by George Mann
“Pretty much,” said Peter. “And that eventually he would have his revenge through the use of a mirror.”
“Precisely,” said Miller. “Well, in the legends, The King’s Consort was a fallen woman. A whore well known and well appreciated by the Saxon warriors of the region.”
“Go on,” said Elspeth.
“Her name was Hilde, and she’s described as a creature of the purest heart, who had fallen upon difficult times, forced into a life of bleak oppression. Her mother had died during the birth of her sibling – who had also perished – and as a consequence she had been raised by her father, who forced her to be a whore, spending her days on her back, earning coin to swell his purse. As legends of the Carrion King grew, he became the talk of the entire region; whispered about before the fire at night, his reputation growing in stature with every telling. The notion of this heathen warrior-wizard, this dark man of the woods – it entranced people. You have to understand that in the stories, he’s portrayed as a tragic figure, a man who had been cast out by those who’d claimed to love him. And so he’d retreated to the forest to build a kingdom of his own, apart from all the troubles of the land – a mythic realm where beauty and magic would flourish, where man might once again join with nature, and honesty and love would prevail.
“To women such as Hilde, the Carrion King represented a means of liberation, a new life, and so one day, after her father had promised use of her to a band of returning soldiers, she murdered him with his own dagger, stole a horse and fled for the woods.”
Elspeth sipped at her coffee. As arrogant as he was, Miller was a rather excellent orator; she was utterly taken in by this new version of the story.
“Many had attempted to find the Carrion King before, of course, but he obfuscated, used his magic to divert their path and hide his growing kingdom from all whom he did not wish to find it. Hilde, though, he allowed to pass, for he could feel the longing in her heart. He took her in, and she swore fealty to him, forgoing all contact with the outside realm. In return, he promised to restore her purity, to remove all traces of her prior life, and he dressed her in a coat of white swan feathers to represent her rebirth. Soon enough, they fell deeply in love, and he made her his queen.”
“That doesn’t sound like a tragedy to me,” said Peter, pouring his tea.
Miller smiled. “Ah, but just like all the best fairy tales, DS Shaw, there’s a barb in the tale. For the Carrion King himself was not entirely pure of heart. As you know, he harboured a desire for revenge upon the ealdorman who had cast him out, and this darkness had taken root and grown. Like a disease, it had infected his very being, and when he lay with Hilde, it spread to her through his seed. Like a malaise, the poison ate at her soul, diminishing her, corrupting her. She grew desperately ill, and despite all efforts to save her – medicinal, magical, spiritual – she weakened and died.
“The Carrion King was distraught, but he had learned a valuable lesson – that the legacy of the man who had abandoned him was long-lived, and that he would never again find happiness until his hunger for revenge against the ealdorman was sated.”
“And the image in the woodcut?” said Elspeth.
“As a tribute to his lost love, the Carrion King placed his Consort upon a shrine of leaves deep within the Wychwood, and charged seven crows with protecting her corpse, so that she might never be disturbed again.” Miller sat back in his chair, flicking the ash from the tip of his cigarette.
“That’s quite a tale,” said Peter.
“Isn’t it?” said Miller.
Elspeth drained the last of her coffee. “So what about The Master of the Hunt? How does his story fit?”
Miller smiled. “Oh, that’s where things get really interesting. You see, that one’s a terrible tale of love and betrayal to rival Judas and his thirty pieces of silver.”
“Would you mind?” prompted Elspeth.
Miller laughed. “Not at all. I do enjoy an audience, although I will have to get back for a lecture before long.” He scratched at his stubble-encrusted chin. “So, when the Carrion King was first cast out, he was a boy of only twelve. He found himself alone for the first time in his life, with burgeoning abilities that he could not understand. The Carrion King, you see, had been conceived during the Spring Equinox, and as such he had been imbued with the wild magic of the land, becoming a vessel of sorts. At the age of twelve, as he took his first steps towards manhood, this wild magic began to present itself in unusual ways; when he felt rage, the whole village shook; when he felt sadness, the water in the village well would sour. So it was that the ealdorman eventually ran him out, and even his parents did nothing to prevent it.
“The Carrion King fled into the woods. For seven days and nights he eked a living on berries and rainwater, but already he was growing weak from exposure, and delirium soon set in. He stumbled through the forests in search of shelter. Happenstance – or perhaps the work of his untamed magic – led him to a copse at the very heart of the Wychwood, where an old hermit had built himself a shelter amongst the boughs of an aged oak tree. Here, five boughs formed the shape of an enormous upturned hand,” Miller paused while he held his own hand up demonstratively, “and it was in the palm of this hand that the hermit had taken up residence.
“Seeing the boy in such a terrible state, the hermit took pity on him and took him in. Over the days that followed, he nursed the boy back to health. The child had never experienced such kindness, and once he had regained his strength, he wished to repay the hermit for saving his life. He offered to serve the hermit, to fetch water, to run errands – in exchange for a place to lay his head.
“They became the strangest of companions, living side by side in the woods. The hermit schooled the boy in the ways of the natural world, teaching him to hunt and forage, to construct tools from the environs around him, to build fires and to fish. In turn the boy called upon his growing powers, his affinity with the land, to imbue the hermit with vitality and strength, and to grant him speed, foresight, and extended life.
