Murder in the Goblins' Playground

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  The lane curved away from the village toward the Old Pike. It was a narrow black strip barely wide enough for two cars passing. There was no traffic. The last time it had been a route of any import, riders on horseback passed each other on the left to keep the right hand free, either to offer in friendship or to swing a sabre. Given the temperaments and driving habits of modern motorists, Ravyn considered how little had changed over the centuries.

  “Wouldn’t like it none living out here, sir,” Stark remarked. “It would be bad enough in the village. This is worse. Where’s this cottage Smith is supposed to have?”

  “Set back from the lane among the trees,” Ravyn said. “But in view of the Old Pike, I think.”

  “Barely in view,” Stark said, pointing.

  Had they not been looking for signs of habitation, they would not have seen the cottage set well back. It seemed embraced by trees. At one time, the cottage had been blue with white trim, but the elements had lightened and darkened it to a dull and uniform grey. The fence was more down than up. Of a planned garden, only a whisper remained. The cottage had been wracked by time, bowed and twisted till it seemed a breeze might have knocked it to a ruin. Not a sound broke the silence as they approached.

  “Ought to be razed, that,” Stark said. “Not far from it now.”

  “Mr Smith,” Ravyn called. “Raymond!”

  Though he shouted loudly, his words seemed small, swallowed by the immensity of the enveloping forest. They shouted for a half-minute, then waited a futile half-minute more for an answer.

  “Go around the back,” Ravyn said. “I’ll take a look inside. Be careful and give a shout if you need help.”

  Stark nodded. As soon as Ravyn entered the dilapidated cottage and he went around back, Stark experienced such solitude as he had never before felt. He knew Ravyn was within shouting distance, that a village of several hundred souls existed down the lane and all the population of England beyond that, but he felt as if he might be the last man on Earth. The silence was so profound, it hurt his ears.

  The cottage rear was littered with the debris of decades, the flotsam and jetsam that accumulates about all neglected habitations, each succeeding occupant adding to the cast-offs. There were rusted tools, stacks of weathered lumber, broken pottery, wood gathered for winter fires, heaps of bottles and cans. There were even the shattered remains of an antique television set and the gutted hulk of a tractor of the last century, both incongruous in a place that had never been electrified or connected with agriculture.

  The only artefacts not gone to rust and ruin were hanging traps, lines for stringing game, and what was obviously a smoking shed. These, Stark guessed, were the property of the current occupant, destined for eventual abandonment and decay. Beyond the shed was the black bulwark of the woods.

  He should call out for Raymond Smith, Stark knew that, but the looming forest was intimidating. Stuff and nonsense, all that rubbish about elves and hobgoblins, Stark knew that too, but as he stood in the maw of the ancient woods he felt any sound would be ill advised. Who knew what might be listening, just out of sight, or might take offence at being disturbed?

  Anger and self-loathing flashed through Stark. He was a man of the Twenty-first Century, for God’s sake, not a country bumpkin or an ignorant savage from the age of unpolished stone. There were no boogies in the underbrush, no elves to dip their caps in his flowing blood. It was just a stand of trees, not the abode of evil. Should he voice a bellowing shout, no nameless horror would be roused from its aeon-long slumber to wreak vengeance upon him.

  Quietly, warily, he made his way toward the smoking shed, all the while telling himself his silence and caution had nothing to do with supernatural dangers, only existential ones. Inside the shed the hangers were vacant, the metal smoker cold and filled with ash.

  He walked around the small building. Despite the brightness of the day, very little light filtered through the overhanging trees. He scanned the deep twilight, saw something pale protruding from under a bush, stepped forward along the little path that led around the bush, then yelled for Ravyn.

  Ravyn, having found nothing of import, had just stepped out of the tumbled-down cottage when Stark’s call rang out. He ran around the back, then heard Stark call again from beyond a small building. He rounded the smoking shed. The dimness forced him to pause.

  Stark stood from behind a bush. “Here, sir. There’s some kind of trail a few feet to your left.”

  Ravyn joined Stark and looked down. “Smith.”

