Wychwood

by George Mann

The owner of the theatre. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  “So you do know,” said a scruffy-looking man, at least a decade older than most of the others, who was sitting on the floor with a ring binder open on his lap, containing what appeared to be a script.

  “She was found behind my mum’s house. I didn’t know who she was. I’m so sorry. No wonder you’re all in shock.”

  Vanessa got to her feet. “Let’s talk outside.” She gestured to the door, and Elspeth nodded and followed her out, still feeling a little shaken after the initial shock of seeing the man she’d taken to be Andrew.

  “I’m sorry,” said Vanessa, when the door had shut behind them. “It’s just… we’re all a bit jumpy, you know.”

  “Understandable,” said Elspeth. “Did you know her well?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Vanessa. “I had to work with her.” She looked suddenly regretful. “That sounded worse than I’d intended. It’s just… Lucy was a difficult woman. Always trying to get too involved. She was the owner of this place – or, at least, her husband was. But I’m the producer. It’s my responsibility to organise everything. As the owner she’s supposed to sit back and take her cut of the proceeds. But Lucy isn’t…” She paused to correct herself. “Wasn’t like that. She wanted to know what we were up to all the time. Even sat in on rehearsals sometimes and gave the actors notes. Last week, Oscar was furious…” She stopped herself suddenly, as if realising she’d said too much. “Look, this is off the record, okay. You’ve caught us at a bad time.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Elspeth. “Look, my notebook is still shut. I genuinely do want to know more about the play. I’ve only recently moved back to the area and I’m writing a few pieces for the Heighton Observer. I thought a short article might help to generate local interest. I’m interested to find out more about the mythology, too, the stories the play is based on.”

  “Okay,” said Vanessa. “Well, we can do with all the publicity we can get.” She gave Elspeth a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t even ask your name.”

  “Elspeth Reeves.” She stuck out her hand. “Ellie.”

  The other woman took it. “Vanessa Eglington. Nice to meet you. You’ve already met Oscar, who’s playing the Carrion King, and Rose, our stage manager. And the chap with the folder is David Keel, the writer-cum-director of this fine endeavour. He’s a little spiky, but he’ll be able to help you with all the mythology stuff. I’d introduce you to the others, but I don’t think now is a good time…”

  Elspeth held up her hand. “Say no more. I’ll come back later. Although… I’m sorry to ask, but is the play still going ahead? You’re supposed to be opening on Friday, aren’t you?”

  Vanessa nodded. “John – that’s Lucy’s husband – has given his blessing for us to continue. Says it’s what Lucy would have wanted. So yes, we’re still going ahead. The show must go on and all that. We’ve all put so much work in. Lucy included.”

  Elspeth smiled. “I don’t suppose you have a spare copy of the programme I could take away? Just so I can read up in advance, prepare some questions.”

  Vanessa nodded. “Of course. They’re back inside. Come on, I’ll fetch you one. I’ll give you my number, too, so we can sort something out. We’re going to be rehearsing most nights this week.”

  They turned back towards the dressing rooms, just in time to see Peter and another man coming along the path. Peter locked eyes with Elspeth, and she couldn’t quite tell whether it was a look of wry amusement or disapproval. She offered him her most charming smile.

  “Are they with you?” asked Vanessa.

  “No, we’re not,” said Peter. “Detective Sergeant Peter Shaw, and Detective Constable Ravi Patel,” he said, holding up his identification. “I’m looking for Vanessa Eglington.”

  Vanessa gave an audible sigh. “That’ll be me,” she said.

  “And the rest of the cast and crew? Mr Adams said you would be rehearsing down here. We’ve just come from the house.”

  “No one felt very much like rehearsing this afternoon, DS Shaw. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Let’s step inside for a moment, shall we?” said Peter. Elspeth grinned. It was strange to see Peter acting so confident and forthright. She followed them inside and waited by the door, trying to keep out of the way. Vanessa shot her an apologetic look, but quickly indicated a pile of glossy programmes on the table, the covers emblazoned with a stylised crow motif. Elspeth grabbed one and tucked it under her arm.

