Murder in the Goblins' Playground (DCI Arthur Ravyn Mystery Book 1) Page 6

  Ravyn knew he could at least look forward to two things from Stark, a list of names and a fairly accurate record of what was said. Three weeks had seen a tremendous improvement in his ability to take notes and to relate conversations almost verbatim. Stark was unlearning the bad habits he had picked up at the Met, not all, of course, but his tendency to generalise and to rely on imperfect memories were relatively easy to correct. In Stark’s case, the magic number was three—there had been no need to write the same report a fourth time. For a detective sergeant previously held to low standards, that almost made Stark brilliant in Ravyn’s eyes.

  Ravyn had pocketed the torch. Though it had been years since he had trod this path, he still recalled every step. There was more than enough ambient light to show him his surroundings.

  The brick wall arced toward the darkness of Yew Road. Hob’s Lane narrowed. Ahead, he saw black forest rise to the sky and lurk at the lane’s edge. From here, the path followed the ragged curve of the woods, skirting but not intruding for a dreary quarter-mile before turning toward the newer thoroughfares.

  There was the old fence, just as he remembered it. He placed both hands upon the top rail, letting the memory of the wood rise up through him. In that moment, the years evaporated and once more he was a lad only turned eleven, sent to live with yet another aunt for a season.

  Aunt Althea was a lifelong resident of Ashford, going back five generations, but Arthur was an outsider, a poor orphan lad living with the schoolmistress. There were so many reasons to torment the new boy, beyond the obvious one of being a strapper. It had taken a week of feigning frailty for him to convince her he would be better off studying in her library, working the lesson plans she brought home. She thought he would be a bright addition to her benighted classroom, but she finally relented. He never knew if she actually believed his ploy, but she did appreciate his apparent dedication to scholarship, never realising it was a form of self defence.

  He leaned forward, both hands still on the ancient, rough-hewn fence. It had been such a night as this that Arthur, curious about odd stories told by sniggering boys and even odder tales read in Aunt Althea’s ancient books, ventured to the edge of the unknown while his aunt thought him fast asleep.

  Red Cap Woods had long been shunned by Ashford’s residents. Foresters took wood, but not from its primeval heart. Officially, its ancient depths were protected by the Wildlife and Countryside Act, but the Forestry Council’s recommendations merely aped common practice. History flowed around Red Cap Woods. It was avoided by the Normans when they invaded and even by the berserker Vikings during their raids; the Saxons had skirted the forest as they and other Germanic tribes laid claim to the realm abandoned by the Romans, who, in their time, had also given the forest a wide berth. Only the Kelts and their blood-drinking tree priests, the Druids, ventured into the dark, and that only to propitiate the beings already there while they raised their standing stones.

  So, what made Oscar Lent think he could conquer what others had wisely left alone? And how many palms had been greased?

  To a lad of eleven, it was a realm of mystery and terror, even to one with a logical turn of mind and an eidetic memory. Some of the elder boys claimed they actually touched the old stones of Goblins’ Playground, but Arthur dismissed their boasts as nothing more than baseless bragging and posturing. Ravyn smiled thinly at the remembrance, though more at his ability to pierce the veil of their brazen braggadocio rather than the beatings that followed.

  Pain told him a splinter had entered his palm. He released the rail, brushed the sliver away, and silently cursed himself for letting the past intrude upon the present, again.

  What are you hoping to see? he asked himself. An old caravan in the woods? Or megalithic stones by moonlight? Or elves?

  Perhaps, he thought, a murder scene far from the haunts of men. Anyone leaving Red Cap Woods would find himself either in Hob’s Lane or the Old Pike. Cutter could have entered the lane from the Yew Road, but a man who spent most of his time in a forest-gripped caravan would have little reason to be anywhere else.

  Blood started dropping in Hob’s Lane, but where had Cutter stood when the blade first entered?

  He returned one hand to the fence, half prepared to vault it.

  A pale owl soared down, passing close to his face.

