by George Mann
“So, are you going to tell me what’s brought you home all of a sudden?” said Dorothy.
“Hang on a minute, Mum,” said Elspeth. She opened the French doors and stepped out onto the patio.
The garden was pretty, and in full bloom. Gardening was a passion of Dorothy’s, and always had been; she still worked at the local garden centre three days per week, where she’d been for over a decade.
Elspeth breathed it all in. Even now, the heady scent of the flowers took her straight back to her childhood, and lazy days spent running in circles on the lawn, chased by her dad, or kicking a ball about with her friends, trying to avoid the flowerbeds and subsequent scolding.
At the end of the lawn, a low drystone wall formed a border between the garden and the wilderness beyond. As a child, Elspeth had practised over and over until she’d been able to vault it in a single leap, escaping into the strange fairyland beyond, amongst the bracken and the moss, the babbling streams and skeletal, angular trees. To her the woods had been like the fantasia beyond the back of the wardrobe, a land of wild disorder and exploration, a place of adventure, where the ancient past intersected with the present. Here, she’d dreamed of the ancient Wychwood, filled with warring Saxon warlords and wizards, of highwaymen and runaway princes, of nymphs and elves and centaurs. The thought of it being invaded now by the police seemed entirely wrong. And yet, she wanted desperately to know what was going on.
Elspeth walked towards the end of the garden, listening for any activity from the woods. She could hear voices in the trees, just make out the flashes of more high-visibility jackets through the branches, bright and unnatural.
“Sod it,” she said, approaching the wall. She wasn’t about to let another story get away from her, especially one on her own – albeit temporary – doorstep. This could be the lead she’d been looking for, her chance to be the first journalist on the scene of a murder.
She hitched her skirt and threw her leg up over the wall, hoisting herself over. Either the wall was higher than she remembered, or she was a little less supple than she’d once been. She’d have to find a new gym in Heighton or Oxford, so at least she could assuage her guilt by paying the monthly membership fees.
She dropped down into the mulch on the other side, and had to grip hold of the wall as her feet nearly slipped from under her. She righted herself, smoothing down the front of her skirt.
“Ellie, what are you doing?” She looked round to see her mum was standing at the bottom of the garden, her hands on her hips. She was wearing a disapproving look. “It’s a crime scene. The police are everywhere. That young constable said we had to remain in our houses until they were finished.”
Elspeth put her finger to her lips. “Shhh. I’ll be back in a minute,” she whispered. “Just a quick look.”
Dorothy gave an exasperated sigh. “You don’t change, Elspeth Reeves.”
Elspeth gave her best attempt at a beatific smile, and then turned and crept slowly through the undergrowth towards what she presumed was the scene of the crime.
She wasn’t about to go charging in like a bull in a china shop, blurting questions and getting herself into trouble. She’d hang back, take a look at what was going on; see if she could find an angle for a story. It would be a great start, a way in with one of the local newspapers. Assuming, of course, that whatever was going on here was even newsworthy. She couldn’t imagine there’d be so many people if it wasn’t.
The police seemed to have gathered in a natural glade in the woods up ahead. She crouched behind the bough of an oak tree and peered in, trying to ascertain what was happening.
Four uniformed policemen milled around the perimeter, their radios crackling, while a woman in a grey trouser suit, with a bob of dark hair – presumably the inspector in charge of the scene – spoke in hushed tones to a man in a blue coverall. This latter was, Elspeth assumed, a forensic pathologist. The rest of his team – two women and a rather young-looking man – were across the other side of the glade, unpacking the contents of several silver cases. They were also wearing blue coveralls.
Then, in the centre of the glade, was the body.
Elspeth had seen only two dead people in her life. The first had been her father, in the cancer ward at Churchill Hospital, six years earlier. He’d looked rested and peaceful, lying in her mum’s arms as if he were simply dozing. Dorothy had been cradling him as he died, and he’d looked so pale and thin, as if the cancer had leeched the life right out of him. She remembered a shaft of sunlight streaming through the window, dust motes swirling, silence.
The second had been during a brief, ill-considered holiday to Benidorm with her friend Julia, when she’d seen a young woman lying face down in the road, having drunkenly stumbled into the path of an oncoming car. She’d only caught a fleeting glimpse as her shuttle bus had sped past on its way to the airport, but the image of the barely dressed young woman had been emblazoned in her memory, still clinging on to her zebra-print handbag, her clutch of friends all standing around her, mascara running in black tributaries down their tanned cheeks.
The sight that greeted her here, in the woods, however, was something else entirely. She supposed she’d expected to see something gory and horrific – the result of a struggle, spilled blood, even a gunshot or knife wound – but the view before her was nothing of the sort.
It wasn’t so much a murder scene as a tableau, a piece of theatre, or an installation of contemporary art. The entire glade had been dressed.
The victim – a blonde-haired woman in her mid-forties, Elspeth estimated – had been laid out upon a bed of leaves. Her head lolled to one side, limp and lifeless. She was naked, save for a cloak of bright white feathers, which had been carefully draped across her shoulders, a small cord looped around her throat to hold it in place. A crown of holly and thistles, wound with red roses, had been placed upon her head. The only obvious sign of a wound was a thin line of dried blood on the side of her face, stark and obscene against the pale flesh. Seven dead crows had been placed on the ground close to her head.
