and brainwashing, professor."
Deal smiled broadly. "Brilliant! Do you know how slow on the uptake my students are to grasp the difference between a cult and a religious faith? They come into my classes ready to do battle with the churches, the synagogues, the mosques -- you name it -- equating them all with cults. As you say, there is a difference, and it's a glaring one at that."
"My experience with my faith is that is doesn't attempt to provide simple answers to complex problems. But cults do," Mick remarked. "At least, that's what I remember reading in your book."
The professor polished off his breakfast, then pushed his plate away.
"Let me tell you a story. My father was tribal chief of our little village in Sierra Leone. As a boy his parents had sent him to a British-run school in Freetown. There he learned the Queen's English and was required to go to Anglican services daily, even though he still retained the totem religion of our tribe, which is a form of animism. He even learned to hold a teacup properly, despite the fact that there wasn't a solitary teacup in our village. And he played rugby, football, and skittles. By the time he returned home at age seventeen, he was whiplashed between two worlds. If a cult had been lurking in the brush, my father would have been easy prey. Why? Because he had become 'disassociated.'"
"Which means?"
"It means having become alienated from everything you know -- your loved ones, your home, your friends, your values, your beliefs, your cultrual heritage," Deal explained. "Young people who have left home for the first time are particularly vulnerable to disassociation. They go to university or into the workplace where their sense of values are constantly assaulted. And cult leaders can sniff out a confused young person like a hyena can track a wounded, bleeding animal on the African savannah."
"But Rosalinda Evelyn wasn't exactly young," Mick reminded him. "She was forty-six."
"I was just getting to that." Deal paused to finish the last of his coffee. "There are cults, and there are cults, Inspector Chandra. There are the large infamous ones like The People's Temple or the Branch Davidians. But then there are the smaller cults, the quiet ones you seldom hear about -- the ones that are rarely scrutinized because they maintain a patina of respectability. I refer to them as 'designer cults,' which are exclusive and specialized, much like an insidious form of the Masons. Some of these quiet, small cults seek out impressionable young people. But others prefer older, more successful professional types -- the kind of people who have lots of money. As one cult leader once famously said, "Gold is with the old."
"I'm beginning to see your point. And Ms. Evelyn was a successful, well-to-do woman in her mid-forties who was not coping well with the loss of her husband."
"Exactly. Remember this," Deal went on, raising his index finger for emphasis. "All cults, large or small, develop their own peculiar jargon. It's a way of shutting out the rest of the world and making its members feel exclusive. All cults profess to hold the secret to life, and promise to transform one's life. All cult leaders are charismatic despots. All cults recruit, using coercive persuasion. Most cults emphasize the apocalyptic and convince their members that they alone will survive the end of the world. Last, but not least, many cults threaten their members with physical harm, or even death, if they leave."
"You just described Jonestown," Mick said.
"Yes. Jim Jones was a psychopath who convinced perfectly intelligent people that he was God. Amazing, isn't it?"
Gazing out at the park, Mick shook his head in disbelief. A cool catspaw of a spring breeze was ruffling the beds of primroses, their brazen primary colors shouting in the morning sunlight. Russell Square Park was teeming with people hungry for more temperate weather after the dreary, wet, chilblain-inducing English winter. Some braved the chilly air to sunbathe on the grass. Others walked their dogs or tossed frisbees to their accommodating canine companions. Still others sat on the benches lining the circular sidewalk, reading the sensational press stories about Rosalinda Evelyn's senseless suicide.
"Professor Deal, I believe that The Oracle of Baal is one of your designer cults," Mick said, breaking his own silence. "Furthermore, I believe that Rosalinda Evelyn was coerced into joining the cult after the loss of her husband."
"That's entirely possible. Those who have suffered a major
crisis in their lives are easy prey for cults. And from what I read in the press reports when Robert Evelyn died, he and his wife were joined at the hip. It seemed almost as if the beautiful, brilliant actress and the brainy, artsy playwright basked in mutual reflected glory."
