Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  The A6 was crowded with Wednesday morning drivers, cars, lorries and farm vehicles making up the procession crawling north. Sunlight, ochre-hued and warm, lit up the landscape beneath a blue sky. A fringe of white and gray clouds draped themselves along the western horizon. The hint of rain did not affect McLaren’s mood, and he rolled down the window and took in deep breaths of the warm, grass-scented air. He punched the Play button of his tape deck and immediately the lyrics to “When Morning is Breaking” filled his car. He threw back his head and sang along.

  When morning is breaking

  O’er mountain and dale,

  And sunlight illumines

  Our home in the vale

  Fresh, soft balmy breezes,

  The lark’s thrilling lay,

  Are heralds foretelling

  The gladness of day.

  He passed a tractor as he came up to the turn off for the B5055 and took the smaller road, wanting to avoid the traffic in Bakewell. The September sunlight glinted off the hood of his car and threw reflections onto the yellowing grass nodding at the road’s edge. The second verse of the song started and McLaren’s mood shifted with the lyrics.

  When ev’ning is closing

  On mountain and dale,

  And darkness o’ershadows

  Our home in the vale.

  The field flowers drooping,

  As fast fades the light,

  Give warning foreboding

  The sadness of night.

  The ancient village Monyash, with its fine stone pub bathed in the lemon-hued sunlight, sprang up on his right. The area for the most part sprawled open and sun drenched over the rolling land of the High Peak District, Derbyshire’s vast acreage of mountains, caves, streams, dales and forests. The sinkholes and pitch-black caverns belonged to another part of the Peak and always filled him with uneasiness. As the song’s second verse suggested, he felt that foreboding at dusk, when inky shadows emerged from their retreats and smothered the land in their claustrophobic embrace. Not that he didn’t like the night—he did when he was in an open expanse or with someone. But he understood the lyrics. Night held him in its spell and whispered of Something Out There, gave him the sense of soaring among the stars but being lost and alone. If out after sunset he constantly had to assure himself that he’d be fine.

  Traffic on the A515 into Buxton was heavier but he made good time and soon turned onto Dan Wilshaw’s street. The man lived on Hardwick Square South, a residential area of ancestral tree-bracketed streets, tall houses and mossy stone walls. On the eastern side of the High Street, McLaren realized as he slowed his car in front of Dan’s house. On the other side of town from Charlie Harvester’s place. The memory of that June night when he had broken into Harvester’s house flashed upon his mind, filling him with the mixture of anger and resentment that commonly cropped up when he thought of the man. But McLaren had accomplished what he had had to do, and Harvester, evidently, had been none the wiser to McLaren’s burglary.

  Don’t know why he would be, McLaren thought as he turned off the car’s motor and checked the house address. Thinking was not the man’s strong suit. The berk had struggled through police training, getting by on his father’s famous name and tacit strong-arm threats from that exalted rank. A fleeting smile flashed across McLaren’s face as he remembered his satisfaction from the rose bush incident, then he was out of his car and ringing Dan’s doorbell.

  Dan Wilshaw—blond, blue-eyed and over average height—sat McLaren in the front room, disappeared into the kitchen, and minutes later emerged with a pot of hot coffee, chocolate biscuits and a ready recital of the items usually located in Janet’s artist’s studio.

  “It’s not such a strange question,” Dan reassured McLaren, handing him a mug of coffee and then sitting back in his chair. Although in his early forties, Dan’s face held the worry lines and cracked skin of someone older. Or someone who spent much of his time outdoors, which McLaren knew Dan didn’t, being a pianist and recording engineer. Still, there were always hobbies and gardening that would take him outside. McLaren put Dan’s late-fifties appearance down to smoking and the hard life of a musician, and got out his pen and notebook.

  “I know you might not recall her artist’s studio,” McLaren said. “Five years is a long time for something like this, but any recollection would be helpful.”