  “He’s dead, sir,” Stark said. “Body’s cold. Been there awhile.”

  The poacher’s left leg was gripped by the jagged teeth of a trap attached to a heavy staked chain. The body was partially on its side. Smith’s face showed more surprise than pain.

  “Poor bugger,” Stark said. “Came along the path, didn’t see his trap, and snap goes the croc. Couldn’t get free, couldn’t pull up the stake. Probably shouted his heart out, but no one heard. Died alone, caught like a coney in one of his own traps.”

  “Very picturesque and romantically tragic, Stark,” Ravyn said, his voice even, his tone dry. “Observation or speculation?”

  “Sir?”

  Ravyn sighed. “Observe, then deduce. Never speculate. You’ll not get very far with the cart before the horse, will you?”

  Stark bit his lips to hold a retort that in his youth would have earned him strop, fist or cane. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, there was something to Ravyn’s idea that people never changed their natures. A depressing notion, for he well knew what an insufferable little arse he had been as a lad, and often still was. It ruffled him that Ravyn’s words stung, but more that they were true.

  He reached into the pocket of his old coat, pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them on, and went to one knee. This time he observed rather than saw. Ravyn knelt beside him.

  “Bloody hell,” Stark murmured after a moment.

  The wound caused by the trap was entirely bloodless even though the leaves beneath were soaked. He reached around and lifted one side of the dead man’s coat. The front of his rough shirt was covered with blood.

  “You couldn’t have seen more than a half-second,” Stark said. “How could you know it wasn’t the way it seemed at first blush? I mean, it’s amateurish, easily seen through when the body was turned, but how the bloody hell could you know?” Stark breathed evenly and closed his eyes a moment. “Sorry, sir, but it’s just…”

  Ravyn patted him on the shoulder. “Nothing to apologise for, Stark. I do seem to bring that out in people. Beyond the fact that this is Hammershire, where nothing is rarely what it seems, I noted there was almost no sheen to his dark trousers from the blood that should have been there, given the copious amount beneath him.”

  “When you explain it like that…”

  “Yes, it always does.” He looked at the hole tore through the shirt and the wound beyond. “We’ll have to wait for Penworthy’s examination, of course, but I have no doubt the same weapon was used here as in the other murders.”

  “The fact that neither Dr Penworthy nor forensics can identify it is significant, I think,” Stark said.

  “I agree, very significant,” Ravyn said. “And you’re right about the attempt to disguise the murder being amateurish in the extreme.”

  “Anyone who had read a single murder mystery or seen any of the shows about coppers would have done miles better staging this to look like an accident,” Stark said. “Either the killer is ignorant, or thinks we’re a couple of dumb plodders.”

  “Or could not come to grips with the idea of murder.”

  “Like…” Stark reached for a concept. “…in denial?”

  “There was no attempt to make Lent’s look like a mishap,” the Chief Inspector said. “Nor Cutter’s, though that may only have been because he was able to walk away from it, for awhile.” He gazed at the body. “The murderer kills him, then is overcome with remorse, tries to make it look like an accident, irrationally so. What would cau
se a person to do that?”

  “Knew him, though that’s a given here,” Stark said. “Maybe liked him, didn’t really want to kill him, but felt there was no choice. Maybe Smith knew more than the killer was comfortable him knowing, or guessing.”

  Ravyn sighed. “I didn’t know him well, but he seemed a good man. Give Dr Penworthy a bell, get her and forensics out here.”

  Stark pulled out his mobile.

  “Call Heln as well,” Ravyn added. “Let him know what has happened, ask him to authorise uniformed officers being sent to guard Lillian, Dylwyth, and Marion and Gwen.”

  Stark made the two calls, then paused before punching the last. He looked at Ravyn. Ravyn arched his eyebrows quizzically.

  “Superintendent Heln, sir,” Stark said. “Wouldn’t it be better if the request came from you?”

  “Use my name and authority, of course,” Ravyn said. “I don’t want Heln to drag his feet.”

  For a moment, Stark was shocked to silence. “I know you and he don’t see eye to eye, but…I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t believe such a high officer would hamstring a case, much less put people in peril simply out of spite.”

