She struggled to a sitting position, struggled for breath as the exertion exhausted her. A muffled groan escaped from her taped lips, bounced off hard walls and instantly stilled her attempt. She sat frozen, half sitting, half reclining, listening for a movement in the farther recesses of the room, waiting for a gunshot or a curse, expecting the tattoo of hurried footsteps and the banging open of the door and the sharp slap as an unseen hand smacked her face. But as her breathing slowed and the cry faded, no one announced his presence. She tightened her stomach muscles and slowly pulled herself upright.
Though what good it did her, she couldn’t say. Unless it was that she felt more in control of her destiny. Sitting upright, like a human being, instead of lying trussed on the floor and waiting to die.
She looked around, trying to discern where she was. The darkness painted everything uniformly, giving no depth or detail to the area. Rocking back and forth and scooting her legs by inches to the right, Dena maneuvered in a tight circle, viewing the entire space. Nothing stood out; nothing suggested the identity of the space. Other than the faint dots of white light when she had returned to what she assumed was her original position. I could be anywhere.
And yet, that was not true. She was sitting on carpet. She could feel it through her shoes as her feet had pushed against it to sit her up; she could feel it through the seat of her trousers as she wriggled around in a circle; she could feel it with her fingers if she bent slightly backward. A wall-to-wall carpet, not the hard, cold ceramic tile of her previous captivity. A room-sized carpet, otherwise it would have bunched beneath her as she fought to sit up. Therefore, a room frequently peopled. The realization that she was not dumped in a garage or basement, that she was in an office or residence, comforted her. But it did nothing to reveal where she was—or why she had been kidnapped.
And it did nothing to diminish her fear.
She tried to think as McLaren would, putting the pieces together to form a picture of her kidnapping and her dungeon. Ignoring the ‘what,’ she asked herself the five remaining questions that formed the basis of any inquiry.
How was I taken? Easy, she thought, aware of her aching scalp. Clobbered on the head. But how was I physically taken here? In a car. Well, some vehicle. I was blindfolded but I was awake, aware of what was going on. I don’t know how long into the ride before I regained consciousness, so I don’t know distance traveled, but I do recall sounds and road surfaces. Smooth tarmac, a great deal of bends to it. Which suggests an A or B road, not a motorway. Which also suggests I’m in a village or town. Longer episodes of straight travel would hint at a city, or at least a city’s suburbs. And there had been a constant, though sporadic, sound and brief hesitation in the car… What was that? What did that signify? Gear changes.
What else did I hear? No lorries lumbering by, no horns honking, no sheep bleating, no bell towers chiming… Nothing to say ‘I’m near a church or the waterfront.’ And no car radio announcing the time, call letters or music. No conversation from the driver to me or anyone else in the car. If there had been anyone else in the car.
But surely there had been a second person. Wouldn’t it be easier and faster if two people transported me from my car to the kidnapper’s car? They’d want to do it as quickly as possible, to avoid being seen.
My car… That answers the next question.
Where did it happen? Yes, as I sat in my car, parked in the lay-by. But there’s another ‘where’ to answer. Where am I? Besides indoors, in a carpeted room… Am I in another room in the same building, or a different building? I’d been in a residential area that harbors a school or office. I know that much because I’ve seen the car park and the group of houses along its farthest end. It’s a well-attended school or office because the car park seemed to be filled; plus, those pots of plants and flowers were alive and healthy. They wouldn’t be so well tended if the place bordered on dereliction…
Right. I’ve got where and how it happened. What else?
When did it happen? Monday afternoon, just after speaking to Gwen on my mobile.
