Stark looked up sharply at the non sequitur question.
“Whether you stay or go, you have the potential to be a great detective,” Ravyn said. “More than that, you’ll go far, higher than I ever will. You’ll eventually enter administration because you have a facility for playing politics that I lack, and don’t care to learn.”
Stark started to protest.
“It’s neither good nor bad,” Ravyn said. “It’s your nature, and mine. Each man must be true to his nature, for good or ill. If you learn one thing, Stark, it should be that. Regardless of what a man says or does, in public or private, he will always be true to his nature. There’s a strong streak of Calvinist fatalism in Hammershire, but it was there long before Calvin ever rode a horse.”
Stark shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve not given thought to leaving, sir. I’ve learned quite a bit from you.”
Ravyn smiled. “I understand there’s a pool going on you.”
“Me?”
“Based on how long before you ask for a transfer…”
“I don’t think a transfer would be…”
“…or quit.”
Stark glared sullenly.
“Oh, don’t take it personally, Stark,” Ravyn chided. “It’s more me than you, how long you can put up with me. Already, you’ve made a bevy of coppers lose their money. I haven’t seen the pool, of course, since it officially doesn’t exist, but I understand no one picked any date beyond six weeks. It’s been three weeks now; a few more and the widow and orphan fund will receive a nice donation, or so I’ve been given to understand.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise them,” Stark said. “Maybe everyone.”
“Life is full of surprises.”
“Why did you ask me about going back to the Met, sir?” Stark asked. “I haven’t said anything. Is it because of the pool?”
“The pool comes out whenever I’m assigned a new sergeant,” Ravyn said. “Usually some copper makes a shedload of money, a few times no one does. No, it’s not the pool, nor is it because I’ve read or been told anything. I ask because the pace of country life is slower. For someone used to the bustle of London, it’s a difficult adaptation. Stafford is the largest town in Hammershire, and it’s certainly no metropolis, is it?”
Stark shook his head. “Hardly. But, even so, I think I’m coping well with the change. Actually, except for rampant xenophobia, things are pretty much what I expected them to be.”
“It can also be a source of stress in a marriage,” Ravyn said. “It can be hard on a young wife. There’s bound to be problems when you take her from the bright lights and trendy shops, from the whirl of London society and plunk her down where the biggest event is the church fete and society consists mostly of the WI. It’s not just yourself you have to think of, Stark, but your wife. I don’t think Aeronwy is taking your change of station well.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but how the hell would you know?” Stark demanded. “And what business is it of yours?”
“At home,” Ravyn said, “you should be more careful where you jot down the number of my mobile.”
Stark stared at Ravyn, silent and confused. His jaw lowered by slow degrees as comprehension spread through him. His breaths wheezed and his face began to purple. His mouth moved like that of a guppy suddenly tossed out of its bowl. His brows tried to crawl up his forehead and his eyes out of their sockets.
“Not going to have a heart attack, are you?” Ravyn asked. “I’m not sure whether dying in the harness counts for the pool or not.”
The calmness of Ravyn’s voice, the laconic nature of his words helped Stark focus on the moment. Air began moving more regularly through his constricted throat, and both eyes and eyebrows returned to their normal positions. His face grew less purple, but was still flushed. He ceased his piscine imitation and his mouth closed, but now his jaw was clenched so tightly Ravyn wondered if the next sound heard would be that of shattering teeth.
“I’m sorry, Guv!” the sergeant finally gasped. “I am so very sorry! I had no idea…believe me…I didn’t know that…”
Stark’s throat all but closed again, admitting the smallest trickle of air. He recalled the gin-scented glass in the sink. He should have had it out with Aeronwy then and there. He should have made her tell him where the bottles were, explain what she was doing during the day when she said she was out shopping or having lunch with new friends he had never met. It was one thing for him to put up with her weakness, but altogether another that his job be placed in jeopardy. Was it not enough she had queered things for him at the Met? He was going to have it out with her. They were going to settle this, one way or another.
