Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Sean snorted and grabbed his car key. “Let him investigate. There’s nothing to find. The coroner ruled on the case long ago. He won’t find a thing.”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug about that, dear. I’ve heard he usually gets what he’s after.”

  “He a cop, then?”

  “He was. Michael McLaren. Now he looks into cold cases. Quite successfully, too.”

  “You said that.”

  “So, do I go to the cops or not, Sean?”

  “Why not talk to this chap, if he’s so keen to dig around in Janet’s case. He’ll probably listen to you.” He stood up, looking down at Helene. “Better yet, he’ll probably believe you.”

  “I’m serious, Sean. I want the first two hundred quid by Monday night. You’ve got a week, or I’ll tell a very convincing story to the police.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “You’ll have to work on your bluff, dear. Even I’m not convinced.”

  “I don’t have to convince you of anything, Helene. You know I’m innocent.”

  “Do I? Funny thing about the police—they’re inclined to believe a convicted burglar’s capable of murder. You’re going to have a difficult time convincing them otherwise. Is it worth it to you and your wife?”

  Sean turned toward the door, his face drained of color.

  “I’ll call you Sunday and let you know where to deliver my money, shall I?”

  TWELVE

  Haddon Hall perched like a crown on the hill above the River Wye. It threw back the late afternoon sun, its light gray stone taking on the faintest of a yellowish tint under the light. McLaren paid the parking fee and stopped his car alongside a Ford Galaxy. Could do with a wash, he thought, glancing at the grimy exterior. He shook his head. Some people just didn’t know how to take care of things.

  His shoes scrunched into the limestone gravel, sending up small plumes of dust that settled on his shoes and on the sparse patches of grass that poked through the hard ground. At the entrance he paid the admittance fee to the Hall. Slipping his wallet into his trousers back pocket, he gazed at the nail-studded door in the Hall’s gateway. Should’ve kept some folks out without too much trouble. The stone steps, saucer-shaped from millions of feet over the centuries, led from the gateway up to the lower courtyard. McLaren stepped aside as a group of school children ran down the steps and funneled through the archway. They laughed and jostled each other as they made for the restaurant.

  Ian said something about Bruce being there, didn’t he? McLaren paused, looking through the archway, toward the upstairs restaurant. Maybe that group of kids had warranted a group tour. If so, maybe Bruce had shepherded them about. McLaren mounted the seven tiers of stone steps and made for the Hall.

  The building personified Gothic, with its heraldic crests, leaded glass windows, and masses of rose and clematis vines smothering the exterior stone walls. He glanced to his right, at the stone chimney, and wondered how many there were in the medieval house, then walked inside.

  Bruce Parrott had, indeed, given the school children a tour of the house and McLaren found him in the banquet hall, a thirty-five foot by twenty-five foot paneled room with large leaded glass windows and a hammerbeam roof. McLaren introduced himself and asked if he could ask Bruce some questions.

  “That was five years ago,” Bruce said. His eyebrows lowered slightly as he assessed McLaren. “If the police were so concerned about my information, why didn’t they ask me then? No one even bothered to talk to me.”

  McLaren eyed the man without replying. Bruce Parrott appeared to be in his mid twenties and wore his red hair close cropped. A haze of a beard covered his jaws and chin, suggesting more than his dark rimmed eyes did that he’d had a long day.

  “You did say you’re from the police,” Bruce added by way of prompting McLaren.

  “No. I’m looking into a case that the police haven’t solved. Are you working much longer?” He let a man and woman stroll through the room before saying, “I thought we could talk somewhere private.”

  “I’m off, actually. I just gave a tour and that was my last for the day. Is here all right?”

  McLaren glanced around the area. Three massive, carved oak beams ran the width of the room, supporting the wooden fretwork of the ceiling. A minstrels’ gallery, tapestry and raised dais composed most of room. “We won’t be overheard?”

