Murder in the Goblins' Playground (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 1)

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Maybe, sir, but I can’t see anything less than an ox popping out of her,” Stark said. “Besides, it having happened once, wouldn’t her mates be all over her for letting it happen again, and so soon?”

  “Indeed they would,” Ravyn agreed. “Why not Lillian though? She raised him, true, but a library desk is high enough to cover many sins. Between that and her reputation, she could have pulled it off, probably the only one of the three who could.”

  Stark shook his head. “No, sir. Dylwyth is the only one really cut up about him being murdered.” He paused. “Who did your aunt say went through a ‘chubby phase’ next? Dylwyth or Lillian?”

  “Yes, you’re right, Stark—Dylwyth,” Ravyn said. “I wanted to hear how you reasoned it out.”

  “I don’t know that I reasoned out anything, sir, but she is the only one who seems to care,” Stark said. “Oh, she covered it well enough, for the most part, when I talked to her before, but you heard her on the tape…on the digital…on the whatever. I bet after I talked to her last night she went inside and cried her eyes out. A night of grief and guilt, no wonder she fell to pieces at the interview, despite whatever Lillian might have told her to say.”

  “She is weak and emotional,” Ravyn said. “Lillian knows that and made sure we did too. She thought letting Dylwyth disclose the liaison between her and Trentmoore would put her and Marion out of the picture, which it has.”

  “But it hasn’t, sir,” Stark protested. “It put them right in it.”

  “In our theory, but not legally,” Ravyn pointed out. “As I said, Dylwyth’s admission allows them to deny everything. She’s done very well portraying Dylwyth as an unreliable witness.”

  “I don’t think she is all that reliable, sir, but I probably would have taken her story at face value, fairies and all,” Stark said. “Three seconds into the waterworks, I pegged her as being mental. She may be mad as a badger, but it still makes a good cover. Legal or not, we still have all three of them.”

  “If Marion’s improbable and Lillian impossible, then it’s Allan to Lillian from Dylwyth.” Ravyn shook his head. “Like an angel come amongst them, she said. Gentle of spirit or not, I’m sure Raymond must have seemed quite the also-ran.”

  “Like a second-hand tea cosy in a tombola raffle,” Stark said. “She may have wanted to keep the mite, but couldn’t for the same reasons Marion couldn’t have kept Raymond in the first place. So, Allan is off to the library, whether in or out of the bin.”

  “Which brings us to Lillian,” Ravyn said. “According to Aunt Althea, she was the last of them to go chubby. That was almost two years after Allan popped up.”

  “I don’t see how Trentmoore could have strung along all three of them for that long.” Stark shook his head. “The bloke was either really good in the sack or good at playing up the Lord of the Woods angle. But, wait, aren’t we getting close to when he did a bunk?”

  “We cannot be certain,” Ravyn said, “but Gwen’s birth would have been near the time he vanished, probably a little before, going by the report filed with Spooner by Maratha Chandler.”

  “Where does she fit in?”

  “I don’t know that she does,” Ravyn said. “There may be some link between her and the others. It may turn out that she had her own affair with Trentmoore.” Ravyn shuddered. “She was old even then. It may have been nothing like that at all, just the action of a good citizen concerned about the welfare of another.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to talk to her again.”

  Ravyn chuckled. “What’s the matter, Stark? Not in the mood for tea and pixies?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  “When it comes time, I’ll talk to her,” Ravyn said. “She was fond of me as a child.”

  “So I gathered, sir.”

  Ravyn smiled wistfully as he thought of boiled sweets and petite cakes. “For another time, maybe tomorrow. But back to the matter at hand—Lillian and Trentmoore.”

  “Lillian might have demanded a ring,” Stark said. “That would have scared Trentmoore witless, tied down with a dreadful missus like Lillian, with two exes, two nippers and one in the oven. Saw his cushy gig was over, so made himself scarce.”

  “Possibly,” Ravyn said, but did not look convinced.

  “Judas Priest!”

  “What is it, Stark?”

  “No wonder Lillian was dead set against the idea of Gwen and Allan being involved,” Stark said. “Half-siblings!”

