by Pryor, Mark
Booher had gotten around to lighting the fire at some point that evening, and Pendrith kicked it back to life with his foot and two new logs. Then they stood around a nearby table and looked at Merlyn.
“She may know something that helps us,” Hugo said, seeing Upton’s desire to excuse her from the conversation. “She knows a lot more about Harper than we do.”
Upton nodded his acquiescence, then played barman, not taking orders, just grabbing a bottle of whisky from under the counter and four glasses. As he moved to the table, Hugo was amused to see Upton shoot a questioning look at Merlyn, who looked irritated. Yes, I’m a girl who drinks whisky.
When he’d finished pouring, Upton took a sip without proposing a toast. “I’ll tell you what I know; you fill in the rest,” he said.
Hugo nodded. “Fair enough.”
“I know that old Mr. Drinker is unconscious with someone’s lead in him. I know that you guys are looking for Dayton Harper up here. I know that Harper and his wife ran over Drinker’s son a week ago. The rest,” he shrugged, “you’re gonna have to help me with.”
Hugo looked at Pendrith, who sat back, glass in hand.
“Fire away, old boy,” Pendrith said. “He’s your charge, not mine.”
“Dayton Harper was supposed to be in my care,” Hugo said, and he began with Ginny Ferro and her grisly end.
“That was definitely murder?” Upton said. “Any chance it was suicide?”
“Well, that’s where things get complicated,” Hugo said. “At first we assumed suicide, and then because of the situation with Farmer Drinker, we considered it might be murder. The cloth over her face helped with that. But now it’s possible, just possible, it was an accident.”
“An accident? She was hung from a tree in a graveyard by accident?” Upton looked around the table to see who else was laughing. When he saw nothing but straight faces, he added drily, “What was she doing, pruning?”
“Let me explain,” Hugo said, holding up a calming hand. “As I said, I was supposed to take custody of Harper after his release, to make sure he was safe and to keep him out of the public eye while this mess with Drinker was sorted out. But then he found out about his wife and apparently decided he had business to take care of up here. We were close behind him and tracked him up here to a place called Braxton Hall.”
Upton’s eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard about that place, though God knows what’s true and what isn’t.”
“Probably most of it’s true, from what I saw and heard,” Hugo said, shooting a smile at Merlyn. “Anyway, seems like he and Ginny Ferro, and a little cadre of their friends, were into asphyxophilia.”
“Breath play. I’ve come across it a few times, but normally it’s a solo activity,” Upton said. “Or I thought so.”
“It can be,” Merlyn interjected. “I’m guessing most of your experience comes from finding people dead, right?”
“Pretty much,” Upton said.
“Which explains why you think it’s a solitary practice. Look, the only safe way is to have someone else there because if it doesn’t go well, you end up on the front pages. With someone else there, you’re much safer. Or,” she said with a shrug, “several other people there. That heightens the safety aspect as well as the eroticism. For some people.” Another noncommittal shrug, but this time a little smile went with it.
“So what does this have to do with anything?” Upton looked directly at her and nodded. “Harper and Ferro are into this?”
“Among other things, yes,” Merlyn said. “Regular bondage stuff, mock incarceration. She was pretty wild even for that crowd.”
She told Upton about the cemetery at Braxton Hall, the crypt that was designer-made for guests to enjoy any way they saw fit, including the recreation of death scenes through breath play.
“You have actual parties like that there?” Upton asked. Hugo thought he was trying very hard not to sound judgmental.
“Yes,” Merlyn said. “I know it’ll sound weird to you, but no one ever got hurt.” That little smile again. “In a bad way, I mean.”
“Which is why you wondered about Ginny Ferro’s death being an accident. Seems kind of . . . unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“Which part?” Hugo said with a smile.
“Well,” said Upton, stroking his chin. “I can see now that she might get something out of a rope and a real cemetery. But the night of her release from prison?”