"If that was the case, then Robert Evelyn's death could have brought about a form a disassociation for her," Mick concluded.
Deal nodded.
"What's worse, I believe she committed suicide at the cult's behest. Why, I don't know," Mick admitted. "But I can come up with no logical explanation other than that."
"That, too, is possible," the professor agreed, glancing at his watch. "My apologies, Inspector Chandra, but I must rush off to teach a seminar. However, we can talk again soon."
"I'd welcome that, Dr. Deal."
The two men stood and shook hands.
"As I wrote in my book -- the one you read -- there are certain cults that promote death as a prelude to a better life -- that in the next life, one will become immortal, unassailable," he reminded Mick.
"Then The Oracle of Baal could have brainwashed this poor, desperate woman into taking her own life."
Solomon Deal picked up his briefcase. "Well, you know what the ancient Greek playwright, Euripides, said, don't you, inspector?"
"No, what?"
"None but the fools believe in oracles."
Gerald Holme, the headmaster of St. George's Middle School, a prestigious co-educational institution on the outskirts of York, returned to his cottage after Sunday chapel and made himself his usual cup of sweet pre-lunch tea.
As his sipped the hot brew pungent with bergamot oil, Holme made his lunch, which never deviated on Sundays: a cold chicken breast sandwich with exactly one piece of lettuce and a touch of mayonnaise, all squeezed between two slices of granary bread, and one piece of fruit, today's choice being an apple. As always, he ate this simple meal at the kitchen table while perusing the Sunday Times. Never one to dawdle over a meal, Holme finished his sandwich, tea, and apple in less than thirty minutes. With that, he neatly folded the Times, placed it on the one extra chair at the table, went to the sink, and meticulously washed his hands with antibacterial soap.
As he dried his hands, one finger at a time, he briefly studied himself in the mirror. Gerald didn't deceive himself about his looks. At age 47, he appeared older than his years, with his thinning dark hair radically receding from his forehead and deep-set dark eyes that, even as a child, gave him a haunted, sad look. His plainness was exacerbated by having one shoulder higher than the other, which gave him the appearance of being a hunchback. He knew full well that his students sometimes derided him as "Quasimodo" behind his crooked back, particularly during exam week. It used to bother him, but no more. That is, not since he had found enlightenment. He smiled at the thought.
Had Gerald religiously followed his normal routine on this Sunday, he would now take a brisk solitary walk by the River Ouse. Instead, he went to the bedroom closet and took out his academic gown and hood. Toting the garments over his right arm, he entered his cramped, book-lined parlor and, folding the gown like the flag of a fallen comrade, lovingly placed it on the hassock that matched the sole armchair in the room. He did the same with the hood, gingerly laying it on top of the folded gown as if cautious not to wake an inanimate object.
Satisfied with his work, Holme went to the front door and took his cap and coat from the treehorse. Following his normal procedure, he first buttoned the light jacket, starting with the top button, then placed his woolen tweed Irish walking cap firmly on his head. Before opening the door, Holme reached for his cane with the silver dog-head handle that stood sentinel by the door jamb, a gift from his colleagues for twenty years of dedicated service to the school. Exiting his cottage, he locked the door behind him and twisted the knob three times to make certain the lock was secure.
Holme walked jauntily in the chilly spring air toward the village rail station, less than a half mile from his home. Along the way, he encountered the mother of one of his charges and spent a few minutes counseling her about the boy's falling grades in maths. Taking up his journey again, he continued toward the station, but was once more waylaid by some students who cheerfully greeted him and wanted to chat for a minute or two. Despite their occasional ridicule of Gerald's appearance, his charges knew their eccentric headmaster to be an approachable authority figure and a sympathetic listener. In short, he was liked more than loved and, if he wasn't precisely the embodiment of Mr. Chips, he was a vast improvement over the previous headmaster, who had used the birch on his students aeons after such corporal punishment had been prohibited in elite British schools.
