by George Mann
“The King’s Consort,” finished Peter.
“Precisely,” said Elspeth. “The Carrion King had been cast out of his village as a boy, by the ealdorman, after the child had begun to manifest strange powers that terrified the other villagers. He fled into the Wychwood, where he encountered an old hermit, who cared for him, and urged him to embrace his burgeoning powers.
“When the Carrion King finally came of age, he sought revenge against the ealdorman who had banished him, first by establishing a kingdom deep within the Wychwood that would rival any domain of the Saxon lords, and then by using his ritual magic to murder the ealdorman. He knew the ealdorman was vain and kept a mirror in his house; the Carrion King used it to seize control of the ealdorman’s reflection and cause him to plunge a dagger into his own chest.”
“And what about the members of his court?” said Peter. “What happened to them?”
“That’s the tragedy. They all betrayed him. All except the Consort.”
“Go on,” said Peter.
“She was a ‘fallen’ woman, a whore from one of the local villages who had fled into the Wychwood to escape the abuse of the Saxon warriors. The Carrion King took her in, and promised to make her pure again, to cast off all traces of her previous life. He dressed her in a coat of white swan feathers to represent her rebirth, and gave her a crown of thorns and roses to make her his queen.”
“Then how did she end up like this?” said Peter, tapping the picture in the book.
“Because the Carrion King himself was tainted by the abuse he’d suffered in his past, and that impurity spread, slowly poisoning her. She died in his arms, and he laid her upon a bed of leaves deep within the Wychwood, and called upon seven crows to watch over her body so that it might never be desecrated again.” Elspeth shrugged. “It’s all nonsense, of course, but there’s no doubt the dead woman had been dressed to resemble the woman in that woodcut. Whoever your killer is, he’s referencing that story.”
“The Carrion King,” said Peter, looking thoughtful. “Someone else has mentioned that recently. Or I’ve seen something, somewhere. I think the Winthorpe Players are putting on a play about him.”
“Winthorpe? I haven’t thought about that place in years. I used to go all the time with Mum when I was growing up.”
Winthorpe was an open-air theatre on the grounds of Winthorpe Manor, out on the edge of the old Wychwood boundary. The Players were the local amateur company, with a revolving lineup of cast and crew, who put on a succession of shows each season.
Peter had already got to his feet. “Can I borrow this?” he said, holding up the book.
“Of course,” said Elspeth.
“Thanks.” He tossed his half-full coffee cup into the green litterbin beside the bench. “Look, I’d better take this straight to DCI Griffiths. I’ll see you later, alright?”
Elspeth nodded, waving him on. “Go! It’s fine.”
“You always were the clever one,” he said, before spotting a gap in the traffic and darting off across the road.
Elspeth watched as he jogged over to the police station and ducked inside.
She decided it was time for a coffee, before popping into the offices of the Heighton Observer for a quick chat with the editor.
CHAPTER SIX
Meredith Stokes was a fierce woman with a reputation for burning through employees – or so Elspeth’s mum had explained to her over a cup of tea that morning. She’d made a name for herself on Fleet Street during the Thatcher years, before returning to Oxfordshire in the late nineties to set up her own small office, from where she ran a successful website, weekly newspaper and monthly Oxfordshire Life magazine.
Elspeth liked her immediately.
“We don’t have a great deal of call for freelance work,” said the woman, removing her glasses and eyeing Elspeth suspiciously. She must have been in her mid-fifties, with long dark hair shot through with distinguished streaks of silver-grey. Her make-up was subtle and applied with perfection, and her eyes were bright and perceptive. Elspeth felt as though the woman was peering into her soul. “Although I admit, it’s a reasonably impressive CV.”
“I’ve just returned from London and I’m looking to place a few articles,” said Elspeth. She met the woman’s gaze. “I’ve got a story.”
“Oh, you do?” said Meredith, with an amused half-smile.
“The murder yesterday in Wilsby-under-Wychwood. The body they found in the woods. It’s right behind my mum’s house. I’ve got an angle. I could cover the story for you.”
Meredith smiled wistfully. “An angle? So I suppose you think people would be interested in hearing how you used to play there as a child, how it used to be such a safe place, how things like this never happen in Wilsby-under-Wychwood…” She waved a dismissive hand. “We’ve heard it all before, dear. That’s not a story.”
“No,” said Elspeth. “But I was there. I saw the body.”
“You did?”
“Yes. And there’s more to it than the police are letting on.” Elspeth knew she’d have to choose her words carefully. She didn’t want to go behind Peter’s back or go blurting out something that might compromise the investigation – or blow her advantage. If Meredith took the bait, she’d have to tread with caution, talk it over with Peter and pick her timing.
“Alright,” said Meredith. She tapped her finger against her lips. “I’m interested. But the police have been down here about these murders already. They’ve asked us to stick to the official line for now. They’re worried if the details get out, it could lead to complications. I don’t want to be responsible for impeding their investigation.”
