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  He encompassed the mug in his large hands, not for the warmth, but the heat penetrated his stiff muscles. Work on the top course of a stone wall in Bamford had strained his hands and back. Strained his patience, too. Restlessness like he hadn’t known for months settled on him like the weight of a boulder. Had stone wall work ceased to absorb him? Did the lure of police work, even as remote as asking unofficial questions, now beckon?

  He drained the last of his coffee, put down the mug and punched the Play button again and listened to the message a third time. Perhaps it had been best that he’d been out early in Kirkfield. If he had taken the call yesterday he might have snapped at her, alienating her just as they were getting back together. Replaying the message like this had given him time to think.

  The sound of talking, laughter, and music came up first, then Dena’s excited words pushed the noise into the background. Her tone wobbled a bit as her mobile phone cut out briefly; then her voice rushed to him, enthusiastic and strong. “Michael, I’m here at Tutbury Castle, in Staffordshire, with your sister and Jerry. We’re taking in the Minstrels Court festivity…”

  He paused the playback, letting his mind catch up to the tumult of words. The Minstrels Court. An eight-day event styled in the medieval mode, featuring all the fun and frolic of 15th century living. Heavy on the music. Tutbury Castle added the authentic and dramatic backdrop.

  He hit the Play button and Dena’s voice sang to him. “…if you remember the death of that singer last year. Yes, I know you weren’t in the job then, but I thought… Well, I thought you’d be intrigued by the case, being as it’s a musician and an unsolved death.”

  Despite his reservations, McLaren leaned forward and concentrated on Dena’s words. The background noise swelled and he frowned, exasperated that some of her words were obliterated. After several seconds her voice came through again.

  “…last July. I guess I feel close to this…well, upset, actually, because he lived in Kirkfield, too. I’ll ask a few people if they remember anything about his last appearance here and talk to you about this later. Love.”

  The message clicked off with an annoying beep, rousing McLaren from his mental image of Dena taking notes from an armor-clad jouster on horseback. He raked his fingers through his short-cropped blond hair—ancestral genes from the Scandinavian branch—sat back in the couch and sighed. Of course he had quit the police by then, but he still recalled the case from what few facts he could glean from the sensational speculation coloring the account. But he wasn’t getting involved in another investigation. He was thirty-seven years old; he was off the job.

  He grabbed the mug, wandered into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, and walked to the window looking into the back garden. The mist had lifted hours ago; the film of moisture on the stone wall marking the boundary of his land had evaporated in the suffocating heat. It would only worsen, McLaren thought, as he gazed heavenward, for the sun had already cleared the top of the willow and consumed the sky with its brilliance. The cloudless expanse of blue would offer no relief from the summer temperature, nor would there be much respite in the shade if the thermometer climbed much more.

  A breath of wind, hot and dry from its wandering across the parched fields, nudged the stalks of foxglove planted along the front of the stone wall. A ripple of purple, lilac, and pink. Foxglove. Fairy Cap. Fairy Bells. Fairy Thimbles. Numerous whimsical names for a beautiful, deadly plant. Hadn’t that man, the one whom Dena is urging me to investigate, died from a plant poisoning? Had it been foxglove?

  So what if it had been, he reminded himself, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. He wasn’t a ruddy copper any more. What did he care? What could he accomplish when the lads from CID tried and failed?

  The flowers waved at him, as if beckoning. Did they know about the man’s death? Did they know about poison? It would be so easy with that plant, for all parts of it were toxic. Easy to think the flowers would look nice in a fresh salad. He stared at the mass of color, bent at an angle and revealing the wall. For some reason, he was putting off his work. And he had plenty to do. Finish the Bamford job; a patch this side of Castleton, trailing up the steep Winnats mountain pass; a repair of the top course outside Elton; a new section to construct at a farm near Hartington.