But what of my kidnapper? Dena bent her head, trying to recall the terrifying event. Who could it be? She hadn’t see him, or her, or them…before she’d been knocked unconscious. She had no description like Michael always jokes about: narrow-set eyes, weak chin, scruffy beard. She hadn’t seen anyone when she’d been moved from the vehicle. The blindfold took care of that. Her captor could have an identifying mark or injury and she was none the wiser. She could recall no sounds of a doorbell ringing, or whispered commands between the two kidnappers. She rubbed her head as a faint remembrance suggested itself. She’d been carried down a short flight of stairs and around a corner. Her abductors’ footsteps echoed, as though they were walking on a hard surface, like linoleum or terrazzo. As though they were in a school or office. Fine, but she still didn’t know who had kidnapped her. She got no clue from the glimpse he’d given her. Dark clothing could conceal a male or female frame; the gloves disguise size, skin color, work history and gender; the mask removes any positive identification; the mute gestures eliminate recognition. Of someone I know, she realized, suddenly frightened. Of gender.
Could a woman have done all this? Would she have the strength to shift me, twice now, from vehicle to vehicle, from vehicle to prison? But that does not preclude two people involved in this, as it seems to necessitate since I was carried originally from the car to the office. Nor does it preclude that it is someone I know, whether acquaintance, family or friend.
An acquaintance, I could accept, though why abduct me? A family member or friend tinges the act of kidnapping with the taste of jealousy. Or revenge. But revenge for what?
Dena sat upright, afraid of the answer that already barked at her.
Revenge? WHY? The question consumed more than her mind; it enveloped her with an unstoppable shaking that suddenly griped her body. If it’s revenge, what did I do?
She needed to know who had carried out her abduction and where she was being held. The answers might allay some of the questions—or destroy her emotionally.
She considered getting to her knees and inching around the area, feeling along a wall—if she came to one—with her shoulder or top of her head. But she quickly abandoned the idea. The unknown room, wrapped in darkness, could hold anything, things she might not want to bump into or confront. The childhood terror of stretching out her hand during a game of blindman’s bluff and feeling a dried blowfish rushed back at her from this new darkness, shrieking with a thousand taunts that bounced off the walls. She would stay where she was, content with the progress she had made in identifying her kidnapping, yet hoping that morning would bring light and a greater revelation.
SIXTEEN
McLaren had thought the familiar urge he’d had that morning would bring light and a revelation. He silently acknowledged being at a dead end. Perhaps this was the reason the case had gone cold, he thought as he drove to The Split Oak. Perhaps he just needed a pint in his favorite pub and a chat with his mate, Jamie Kydd. Police detective or not, Jamie might point out something in McLaren’s haze.
It was not particularly late—just coming on to four o’clock—but McLaren felt as though he had no brain left. He had spent the rest of the day talking to Ellen Fairfield, the curator at Rawlton Hall, getting her emphatic assurance that she had done nothing other than offer a bigger venue to Kent Harrison. “I’ve got publicity connections that Clark MacKay can only wish for,” Ellen had said, giving a faint smile in imagined victory. But the triumph had never materialized, for Kent had repeatedly, unwaveringly refused her job offers. He would not betray Clark’s kindness and trust. Clark had given Kent his first professional chance, offering him a spot at the Minstrels Court when the rest of his singing buddies were holding down their weekend gig at the pub. He had confidence that Kent was destined for stardom and he felt compelled to help the singer on his way.
After the earful with Ellen, McLaren had sought others who knew Kent, but his attempts had fizzl
ed into frustration and a headache. The headmaster at Kent’s school was on leave, and the assistant was new to his job, not knowing Kent but knowing the death had been tragic.
Other neighbors of Kent’s hadn’t heard or seen anything the Sunday night preceding his death—or at least were still remaining silent. The two Kent Harrison fan club members who had ridden to and from the Minstrels Court with club president Adrian Galloway were both gone from home, so he’d have to catch them up later. So, as McLaren had grown to suspicion earlier in the day, he was up against a stone wall. Fright or secrets still muzzled the truth.