Glancing anxiously at his watch, Gerald politely extracted himself from the conversation with his students, and hurried on toward the station. By the time he reached it, the headmaster was breathless from his attempt to make up for lost time. Rushing up the foot bridge that arched over the two tracks, he could already hear the wail of the 1:30 express from York to Sheffield. With his hands firmly on the railing of the bridge, Gerald watched as the train transformed itself from a mere speck in the distance to a jurassic diesel moving at full speed.
"There you are, my beauty," he murmured.
Just moments before the train passed under the foot bridge, Gerald Holme aggressively looped one leg then the other over the railing, took a deep breath, let go of the rail, and plunged to his death on the tracks.
The cane with the silver dog's head was left on the foot bridge as his only messenger.
Chapter 3
The tap on Mick's office door was so light he didn't even heed it. Not until he heard a woman's timid voice inquire, "Inspector Chandra?" did he look up from his mound of Monday morning paperwork.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
Shyly, his unexpected visitor sidled into his office -- a short, stout woman in her late 30s or early 40s wearing an ankle-length denim skirt and red goose-down vest over a long-sleeved pink oxford-cloth shirt with a button-down collar. Her curly carrot-red hair was carelessly pulled back from her pale, freckled face by a black velvet scrunchie band. On her child-sized feet she wore sensible scuffed brown shoes.
From all appearances, she could have been the wife of a shire farmer or a school teacher on a day trip to London.
"My name is Carrie Wyngate, inspector," she said.
Mick motioned to one of the chairs facing his deck.
"Please, Ms. Wyngate, won't you sit down. May I offer you a cup of tea?"
"Mrs. Wyngate," she corrected him firmly, sitting down. "And thank you, no."
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Wyngate?"
She didn't answer right away but, instead, nervously twisted a stray lock of hair with her finger, waiting for her courage to find its voice. Folding his hands on his desk, Mick waited.
"Well...you see, inspector, I read about Ms. Evelyn's suicide in last week's press and...and you had mentioned something about the Oracle of Baal in the story."
Mick nodded.
"It's just that..." Carrie let the sentence flutter away.
Waiting again, Mick gave her some space.
"Well, this may sound barmy, but what you said resonated with me."
"In what way?"
"This," she answered, removing a DVD from her canvas tote and sliding it across his desk.
Mick caught it before it went off the edge.
"It's a message from my brother, Hugh Moore, before he committed suicide," she explained.
"When did he kill himself?"
"About a fortnight ago. It was mind-boggling because he seemed quite happy at the time. But then, I received this," she added, nodding toward the disk on Mick's desk. "On the DVD he informed me that he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was going to take his own life rather than suffer. Of course, by the time I received the disk, he was already dead."
Picking up the DVD, Mick examined it, as if trying to divine its contents.
"Did you...?"
"There's more," she interrupted him, causing Mick to wonder what became of that shy woman who had entered his office only minutes earlier. "I traveled up to York to consult with Hugh's primary physician at the local NHS clinic. Turns out, his doctor informed me that Hugh didn't have cancer at all, and he had never referred him to an oncologist, or to any other specialist for that matter."
"But what has this to do with the Oracle of Baal, Mrs. Wyngate?"
Carrie pulled out a sheaf of official-looking papers from the tote bag.
"I'm not certain, but it may be worth looking into," she said. "Over the last several months of Hugh's life, he spoke glowingly of his new 'church' -- a New Age church in which he claimed to have found the secret to life. When I read about Ms. Evelyn's association with the Oracle of Baal, I though there may be a connection." She held papers aloft. "Even worse, my brother had cashed in all of his stocks and bonds -- the ones left to him by our parents -- and there is no money trail to designate what he did with the funds."
Mick thoughtfully chewed his lower lip. "Then...you suspect he may have given his money over to the 'church?'"
"Yes. He had mentioned that he was giving generously to it and I had warned him not to...you know...go overboard. Save some for a rainy day and all that kind of sisterly advice."
"Do you think Hugh may have been coerced into committing suicide and leaving all his money to this church?"