  “I don’t think that is the reason.”

  “It’s incest, sir!”

  “A cultural taboo…”

  “And illegal, sir.”

  “And illegal,” Ravyn agreed. “But not quite as firm a barrier in paganism as it is in Christian-influenced culture.”

  Stark’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped a little, and Ravyn could see his sergeant was on the verge of an explicative, perhaps a tirade.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Stark,” Ravyn said quickly. “Not all pagans are sex-starved bunnies. Many are quite conservative in their sexual views, some even monastic. People who join pagan groups hoping for non-stop orgies are inevitably disappointed. Generally speaking, what mainstream culture thinks of as being repulsive is the same as most pagans believe as well—abuse, human sacrifice, cannibalism…and incest as well, for the most part.”

  “Glad to hear that, sir,” Stark said. “For the most part?”

  “Parental or older-younger incest is as taboo among pagans as it is in society,” Ravyn explained. “It’s seen as unethical, abusive and exploitive. Where it gets grey is in the case of cousins, half-siblings or even full siblings. It’s seen as infatuation or curiosity.”

  “I have a couple of cousins who married,” Stark admitted. “The family don’t talk about them, don’t invite them to gatherings, not that they invite me either. Guess that’s always been iffy, cousins in most families. Some places it’s not illegal. Besides, my cousins are decent folk, and none of their nippers have two heads.” He rubbed his neck. “Still, siblings, even half-siblings…seems wrong.”

  “It is,” Ravyn agreed. “Can’t have people polluting the gene pool and destroying the morals of society. Families have always had secrets, especially the nobility in this country.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stark said. “The rich are different.”

  “Even when they are the impoverished rich.”

  “So, that kind of stuff is not frowned on, at least as much, by pagans?” Stark asked. “Do they at least discourage it?”

  “They don’t generally don’t make a big kerfuffle,” Ravyn said. “It’s assumed those involved will either grow out of whatever infatuation is behind it, get bored or sort it out.”

  “And if they don’t, sir?”

  “The grand design of the cosmos,” Ravyn said. “Whatever one cannot change was meant to be.”

  “Sounds like rubbish to me,” Stark said. “Convenient rubbish if you want to get inside someone’s knickers.”

  Ravyn sighed. “Yes, human nature prevails, no matter what one believes in, or not.”

  “Seems to me, our next step should be to confront the three of them with what we know…what we think we know about Allan and the others,” Stark said. “If nothing else, Dylwyth will crack.”

  Ravyn frowned. “That would probably not be the best course of action for us.” When Stark started to protest, he interjected, “All we have is a decades-old missing person case and a secret of parentage kept by three village women. Sympathy would be on their side as far as keeping it hush. You have to admit, it does not advance our investigation into the murders of Allan Cutter and Oscar Lent..”

  “Then why pursue it at all, sir?” Stark asked.

  “Because Trentmoore and the children are at the heart of the case,” Ravyn insisted. “A missing man, three abandoned children, Red Cap Woods, paganism, the proposed redevelopment district, a caravan on fire, the Goblins’ Playground, and whatever Cutter was searching for—they are all wrapped up together. I wish I knew how I kn
ow, but I don’t. Not yet.” He closed his eyes and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. “I just need time to sort it all out.”

  “Sir?” Stark said after a moment.

  Ravyn opened his eyes. “Sorry. Cutter’s search. Made me think back to the maps, drawings and photos on the walls of the caravan. I was perusing them.”

  Stark frowned dubiously. “Sir, I was thinking. It would shake them up, even Lillian Nettle, if we did a DNA match. If we could show they shared the same father, it would give us a lever.”

  “I’m sure the Superintendent would forward the request up the line forthwith,” Ravyn said, a mocking smile tugging at his mouth.

  “All right then, how about hitting at it hard through the other two children?” Stark suggested. “Raymond might hold fast, but I’m sure I could get Gwen to buckle. Best thing would be to play on the relationship, whatever it was, between her and Cutter.”

  “Softly, softly catchee monkey,” Ravyn murmured.