The drive from the castle in Tutbury to Ashbourne took less time than McLaren would have imagined when he turned off the busy A50 and headed north on the A515. He had put a CD in the car’s player, a recording of Beethoven German dances, remastered from the LP featuring conductor Edouard Van Remortel, needing the solace of great music to soothe his mind. He popped a Rowntrees Fruit Polo into his mouth and chewed along with Beethoven. Ordinarily he preferred chocolate over citrus-flavored hard candy, but chocolate wouldn’t have lasted five minutes sitting in his hot car. Anyway, he had that huge Heroes tin at home—individually wrapped chocolate a colleague had given him last year when he left the job. A fitting gift to a hero of mine, the colleague had half jested on presenting McLaren with the tin. But his eyes held the real feelings of the man, and McLaren had read the mute, sincere message loud and clear. He swallowed the bit of candy, the lime flavor lingering on his tongue. Maybe I should stop in Buxton and get a bag of Galaxy Minstrels, he thought, then laughed at the name association. But the little buttons of chocolate would have to wait. He needed to get north.
As he came to Ashbourne he slowed the car, considering another talk with Sheri Harrison, Kent’s ex, but McLaren had nothing new to ask her, so he drove through the town and set his mind to what he would relate to Jamie.
Not much past Ashbourne the sign for Tissington flashed past on his right, and an overwhelming urge to tell Dena about his day gripped McLaren. He made a sharp left opposite the village of Parwich, and drove down the smaller B road sandwiched between the A515 and the River Dove. Kirkfield, Dena’s village, presented itself as he crested the hill.
The main road was not yet crowded with the cars of workers returning home from their jobs in the surrounding towns. If crowded was the correct word, McLaren reconsidered. But the road did hold a few late returning shoppers and the occasional tourist. McLaren parked in front of her house and jogged up the front walk.
The house was in keeping with the others in the row—stone façade, flower boxes underscoring the front windows, and small front gardens in a riot of summer color. And as old, for the length of dwellings had not altered in external appearance since built in the 1700s. A grandfather oak near the house’s front corner spread its massive boughs over the roof and upward to heaven, as though simultaneously offering protection and blessing. McLaren lifted the heavy, brass doorknocker—surprisingly warm to his touchand rapped at the door.
While he waited for Dena, he glanced at the garden. It was well kept, with mowed grass and weeded perennial beds. A harmony of warm colors—orange day lilies, red roses, pink geraniums, yellow daisies and marigolds. Why can’t I keep mine up like this, McLaren wondered, noting the accent of white Queen Anne’s lace by the birdbath. A half hour a day weeding… But he knew the reason: he hadn’t the gardener’s heart even if he did like the outdoors. Weeding was a chore, not a loving gesture to the cultivated plants, freeing them from the strangulation of invasive plants. He sighed, knowing he’d have to be content to gaze on other’s gardens, and turned back to the door. It was silent within the house.
Maybe she’s still at the animal rescue center, McLaren thought, glancing at his watch. Or stopping at a girl friend’s before coming to my house. He knocked once again, louder and longer, but the door remained closed when he had given up.
He got back into his car and closed the door. But the key remained in his hand, his gaze still on her house. The disappointment at not talking with her welled up in his soul until he thought his heart would split. He had wanted her wise counsel, the uninvolved view, the impartiality of an onlooker. Plus, if he were honest with himself, he wanted to be with her. Now that he had put the year’s estrangement behind him, he wanted her love and companionship. He wanted to step back to the instant before they had separated, before he had pushed her away, and pick up the intimacy and belief they had had. He wanted to pour his heart out to her and hold her.
But the shut door delayed the moment. Telling himself he would do that over dinner, he started the car and drove to Somerley, thinking three hours had never seemed so long.
* * * *
The Split Oak in McLaren’s home village had not yet filled with the home-going crowd when he walked into the main room at five o’clock. But there were more people than he had expected. They sat at small tables that formed a U shape at the end of the room, and stood in clusters, examining packets and books and jewelry and talking ‘price’ with the costumed people at the tables. All very medieval, McLaren found himself thinking, mimicking the phrase from earlier in the day. All appropriate to the pub’s interior of polished oak paneled walls, old porcelain pitchers and jugs and plates, age-yellowed maps. All in keeping with the Past. Waving to the publican, he nodded toward the group. “What’s all this?”
