by George Mann
As Peter reached for the knocker, they heard the sound of footfalls stirring the gravel, and both looked around in unison to see a tall, slim woman coming around from the side of the house. She had shoulder-length dark hair that whipped up around her face in the cross-winds, causing her to try to control it with the back of her hand, brushing it behind her ears. She was strikingly beautiful, in tight jeans and a loose blouse, but the way she hugged herself suggested she lacked confidence. Elspeth guessed she was around forty-five.
“Can I help you?” she called. Her voice was thin and reedy.
“DS Shaw,” said Peter, holding up his identification. “And Elspeth Reeves. We were hoping to speak with Michael Williams.”
The woman cocked her head. “He’s working,” she said, flatly.
“Inside?” said Peter. “It really is important that we speak to him.”
“Why, what’s he done?” The venom practically dripped off her tongue.
“We just need to ask him a few questions. You are?”
“His wife,” said the woman. She beckoned for them to follow her back the way she had come. “Much good that it does me. He’s down in his ‘summerhouse’, working on his magnum opus.”
Peter and Elspeth hurried after her. It was clear all wasn’t well at the Williams residence.
The summerhouse, it transpired, was more of an outbuilding, an old brick stable or storehouse that had been converted into a studio. It had been beautifully done, too; one whole wall had been replaced with tinted glass, and the flat roof with a pitched, modern affair, complete with vast shuttered skylights and solar panels.
The woman – who introduced herself haughtily as Rebecca – rapped loudly on the door, before shouldering it open and stomping in. “Mick? Mick?”
Elspeth and Peter waited patiently outside. She could hear the tinny rumbling of guitar feedback coming from somewhere within. It sounded like the tail end of a Ramones track, and it shut off abruptly.
“What is it? Can’t you see I’m working?”
“So that’s what you call it.”
“We’ve been through this, Rebecca. It’s research.”
“Well, the police are here to see you.”
“The police?” Elspeth heard a chair scrape back. “What do they want?”
“You’ll have to ask them. They’re outside.” This was followed by more of Rebecca’s stomping footsteps, before she erupted from the door in a sudden flurry, and stormed off across the courtyard without even a glance in their direction.
Peter looked at Elspeth, and then rapped on the studio door.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” came the voice from within. He sounded tired more than angry. He opened the door and frowned. “Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Peter. He introduced them both again. “We’re hoping you can assist us with some inquiries.”
Williams furrowed his brow. He was a thickset man in his early fifties, with a broad chest and ample stomach, and a full head of dark hair, going to grey. He had a neat, short beard, and reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a small star-shaped scar just beneath his left eye. He was wearing jeans and a rumpled plaid shirt, which hung loose at the waist. He looked like an ill-fitting companion to the slight, haughty woman they’d just encountered.
“I’m not sure how you think I can help you,” he said, with obvious incomprehension.
“We’re led to believe you’re currently researching a novel about the Carrion King of Wychwood?” said Peter.
“That’s right, yes. Who told you that?” Williams looked suddenly flustered.
“Philip Cowper,” said Peter. “He seemed to think you were something of an expert on the subject.”
Williams nodded. “Then you’d better come in.”
The studio was large and well appointed, more like a small flat than an office. There was a heavy leather-topped desk in the far corner, hemmed in by a series of cupboards and bookcases to form a distinct work area. Behind this, three whiteboards had been mounted on the bare brick wall, and were covered in spidery multi-coloured scrawl.
To the left of the entrance was a display case, filled with a bizarre collection of oddments, including a stuffed eagle, an etched bowl, what appeared to be a rusted sword blade, and a couple of aged leather-bound tomes. A door led through to what Elspeth took to be a shower room and toilet.
Just inside the door on the right, a flight of narrow steps led up to a mezzanine, upon which there was a mussed double bed and a scattering of abandoned clothes.