  “So you are convinced it’s arson, then.” He flicked his cigarette ash onto a convenience ashtray and studied McLaren’s face as McLaren glanced around the room.

  The ceilings were tall, as befitted the older style of the building, with ornate, white plasterwork visually joining the ceiling to the walls. Potted plants capped white painted radiators, bringing a bit of dimension to the floral wallpaper. The furniture, McLaren noted, was as ornate as the plasterwork. Museum quality. Surely family heirlooms and not auction purchases.

  “I’m not convinced of anything, arson or otherwise,” McLaren said, answering Dan’s implied question, “except that I think Janet’s case needs to be reevaluated.”

  “But you think there’s a strong possibility of it.”

  “It’s what the police think that’s more important…if they’ll do anything about it. Do you recall where you were that day?”

  “Engraved on my memory, as the saying goes. I was out with my wife. We dined at a restaurant because I had the night off. A rare treat when most nights are filled with gigs. I didn’t hear about Janet until the next day.”

  “How? Who told you?”

  “I heard it from Myles. He told me he’d arrived at her house to find the police and fire service there. I was sick when I heard about the fire…and her. Myles could hardly string three words together into a coherent sentence, but he finally told me what had happened. I don’t know how he kept his sanity through it all.”

  “Do you remember anything she had in her studio?”

  “Besides the usual artist’s supplies—you know, canvases, wedged stretchers, easels, paints and brushes. Well, that was about it. She had some bits of furniture. A sofa, desk, filing cabinet and a chair. A hot plate and a small fridge so she could make tea or something light to eat when she was there for an all-day session. Photographs, of course.” He took a puff of his cigarette, swallowed the smoke and then exhaled into the air above them. “I think that’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary, I shouldn’t think.”

  “The photographs—what were those?”

  “Oh, scenery, mostly. She’d drive around the Peak and snap scenes she wanted to paint. Then, back in the studio, she’d either do a watercolor or a pen and ink drawing of them. That was her specialty, watercolor.”

  “Did she use that as a place to rehearse her music?”

  “If she did, it wasn’t with me. I can’t speak for the other group member, but I wasn’t included. We’d rehearse in her house. We had more space. She kept the sound equipment in her house, in a back room that we used for rehearsals. It was out of the way and we could keep our music there, too. The art studio wouldn’t have held all that. It was too small.”

  “She have a piano, then?”

  “Certainly. She was a singer and she practiced on her own so that when we’d have rehearsals she’d be up on her material. She enjoyed accompanying herself. She also liked the two piano sound. Like Ferrante and Teicher or someone. She had a drummer, which made a solid foundation for the pianos. But a bit later she admitted to me that she realized quite quickly that she couldn’t rehearse her singing and write songs and keep her keyboard up to excellence. So she opted to let me be the pianist of the group when Bruce left us. I must say, I thought it a wise move. That was a lot she was trying to do and eventually one thing would suffer. She was a professional in every sense of the word, never kept us waiting on her. She knew her music down to the smallest rest or breath mark, knew the workings of her piano and had a superb ear and intuition for original arrangements.”

  “You didn’t do those? As her pianist, I would’ve thought that would fall into your job.”

 
; “Oh, I suggested things, but Janet had the final say.”

  “How was she about that—demanding?”

  Dan waved away a cloud of smoke, his gaze still on McLaren. “Not at all. She may have been our focus and reason for being, but she didn’t think of the group as hers. We were all equal. She needed me as a pianist and she needed Alan’s bass.”

  “And he joined after she let Bruce go.”

  “Yes. He had one month with us before Janet died and we disbanded. Alan hadn’t had any previous professional experience, but he wowed Janet during his audition. So, she took him on.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Just we three. Cozy little group.”

  “Tom Murray wasn’t part of it, then.”

  Dan laughed. His head tilted back, his cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. When he looked again at McLaren, he said, “The only part of the group he was interested in was Janet. He had no ear for music, wouldn’t know a Sousa march from a lullaby.”

