Give the Devil His Due by Sulari Gentill Page A

Edna’s work was more avantgarde than Norman Lindsay’s, the lines of her Pan with its swirling horns owed more to the Art Deco movement than the Nouveau.
    â€œI’ve always admired him.”
    â€œNorman’s an extraordinary artist.”
    â€œYes, I suppose he is,” she said. Her dark eyes glistened. “But I was talking about Pan. There’s an ancient, knowing power about him that makes one think of dancing naked in the moonlight.”
    â€œI can’t say that’s occurred to me,” Rowland replied quite honestly.
    â€œWhat are their names… your companions?” Rosaleen stepped forward to take the kittens from him. She dropped on to the lawn crooning and purring and rubbing her face against the creatures.
    â€œThey haven’t been here long enough to be named…” The journalist obviously wasn’t listening, so preoccupied was she with the kittens. “I’ll just fetch my jacket and we might go up to the house,” he said, unrolling his shirtsleeves. He left her on the lawn with the cats and ducked back into the stables to retrieve his jacket.
    â€œWhat took you so long?” Clyde asked, raising his head from the engine. They’d been working on the Mercedes since first light.
    â€œMiss Norton—White’s replacement—is here.”
    â€œPoor White,” Clyde said, shaking his head. “He’s probably not even cold. It seems indecent.”
    Rowland slipped on his jacket. “I shouldn’t be long. She seems much more interested in Ed’s statues and the blessed kittens than the race. With any luck, she’ll write about them and leave me in peace.”
    Rosaleen Norton walked with him to the house, skipping occasionally and bubbling with enthusiasm about the array of wanton sculptures that adorned the grounds. He had intended to speak with her in the conservatory as he had done with White, but she asked to see his studio the moment they stepped into the house.
    â€œDon’t we need to talk about the Red Cross race?” Rowland asked.
    â€œI’ll have Crispy’s notes for that,” she said waving away his suggestion.
    â€œI was given to understand that Mr. White’s notebook wasn’t found with his body.”
    â€œReally? How do you know?” Rosaleen’s upswept brows sharpened into an acute V.
    â€œThe police mentioned—”
    â€œOf course! The police. It’s fascinating, don’t you think? How he was killed and where. I must say I find it all quite lusciously exciting.”
    â€œDid you know Crispin White very well?” Rowland asked, disconcerted by the young woman’s guileless admission.
    â€œOh, not particularly. I’m more an artist than a writer. He seemed nice enough but I did think he was boring… Not anymore, naturally. I would never have expected he had connections at Magdalene’s.”
    â€œThe waxworks?”
    â€œYes, I used it as inspiration for a story once. There’s a coven that meets there you know.”
    â€œA coven?” Rowland smiled. “As in witches?”
    Rosaleen nodded emphatically. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. I’ve met some of them. They are not people to be laughed at.”
    â€œHave you mentioned this coven to the police?” Rowland asked trying to distract himself from the ludicrousness of the notion.
    â€œWhy on earth would I do that?”
    â€œTo help determine who killed Crispin White.”
    â€œWell that’s obvious.” Rosaleen shrugged. “Crispy must have been after a story. He violated the secrets of the coven and he was punished by dark forces summoned to take vengeance.”
    â€œSummoned by whom?”
    â€œThe coven, of course. They protect their magic as vehemently as any church.”
    â€œYou’re suggesting a ghost cut White’s throat?” Rowland said slowly.
    Rosaleen looked at him as if he were a particularly stupid