Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (11 page)

I was delighted to see an email from Plant with the header, “Greetings from Over the Pond.” I wanted to reach through the screen and hug him.

“Darling,” he wrote, “I would have written sooner, but we had to spend the past few nights at a hotel. We had a break-in while we were chauffeuring you to the airport and came home to find everything ransacked. We’re still putting the place back together. Luckily not much is missing. These were very picky burglars. They only seem to have taken my iPod, phone, and Silas’s diamond cufflinks. Plus they had some fun in the liquor cabinet and made a mess of my old manuscripts—worthless stuff. Probably kids. I’m insured, so it’s more annoying than anything else.”

I hate to admit I found his awful news reassuring in a way. It reminded me that crime can happen anywhere. In fact, I might be in less danger in this crazy place than in Plant’s apartment. He had burglars and coyotes to deal with. But I’d be sleeping in an impenetrable bunker—protected by a band of fearsome men.

Plant’s message went on. “At first we suspected our burglar might be Lance’s killer, since the police still aren’t sure if it was a heart attack.”

Not a heart attack. My panic came back. I tried to quiet it as I read on.

“You must be happily settled in at the Maidenette Building. I’ve Googled Swynsby-on-Trent and it looks idyllic. I picture you playing Maid Marian to Mr. Sherwood and his merry publishing outlaws. Do write us about your adventures. Other than the burgling excitement, things are dead boring here.”

Adventures. I took a deep breath and tried to reframe my situation as Plant might see it—not hurtling into some dark abyss at the mercy of a possible murderer—but swashbuckling through an exciting series of escapades.

And even if Lance had been murdered, why suspect Peter? As a tourist looking for a place to smoke in California, he had a reason for being in that alley.

Plant was right. I was here near Sherwood Forest itself—living with a charming rogue and his merry band of outlaws. I sat down to write back, spinning an only half-fanciful tale of falling for the romantic leader of a band of rough, but cheerful men. I had fun describing them in terms of the legendary Robin Hood archetypes.

a) Little John was the big street-fighting Ratko.

b) Will Scarlet was Liam, of course, with his tomato-colored dreads.

c) Alan-a-Dale was Karaoke Alan—or maybe Davey, with his music collection.

d) Much was the little dog, Too Much

I was living in a Robin Hood tale. How many women got to live a fantasy? I typed away, telling Plant about full English breakfasts and the antics at the Merry Miller. I even made Barnacle Bill sound like an amusing eccentric.

I didn’t mention Peter’s abrupt, mysterious departure. That ruined the story.

Loud knocking on my door jolted me from tale-spinning. My heart gave a lurch. Was it Peter? Did I long for him or fear him? I didn’t know what to feel.

I smoothed my hair and checked my face my purse mirror. Disaster: my tear-puffed face was in desperate need of make-up, no matter who was at the door. The knocking got louder as a man’s voice called—loud and urgent.

“Time to go, Miss Randall.”

Not Peter. Henry? I dropped the compact back in my purse, my mood deflated. Henry was such a pill that I couldn’t cast him in my tale of merry men. Except—the thought cheered me: Henry lived in Nottingham. I now had—

e) The Sheriff of Nottingham

“Time to go. We don’t want to be late,” said the voice.

Late. I couldn’t imagine for what. Maybe I was in Alice’s rabbit hole after all.

I opened the door. But my caller wasn’t Henry, or a White Rabbit—or anybody who could be cast as the Sheriff of Nottingham. This was a round-faced man of about sixty, wearing a rumpled suit and a bow tie. He offered me his hand and a wide smile.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you this morning,” he said. “An emergency with a grandchild in need of a chauffeur. I’m Charlie.” He squeezed my hand and gave me an expectant look. “Charlie Vicars—the sales manager? Don’t tell me Peter didn’t let you know—we’ve got an interview at Radio Lincolnshire at one.”

I could only stare. “The interview? My book? It’s still on?”

“Why ever not? We’ve an extensive publicity campaign planned. Surely Peter told you? We’re on live radio in Lincoln at two. That’s a smashing suit, by the way.” He thrust a grocery bag in my hands. “In case you haven’t had your lunch, I’ve brought some local goodies—a couple of sausage rolls made with real Lincolnshire sausage; our famous Poacher cheese; and apples from our garden. Plus my Sally put in a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. She thinks no meal is complete without chocolate.”

The food smelled yummy. I hadn’t eaten since my brunch with Peter yesterday. As I took a sausage roll from the bag, Charlie didn’t so much smile as shine—from his friendly blue eyes and rosy cheeks and polished bald head. Vicars. Didn’t that mean a clergyman of some sort? Of course. My tale was complete with—

f) Friar Tuck.

Swynsby-on-Trent greeted us with warm sunshine as Charlie and I walked out to the parking lot. Even the air smelled welcoming—like fresh morning toast.

