He was tempted to get into his car and collapse against the padded seat, but he spent a quarter of an hour walking around the meadow, letting the heat from the grass partially dry his clothes. When he finally drove off, the black Defender still sat under the tree.
****
The dampness that remained in his clothes bore into his skin as he turned the car onto the B road. He had no idea how he looked but he smelled of river water. Not the best aroma for having a pint with Jamie. Maybe he could wash off at Dena’s. After all, he was about a ten-minute drive from her house.
He put a CD in the player, a recording of Beethoven German dances, remastered from the LP featuring conductor Edouard Van Remortel, needing the solace of great music to soothe his mind. There’d been music at his retirement party when he left the job last year. A hastily arranged affair with “Auld Lang Syne” playing as a background to the jokes and well wishes. But one officer’s eyes held his real feelings, and McLaren had read the disingenuous we’ll-miss-you loud and clear. He hummed along to Beethoven, but the Scottish song echoed in his mind.
He made a sharp right opposite the village of Parwich, and drove down the smaller road sandwiched between the A515 and the River Dove. Kirkfield, Dena’s village, presented itself as he crested the hill.
The main road wasn’t yet crowded with the cars of workers returning home from their jobs in the surrounding towns. If crowded was the correct word, McLaren reconsidered. But the road did hold a few late returning shoppers and the occasional tourist. McLaren parked in front of her house and jogged up the front walk.
The house was in keeping with the others in the row—stone façade, flower boxes underscoring the front windows, and small front gardens in a riot of summer color. And as old, for the length of dwellings had not altered in external appearance since built in the 1700s. A grandfather oak near the house’s front corner spread its massive boughs over the roof and upward to heaven, as though simultaneously offering protection and blessing. McLaren lifted the heavy, brass doorknocker—surprisingly warm to his touch—and rapped at the door.
While he waited for Dena, he glanced at the garden, a well-kept harmony of warm colors—orange day lilies, red roses, pink geraniums, yellow daisies, and marigolds, with an accent of white Queen Anne’s lace by the birdbath. A sense of envy claimed him as he took in the weeded perennial beds and mowed grass. But the emotion left as swiftly as it had come. He was content with his strip of daylilies and wild flowers that grew uncorraled along the stone wall. He hadn’t the gardener’s heart even if he did revel in nature. Weeding was a chore, not a loving gesture. He sighed, knowing he’d have to be content to gaze on other’s gardens, and turned back to the door. The house remained silent.
Maybe she was still at the animal rescue center. McLaren glanced at his watch. Or stopping at a girlfriend’s before coming to his house. He knocked once again, louder and longer, but the door remained closed.
He got back into his car and closed the door. But the key remained in his hand, his gaze still on her house. The disappointment at not talking with her welled up in his soul until he thought his heart would split. He wanted her wise counsel, the uninvolved view, the impartiality of an onlooker. Plus, if he were honest with himself, he wanted to be with her. Now that he had put the year’s estrangement behind him, he wanted her love and companionship. He wanted to step back to the intimacy and belief they had had before they had separated, before he had pushed her away. He wanted to pour his heart out to her and hold her.
But the unopened door delayed the moment. Telling himself he would do that over dinner, he started the car and drove to Somerley, thinking three hours had never seemed so long.
The Split Oak in McLaren’s home village hadn’t yet filled with the home-going crowd when he walked into the main room at five o’clock. Those who were there sat at small tables that formed a U-shape at the end of the room, and stood in clusters, examining packets and books and jewelry and talking “price” with the costumed people at the tables. All very medieval, McLaren found himself thinking, mimicking the phrase from earlier in the day. Appropriate to the pub’s interior of polished oak paneled walls, old porcelain pitchers and age-yellowed maps. Waving to the publican, he nodded toward the group. “What’s all this?”
They seemed to blend with the pub’s interior, for the costumes were of the Middle Ages. Of the type that Ron Pennell had sported that morning at Tutbury Castle.
“Escaped all this before, have you?” The publican, a brawny man in his late forties, held the glass he was drying up to the light and squinted at it. Dissatisfied with his job, he applied the towel again to a stubborn spot.
“Must have done. I feel underdressed.”
The publican glanced at McLaren’s trousers, shirt, and tie, then went back to his glass drying. “I wouldn’t worry. No one will arrest you for indecent exposure.”
The man was dying to know about the eau-de-river and his damp clothes, McLaren thought, but mentally applauded the man’s good manners. “Fine. Now I can get a good night’s sleep.”
The publican’s laugh bounced off the oak-paneled walls. “It’ll get busier toward seven, eight tonight. But only the main players come costumed.”
“Fine, but what’s it for?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? It’s the Minstrels Round.”
“Round?”
“Aye. An annual event for students going on to sixth form or university. The Minstrels Round helps sustain the scholarship for those kids who need financial help. Folks come, donate to the scholarship fund, indulge in a bit of medieval fun by learning some history, partake of food, buy a trinket or two from the various craftsman, listen to the musicians…” He paused in his explanation to place the glass in the overhead rack, then picked up another and began drying it. “I’m told it’s all authentic—the food, music and such. I wouldn’t know, being as I’m not much of a scholar. But it’s a nice time for everyone and the music’s good. Guitars, lutes, harps. That sort of thing. Old stuff.”