“Calm down, Stark,” Ravyn said, his tone more authoritarian. “Put those thoughts out of your mind.”
“But I…”
“I don’t need to be a music hall mind reader to know what you are thinking now,” Ravyn said.
“That’s how you knew about her calls and texts last night.”
Ravyn nodded. “When I saw your home number appear, I declined the calls.”
“I’m sorry if Aeronwy texted anything that…”
“I deleted the messages,” he said. “No record remains.”
Stark nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Do you love your wife, Stark?”
“What?”
“It’s a simple enough question.”
“Yes,” Stark said. “Yes, I do.”
“And she loves you?”
“I think so.”
“Listen, Stark, I’m not keen on knowing your personal life,” Ravyn said. “Private lives are meant to be private and as long as no one breaks the law that’s the way I prefer to keep it.”
“Yes, sir,” Stark said. “I understand that. I appreciate that.”
“I’m going to ask for a new mobile,” Ravyn said. “Commit the number to memory; if you must write it down, keep it secure.”
“Yes, sir.” Stark’s voice was faint, like that of a schoolboy who had received a good and well-deserved caning from the headmaster. “I’m sorry this happened, sir. Aeronwy is a good woman, but she misses Wales terribly and leaving London as we did…”
Ravyn held up a quieting hand.
“I’ll work things out, sir,” Stark said. “Somehow.”
“You should never ask my advice on matters marital,” Ravyn said. “I am not married, nor am I ever likely to be—where springs a maiden so foolish?—but I know what Aunt Maybell told me. She said, ‘It only takes one person to end a marriage, but it takes two to keep it together.’ If anyone ought to know, it’s her.”
“Aunt Maybell, she was married, was she?”
“Oh yes,” Ravyn said. “Quite often.”
“I do love Aeronwy, and I guess I’ll find out about the other,” he said. “We’ll get it sorted out between ourselves.”
“Good,”
“And no more calls or texts, sir.”
“Even better,” Ravyn said, smiling affably. “Let’s set up for the next interview. I’ll take the lead on this one, but you’ll take it with Miss Mayhew.”
“Yes, sir, as you wish,” Stark agreed. He frowned. “Just out of curiosity, sir, how many aunts do you have?”
“More than enough, Stark.”
WPC Stevens opened the door slightly and poked her head into the office. “Dr Penworthy is here, Chief Inspector.”
Ravyn looked at his watch. “What? Already?”
“That was quick,” Stark said.
“What did you expect?” Dr Penworthy asked, pushing open the door and breezing past the policewoman, who withdrew as quickly as possible. “Your case has now attracted the attention of people in Stafford and London—certain people, if you take my meaning.”
“Yes, I’m sure it has,” Ravyn said. “Half of them are relieved Lent is dead, and half are terrified at what secrets may be dredged up by an investigation.”
“Terrified or not, they want it closed as soon as possible.” She took a seat and put her valise on the table.
&
nbsp; “As do I.”
“And quietly.”
“So Lent’s postmortem was advanced ahead of others?”
The doctor nodded.
Ravyn’s mobile chimed. He declined the call. “Heln.”
“I can well imagine what the Superintendent wants to say to you, Chief Inspector,” Penworthy said. “He’s been on and off the telephone with the Chief Constable, and others, ever since the news broke, so I understand.”
“Imagination is not required,” Ravyn said. “Stark informed me of the results of Cutter’s postmortem. You’re certain he could not have lived more than thirty minutes after being stabbed?”
“I said thirty minutes at most,” Penworthy said, sending a brief but icy glance at Stark. “If he understood the seriousness of his wound and was trying to reach Ashford at best speed, perhaps no more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“It still puts the Goblins’ Playground within his reach.”
“Yes, and the smear of blood you found on the outer stone is a type match for Cutter’s.”
“Which brings us to Oscar Lent.”
She reached into her valise, withdrew a folder and handed it to Ravyn. She frowned when he set it aside, unopened and unread, but was only slightly perturbed. Two things she had learned from their brief liaison was his nature and the futility of trying to change it.