"Perhaps," she answered, nodding solemnly. "What's worse, I suspect he may have been brainwashed into actually believing he had cancer. Having thoroughly reviewed his medical records, I can attest that he had nothing of the sort. In fact, he was in the peak of health."
"If he..."
"And then there's this other matter," she said, interrupting Mick again, taking a copy of the morning's Times from her tote bag. "Page A-12, the brief story at the bottom, see? Yet another suicide in York."
Taking the newspaper from her, Mick squinted at the brief article about a school headmaster in York who had thrown himself in front of a speeding train the previous afternoon.
"What makes you think these three suicides are related, Mrs. Wyngate?" he asked, handing the newspaper back to her. "After all, from a police inspector's point of view, I see no connection."
"There is a connection!" Carrie insisted. "Did you notice in the article about Mr. Holme that the assistant head of the school remarked that he had found 'some sort of enlightenment with a non-traditional church,' and that she was shocked at his death because he had seemed so positive of late?"
"Well...yes."
"My brother used the same sort of language before he died, as did Ms. Evelyn, according to her daughter's statement in the press. The three victims used words such as 'enlightenment' and 'transformation,' and spoke of a New Age 'church' or self-help group that had given them the true meaning of life. Then they all committed suicide."
"I can't argue with that," Mick agreed. "Did your brother ever mention the name of this so-called church?"
She shook her head vigorously. "No. Now that I think back on it, he always evaded my questions about it. He simply said he was happy in a way he had never been before, because the secret to life had been revealed to him. And then...." She paused momentarily, choking back a sob. "Furthermore, inspector, he had increasingly avoided my company over this past several months."
"Were you close before that?"
"Very. You see, our parents died while we were still in our teens and Hugh, being the older one, became my protector," Carrie said. "We were sent to live with an aunt who spent most of her time drinking hard cider and watching Coronation Street and Eastenders. Now I live in Sheffield with my husband, only an hour and fifteen-minute train ride from York. Hugh and I used to see one another at least every fortnight. But recently, he seemed to be making excuses not to meet me, which, I don't mind saying, really hurt."
"Did your brother live in York?"
She nodded.
"May I ask, what did Hugh do for a living, Mrs. Wyngate?"
"He was a solicitor specializing in estate management," she answered. "Hugh wasn't terribly ambitious, but he made a good living."
"Married?"
"Divorced."
"Children?"
"No."
"Did Hugh have a life insurance policy?"
She sighed heavily. "Well, that's another conundrum, Inspector Chandra. Some weeks ago he told me he had cashed it in to buy a piano, despite my begging him to reconsider. As it turned out, he never purchased the piano."
"Did he play the piano?"
"Not a note."
"Oh? Did Hugh leave a will?"
"That's really the kicker, inspector. You'd think a man whose specialty had been estate planning would have a will filed at least with his own law firm. However, no will has turned up as of yet."
"Do tell."
"You 'wanna know what I think?" Carrie said, leaning forward in her chair. "I think there was nothing left to put in a will except my brother's personal effects, which are worthless."
Mick arched his eyebrows. "I think I'm beginning to catch your drift."
Taking a legal pad and pen from his desk, he made a note of Carrie's observations, adding in the margin one of Dr. Solomon Deal's warning signs of cult membership: "alienation from loved ones and family." Still, he wasn't completely convinced.
"Mrs. Wyngate, you realize, of course, that this could all be coincidence."
Carrie answered him with a determined, unblinking gaze.
"Then again, maybe not," Mick conceded, suddenly feeling slightly foolish.
Rocking back in forth in his chair, he perused the list of Carrie's interconnections between the suicides of her brother, Rosalinda Evelyn, and Gerald Holme.
"Tell me, Mrs. Wyngate..."
"You can call me Carrie."
"Thank you. Tell me, Carrie. How did your brother kill himself?"
"Well, it's about time you got around to that, inspector," she admonished him. "Hugh shot himself in the head with a Magnum 8mm automatic, like Ms. Evelyn."