  Ravyn pushed against the fence, propelling himself several feet, almost tumbling back. He righted himself and watched as the bird took a position in the nearest tree. Its eyes seem to glow.

  “Bloody hell!” he breathed.

  “Some people see them as guardians of the forest,” a soft voice murmured from the dark. “Others as souls of those who committed suicide by hanging themselves from oaks sacred to the Druids.”

  Ravyn fumbled the torch out of his pocket and threw the beam toward the voice. In its glare he saw a slim man in old brown leather clothes. His face was lined, but by weather and sun, not by age and care. He held a few traps in one hand and a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder with the other. The man did not flinch from the light, but Ravyn averted it.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” the man said.

  “You startled me less than did the owl.” Ravyn cast a glance at the bird, who now seemed to be watching the two men. He looked back to the newcomer. “I’ve heard that said about owls, the first, not the second. I suspect you made that one up.”

  The man smiled. “It does sound good though, doesn’t it?”

  “Only to someone not very knowledgeable about owls, Druids or oaks.” Ravyn matched the man’s wan smile. “But isn’t that how many of the old stories got started? Not much to them but a chance encounter, a sound in the night, and a dash of imagination, yet they sounded good told by the fire, with the darkness pressing in.”

  “Aye, you’re a Hammershire man, all right,” the man said.

  “Because I know something about folklore and how it starts?” Ravyn asked. “Or because the way I talk?”

  “Both,” the man replied. “But the way you speak tells me you are not shamed by springing from Hammershire.”

  “Should I be?”

  “No, but some are, mostly young, trying to sound like Scousers, or they just walked off EastEnders,” he replied. “Then there are folk out of Stafford trying to impress flitters from London…and don’t get me going about them. Not here five minutes, they aren’t.”

  “I thought you were a man of few words.”

  “Depends on who I’m talking to, doesn’t it?” He frowned. “How would you know?”

  “Smith is a common name in England, but not in Hammershire, especially not in Ashford, where the last blacksmith was burnt as a warlock in 1646,” Ravyn said. “You are Raymond Smith?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “But you know Allan Cutter?”

  Smith hesitated. “Aye.”

  “He’s been murdered,” Ravyn said. He took out his warrant card and let the torch light splash over it. “I’m DCI Arthur Ravyn, Stafford CID.”

  “How do you know…” He glanced at the traps and the coneys. “You’ve talked to Peter, have you?”

  “He mentioned you.”

  “He also mention I like to be left alone, not interfered with?”

  “I’m not interested in poaching,” Ravyn said. “But my mind might turn to such interests, left unoccupied.”

  Smith chewed his lip for a moment. “All right. But first tell me what happened to Allan.”

  “He stumbled into the Three Crowns and died,” Ravyn said. “He had been stabbed.”

  Smith sighed. “It’s a sad thing, at least to some, but he picked an appropriate place for his last minutes.”

  “But not sad to all, I take it?”

  Smith shook his head. “Allan had his good side, but it was hard to find. He didn’t let many get that close.”

  “You were his friend?”

  Smith closed the distance between them, till they were on either side of the lane fence. “No, I wouldn’t say we were friends.”<
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  “What then?”

  “I helped him out now and then with jobs that were too big for him to finish before he lost interest in them,” Smith said. “He was like that. Anything that lasted more than a day or two was likely as not to be left undone.”

  “What did Allan Cutter do when he was not trying to do as little as possible?” Ravyn asked.

  “He was a private man,” Smith replied. “He liked being left to himself, so I did.”

  “I understand he lived in a caravan in the woods.”

  “Aye,” Smith said. “He did.”

  “What did you think of that?”

  “Of him living in a caravan?”

  “No, of him pulling a caravan into Red Cap Woods?”

  “Wasn’t anything to think of it,” Smith answered, “because he didn’t.”

  “According to Peter Woodcock…”

  “He’s a fool,” Smith interjected.

  “Then, where did the caravan come from?”

  “Well, it’s always been there, hasn’t it?” Smith explained. “At least forty years, maybe more.”