  But stonework couldn’t satisfy him today. He was impatient, unable to concentrate, though he didn’t know why. Normally he loved the solitude of stonework, sweating out his thoughts and problems with the backbreaking labor. He had grown used to hour after hour under the sun, rain and wind, sweating or chilled as the day dictated; his skin shone with the tan of the outdoors laborer, his hazel eyes threw back the golden glints of the sun. He had the physique for the work, too—tall and slim-hipped, with shoulders as hard and developed as some of the rocks he shifted. But he had no wish to apply his muscle to the stones today. He exhaled sharply, his gaze still on the wall in his garden. Was it due to Dena’s message? Was that why he’d been in the wood early this morning looking at the site where the body had been found, instead of on the wind-swept hill in Castleton?

  He set down his coffee, wandered into the front room, and grabbed his guitar, a Martin 12-string. He sat, pulled the flat pick from its resting spot, interlaced between the sixth and fifth course of strings, and clamped the pick between his teeth. The strings vibrated from the disturbance and set up sympathetic echoes from their neighbors. Angling the curved side of the guitar across his right thigh, he slowly thumped each string as he tuned. High E’s tuned in unison to the low E’s, octave D’s second fretted to the high E, B’s third fretted to the D. The steel string squawked while McLaren turned the polished chrome machine head, tightening the string and bending over the sound hole to hear the faint overtones dancing in the air. Halfway through he stopped, his finger resting on the B string. A phrase stirred in his mind. “Kent Harrison might have ingested some poisonous plant and, given time, might have died of it, but he died of strangulation.”

  McLaren’s right hand slid onto his lap. If Kent Harrison was being poisoned, why strangle him? Because the killer couldn’t wait for the poison to take effect? Because some event happened or was about to happen that required Harrison to die sooner? Or were two people wanting Kent Harrison’s demise?

  Chapter Three

  “At least, I didn’t know him well,” Dena explained, her voice softer as she recalled the murder. “But anyone who dies like that…” She wrinkled her face.

  “You actually knew Kent Harrison, Dena?” Gwen’s question soared above the background noise of conversations, cheers, drums and bagpipes.

  Jerry snapped his fingers. “Kent Harrison. Sure! That minstrel fellow. The folk singer. Right. The folkies dubbed him ‘Cygnus’ and some other names due to that song he sang. Oh, you know.” He cut off the last phrase, clearly exasperated. “That swan song. A takeoff on ‘The Bird Song’.” He sighed as Gwen suddenly nodded. “The swan song that has those back and forth verses from the male and female swans.”

  “Cob and pen,” Gwen corrected.

  “Male and female…cob and pen. Whatever. Kent and some girl—Fay Larkin, I think—recorded it as a duet. The song was a huge hit. The bloke was famous.”

  “Too bad such a talent died. And you knew him, Dena?”

  “Not well,” Dena said. “Not as a friend. Just knew of him, saw him around the village. You know.” She gave a shrug.

  “Even so.” Gwen grimaced.

  “Bad enough,” Jerry agreed. He eyed the beer in a passerby’s hand and ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. “Is that why you want Mike to investigate? He knew the bloke also?”

  “I don’t think he knew Kent. At least…” Dena screwed up her mouth, trying to connect the two men. “They both like music, obviously, but I’m not completely sure.”

  Gwen looked thoughtful. “They could have met at a festival or at a pub, you’re thinking?” She had been to enough folk festivals and open mic nights at pubs to know the music world was small—at least the world of traditional folk.
Even if group members didn’t flow from one band to another, they knew each other. Knew of each other: voice range, instrument played, musicianship, temperament. Qualities important in determining employment in a band. Qualities that placed you in “backup” or “lead”.

  “I just thought that shared love might draw Michael into the case.”

  “Well, whether you’re exasperated or hopeful, if you’re praying this case will set him firmly and finally among his family and friends again, I’ll pray with you.” Gwen grabbed Dena’s hand and squeezed her fingers.

  They had left the archery field and its blasts of heat. The field had been set up in front of the South Range, a section that housed the great hall and the former royal apartments when John of Gaunt had poured his wealth into the castle in the mid 1300s. Now, on the other side of the great hall’s doorway, they strolled through the avenue of booths, striped fabric tents housing all manner of medieval wares. Scents of spices, dried herbs and fried meat pies, and cries of vendors hawking their wares, crowded the air. And music. A snatch of “When Morning is Breaking”—the old Welsh air “Pan Gyryd Yr Heulwen”—drifted to them.

