Murder in the Goblins’ Playground
A DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery
by
Ralph E. Vaughan
Dog in the Night Books
2016
Murder in the Goblins’ Playground
©2016 by Ralph E. Vaughan
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Cover by Ralph E. Vaughan
Table of Contents
Some Notes on Hammershire County
Prologue: Beneath the Horned Moon
Chapter 1: Trouble in the Snug
Chapter 2: The Path to Hob’s Lane
Chapter 3: “Yobs, Toms & Pissed Geezers”
Chapter 4: Where the Owl Soars
Chapter 5: A Restless Night
Chapter 6: The Caravan in Red Cap Woods
Chapter 7: Deep Secrets
Chapter 8: The Weakest Link
Chapter 9: Caught Like a Coney
Chapter 10: The Persistence of Denial
Chapter 11: The Butcher’s Daughter
Chapter 12: Family Plot
Disclaimer
Dedication
Note to the Reader
About the Author
Also by Ralph E. Vaughan
How to Contact the Author
Coming Attractions
Some Notes on Hammershire County
Hammershire is one of the least famous of the English counties. It has contributed its share of writers, philosophers, artists and poets to the national heritage, some enduring while others are forgotten, undeservedly or not, but it has avoided the fame of the Lake District or the Home Counties. Some scientists, engineers and inventors were born in Hammershire, but none achieved any fame or fortune inside its borders. Few of its numerous villages are destinations for the Briton on holiday. Even in the county seat of Stafford, once a centre of the textile and ceramic industries, most inhabitants tend to keep themselves to themselves, defining the basic character of county and village. If Hammershire is known for anything, it is for resisting change, despite the onslaught of modern times. The Parliamentary acts of 1888, 1965 and 1974 left its boundaries virtually unchanged. Home to some of England’s oldest villages, it has ruins that make even the most ancient settlement elsewhere seem quite recent, but few have undergone systematic excavations or analyses. Hammershire has long been of interest to antiquarians and folklorists, but extracting information from the insular villagers is difficult, sometimes even fraught with danger, for they tend to keep secrets in Hammershire, and keep them well. Hammershire is a place where the past endures, the present struggles to assert itself, and old things sometimes refuse to die.
—The English Counties: The Journeys of an Antiquarian
by Alfred Herron Altick,
James Nisbet & Co., Publishers,
21 Berners Street, London
1979 (revised)
Prologue: Beneath the Horned Moon
The grave was nearly finished.
A crescent moon rose behind the Goblins’ Playground. Its dim light revealed three women. Shadows of the standing stones reached for them, almost hungrily.
One of the women was pregnant, but it was not she who wept silently, and neither of them did the hard spade work.
“Stop your blubbering,” the woman with the spade said.
In all of Red Cap Woods, the only sounds were the swish of the spade through dirt and loam, and a soft grunt with each spadeful that was lifted and deposited. There was no wind, no rustling of leaves, no scurrying of animals living their small lives in the lee of twisted moss-covered trees.
“Leave her alone,” the pregnant woman murmured, her voice hard but lacking reproach. She snaked a thin white arm around the shoulders of the blonde weeping woman.
She tried to pull away, but, as usual, failed.
“This is hard on her,” the pregnant woman continued.
The woman with the spade ceased her labour, looked at the two women a few feet away. They had not put the body in the truck, had not carried it deep into the woods, had not dropped the body into the hole or thrown dirt over his face. On the other hand, she had not killed him. Perhaps the tears were for something more than grief.
“Hurry,” the pregnant woman urged. “They will not tolerate us long in their realm.”
“Yes, please,” whispered the other, wiping away her tears.
In disgust, the woman with the spade moved to the other side of the grave, put both her companions and the Goblins’ Playground behind her, and thus did not see a small pale form flit amongst the megalithic stones. She concentrated on the darkness before her as she finished burying the body, watching for diamond eyes flashing furtively between mossy trees.
No, they will not tolerate us long in their realm, she thought.
Finally, she threw the last load of dirt into place. She covered the grave with leaves and loam. By the light of such a thin sliver of moon it was hard to tell if any trace of digging remained, but she did her best. She pulled off her work gloves and brushed the dirt from her trousers, the leaves from her jumper.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, gripping the spade, starting toward the truck. “Come on.”
“Shouldn’t we…”
“No, we shouldn’t,” the woman with the spade countered.
“No prayers, no workings,” the pregnant woman added. “Too late for all that, isn’t it? What’s done can’t be undone.”
“There are no words or workings for what we have done,” said the woman who had stopped weeping. “No hope.”
The woman with the spade turned abruptly. If she did not leave now, she did not know what she would do. She headed for the truck back on the path. After a moment, the other two followed. Once they were gone, the silence was temporarily broken by an engine starting and gears grinding. Then the quiet surged back like the dark surface of a lake returning to normal after a rock had been dropped.
