“Do you have someone as good as Kent? Authentic music can make or break these affairs.”
“There are more musicians of this type and excellent quality than you’d expect. You just have to know how to put out the call.” She punched up her pillow and sank back on it. “You also have to know how to refuse a person. The people who think they can perform…” She shuddered, as if recalling a less than melodious audition. “I understand the lure of the spotlight, but trying out before they’re ready, not to mention not realizing they have no talent, wastes their time and builds up hopes that can’t be met. I’m sorry to turn anyone away, but honestly, the people who try out!”
“I guess we all have dreams, Ms. Fairfield.”
“Granted, but how many times do you have to be told no before you abandon that pursuit? I feel like I’m robbing them of their hope.”
McLaren said most people take audition rejection well. “Sorry to change the subject, but about the attempted robbery…do the police have a suspicion who it was? Do you?”
“I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t very vigilant, but this sort of thing has never happened before. The folks who visit the Hall aren’t normally…”
“That energetic?”
She laughed and said she would’ve described them as mean.
“Have you any idea why you were attacked? I assume this hasn’t happened before to anyone there.”
“I figured it was just a crime of opportunity. He was at the Hall, he saw me, and realized no one was around, and he hoped to grab my handbag and mobile. What else could it be?”
If my girl friend hadn’t been kidnapped, I’d think the same as you, he mused. There’s comfort if such things aren’t personal. He nodded, removed his chewing gum and wrapped it in a facial tissue before tossing it into the trash bin.
“Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”
Ellen opened her mouth, looking puzzled, then said she’d been at the Hall.
“All day?”
“I believe I had a meeting with a potential entertainer, if it’s any of your business.”
“Did you meet at the Hall?”
“Honestly, I don’t know why you need to know. It’s my business and has nothing at all to do with Kent or my attack.”
But had it something to do with his attack at Beresford Dale, he wondered, studying the woman’s face. She seemed calm enough and didn’t avoid his gaze. He cleared his throat and nodded. “So the police are investigating.”
“They probably won’t find him. I didn’t see his car or number plate.”
“And coming from behind, as he did, you didn’t see him. Was there anything about him—not his appearance, obviously—that you recall? A smell like aftershave, or his voice?” Tattoos were wonderful identification. If the berk had one on his arm and wore a short-sleeved shirt…
Ellen took a sip of water and apologized that nothing stuck in her mind. “Maybe I’ll think of something later.”
“Just a consideration. Don’t force anything. Do you know the attacker used a rock?”
“That’s what the police said. I guess they found it where he dropped it.”
“It would stick out on the gravel, yes. So, chummy didn’t get your handbag or mobile, then. I heard that your gardener scared him off.”
“I was lucky he was working late. We’re redoing the garden, and I think he was preparing the roses for transplanting.”
“Who’s designing it?”
“Ron Pennell. He’s quite good. He’s into herbal remedies, as well.”
McLaren hadn’t the heart to tell her some other designer would have to take over Ron’s job. He wished her speedy recovery, and left the room wondering if Ellen’s assault had anything to do with his investigation. Or, perhaps more perplexing, who would be so desperate as to risk being seen during a daylight robbery.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clark MacKay thought at first to string the police along, making a joke of Dena’s detention, but as he sat in the interview room at the police station he came up with a better plan: tell the truth.
He was spared the humiliation of being handcuffed in front of his staff, the police allowing him to walk—escorted—to the police car. And during the ride to the station he still couldn’t envision anything more than a an hour gone from his day and the explanation of the abduction. He would be financially slapped on the wrist and released with a warning. But the handcuffs sobered him. The entry through the sally port, the walk past the bank of lockers holding prisoners’ personal effects, the CCTV monitors displaying every second in the cells and exercise yard, and the booking process killed the humor as surely as if the listener had known the joke’s punch line. Clark’s embarrassment manifested the longer he talked and the explanation, even to his ears, sounded ludicrous if not serious.