  Ravyn frowned. During his short stay, he had heard all sorts of stories about Red Cap Woods, but nothing of an abandoned caravan. Odd. Even given the reputation of the location, it was sort of place that would have attracted the attention of any number of young bucks looking for an isolated retreat in which to smoke or snog.

  “Where did it come from?”

  Smith shrugged.

  “Can you take me there?”

  “I can,” Smith said, “but not tonight. If you know as much as you seem, you know it’s not safe in the woods after dark. No one goes into Red Cap Woods at night, if they’re half-wise.”

  Ravyn glanced at the traps and the rabbits.

  “I have lease to pass unmolested.”

  “Did Allan Cutter have lease to live there?”

  “He thought so,” Smith said. “As it’s turned out, maybe he did not after all.”

  “He was killed so caps could be dipped in blood?” Ravyn asked.

  Smith scrutinised Ravyn in the dim light, looking for a trace of mockery. All he saw was the same impassive face seen by villains across a table in an interview room before they hung themselves on their own ill-chosen words.

  Smith smirked. “It’ll be said by most, thought by the rest.”

  “Yes, but I think we both know they don’t need blades, nor do their victims walk away,” Ravyn said.

  “I can take you to the caravan in the morning,” Smith finally said. “What time will you be back in Ashford?”

  “Dawn will be fine with me,” Ravyn said. “I took rooms at the Three Crowns.”

  “You’re a funny sort of policeman,” Smith said. “You got no one to turn the porch lamp on?”

  “I like to stay close to an investigation when I feel I might be able to close it quickly,” Ravyn answered.

  “You think you can do that here?”

  “Besides, I haven’t seen Aunt Althea in quite awhile.”

  “Miss Haven? The old schoolmistress?”

  “I lived here with her for a short period,” Ravyn said. “A long time ago.”

  Smith leaned forward almost imperceptibly, this time trying to see a young lad perhaps once known. He leaned back.

  “I’ll meet you here at dawn, Mr Ravyn, and take you out to Allan’s caravan,” he said.

  “I’ll want to interview you at length, eventually.”

  “Understandable, considering the circumstances.”

  “I’ve been told Cutter was not well liked.”

  “A fair statement.”

  “Did anyone dislike him enough to kill him?”

  Smith breathed in deeply, let it out slowly. “As you say, he was not well liked. Can’t say I liked him most of the time myself. But killing?” He shook his head. “Doing something like that is apt to dig up secrets best left buried, and if you lived here even as a nipper, you know people ‘round here want their secrets buried deep.”

  Ravyn recalled how Aunt Althea shared the secrets she knew, knowing that such knowledge helped him understand human nature, the faces usually hid behind masques. But she also shared because she knew he could keep his mouth shut.

  “Dawn,” Ravyn said. “See you then.”

  Smith nodded, climbed over the fence, and started down the lane toward the Old Pike.

  “One more thing,” Ravyn called.

  Smith turned.

  “Is Smith really your name?”

  “I was a foundling, Mr Ravyn.” He resumed his journey. “It’s the name I was given by Miss Mayhew. From a book, she said.”

  Chapter 5: A Restless Night

  DS Leo Stark left Maratha Chandler’s house with a renewed yearning for London.. He was full of tea and biscuits and very little useful information. She might have seen figures in Hob’s Lane, maybe shadows, or perhaps ghosts. Didn’t he know they sometimes walked where the Devil once rode upon a black steed that breathed fire? Spirits were always restless when the moon was a crescent and the Old Folk made merry in the woods. Listen, and you could hear their ethereal music and the laughter of the Lord of the Woods. And there was always human mischief going on as well, people doing all sorts of things when they thought themselves unobserved, so much of that. Really, who can say what we truly see, for do we not live in a wicked, wicked world, Sergeant?

  And so it went, for twenty-seven long minutes.

  Out on the street, feeling her gaze on his back, he leaned upon the stone wall and let the night’s small breezes play upon his face. Probably, he decided, she had seen something in Hob’s Lane at about the right time, but it was all mixed up with the fey world she imagined about her. Previously, he would have dismissed her ravings as so much rubbish, along with the others, but now, as he had been retrained, he would consult his notebook, in which he had assiduously recorded it all, and scour his memory while it was still fresh, and put in his report every bloody word spoken that evening, and let someone else sort it out.

