Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Not for the first time did the castle cast its spell on him. As he approached the entrance with its twin columns and narrow, tall doorway, he imagined the castle approaching 950 years, stretching from its construction begun in 1068 to its present renaissance as a living piece of history. He never really could do; there were too many monarchs and sieges in that time span. He was content to focus on the snippets of history he knew—Henry VIII visited in 1511, Mary imprisoned four times between 1569 and 1585, and the brief consideration in the early 1830s to use the castle as a prison.

  He crossed the center court, a grassy expanse now holding vendor booths and archery contests. The land and the castle stones had baked under the July sun all day and now threw it back in oven-like blasts of heat. McLaren eyed the beer vendor, longing for a long gulp of cold liquid, but walked on. Beneath his boots the grass bent and broke, as brittle as old parchment, as tan as the beer he wanted. He came upon the main stage holding the musicians and singers. The heat throbbed here, funneled along the south wall of the castle and the vendors’ booths. A faint breeze threaded through this corridor, scented with human sweat, perfume and heat. The area to the right of the castle entrance was reserved for the tumblers, jugglers and acrobats. All very authentic; all part of the exuberant Minstrels Court.

  He found Sheri Harrison, Kent’s ex-wife, in the castle’s tearoom, a ground-floor restaurant acquisitioned from the rooms making up the main building. A brunette with faint streaks of gray in her hair, Sheri wore the air of exhaustion that comes with too much work and meeting continuous deadlines. She looked up at him as he approached her table, her eyes inquisitive behind round, metal spectacles. Her openness faded somewhat when he introduced himself, but she willingly offered him a chair.

  “Would you like tea?” She reached for the small ceramic pot beside her teacup. “I think there’s enough left for one more cup. If you want to get a cup from the counter…” She shifted in her chair to see the stack of cups and saucers. “Or I could get you a coffee.” She hesitated, waiting to get him something.

  “I appreciate the offer,” McLaren said, “but I’ll pass. I’m rather too hot for tea. No offense.”

  “Of course not.” She smiled rather hesitantly, not knowing where his questions would lead, doubting again if it was a good idea to talk to him. Sensing something should be said, she asked, “Were you walking around for a while outside, taking in the festivities?” His face is red enough for it, she thought. Walking up from the car park and across the courtyard has most people panting in this heat. Thinking better of her offer, she suggested a lemonade, or other cold beverage.

  “Thanks just the same. I’m fine.” McLaren looked around the room.

  Pale green walls set off the honey-colored window blinds, casting an aura of comfort through the area. A combination tearoom and souvenir shop, it held a quality selection from both quarters. People contemplated picture post cards, books, mugs, maps, CDs, DVDs, small toys and games, and tea towels. They sat at tables or queued for tea, peering at the menu board or the food selections in the glass display counter. Conversations and the clink of metal cutlery against china, the ring of the cash registers and the restaurant door latching shut blended into the hum of background noise as McLaren gave a quick look at Mary, Queen of Scots. The painting’s artist caught her— magnificent in her dress—arriving in 1585 for her fourth period of incarceration in the castle. Poor Mary, he thought again. Each time she had left Tutbury she probably had thought she had escaped its horror. What must she have felt on learning she was to return? He gave the painting one last glance before he turned in his chair to face Sheri. She looked the picture of cool-and-crisp in her wrinkle-free linen skirt and cotton blouse. Unlike me, he thought, wiping his fingers across the right side of his neck to mop up the sweat. He returned her smile before he said, “You don’t have to talk to me, you realize.”

  “Certainly. It’s not a topic I relish. Kent and I had a nasty parting, but I don’t mind answering some questions. Provided they’re not too personal.” She looked at him, expressionless but for the hint of challenge in her eyes.

  “I appreciate your honesty and I accept your condition. When was your divorce, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “Why? Is there some magic number, like after eight months, four days and seventeen hours you no longer hate each others’ guts and wouldn’t dream of making life rough for the other?”