Murders. Plural. Elspeth hadn’t been expecting that. Peter hadn’t said anything when she’d shown him the book… but it would explain why he’d been so keen to get back to the station. Were there other murders that corresponded to the legend of the Carrion King, too? She decided to play it cool for now. “Not a lot of editors would go along with a request like that.”
Meredith shrugged. “This is Heighton, not Soho. I want them to catch the bastard.”
“Yes, I can see that. Look, I have a contact in the police. I could talk to him, gather all the information, post regular updates to the website as the investigation develops. And let’s face it – other news agencies aren’t going to be so scrupulous. The details are going to get out, one way or another.”
Meredith was nodding. “Alright. I’ll take a look. Send me your story, and if I think it’s worth printing, then we’ll talk fees.”
“I can do that,” said Elspeth. “And if you need anything else, I’m looking for work.”
Meredith laughed. “And persistent, too. There is one thing, if you’re really that keen. I suppose you could save me a trip out on a Sunday. There’s an old dear called Patricia Graves who’s just won a local wildlife photography competition. I need an interview. She’s expecting one of our reporters tomorrow afternoon. If you can have the piece on my desk by the end of the day, I’ll pay you our standard freelance rate – which I warn you, is piss poor. How about it?”
“Done,” said Elspeth, trying to hide her grin. The interview was a bind, especially on a weekend, but if it got her a foot in the door, it would be worth it. She’d have to keep looking for work elsewhere, too, but it was something, and it would help to keep her busy and her mind off Andrew.
“Right then,” said Meredith. “See Carl on reception on your way out. Leave your contact details, and I’ll have him send you the address for tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Elspeth.
“Good to meet you, Miss Reeves.” She stuck out her hand, and Elspeth shook it. She had a good feeling about the Heighton Observer. It was a minor victory, but it was a start – the first step on the road to taking back control of her life.
Now all she had to do was write the actual story.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three black coffees later and Elspeth had a draft of a piece on the murder of Lucy Adams.
Lenny
’s had been heaving with weekend shoppers, but she’d managed to find a table in the corner near a power outlet, and had bashed the story out over the course of a couple of hours. She’d backed it up to her online account, and she’d take another pass through it later that evening before sending it over to Meredith. She just hoped that she wasn’t wasting her time. If Meredith didn’t bite, she supposed she could try it elsewhere, maybe head over to Oxford and see if any of the papers there might be interested.
Now, it was early afternoon, and she was back in her car, feeling a little wired. She’d grabbed a takeout sandwich and was heading over to Winthorpe for a bit of a nose around.
It had been years since she’d last been to the theatre there, but she had fond memories of the place. Back in her early teens her mum had dragged her along to a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, hoping to instil in her a little culture, away from the Nintendo and the TV and her mobile phone. Elspeth had gone along expecting to find the whole thing as dull as ditchwater, but was surprised to find herself utterly entranced.
Out there, nestled amongst the trees, watching these strange figures cavorting in the woods, it had seemed as if she’d been transported to a different world. She’d been eager to attend ever since, and Dorothy had made a point of buying tickets two or three times a year during the spring and summer months. It had become something of a ritual: staying up late sipping tea from a flask, eating boiled sweets from a paper bag, wrapping up warm in a blanket against the evening chill as they watched the story unfold.
The theatre programme seemed much the same this year as it always had – she’d looked it up briefly on her phone – only they were clearly attempting to appeal to a broader audience, with additions such as An Inspector Calls and The Importance of Being Earnest to the lineup. One of these additions was a new play entitled Corvus, which was due to premiere the following week. It claimed to chart the rise and fall of the mysterious Carrion King of the Wychwood, and was clearly what Peter had referred to that morning.
She’d decided to see if she could write a local interest piece on the play – maybe even blag some free tickets – but also to surreptitiously investigate any links she could find between the theatre and Lucy Adams. It seemed a little too coincidental that the woman’s murder should have been staged in the way it was, just when a new play about the Carrion King myths was preparing for its opening night. She’d seen the look in Peter’s eyes, too – he’d had exactly the same thought.
Elspeth turned the car down a quiet lane, swerving to avoid a cavernous pothole and eliciting a furious beep from the driver of an oncoming Range Rover. She fought the urge to gesture out of her window, and carried on into the heart of the small village.
Winthorpe was on the very edge of the old Wychwood territory, and looked as if it had barely changed since the end of the eighteenth century. Just like Wilsby-under-Wychwood, the houses here had all been built in local stone and capped with slate-tiled roofs, but despite that fact the roadsides were lined with gleaming modern cars, their private registrations suggestive of the wealth in the village. In fact, it looked no different than it had ten years ago, the last time she’d been up here with her mum: just a small collection of cottages and a single pub in the rural outskirts of Oxfordshire.
It had always seemed an odd place for a theatre, although she supposed that was what gave the place its charm. The theatre itself was set in the grounds of Winthorpe Manor, in a natural copse on the edges of the woodland that still covered much of the estate. The owners of the manor house had begun to put on shows there over thirty years ago – or so her mum had told her – looking for ways to generate revenue to help pay for repairs and maintenance of the house. It wasn’t until the eldest son took over, though, that it had become the draw it was now, pulling in people from all around the region. It offered something different to the theatres in Oxford – something more primitive, perhaps, both in terms of the performance and the overall experience.