“Over time the hermit underwent a deep and powerful change, falling deeper and deeper under the child’s spell. He began to feel a new connection with the land around him, as the natural realm revealed itself to him properly for the first time. He became the greatest of hunters, and when he ran in the wild hunt, he ran with the spirit of Herne at his heels, and the fruits of his efforts were bountiful.
“For many years, until the boy had come of age, they existed in this way; but as the Carrion King’s powers grew, along with the poison that had taken root in his soul, others flocked to his court. The Carrion King appointed four new apostles, but he had not forgotten the hermit’s earlier kindness, and so granted the hermit a position at his side, The Master of the Hunt.”
Miller paused, taking another swig from his drink. He was evidently enjoying himself, reciting stories for his captive audience. Even the waiter, Elspeth noticed, had come out to quietly wipe down the other tables while he listened to the tale.
“You mentioned a betrayal,” said Elspeth.
Miller smiled. “Indeed. For all was not well in paradise. The Master of the Hunt, revitalised by the Carrion King’s magic and grown preternaturally young, had found love amongst the fey folk of the forest. One night, during the hunt, he strayed too close to the uncharted regions of the Wychwood, where he encountered a sly nymph, who enchanted him and enslaved his heart. Unbeknownst to the hermit, the nymph’s true goal was to lure the Carrion King from the safety of his kingdom, so that it might feast upon the shadow in his heart and imbue itself with his power.”
“Nymphs have a terrible habit of doing that,” said Peter, drawing a scowl from Miller.
“So it was that The Master of the Hunt arranged a feast in honour of the Carrion King, and raised a hunt so magnificent that all who might look upon it would marvel. For the first time in many years, the Carrion King would ride alongside the hermit, to lead the hunt together. Only, the hermit’s head had been turned, and in his amorous fo
g, he had plotted to lead the Carrion King away from the rest of his party, to take him deep into the forest, where the nymph awaited them by the edge of a silver pool.
“By now, though, the Carrion King had grown bitter and wise, and had learned that even his closest allies might be corrupted by his power. Like a withering Midas, all whom he touched became rotten of heart, twisted with malcontent, and knowing not of the nymph’s enchantment but suspicious still of the hermit’s intent, he had come prepared.
“There, in the heart of the Wychwood, the Carrion King confronted his oldest friend, and found him wanting. Unable to give account of his actions – for the nymph’s enchantment made it impossible for him to speak the truth of it – the hermit begged for forgiveness. The Carrion King knew, however, that in showing leniency, in demonstrating mercy, he would leave himself more vulnerable to betrayal in future, and so, with great remorse, he took his bow and struck down the hermit with an arrow to the heart, and left him there by the silver pool so that the nymphs might feed on what remained of his soul.”
Elspeth realised she’d been gripping her empty coffee mug throughout the story, and placed it carefully on the table before her. “An impressive story,” she said.
“And well practised,” added Peter.
Miller laughed. “Guilty,” he said. “I’ve told that one a few times during lectures. And to impress girls,” he added, with a sly look at Elspeth. The attention made her feel uncomfortable, and she saw Peter bristle.
“I presume there are stories like this for all of the disciples?” he said.
“And others besides,” said Miller. “Although I fear I’d be here all afternoon if I tried to elaborate, and as I mentioned, there’s a lecture…”
Peter nodded. “Just a couple more questions. I understand that the Carrion King eventually enacted his revenge upon the ealdorman who had cast him out?”
“Yes. The stories read like a journey. First he must learn the necessary lessons that drive him towards the darkness. As I said, it’s a tragedy, really. Faced with betrayal at every turn, the Carrion King’s court soon sours, and his apostles are all lost. Meanwhile, he seeks revenge upon the ealdorman and smites him down, and with him, the final threads to his old life are cut. It’s only after this that he gains his true power, and learns mastery over life and death itself. He uses it to walk in the netherworld, and is never seen or heard from again.”
They were silent for a moment, as if taking this in.
“Are you aware of Philip Cowper, and his book about the Carrion King myths?” said Elspeth.
Miller laughed, and she sensed the streak of unkindness in his reaction. “Yes. I’m aware of him, and his book.”
“Do I sense a hint of professional rivalry?” ventured Peter.
Miller raised an eyebrow. “Not a jot of it,” he said. “Cowper’s book is just a far too simplistic reading of the subject matter. He’s a bit of a fool who misses the subtlety of the symbolism involved. It’s surface-level stuff, like I said, aimed at tourists rather than anyone with a serious interest in the subject.” He grinned. “There are some pretty pictures, though.”
“What symbolism are you referring to?” said Peter. “It might help us.”
Miller sighed. “The Carrion King is all of us. That’s what the stories are really trying to say. He’s a dark reflection of who we are, deep inside. He’s unbridled passion, and sweet revenge. He’s our darkest thoughts made manifest and given life. That’s what’s so beguiling about him. He could be any one of us.”
That was entirely the problem, considered Elspeth. “Tell me about Michael Williams?” she said.