  Bruce glanced at his watch. “Nearly closing time. We won’t get many more visitors. But if you’d feel more comfortable somewhere else…”

  “Is there somewhere outside?”

  “Sure. The upper courtyard is fairly empty at this time of day. Most people have probably finished looking at the garden.” He moved toward the door and McLaren followed, giving one last look at the overhead beams as he passed. The length of the upper edges was nicked into small squares, resembling the teeth of a zipper. This same design adorned the molding below the rafters. He allowed his fingertips to lightly glide over the surface of a wooden chest, then became aware of his footsteps moving across the stone floor. His hand lingered on the satin-smooth doorframe as he stepped into the passageway.

  Haddon Hall was laid out in the form of a squared-off figure eight, with the two courtyards enclosed within the two sections of the figure. The banquet hall, pantry and buttery separated the upper courtyard from the lower. McLaren climbed the stone steps and came upon a dense, green lawn. Masses of rose bushes and climbing clematis framed the stone parapet that surrounded the yard.

  Bruce perched on the top of the railing, near an enthusiastic rose bush, and loosened his tie. He looked at McLaren, who remained standing. “So what’s this about? You said you’re looking into Janet’s death. But you’re not a cop?” He angled his head so he could see McLaren’s face without squinting into the sun.

  “I’m doing this for Janet’s mother. She’s not satisfied with the open verdict.”

  “Yeah. I’d heard she didn’t believe the accident account. What do you want to know, then?”

  “I understand you used to be a member of Janet’s group. Is that right?”

  “Sure. I played drums.”

  “Why did you leave? Did she decide she didn’t want drums any longer? Didn’t you like the other band members?”

  Bruce snorted and stared into the distance. The bitterness underlying his words was unmistakable. “I didn’t want to leave. I lo—liked Janet. Immensely. I loved performing.”

  “So what happened to make you decide to quit the group?”

  “Janet decided for me. She fired me.” His gaze snapped back to fix on McLaren’s eyes. “Five years ago this happened and I’m still mad about it.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why? Because you suspect me of causing Janet’s death?”

  “I didn’t know anything about your firing until now, so I can’t suspect you of anything.”

  “But you’re a cop, you said.”

  “I was a cop. Now I’m merely helping Mrs. Ennis come to the truth.”

  Bruce’s eyebrows lowered again, perhaps considering his situation and McLaren’s status. The motor started on the school bus in the car park, bursting the quiet, before he said, “Fine. Sorry. But I loved that job. I had big dreams, and they died when she sacked me.”

  “When was that? Do you know why she let you go?”

  “Euphemistically said. Thanks.” He took a deep breath, then launched into his narration. “She’d formed the group in February. I was with them for a year and seven months before I was let go.” He paused, and McLaren was aware of the word choice. He nodded and Bruce continued. “Janet had written a few songs and we incorporated those into some standard stuff. It was a nice mix. She played piano and sang, of course. I was on drums, and Dan Wilshaw was also on piano.”

  “Two pianists? That’s unusual. Why not a different instrument?”

  “Janet liked the sound of the two pianos. She would play the standard arrangement and Dan, on the second piano, would throw in riffs and harmony. It was something differe
nt, made the group stand out. I thought it a good sound. We rehearsed six days a week, anywhere from six to eight hours a day. It was grueling some days because I was working a part time job doing lawn care and gardening. Strictly amateur stuff, you know. Just until the trio made it big. Anyway, I couldn’t believe how talented Janet was, what an incredible voice she had. She seemed to be Etta James, Peggy Lee, Mildred Bailey and Ruth Etting in one person. Amazing talent.