"Where did he purchase the gun?"
"I have no idea, especially in a country with such strict gun control laws."
"And..."
"I wasn't finished," she bristled. "There's one more thing. When I went to my brother's house after his death, he had placed his overcoat and hat on the piano bench. The coat was neatly folded and the hat was carefully arranged atop it, like a sign or message of some kind. In his parlor, he had done exactly the same with his academic gown and motor board. I have no idea why he did that." She paused, then asked, "What does it mean?"
"I confess I don't know," he admitted. "I assume the York authorities accepted your brother's death as suicide."
"Without question," she answered. "When I had the temerity to suggest that Hugh may have been hounded into killing himself, they completely dismissed me as a hysterical fruitcake." She paused momentarily, stewing in her own anger. "So what do you think, Inspector Chandra?"
Appraising her, Mick perceived no indication of hysteria or emotional instability. Instead, he viewed Carrie Wyngate as a resolute woman who refused to be patronized, much less ignored.
"I think this is beginning to look like only one coincidence short of a conspiracy. Let's look at the disk," he suggested, reaching over to pop it into the DVD player.
Following the scratchy leader, Hugh's face appeared on the screen. It was obvious that he had recorded himself, since the top of his head was not fully in the frame. Nevertheless, Mick observed a middle-aged man whose features mirrored his sister's, although he appeared to be slimmer in build. He had Carrie's same, curly red hair, only it was a darker shade, not her brilliant orange-red. What immediately struck Mick were Hugh's sad, haunted dark eyes -- certainly not the eyes of man who had professed happiness for having discovered the secret to life.
"Hello, Carrie," Hugh Moore began. "I'm sending you this taped message because by the time you receive it, I will be gone from this vale of tears we call earth. Recently I was diagnosed with terminal cancer and, rather than suffer through the treatment, which would be pointless, I've decided to take my own life. Please don't be angry with me. Understand that I love you, but my life has been transformed in ways I cannot begin to explain. I've been given the secret knowledge to life, so death holds no fear for me. The powers of darkness cannot win now that I hold the key to universal wisdom. So, don't mourn for me, sister. I'll see you in the next world, far beyond this galaxy that confines us to this pathetic space. When we meet in the hereafter, I will be healed and whole again. You and I will be reunited in a far, far better place. Until then, sweet dreams, Carrie."
As Hugh spoke, Mick rapidly wrote down the buzz words as they flew by him: transformed, power of darkness, secret knowledge, vale of tears, better place. All of these expressions in one form or another were featured in Solomon Deal's book on cults.
It's us versus them, but we hold the answer to the secret of life, therefore, we are not like the others. Beyond this existence is a better world in which our happiness is guaranteed.
That was gist of Hugh Moore's message, and Mick felt like kicking himself for casting doubt on Carrie Wyngate's theory. Turning off the DVD player, he turned to her.
"How would you like a job with Scotland Yard, Carrie?"
Despite the grim message they had just witnessed, she laughed softly. "Beginner's luck, inspector. Would you like me to leave the disk with you so you can make a copy of it?"
"Please. I promise to take all of this very seriously from now on," he pledged.
Carrie picked up her tote bag. "I don't doubt it one bit, Inspector Chandra. After all, you are known as 'New Scotland Yard's terrier.'"
Mick winced at the moniker that had come to haunt him.
"When my partner, Sergeant Chang, typed the Oracle of Baal into a search engine, it came up with nothing," he informed her, changing the subject.
"Really?"
He nodded.
Smiling wanly, Carrie rose to leave. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
Chapter 4
Securing a day pass, Mick spent the following morning at the British Library, conducting research on the ancient god Baal as well as the most current information on cults. The sheer volume of material was overwhelming, so he made random choices simply to pare down the mountain of articles, books, treatises, monographs, and essays on the two subjects. Of course, Solomon Deal's book was prominent among those listed in the library's computer, but Mick had already read it.
Bail