“Yeah, I thought so, too,” said Hugo. “But think about it this way. She gains a certain emotional and physical satisfaction from mock incarceration, right? Well, if she’s incarcerated for real yet treated well, which she was by all accounts, then she may have been on a high coming out of there. She may have wanted to extend the experience by acting out another fantasy in a real environment.”
“But who with?” asked Upton. “Wouldn’t she need someone else?”
“Not necessarily,” Merlyn said. “All she needed was a ladder and the rope, pretty much. But she also had friends down there, friends into this. A quick phone call would have had a dozen people running out there to play with her.”
“Play?” Upton said.
“Yeah, we call it playing. Because that’s what it usually is.” Merlyn took a swig of her whisky. “Look, the point is, she could have had someone meet her there in a matter of an hour, less. She’s a famous movie star for fuck’s sake, anyone in the scene, men and women alike, would have given their left nut to play with her.”
“Literally, eh what?” Pendrith chortled, then stuck his nose into his glass when he saw he was the only one laughing.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Hugo looked up. “Shit, what about Walton?”
“Who’s that?” Upton asked.
“Pain-in-the-arse reporter who followed us here,” said Pendrith.
“He knows about Harper?” Upton asked.
“Yes,” said Hugo. “Unfortunately, he does. He’s agreed not to say anything if we help get him an interview when we get Harper.”
“Very kind of him,” Upton said. “Where is he now?”
“Hard to say,” Pendrith chortled again. “We gave him the slip earlier, sent him on some phony errand. Probably crying in his fish soup. I’ll trot upstairs and see if the bugger’s still here.”
“Good idea,” said Hugo.
As soon as he disappeared through the door, Upton turned to Hugo. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s His Lordship’s role in all this?”
“I don’t mind at all,” said Hugo. “I think he has a crush on Harper, for one thing. Also, Pendrith’s been a friend of the United States, as the ambassador put it, for some years. I’m told his background is in intelligence, which could sure be useful right about now.” Hugo smiled when he saw the frown on Upton’s face. “Don’t be fooled by the upper-class-twit routine, Chief Inspector.”
“All for show?”
“No, actually I think the upper-class bit is real. He’s no twit, though, that bit is just to fool you.”
“Well, we could use all the help we can get,” Upton said, “though I see why you were so bloody evasive back at the farm.”
Hugo nodded. “If it gets out that Harper is running around England, possibly armed and maybe dangerous . . .” He shook his head. “I was worried before when I thought maybe he’d just get mobbed to death by fans, or possibly strung up by a few villagers here. But now, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Agreed,” Upton said. “Every man, woman, and child in the county would grab a flaming torch and go looking for him.”
They looked up as Pendrith reappeared. “All’s well,” he said. “Walton is sleeping like a baby.”
“Good.” Upton looked into his glass but didn’t take a sip. “So we need to figure out who shot Drinker, what the hell Harper is doing, and whether or not we raise the alarm. And I think we’re all agreed that there’s no need for a public announcement just yet.”
“Certainly not,” said Pendrith. He turned to look at Hugo. “You sai
d before you didn’t think he shot Drinker. Still think that?”
“I’m not quite sure what to think.” He turned to Upton. “Did the paramedics indicate whether Drinker is going to make it?”
“No. He was unconscious by the time we got to him. All we know is what he said to you chaps. I’ll call in and see if there’s been any change, but right now what he said points straight to Harper. Let me call.”
Upton stood and moved away from the table, and they sat in silence as the policeman connected with an underling at the station. He asked about Drinker and listened quietly for a moment. Then he said, “Are you sure he was there? You’re sure it was him?” He nodded at the response and hung up, then came back to the table.
“News?” asked Pendrith.
“Most definitely,” said Upton, wrapping his fingers around his glass. But this time he took a swig. “He was conscious for a few minutes before they went into surgery. Conscious and coherent enough to tell his escort what he told you: Harper was in that house tonight.”