  “Anyway, I borrowed a rehearsal tape one night after we finished. Took, if that better describes my action. This sixteen year-old girl who lived on my street wanted to be a singer in the mold of those ladies. She had some talent, I think, but she was delusional about it, as a lot of teenagers are. I took the tape and played it for her, showing her what real talent was, how hard we worked. You know, take after take after take until we got it recording studio-perfect. Well, it shook her up a bit, hearing Janet’s singing and the number of takes we did for one song and how we worked to polish the smallest phrase. I didn’t do it to crush her dream, McLaren. I only wanted to lift those rose colored glasses from her eyes so she wouldn’t fall for some come-on by a sleazy agent.”

  McLaren nodded and asked if Janet found out about it.

  “Yeah. I’d returned the tape, thinking she would never know what I’d done. But in playing it for the girl I stopped the tape in a spot different from where we had the previous day. When Janet turned it on that morning, she couldn’t understand why the place on the tape didn’t jive with what we’d done. She kept asking us if we’d fooled with the tape. I told her what I’d done, thinking she’d understand.”

  “Evidently she didn’t.”

  “She was furious. If I knew a stronger word, I’d use it, but she was livid. I apologized, honestly amazed she reacted that way. She always talked about helping people, but when I tried to do it…” He shook his head, the corner of his mouth turned upward. “She said the tape wasn’t mine to lend, that her songs weren’t copyrighted yet, that she didn’t want anyone to analyze our sound for fear of copying it and her songs. I was angry she came down so hard on me but I apologized. That didn’t make much difference. She said the damage had been done, that the girl had already heard what was on the tape. She fired me before I could say another word.”

  “That was five years ago. You haven’t joined another group?”

  “I tried when I was first let go. But I didn’t have any luck. I gave up auditioning. After a while, the rejections hurt as much as Janet’s anger.”

  “Have you been working here since then?”

  Brian nodded and ran his hand over the top of the parapet. “I give tours to groups and I work in the restaurant.”

  “You’ve given up on your music, then?”

  “For now. Like I said, I’m still sore about the whole thing.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Three days before her accident.”

  “Did you try to contact Janet, maybe when she’d cooled down a bit? I thought she’d take you back, since she hired you in the first place.”

  “I rang her up the following day, thinking she’d have gotten over it. But she hung up on me, so I didn’t get to say anything.”

  “Was that the only time you tried to talk to her?”

  Brian’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You trying to pin her death on me?”

  “I’m trying to understand what went on and who might be involved. The more I know, the better I can sort through this mess. Now, did you give up trying to contact her after that phone call?”

  “No. I went to her house the morning of her death.”

  “What time?”

  “Eleven o’clock. Give or take a few minutes.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “A minute, maybe. She stood in the doorway, the front door. She wouldn’t let me inside, but blocked the entrance with her body. As if she was afraid I’d ram past her and hurt her.”

  “You told me you’re still mad about what happened. Were you mad when you spoke to her at her house?”

  “You’re bloody right I was mad! She’d just crushed my dream and taken away my livelihood.”

  “But you didn’t know then that your dream was dead. You might have got another position as drummer with another group.”

  “I know. But I wanted to be with her group. I didn’t want to play for anyone else.” He leaned down and picked up a rose petal. Rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, he said more calmly, “I loved her.”

  McLaren nodded and asked in a low voice, “Did she know? Did she feel the same about you? If she did, maybe that’s what made her so angry. You can forgive an acquaintance of discretions more readily than if it’s someone you love.” You have higher expectations of a loved one, he wanted to say.

  Bruce laughed and tossed the petal over the side of the railing. “She didn’t know I was alive. Besides, I was about fifteen years younger, so I hardly think she looked on me as potential husband material.”

  “So you didn’t do anything about it. You just let your love die.”

  “It didn’t die. It’s still within me.” His right fist slapped into his chest. “Hell of a lot of good it does me, right?”

  “Were you mad enough or hurting enough to do anything?”

  Bruce’s head snapped upward and he glared at McLaren. “What’s that mean? Mad enough to kill her?”

  “Or in so much pain that you wanted to have something of hers to keep.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “On the contrary. Most people in love keep little things that belong to their beloved. Might not be intrinsically valuable, but that’s not the point. It’s something their loved one touched or used or wore. You have anything like that, Bruce?”