“Lent had been dead about an hour when you found the body,” she said. “Death was immediate, or nearly so.”
“No nicking of an artery this time?”
“Indeed not,” Penworthy agreed. “The weapon was driven full through the heart, completely penetrating the body and severing the spinal column on the way out.”
Stark blew a soft breathy whistle of appreciation. He thought of the girth of Marion Stone’s arms, how her muscles rippled beneath the skin when she moved.
“Lent was standing against or near the stone at the time,” the doctor continued. “There is an upward incline of fifteen degrees to the wound track, indicating your suspect might be close to Lent’s height or a little shorter. After the weapon passed through the body, it remained in place as Lent slid to the ground, gouging a channel in the face of the rock.”
“And the weapon?” Ravyn asked.
“Same,” Penworthy replied. “Thin, round, probably metal, but not a blade. Full penetration this time, so the weapon is quite a bit longer than I first thought, ten inches at least, maybe a foot.”
“Could a woman have done it, Doctor?” Stark asked.
“Depends on the woman, Sergeant,” the pathologist replied.
“I believe Sergeant Stark is referring to the strength necessary to drive the weapon through the body,” Ravyn said, finally opening the folder and quickly reviewing the report. “Given that the weapon passed through the mass of the body, severed the spine and was held in place with enough force to gouge the stone behind Lent, Stark may have a point.”
“Greater than average upper body strength would have helped,” Penworthy said. “But one need not be a female body builder to do what was done to Oscar Lent. Nor be a scorned woman either.”
Stark looked confused. “Eh?”
“Scorning a woman is not the only way to call forth hellfire, Sergeant Stark,” Penworthy said. “Fear, hatred, desperation—any sort of strong emotion produces a rush of adrenalin to the system. It can, temporarily at least, turn a weakling into a powerhouse.” She paused. “And, Sergeant, that applies to all, male or female.”
Stark frowned. “So, everybody is in the frame.”
“As far as strength, yes, but not as to will,” Ravyn said.
“Sir?”
Dr Penworthy rolled her eyes. “What the Chief Inspector means, Sergeant Stark, is that when the opportunity to murder arises, one may have the means and motive to commit the act, but not the force of will to actually carry through on it.”
Stark nodded, as though he understood. For the last three weeks Ravyn had talked about ‘true natures,’ not only of the knaves they nicked and the witnesses they interviewed, but everyone they met. He did not understand half what Ravyn said and suspected most of it was off the cuff. Admittedly, the chief inspector was able to spot a lie faster than any other detective he had ever known, but he thought that more a result of Ravyn’s ability to remember inconsistencies. As far as the ability to commit murder, it was Stark’s experience that murder was not beyond anyone’s capability.
“Personally,” Penworthy said, smiling faintly, “I think it’s a load of bollocks.”
Stark reached across and picked up the postmortem report.
“Human nature is inhumanity,” Penworthy continued. “People forego murder for a variety of reasons, mostly fear of punishment or reprisal, but a lack of will is not one of them. The desire to kill is in each of us, Sergeant, an unavoidable legacy of the killer-apes from which we descended.”
Stark looked up nervously. “Killer apes?”
“Dart and Ardrey’s hypothesis,” Ravyn said. “Man the hunter, man the territorial aggressor—now surely tossed into the dustbin of science by recent advances.”
“I hardly think so,” Penworthy countered. “If you are referring to the book by Hart and Sussman, that’s nothing but conjecture and anthropologic fairy tales. As far as the Seville Statement goes, it is a moralistic fallacy concocted by confederacy of dunces.”
“I admit the Seville Statement is overly optimistic and driven more by politics than science, but it should not be dismissed out of hand,” Ravyn said. “The founding scientists are quite respected.”
“A confederacy of dunces with degrees,” Penworthy said. “A parliament of village idiots.”