  The field flowers drooping, as fast fades the light, give warning foreboding, the sadness of night…

  The song jarred something in Dena’s mind. “The police think Kent was killed that night, when he had returned from the Minstrels Court.” She stopped, the music, the castle’s festival, and the date suddenly shaking her confidence. “If Michael looked into the death… He needs something mentally stimulating to bring him back permanently to us.”

  “But he’s no longer a cop. He reminds me every time I even bring up a topic related to his days on the Force. Jerry and I have seen his house recently. His commendations are packed away, along with his ambition. There are empty places on the walls of his back room, which seem to me to state that fact, even if Mike forgot to mention it. As good as the mental work might be for him, are you sure you want to yank him out of his contentment and open up a case that neither Kent’s family nor friends are anxious to re-examine?”

  Dena glanced at Jerry to see if she would get moral support from him, but he was talking to a leather crafter. She lowered her voice and addressed Gwen. “It’s my belief that Michael isn’t content mending walls, that despite his pasted-on smile, he aches with his whole being to be back in the job. You may sense something different, being his sister and maybe knowing him better, but that’s what I feel.” She gazed at the row of colorful tents, wishing McLaren were that easy to put into a category. She turned back to the original subject. “At least the castle’s curator and a few people at the performance stage recall Kent packing up his guitar and walking to his car that night. No one in my village recalls him arriving home, though. Of course, it could easily be an instance of familiarity. You know…you always see and hear the car so you don’t notice it unless it’s out of the ordinary.”

  “And that’s where Mike comes into the picture.” Jerry slipped a small package wrapped in brown paper into his back pocket as he rejoined them. “You think he’ll be able to solve this where the police failed.” He sniffed as though the suggestion itself stank. Or was too ludicrous to dignify words. “First, you’ve got to tear him away from his stones and tools. Then you’ve got to make him listen to you. Seriously listen, I mean. Third, you’ve got to interest him. I don’t know which is the hardest. Any part of this is nearly impossible.” He batted at a fly buzzing around his head.

  “That other woman did it last month,” Gwen reminded him. “The woman who was the victim’s friend—”

  “Yeah, she did. She got him to investigate. And look what happened.”

  “He solved the case!”

  “He nearly died.” Jerry looked around for the beer vendor as he pulled at the limp neckline of his T-shirt. “Or is your memory selective and you’ve forgotten the attack?”

  “I remember. Don’t rub it in.” Gwen sniffed, her tone sharp as the look she threw him. “But I also remember how Mike shed his near hermit-like existence.” She bit her bottom lip as her fingers pulled at her earlobe. “Go ahead, Dena. Mention the case to Mike. Bring in the music aspect, if that will lure him into investigating it.”

  Dena smiled and said she’d left a phone message for him last night.

  “Fingers crossed it’ll work, then.” Gwen broke off as they came to the section of food booths.

  Each booth was dramatically decorated in vivid colors, long pennants and brightly painted signs. Vendors in a variety of medieval dress—tunics, doublets, tights, bell-sleeved gowns, feathered caps mimicking the hues of peacock feathers and sunsets—called out their wares to everyone and no one in particular.

  Gwen hesitated at an herbalist’s booth while Jerry dawdled at one selling jewelry opposite. “Earth Child Herbs. Ron Pennell, Herbalist,” she murmured, squinting to read the sign. Large and metallic, the pale blue rectangle caught the late morning sun’s rays and threw them back onto the south tower’s rock face. Bouquets of wild flowers were tied to the tent’s corners, the satin ribbons flapping in the breeze. “Did you talk to everyone you wanted to so you can tell Mike some things?” Gwen said, her eyes still on the sign.

  “I need some basic facts of the case, what some of the more involved people have to say about it.”

  “Well, all I can say is good luck. God knows we all want Mike back with us—mentally, physically, and emotionally.”

