“You were always a clever boy, Chief Inspector, too smart by half” she said. “If I recall rightly, you pretended to read a collection of the Bard’s plays the day I rapped your knuckles for speaking out of place with those other boys.”
“I hold fond memories of you as well, Miss Nettle, but we are not here to recall the dead past,” Ravyn said. “As noted, murder has been committed in Ashford, two in fact.”
“Whatever happed to that beast Lent has nothing to do with the murder of my son,” Lillian asserted.
Ravyn smiled wanly and pressed his fingertips together. “The two men were attacked at the same location, though hours apart, so the crimes are more likely connected than not. Our investigations will reveal the truth. I am absolutely certain all secrets will be laid bare before we leave Ashford.”
“You were also an arrogant lad,” Lillian said. “I see that has not changed with time.”
Ravyn shrugged. “So I have been told.”
“I have spoken to both your Superintendent Heln and the Chief Constable,” she said. “I reported your failure to notify me, as well as the bullying manner of your sergeant.”
“You have the right to make any complaint you see fit, Miss Nettle,” Ravyn said. “However, your overriding concern should be, like mine, the desire to bring the murderer to justice.” He paused. “You do have that desire. don’t you?”
“Of course I do!” she snapped. “Get on with your questions and stop wasting my time.”
“You told Sergeant Stark you were in all evening and did not see anything out of the ordinary in Hob’s Lane,” Ravyn said.
“Obviously.”
“And I understand you were estranged from Allan Cutter?”
She cast a hard look at Stark. “I said it was his choice not to see me, not mine to avoid him. Try to get your facts straight.”
“When was the last time you saw Allan?”
“A week ago,” she replied. “Wednesday last.”
“Where was that?”
“In the high street,” she said.
“Where had he been?” Ravyn asked.
“How should I know?” Lillian demanded. “It could have been any of the shops. Or none at all.”
“What about the butcher shop?” Ravyn suggested.
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh?” Ravyn’s eyebrows arched quizzically.
“I mean, there was no reason for him to go there,” she said. “If it was meat he wanted, he could have bartered some from Raymond Smith or, for that matter, have caught his own game.”
“In Red Cap Woods?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “Why not? Allan was very self-sufficient. He may not have taken to all my lessons, but he learned that one well enough. Do not depend upon others. They will always let you down, fail you.”
“Actually, I wondered if he had lease to trap and hunt in the woods,” Ravyn said. “As you know, they don’t allow such activities unless they give a human lease to do so.”
Lillian Nettle’s unconscious nod was almost imperceptible. “I hear mockery in your words, Chief Inspector Ravyn.”
“Not at all, Miss Nettle,” Ravyn assured her. “Do you think the sum of the world is contained in all we see, hear and feel?”
“I know what I believe,” she said, “and it is not subject to your approval or disapproval.” She paused a breath, then added: “Or to your knowledge for that matter.”
“Of course not,” he agreed.
Ravyn leaned forward a bit, glanced briefly in Stark’s direction, then returned his gaze to the village librarian. Lillian also inclined forward, an automatic response she could not control.
“Given what happened to Allan,” Ravyn said, his voice low but still discernable to the digital recorder, “do you think Allan incurred the wrath of the Lord of the Woods?”
Lillian snapped upright, eyes blazing.
“Or was the hand that killed him a human one?”
She started to stand.
“Sit,” Ravyn said. He did not raise his voice, but there was in his tone the authority of the Crown he represented. “Please resume your seat, Miss Nettle. I did not intend to upset you.”
“Didn’t you?” she demanded. “You know nothing of our ways, naught but drivel found in books or heard from scandalmongering boys, filthy beasts who spread lies about their betters. You may have lived a season with one of ours, but you are not one of us.”
Recalling Ravyn’s former description of Ashford’s xenophobic streak, Stark almost shook his head in dismay.