When the arresting officer barked, “Well?” Clark realized he hadn’t heard the question. He had been thinking of Ron, wondering if he were being interviewed or already sat in a cell. Either mental image disturbed him, and he glanced at each officer as if trying to discern the men’s impressions. But he needn’t have bothered. The entire arrest process explained his situation: serious.
Clark echoed Ron’s account of Dena’s capture and confinement, and added an explanation for it all. The narrative emerged slowly, in broken sentences and red-faced grimaces, yet ended as a rush of relief and spiritual cleansing. He stared at Jamie, willing an acceptance to the truth and an end to the ordeal. “I realize I committed a crime when I kidnapped her.” Clark’s voice threatened to break again. “But at the time all I thought of was the money I’d sunk into the commemorative festival for Kent. It’d be undone if the media learned Kent had got a student pregnant a few years ago and was currently having an affair with another. I’d be financially ruined. I had to stop Dena from talking and reopening the case.”
“What has Ron to do with this?” Jamie asked, tapping his pen on the pad of paper in front of him. “Did he kill Kent Harrison?”
“No!”
“You concocted Dena’s kidnapping scheme, thinking you could at least keep her quiet for a few days before you murdered her.”
Clark’s face blanched and he sat rigidly in his chair, his fingers bloodless from their grip on the edges of the seat. He stared at Jamie, trying to think. A conversation in the hall outside the interview room filtered through the closed door, and Clark shifted his gaze to the door, expecting more officers to come in. But the voices faded, a door closed, and Clark looked again at Jamie. “No.”
“Then please tell me. I’d like to understand this.”
“Ron and I got frightened when she began asking questions. She talked to Ron at the Minstrels Court and had mentioned she was conducting preliminary interviews for a friend. Ron and I assumed that the friend was a police detective. Who else would be dredging up an old murder case? From Trevor, Ron was aware of the talk at the College, how jealous Trevor was of Kent always winning the school scholarship. Ron and I figured it wouldn’t be long before the police would think he had killed Kent, or helped Trevor kill Kent, since they’re brothers. Ron’s real close to Trevor, would do most anything for him.”
“Including murder.”
“As I said, that’s how the police reasoning seemed to us, Ron killing or assisting in Kent’s murder to assure Trevor winning the scholarship the following year.” He paused and brought his hands to his lap, where he folded his fingers and sagged back into the chair. “I realize that I committed a grave crime when I kidnapped Dena and held her captive, but I was going to release her.”
“That doesn’t negate the seriousness of the kidnapping.”
Clark nodded. “The whole thing was my idea, officer. Ron hadn’t anything to do with it. I’d be grateful if you’d let him go and just punish me.”
“Unfortunately, Ron’s an accomplice, Mr. MacKay. It may be after the fact, but he participated in the incident.”
“Yes, I understand.” He took a deep breath. “So, what happens now? After sitting in jail, I
mean.”
McLaren detoured on his trip to Rawlton Hall to the music shop. Although he was anxious to poke around the grounds and car park, he reasoned he should talk to Dave. After all, Dave might be getting off work soon. The Hall would always be there.
He imagined Dave Morley sitting in jail, perhaps warbling a bluesy type of song about being on a chain gang. The mental image made McLaren smile. He was getting close to the end of the case. Dena had been rescued. The sunset spread across the sky in purples and gold. He pushed a cassette tape into his tape recorder and soon was singing “The Parting Glass” at the top of his voice.
Dave Morley probably would have been happier to see anyone but McLaren, but answered his questions without prodding. Anything to get the man out of the shop.
“I didn’t cut the strings on Kent’s guitar,” Dave said, clearly annoyed. He stood, feet slightly apart and arms folded across his chest, facing McLaren. His jaw tightened. “That is an absurd accusation. Kent and I were singing partners. How often do I have to tell you? Why would I sabotage my future by hobbling Kent, in any form? Just because you think Kent was strangled with a guitar string, and I happened to be a guitarist and a clerk in a music shop, you’re trying to pin this on me.” He took a step closer to McLaren and pointed his index finger at him. “Circumstantial, at best. You’re grasping at straws. Ellen Fairfield plays guitar, if you’re so keen on that angle. So do dozens of other people who knew Kent. Probably a good percentage who’re members of his fan club. Focus on one of them ’cause I’m telling you I didn’t touch Kent.”