A battered old Chesterfield sofa and a coffee table, upon which a sheaf of papers and maps had been spread, finished off the décor of the unusual room. The whole place had an odour reminiscent of a dusty museum.
“Come in, take a seat,” said Williams, indicating the sofa.
“It’s an impressive workspace,” said Peter, taking it all in. “Strange to think it was a farm building once.”
“It’s my pride and joy,” said Williams. “I spend most of my days down here, contemplating the view through the glass partition and dreaming up new adventures.” He glanced up at the mezzanine. “Sometimes, if things are going well on the book, I even sleep down here. It’s peaceful, and means I can work late without disturbing Rebecca.”
By which, Elspeth decided, he meant he could avoid arguments by keeping out of her way.
“Did you want a cup of tea?” said Williams. “There’s a kettle around here somewhere, although I’m afraid I’ve learned to do without milk. Ironic, really, being on a farm.”
“No, thank you,” said Peter.
Williams looked expectantly at Elspeth, and she smiled and shook her head.
“So, why do the police want to know about the Carrion King?” said Williams.
“Let’s just say we have our reasons,” said Peter. “I wonder if you can tell me if you know either Geoffrey Altman or Lucy Adams?”
“Geoff Altman? Yes, I knew him.” He looked up, meeting Peter’s gaze. “Dreadful what happened to him.”
“Did you know him well?” said Peter.
“Not really,” said Williams. “I’d met him in the pub a few times, and allowed him to shoot pheasants on the back fields. He’d also taken me out into the woods a couple of times.”
“What do you mean, Mr Williams, that he’d taken you out into the woods?”
Williams cleared his throat. “Geoff was a gamekeeper, see. He knew the area like no one else. He’d hunted it for years. When I told him about the book I was writing, he offered to take me out, show me all the old pagan sites and the ancient perimeter of the Wychwood. We spent a couple of days trekking about so I could take reference shots and mark up a map.” He pointed to a corkboard on the wall above his desk, where he’d pinned a messy assortment of photographs, all depicting trees.
“And you’ve no idea who might have wanted to kill him?”
Williams shook his head. “Like I said, we weren’t friends. And besides, people like Geoff, they come and go like the seasons. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for months on end, and then other times he was there every time you went to the pub. He was that sort of man, kept his own counsel.”
“And what about Lucy Adams?” said Peter.
Williams shook his head. “No. I have no idea who she is, I’m afraid. Has something happened to her, too? I saw something on the news about another murder.”
Peter nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“I still can’t quite see what this has to do with me and my book, I’m afraid,” said Williams.
“Perhaps you can tell us where you were on the nights of the twelfth and twenty-third of this month,” said Peter.
Williams looked as if Peter had slapped him in the face. “So, that’s what this is about, is it?” He stalked over to his desk and pulled open a drawer. From inside he took out an old-fashioned planner and opened it, furiously turning the pages. “There. It’s written here, in black and white. I was here, in the studio.” He passed Peter the diary, t
apping obstinately on the relevant entries. “You can see where I’ve marked off my daily word count on both days.”
“Would your wife be able to confirm your whereabouts, Mr Williams?” said Elspeth. She kept her tone calm, in the hope that it might quell his sudden indignity. He was clearly a man with a hot temper.
“You’ll have to ask her,” said Williams. “Probably.”
“So this novel you’re writing,” said Peter, deftly changing the subject. “Have you been working on it long?”
Williams took a deep breath. His cheeks were flushed. “Two years.”
“Has there ever been a novel about the Carrion King before?”
“As far as I’m aware this will be the first.”
“What do you make of Philip Cowper’s work on the subject?” said Elspeth.
Williams laughed. “Shallow, riddled with assumptions, standing on the shoulders of his betters. Need I go on?”
“I think we get the point,” said Peter. “He told us you’d had occasion to ‘pick his brains’ on the subject once or twice.”
“Before I realised what a buffoon he is, yes,” said Williams. “But it’s been far more useful going back to the source material, reading the mediaeval accounts, and consulting with professionals.”