  He opened his mouth, anger still in his eyes, ready to deny it. But he nodded and stood up. “You want to see?”

  “Where? At your home?”

  “No. In the Hall. In a room.” He started walking back the way they’d come, and McLaren hurried to keep up with the man.

  They returned to the banquet hall. The place seemed deserted but they had passed several small groups of people in the gardens, and the car park still held several dozen cars. Bruce walked over to a short chest, opened the doors, and reached inside. He took out a small manila envelope and cradled it against his chest.

  “You weren’t afraid this would be discovered here? Why not keep it at your house?”

  “I thought the police would question me about Janet’s murder. I didn’t want them finding this. It might’ve given me a motive for her death. You know, I can’t have her so no one else will.” Scorn colored his tone.

  “The staff or visitors didn’t open the furniture, I take it.”

  “Safe as houses, obviously. It’s still here.”

  “Still, I’d be fearful of its discovery if I hid it here. Too bad there’s no sliding panel or priest hole in this room. I would’ve used that.”

  “There is something rather like that, but it’s a bit out of my reach.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  Bruce walked to the far end of the room and stood beneath the rafter nearest the minstrel’s gallery. The beam stretched across the room’s width. “There,” he said, pointing upward.

  McLaren tilted his head back, staring. He walked around, viewing the beam from several angles. “You mean on top of the beam?” Provided a person could reach it, the beam could hold some flat object, like a photo or letter or CD.

  “No. Inside the beam.”

  “Inside?”

  “When the restoration on the banquet hall’s roof took place in the mid 1920s, a time capsule of the restoration was hidden there. There’s a hollow area in one end of the beam. And the date—if you can’t see it—is engraved on it. 1924. I think that’s where the box was. Inside that beam.”

  “Who’d have thought?”

  “Anyway, this chest is just as good. It’s kept its secret for five years.” He handed the envelope to McLaren.

  “May I?”

  Bruce
nodded, stepping back slightly, as if to distance himself from the fresh assault of pain.

  McLaren peered into the envelope, then drew out a photograph and a button. The photo was a publicity shot of Janet, nearly the same pose as the one Nora Ennis had given him. The button, however, was a different type of keepsake. He asked Bruce about it.

  “It came off her sweater. A week before she fired me, actually. I-It’s a silly thing to keep, I know, but it belonged to her and, as such, is an extension of her. She didn’t even know she lost it, I don’t think. I saw it fall but she hadn’t noticed. I was going to say something but then I thought I’d like to keep it. Have it as a part of her. So when we took a break, I grabbed it before anyone noticed it.”

  “Did you take anything else?”

  “Like what?” Bruce’s eyes flashed fire at the suggestion of theft. “I never touched her purse or her check book. And I’m not a collector of women’s panties. If anyone’s told you differently—”

  “I’ve not heard of anything, no.”

  “Then why ask the question. To trip me up?”

  “I had to know if I’m to have all the facts to work with. So, you’ve just the photo and the button.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” He returned the items to the envelope and handed it back to Bruce. “You said you arrived at Janet’s house around eleven o’clock that day. How long did you stay?”

  “How long did I stay? You want me to say something like ‘Just long enough to run inside, stab her, drag her into her studio and set it on fire’?”

  “I want to know how long you were at her house. One minute, five, half an hour?”

  “Don’t be daft. I told you she slammed the phone down on our conversation the previous day so she’s hardly likely to keep me talking at her front door, is she?”

  “Was it basically the same face to face? Did she slam the door on you?”

  “She was civil enough. She didn’t invite me in. Asked what I wanted, why I was there.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I apologized again and suggested that I impress upon the girl she was not to talk about the group to anyone. Offer her a ringside table at some gig, give her a CD when it came out. Anything like that so she wouldn’t tell her friends about Janet’s original songs.”