“Come, Miss Nettle, calm yourself,” Ravyn advised. “I regret I must question you at such a time, but since Allan was your adopted son, you knew him better than his own mother. Your information may be vital to finding his killer as well as that of Oscar Lent. We appreciate your cooperation, but if you cannot continue to assist us in our investigation because of emotional stress, we can quite easily postpone your interview.”
“How dare you suggest…” Lillian paused, her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes, this is a most trying time, but I am perfectly fine and able to continue.”
“Thank you, Miss Nettle.”
“I suppose the shock must be just now catching up with you,” Stark suggested. “Last night you did not seem surprised.”
Lillian’s lips tightened and she glanced at the digital recorder. “I was not surprised Allan had come to a bad end, for he’d been bound to it for a long time, but I was still shocked by his murder. If I did not seem properly grief-stricken to you…”
“I am not judging you, Miss Nettle,” Stark said.
“Nor was Sergeant Stark the first to tell you of it,” Ravyn said.
“No, Marion gave me a bell,” Lillian admitted. “After your sergeant left her, she called me, told me of his loutish behaviour.”
“You and Marion Stone are good friends?” Ravyn asked.
“We’ve known each other a long time.”
“Close?”
“Once closer than we are now,” she said, “but, yes, you could say that.”
“What about Dylwyth Mayhew?”
“Yes, Dylwyth as well.”
“Like sisters?” Ravyn asked. “Like three sisters?”
“Since you’ve obviously stooped to listening to common gossip, it would be a lie to deny it,” Lillian said. “You would do well not to take it as more than snippy chatter to keep idle tongues busy. Much of what is said are vile lies. We are friends, no more.”
“But the three of you are connected,” Ravyn suggested.
“I do not understand.”
“Common threads that bind,” Ravyn explained. “All three of you were at least bound by the common experience of rearing the child of a stranger. I’m assuming a stranger.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Stone told us the identities of the mothers were never found out,” Ravyn said.
“No, we never knew,” Lillian confirmed. “Truth is, we did not actively seek them out.”
“Why is that?”
“Dylwyth was quite attached to Raymond,” Lillian explained. “When Allan was left at the library, then Gwen at the butcher shop, Dylwyth pleaded with us to take no action. She felt, and probably rightly so, that looking for the mothers might bring the attention of outsiders, leading to Raymond being taken from her.”
“And Allan from you,” Ravyn said. “And Gwen from Marion.”
“I suppose so.”
“You did not have the same attachment to Allan?”
“He was my responsibility.”
“And Marion Stone?”
“Running the butcher shop alone is a great deal of work.”
“But Dylwyth Mayhew saw it differently?”
Lillian snorted. “Dylwyth is a maudlin girl and always has been. But her fear was real enough, so for her sake we agreed to shoulder our responsibilities and keep quiet.”
“Odd isn’t it, don’t you think?” Ravyn asked. “Three women in a small out-of-the-way village, a
ll in the same situation, and years apart at that.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lillian answered. “We do get visitors. The post office is a public place. A young mother, unmarried and afraid, uncertain about her future, encounters a kindly woman in a nice village, leaves her unwanted child behind and goes her way.”
“Then you, followed by Miss Stone?”
“Life follows patterns and cycles, Chief Inspector,” Lillian said. “If a river’s current can bring a piece of driftwood to rest in a quiet cove, then it can do the same with others. What might seem unlikely to your sciences is merely nature’s way of sorting things out.”
Ravyn nodded. “I had not thought of it that way, but, yes, I can see your point.”
Lillian leaned back and crossed her arms.
“Did either of the others have a hand in raising Allan?” Ravyn asked. “Dylwyth perhaps?”
“We each had our responsibilities,” she said. “Alone.”
“I ask only because Dylwyth seemed very upset when Sergeant Stark talked to her last night,” Ravyn explained.
“As I said, Dylwyth is a mawkish woman,” Lillian replied. “She would weep at the death of a butterfly, much less…”
“The death of a man?” Ravyn supplied.