  “Everybody, this is DS Shaw,” said Vanessa.

  “You’re here about Lucy,” said David Keel.

  Peter nodded. “We just have a few questions. We need to establish everyone’s whereabouts on Thursday evening, just so we can eliminate people from our enquiries. DC Patel is going to come around and speak to you all individually.”

  “That’s easy,” said Oscar, from across the other side of the room. He was perched on the edge of a table, rolling himself another cigarette. “We were all in the pub. Together. Thursday’s rehearsal night, and we all went up to The Horse and Cart for a few drinks afterwards. It’s tradition.”

  “All of you?” said Peter.

  There was a murmur of agreement from amongst the cast and crew. “Well, all except Vanessa,” said one of the women whom Elspeth had yet to be introduced to.

  Peter glanced at Vanessa, a question in his eyes.

  “No, that’s right,” said Vanessa. “I stayed here. There was a lot to finish up. We’re opening next week.”

  Peter nodded. “DC Patel will speak to everyone in turn. It won’t take long.” He crossed to where Vanessa was standing beside the costume rails. “Is this where you keep all of the costumes for the show?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. For the current production. Everything else is in storage.”

  “It’s the current production I’m interested in,” said Peter. “Can you just confirm for me that everything is where it should be, please?”

  Vanessa gave him a quizzical look. “I really can’t see what you’re driving at, Detective.”

  “If you could just check if anything is missing, Ms Eglington.”

  Reluctantly, Vanessa began scanning the rails, at first arbitrarily, but then with an expression of increasing confusion. She repeated the action, going through each garment again – an assortment of mediaeval robes, furs, and cloaks – before turning to the others, who were still sitting in a loose circle, while DC Patel spoke to Rose over in the corner. “Alice, you haven’t taken your costume today, have you?”

  A young blonde woman in leggings and a T-shirt, who was sitting beside David Keel on the floor, looked over and shook her head. “No. I haven’t touched it today. Why?”

  Vanessa glanced at Peter. “I can’t seem to find it on the rail,” she said. “Elizabeth, you haven’t taken it for repair?”

  An older woman, whom Elspeth guessed to be in her mid to late forties, got up from her chair and went over to join Peter and Vanessa by the rails. “No. I’ve not seen it since rehearsals on Thursday.”

  Vanessa took a deep breath, and looked at Peter. “Then it’s missing,” she said. “Look, has this got something to do with Lucy? How did you know one of the costumes was missing?”

  Peter looked at Elizabeth. “Can you describe it for me? The missing garment.”

  “Yes, it’s a coat made of white swan feathers. But I don’t understand. It should be here, on the rail.”

  “Thank you,” said Peter. He turned back to Vanessa. “I’m going to need details of everyone who has access to this backstage area,” he said. “And details of exactly what happened on Thursday evening. I think it might be better if we continue this at the station. DC Patel can finish up here.”

  “Well… alright,” said Vanessa. She looked terrified. “I’ll just fetch my coat.” She crossed the room and disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. Peter took the opportunity to walk over to join Elspeth.

  “Look, you’d better go,” he said. “I’m going back to
the station, but I’ll give you a shout later, okay?”

  Elspeth nodded. She could see the way things were going here. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Okay. But you don’t really think Vanessa is involved, do you?”

  “At the moment, I’m keeping all of my options open,” he said. “Now, I’ll see you later.” He leaned around her and pointedly opened the door. She smiled brightly, before ducking out, the programme for Corvus still clutched tightly beneath her arm.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “It’s nice to have someone to cook for, for a change,” said Dorothy, as she dolloped out a portion of shepherd’s pie and slid it over to Elspeth, who was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through an impenetrable website on her tablet.

  “What was that, Mum?”

  “I said it’s nice to have you here, love. That’s all. Despite the… well, you know.”

  “I know,” said Elspeth. She took a swig of wine. She’d been attempting to absorb a particularly onerous academic article on the mythology of the Carrion King, but was faltering at the unnecessary obfuscation and reams of footnotes and references.