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Ravyn said. “As far as Hart and Sussman…”
And so it went, a full five minutes, point and counterpoint, till WPC Stevens hesitantly pushed open the door and announced the arrival of Miss Lillian Nettle.
Though Stark had tried to lose himself in the pages of the postmortem he kept being drawn out of it by the ongoing argument, if argument it could be called. In his experience, an argument required shouting, at the very least some gestures or physical posturing. Their voices never rose above a polite murmur and there was far too much smiling for Stark’s comfort. Not at all a proper row, more like Sunday afternoon tea at the vicar’s. Nor did he understand much more than a few words now and then. He felt like a cleaner eavesdropping on a debate between two boffins. Stark, for one was both grateful and relieved by Stevens’ interruption.
“Thank you, Stevens,” Ravyn said. “In a moment.”
The policewoman murmured in assent and withdrew,
“We’ll have to return this another day,” Dr Penworthy said, standing and reaching for her valise. “Though I don’t suppose there is any hope of you coming to your senses.”
“No, I suppose not,” Ravyn admitted.
“You are very hard-headed,” she said.
“So many people have told me.”
“What do you think, Sergeant Stark?” Penworthy asked.
Stark closed the document. “What? Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor, I was entirely engrossed by the postmortem report. I’m afraid I was not paying attention. Sorry”
Penworthy laughed. “Smart lad you have there, Arthur.”
“Yes, Stark definitely shows promise, very good at unlearning what he was taught,” Ravyn said. “Thank you for coming around. I regret the inconvenience it caused you.”
“No inconvenience,” she said. “It’s a pleasant enough drive.”
“And for the heads-up,” he added. “Though I caught a glimpse of the storm front when I first recognised the victim.”
“Goodbye then.” She started through the door, then turned. “I almost forgot. Sorry. After you left, CSI turned up Lent’s mobile, nearly fifty feet from the body. Michael asked me to tell you.”
“That could be helpful,” Ravyn said.
“I wouldn’t hold forth much hope,” she said. “Struck one of the stones, shattered to pieces.
It’s with forensics, so who knows?”
“SOCO’s team often works wonders, clever lads.” He paused. “And lasses, of course.”
“He’ll have his report to you soon as possible,” Penworthy said. “He feels the same fires I did, but forensic analysis is not nearly as easy and straightforward as slicing up a cadaver, is it?”
Ravyn smiled, but wisely remained silent.
“Ta,” she said.
“Let Miss Nettle wait a moment,” Ravyn said. “Listen closely to what she says, note how she answers questions. Keep in mind all that Marion Stone told us. It is important because you will be on your own with Miss Mayhew’s interview.”
“Sir?”
“I will be elsewhere,” Ravyn said. “I’ll listen to the recording when I return. I have confidence in you.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Have Stevens sit in, obviously,” Ravyn added. “Usher in our next witness. The Nettle should be sufficiently steamed by now.”
Miss Lillian Nettle, librarian for the village of Ashford for as long as anyone could recall, was well and truly steamed. She sat across from Ravyn and Stark, glaring at them as if envisioning their knuckles being rapped or their heads upon pikes in the village green. She reacted to Ravyn’s bland smile with lips stretched so tight they were bloodless.
Ravyn motioned to Stark. After he activated the digital recorder, Ravyn stated in crisp and clipped tones the case number, date and time of the interview, then named the participants.
“Please accept my condolences for your loss,” Ravyn said. “And my apologies for any distress the events of last night caused you. I take full responsibility for any lapses in protocol.”
She snorted derisively and her lips pulled even tighter.
“However,” Ravyn continued, “there was a murder last night. Direct and immediate action was necessary. I say that, not to excuse lapses, but to explain them. Notification of next of kin is important, but our paramount priority must be to gather information quickly, lest time erase the stain of guilt and the shout become a murmur.”
Her lips relaxed a bit, became a little blooded, but remained as straight as a ruler. Her expression was still grim, but Ravyn thought he saw a trace of amusement among her hostility and arrogance.
Murder in the Goblins' Playground (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 1) Page 11