“And?” pressed Pendrith.
“And then Drinker died during surgery,” said Upton.
In the silence that followed, every glass was emptied.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The call that Hugo had dreaded came at six the next morning.
He was already up and in the parking lot, looking for a public footpath that might take him on a walk of a mile or two before the world awoke, a moment to let the country air run through his system and a chance to either escape or help resolve the mystery that had captured him.
He answered without thinking and without checking to see who was calling. “Hugo Marston.”
“DCI Upton here. Where are you?”
All hopes of a morning walk vanished when Hugo heard his tone. “At the pub. Everything OK?”
“No, not by a long chalk. You know where the Weston Church is?”
Hugo almost smiled. It’s where Jack O’Legs is buried, he thought. But he just said, “Yes.”
“Good. I’m on my way there now, meet me.”
“Sure, I’ll grab Pendrith, though he may be sleeping still.” Hugo looked at his watch and saw it was just after six.
“No time,” said Upton. “Just get over here as soon as you can, I’ll send a car for him later.”
“What’s going on, Clive?”
“This fucking situation is getting out of hand, that’s what’s going on. So do me a favor and hurry.”
Hugo patted his pockets. Wallet and keys, that’s all he’d need. He glanced back at the pub, a little guilty at leaving Pendrith behind and half hoping to see him at a window, gesturing for Hugo to wait. But the cottage-like pub slumbered in the morning mist, soundless and still.
Hugo turned right out of the parking lot and drove slowly toward the church, which he remembered being about two miles away. The road seemed windier and narrower than before, and twice he had to brake as rabbits darted in front of him, heading for safety in the roadside hedgerow, their breakfast foraging interrupted by the purring behemoth that was Hugo’s car.
A small signpost warned Hugo of the turn toward his destination and he swung the car onto Church Lane, which angled sharply upward. He drove for forty yards and then saw the police cars, their rooftop lights curiously off considering this was, seemingly, an emergency. As Hugo found a place to park, he saw an ambulance in his rearview mirror, following him into the gravel lot. Two policemen detached themselves from the iron gate that was the entrance to the church, one heading for him, the other for the ambulance.
The constable held Hugo’s door as he climbed out but blocked any further movement. He was Indian or Pakistani, Hugo thought, but spoke with the diction of an English gentleman. “Good morning, sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the church premises for a while. We have a bit of a situation right now.”
A voice called out from by the gate, DCI Upton dressed in a green Barbour jacket and flat cap.
“He’s with me, Agarwal, bring him over.”
Agarwal waved an apologetic hand at Upton, then turned back to Hugo. “Sorry sir, I had no idea. This way.”
Hugo followed the constable through the gates and looked around. The church lay ahead and to his right, occupying the top corner of the property. The rest was taken up by a large, full, and well-tended graveyard, with a cinder path leading through it to the church doors. A low stone wall, as old as the church itself, kept the graveyard from spilling into a neighboring field that was ridged with recently plowed furrows.
He took a few steps in, looked to his left, and paused. There it was, the pride of Weston village, the final resting place of a legend still told.
“You’ve heard of Jack O’Legs, sir?” Agarwal said, stopping beside Hugo.
“People keep asking me that. Yes, I have.”
“Bit of an amateur historian, I am. Great story, though I’ve always wondered why no one’s dug him up to see how big he really was.”
Hugo smiled. “I wondered the same thing and got yelled at for saying so.”
“I’ve had the same reaction.” Agarwal looked up. “We should get going, sir.”
Ahead, at the far side of the graveyard, half a dozen police officers were milling around as if waiting for instructions or direction. A couple of officers leaned against the cemetery wall, which was higher there, looking as though they wanted to smoke but didn’t dare. Near them, a tremendous oak tree towered over the wall, massive branches reaching out over the gravestones as if to provide as much shade and shelter to Weston’s dearly departed as it could manage.