  “I understood he went to the venues the group played, was a common fixture and supporter.”

  “He was a fixture, if you want to call it that. More like a leech. He clung to Janet as though she were his meal ticket. Maybe she was—I shouldn’t assume. Just seemed to me he would’ve tried harder to learn the history of our music and such if he truly loved her.”

  “And he didn’t.”

  “Naw. They were going together for over a year, as far as I know, and the clot still couldn’t name any of the greats of the field. Didn’t know the titles of any of Janet’s songs, either. Now, you tell me. Does that sound like a man who’s really in love with his girlfriend?”

  McLaren agreed that it did present a conflicting facade.

  “But,” Dan sniffed, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray, “I shouldn’t judge others’ relationships. Maybe she didn’t mind, or she didn’t want him that close. Several big name performers keep their entertainment and private lives separate. Gives them a slice of normality in their lives, I expect.”

  “You mentioned your impression that Janet might be handing money to Tom to live on. Do you have anything concrete to base that on?”

  “Sorry, no. Just that several times she’d hand him a fistful of money. I’ve seen fifty- and twenty-pound notes in the wad and he’d come back later with a new mobile phone or a pair of shoes. Things like that.”

  “Nice items.”

  “Nice, yes, and not cheap.”

  “Perhaps he repaid her. You know, later, when they were alone.”

  Dan shrugged and reached for his cigarette packet. “Could do, I expect, but I just wondered why he never had the money with him. Not even putting it on his credit card. You never know about people, do you?”

  “Was she generous to other people in her life?”

  “I don’t know to what extent, but she was. She’d always be there to help, whether financially or emotionally. That was the super thing about Janet—she might not have been religious, but she was spiritual and she believed in God. She worshipped in her own way and yet still believed in helping where she could. If you were down on your luck, she’d try to turn your luck around.”

  “Perhaps Tom was one of those. Down on his luck, I mean.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’d have thought if he had been, she’d be giving him something more basic than a mobile phone.”

  “Like dossing down at Janet’s,” McLaren suggested. He took a sip of coffee, waiting to see how the suggestion set with Dan.

  “I never went into her bedroom area, so I can’t say. But I have the impression he didn’t sleep there. Or eat regularly there, either. I don’t have any basis for this. It’s just an idea.”

  “Still, you were over there for rehearsals. You would’ve seen Tom’s shoes in the front room, or a book of his, or maybe his toothbrush in the bathroom. Most people don’t live that pristinely that they wouldn’t have a few personal items scattered about, even if they were just there for a short duration.”

  “All I know is that I never saw anything like that.”

  “Was Tom there for rehearsals?”

  Dan lit his cigarette, took a drag and exhaled, and then shook his head. “Never. I think it was some sort of rule or understanding he and Janet had. Janet didn’t like any outsiders around while we rehearsed. My wife, Ruth, never sat in, and neither did Alan’s girlfriend. Bruce never talked about anyone in the year and a half he was with us, so I don’t know about anyone near and dear to him. She allowed no relatives in, either. Just a work session, which was fine with me. Outsiders would have wasted our time. And Janet was a stickler for punctual arrival so we could get on with our work and then leave.”

  McLaren closed his notebook, stood up and pocketed the book and pen. “Sounds like a fairly normal life, whatever ‘normal’ is.” He walked to the front door, Dan following close behind. “If you think of anything odd or out of place in her studio, I’d appreciate it if you’d—”

  “Dan?” The voice was feminine and came from the kitchen. A door thudded shut, several metal keys clattered onto a hard surface, the squeak of rubber on linoleum grew louder, a softer clunk like a fabric purse being placed on a worktop, and the conversation started up again, louder now that the speaker was nearing the front room. “Honestly, Dan, if that woman doesn’t keep her dog fenced up— Oh!” Her sentence broke off as she saw McLaren at the front door. Her gaze shifted from him to Dan, as though silently asking for an explanation. Coming forward swiftly, she smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Are you coming or going? Would you like tea or something?”