  “Was that true in your or Kent’s case, then?”

  “Now you’re talking motive, Mr. McLaren.”

  He snorted. “Of course! Don’t tell me that surprises you. I’m sure the police thought the same during their initial investigation. I don’t know that motive necessarily always dies with time.”

  She nodded slightly, acknowledging the truth. “I don’t know if my ill feeling—well, you can call it hatred, for that’s not too strong a word—toward Kent would have eased much even years from then.”

  “Has it eased any, now that he’s dead?”

  “Somewhat. Not much. I don’t know.” She stirred her tea to give her something to focus on, some time to think. “I haven’t actually considered my current feelings. I’ve tried to bury them now that Kent is gone.” She tapped the spoon against the lip of the cup and set it on the saucer. Leaning back in her chair, she looked as though she had all the time in the world; her workday had ended, and she was too comfortable—and tired—to move just yet. She said rather slowly, “It’s best that way, you know. You can’t live long with so much hatred inside you. It’s not healthy. It eats away at your being; it saps your energy and your will to do anything else. I know I wasted a lot of hours planning vengeful, spiteful things. Like I had suddenly inhabited a different body, had become a different person, and that’s all I could think about or had the desire to do—avenge myself on Kent because he had hurt me. And I don’t mean with his girl friend, Fay. She came along after we decided we weren’t working out. No. There was another reason for our split.” She lifted her eyes from the cup to find McLaren looking at her. Flashing a half-hearted smile, she said, “Sorry. Bad habit of mine, feeling sorry for myself. Well, it’s water under the dam and I’ve got the rest of my life to forget Kent Harrison.”

  “These vengeful, spiteful things you were planning—”

  “Oh, I never carried any of that out, Mr. McLaren! It was more a cheap, therapeutic exercise than anything physical.”

  “Fifty ways to kill your lover, eh? With apologies to Paul Simon.”

  “I probably came up with fifty one, but in my case I changed the word to ‘punish’ because I didn’t kill him.”

  McLaren let the silence fall between them as he considered her statement. He didn’t know her, but he believed anyone could kill, given enough motive and anger. The question was if Sheri Harrison was that sort of person, and if she was lying to him.

  “How did you two meet?” He eyed her, curious beyond the mere words of the inquiry. He could see why any man might be attracted to her, but he was curious about Kent meeting her. “And when?” he added quickly as Sheri shifted in her chair.

  “It’s fairly boring.” She smiled.

  “Perhaps, but boring doesn’t bother me.”

  “Here at the castle. During one of the events.”

  “Minstrel’s Court?”

  “No. Earlier in the year than that. Just a weekend of period music. I liked his music, went over to watch, became intrigued by him, and…” She shrugged and gave a half smile. “We dated, fell in love, got married a year later. Here at the castle. It seemed romantic at the time.”

  “And you made your home…where?”

  “In Kirkfield. In the same house he lived in now. My place was too small. A flat in Swadlincote. So even though Kirkfield was slightly farther from my work at the castle, his house suited us better. So I moved in right before our wedding. Moved out right before our divorce. I now live in Ashbourne.”

  “You were working at the castle before and during your marriage. Where did Kent work during that p
eriod?”

  “Same place when he died.”

  “Murdered, Mrs. Harrison. Kent was murdered.”

  He had emphasized the word so strongly that Sheri jerked her head. “Yes. Of course. When he was…” She fished for a word McLaren would like, reluctant to use his offering. “When he was…killed. He still worked at the school in Ashbourne.”

  “Did you always live in Swadlincote?”

  “Seems like it, though my parents and I lived in London until my first birthday. Then dad got his job in Swadlincote and we moved here. My folks still live there, by the way. Dad’s itching to retire—he has two more years until he can.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Computer work. Repair and website hosting. Mum works from their home as a website designer.”

  “What did you and Kent do for fun? Holidays, clubs, hobbies,” he suggested when she looked blank.

