Chapter Fifty-Four

Erin followed a few yards behind the policemen, even though Detective Hemming had warned her sternly to keep her distance. Fear and excitement warred in the pit of her stomach—it was all quite terrible but rather thrilling. Passing a group of merrymakers, she peered at their faces, but didn’t recognize any of them. The crowd included large numbers of tourists—residents of nearby towns as well as quite a few foreigners. Ever since the festival had begun showing up in tourist sites online, attendance had swelled.

An inebriated young man dressed as a monk attempted to put his arm around her. “Hello, love,” he bleated drunkenly.

She shook him off, and he stumbled backward, caught in the arms of his companions. “Oy! Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Sod off,” she muttered, striding onward. Seeing the policemen were some distance ahead of her, she decided to veer off and look on her own. Circling the bonfire clockwise, she peered at the revelers, many of them wearing masks, some fully costumed. The disguises, combined with the fact that it was night, made it difficult to discern anyone’s identity. The general hubbub—the roar of the flames, music from the street musicians, people laughing, talking, and singing—made it hard to make out any specific voice or conversation. It was like being in a very popular pub on a Saturday night, only worse, because of the darkness.

Erin kept to the outer edge of the crowd, walking slowly but steadily around the circle. A couple of uniformed constables stood guard on the western edge of the green, and she started toward them, but a couple of young boys playing tag rushed heedlessly toward her. One of them tripped and fell into her, knocking her down. The jolt of hitting the ground took her breath away as a sharp stab of pain shot through her injured shoulder.

Rolling onto her side, she waited until the initial wave of pain subsided. She looked up into the concerned faces of a middle-aged couple festooned in green tunics covered with leaves and branches, topped off with green pointed hats. Her first impression was that they were meant to be either leprechauns or wood nymphs.

“You all right?” the woman asked as they reached out to help her up.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

“Those lads oughtta look where they’re goin’,” the man said as his wife helped brush grass and dirt from her clothes. “Sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, thanks—very kind of you,” Erin said. She looked around for the uniformed officers, but they were nowhere in sight.

“You sure you wouldn’t like to stop by the first-aid tent?” the woman asked.

“No, I’ll be fine—thanks again,” Erin said, hurrying away as fast as she could. She was moving with difficulty now, the injuries from her bicycle accident exacerbated by this fall. Her right hip didn’t seem to be working correctly, and she felt a stab of pain with every step.

“Damn,” she muttered as she limped toward the periphery of the crowd. On the far side of the green, a few outbuildings stood in relative solitude—including the barn where Hetty claimed she had seen the tryst between Jonathan and Sylvia. Something drew Erin to it, and she walked as quickly as she could toward it. Hearing raised voices coming from the other side of the structure, she increased her pace, breaking into a painful lopsided jog.

Rounding the far side of the building, she saw, dimly lit by a pale gibbous moon, two men engaged in a face-off. One of them was Jonathan Alder. The other was Winton Pettibone, identifiable even in a black mask with a long curved beak. He wielded a hold stick, the long wooden crofting tool Erin had noticed missing from his garage. He held it aloft over his shoulder, the short curved blade at the other end glinting silver in the pale light. Unarmed, Jonathan was cowering against the side of the barn.

“No!” she cried. “Winton, don’t!”

He turned to her. In the beaked black mask, he looked like a sinister crow. “Don’t come any nearer! This is between Jonathan and me.” His voice, though louder in volume, still had the same flat affect, as if he was deaf to the music of ordinary speech.

“What has he ever done to you?” Erin shouted.

“My Prudence deserves to be president!”

“Is that why you killed Sylvia?”

“Thought she were so high and mighty, so superior to us ‘common folk’!”

“Is that a reason to poison her?”

“She deserved what she got! And now him,” Winton said, turning back toward Jonathan, whom he had cornered between the barn and the blade of his weapon.

“Winton Pettibone! I am arresting you for the murder of Sylvia Pemberthy!”

Erin turned to see DI Hemming running toward them, followed by Sergeant Harris. As she did, her injured leg gave way and she stumbled, falling toward Winton. Quick as a flash, moving faster than his stocky body looked capable of, he seized her and held her, the blade at her neck.

“Take one step closer, and I’ll cut her throat!” he cried in a shrill voice.

“Let us work with you,” Hemming said as Jonathan scampered to safety. “We can help you.”

“Bollocks! I know the score—you lot look down on me,” Winton sputtered angrily. “You don’ know the first thing about real life, with your fancy degrees and snooty attitudes! The real people are folks who work with their hands, who value history and tradition!”

“I totally agree,” said Hemming.

“That’s a laugh!” Winton said bitterly. “I looked you up—your parents were Uni eggheads. You’ve come down in the world, you have.”

Detective Harris stepped forward. “You know me, Winton—I would never look down on you.”

“You do, though,” Pettibone said, panting. “People think I don’ see what goes on behind my back, but I do. You don’ appreciate me, and y’make fun of my Prudy. She’s worth the whole lot a’ you put together!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Erin saw Sergeant Jarral creeping around the barn, and prayed that whatever he had in mind would work. Meanwhile, Pettibone tightened his grip on her—she could feel the blade, cold and smooth, on her skin. She tried to take deep breaths, but her shoulder was cramping and her legs felt like they were made of papier-mâché. If Winton let go of her, she would surely crumple to the ground.

Suddenly she felt her legs being swept out from under her, and Winton’s weight on top of her as she hit the ground, hard. Twisting around to look, she saw Sergeant Jarral had brought them both down with a rugby tackle from behind. Scrambling rapidly away on her hands and knees, she saw Winton stagger to his feet, still clutching the holding stick. He took a vicious swipe at Jarral, who managed to duck the blow, but just as Winton was regrouping for another strike, Detective Hemming launched himself at the crofter with a roar. Spinning around, Pettibone slashed widely, catching the detective in the ribs with the blade. Erin wasn’t aware she was screaming until Jonathan grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent her from rushing into the fray.

She watched in horror as DI Hemming sank to the ground, clutching his side, just as two armed patrolmen in bulletproof vests arrived. Aiming their semiautomatic pistols at Pettibone, they advanced toward him.

“Drop your weapon now, before someone else gets hurt,” said the taller of the two. Pettibone looked as if he was about to charge them, but then his body sagged, and he let the holding stick fall from his hand.

A crowd was gathering around them as Jarral turned and yelled, “Get the ambulance!”

But Erin had already dashed off toward the one stationed at the edge of the green, its lights flashing by the time she arrived, her leg pain forgotten in the rush of adrenaline.

“Where’s the accident?” said the EMT in charge, a tall, thin young man with a tiny mustache.

“Over there!” she panted.

“Let’s go!” he said to his partner, a sturdy-looking woman with short blonde hair.

The ambulance sped toward the spot, followed by the fire truck, sirens screaming, as Erin raced after them on foot, no longer aware of her own injuries. When she arrived, they were loading DI Hemming into the back of the vehicle. Sergeants Jarral and Harris were standing close by, conferring with Constable McCrary, who had just arrived, his mustache twitching expectantly.

“Can I go with him?” Erin asked.

“Are you a relative?” the female EMT said.

“Yes,” she answered, surprised at how easily the lie slid from her lips.

“Sit there,” the woman commanded, pointing to a spot next to the gurney.

She did, and, sirens blaring, the ambulance sped off into the night.