  Stark sighed. “Finding Trentmoore would be helpful.”

  Ravyn agreed. They set Stevens to the task of tracking down the elusive traveller, using Spooner’s original missing person report as a starting place. She initiated enquiries through the NHS, Inland Revenue and other agencies. She also sent requests to the Met, other police forces and the prison system.

  “He has to be somewhere,” Stark said.

  “Yes, even if dead by now, he has to be somewhere.” Ravyn looked about the room. “When is Raymond Smith’s interview?”

  Stark looked at the time on his mobile. “Ten minutes ago.”

  “Let’s go,” Ravyn said. “He’s not the type who shows up late to anything. Let’s hope someone didn’t already catch the monkey.”

  Confused, Stark rushed to catch up.

  Chapter 9: Caught Like a Coney

  “We’ve not considered Raymond’s, Allan’s and Gwen’s ties,” Ravyn said, walking briskly in Hob’s Lane, “so we’ve not properly explored what any of them may know.”

  “About the murders?” Stark asked. “You mean Raymond and Gwen, sir, not Allan, obviously.”

  “About Trentmoore,” Ravyn replied. “All three of them.”

  “Trentmoore?” Stark said, surprised. “Thought we’d given up the idea of hitting them hard about that.”

  “Not hard,” Ravyn said. “Soft.”

  Stark smiled. “Still after that monkey, sir?”

  “Gwen may still have been in the womb, so her knowledge is limited,” Ravyn said.

  “Limited!” Stark shook his head. “Even if she had just popped out into the cruel old world, what could she possibly know?”

  “Allan may have been as old as two,” Ravyn continued, “so he may know a little, but with a normal memory, it might be flashes, augmented by rumours, innuendoes and eavesdropping.”

  Stark shook his head. His memories of his own childhood were spotty. He could recall vague memories of specific incidents, mostly bad, a few good, but there was a barrier between Stark the child and Stark the man. Usually, details of a fortnight ago were no less fuzzy than those of decades past, and often he wanted no more clarity than that. No, he decided, most memories were better forgotten. He shuddered as he considered a mind that never forgot anything, one that recalled every incident, good or bad, important or mundane, with equal lucidity. That, he decided, would be hell.

  “Now, Raymond, there’s the interesting one,” Ravyn said. “He could have been as young as approaching four or as old as five.”

  “Still just a nipper,” Stark said. “What could he really recall?”

  “Don’t sell children short, Stark,” Ravyn cautioned. “That’s the age at which they start to turn into who they are, and who they will be, whether saint or serial killer. Do you feel you are actually a different person than you were at five or so?”

  “Well, I’m older,” Stark said. “I’m more mature.”

  “Yes, bigger and more experienced, but different?”

  Stark thought back. He recalled flashes of pain, beatings with a leather strop, fistfights with other schoolboys, punishments from teachers, all usually brought about because he said what he thought. Then, too, there were memories of his mother’s frowns and being slapped by her for some out-of-place comment. He learned early to curb his tongue, but never to curb his thoughts.

  “No, I guess not, sir,” he finally said. “People who knew me then said I would come to no good. Guess I haven’t much proven them wrong, have I?”

  “At least you didn’t become an axe murdering politician.”

  “Sir?”

  “Another case,” Ravyn replied. “Remind me to tell you about it when we have some free time.”

  Stark doubted he would ever have to remind Ravyn of anything, but he nodded. He glanced toward the wall, toward the five cottages with a view of this section of Hob’s Lane.

  “They’re watching all right,” Ravyn said, though he did not turn his head. “How could they not?”

  Eventually, they came to the section running along Red Cap Woods, where Ravyn first met Raymond Smith. All their journey he had hoped they would meet him coming from the other direction, hurrying because he was late for his interview appointment, but he knew they would not. He berated himself for not connecting some of the threads earlier, for not bringing Raymond in sooner.