“Authentic.” McLaren looked at the mandolin lying on a chair seat.
“So they tell me. I’m surprised you haven’t come before, you being such a fan of this sort of music.”
“Is it held the same time every year?”
“Same weekend, yes. It’s been going on for several years. A teacher at a school in Ashbourne organizes it. That’s him in the Robin Hoodish outfit. Teaches history.”
“This is a bit far afield to be holding an event for Ashbourne, isn’t it?”
“Oh, they have this Minstrels Round all over Derbyshire. They’ve set up a regular schedule. August in Hathersage and Bakewell; sometime in May in Matlock, Bath, and Tideswell; a spring event in Buxton… If you’re interested, they’ve no doubt got a schedule printed up.”
“So the scholarship is for any student?”
“There are particulars. Most likely has to live in Derbyshire, but you can find that out. I guess they have to want a certain career.” He set down the glass and rested his hand on the bar top. “I mean, with all these performers dressed up like folks from Round Table days, the scholarship ought to go to a medieval history buff or budding musician, don’t you suppose?”
“Can’t see why they’d drag all their items here if not.” McLaren bought a glass of wine, thanked the bartender, and joined Jamie at his table. “You ever see this before?” he asked as he settled into a chair. They sat a corner opposite the medieval group, where the light was dimmer and they could talk without being overheard. Most every patron’s attention was focused on the Round, anyway.
Jamie set down his beer glass and shook his head. “Must have been lucky. Never even heard of it. Whatever happened to you? You smell like—”
“I cooled off in the River Dove.”
“You should’ve done it without your clothes, Mike. Maybe you can borrow something from one of those blokes. They seem to have on a few layers. You run into them before?”
“Get a schedule before you leave. Then you’ll know where
to catch them up.”
“It’s rather nice. Should be good music later on.” He took a sip of beer. “You want to eat something and stay for a bit?”
“Can’t. Dena’s coming for dinner. I have to get home soon and cook.”
“Special occasion?”
McLaren shrugged, trying to make it appear a casual event, but his heart was racing. He downed half the wine, needing time to still the tremor he felt in his throat, then told Jamie about his investigation.
“You’ve spoken with most of the major players.” Jamie leaned back in his chair. “Unless there’s a colleague or two at Kent Harrison’s school, or a mystery man you don’t yet know about, I’d say you’ve done rather well.”
“I’m going back to the school,” McLaren explained. “The headmaster is away, but I set up times to talk to some of the faculty who knew Kent rather well.”
“Then I don’t see what your problem is, Mike.”
McLaren set the glass down but kept his hand on the stem, as though needing an emotional anchor. “I feel like I’m missing something, like there’s a big secret, and I’m the last person to know about it.”
“There usually are secrets in a murder case.”
“But something more than the killer’s identity. Like everyone is lying to me, only I’m too stupid to know.”
“Well, if it will give you an edge on your suspects, you might want to know that the only things that came to light in the original search of the scene where Kent’s body was found were a guitar pick and a grommet.”
“Grommet?”
“Besides the usual rubbish of our uncaring public, I mean.”
McLaren nodded, picturing the scene and the others he’d processed as a young constable. All the refuse of indifferent peoplecigarette ends, water bottles, food wrappers, beer cans, used facial tissue… “A grommetlike from a ruck sack?”
“Shouldn’t think so. It was small. Like on a belt buckle, shoulder bag strap or shoe.”
“And the pick doesn’t particularly mean anything. Lots of kids probably use the spot for get-togethers and singing.” He thought a minute, looking at the mandolin. “What kind of guitar pick? Anything unusual?”
“You’re the expert on that, Mike. It just looked like a guitar pick. Flat, plastic, tortoise shell color and pattern. No hole, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Does nothing for me, no.” He pushed the glass away from him. “Not much closer to a solution than we were before.”
“I guess the medical report is old news to you.”
“Why? Anything more than what Cheryl’s already told me?”
“You’ve talked with her, then. No, nothing new. Not if she didn’t say anything.”
McLaren nodded. “Cyanogenetic glycoside in his stomach, death by asphyxiation some time between ten o’clock and midnight on Sunday night.”
“He was strangled.”
“No signs of manual strangulation. Garroted,” he added, somewhat reluctantly. “Not exactly in line with fair play.”
“Kent had to have been jumped, I suppose, because there’s an indication on his skull that he’d been hit with a rock. At least that’s the official consensus.”
“There are certainly enough rocks at that spot, yes.” McLaren paused, tapping the glass with his index finger. “You know what this reminds me of?”
“I know I shouldn’t ask, but I will. What?”
“That time I was talking about those two murder cases and Harvester butts in with his attempt at a solution.”
Jamie lowered his head slightly, nodding. “I remember you telling me. What an inept attempt Harvester gave. Are you sure he graduated?”
“My partner and I were discussing the possibility of the same killer for both murders, since they happened two hours and one mile apart.”