“Of anyone,” Lillian snapped. “She is a gentle soul, always has been. She will weep at the drop of a petal. She grieves for him. She cannot help herself. It is her nature. Because he is dead, her mind manufactures a closeness to justify the depth of her grief. She is compassionate, but accuracy is not her strong suit. You should always have a bag of salt handy when she says anything.”
“I understand the three of you are not as close now as you were in the past,” Ravyn said.
“Nothing endures forever,” Lillian said. “Change is also a part of the natural world.”
“Drifting apart?”
“You can drift apart only so far in a village,” she explained. “More a cooling of youthful fires and passions. As happens to all, time is a thief, but a thief cannot carry away everything.”
Ravyn said: “What you were is not what you are, but what you are is found in what you were Though much is taken, much abides. Though made weak by time and fate, you remain strong in will.”
She nodded. “Tennyson said it better.”
“A fit study for a lad who also found edification in the words of the Bard, don’t you think?” Ravyn said.
Lillian remained silent.
“Did the changes have anything to do with the children?”
“Of course not,” she replied. “We were friends before the mites came into our lives, and afterwards, and still, for that matter.”
“You didn’t have any problems with the way Marion brought up Gwen or Dylwyth Raymond?” he asked.
“No, why would I?” she answered. “None of my business.”
“Or they with you, or each other?”
“This is ridiculous and unproductive,” Lillian asserted. “They came into our lives by a capricious act of fate. We all knew each other, but what else would you expect in Ashford? None of it has anything to do with Allan’s murder, or Lent’s.”
“How did you feel about Allan seeing Gwen?”
“If he were ‘seeing’ her, I wouldn’t like it, but only because she is a weak and foolish girl, as brainless as she is awkward.”
“There was no relationship between Allan and Gwen?”
“No, none at all.” She paused. “Well, they knew each other, of course, were friends of a sort, but that is to be expected. Allan was the older of the two, so it was natural for her to look up to him, for him to watch over her in school. But it never went beyond that.”
“Raymond Smith is the oldest?”
“A year or two older than Allan, we think,” she said. “About the same between Allan and Gwen.”
“Do you know what made Allan leave Ashford?” Ravyn asked.
“What made Dick Whittington set out for London with cat in tow?” she replied. “What makes any young man foolishly abandon all that he has ever known, all he has been taught, and run beyond the horizon? I have no idea. And before you ask, let me tell you: I do not know where he went, what he did. He did not tell me. I did not ask. Perhaps I should have tried harder, but I did not.”
“Did his estrangement from you date from his departure or his return?” Ravyn asked.
“As Allan grew older, there was increasing tension between us,” Lillian explained. “He was in his teens. It’s that period when boys go from beasts to rebellious beasts. He stopped going to school as soon as he legally could, and stopped his lessons before that.”
Stark looked up from his notebook. “Lessons? Something apart from his schoolwork, was that?”
Lillian trained her gaze on Ravyn. “I assume you heard certain, shall we say, ‘rumours’ about me, perhaps also about Dylwyth and Marion, during your stay with Althea Haven?”
Ravyn nodded.
“Marion told you something of our beliefs,” she said.
Stark glanced at Ravyn. Marion Stone certainly had not wasted any time in sharing information she was supposed to keep to herself. While Stark was not naive enough to think a simple admonition was sufficient to keep Marion’s tongue from wagging, he was dismayed that the women’s disregard of authority was so blatant.
Again, Ravyn nodded.
“Despite what sniggering boys might whisper to each other, we are not lesbians, just friends, as I said,” she continued. “Yes, there is a connection between us, but it has nothing to do with the children. We are not Christian folk, nor were our forebears. I suppose you might call us pagans. If I am reluctant to speak of it, it stems not from shame nor any sense or propriety, but from caution.”
“We live in tolerant times, Miss Nettle,” Ravyn said.