  “This is Michael McLaren, Ruth,” Dan said. “We’ve just had coffee, but thanks for the offer. My wife, Ruth, Mr. McLaren.”

  “I’m just leaving,” McLaren said as Ruth wrapped her hands around Dan’s upper arm. “I was asking your husband about Janet Ennis.”

  “Janet? Why? Haven’t the police finished with that case?”

  “They have, yes, but Nora Ennis has asked me to look into one or two discrepancies. She’s not satisfied with the verdict.”

  “The verdict! Are you serious?” Ruth’s voice echoed the astonishment flooding her mind. “That was…what? Four years ago?”

  “Five, and yes, she’s serious.”

  Ruth sagged against her husband as if she needed his support. “I would have thought she’d have done this sooner. Why did she wait all this time to start an inquiry? Or are we just hearing about it?”

  “Did you know Janet, Mrs. Wilshaw?”

  “Just superficially. She owned a catering company and I did a review of it once.”

  McLaren was clearly surprised. He had expected to hear about the musical trio. “Really? You write, then.”

  Ruth released her grip on Dan’s arm and plunged her hands into the pockets of her jogging shorts. She mimicked Dan’s height but was in better shape than he, her muscles toned from the jogging and perhaps other exercise she took. Her red hair glistened at the scalp line with perspiration, yet the curl still held. The slight, faint lines on the sides of her face suggested she ran a lot in the summer and wore sunglasses.

  “My wife,” Dan said, smiling at Ruth, “is a food critic. She writes a weekly column that appears in the newspaper.”

  “Oh, right,” McLaren said, hurriedly. “Ruth Wilshaw. Sorry. You threw me for a minute. I didn’t connect the names, nor did I expect to actually meet you.”

  “Especially when you’re investigating a death,” Dan added, pulling Janet’s hand from her pocket and clasping it.

  “Everyone has to live somewhere, but you don’t imagine you’re going to meet someone famous.”

  Ruth laughed. “I’d hardly classify myself as famous, Mr. McLaren.”

  “Maybe not, but a lot of people follow your column regularly. Myself included. That should count for something.”

  “Well, it’s nice of you to say, but I’m just a writer.” She bent over and pushed the used ashtray to the other end of the coffee table. “Honestly, Dan, if you must smoke�
�and I wish you didn’t—I’d appreciate it if you’d empty the tray afterwards. It’s bad enough that you inhale those chemicals. But I don’t care to.”

  “It’s my fault,” McLaren cut in. “We’d just concluded our talk and I was on my way out.”

  “I hope Dan was some help to you. It must be hard on Mrs. Ennis to be still feeling so bad after her daughter’s death. Have you made any headway in your inquiry?”

  “Actually, I’ve just started. Were you ever a visitor at Janet’s house?”

  “Once, I think. No, twice.” She turned to Dan, as though seeking his reinforcement. “Twice, wasn’t it, darling?”

  Dan blinked, looking confused. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Yes, it was twice. Those Christmas parties she had.”

  “Right. I’d forgot them.” He addressed McLaren, his voice louder in his explanation. “Janet had the trio and their significant others over for Christmas Day, twice, as my wife said. Nothing elaborate, like a sit down meal. More for drinks and appetizers and gift giving around the tree. It was nice, wasn’t it?” He smiled at Ruth, waiting for her affirmation.

  “Was Tom Murray there?”

  “Why, uh, yes. But just the Christmas before she died, that previous December.”

  McLaren nodded, aware of the September date of her death.

  “They weren’t together long enough to warrant the previous get-together.”

  “And Miles,” McLaren added, “came along that summer.”

  “Yes. She…she wasn’t around for that Christmas.” Dan screwed up his face, the topic evidently distasteful.