“Maybe you’re grasping at straws, Morley. You’re scared because you killed Kent, and you’re naming anyone you can think of to steer me away from you.”
“Ellen Fairfield is a logical suspect, if you’d take a minute to think.”
“Because she plays guitar,” McLaren snorted.
“Because she was angry Kent wouldn’t leave Tutbury Castle and sing at Rawlton—her Hall.” Dave shook his head and eyed McLaren with obvious scorn. “If you appeared at these functions you’d know the rivalry between the curators. It’s a competitive business. And a satisfying one if you get popular acts and events that bring in the paying public. Many a job hinges on ticket sales. So I think it would benefit you to ask Ellen about any quarrel with Kent. The female of the species is deadlier than the male.”
McLaren tried to picture Ellen throwing a wire around Kent’s neck and strangling him. Ellen was a petite woman; Kent had perhaps six inches on her in height, plus several more stone in weight. McLaren doubted that Ellen could have strangled Kent, even in a surprise attack. “Do you mind telling me where you were that night?”
Dave sighed, as though resigned to going over it all again. “I rang Kent at his home phone and at his mobile numbers. I couldn’t raise him. Surely you can check all this through phone records.”
“Even if cellular towers show that you roamed around, phoning from your mobile, that doesn’t establish your alibi. You could have killed Kent before all this phoning business started.”
“And knowing that Kent was safely out of the way, I kept ringing his phones in a supposed state of anxiety, trying to find him and establishing that he was alive. What crap!”
“If you don’t like that, offer me a better one.”
Dave opened his mouth, started to say something, then stopped.
“Yes, Mr. Morley? I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite hear what you said.”
Dave watched one of the shop clerks hand a guitar to a customer, then looked again at McLaren. “I was with Clark MacKay and Sheri Harrison. At the castle. We were planning a new event.”
McLaren frowned and his voice was tinged with frustration. “Why didn’t you say this before?”
“I didn’t want to involve her.”
“Involve her?” McLaren’s right eyebrow mirrored his surprise. He knew about the meeting between Clark and Sheri. Other castle staff had corroborated it. What was there to involve Sheri?
“Yes.” Dave’s voice lowered so no one else could hear. “I went back with her after the meeting, to her house. I spent the night with her.”
****
He substantiated Dave’s alibi with two of Sheri’s neighbors. One had arrived home at the same time and had seen them go into Sheri’s house. The other neighbor had seen Dave leave early Monday morning. Which left the possibility of Dave killing Kent before arriving at Sheri’s or sneaking out during the night to kill Kent. But that seemed far-fetched. Why risk Sheri noticing Dave’s absence or someone seeing you leave? McLaren couldn’t see an amateur having the nerve to do that. Dave would have killed Kent before bedding down with Sheri, and there hadn’t been time for that. They had left the meeting and driven straight to Sheri’s. McLaren had to look elsewhere for the killer—guitarist or not.
He sat in his car outside Sheri’s house, tired to the bone from his day. The sun seemed to have raced westward and now hovered near the horizon, leaving reminders of its summery glory in the fiery reds, crimsons and violets clothing the clouds. The canvas behind him stretched into the indigo-hued heaven, intensifying the white and gold edges. Despite the set back to his investigation, McLaren sighed. All in all, a satisfactory day.
His mobile rang and he begrudgingly emerged from the sunset’s trance. “McLaren,” he answered, his gaze still on the mottled clouds.
“Michael?”
The voice brought him fully awake and he sat upright. “Dena! Anything wrong?” Perhaps not the most romantic way to reply, but considering her recent experience, it seemed the most logical. “You need something?”
“Yes,” she said, the laughter in her voice. “You. When are you getting to Jamie’s? You said after teatime. Well, it’s been and gone.”