  “At first it was music. That’s what had brought us together.”

  “Early stuff, like the type he sang?”

  “Certainly. We’d go to folk clubs, too. Some of the songs he sang actually fit that category, and when he popularized some of them, they easily fit the folk vein. We’d make the rounds every so often—you know, The Malt Shovel on Tuesdays, The Harried Fox on Fridays. But it wasn’t cast in stone.”

  “Not every Tuesday for the Malt Shovel.”

  “No. We had other interests, although the music was important. Kent and his occasional singing partner would get together every month, or month and a half, for a boys’ night out at a pub to talk over an upcoming venue or recording session. I’d either stay home, or pop over to a girl friend’s or my parents’ for the evening.”

  “No clubs on your own?”

  “No. I like to read during my time off. Or garden or go out with friends. I don’t like organizations, church groups or fitness centers. Nothing structured like that. But we do have friends over about once a month for dinner. Or we’re asked to their homes.”

  “Any particular friends? Did you see them on a fairly regular basis?”

  “You want names?” Without waiting for his answer, she opened her purse, took out a small notepad and pen, and wrote down names and phone numbers. Handing it to McLaren, she said, “We’re a dull bunch.”

  “Keeps you out of trouble that way. Thanks.” He glanced at the paper, folded it, and put it into his shirt pocket. “Sounds like your lives were full. What drove you apart?”

  Sheri sighed and pulled in her bottom lip. Dropping the pad and pen into her purse, she said, “What drives people apart? You eventually have different goals for your lives, your interests change until you’re just two people sharing a house and who merely nod to each other while heading for different appointments.”

  “No person got in the way, then. No long hours at work.”

  “No. No other woman or even a hint of an affair came between us. Kent became more and more involved in his music so I compensated for the hours alone by working longer at the castle. And going on weekend trips with a friend.”

  “Who’s the friend? Where did you go?”

  “Nothing lurid, Mr. McLaren. A girlfriend. Her name’s on the list. First one. Her husband is often in Munich for his job, so Judy has weekends free. We go bird watching. Usually to Carsington Water or up north to the reservoirs. Ladybower and such.”

  “Do you still bird watch, or was that just to fill in the vacant hours of your marriage?”

  “We still go. Her husband hasn’t stopped traveling to the continent.”

  “So these people on your list are the ones you and Kent socialized with as a couple, for the most part.”

  “Yes, though we’d sometimes go to one of his school functions, or there was something going on here at the castle. But that was once a year, I’d guess.”

  “Business rather than pleasure.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And since your divorce…you said you’re still employed here at the castle. Same job you had during your marriage?”

  “Yes. Full time tour guide and some time event planner.”

  “Which do you like best?”

  Sheri shook her head, her eyes clouding for a moment. “Hard to answer. They’re different jobs. It’s a tie, I guess. I like the tour guide position because I like teaching and seeing the interest in people’s faces as they hear some fact they find interesting. I love history, which plays into being a guide, of course, but it also is an essential part of event planning. I get a great satisfaction from a well-staged and attended event, from seeing people learn and come to appreciate our past.”

  “How long after you moved out of your house was your divorce granted?”

  “A year. Though it seemed longer. I couldn’t wait to be free. I felt as though I was aging a month for each day I stayed married to Kent. It’s still a shock to realize I’m only thirty-six. I feel twice that.” She glanced at McLaren, her eyes challenging him to say something consoling, like she didn’t even look her age, then she pressed her lips together and looked away.

  As the silence fell between them, Sheri grabbed the spoon and again stirred her tea. Playing for time, McLaren wondered, or hoping I’ll leave?

  “I had an alibi for the time of his death, you know.” Her words, soft as they were spoken, broke the silence.

  “Tenth of July. Where were you?”

  “Nowhere suspicious. It’s fairly common knowledge. I was working late. Here, at the castle.”