“Not as tolerant as you might think, Chief Inspector,” Lillian said. “You good Christians no longer hunt us, and the Vicar does not splash our doors red, but we are hardly accepted. If we were left alone, it is only because no one wanted a hexed cow. That will change with an influx of outsiders.”
“So, your opposition to Oscar Lent’s redevelopment plans were not solely because of what it would do to the woods,” Ravyn said.
“No, there was a selfish component to it,” she admitted. “As it is, we are left alone, mostly. That would change.”
“The lessons you mentioned…” Stark prompted.
“I tried to raise Allan with an appreciation of the Old Religion,” Lillian answered. “I took him to the sacred sites, showed him how to read the signs left by spirits of places, taught him to respect the Old Powers. Or I tried to. I was not entirely successful.”
“The others did the same with their children?” Ravyn asked.
Lillian nodded. “With varying results. Gwen was too stupid. Only Raymond achieved harmony with nature, but does not follow the ancient ways, does not pay proper obeisance to the Old Ones.”
“When Allan returned, did you hope for a reconciliation, or try for one?” Ravyn asked.
“I did,” Lillian replied. “But he would have none of it. He did not want to see me. He allowed the company of Raymond and Gwen, but only on his own terms. Except for when he acted the fool at the Three Crowns, cadging drinks from his fellow reprobates, he kept his own company. I feared for him, but I could do naught.”
“Because of his lifestyle?” Ravyn asked. “Or because he took up residence in Red Cap Woods?”
“Both, at first,” she said. “When he was allowed to abide, I knew he had lease, but his worldly and carnal ways were bound to lead him to destruction.” She paused. “As indeed they have.”
“So, to return to my question, you believe Allan’s death came by a human hand,” Ravyn said. “Not an otherworldly one?”
“I told you to be wary of anything said by Dylwyth, and the same applies to Marion,” Lillian said. “Allan was stabbed, and the hand that held the knife was that of a stranger.”
“Tell me about the caravan in the woods,” Ravyn said.
“Since you already know, there is no need to tell you Allan did not bring it in,” Lillian said. “I tried to tell your sergeant, but he was too thick to ken it.”
“Who lived in it before?”
“No one knows,” Lillian replied. “It has always been there.”
“Douglas Trentmoore?”
Lillian shrugged and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the name is unfamiliar to me.”
“He lived in the caravan prior to Allan.”
“I would not know, Chief Inspector.”
“But you knew it was in the woods, and Red Cap Woods would have been a spiritual magnet to you and the others,” Ravyn said. “His residency would have coincided with the period in which you, Dylwyth Mayhew and Marion Stone first practiced your rites.”
“We knew of the caravan, but not the person dwelling in it,” she said. “We avoided any contact with it or its occupant. Anyone committing such an affront to the denizens of the deep woods was to be shunned, lest his fate became our fate.”
“You were never there?”
“Of course not.”
“Not during Trentmoore’s residency, or Allan’s?”
“Nor the period between,” she insisted. “To say it plainly, I have never stepped foot inside that caravan. Ever.”
“What was Allan looking for in Red Cap Woods?”
Lillian’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I was not aware he was looking for anything.” Her expression became suddenly hopeful. “Do you mean a spiritual quest?”
“I was thinking of something more material,” Ravyn said. “In the caravan, adorning the walls, were various maps of the area, both survey maps and others hand-drawn. There were snaps as well. It did seem as if he were searching for a particular location, a place where he hoped to find something perhaps of value.”
“If you could show me some of these photographs and maps you say were in the caravan,” she suggested. “Then I might be able to help you.”
“I wish I could, but the caravan in Red Cap Woods burnt down completely,” Ravyn said. “Surely, you’ve heard of it by now?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t heard.” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “ But I am sure I shall. In Ashford, secrets do not remain secrets for long.”
Murder in the Goblins' Playground (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 1) Page 12