“Oh?” He checked the time on his watch. Nearly eight. He started the engine and eased away from the curb. “I’m just coming now. Sorry, but I got more involved than I thought. I’ll be right there.”
“Fine. Where are you? Not that it matters, but we’ll put on the kettle for you.”
Where was he? He panicked for a moment. He’d lost his bearings while watching the clouds change colors. Glancing at the houses on the street he said, “Oh. Ashbourne. Just wrapping things up. I’ll be—”
“Yeah. Right here.”
“Uh, Dena? Nothing’s wrong, is there?” He felt a fool for asking, but the kidnapping was fresh in his mind. “You’d tell me if you were scared…or anything.”
A lifetime crawled by before she answered. “I’m jittery. I won’t lie about that. But Paula’s been here constantly. Sitting beside my bed or just in the next room. And I’m tired. But on the whole, I’m fine. I’ll be better when I see you.” She hesitated, as though wondering what else to say. “You’ll be here soon, then.” Her voice slid over the phone and she rang off.
He turned up the volume on the cassette tape, feeling he would implode in happiness. Dena was waiting for him at Jamie’s, and soon he’d move her to his house, where it would feel natural and right for her to be. He could imagine her standing by his front window or sitting on the swing in the garden, looking for his arrival. Or in his kitchen, getting the meal ready. Or stretched out in bed, drowsy from a nap, her hair in disarray, yet not caring because she looked at him with love in her eyes. He turned onto the A515 and sped northward, anxious to be with her. To protect and love her, even if their time was short. As he turned onto the A6 outside of Buxton, a new song began. His singing stopped abruptly and the vision of Dena changed. He didn’t need the lyrics of “Marie’s Wedding” to put the idea into his head. He’d thought of that long ago.
****
Rawlton Hall appeared hardly more than a silhouette against the fading evening sky by the time McLaren eased over the brick wall and dropped to the ground. The impact barely made a sound and he glanced at the dark shape before him, half expecting it to jump in fright. He crouched at the base, hardly daring to breathe, and glanced around. From his low angle, the turrets seemed to scrape the clouds that crawled out of
the west, their bellies dark and holding the scent of rain. A shaft of moonlight spilled onto the crenellation and down the wall, and threw back pinpricks of light from the leaded window.
McLaren drew in a breath, trying to still his racing heart, and half stood. The sounds of crickets and owls remained unchanged, as did the splash of the brook. He glanced at the Hall, waiting to be bathed in spotlight glare or attacked by dogs. But the night remained unchanged. Nothing seemed upset by his presence. He snapped on his torch and made his way to the car park.
Other than two estate vehicles at the far corner, it was devoid of cars. No watchman appeared from the booth near the main road; no dots of torchlight marked the grounds. McLaren walked slowly as he swept his torch beam across the rock-strewn surface. Time crawled with him, having no presence other than his breathing and the sporadic calls of night birds. A breeze played across the grass and wound through the trees, bringing a drop in air temperature and the pending rain scent closer. He glanced at the sky as thunder rumbled in the west, then pushed on.
He’d covered the bulk of the area when a car slowed on the road. The headlight beams flicked to high as the car stopped on the verge. The purr of the idling engine bore into McLaren’s ears and he ducked behind the booth and turned off his torch. The motor stopped, a car door slammed, and a figure stepped across the stream of light, shutting it off momentarily. As the shape moved onto the verge the footsteps dulled. A muffled “Damn” floated over to McLaren, followed by the crunch of disturbed gravel.
McLaren crouched behind the booth, his palms against the wood surface, his stare on the moving shape before him. The form paused at the entrance to the car park and stopped for what seemed like an eternity. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, McLaren wondered? The gravel crunched again, moving toward the other end of the lot, coming toward him. The sound continued until the figure stopped at the point closest to the Hall. Moments later, a bright light snapped on, directed at McLaren; he flattened himself on the ground. The light holder seemed not to notice him, for the beam immediately shifted downward and began sweeping sideways in meter-wide arcs.
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