Elspeth stared for a moment, unable to tear her eyes away. The woman’s skin was milky white and smooth. She looked strangely beautiful, draped in her coat of feathers and wearing her floral crown; like something from a Pre-Raphaelite painting. It was an appalling sight, nevertheless, and she gaped at it with a mixture of sadness and fascination. She was grateful she couldn’t see the expression on the woman’s face. She hoped she hadn’t suffered, although she knew that was a ridiculous thing to think in the circumstances. The woman had been murdered. No matter how it had been done, she’d been brought out here, and she had lost her life.
Elspeth fought a wave of nausea, and turned away from the corpse. The fact that someone had done this to another human being, so close to her childhood home, in the place that she used to play as a child… it just seemed so unreal. And what did it all mean? There was something disturbingly familiar about the symbolism, but she couldn’t place it. It had to bear some occult relevance, or else some relation to the Arthurian myths she’d been so obsessed with in her youth. Her mum probably still had all her books in her old room. She’d have to dig them out.
Elspeth stood, careful to keep out of view of the police officers and pathologists. She’d seen enough. There was definitely a story in this – she just had to find out a bit more about what had happened.
She turned back towards the house, and directly into the path of a man in a suit. She almost yelped in surprise, but just about managed to retain her cool.
“What do you think you’re doing? This is a mur—” The man stopped short, a confused expression crossing his face. “Elspeth? Elspeth Reeves?”
Elspeth swallowed. Her mouth was dry. This was the last thing she needed – being recognised by one of the policemen. She painted on a smile. “Yes, that’s me…” She peered at him a little more closely.
He was tall and slim, his grey suit crumpled, his blue tie slightly askew. The top button of his shirt appeared to be
open at the collar. He had a mop of unruly auburn hair, and a broad, lopsided smile. He was wearing a thin layer of stubble, and he smelled vaguely of cigarettes. It was the green eyes that seemed most familiar, however – sharp and insightful, alert. She would have recognised them anywhere.
“Peter?”
He laughed, and kicked at the ground with the tip of his boot. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “Years.”
“And you’re a policeman? What happened to your plans to be the world’s greatest rally car driver?”
Peter shrugged. “We all grow up, don’t we?” He cleared his throat, seeming to remember himself. “But more to the point, what are you doing here? You can’t just go sneaking around crime scenes, you know.”
Elspeth held up her hands in a parody of surrender. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve just arrived back at Mum’s. I saw there was something going on, and hopped over the back wall to take a look.” She sighed. “I kind of wish I hadn’t, now.” She nodded in the direction of the corpse.
“You never get used to it,” said Peter. “Trust me.”
“I don’t suppose you’d ever want to.”
“Not really. But were you really only being nosey? Only, it seems a bit unlikely, and I am a detective sergeant…” He shrugged.
“I suppose it does seem unlikely, doesn’t it. Alright. I wanted to be the first on the scene, to see if there was a story. That’s the truth. I parked up at Mum’s and hopped over the wall. I’ve only been here for a minute. I… well, I used to work for a newspaper and—”
“DS Shaw?” She was saved by the sound of the dark-haired inspector calling Peter’s name.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, you need to go, before we both get it in the neck. She’s… a bit prone to overreacting. She’d have you straight down to the station for questioning, and probably charged for interfering with a police investigation, or worse, murder.”
“Okay,” said Elspeth. “I’m going.” She took a couple of steps, then turned back to see he was still watching her. “It was good to see you, Peter.”
“You too,” he said. The inspector was calling his name again. “See you around.”
Grinning, Elspeth made a dash for the garden wall, scrambled over in a most unladylike fashion, and was back in her Mum’s kitchen a few moments later, trying to take stock of what she’d just seen.
CHAPTER THREE
“So, love, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table, and Elspeth was playfully teasing the cat with the edge of her boot. He scrabbled for her laces, and then skittered away across the tiles in search of more meaningful entertainment.
Dorothy had made her a strong black coffee with a shot of brandy in it. She sipped it gratefully. “A woman’s been murdered, Mum. Right behind our house, in the trees where we used to play as kids.”
“Yes, yes, I realise that.” Dorothy perched on the edge of her chair. “But I’m talking about you, Ellie, coming to visit like this, with only a day’s notice.” She looked worried. “Not that I mind, of course. It’s just… well, it’s a bit unusual. A bit unexpected. Is something wrong?”
“So I can’t even visit my mum without something being wrong?”
Dorothy gave her the look. This was a particular glare of incredulity the woman had perfected over many years – one that had always been proven to make Elspeth squirm.
“Alright, alright,” she said, placing her empty mug on the coaster. “I need a place to stay for a while. I was hoping I could have my old room?” She hadn’t wanted to get into this now, especially with everything else going on out in the woods, but her mother was shrewder than she appeared.
“Of course you can, love. Like I said on the phone, a couple of days’ rest will do you the world of good. You’ve been doing too much. I’ve been saying that for a while. It’ll be nice to have you around, cheering the place up. Especially after all this.” She nodded in the direction of the French doors, and the garden and woodland beyond.