They seemed to blend with the pub’s interior, for the costumes were of the Middle Ages. Of the type that Blossom Armitage had sported that morning at Tutbury Castle. In fact, she was here, standing behind a table draped with plum-colored damask fabric. Some of her herbal and dried flower mixtures were displayed on the table, bagged and priced, alongside a stack of brochures. She stood next to a Robin Hood-type figure who was pointing to a large map on an easel.
“Escaped all this before, have you?” The publican, a brawny man in his late forties, held the glass he was drying up to the light and squinted at it. Dissatisfied with his job, he applied the towel again to a stubborn spot.
“Must have done. I feel underdressed.”
The publican glanced at McLaren’s trousers, shirt and tie, then went back to his glass drying. “I wouldn’t worry. No one will arrest you for indecent exposure.”
“Lovely. Now I can get a good night’s sleep.”
The publican’s laugh bounced off the oak-paneled walls. “It’ll get busier towards seven, eight tonight. But only the main players come costumed.”
“Fine, but what’s it for?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? It’s the Minstrels Round.”
“Round?”
“Aye. An annual event for students going on to sixth form or university. The Minstrels Round helps sustain the scholarship for those kids who need financial help. Folks come, donate to the scholarship fund, indulge in a bit of medieval fun by learning some history, partake of food, buy a trinket or two from the various craftsman, listen to the musicians…” He paused in his explanation to place the glass in the overhead glass rack, then picked up another glass and began drying it. “I’m told it’s all authentic—the food, music and such. I wouldn’t know, being as I’m not much of a scholar. But it’s a nice time for everyone and the music’s good. Guitars, lutes, harps. That sort of thing. Old stuff.”
“Authentic,” McLaren said, looking at the mandolin lying on a chair seat.
“So they tell me. Like I said, I’m surprised you haven’t come before, you being such a fan of this sort of music.”
“Is it held the same time every year?”
“Same weekend, yes. It’s been going on for several years—I don’t know the exact number—but Hart Pennell, a teacher at a school in Ashbourne, organizes it. You know the bloke? That’s him in the Robin Hoodish outfit. Teaches history.”
“Ashbourne! This is a bit far afield to be holding an event for Ashbourne, isn’t it?”
“Oh, they have this Minstrels Round all over Derbyshire. They’ve set up a regular schedule. August in Hathersage and Bakewell, sometime in May in Matloc
k Bath and Hartington, a spring event in Buxton… If you’re interested, they’ve no doubt got a schedule printed up.”
“So the scholarship is for any student?”
“There are particulars. Most likely has to live in Derbyshire, but you can find that out. I guess they have to want a certain career,” he added, setting the glass down and resting his hand on the bar top. “I mean, with all these performers dressed up like folks from Round Table days, the scholarship ought to go to a medieval history buff or budding musician, don’t you suppose?”
“Can’t see why they’d drag all their items here if not,” McLaren agreed. He bought a glass of wine, thanked the bartender, and joined Jamie at his table. “You ever see this before?” he asked as he sank into a chair. They sat a corner opposite the medieval group, where the light was dimmer and they could talk without being overheard. Most every patron’s attention was focused on the Round, anyway.
Jamie put down his beer glass and shook his head. “Must have been lucky. Never even heard of it.”
“Get a schedule before you leave. Then you’ll know where not to be.”
“It’s rather nice. Should be good music later on.” He took a sip of beer. “You want to eat something and stay for a bit?”
“Can’t. Dena’s coming for dinner. I have to get home soon and cook.”
“Special occasion?”
McLaren shrugged, trying to make it appear a casual event, but his heart was racing. He downed half the wine, needing time to still the tremor he felt in his throat, then told Jamie about his investigation.
Swan Song Page 13
