A Finer End

sort of cult? Could her death have nothing to do with Winnie or Jack?
    She typed ‘goddess worship’ into the search engine on her computer. The results were overwhelming, but she started through them resolutely, scanning articles and pagan sites. A name caught her eye. She ran the cursor back, highlighting a monograph on ‘The History of the Goddess in Celtic Mythology’ by a Dr Erika Rosenthal.
    She had met an Erika Rosenthal a few weeks ago in the course of an investigation — surely the name was not that common. An elderly woman in Arundel Gardens had been burgled, and, concerned about the professional quality of the break-in, Gemma had gone herself to view the scene and interview the victim.
    Erika Rosenthal had turned out to be in her nineties, sharp as a tack, and highly incensed at the theft of several valuable antiques. Gemma had been immediately taken with her — and with her home, a lovely place, filled with books and beautiful paintings and, most temptingly, a baby grand piano.
    Today Gemma only had time to skim part of Dr Rosenthal’s article before she was interrupted, and it was half past five by the time she cleared her desk for the day. On an impulse, she stuffed the report in her briefcase and rang Hazel, telling her she might be a bit late.
    There was a fine mist in the still air and the wet pavement gleamed. She loved this weather, as she loved autumn in all its guises, and she took greedy breaths of the cool dampness as she walked to Arundel Gardens.
    Erika Rosenthal’s house wore its age gracefully. Its pale grey stucco was comfortably faded and it did not boast a satellite dish or an alarm system... though it was probably the lack of the latter that had contributed to Mrs Rosenthal’s loss.
    The old woman answered Gemma’s ring, her face lighting up in recognition.
    ‘Inspector James. You’ve found my things.’ She was a tiny woman, with white hair swept into a smooth twist and bright shoe-button eyes in her finely wrinkled face.
    ‘No, I’m sorry to say we haven’t. I’ve come about something else entirely, Mrs Rosenthal, if you have a minute.’
    ‘Of course. Come in, dear, and warm yourself by the fire.’
    Gemma stood in front of the electric fire and looked round with pleasure. She resisted the temptation to go over to the piano, but for a moment she let herself imagine living in such a house. Then she chided herself for being unrealistic, and said, ‘Thank you, that’s lovely,’ as she accepted a glass of sherry.
    ‘Now, what can I do for you?’ asked Mrs Rosenthal, lowering herself into an armchair. There was a book open on the table beside her chair, an account of Mallory and Irvine’s ill-fated expedition to Everest. Seeing Gemma’s interest, she added, ‘I’ve become an armchair adventurer, now that I no longer feel guilty for not attempting such things myself.’
    ‘Are you the Dr Erika Rosenthal who wrote a monograph on pagan Goddess worship?’
    Mrs Rosenthal chuckled. ‘That I am. But why on earth would you want to know about that?’
    Gemma noticed, as she had not on their first meeting, that Dr Rosenthal had the faintest trace of an accent — German or Eastern European. ‘I’ve been, um... assisting in an investigation of a murder in Glastonbury. The victim seems to have had some knowledge of Goddess worship, and we’re not certain whether this has any bearing on the case.’
    ‘So you started researching and ran across my name. Clever girl. Or young woman, I should say,’ the doctor apologized with a twinkle. ‘But from my perspective, anyone under seventy is a girl.’
    ‘I had the impression from your article that you were quite a respected authority on paganism,’ Gemma said.
    ‘I’m an historian, my dear, and I’m not sure that anyone is ever entirely respected in academe. But, yes, I have devoted a good deal of my life to the subject.’
    ‘It seemed to me, from the things I read this afternoon, that for the most part Goddess worship is a fairly harmless — even positive — thing. All that getting-back-in-touch-with-the-earth stuff. And I can’t say that men have done a terribly good job of running the world, so maybe the matriarchal society is not a bad idea either.1 Gemma left the fire and sat in a small chair across from Dr Rosenthal. ‘What I don’t understand is why those beliefs could have motivated someone to kill this woman.’
    ‘Ah, well, even the most benign aspects would provide motive enough. "Getting in touch