“Right. Two shop employees at the first scene, and three at the second. Seemed a logical assumption in the beginning.”
“Which is what Harvester clung to, quite vocally, I recall. He was all for calling it a serial killing right off the bat, whereas my partner and I opted for two different killers. The two employees were shot execution style, the desk, cash register, and safe filed. The three at the second scene were tied up and stabbed, and a length of rope was left there.”
“Same type as used on the victims, yes.”
“I was telling my partner that this first murder looked like an experienced killer who was after money, perhaps to finance an escape. He knew not to leave any living witnesses. The second scene appeared to be of an intimate nature. Knifings tend to be that, up close and personal, unlike the distance of a gun to the victim. Also, the unused length of rope told us the killer had come expecting someone else. When he didn’t find the fourth person, he left. The knifings also suggested rage, each victim sustaining nearly a dozen wounds.”
“But Harvester didn’t like that, right?”
McLaren skewed his lips at the corners and snorted. “What do you think? Papa’s boy who got through police school by whispered favors and implied threats? I don’t think Harvester cared that the victims’ deaths were different. He just saw the time and distance connection and went with that.”
“How’d it turn out? I don’t recall you telling me.”
“When we had arrested the killer who shot the two people, Harvester rabbits on about charging the bloke with the second murder. It was all I could do to make him listen to my explanation as to why we looked for someone else. He wanted to wrap it up fast and neat.”
“Probably to impress his dad.” Jamie rubbed his nose, as though he could smell the stink that would’ve followed that catastrophe.
“Luckily, my chief inspector hammered home the logic of the two killers.”
“Saving Staffordshire Constabulary the embarrassment. How’d Harvester react?”
“Typically. A week later I find a coil of rope on my desk chair.”
Jamie let out a swear word. “Subtle, ain’t he? What a berk. You didn’t take it for a hint that he’d like to do that to you, did you?”
“He hasn’t the nerve. I just smiled when I next saw him. I think my silence drove him bonkers.”
“Serves him right, the berk. Someone ought to knock some sense into him.”
“I know a few dozens blokes who’d pay to do the job. They’d bring their own hammers or rocks to do it, too.”
“Well, you’re got your own rock. Kent,” Jamie said, bringing McLaren back to the subject of the singer’s death. “Using the rock to knock him unconscious was a nice touch. Knocked Kent out so he couldn’t fight back. So the person got bloody well close enough to him to do that, at least, even if he was jumped. Not a fight, because there were no defense wounds on his body.”
McLaren snorted. “There’s always that pesky problem of how his body ended up in the wood. His car was at his home, remember?”
“What’s to prevent some chap from following Kent home from the Minstrels Court, or arranging to meet him somewhere?”
“At his house, most likely.”
“Anyway, they meet up, walk nonchalantly to the wood and, Kent being off his guard because he’s set up the rendezvous—”
“—is taken unaware when the bloke jumps and kills him,” McLaren finished. “Fine. A lovely scenario, but again…who?”
“Dave Morley, Kent’s sporadic singing partner, said they were to have talked that night,” Jamie reminded McLaren.
“I heard. I don’t suppose they actually met and Dave’s just a tad sketchy with his memory.”
The musician sat on a stool, tuning her mandolin. The notes were drowned out by the conversation coming from the Minstrels Round area.
“Lies, faulty memories—doesn’t make much difference. You still don’t get any truth, no matter what year you look into the case.”
“Speaking of time…” McLaren stood up as he glanced at his watch.
“The frying pan calls, I know. Give Dena my best, Mike.” He reached for his glass as McLaren left the table.
> McLaren strolled up to the man in the Robin Hood costume. In his late fifties, McLaren thought, glancing at the crow’s-feet angling out from the dark eyes. Yet muscular and trim.
The man looked up from the beer he was sipping, put it on the table behind the stack of pamphlets, and wiped his hand on his doublet before extending it in a handshake. “Sorry. I try not to eat or drink while there are people about. But I was thirsty.”
“Perfectly all right.”
“Trevor Pennell. Glad you stopped by.”
“Pennell? Any relation to Ron Pennell?”
“You know him? We’re brothers.”
“Is he here?” McLaren turned slightly to glance around the room.
“No. He’s meeting with a client. Something about redesigning a garden. Is that how you’re acquainted? Has he done work for you?”
“I could probably use his expertise, but no. I met him at the Minstrels Court. He seems extremely knowledgeable about herbs.”
“He is. I’m amazed at all he knows.”
“You’re not of that bent, I take it.”
“I’m into history, but we both like the good olde days, as Ron puts it.”
“Just different aspects of that age.”
“Right. Are you new to the Minstrels Round? I don’t recall seeing you here before. It’s a fairly tight-knit community, so I know most interested parties.”
“No, I’ve not participated.” He introduced himself and stated he was investigating Kent’s death.
“Ah, yes. Kent Harrison. Did you know him? No? Too bad. He actually came up with the idea for the Minstrels Round. He taught music at the school where I teach. Grange Hall Performing Arts College. He saw how attracted some kids were to the pageantry and the Middle Ages in general.”
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