The figure hiding among the stones stepped into the moonlight and listened. Now that the three women had returned to Ashford the normal noises of the night again rose. Wind whispered through ancient boughs and somewhere off in the darkness a fox called for a mate. A white owl passed over the moon’s dusky orb, then swooped down to settle upon one of the weathered dolmens, watching.
The figure crossed to the grave, stood there a full five minutes with head lowered, then kneeled. Small hands smoothed over the dirt, scattered the leaves, erased all trace of human handiwork. At last, satisfied that the grave would not be discovered by chance, the figure rose and fled through the deepest heart of the forest in the direction of the village.
The owl returned to its night-long hunt for food.
Chapter 1: Trouble in the Snug
The snug bar of the Three Crowns was filled with choking blue smoke. As in the public bar, there was a No Smoking sign tacked to the wall, but it had no force here, not among those who saw the snug as an extension of their own homes, where they did what they damned well pleased. They drank silently, sullenly, persistently, just as they would at home, keeping themselves to themselves.
Peter Woodcock stepped from the narrow corridor separating the two bars. No one needed refills, but soon would, so he stayed.. The door closed behind him, but not before raucous laughter and cheers escaped from the public into the snug.
“Damn yobs,” muttered Alfred Winters. He was a small, pinch- faced man, perpetually angry at an always-larger world..
“Sodding gits,” Tom Rawlins agreed. His glass seemed small in his huge hands. “Wankers.”
“Now, don’t get started, gentlemen,” Woodcock warned. “Let’s keep it civil, shall we?”
“Down from the City or from Stafford, think they own all they see,” Lenny Child growled, not bothering to raise his head from the table where it had sunk an hour earlier. “Damn them.”
“You may not like the trade in the public bar, but they pay the bills more than you reprobates,” Woodcock pointed out. There was no tone of rebuke in his voice, for he had known these men all his life, more than he could say about the flash in the public bar. “They do bring in money everyone in the village needs.”
“Damn them,” Lenny repeated.
“And the changes,” Tom added. “Damn them to hell for all the changes they want.”
“Too many changes,” Alfred said. “It’s a sin and a shame what they want to do this village.”
“Money changing hands,” Lenny muttered. “Damn them.”
“All of them,” Tom agreed.
“Especially that Oscar Lent,” Alfred snarled.
“Damned bastard,” Lenny said, raising both his head and his glass, as if the epithet were a toast.
“City man,” Alfred snapped, as if it were a worse accusation.
“Now, now, give it a rest, gents,” Woodcock advised. “Young Mr Lent has a party with him tonight and…”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Lenny started to rise.
“You take one step in there and I’ll chuck you out,” the owner of the pub threatened.
Lenny continued to rise from his seat.
“And your tab will be due immediately,” Woodcock added.
Lenny slid back into his seat.
Woodcock nodded appreciatively. Lenny had shoulders wide as tree stumps and Woodcock knew he would come out second best in any altercation. Even Lenny’s drunkenness would not help him, he reflected, for Lenny was always well and properly pissed. The only time one might have an advantage over the man was when he was rock solid sober, subject to his meeker nature and Helen’s control, but when did that ever happen?
“Doesn’t make any difference what you do, gentlemen,” said John Westerham. “You can’t stop progress, not even here. It’s the way of the world, isn’t it?” He sipped his drink contemplatively, then sighed. “You can’t stop the wheel of progress.”
“Progress?” Alfred sneered. “Is that what you call it, Major?”
Westerham looked around, saw that all eyes were on him, even Lenny’s yellowish bloodshot eyes. They were all waiting for him to speak. Even Woodcock’s gaze was on him, though the publican’s expression was hardly laudatory.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Westerham began. He fought the urge to stand, as he might have when pontificating in the junior officer’s mess. “What Oscar Lent and his cronies have planned for Ashford is not right in any way.”
“Too right!” Lenny agreed, now half reclining in his chair.
“I merely point out it is unavoidable.” Westerham continued. “I think it is clear to everyone that the changes planned for Ashford are, for the most part, intended as a benefit for villagers, though the unintended results might…”
“What about the woods?” Alfred demanded.
“Yes, you can’t mess around with them woods,” Tom agreed.
“Red Cap Woods,” Lenny muttered, eyes closed.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, mate,” Alfred snapped. “I mean, they’re Red Cap Woods, ain’t they?”
“Always been,” Lenny agreed. “Always will.”
“Not if Lent has his way,” Alfred shot. “Harmony Grove!”
“Sodding git!” Tom said, his sausage-sized fingers tightening around his glass.
After breaking a classmate’s jaw during an altercation when they were lads, Tom had learned to control his temper by squeezing his fists. It was a path to peace, more or less, Woodcock reflected, rubbing his jaw, but it was hell on glassware. It was not good for any of this lot to get worked up, especially when the object of their ire was hosting a do in the next room. The only one not getting lit up was the Major, but he always played instigator.
Westerham sat back, a sour expression on his face. Once again, emotion overruled logic and he was relegated to the background.
“Wants to carve up those woods, don’t he?” Alfred continued. “Wants to develop them, make them useful.”