  Bloody hell, he thought. That man will be the death of me.

  He pushed off from the wall and started back to the car park. As he walked, he began composing his report in his mind. Sorting it out beforehand meant he could put it to bed quickly, for, if nothing else, he was an excellent typist.

  The car was alone outside the pub. The pub itself was dark but for a small light on the upper floor. There was no sign of Ravyn.

  A stroll down the lane and back should not take this long. He gazed toward the gloom of Hob’s Lane, wondering if he should set out in search of the man. He looked at his watch, then switched on his mobile.

  He looked at the screen and chewed his lower lip. There were three missed calls from Aeronwy and one text message. He switched off the mobile without playing the messages or reading the text. Ignorance was not just his best defence but his only one.

  A scraping sound against the pavement attracted his attention. A vague form moved toward him. He tensed, then recognised the DCI walking slowly, head slightly lowered, his measured gait that of a man in a reflective mood.

  “There you are, sir,” Stark said. “I thought I might have to come looking for you.”

  Ravyn looked up. “What? Oh. I hope you did not wait long.”

  “Just arrived myself.”

  “Did anyone see anything in Hob’s Lane?”

  “Nothing admitted,” Stark said. “Five interviews. No joy.”

  “Well, that was to be expected, I suppose,” Ravyn said. “Write up your interview notes and message it to my laptop.”

  “Yes, sir.” He paused. “I came across Allan Cutter’s mother. His adoptive mother, that is.”

  Ravyn frowned. “Yes, I should have though of that. I’m sorry it fell to you, Stark. It should be my responsibility.”

  “I’ve delivered bad news before,” Stark said.

  “Yes, of course you have.”

  Stark shook his head. “I don’t wonder that Cutter turned out to be the bastard that everyone says
he is. She’s quite a dragon.”

  “Yes, Miss Nettle was the terror of the village library, I recall,” Ravyn said. “It took but a single visit for me to appreciate Aunt Althea’s home library.”

  “And she told me Cutter wasn’t left in a bin at the library.”

  “Oh?”

  “Was quite indignant when she realised it was what I thought,” Stark said. “Defended the mum who dropped him too.”

  “She have any idea who that was?”

  Stark shook his head. “Odd thing was, she wasn’t the only one who raised a foundling. Woman next door, Marion Stone, raised a mite someone left at her butcher shop, now her apprentice. Strange coincidence, that, two women living in such close proximity, each left with a child not her own.”

  “Strange, yes; coincidence…” Ravyn shrugged. “Do you know what Carl Jung said about coincidences?”

  “No, sir, I can’t say I do.” Stark looked at the car, wished the DCI would fish out the keys so they could start back.

  “He wrote, ‘When coincidences begin to pile up, one must be impressed by them, for the greater the number of coincidences, the more unusual their character, the more improbable they become’.”

  “So, the more coincidences we have in a dorp like Ashford, the less likely they really are coincidences?” Stark suggested.

  Ravyn nodded. “Synchronicity, Jung called it. A manifestation of meaning through apparent randomness.”

  “Two women working in public places with a lot of traffic,” Stark said. “Two foundlings, I suppose…”

  “Three,” Ravyn interjected.

  “Sir?”

  “I met Raymond Smith down near the end of Hob’s Lane,” he said. “Where it curves close to Red Cap Woods.”

  “Smith? The poacher?”

  “Smith the foundling,” Ravyn said. “Abandoned to be raised by the village postmistress, one…”

  “Dylwyth Mayhew,” Stark said. “I talked to her tonight as well. Lives on the other side of Miss Nettle.”

  “Does she now?” Ravyn mused. “That is interesting. As Jung said, the coincidences begin to pile up.”

  “Weird Sisters,” Stark said. “That was what the first bloke I talked to, a daft pensioner named Brianson, called them.”