“Ah, now Mick’s a different matter entirely.” Miller’s mood seemed suddenly to shift. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, interested now. “Mick wants to get to the heart of the story. He’s a real writer. An artist. Not like that Cowper idiot. Mick’s not bothered about the sensationalist stuff. He’s trying to key into the symbolism, the truth.” He met Elspeth’s gaze. His eyes seemed to burrow into her. “Have you read any of his novel?”
“No. He wasn’t particularly forthcoming,” she said.
Miller grinned. “Give him time, and he’ll warm up,” he said. “He just needs to learn to trust you first.”
“You know him well, then?” said Peter.
“I know him as a fellow enthusiast,” said Miller. “He came to me for advice, and when I saw what he was working on, I was only too glad to give it. I know he’s written a few potboilers in his time, but this is different. It’s good.”
“What about David Keel? Are you aware of his play?”
Miller reached for his half-drunk bottle of iced tea. “Yes. The subject matter was my suggestion in the first place and I’ve been advising him. Like Mick, he’s interested in getting the details of the story right, painting the very best portrait of the Carrion King that he can, and I can appreciate that. He’s a bit of a sycophant, but he’s a decent writer.”
“You’ve been over to the theatre at Winthorpe a few times?”
Miller nodded. “A few. I’ve watched a couple of recent rehearsals and given David some feedback.”
“So you know Lucy Adams?”
“Who?”
Peter rubbed his chin. “The owner and manager of the theatre.”
“Ah, yes. The loud one. Always bickering with the producer.”
“Vanessa Eglington,” said Elspeth.
Miller smiled. “That’s it. Vanessa. I’ve never known what to make of her, really.”
“What makes you say that,” said Peter.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just get the sense that when you talk to her, you’re only ever getting half the story. To be honest, I usually try to stay out of all that side of things, and confine my interactions to David. And Oscar, of course. He’s always fishing for tips on how to portray the Carrion King during the different stages of his journey.”
Peter nodded. “Last question. Can you tell me where you were on the nights of the twelfth and twenty-third of this month?”
Miller frowned. He leaned forward in his chair. “You asked if I could give you some insight into the Carrion King story, and now you’re asking me to justify my movements?”
Peter held up a hand. “It’s just standard procedure, Professor Miller. We’re asking everyone who has any connection to the Winthorpe Theatre the same questions, just so we can eliminate them from our enquiries.”
“I presume this is about the recent murders?”
Peter nodded.
“Well, last week is easy. You’re talking about Thursday, aren’t you? I was at the theatre, as I’ve just explained. I stayed until the end of the rehearsal, and then left when they all went off to the pub. I came straight back to Oxford.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“I imagine so,” said Miller. “I went to the pub, The Daisy Chain. I’m there most evenings, to be honest. It’s quiet and they’re not averse to me sitting in the corner with a book.”
“And what about the twelfth?” pressed Peter.
“I couldn’t say,” said Miller. “But I was most likely in the pub that night, too.”
“You can’t be more specific about your movements?”
Miller shrugged. “I don’t keep a diary, DS Shaw, and I live alone. If I wasn’t at home, I was in the pub, as I’ve explained. I don’t really see how any of this is relevant. I certainly haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” He grinned.
“As I said, we’re just trying to eliminate people from our enquiries.”
Miller got to his feet. “Well, if that’s all, I really should be off.” He glanced at Peter. “If you need anything, call my office. I’d be happy to help.”
“Thank you for your time,” said Peter.
They sat in silence for a moment, until Miller had disappeared down the other end of the lane and turned the corner.
“Well?” said Elspeth.
“Well what?”
“Well, I need
a drink.”
“Another coffee?” said Peter.
“No, a proper drink. Come on, pay the bill and we can get out of here. You’d better fill me in on what I can and can’t print about all this. Then I’ll need a lift back to Heighton. I want to pop into the office of the Observer, to check something out.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Meredith was sitting behind the desk in her office, peering wistfully out of the window at the alleyway when Elspeth rapped on the door.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” said Elspeth, when Meredith looked around, peering at her in a dazed fashion as if surprised by her sudden appearance.
“No, not at all. I was just thinking.” Meredith offered her a crooked smile. “What are you after? I don’t have any more work I can throw your way just yet.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Elspeth. “I suppose I’m just following a hunch.”
“Alright…” said Meredith.
“When you bought this place, the Heighton Observer had been running for some time, hadn’t it?”
Meredith nodded. “Since the early seventies, although it’d lost its way a bit since the early days. When I took it on, there was nothing but classified ads or stories about missing cats.”
“Or local photograph competitions?” ventured Elspeth.
“Very droll. Why do you ask?”
“Patricia Graves. My mum mentioned the name sounded familiar. She thought it had something to do with a story about a missing child in the late seventies. I couldn’t find anything online but I wondered if you still had an archive I could check. It could help shed a bit of light.”
Meredith smiled. “Well, you’re welcome to go poking around down there. But you might wish you hadn’t worn such a nice dress.”
“You mean it’s not all on microfiche or computer?” said Elspeth. She could feel her heart sinking.