  Ravyn gave a smile that was simultaneously wry and weary. “Haven’t had much contact with Superintendent Heln, have you?”

  Stark shook his head. “Just the times with you.”

  “He hasn’t asked you into his office?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Alone?”

  Again, Stark shook his head.

  “For a heart-to-heart?” Ravyn suggested. “Perhaps about your career and the best ways to advance it?”

  “Sir, the only times I’ve seen Superintendent Heln at all,” Stark said firmly, “have either been in your company or some meeting that everyone else attended. I want to know what you’re…”

  “Make the call, Sergeant,” Ravyn said. His voice had lost its edge and the corners of his mouth crinkled into a smile. “If you ask, he won’t dare delay any action.”

  Stark’s rising indignation drained. “Me? I not anybody, sir, just a transfer copper who most people think might have got kicked off the Met, maybe bent for all they know. I’m nobody.”

  “You may or may not be what you claim you are, or even what you think you are,” Ravyn said. “But you are always what other people think you are, especially if they do not know you.”

  Stark sighed. “Sir, I think I’m beginning to understand why they always have a pool when you get a get a new sergeant.”

  Ravyn put thumb and pinkie to ear and mouth. “Time’s wasting, Stark, and we have an impatient killer. Make the call.”

  Stark made the call.

  * * *

  “Can’t believe Heln authorised only two men,” Stark said.

  “Front and rear,” Ravyn said. “Better than nothing. And more than any of the women wanted. You heard them.”

  “They should be grateful,” Stark said. “And afraid.”

  “They are set in their ways, can’t change their natures,” Ravyn said. “They have always been lived with the fervent independence demanded by their beliefs. They have never brooked interference from others, and never will.” He paused. “Afraid? Yes, they are that, even Miss Nettle, who is the strongest of the three, but of what?”

  “Not trying to be snarky,” Stark said, “but of being murdered like Cutter, Lent and Smith, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Late afternoon had settled upon Ashford, the brilliant light of day giving way to muted tones. Shadows lengthened, seeming to rise from the earth to meet the gathering dusk. They left the officers at the cottages, then stopped briefly by the village hall to ensure WPC Stevens had rescheduled all remaining interviews to the next day. There was also a progress report on old PC Spooner. He had regained consciousness, but could not recall a single thing about the attack or the torching of the caravan.

  “Now, that does not surprise me at all,” Stark said. “Daft old bugger! Should have packed it in years ago. He’s lucky he was hit in the head—nothing to break there.”

  Ravyn smiled. “You look knackered. How about I stand you for a pint before you head home?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Stark replied. “If it’s all the same to you, all I want to do is go home. The wife and me…well…we have…”

  “Go on home, Stark,” Ravyn said. “Remember, as Gilbert and Sullivan said, the lot of a policeman is not a happy one, but nothing compared to that of a policeman’s wife.”

  “As you say, sir,” said Stark, who knew much more about light jazz than he did light opera.

  Ravyn watched the tail lamps vanish in the direction of the Stafford road, then headed to the Three Crowns. Surprisingly, the snug was devoid of customers. Woodcock stood behind the bar.

  “What happened to you?”

  Woodcock looked away. “Nothing.”

  “It’s my experience that ‘nothing’ doesn’t blacken both a man’s eyes, chip a tooth or…”

  “All right, all right,” Woodcock said. “I walked into a bloody door. Satisfied, Mr Ravyn?”

  “Or leave fist-sized bruises,” Ravyn observed. “No matter how many times you bang your face against a bloody door.”

  “Leave me alone.” Woodcock plopped on the stool behind the bar, buried his face in his hands and heaved a shuddering sigh. “Just leave me the hell alone.”

  Ravyn walked behind the bar, set out two glasses and poured out measures of Laphroaig. Woodcock started to protest.

  “Drink up,” Ravyn said. “I’m paying.”

  Woodcock gulped it, then sipped from a second Ravyn poured.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  Ravyn surveyed the empty snug. “Major Westerham as well?”

