Dena stopped her car in a lay-by and pulled out her small notebook from her shoulder bag. She added the notes, brief as they were, to the others in the book, the people she had talked to in connection with the Kent Harrison case. Her pen moved quickly over the page as she summarized the meeting with Fay Larkin. Kent’s girlfriend—slim and hazel-eyed and efficient. Able to keep an office running smoothly, managing doctors, patients and emergencies, but barely clinging to sanity. A robotic shell, nearly useless in the Information Department.
Between crying spells and repetitive statements of his fine character and helpfulness, Fay had said only that her life was over and she didn’t know how she and her child would survive. “We were going to be a family,” Fay had choked out between sobs. “He wanted that as much as I did. Maybe even more, because it was getting late in life for him to have a family. Late for me, too, for motherhood. He was forty-five and I’m not far behind him. This baby meant everything to him.”
She had closed the session after that, too upset to talk further and the crying baby needing her attention. That had been thirty minutes ago, Dena thought, glancing at her watch. Thirty minutes that hadn’t produced anything other than frustration for Dena and distress for Fay over the dredged up memories.
Her mobile phone rang and she answered it with a cautious “Hello?” having neglected to look at the caller ID display.
McLaren’s voice slipped into her ear in a caress of warmth and love. “Can you talk?”
“When it’s you, always.”
“I mean, you’re not driving, or have someone with you.”
She could hear the hesitation in his voice, as if he could see her having tea with her friend, afraid he was interrupting something. “No, Michael, this is fine. Did you want anything special?”
“You.”
She fought the temptation to sing ‘A-Rovin’ on a Winter’s Night,’ replying, “Thank you.”
“I mean it, Dena.” He paused again, but only slightly, for his heart must have been speaking when he rushed on. “I must have been insane this past year, leaving you, shutting you out of my life. I’m more sorry than I can ever say about that, about wasting those precious days. I just want to tell you how much you mean to me, how glad I am that you’re back in my life, that I’ll try to make it up to you.”
“You don’t have to. I know you were going through hell. It’s enough that we’re together again.”
A faint sound, as if he were taking a deep breath to tell her something else—or sighing in regret of the lost time—slipped into the silence. He coughed and mumbled an apology, following it by a dull scraping as if he had reached for a heavy mug and was dragging it across the table top toward him. There was a sharp clink of metal against ceramic—his ring hitting the mug, perhaps, or a spoon stirring the beverage—and then his voice, strong again in his ardor and apology.
“I want us to be together, Dena. As long as I live.”
“So do I, Michael.”
“I know you’re busy tonight, but what’s tomorrow look like? I thought we could have dinner together—either at a restaurant or my place. You decide.”
Dena’s soft laugh floated over the phone to McLaren. “You’re willing to cook for me?”
“I’m in love with you. Doesn’t that prove it?”
“More than a declaration on bended knee. Super. I’ll take you up on your handcrafted meal, then. What time?”
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”
“Good.”
“I know the day. I was just thinking out loud, figuring out my interviews and what time I’d be back home.”
“I like a thinking man.”
“I think if there are many more interruptions…”
“Okay. I’m silent. What time?”
“Oh, eight. Does that interfere with anything you’ve got going?”
“Even if it did, I’d rearrange my schedule for you. Thanks, Michael.”
“You haven’t had dinner yet.”
“No, not that. For wanting me, for loving me again.”
“I never did stop loving you, Dena. Even through this nightmare year, I still loved you. I just couldn’t do anything about it.”
“You have now.” She rang off, recalling Fay Larkin’s grief at Kent’s death, her despair at the family that would never be, at the love ripped from her life. Dena closed the phone and put it back in her bag, shutting her heart and mind to the frightening images of she and Michael in a similar scenario. Life wouldn’t be that cruel to Michael, would it? Not after he was fighting his way back from the abyss created by Charlie Harvester.
She flipped over the notebook cover and leaned to her left to grab her bag. The notebook slid onto the floor as she searched for her lipstick. She found it, gave her lips a quick swipe of the red cosmetic, then sagged against the back of the car seat. Traffic zoomed past on the main road, stirring up dust and the scent of rain, but all she was conscious of were the words whirling about in her head. Am I helping Michael by talking to people? Or am I harming his investigation? Dave Morley hadn’t been exactly ecstatic to talk to me. Nor had the others. Am I building walls that Michael can’t scale when he talks to these people?
Cursing her amateur meddling, overcome by regret and love, she picked up her mobile again. Better tell Michael what I’ve done. Maybe he can mend fences if I’ve caused problems. She didn’t hear the car stop beside her or the footsteps on the packed earth as she opened her phone and began punching in his number.
TWELVE
The next morning McLaren’s footsteps thudded dully on the bare soil, a trail worn through the grass that carpeted the courtyard of Tutbury Castle. A few free-standing towers and a stretch of crumbling, roofless rooms were all that remained of the castle’s former glory, a life of nearly 950 years that had seen cycles of ruin and restoration, depending on the reigning monarch’s bent. The successions seemed to have been stopped, ending with the hulk that stretched before him. He sighed, the waste of national heritage and architectural beauty upsetting him. Yet, some people cared. Like castle curators and tour guides and archaeologists. Maybe other people learned to care through them, or through school classes.
