“Kent was a super human being and a terrific talent, and I’m sorry for his death. But you’re wasting your time with me. I wasn’t at Tutbury that night; I was working here at the Hall. I’m out of the picture as far as Kent’s murder goes. I wasn’t there and I don’t know about any personal problem Kent had. He didn’t confide in me, and I didn’t see him that day. I’m not involved in any of this. It’s the Castle’s and Ashbourne’s problem.”
“But surely, as a simple matter of justice and as a courtesy to Kent, wouldn’t you want his killer caught? Won’t you sleep better, knowing you helped bring justice to Kent?”
“I just told you,” Ellen said, exhaling deeply, “I don’t want any part of this. I’m not mixed up in it, either directly or from any knowledge. I was elsewhere that night, and since I have neither clairvoyance nor clairaudience ability I don’t know what went on or who killed him. I’m sorry he’s dead. A talent like he had is a staggering loss to the musical world. But it’s over. It was over a year ago. Let the past stay past. Don’t dredge up things that might only hurt the living. I’m not interested in helping you or the cops or your friend, and I sleep just fine. I’ve nothing preying on my conscience, as you just implied. I don’t know a thing about any of it. Plain enough?”
Plain as a pikestaff, Dena thought as the Jacobean carved staircase creaked with each step of her exit and the massive wooden door whooshed closed behind her.
Once more in her car she gazed at the Hall. The oriel windows threw back the sunlight and reflected the glories of the summer garden. Rawlton really was a perfect setting for any period-type event, she thought, and envisioned Kent in medieval dress sitting under the willow. A gardener pushing a cart filled with sacks of fertilizer and gardening tools strolled past her, breaking the spell. She started the car’s engine and drove toward Ashbourne. She had turned onto the A515, heading back north, when an explanation whispered at her. The idea broke through the bluegrass group’s rendition of “Ain’t Necessarily So.” Knowing who is responsible for Kent’s death lets you live with a clear conscience because you’ve done all you can do to bring the killer to justice. Unless you don’t want that for some reason, and you’re afraid to tell that to Michael.
TEN
“I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you, Mr. McLaren. Nothing new that I haven’t told the police last year, that is.” Aaron Unsworth was leaning against the front wall of his house, his figure in shadow, the tip of his lit cigarette a glowing beacon in the dusk. His arms were folded across his chest, revealing his muscular biceps, strengthened and toughened from lifting large, steel pots and pans in the restaurant where he worked. The smooth skin mirrored Aaron’s head, hairless and tanned from days off in the sun. He flicked the column of ash off the end of the cigarette before taking another puff. “You used to be one of them, right? A police officer, I mean.”
McLaren nodded. Where was this heading? He repeated the phrase that was fast becoming an automatic reply. “You’re under no obligation to answer any of my questions, you know. I’m investigating on my own.”
“I understand.” Aaron finished his cigarette in one slow puff, then dropped it. It rolled several inches along the front step before stopping beside his feet. With the toe of his shoe he crushed the life from it, smashing the butt against the concrete with a slow rocking movement. A garden gate clanged closed somewhere on the street, breaking the brief silence. “A question occurs to me, if you won’t mind answering it.”
“If I can.”
Aaron smiled, aware of the unspoken explanation. “Certainly. Then you understand any constraints on my answers.”
“You may refuse your answers on any grounds, Mr. Unsworth. I’m not going to hand you over to a constable. What would you like to know?”
“Are you here because a family member employed you?”
Of all the questions Aaron could have asked, this was one of the few McLaren had not anticipated. His eyebrows lifted slightly, briefly. Why does it make a difference to this man who hired me? Is he engaged to one of them? Linked by business? He considered the various answers he could give, from frivolous to evasive, but a glance at Aaron’s serious expression decided him. “Could we go inside? This is hardly a conversation for the whole world.”
Aaron nodded, turned, and opened the front door, allowing McLaren to enter first.