  “I talked to the vendors who were here last time. So, I’ve done all I can do, I guess.”

  “You spoke to the man in this booth, I assume.”

  “Oh, no.” She glanced at the man standing behind the display table. “Someone else was here when I came by. Carpe diem, I guess.” Dena walked up to the man, who appeared to be a confusion of cape-like sleeves and belts, and introduced herself. The man’s smile faltered and turned into a frank stare. “This may seem like a strange question,” she said, “but I was wondering if you were here at the Minstrels Court last year.”

  “I come every year.” The speaker’s voice, melodious and smooth, matched his smooth hair. “Did you purchase something last year that you don’t see displayed? Can I help you find a particular item? Lavender sachet, lemon pomander, or perhaps mint vinegar? I use only natural ingredients in all my products.” He picked up a brochure and held it so Dena could read it. The cover sported a large illuminated initial and watercolors of various flowers. “I claim no medical cures. On the contrary, I discourage the use of my products for anything more serious than first aid. But in cooking or massage therapy, my herbs and spices are perfectly safe and lawful.”

  “It sounds interesting, cooking with these flowers. But no, I’m sorry. Nothing like that. It’s about someone you might have known. Or at least seen.”

  “Someone who was here last year?” The man returned the brochure to the stack on the table and set a bottle on them. The wind caught the papers’ edges and ruffled them slightly. “Another vendor here?”

  “No. A musician.”

  The man blinked. “Why? Did he buy something from me and he’s claiming something was wrong with the product?” He leaned forward and a bit to his right, looking for the man in the midway’s jostling crowd.

  “I have a friend who’s interested in talking to anyone who might have known him.”

  “Past tense.” His eyebrow rose. “Why? What happened? If he died due to something here at the Minstrels Court, you should contact the police. I don’t know anything about anyone dying. Nothing like that happened here.”

  “I didn’t say it happened here. I just want to know if you knew of the man. His name was Kent Harrison.”

  The man shook his head and smoothed the palm of his hand on his tunic. “I don’t know a thing about this Kent Harrison’s sickness. If there was a problem with my product, he should have come back to me. I stand behind everything I make and sell. Now, if you’ve nothing else to say…” He turned toward a teenaged girl who was holding a bag of strewing herbs.

  Eyeing Gwen, who w
as immersed in a bookseller’s wares a few tents down, Jerry walked up to Dena. “Any luck?”

  “Yes. Bad.”

  “Hard cheese.”

  “You talk to anyone, or just do a bit of shopping?”

  “This is your idea, Dena. I want to stay on Mike’s good side.” He flashed a grin. “And my previous purchase is something for Christmas, so don’t say anything to Gwen.” He pushed the box deeper into his pocket and patted it.

  “I’m as silent as the grave.”

  Chapter Four

  “That’s a grave assumption, Mike. Two people plotting Kent Harrison’s death.” Jamie Kydd hoped he could be heard against the background noise of the lunchtime crowd. Even with the air conditioning unit chugging its heart out, the canteen felt oppressive in the day’s heat. Jamie grabbed his jacket, rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, and pushed his chair back to the table. He fought the impulse to talk more loudly into the mobile phone’s mouthpiece and instead walked out of the room. On the other side of the closed door he glanced the length of the corridor and, seeing no one, lowered his voice.

  The quieter tone suited Jamie, complementing strangers’ mental match with his slight physique. Yet his body harbored hardened, toned muscles that seemed to surprise those getting into scrapes with him. He nudged a lock of his light brown hair back into place, a common action lately as he fought to obscure his slowly emerging scalp. Satisfied, he leaned against the wall. “Any idea who these two people might be?”

  “I’m not saying it’s true, Jamie, just that it could be. If I’ve ever heard of any instance where two people could have been instrumental in someone’s death, this is it. It screams it.” He took a breath before muttering, “Smells of it, actually. Of all the bloody cases of hatred and murder and unjust—Well, I owe it to the victim to solve this. It’s the decent thing to do. He needs his murder solved.”