“Then Oscar Lent comes along?”
“Yes, the proposed development of a large portion of Red Cap Woods was what set everything into motion after so long,” Ravyn said. “He has Woodcock feeding him information about villagers, who was for it, but especially who was against it and what it might take to change their minds. Of all the villagers, six remained against the project, all of them either vociferous or influential.
“The lads in the snug would have been easy to sway because Woodcock knew them all so well, knew the currency of their hearts’ desires,” Ravyn continued. “However, before Lent could make any sort of offer, the project had to get started.”
“So he had to first sway the women dead set against it.”
Ravyn nodded. “They were influential in the village, had roots that reached back to the very beginning. Not only that, but there had always been rumours about those three, hexes and curses and the like. Remember, I told you there was a wide streak of paganism in Ashford, going back a long time.”
“Still hard to believe people could take that rubbish seriously,” Stark said. “It’s the Twenty-first Century, for God’s sake.”
“Not in Ashford, nor large parts of Hammershire County,” the chief inspector said. “As long as Lillian, Dylwyth and Marion were against the project, not a tree would fall, not a spade of earth would be turned over.”
“Then enters Allan Cutter.”
“Somehow they met, and Allan realised he could make some money and stick it to the women at the same time,” Ravyn said. “I doubt he told Lent details about the murder, but certainly that there was something in the woods the women wanted to keep secret.”
“So he started looking for it.”
“Which is how we know Raymond did not reveal where the body was,” Ravyn said. “Allan could not go to Raymond for help, but he was smart enough to figure the grave’s location would have been dictated by the beliefs of his mother and the others. What he didn’t take into account was that there are so many ley lines. And, as you pointed out, most of them pass through absolutely nothing of any importance, same for intersections.”
“You think that Allan was killed because he was searching for Trentmoore’s grave?” Stark asked.
“I think he was killed because he had found it,” Ravyn replied. “That was why he was on his way to the Three Crowns that night, to give Lent the information and get his final payoff.”
“His payoff was final all right,” Stark remarked.
“All Gwen had to do was slip out, hop the wall into Hob’s Lane and wait for Allan,” Ravyn said. “It was the fastest way to get from his caravan to the Three Crowns, where Lent was hosting a party in the pub. Gwen stabbed him with that sharpening rod.”
“But it didn’t finish him off,” Stark pointed out. “At least not right away. Made it to the snug before he popped his clogs.”
“She had conviction and was desperate to stop Allan, but was nervous and excited,” Ravyn said. “Murder is not an easy thing, even when you’re dedicated to committing it. She missed her mark, but was close enough. He pushed her away and ran off, not realising how bad it was. He headed for the pub. He didn’t go to the snug for help, as we first thought, but it was as far as he got before he was, as you and Aunt Althea might say, brown bread.”
“And she killed Lent because he knew.” Stark paused. “No, he couldn’t, because Allan never reached him. So, why was he at the Goblins’ Playground?”
“That was Gwen’s doing.” He pushed across a print-out. A line had been highlighted. “Lent’s phone records came in today.”
“Better late than never.”
“He received a call from the butcher shop number” Ravyn said, pointing to the line. “Marion would never have called him, so it had to be Gwen. She probably told him she knew what Allan knew and to meet her there, that she wanted money too.”
“So, he goes like a little lamby to slaughter?” Stark asked. “Was he that stupid? Allan had just been murdered. Did he really not suspect a thing?”
“Oscar Lent was a man who conducted his business affairs in line with Sun Tzu’s The Art of War,” Ravyn said. “One of the main tenets is ‘Know your enemy, his strengths and his weaknesses.’ In preparing to remake Ashford, he got to know everyone. Remember, he was at all the meetings, always in the village for social events, always putting the best foot forward. To him, Gwen was just the local butcher’s adopted daughter. If anything, he saw her as a way inside, perfectly situated to make a crack in the block of people most resistant to his plans.”
“She certainly wasn’t nervous when it came to killing Lent,” Stark noted. “Bango! Right through the heart. There was no little hate behind that thrust.”
“She had reason to hate him, didn’t she?” Ravyn said. “He was seeking to defile the grave of the Lord of the Woods and to destroy the woods themselves. To her, they were more than just sacred. They were home to her friends. Lillian and the others had faith in what they believed, but Gwen believed what she saw.”
“I supposed she had to get rid of Raymond before you could talk to him,” Stark said. “Once Lent was killed, he had to know that she was behind Allan’s murder.”
“I think he knew right away, from that first night I saw him,” Ravyn said. “But I don’t think he would have betrayed her. He was a man used to keeping secrets. But Gwen—the poor little mooncalf who had suffered so much—did not know that, and could not chance it. He probably knew what she was going to do, and let her do it rather than hurt her. Of the six of them, he was really the only one who understood paganism and had the mettle to live, and die, by it. No signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds. He let her.”
Stark shook his head. “Someone try to skewer me like that and I’d have fought like a tiger.”
“No offence, Sergeant, but you’d have made a poor pagan.”