The room startled McLaren. Not because it was garish or messy but because it was not the décor he would have associated with the muscular Aaron Unsworth. It seemed better fitted in a bedroom of the 1940s. Sheer, frilly curtains bracketed the front window, ruffles edged the throw pillows on the sofa and chairs; a pair of ceramic pug dogs claimed the center of the fireplace mantle and was surrounded by ornately framed photos. The entire room seemed ephemeral, done in shades of pink, powder blue and white. McLaren stared at the door leading, most likely, to the bedroom hall, expecting Cary Grant or Joan Fontaine to emerge.
“Please, don’t stand on ceremony,” Aaron said, bursting McLaren’s dream. Motioning McLaren to a seat, Aaron tossed his packet of cigarettes and his lighter onto the table. The sound of a guitar being tuned came from somewhere within the house. “My son, Fraser,” Aaron said, sitting opposite McLaren. “Some big event he’s practicing for, I think. Or maybe just to impress his girl.” He pulled the throw cushion from behind his back and set it on a neighboring chair. “I don’t smoke in the house because he has asthma.”
“Sorry to hear that. I hope he’s managing all right.”
“As long as he takes his medication and stays away from polluted air…”
“Might not be so easy to do, but I suppose there are places that pose no problem for him.”
“Thankfully, yes. More and more businesses are going smoke free, too. Not that that keeps him out of them. He just has to go easy and take a fresh air break if it gets too bad. But you didn’t come here to talk about Fraser’s health problem.”
“And you want an answer to your question.” McLaren had one quick mental argument with himself, then replied, “I haven’t heard from a family member. I was asked by one of your neighbors to look into it.”
“Who shall remain anonymous, for whatever reason. Does this neighbor have an emotional tie to Kent Harrison?”
“Nothing other than wanting to see justice done.”
“So, the family’s not offered a reward, then.”
“If they have, I’m not aware of it. Where do they live? Do you know?”
“His parents live in Australia. They emigrated just after Kent was killed. I think the shock was too much for them, wanted to get away from reminders. You know—the village, the pub he frequented, the events at the castle, his song played on the radio. Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? Why have all that around you to rub salt into the wound? You can’t heal. They’re also rather elderly and not in the best of health. Mr. Harrison has a brother in Sydney, so they went to live near him. Family support, I suppose.”
“So all these reminders…they lived here in Ashbourne, then?”
“Yes, but across town, on the northern side.”
“Not on this street, then. Not as close as you lived to Kent…not next door, as you are.”
“No. Not next door, as we used to be. Close neighbors,” he said, emphasizing the close proximity of their houses. Aaron knew what McLaren wanted, but he decided to let the man ask. He reached for the cigarettes, then realized what he was doing, and stopped. “That’s about it to his family, other than his ex. No kids. Oh, there’s Kent’s younger brother. He lives on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides. I always thought that rather odd. Such an isolated part of Scotland, those wild islands. But he’s a web designer so I suppose he can live most anywhere. You don’t have to actually be in contact with your clients for that, do you?”
“And Kent’s parents and brother aren’t concerned about the case? They’re not pressing the police for an arrest?”
“Perhaps some memories are too painful to keep alive. Sometimes it’s best to let the wou
nds heal.”
I agree, McLaren thought. But if there are ill feelings in the family, like hatred between two brothers…
Aaron pulled in his lower lip, exhaling slowly. His eyes softened, as though he were staring at something over McLaren’s shoulder. The guitar tuning continued.
“Nice painting,” McLaren said, hoping to nudge the conversation forward. Time crept onward. The sun poised on top of the western ridge of hills; soon it would topple over the rim, leaving the valley in shadow that would thicken into blackness. Several homes had already turned on table lamps near their front windows. The circles of golden light, just distinguishable now, would strengthen as the gloom increased, becoming small oasis and lighthouses for those homeward bound. “Did you do that?”
“What?” Aaron half turned in his chair to distinguish which picture was singled out.