Elspeth chewed her bottom lip for a moment. She felt as though she were sixteen again. “It might be more than a couple of days, Mum. I’m sorry. I should have said on the phone. This isn’t a holiday.”
Dorothy looked dubious. “Ellie, are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”
“It’s all gone a bit wrong, Mum,” said Elspeth. She fought back the pricking tears. She’d told herself she wasn’t going to cry, but now she was here, about to lay it all out… She steeled herself.
“What’s gone wrong?”
“Things haven’t been right between Andrew and me for a while. We’ve both known it. We’ve not been happy. He’s been spending more and more time with his friends, and I’ve been throwing myself into work… and the other day it all just came to a head.”
“You’ll sort it out. Maybe a little time apart is what you need.”
“No,” Elspeth shook her head. “It’s too late for that. I’ve left him. Turns out… well, you don’t need to know all the sordid details. But it’s over. He’s staying on at the flat, and I…well, I’ll have to go back and fetch my stuff, once I’ve found somewhere a bit more permanent.”
Dorothy put a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Ellie. You should have said.”
“I know. It’s just… if I say it out loud, it means it’s true.” She felt her bottom lip trembling. “I don’t want to have to start again, Mum. I’m not sure I can face it.”
“Of course you can. You can bloody well face anything. You’re Elspeth Reeves.”
Elspeth laughed, wiping away tears on her sleeve. “I really loved him. I thought…” she trailed off. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters what I thought, now. But you might have to wait for those grandkids you wanted.”
“And you’re sure that’s it? That there’s no way the two of you can sort this out? Maybe give it a few days, then give him a call…?”
“Mum, it turns out he’d been cheating on me for years.”
Dorothy bristled. “I see. Right.” She squeezed Elspeth’s arm. “The little sod.”
“I just need to get my head straight. Work out what I want to do.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the table.
“What about work? Are they okay with you taking some time off?”
Elspeth swallowed. “Oh, yeah, as much time as I want. All the time, in fact. Like I said, everything’s just come at once. Turns out they were looking to ‘downsize’, and since I was the last person to join the team…”
“Oh, Ellie dear. Come here.” Dorothy swept her up in a warm embrace. Elspeth felt numb. Here she was, back at her childhood home, and everything falling apart around her.
“Well, look, you were right to come home. It’s the best thing for you. You can take a bit of time now; decide what you want to do. Your room’s just where you left it, and it’s yours for as long as you need it, alright?”
“Thanks, Mum.”
“You’ve had a long drive, and you’re tired. Why don’t I run you a bath, and you can throw some of your things in the wardrobe and flop. No need to worry about anything else today.”
“Sounds blissful.”
“Alright. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”
She watched as Dorothy placed her empty mug in the sink and hurried off to start the bath running. Then, after pouring another shot of brandy into her own mug, she opened up the French doors again and stepped out onto the patio, staring up at the trees and feeling distinctly uncomfortable, as if, somehow, they were staring right back.
* * *
An hour later, she sat by the dresser in her old bedroom, running a brush through her damp hair and staring at herself in the mirror.
What was it about coming home that made her feel like a failure? She’d once heard it said that re-entry was the thing astronauts feared most about going into space. Not sailing out into that great, infinite unknown, not rocketing through the airless void inside a tiny metal can, but the return to the familiar, the te
rror of burning up as they came home. Sitting there in her childhood bedroom, staring at her own reflection, she thought she might understand how they felt.
She heard the flutter of birds on the tiled roof above her head, and crossed to the window, looking out at the gloomy expanse of the Wychwood. The police had gone, leaving behind reams of blue and white tape, intended to deter any errant dog walkers or trespassers. The light was fading, the last of the sunlight poking inquisitive fingers through the upper branches of the trees. Above, birds wheeled in a silent, stately dance. A lone car drifted down the road, headlamps bobbing with the uneven surface. It all seemed so quiet compared to the bustle of London. She wondered how long it would take her to grow used to it again. Perhaps she wouldn’t stay that long. She was already wondering if she’d done the right thing. It was just… her entire life down there revolved around Andrew. Most of their friends were the same, she’d lost her home, and now, without a job to go back to, she had to wonder what was waiting for her in London. She didn’t want to be in Andrew’s orbit any longer, didn’t even want to talk to him… except, she was missing him already. She just felt as if everything had been turned on its head. She had to figure out what she wanted.
Maybe she’d stay for a few days, and then see how she felt. The distance would help. And she’d start looking around online for freelance work in the morning. She wasn’t going to sit idle, and she might be able to sell a piece about the murder.
Her mind drifted back to the sight of the dead woman, strangely serene in her downy cloak and crown of thorns. She’d looked to Elspeth as if she’d been sleeping, like an enchanted princess from a fairy tale. There was something about the image that felt oddly familiar, and she hadn’t been able to shake the notion that she’d seen it somewhere before.
She recalled her plan to search out her old books on the Arthurian legends, and so, tightening the belt on her borrowed dressing gown she decided to have a ferret around.