“Put in houses and a big Tesco,” Tom said. “Won’t be anyone in those houses.”
“Just punters who haven’t been here five minutes,” Alfred said.
“Been here all my life, I have,” Lenny murmured. “And me dad, and his dad, all the way back to…”
“We don’t need more outsiders than we already got,” Tom said, casting a fell glance at the Major.
Westerham shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had been a resident of Ashford for more than twenty years, but in the eyes of others he had moved in only yesterday.
“When we get a Tesco, we won’t need a green grocer or the market,” Alfred pointed out. “And what about the butcher?”
“Marion Stone been here for yonks,” Lenny said. “Her and all her people.”
“Out in the street she’ll be,” Alfred predicted. “And you know what she’s like when someone gets up her nose.”
“Oh, I’m sure some sort of arrangement will be made for…”
“And there’s the other two witches,” Lenny said. “When Lillian Nettle and Dylwyth Mayhew don’t want it done, it don’t get done, do it? You don’t cross the Weird Sisters, you don’t.”
“And what about them houses?” Tom demanded. “That’ll come to no good.”
“The village goes so far and no farther,” Alfred said, citing an argument often made at Council meetings where the well-meaning collided noisily with the well-entrenched. “It wasn’t meant that we should venture far into those woods, much less live there.”
“Nor cut them down,” Lenny muttered around the rim of his glass. “Foresters know to take them only from the edges.”
“Aye, they won’t like it none,” Alfred said.
“No they won’t,” Tom agreed, pronouncing each word slowly and succinctly. A smile curved his lips.
Westerham nearly shook his head, but stopped himself. After retiring, he moved house to Ashford. It offered quaint surroundings and the slower pace only found in a village. If he were honest with himself, and he rarely was, he would have admitted he was a large frog looking for a small pond. Of course, things had not worked out quite as he had planned. He was well thought of, most of the time, he assumed, but there were other times when he saw the vast gulf ever between him and others. He knew who they were, but he could not agree or condemn without earning scorn, because he could not cite a list of village progenitors back to Father Adam, so he held to an uncomfortable silence.
It had been a long time since he believed in fairies.
Besides, he reflected, they were not exactly fairies, were they?
The connecting door opened. Tessie walked in, sounds of cheer and merriment following. Every voice in the snug stilled and every eye looked past her to the swinging door. She enjoyed the attention, till she noticed no one was looking at her. She knew she might be a bit past prime, but she was certain no one in this ratty old snug could afford to be choosy, not that she would have given any of them the time of day, much less a quick roll.
Woodcock scowled. At that moment he felt like braining the doltish wench.
“What is it, Tessie?” he asked.
“Mr Lent wants to cash a cheque,” she replied. “He wants…”
“What are you asking me for?” he demanded, a flush spreading from his collar to the top of his bald head. “Cash it!”
“But you said that we don’t…”
“Never mind what I said,” Woodcock snapped. “Just cash the bloody cheque, whatever he wants.”
“All right, all right!” She glared at Woodcock angrily. “Wasn’t me that said no cheques from no one, was it?”
“Just get back in there,” he said, suddenly weary. Yes, he had told her no cheques taken, no cheques cashed, but surely she should know that did no
t include Oscar Lent. “Don’t leave it untended.”
The blonde woman shrugged, turned and pushed through the door. Again, the snug was treated with a heady dose of high spirits.
“Special rules for Lent?” Alfred chided.
“You get a tab to run, don’t you?” Woodcock pointed out. “Or should I make it cash on the counter, like in there?”
The fire went out from behind their eyes. If the snug was pay-as-you-go and they were never allowed to be in arrears, their forays would be infrequent. They would spend evenings with wives and mothers. They liked to think they drank here as they did in their own homes, but Woodcock knew that no one would have put up with their antics for a half-second as he did. He congratulated himself on a minor victory, hoped they would now quiet down and return to the serious business of drinking themselves insensible.
“Harmony Grove,” Westerham sighed, shaking his head..
Woodcock rolled his eyes.
“No, it’s Red Cap Woods,” Alfred insisted.
“They can call it Harmony Grove if they want and even put up houses in there, but you know what?” Tom said. “It’ll still be Red Cap Woods, won’t it?”
“But they won’t put up the houses, nor the bloody Tesco,” said Alfred. “Chains will break and machines will fail, that’s what’ll be happening soon as they start flattening trees.”
“And what will they do with the bloody Goblins’ Playground?” Westerham interjected. “I’ll bet none of them have given any real thought to that bloody pile of rocks.”
Everyone in the snug looked at him as if he had just asked the vicar’s wife for a quick snog after chapel.
“You watch your mouth, Major,” Woodcock snapped before anyone else could cut in with something worse. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sorry, I just thought…”
“No, you didn’t think none,” Tom snapped, fists tightening. “If you’d have thought, you’d have kept your gob shut.”
Murder in the Goblins' Playground (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 1) Page 1