  As he walked, Ravyn pieced together the stray memories he had gathered in the now-destroyed caravan. It was an exercise best done in a quiet place, seated, eyes closed, but he could not afford the luxury. One by one he examined the photos and maps, the drawings and diagrams that overlayed the changing scene before him, like translucent documents taped to a window. It was clear Allan Cutter had been searching for something, but what? Certainly not earthly treasure, for the woods lacked any legends to inspire seekers of booty or trove.

  Ravyn removed unproductive documents and photos, ones with layers of dust, an indication Allan had considered their importance to his quest but found them lacking. When he finished separating lambs from goats, discarding a few obvious red herrings with no connection to any of Allan’s research, Ravyn had maps, diagrams, drawings and photos of an area about two miles square around the Goblins’ Playground. Many maps were crisscrossed with coloured lines, some continuing onto or from larger maps.

  “Ley lines,” Ravyn murmured.

  The memories hovering before Ravyn vanished, as if they had been printed on the surface of a popped soap bubble.

  “Ley lines, Stark,” Ravyn said. “Do you know what they are?”

  “Are they something about fairies?” Stark asked. “I heard you mention them after we talked to Marion Stone. Didn’t know, but I figured it was all part of her occult kit ‘n’ caboodle.”

  “Ley lines are straight lines through significant constructions or places,” Ravyn said. “They were noted as early as Roman times, but were named in 1921 by Alfred Watkins, an amateur archaeologist with a bee in his bonnet about Britain’s standing stones, henges and other megalithic structures.”

  “Like the Goblins’ Playground?”

  “Exactly like the Goblins’ Playground,” Ravyn said. “Now, if you draw a straight line connecting the Goblins’ Playground and a site like Stonehenge, or Drombeg Circle in Ireland, that line will pass through other megalithic structures, sacred hills, churches, and sites with religious or cultural significance.”

  “Hmm.” Stark considered the concept for a moment, then said, “But won’t those lines more go through places that are just ordinary, or maybe nothing in particular at all?”

  “Occultists and pagans tend to overlook things like that.”

  “Oh. So, how do they figure in?”

  “Many ley lines were charted on the maps in Cutter’s caravan,” Ravyn said. “There were diagrams and photos of places where they intersected. He was using ley lines in his search.”

  Stark wondered why the guv’nor had been so quiet the past few minutes. Skirting the dark forest, he had wondered if it might have something to do with a local s
uperstition, some country belief about the ancient beings supposed to dwell there, though he did not know whether Ravyn subscribed to all that rot. Now he knew better.

  “Searching for what?” Stark asked.

  “We don’t know, yet,” Ravyn said. “I’d like to know if he was an occultist or a pagan, or neither.”

  “Miss Nettle said Allan rejected her beliefs, didn’t she?”

  “She said he stopped his lessons.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the same thing?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not, but it may not matter.”

  “Stark frowned. “How do you figure, sir?”

  “If he were looking for something that had been hidden by a follower of pagan beliefs, or a pagan-connected site, it would not matter what he believed,” Ravyn said.

  “Had to learn about astrology a few years back,” Stark said.

  “Eh?”

  “A bloke in Soho was cutting up toms, four in as many weeks,” Stark explained. “We were up a tree on it till a uniform made a joke about his horoscope. We’d nought else to go on, so we brought in an astrologist. The bird, weird she was, did her jibbity-boo stuff, told us a when, maybe a where. She was right. We nicked him afore he could carve another. Turned out he was a nutter all gaga about fate in the stars, not fit to plead. None of us believed in that star-struck rubbish, but it didn’t stop us using it to close the case.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about it someday, sounds fascinating,” Ravyn said. “But, yes, you nailed it. Cutter was following clues to his goal based on another’s belief, but his ‘lessons’ certainly would have given him a leg up.”

  “You also mentioned occultist,” Stark said. “What about that?”

  “If Cutter was after something of occult import, the case could turn very nasty,” Ravyn said. “There are legends of dark things in the woods, very deadly, and so ancient as to make the time of fairies seem only yesterday.”

  Stark nodded, not in agreement or understanding, but to avoid a question. It was plain the yokels hereabout believed wholeheartedly in beasties, ghoulies and things that went bump in the night, but whether that included Ravyn, he still did not know.