  “Others saw you and vouched for you, I take it.”

  “My boss, Clark MacKay. We were together. Until about eleven o’clock.”

  “Rather late to be working.” The suspicion crept into his voice again.

  “Yes. But we were putting the final touches on an upcoming event.”

  “On a mental roll.”

  “Yes. There were a myriad of small, last minute details to finish and we needed to get it completed.”

  “What was the event?”

  “Tudor Days. We held it later that month. I’m talking about last year, you understand.”

  “I’m aware we’re talking about last year, Mrs. Harrison. He was murdered last year.” His eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if she was nervous or perhaps thought him an idiot.

  Sheri nodded, her cheeks slightly reddened. “Yes. Sorry. It’s just that, talking about days and years… Well, I didn’t want you—”

  “I’m right with you. Your alibi is tenth of July, a year ago. You were working late.”

  She rushed on, trying to gloss over her verbal faux pas. “Yes. Our first Tudor Days was the previous year, in fact.”

  “Two years ago.” He smiled, showing he could do the mental math.

  “We had spent several years saying ‘what if’ and ‘why can’t we’ and other procrastinating phrases until I suppose we tired of the excuses and rolled up our sleeves two years ago and planned the thing. I’m awfully glad we did. It was a huge success so we held it again last year. Even though last year’s was only the second time for Tudor Days, we felt we really had a winner.”

  “Attendance was that good, then.”

  “Oh yes! We had nothing but rave reviews. From everyone: the media, the booth vendors, the performers, and the public.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. We focused on the castle’s history during the reigns of the Tudors, had cooking demonstrations, food, art, music and contests pertinent to that era.”

  “You mentioned music. Did Kent perform at that event?”

  “Yes. I believe he did.” She tilted her head slightly. Light from the overhead fixture reflected off her spectacles, masking her eyes from his view. Then, as quickly as they had slipped into obscurity, they stared back at him as she again shifted her head. She blinked several times, perplexed. “Why do you want to know about what happened during Tudor Days? You think someone there trailed him home and killed him? Isn’t that rather far-fetched, targeting your victim like that? I thought that was just movie drama.”

  “Yo
u also mentioned food. I assume you had demonstrations and booths.”

  The sudden switch in topics caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened and she blinked before she replied. “Pardon? Oh, certainly. That’s standard in most of these fairs and reenactments.”

  “I know this is an absurd question, but did you know if Kent ate anything at one of the booths?”

  “Oh. You’re trying to figure out how that poisonous plant got into him. Well, it wasn’t me, Mr. McLaren. I didn’t make him hemlock tea and make him drink it. He wouldn’t have eaten anything I’d have given him, anyway—which I wouldn’t have done. That would have necessitated me getting within communicating and seeing range. Neither of which I had a desire to do. So you’ll have to look for your poisoner somewhere else.”

  “You were divorced by then, or planning to be?”

  “Divorced. Cleanly separated. Nice and legal.”

  “And that was…”

  “One week to the day before he wound up dead. If I had known that was going to happen, I would have saved my time, energy and money and not hired my lawyer. Life’s funny, isn’t it?”

  EIGHT

  Dena thought she could have saved some time and energy, and certainly petrol money, if she and Dave Morley had talked by phone. But she wanted to judge his demeanor, see the facial expressions behind his words. After all, Michael always talked about ‘reading’ people. The phone masked communication nearly as well as email did. If you didn’t have voice inflections or couldn’t read body language something as mundane as ‘Everything’s just fine’ could be interpreted as sarcastic or elated.

  Joyful Sound Music was a modest sized shop in Buxton. While not situated on the High Street or the Crescent, two of the more traveled spots, it was still in a location that brought a respectable amount of trade. Dena parked her MG opposite the store, applied a fresh coat of lipstick to her dry lips and combed her hair while she mentally rehearsed what she would ask Dave Morley. Smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from her light blue trousers, she took a deep breath, then walked into the shop.