Shaking off the feeling he shooed a fly from his arm. The day would be another hot one. He squinted at the sun that seemed to sit on the broken rim of the South Range, mimicking or exceeding Monday’s temperatures. He hoped the bottle of water in his car wouldn’t be too hot to drink when he left the castle. He had parked in the shade, but the sun traveled… He eyed the beer vendor, again wishing he had brought the water with him, and walked on. The courtyard was only partially filled at this early hour, and the breeze ran unrestrained over the grass and banked against the castle walls, dragging away part of the heat already building in the objects. It would get even hotter later on, he thought, when the tourists filled the castle grounds, bent on enjoying themselves at the Minstrels Court gala. He skirted the vendors setting out their wares and opening up their fabric booths. The bold colors shone even brighter in the strength of the sun.
McLaren passed the performance stage, a long wooden rectangle raised four feet from the ground. A proscenium had been created with lengths of sequined and silky fabric and an overhead banner of large pennants, which fluttered in the warm breeze. A wooden stand holding large poster-sized placards that could be changed to announce the presenting performing act, stood to stage left, near the edge of the forestage, a footlight trained on it. The fabric, flags, stand and flooring were in hues of maroon, wine, lilac and silver, with black accents of lettering and embroidered fanciful beasts. All very medieval-looking, McLaren thought, glancing at the woman taking a lute from its hardshell case. The bright yellow plush case lining caught his attention, seeming out of place in the forest of reds. All very mood-inducing.
The South Range loomed larger than life as he left the stage and booth area. Most of it was little more than a shell, a broken silhouette against a pale blue backdrop. A tower capped the left-hand end of the Range, a piece of history tourists
could climb and feel, if only for a few minutes, a link with past lives. A red brick building bookended the opposite end, contrasting in color, texture and time to the tan stone of the main section of the building. It snuggled against the Hall, its long, sloping roof giving it a sleepy air. But that was deceptive, for it held the tearoom and gift shop.
Ignoring the call for a glass of water, McLaren entered the main building and found himself in the Great Hall, a two-story affair with fireplaces, glass-paned windows and wooden floors.
“Mr. McLaren?” The caller stood at the head of the staircase, little more than a dark figure in the dim light. “I’m Clark MacKay, castle curator. We can talk in my office, if you’d like.” He stepped back and motioned for McLaren to join him. The creak of the wooden steps as McLaren ascended conjured up images in his mind of Henry IV and James I, the torchlight or sunlight stretching shadows behind them. “I appreciate you coming at this early hour,” Clark added when McLaren stood in the hall.
The room was larger than McLaren had thought. Loftier, too. He glanced upward, aware of the superb wood timberwork. Tan plaster walls were dotted with framed documents and pictures. Ahead of him was a person-tall fireplace, presumably large enough to roast a calf or lamb if the residents had wished, but which now sat empty and framed by wrought iron candle stands. A panel of floral embroidery done in tans, creams and greens claimed the head of the stone fireplace opening. An area rug in cream, navy, and cranberry hues stretched parallel to the fireplace and continued the colors in the wooden chair in the corner, red-canopied and throned on a carpeted dais. Waiting for Mary, McLaren thought, wondering again how the Scottish queen had lived in captivity. Waiting for the past to reincarnate and free her. She seemed to inhabit the hall—the interior of the canopy sported her coat of arms, items for daily use dotted the walls. But more importantly Mary herself appeared to welcome him. A white dress, complete with dark blue kirtle, pink bows and white-ruffed collar, stood to the left of the fireplace. The costume could have been real. He stared at the embroidered lion and unicorn on the edges of the long tunic. It could be Mary, except that it had no head, hands or feet. He glanced once more at the long sleeves, expecting a jeweled finger to show itself, then followed Clark into his office.
“I’m glad you could accommodate me,” McLaren said. “I know it’s short notice.”
“Anything I can do to help. Tuesday mornings are usually fairly quiet.”
“The weekend influx has gone.”
“Except this week, of course, we’re holding the Minstrels Court, so we expect folks all eight days. But that’s still an hour away. Tea or coffee?”
McLaren declined and took the offered seat facing the large desk.
The office seemed to be made of bookcases, for they consumed two entire walls and part of the third. Two large windows let in enough light so that the brass shaded desk lamp need not be used much. Framed photos of castle events and famous entertainers crowded in between the windows and took up what space the larger posters didn’t. A computer, printer, and telephone were perched on one section of the desk.
“I find it useful to work here, just off the hall,” Clark said, settling in his chair. “I’m close to the gift shop, and I can pop out occasionally to answer any questions the visitors in the main hall might have.”
“Good idea.” McLaren glanced at the bookcases crowded with historical information. “Your events seem very authentic, from what I hear. And now that I see how much research you evidently do for each one.” He broke off as MacKay handed him a brochure.