  Woodcock laughed, then groaned in pain. “Not that stupid git. Starts to come in, sees what’s what, then turns and runs as if his arse were on fire.” Woodcock sipped at the whiskey. “He’s barred for life, he is, and I don’t mean no two weeks.”

  “Winters, Rawlins and Child,” Ravyn murmured.

  Woodcock nodded. “Just a misunderstanding, Mr Ravyn, really it was. All sorted out now. I don’t want to pursue it none.”

  “You don’t need to,” Ravyn said. “I will.”

  “I’m not preferring charges,” Woodcock protested. “If I don’t swear out a complaint, ain’t nothing you can do.”

  Ravyn pulled out his mobile and started to type.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sending Sergeant Stark a text.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “It is, if it has anything to do with Oscar Lent.”

  Woodcock’s face paled behind the purple and red of his bruises and abrasions. “Who said anything about Mr Lent?”

  “I did,” Ravyn replied.

  “What are you telling that Sergeant Stark?”

  “To have a chat with Winters, Rawlins and Child; with the Major if needs be,” Ravyn said. “He has some interrogation skills from the Met we don’t usually see in Hammershire. If Sergeant Stark can make the hard men of London quail, imagine what he can do with those four.”

  “Now, Mr Ravyn, there’s no need to do anything like that,” Woodcock said.

  Ravyn paused in his keying. “No?”

  “Like I said, it was just a misunderstanding, one that got a little out of hand before it got sorted,” Woodcock said. “And got sorted it did, me and my mates.” He paused. “Except the Major, of course. He’s still barred, but I oughta done that long ago.”

  Ravyn’s fingers remained paused above the mobile.

  Woodcock heaved a sigh. “All right, I’ll tell you what it was, but what it wasn’t was about Oscar Lent’s murder.”

  Ravyn dismissed his text. “But his murder is what brought on the misunderstanding?”

  “Aye,” Woodcock admitted. “You might say so.”

  “They found out how far you were in Lent�
��s pocket?”

  Woodcock nearly dropped his glass.

  Ravyn nodded. “What was your reward for you keeping tabs on who was for and who was against the project?”

  Woodcock held silent, refused to look at Ravyn.

  “I’m thinking, paid-for improvements to your present holding, changes to make the old pub more upscale,” Ravyn said. “The kind that would attract a better clientele.”

  “I’d’ve been able to expand the saloon bar, put in a new dining room,” Woodcock confirmed. “More importantly, I would finally be able to close this ratty old snug.”

  “Wouldn’t sit well with your mates, I’d think.”

  Woodcock snorted derisively. “Mates! Bunch of wankers, all of them, driving out decent trade, always in arrears. They been taking advantage of me, intimidating me, ever since we was kids. But this will put an end to all that.” He paused, downed his whiskey, then poured another. “Well, it would have. The development might go ahead without Mr Lent, but I think not. At any rate, our, ah, ‘arrangement’ was a secret, nothing on paper.” He raised his glass in a toast to the snug, the departed Mr Lent, and all shattered dreams. “All down the crapper now, ain’t it?”

  “Along with whatever you were getting at the development.”

  Woodcock nodded. “Just a small percentage, all under the table, nothing for Inland Revenue to fuss over. Not much, just crumbs as to dogs, but a lot to the likes of me.”

  “How did they find out?” Ravyn asked.

  Woodcock bit his lip and shook his head. “Damned if I know. I thought I walked the line, not taking one side or the other. Sure, I let Mr Lent have his parties as he wanted, gave him allowances and such, but that’s just good business. Even plonkers like these know I can’t turn away good money. None of us can.”

  “But somehow they found out.”

  Woodcock nodded. “Accused me of ‘bedding with the enemy,’ they called it, said I put them on a list so Lent and his cronies could ruin them, take their cottages, force them out of the village, all sorts of rubbish. Half mental they were when they come in.”

  “They got worse after drinking?”

  “They were pissed for sure, but not from drinking here,” the pub owner said. “Drunk afore they stepped through that door. They were so lit, I refused to serve them, and that’s when they started in about me setting them up.”