“Professionals?” said Peter. “Such as Professor Byron Miller at the university? Cowper mentioned that he was an expert.”
“Precisely. Now there’s a man who really understands the symbolism inherent in the Carrion King’s tale. They’re moral tales, you see, similar in many ways to the parables in the Bible. Byron Miller has spent years decoding them. He’s been a great help and inspiration.”
“So you don’t believe the stories are real?” said Elspeth.
Williams looked at her as if she were mad. “Wild magic and curses? Nymphs and shape-shifters? No, Miss Reeves, I think they are legends, myths, stories to terrify the young and give fair warning to the old.”
“Then why go poking around the old pagan sites with Geoffrey Altman,” said Peter, “if you believed the stories to be fictional?”
Williams frowned. “I didn’t say the stories don’t have some basis in truth. Think about all those familiar tales of King Arthur and Camelot, of Merlin and Tintagel, Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men, or Jesus of Nazareth, for that matter. Mythology is born from historical truth. That’s what I’m trying to do, see? With my book, I’m aiming to peel back the layers, get at the origins of those stories. The Carrion King has been forgotten, but his cautionary tale still rings true today.”
“And what cautionary tale is that, Mr Williams?” said Peter.
“That once we start down a dark path, once we allow the corruption in, it spreads like poison and takes root. That ultimately, power corrupts. Look at politicians today. Look at the mess they’ve made. Tell me that isn’t an abject lesson for us all.”
“Are you aware of a man named David Keel?” said Peter. “He’s written a play about the Carrion King, and from talking to him, it sounds as if he’s of a similar mind.”
Williams rubbed at a spot on the centre of his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose, as if attempting to banish the sudden onset of a headache. “Yes, yes. I know David. I’ve read his play. It’s not bad. It could never explore the real depths of the myths like a novel, of course, but it all helps to bring the Carrion King to people’s attention.”
“Have you had much to do with the Winthorpe Players?”
“No, not at all. To be honest, I rarely get out of here. I’ve been over once or twice to meet David, but he usually comes out here, if we’re not corresponding by email.”
“So you’ve never met Vanessa Eglington, the producer?”
“In passing, perhaps. I couldn’t point her out in a room. I know they’ve got that young fella, Oscar something-or-other, playing the Carrion King. He seems quite good.”
“Will you be going to see the play?” said Peter.
“Yes, David’s already sent tickets, so I’ll be there for opening night.”
“Well, thank you,” said Peter. “You’ve been most helpful.” He got to his feet. “We’ll leave you to get on with your work, Mr Williams.”
“And good luck with your book,” said Elspeth.
Williams nodded in appreciation, and shook their hands. He went back to his desk and started up his music again as they saw themselves out.
“Jump in the car, Ellie. I won’t be a moment,” said Peter. He started off across the courtyard.
“Where are you going?”
“I just want a quick word with Mrs Williams. Won’t be a minute.” She watched him disappear around the other side of the house. She didn’t fancy his chances much.
A few minutes later she saw him heading across the gravel towards her. She leaned over and pushed open the driver’s door for him. He clambered inside.
“Did she confirm his alibis?” she said, when he’d shut the door.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Peter. “She said ‘he was probably down in that bloody studio’ both nights, but that she couldn’t really care less. I don’t know exactly what’s going on there, but perhaps Michael Williams needs to pay a bit more attention to his own cautionary tales.”
Elspeth laughed as Peter released the handbrake and brought the car around on the drive, heading back towards Heighton. She was glad to be leaving Michael Williams and his aggrieved wife behind them.
“I’m heading to Oxford now, to meet with Byron Miller,” said Peter. “Do you want me to drop you back in Heighton, or do you want to tag along?”
“I’ll tag along, if that’s okay,” said Elspeth. She settled back for the drive.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
To Elspeth, Oxford had always seemed like a city trapped in a permanent state of dichotomy.