“That small one above the mantle. The sunset. Stanton Moor, isn’t it?” Of course it was. No other monolith looked like the moor’s famous Cork Stone. But he needed to prod Aaron into talking.
“Yes, that’s the moor. It was done last year.”
“It’s very good. Who’s the artist?”
Aaron lowered his head, rubbing the side of his face. His reply was barely audible. “My wife.”
“Really? She’s very good. Does she exhibit anywhere, have anything for sale?”
“I wouldn’t know. She left us last year. One year and one day ago.”
Silence settled over the room, absolute but for the sound of the guitar chords being practiced. McLaren glanced at the painting again, then at Aaron. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Why should you? It wasn’t on the evening TV.” He picked up the pillow and hugged it to his chest. “I thought I’d be over it by now, but…” He exhaled loudly, as though exasperated with himself. “Fraser’s done a better job than I have at putting this behind him. Not that he’ll ever forget his mum, but…” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at McLaren. “Sorry. This isn’t the time to air the family secret. You’re here about Kent Harrison.”
“I’d like to know if you heard anything, perhaps saw something unusual that night. Your house is the last in the row, nearest the wood where his body was found.”
“Do you suspect me of the crime, Mr. McLaren? Or, of having a hand in this? I think I’m entitled to know your line of supposition if I’m going to divulge anything and possibly open myself to further questioning from the police. And I assume,” he said, relinquishing the pillow, “that you’ll be in touch with them should you learn anything explosive.”
“I don’t owe the police anything.” The words came out harsher than McLaren wanted, but he couldn’t stop his feelings, couldn’t stop revealing the hurt that subject engendered. He took a breath, then proceeded rather more even-toned. “I’m a private inquiry agent,” he explained, suddenly astonished that he had come to this point, to admitting this might become a new career for him. He had quickly come to think of himself as a repairer of dry stonewalls, hardly recalling his years as a police detective in the Staffordshire Constabulary. It had been deliberate, this shoving aside of his former occupation. It coincided with the removal of most of his police knick-knacks and mementoes to the darkest recesses of his attic, and with the near-hermit life he had constructed for himself. Including shutting out Dena, his former fiancé. McLaren stared at the painting, and felt the kinship of hurt with this man. But Aaron hadn’t shut himself from the world as McLaren had tried to do. He had his son and his job to keep him anchored. And evidently loved his wife enough to keep the room as she evidently had decorated it.
He cleared his throat, drawing Aaron’s attention back to him, and said more calmly, “I’m just doing a preliminary investigation. Sometimes people recall little things somewhat later that seemed too trivial to mention at the time of the original inquiry.” Or life situations change. Friendships break, family members drift away, threats or other situations fade so that a person feels free or compelled to speak.
“I doubt I can remember anything now that I didn’t tell the police then.”
“Kent Harrison’s body was discovered in the wood, I guess you know.”
“Yes.” Aaron’s gaze shifted to the front window. The road ended just beyond his house, the last in the line of houses before giving the village up to grassland and forest. “That’s what the police said when they questioned me.”
“And you heard nothing that night? I ask because—”
“Because we were next door neighbors. Yes. Therefore, I was in a position to hear something.”
“Yes.” He said it without implying Aaron had been withholding information from the original inquiry. Merely a simple statement that set the facts in concrete. Staring at Aaron’s impassive expression, McLaren added, “No car coming and going? No one walking? No conversation, no matter how quiet it may have been? You saw no one you didn’t know? Some stranger who may have suggested that something odd or suspicious was about to happen?”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, either. It was a Sunday night—I do remember that. Fraser and I were still coming to grips with my wife being gone. We didn’t hear anything.”
“You were home, it sounds like.”
Aaron pressed his lips together, glaring at McLaren. Silence fell between them for a moment, then Aaron said, “You’re implying I need an alibi.”
“Do you need one? Have you a motive for killing Kent?”