  Her mum slid into the seat opposite. “I had a little bit of a tidy around while you were out today. I thought that if you’re going to be staying for a while you might need a bit more room, so I sorted out all that stuff in your old wardrobe into boxes.”

  “What, all of it?”

  Dorothy nodded. “I thought you might drop it down to the charity shop. There’s a box of old records there for starters. Some kids’ books, a few T-shirts, a bag of teddy bears. That sort of thing.”

  “I’ll take a look later. I want to try to get through this first.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “It’s for the story I’m working on. Just a bit of research.”

  “You’re not still poking into that horrible business from yesterday, are you?” She could hear the distaste in Dorothy’s voice. “Everyone at work was talking about it today. That poor woman.”

  “She was called Lucy Adams. She and her husband owned Winthorpe Manor, and the theatre. Did you ever meet her?”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” said Dorothy. “No, I don’t think I ever did. And to think, all those times we went up there.”

  Elspeth nodded. “I drove over there today. They’re all in shock.”

  “I’m not surprised. But what were you doing up there?”

  “I’ve written a piece on Lucy Adams’s murder for the Heighton Observer.” She’d emailed it to Meredith soon after getting back from the theatre. “Meredith Stokes said she’d take a look at it. Plus I’m helping the police. Well, sort of.”

  “Helping the police? You mean Peter?” Dorothy smiled. “I remember him from when you were kids. You always did get on well. I see him about the village quite a bit.”

  “Well, yeah.” Elspeth shrugged. “I think I might have given him an idea this morning and—”

  “So that’s why you were up and out so quickly. I wondered if perhaps Andrew had called…?”

  Elspeth shook her head. “No. I found something in one of my old books last night. I thought it might be useful, that’s all. I don’t think Andrew’s going to be calling, Mum. And to be honest, I’m not sure that I want him to.” She took a forkful of shepherd’s pie. “This is lovely.”

  There was a rap at the door. Dorothy pushed her plate aside and got up to answer it.

  “Ah, good evening, Mrs Reeves. I was wondering if, um, if Elspeth was in.”

  Elspeth glanced over at her mum, who was standing in the open doorway, grinning. “Peter wants to know if you’re going out to play, Ellie?”

  Elspeth laughed. “Let him in, Mum.”

  Dorothy stood aside to let Peter pass. He had to duck beneath the ancient lintel so as not to bang his head. He offered Elspeth a rueful grin. He was dressed in his civvies – a pair of skinny jeans, and a black and white paisley shirt beneath a green jacket. “Sorry to bother you. I didn’t realise you were eating. I can come back.”

  “No. No, it’s fine,” said Elspeth. “Pull up a chair for a minute. Do you want some? Mum always makes too much.”

  “I won’t, thank you. I ate earlier.” He pulled out a chair, which scraped upon the terracotta floor tiles, causing them all to wince. Sheepishly, he sat down. “I was just wondering if you fancied coming out for a drink?”

  Elspeth placed her tablet down on the table, weighing him up.

  “You know, to discuss the case,” he added hurriedly. He produced a manila folder from inside his jacket and placed it on the table. “I wanted to say thanks for earlier.”

  “Okay,” said Elspeth. “Let me grab my keys.” She took a final forkful of her shepherd’s pie, and then stood and placed the dish by the sink. She left Peter and her mum chatting about the old days as she ran up to her room to get ready.

  She was forced to manoeuvre through the slalom of boxes on the landing – spotting a copy of Duran Duran’s Rio poking out of the top of one of them as she passed by, and making a mental note to rescue it later – before quickly changing her top, freshening up, and grabbing her handbag. Five minutes later she was back downstairs. “Ready?” she said, laughing at the sight of Peter, who’d been forced to succumb to Dorothy’s shepherd’s pie after all. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  “Yes, well, I…”

  Elspeth shook her head, laughing. She grabbed her coat off the hook by the door. “See you later, Mum.”

  “Don’t worry, Ellie dear. I won’t wait up.”