“I haven’t much faith in anything, so I suppose you’re right.”
“Gwen had trouble accepting what she did.”
“Her clumsy attempts make it look accidental?”
“You said anyone who had read a single murder mystery or seen a show about coppers would have done a better job,” Ravyn reminded him. “A butcher’s hours does not allow for many outside activities, not reading and certainly not frivolous shows.”
“Then Dylwyth and Marion on the same night,” Stark said. “She must have been desperate to take that chance.”
“There’s the possibility she planned only one,” Ravyn pointed out. “Dylwyth’s was premeditated, planned for when she was asleep, unlikely to cry out. For Marion, she had to sneak back, avoid the watches and attack her at the table. She might have feared Marion would come in, see how little had been done at the shop, then make the connection when Dylwyth’s murder was reported. Or maybe Marion saw her and had to be taken care of ahead of schedule. Of course, there was another witness.”
“There was? Who?”
“Maratha Chandler.”
“I know she’s a dear old thing and you like her, sir,” Stark said, “but with all due respect, she’s completely mental.”
“Pixies in the garden,” Ravyn said. “Elves in Hob’s Lane.”
“Bloody hell,” Stark breathed after a moment.
“Sooner or later, Gwen would have figured it out, would have put poor Miss Chandler on her list.”
“Probably would have got her between tea and biscuits,” Stark quipped. “Frail thing like that, no match for Gwen. Right through her in half-a-sec.” He frowned. “Why the sharpening rod? Any significance in that, do you think?”
“Doubt it,” Ravyn replied. “Easy to conceal up a sleeve or held close to one’s side. If anyone had seen it, it wouldn’t raise the same sort of questions as a knife would.”
“Sir, much of this is speculation; the rest can’t be proven one way or another,” Stark noted. “How much goes into our report?”
“Just what’s needed, no more, no less,” Ravyn said. “Nothing they cannot understand.”
Sta
rk nodded. “What about the development in Red Cap Woods? Have you heard anything about that?”
“Nothing for certain,” Ravyn admitted, “but I’d be shocked if it moved forward at all now.”
“Lent was not the only investor,” Stark said.
“He was the largest of them, the most aggressive, but none of that is important now,” Ravyn said. “No matter how much money is poured into however many pockets, I believe that development is deader than Oscar Lent.” Seeing the look on Stark’s face, he added: “None of the villagers will back it, and almost all will now fight it.”
“Money has changed hands, favours given and taken,” Stark pointed out. “The most influential people against it are either dead or stark barking mad. Woodcock can surely broker deals with the new investors.”
“No, Woodcock has lost all taste for it,” Ravyn said. “When the lads gave him a drubbing and the Major ducked out, he learned a vivid lesson about who he is, where he belongs, and the general worthlessness of outsiders. The rest of the villagers…well, they learned it’s unwise to trifle with the dark powers dwelling in those ancient woods.”
“But the killer was a mad girl,” Stark protested. “No elves, no pixies, no goblins and certainly no Lord of the Woods.”
Ravyn smiled. “I don’t think you’ll find many people in Ashford now who believe that.”
Stark sighed.
“Why don’t you head home,” Ravyn suggested.
“The report…”
“I’ll take care of some of it before I leave, and we can work on the remainder tomorrow,” Ravyn said. “Besides, didn’t you say something about you and your wife spending more time together?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
By the time Stark shrugged on his coat, Ravyn had returned to his papers. He said goodnight, but he doubted the chief inspector heard him. He was almost out the door of the building when a young constable stopped him.
“The Super wants to see you, Sarge.”
Stark frowned. “What about?”
“Well, he didn’t tell me, did he?”
Curious and wary, Stark knocked softly on the office door. At a muffled sound from within he entered.
“Ah, Detective Sergeant Stark, thank you for stopping by,” said Superintendent Giles Heln, his voice smooth as glycerine. “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted a few words with you.”
“What about, sir?”
“Right to the point, no pussyfooting,” Heln noted. “I like that in a man. It shows forthrightness and sincerity.”
Stark looked at the man on the other side of the desk. His blue uniform seemed to have been starched onto his thin frame. His hair was black, too black for a man his age. His face and body could have been sketched using only vertical lines, and none would have been very long. Heln no more than five-five. He was well under the minimum height, but Stark doubted the man had ever worked the streets. He suspected favours had been called in and requirements waived. Heln’s eyes glinted like shattered obsidian. Had an obeah priest formed a doll for a hexing ceremony, Stark imagined it would look much like Superintendent Heln.
“I understand congratulations are in order about the Ashford murders,” Heln continued.
“Actually, it was DCI Ravyn who…”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Stark,” Heln said, “I think we both know any inspector is only as good as his sergeant.”
Stark remained silent.
“It’s been a hectic three weeks for you, Stark, and we have not really had a chance to chat,” Heln continued. “In fact, there were many who did not believe you’d last out three weeks. DCI Ravyn is not an easy man to work for.”
“So I’ve heard, sir.”