“I’ve no motive, but the police have thrown innocent men into prison before now. But no, I didn’t wish him dead. I don’t wish anyone dead. I haven’t that sort of anger or hatred in me. I got along fine with Kent. As did Fraser. We were home that night, though we can’t prove it. In the back room, talking and crying and generally trying to understand why she’d leave us. That’s why we didn’t see or hear anyone.”
“I suppose you get a lot of people walking down your lane. You know,” he explained when Aaron frowned. He motioned toward the front window. The flowering shrubs and pavement had faded into dark green shapes in the early dusk. “Walkers, picnickers, maybe people wanting to do some nature photography. They must come often. I’ve seen the car track that goes westward from your lane. They must drive up the hill a bit before they park.”
“The Council’s talking about putting up a chain there, so they can’t drive on that piece of land. It’s private property.”
“But they haven’t yet.”
“No.”
“So last year people could still drive close to that section of the wood.”
“I suppose so. Yes. But I didn’t see anything like that. Neither anyone driving nor any cars that I don’t know. I don’t stand at my window and keep track of cars that drive out there.”
“Of course not,” McLaren said, hoping to appease the man. “You’ve got a son to take care of, a job that must demand a lot of your time—”
“It does. But I couldn’t work at anything else. You know how it is.”
McLaren nodded. In spite of his resentment over his treatment at his former job, the detective still lived in him; he loved the chase and the feeling of justice that washed over him when the criminal was convicted and sentenced. “Did Kent have any of his friends over to his house, do you know? Anyone from his school?”
“You ask because, living next door to him, I might have seen his friends and can identify them.” He reached again for the packet of cigarettes, swore, and set a book on top of them.
“Logical, isn’t it? I know my neighbors’ friends and family. Know their vehicles, too.”
“I don’t know about any friends or colleagues over at his house that evening. Simply because I wasn’t paying attention.”
“But nothing odd registered with you.”
“No, but he could have had someone over from Tutbury Castle, I suppose. He was rather chummy with some of them. I probably could recall names of his friends if you think it’s important, but right now—” He shrugged. “Kent did like t
o have people over from time to time. That was part of who he was.”
“How often was this?”
“I have no idea. I don’t keep track of my neighbors’ private lives.”
“Anyone come over regularly?”
“Like every Saturday for poker, or for lunch after church?”
“Yes.”
“Intimating that someone keeping such a regular schedule would not cause undue alarm on the street. Or even register in my mind as being here at The Time in Question.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Sorry, but no one comes to mind. It seemed to be a haphazard influx of friends and co-workers. Nothing obvious.”
“Those people you said he sometimes had over…did they come because Kent performed during the Minstrels Court event? He made particular friends from there?”
“That, sure, but people also dropped in because he was a popular entertainer. He had a lot of fans. Sometimes he’d invite them over, sometimes they’d just show up on his door step.” He paused, his gaze diverted to the small painting. “You know. People chat you up, show an interest in your art or music or woodcarving, and next thing you know you’re talking to them over a cuppa about your creativity process and the subjects that inspire you.”
McLaren left, wondering if Aaron was still in love with his wife, wondering which of the couple was enamored with the great boulder on Stanton Moor, a boulder that nearly mimicked the large rock where Kent Harrison’s body had been found.
ELEVEN
The boulder where Kent Harrison’s body had been found haunted Dena as she drove back to Buxton. She hadn’t been one of the Curious last year who had visited or photographed the area when the police had released the scene for public use. But she did recall it from her previous walks through the wood. Not that she seemed to get much time to do that now, but she had during her childhood—short meanderings barely into the copse to collect October-tinted leaves; sunrise strolls when the dew-laden grass hugged your jeans; star-studded summer nights around a fire, telling ghost stories and proclaiming plans for the future. That time seemed long ago, hardly more than a gray haze in her memory. Jobs and school and disappointments in love had a way of bullying out the less urgent events in life, even if those events were more important to your emotional well being than landing a job. You could live without looking at a beautiful painting or feeling the crunch of dry leaves underfoot, but was that life really full?
Swan Song Page 8