The eldest son – Elspeth had forgotten his name – had invested in the theatre, building tiered seating around the edge of the copse and erecting a permanent scaffold and canvas roof over it, allowing paying visitors to watch in relative comfort, even if the cast themselves were forced to soldier on through whatever the elements decided to throw at them, stuck out in the open air amongst the trees.
The trees provided an unusual, atmospheric backdrop, particularly as the sun went down and the electric lights and smoke effects were deployed to their full effect. Practically, too, it meant that the stage area could be easily accessed from almost any direction, with the actors leaping out from between the trees whenever they were required for a scene. She recalled there was a small brick building off to one side of the stage that served as the backstage and storage area, although she’d never been inside.
Elspeth was close now, and she slowed down, trying to spot the correct turning. She saw the sign for the theatre a moment later and turned off to the left, driving through a set of wrought-iron gates and along a narrow track towards the car park. She churned the gravel as she pulled up beside a rather battered-looking silver Ford Focus and turned off her engine. There were seven or eight other cars here, suggesting that rehearsals were still taking place. She’d hoped that would be the case, given it was the Saturday before opening week.
She grabbed her notebook and phone off the passenger seat and climbed out.
In the distance, beyond a large expanse of meticulous lawn, the manor house loomed, morose and silent. She had no idea how old it was, but it had been ‘improved’ during the Victorian era, when a large orangery had been added, along with crenellations on the roof and a rather ostentatious neo-Gothic portico.
Ahead of her the path fell away down a gentle incline towards the auditorium. Its stretched canvas roof looked stark against the sea of trees beyond, which stirred in the breeze, scattering birds. This was one of the largest remaining areas of woodland that had once formed the ancient Wychwood, although it was largely out of bounds to ordinary folk like Elspeth. There were around two hundred acres of it on the estate, if she remembered correctly.
She picked her way down beneath the canvas, expecting to see people from the theatre company milling about, or rehearsing scenes, but the place seemed completely empty. Peering in both directions, she decided to head around to the backstage area to see if anyone was about.
Much to her relief, she found a tall, thin man leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He looked up when he saw her approaching, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, and had long dark hair that curled behind his ears, and a vaguely androgynous look that Elspeth found rather appealing. He was wearing black eyeliner and tight black jeans, and was hugging himself against the chill.
“Can I help you?” he said. He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“I hope so,” said Elspeth. “I’m a journalist. I…” she hesitated, trying to figure out how best to present herself. “I’m planning to write a piece about the play, Corvus, and was looking for someone who might be able to answer a few questions.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if suddenly suspicious. Then, having evidently weighed up his options, he tossed his cigarette butt on the floor, ground it under his heel, and nodded towards the door in the wall behind him. “You’ll be wanting Vanessa. She’s in there. Although… if you’re here about, you know, you’re not going to get any salacious gossip. Not today.”
Elspeth frowned, and her look of confusion must have convinced him of her sincerity, as he stepped forward and opened the door for her. “Be it on your own head, then.”
Unsure what the hell he was talking about, Elspeth stepped through the door.
It opened directly onto a large room, with polished wooden floors, a bunch of chairs and foldout tables, and two large rails of costumes on hangers. Doors led off to changing rooms, lavatories and what appeared to be a small kitchenette. Someone had opened a bottle of red wine and it wa
s standing nearly empty on the nearest table, surrounded by a number of crumpled plastic cups.
Elspeth counted ten people sitting around in a loose circle, some of them on chairs, some of them perched on the edge of tables or cross-legged on the floor. Most were sipping wine from plastic cups, and as one, they looked around when they heard her enter. For a single, dreadful moment she thought one of them was Andrew – but then he frowned, and she saw that it wasn’t him at all, but just another man in his late thirties who bore a faint resemblance. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and tried to put the thought out of her mind.
A pretty black woman in jeans and a red sweater glanced accusingly at the man who’d shown her in. “Oscar?”
“She’s a journalist,” he said from behind her. “Says she’s here about the play. Wants to do a piece on us, apparently.”
The woman glowered disbelievingly at Elspeth. “Look, have you people got no decency whatsoever? We’re all in shock.”
“I’m sorry,” said Elspeth, taken aback by the unexpected vehemence. Her heart was thrumming. Had she been right? Clearly something was going on here. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m looking for someone called Vanessa, to talk about the play. Look, if it’s a bad time…”
The woman frowned. “I’m Vanessa,” she said. “And you really don’t know, do you?”
Elspeth shrugged.
“The owner of the theatre was found dead yesterday,” said one of the other women. She was rosy-cheeked, as if she’d already indulged in a little too much wine. She had long dark hair shot through with streaks of blue, framing a round face. She had a friendly demeanour. She glanced at Vanessa, as if seeking approval. “Murdered. None of us can believe it.”
“You mean Lucy Adams?” said Elspeth.