“But you seem to be fitting in.”
“Yes, sir,” Stark replied. “I’m learning quite a lot. DCI Ravyn is very knowledgeable about…”
“Oh yes, a fine officer, but old fashioned, don’t you think?”
“He’s very dedicated to…”
“Yes, but a bit behind the times,” Heln interjected. “Times have changed and policing methods have to keep up with them. It’s no longer enough to throw the villains in the nick. We have to be more proactive in the community, more understanding of the differences in people. We have to address the causes of crime, not the crimes themselves. You’re late of the Met, so I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have any plans to move on?”
Stark blinked in surprise. “No, sir. Not at this time.”
“Good, good, we need men like you, men well versed in new police techniques, who can help lift the Hammershire Constabulary out of the past,” Heln said. “I think DCI Ravyn is lucky to have a man like you working for him, just as we are lucky to have a man like you working with us.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A man like you could go far, get the advancements that have been denied to others,” Heln continued. “I can help you, and I know others who can help. Of course, for us to help you we need to know how to help you. The only way we can know that is if you keep us informed of your activities.”
Stark crossed his arms. “Sir, are you asking me to spy on DCI Ravyn?”
“Forthrightness and sincerity are admirable traits, Stark,” Heln said. “But so are discretion and circumspection.” He considered Stark a silent moment. “We can help you and you can do well here, or you can choose not to be helped and…well, there’s no need to make any decision now. You need some time, I’m sure, to consider what’s best, both for you and for your family. We’ll revisit this subject in, shall we say, two weeks from tonight?”
“I don’t really think…”
“You should think about it, Sergeant,” Heln said. “Good night.”
Heln returned to his stacks of paperwork. Words were flying about in Stark’s mind, but he knew better than to give voice to them. He turned and started out the door.
“One more thing, Stark.”
Stark paused, looked back.
“It would be most unwise,” Heln said, not looking up from his desk, “to discuss any of this with DCI Ravyn.”
Stark seethed all the way home. In the Met he had known more than his share of bent coppers, but men like Heln were worse than any number of them, in his opinion. They sat behind their desks, disinterested in police work, preying upon coppers who had no other goal in life than to make the streets safe and protect decent folk. No doubt cooperating with Heln would be better for his career, but at what cost?
By the time he parked under the carport, he was much calmer. He had pushed Heln from his mind by considering the complexity of the case he and Ravyn had just wrapped up—pagans, lunatics, murderers, fornicators, greedy bastards and liars.
The family formed by the late Douglas Trentmoore, his three pagan groupies, and their three misguided children was the most dysfunctional group Stark had ever encountered. And that, even compared to the inbred familial criminal clans of the East End that had given him so much trouble in the past.
Glad it’s just me and Aeronwy, he thought. No complications.
He opened the door, stepped inside and was surprised to find his wife waiting for him. She wore a blue dress. Her white hat was in her hand, as if she had just taken it off. She was smiling.
“You’re home early, darling,” she said.
“Aeronwy, is something wrong?”
Her smile widened. “I just got in myself.”
“Dear, where have you been?”
“I had an appointment with Dr Cole.”
“Are you all right?”
“I wanted to make sure before I told you.” Her smile widened until her head seemed on the verge of splitting in half. “Leo, we’re going to have a baby.”
Stark forced a smile.
* * *
A white owl soared over Red Cap Woods. It swept low over the ancient trees, cutting through the gathering dusk. The monument known as Goblins’ Playground was awas
h in bloody light and its shadows seemed to writhe in a sort of primitive dance. The owl settled upon the tallest of the megaliths. A breeze moved among the branches of the forest and stirred the leafy floor, like a whisper.
Come away, O human child…
A pale form rose from the base of the stone, small like that of a child. It swayed, hesitant to move.
To the waters and the wild…
The nebulous form drifted toward the deep woods.
With a faery, hand in hand…
Between the black trees, eyes like bright diamonds flashed. A dark figure beckoned, a majestic presence who wore a fiery crown upon a head wreathed in shadows. The pale form ran to it.
The world's more full of weeping than you can understand…
The owl soared into the deep purple night, continuing its endless quest for food.
Disclaimer
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and places, especially Hammershire County and its villages, are fictional. No real people or places should be inferred from any of the descriptions. In the rare instances where actual historical persons or places are mentioned, they are used in a fictional manner.
Dedication
Murder in the Goblins’ Playground is dedicated to C.A. Powell (AKA Retro Brit). I’m grateful for his friendship, and his continued support and encouragement to a poor colonial lad. Had we been on HMS Thunderchild no doubt we’d have made the Martians rue the day they decided to invade Earth.
Note to the Reader
Because the characters in this novel are English and the setting is England, I have opted to use British English spellings in dialogue and narration. In vocabulary I have tried as much as possible to adhere to England’s national conventions and to regional variations found in Hammershire County. I have tried to do so consistently, and I apologise (especially to my British friends and acquaintances) for any lapses that crept in, despite my best efforts.
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