“An events calendar for the castle. We’ve something going on most weekends—Renaissance fairs, music festivals, ghost walks, historical lectures. Reenactments. And those aren’t all military battles,” he quickly added. “We demonstrate and lecture on cooking, medical treatment, dress, architecture and crafts. The craft demos are very popular, as you may imagine. Again, we have a good representation: straw work, embroidery, candle making, illuminated manuscript writing, paper making, jewelry making, wood carving.”
“Quite a list.”
“These are as accurate as we can make them, too. Each practitioner is well known in his field and is, of course, responsible for authenticity—not only in technique but also in design. But you want to know about last year’s Minstrel Court, right?”
“If you recall anything about Kent Harrison on the day he was killed. Perhaps someone became angry with him—either a fellow musician or a fan or a member of the castle staff. Maybe someone was constantly jealous of him, for whatever reason, and his emotions got the better of him that night. Anyone at all whom you can recall who might have held a grudge or disliked him.”
Clark frowned and picked up his pen. His fingers rubbed the smooth barrel, evoking an image of Aladdin rubbing his lamp in desperation. “I felt so bad about that. Still do. To die like that…well, to die so young, too. I just couldn’t believe it when I heard about it.” He shook his head, as though still in disbelief, or wishing to rid his memory of the event. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Such a nice chap. Extremely popular, you know. With his audiences and in his private life, too, I’m told.”
“You had no dealing with him, then, outside the castle?”
“No. He was a regular at the Minstrels Court. Do you know about that?”
“Not really. I’ve never attended.”
“Oh, but you must!” Clark’s voice took on the enthusiasm that was so infectious for his staff and visitors. “It’s glorious! We run it annually the same weekend each summer. As you can probably tell from this morning, it’s focused on entertainment that would be found in John of Gaunt’s court at that time. He began it, in the 14th century, if I’m not insulting your intelligence—and it was so popular that it continued annually for three hundred years.”
“Music, mime, dance.”
“Yes. But also juggling and acrobatics. Envision jesters cavorting through the area, minstrels singing, tumblers and dancers. John of Gaunt’s original Court lasted for several weeks, but we’ve scaled ours down to eight days. I’ve learned that his festival eventually got so wild that a special court was convened to punish wrongdoers.”
“I suppose, with all these entertainers vying for attention, it did get a bit rowdy.”
“Our Minstrels Court is nothing like that, of course. Quite tame in comparison, even with the jousting. I don’t believe that was part of the original festival, but we added it as a visual learning device.”
“So, Kent Harrison performed the night he was murdered,” McLaren said, jotting an entry into his notebook. “What time did he wrap up his act?”
“They had the last slot that night, so they wrapped up at half past nine.”
“Remarkable memory you have, Mr. MacKay.”
“Not really. I simply recall it because I’d spoken to the police so often about that. I didn’t get to hear him that time, though. I was in a meeting with Sheri Harrison, one of our castle tour guides, until eleven o’clock.”
“You work long, odd hours, then.”
“Same as the police,” he said, smiling, then added, “Kent appeared with his sometime singing partner, Dave Morley, for that session.”
“The two of them weren’t a regular duet, then.”
“No. Kent was the main act, if you want to call him that. Dave would come on for a set—anywhere from six to a dozen songs. Then Kent would continue as a solo.”
“Was there any difference in popularity when Dave joined him? You mentioned earlier that Kent was very popular with the crowd.”
“Dave didn’t really detract or add anything, I don’t believe. Not in the way you mean, not in popularity. Dave added a nice harmony to Kent’s melody line, and the second instrument was nice. The sound was completely different when Dave sang with Kent. I can’t call it better or worse. It was just different.”
“So their audience didn’t prefer the duo, for example, to Kent’s solo stint.”
“Not that I could tell. It was just a different sound.
They were quite good. But so was Kent as a solo. Extremely popular. He’d taken to singing ‘The Swans’ Courtships’ as his encore, did you know?”
Probably sang it for his last song before he died. His swan song. “Did they appear other places as a duo, or just here?”
“They did other gigs around the country. Again, nothing major because both of them had regular jobs. But they’d appear at other festivals and at folk nights in pubs. That sort of thing.”
“Did they have their sights on doing this as a career?”
“I doubt it. More like a serious hobby.”
“Just fun, then. Something to bring in a bit of extra money.”
“I should think so, yes. After all, you’ve got to begin early in the business, don’t you, if you want to turn professional?”
“And Kent was in his middle forties, if I recall. What about Dave? How old is he?”
“I don’t know. Forty, I’d say. Maybe younger. If so, just slightly.”
“Beyond the age of having a shot as a career.”
“Might be. Then again, people always have that dream in their hearts, don’t they?”
“Did Dave appear as a solo act, or was he always with Kent?”
“You’ll have to ask someone else about that, Mr. McLaren. I only ever saw them here, at the Minstrels Court. I have no idea what they did away from the castle.”
McLaren made a note to question Dave Morley, then asked, “Were they mates? Or just singing partners?”
Swan Song Page 9