  * * *

  After a decade frequenting the bars and pubs of Central London – which were sometimes so busy that the patrons would be forced to huddle in the street outside, irrespective of the weather – The White Hart seemed like a strange throwback, a relic from the previous century, somehow preserved for the modern day. If it weren’t for the trilling of the fruit machine in the corner or the ancient jukebox belting out a song by The Clash, it would have been easy to imagine they’d just walked into a time warp.

  The place was stuffed to the rafters with memorabilia: an old wheelbarrow; an unwound grandfather clock; a portrait of a gentrified landowner with his hounds; a rusting claymore mounted on the wall in iron brackets; and scores of dusty barrels and demijohns. A small black dog was curled up before an open fire, and a row of grey-haired men sat at the wooden bar in companionable silence, sipping their pints. Unlike most modern pubs, the décor hadn’t been updated, and the walls had not been knocked through – there were still several interconnected rooms, wood panelled and gloomy, each of them smelling of stale beer and damp.

  “What would you like?”

  “Better make it a G&T,” said Ellie, as Peter leaned over the bar and caught the landlord’s attention. “I’ll go find us a seat.”

  She chose a nook towards the back of the pub, away from prying ears. Not that she thought any of the old gents would be the least bit interested in what she or Peter had to say; they’d barely acknowledged them – or each other – since they’d arrived.

  Ellie checked her phone. There was no signal. She slid it into her bag.

  Peter found her a couple of minutes later. He was carrying a bag of pork scratchings between his teeth. He placed her drink on the mat before her.

  “What?” he said, as he pulled out a stool. “They’ll put hairs on your chest.”

  Elspeth laughed. “Give us one, then.” He grinned and tossed her the packet.

  “So, you didn’t tell me there’d been more than one murder.”

  “Straight to business, then,” said Peter. He took a swig of his beer. “You know I’m not supposed to talk about this stuff, don’t you? I really shouldn’t have let you leave the scene yesterday, either.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “You’re a journalist!”

  She laughed. “Well, alright. But if we’re going to solve this, you can’t go holding that against me.”

  Peter grinned. “We?”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt to pool re
sources, does it? Especially as you’re going to be stuck with me for a bit.”

  “I am?”

  Elspeth smiled. “Full disclosure. I’m going to cover the story for the Heighton Observer. Assuming they like what I do, that is. But they’re being dutiful and won’t publish anything until your lot gives them the okay, so you don’t have to worry. I’m going to keep your secrets.”

  “The Heighton Observer,” said Peter. “So you are sticking around for a while.”

  Elspeth sipped at her drink. The bitter tonic was sharp and refreshing. “No more prevaricating. Murders. Plural. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Peter took the folder from inside his jacket. “I hope I can trust you, Elspeth.” He handed it to her.

  “Bit late for that now,” she said, with a wicked grin. “I’ve told you, I’m not going to say a word. And besides, I want to help. If I’m going to go poking around for a story, I might as well make myself useful.”

  She went to open the folder, but Peter leaned over and caught her wrist. His grip was firm. “Before you open that, are you sure you want to see what’s inside? It’s worse than what you saw yesterday.”

  She nodded. “I’m made of sterner stuff than you think.” He released his hold on her arm, and she opened the folder.

  The first page was a form, covered in indecipherable typescript. She skipped over it. Behind this was a sheaf of photographs. She cocked her head to one side as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It looked like an animal slumped at the base of a tree. She leafed through, peering more closely, until she happened upon a picture of a man’s startled face, and she finally realised what she was looking at.

  The subject of the photographs was a man in late middle age. He’d been shot in the chest with an arrow – the stem of the projectile still protruded from his left breast, presumably buried in his heart, and blood had trickled down his pale chest, stark and unsightly. Like the woman, he’d been stripped naked, but rather than feathers he’d been dressed in animal skins, with a thick fur collar wrapped around his neck. Antlers – evidently removed from the carcass of a stag – had been affixed to his head with a wire skullcap, giving him a bizarre, otherworldly appearance. His lined face was fixed in a grimace of shock and pain, his eyes still open but clouded over.