Upton was waiting by the entrance to the church, standing with a young woman dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater. She held a book in her left hand and held out her right for Hugo to shake as Upton made the introductions.
“This is Reverend Kinnison—she’s the vicar here. She found him. Reverend Kinnison, meet Hugo Marston.”
“Call me Kristi. How do you do?”
Her grip was firm, and Hugo saw that the book was a Bible. More interesting was the tattoo that encircled her wrist, a snake that looked like it slithered up her forearm. “Nice to meet you,” he said, then turned to Upton. “Clive, what the hell—excuse me, what the heck is going on here? She found who?”
“You were right the first time, I think,” Revered Kinnison said. “You guys go do your thing—come talk to me when you’re ready. I have plenty to keep me busy.” She turned and went into the church without looking back.
“Clive?”
“She’s right, I’m afraid. This is getting worse and worse. Come and see for yourself.” He started toward the gathering of constables, then turned to Agarwal, “I need you to go to the Rising Moon and fetch Lord Stopford-Pendrith. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With any luck he’ll know you’re coming and be waiting in the car park. I left a message for him about three minutes ago. Hopefully woke the bugger up. And if you see a young lady there, she’s not invited. Mr. Marston will be back for her later, got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Agarwal nodded and started back down the path to the church parking lot.
“OK, let’s go,” Upton said, and led Hugo toward the back of the churchyard in silence.
They followed the path past the end of the church, then walked for another twenty yards before stepping onto the grass, weaving their way between gravestones. Like the ones he’d seen in Whitechapel, many were ancient and washed clean of identifiers, or had the names and dates covered with moss or lichen. But unlike those in London, these stones sat up straight and proud, like patient dogs watching over their fallen masters, waiting year after year for them to rise back into the land of the living. Bright sprigs of color lay at the base of many of the newer stones, flashes of remembrance or respect for the recently gone. To his left, a good distance from the police activity, an old woman stood watching them, her gray hair piled high on her head, both hands clutching a bouquet of blue flowers. To the dearly departed, from the nearly departed,
Hugo thought.
As Hugo and Upton closed in on the crime scene, the constables stood to attention and moved apart, as if the senior officer were a pebble dropped into a pond, and they the ripples. He hadn’t noticed it before, but blue-and-white tape cordoned off the scene, waist-high plastic strung between gravestones.
As soon as Hugo ducked under the tape, he saw the dead man. He lay with his back propped against the stone wall, hands on his lap, a bloody hole in his chest where his heart had once beat. A white, silk hood covered the man’s head.
“Who is it?” Hugo asked.
“We haven’t touched him, so we’ve not confirmed anything yet. Judging by the footwear, he’s not local, so . . .”
So you’re thinking the same thing as me. “Did your crime-scene people finish up?”
Upton snorted. “Lazy bastards aren’t here yet. It’ll be the same team as at the farm last night, probably, so a little hard to wake after a night’s work. But that’s why we haven’t touched him. I feel like this is getting to be too big; I didn’t want some clumsy copper screwing up the evidence by putting his paws where they don’t belong. And I’m talking about me, of course.”
Hugo smiled thinly. “Good decision. But we need to know who it is.”
They both knew already, which is why, Hugo thought, Upton just nodded and said, “Then help yourself.”
Hugo looked at the ground as he walked, eyes scanning for footprints or other evidence. He’d done this a thousand times at crime scenes, moving in and touching things before the techs arrived with their paper suits and plastic bags. But a dozen eyes watched him now, a foreigner operating in a foreign land.
Hugo moved in at an angle, leaving clear the most direct route to the body from the pathway, assuming that would have been the murderer’s route, assuming there would be a shred of evidence to be found by someone with more time and a magnifying glass. Three feet from the body, he stopped and studied the area around the man. He was small, but the hands gave him away as a man, if only just. And the shoes: expensive and not from anywhere near here. Upton was right about the shoes.