Walking through it now, it seemed to her like two Oxfords occupied the same space at once; a remembrance of the ancient city, where the streets of the long dead intersected with those of the living, and then the newer developments, the high street shops and fast food outlets, and glass- and chrome-fronted offices and Wi-Fi-enabled bistros.
She and Peter walked the narrow lanes, never far from the ching ching of veering bicycles, which, on this busy afternoon, seemed to have turned the streets into an inhospitable assault course. It was lunchtime, and students dashed hither and thither, refuelling on takeout coffee and sandwiches.
Elspeth loved the place, but felt wary of it, too, as if she were somehow out of place here, trespassing in a world of academic endeavour. She’d studied at university – at Middlesex – but Oxford had always seemed different, aloof.
Peter seemed more at ease, ambling along, his auburn hair ruffled by the breeze, his hands jammed in his pockets. “Down here,” he said, pointing her down a narrow lane. “We arranged for him to meet us at a café close to the college where he works.”
Professor Byron Miller was sitting at a table on the street outside the café, a leather-bound notebook resting closed on the table before him, alongside a bottle of iced tea. He was smoking a cigarette, and the way he balanced it nonchalantly between his lips, along with his studied disinterest, made him look like a movie star in repose, lounging in his chair between takes. He had a neat head of sand-coloured hair, parted on the left. He was wearing navy chinos, a white shirt open at the collar, and a grey jacket. He took a long draw from his cigarette, blew the smoke out from the corner of his mouth, and smiled.
“Good afternoon.” He looked her up and down with obvious interest, and then turned to Peter. “DS Shaw, I presume?”
Peter nodded and stuck out his hand, which Miller took, shaking it firmly. “And this is my colleague, Elspeth Reeves.”
“Elspeth?” said Miller. “Now that’s a name you don’t hear very often. At least not anymore.”
Elspeth smiled indulgently. “A family tradition,” she said. She didn’t shake his hand.
“Please, join me.” He beckoned to the empty seats at the table, and then took another draw from
his cigarette. Elspeth eyed it a little enviously; she’d given up over ten years earlier, but had never really lost the taste for it, to the extent that she still occasionally pinched one off her friends when she’d had too much to drink.
The waiter – a debonair man with a short, neat beard and floppy parting – circled the table almost before they’d finished arranging themselves, sweeping up some empty crockery and asking for their order in a lilting Eastern European accent. Elspeth ordered a black coffee and Peter a tea. The waiter buzzed off just as swiftly as he’d come, and a moment later she heard the whirring of the machine inside, churning the fresh beans.
“So, DS Shaw, you mentioned on the phone that you wished to discuss my work?”
“More that I have a few questions that I’m hoping you might be able to help me with,” said Peter.
“Oh, interesting,” said Miller, leaning forward. “Questions. How can I be of service?”
“We’re hoping that you might be able to offer us some insight,” said Peter, “into the myths of The King’s Consort and The Master of the Hunt, and the stories behind these pictures.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew two folded sheets of paper. He smoothed them out on the table and handed them to Miller. They were photocopies of the woodcuts from Ellie’s book.
“Ah, yes,” said Miller. “Two of the five sacrifices. These are taken from a fifteenth-century history of the region. The original is held in the Bodleian, although the woodcuts themselves have been reproduced any number of times. I think they probably sell postcards of them these days.”
“We’re aware of the basics of the mythology,” said Peter, “from what we’ve been able to read online and in local books about the subject, but we were led to believe you might be able to elaborate a little for us, based on your research.”
Miller unscrewed the cap from his bottle of iced tea and took a gulp. “Of course,” he said. “So you’re aware that the Carrion King had been cast out as a boy, and for years had lived in the wilds of the Wychwood, learning to temper his powers, but all the while harbouring a deep-seated hatred for the ealdorman who’d expelled him from his village?”