Charlie inhaled deeply. “Splendid, isn’t it? That’s the maltings down the river. Lincolnshire is England’s breadbasket.” He led me to a battered Rover wagon and opened the door, tossing a couple of toy hedgehogs and a plush badger into the back seat. “Grandchildren,” he said with a laugh.

We shared the still-warm sausage rolls as Charlie drove out of town and onto a straight but narrow road through fields of grain and verdant hills. As he drove, he gave a running commentary about the history of the shire. This road had been built by the Romans, he explained, who once lived in the spot that was now the city of Lincoln—
Lindum Colonia
. In the middle ages, the city was the center of a prosperous textile industry. Their fabric, especially the wool dyed with local blue woad, overdyed with mustard, was known as “Lincoln Green”—the cloth worn by Robin Hood and his merry men, whom Charlie believed weren’t from Nottinghamshire at all, but Lincolnshire.

“After all, it’s Lincolnshire that’s famous for its proud poachers,” he said with a grin. “Surely you know our county anthem?” He sang out in a deep baritone, “Bad luck to every magistrate that lives in Lincolnshire/Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare/Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer/Oh, 'tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year.”

As he sang, Charlie reached into the white bag and pulled out some wedges of pale cheese, wrapped in waxed paper. “Poacher cheese. Lincs’ best. Try a bit”.

The cheese was rich and buttery, and utterly decadent with the sausage roll. I relaxed as we drove through the lush countryside. Peter Sherwood had brought me to this charming place, and a sweet man like Charlie Vicars trusted him—so shouldn’t I?

The beauty of the ancient city further charmed me as the old car climbed through its spiraling streets to the citadel—dominated by a castle and a magnificent Gothic church.

“Lincoln Cathedral,” Charlie said, full of civic pride. “Built by William the Conqueror in 1072. Next door, in the castle, is one of the four original copies of the Magna Carta.”

We parked behind a stone building and walked through streets too narrow for automobile traffic as Charlie acted as tour guide—pointing out bits of Roman columns built into twelfth century buildings that housed shops that sold iPhones and Starbucks.

The interviewer from Radio Lincolnshire—who looked so much like John Cleese I half-expected him to get up and perform silly walks—charmed me with clever questions about whether a return to good manners might cure the ills of the 21
st
century. Our conversation was so easy, I was disappointed when he stopped me after our fifteen minute interview and signed off.

On the way home, I managed to get in a word between Charlie’s guidebook monologues to ask why Henry said my book wouldn’t be launched until autumn.

Charlie laughed. “Don’t pay him any mind. The poor chap is completely
non compis
when he’s working on a book, so we don’t bother him with updates. Once the new Rodd Whippington book has been launched, we’ll have the old Henry back. But for now, just ignore him. Peter’s the managing partner, so I take my orders from him.”

“So Peter—he will be back?”

“Dear me, yes. He’s simply helping Jovan Ratko with some family business. Mr. Ratko saved his life, you know, during the Bosnian war. Peter was an RAF pilot. Ratko’s family nursed him back to health after his Tornado was shot down near Mostar. Peter would do anything for him.”

Peter was a soldier helping a service buddy—not some con man picking up beach bunnies while his friends starved. Not some alleyway murderer: a war hero.

As we rode back to Swynsby, I felt the day get sunnier; the flowers brighter; the air sweeter.

And chocolate digestive biscuits—wholegrain cookies iced with rich, dark chocolate—turned out to be pure heaven.

When we returned to the factory, even the rat hole looked inviting. So did the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Work would pass the time until Peter came back. And he would come back. Charlie had put my mind at rest.

I picked up the top envelope—a nice thin one, addressed to “Domination Books,” containing the manuscript of something called the
Prisoner of Zelda
by Dominic Wilde. But after ten pages, I thought I might be sick. I had never imagined so many unpleasant things could be done to a man’s genitalia. If this sort of horror was erotic to anybody, I didn’t want to know about it. I stuffed the pages back in their envelope, wishing I could banish the images from my mind. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t tell good smut from bad smut. It was all icky to me.

I picked up the next manuscript in the pile—a thick, padded Tyvek envelope with a neatly typed label and the U.S. postmark Henry had dismissed with such scorn. I pulled out the pages—nearly five hundred—the complete manuscript of a hefty book. The title was printed in a Gothic font:
Fangs of Sherwood Forest: the Confessions of Maid Marian.
The author was somebody named Rosalee Beebee from Buttonwillow, California. It had no cover letter—just a note from Alan Greene asserting that the book would make more money than Harry Potter.

Peter’s prediction seemed pretty much spot on. The book was written in laughable faux-archaic prose, narrated by a vampire Maid Marian who doubled as a sort of medieval aromatherapist. Her Robin Hood was a werewolf. Her verbs and nouns didn’t just disagree, they engaged in full-on warfare. But I put the manuscript in the “to be read” pile, mostly to keep peace at the pub.

At around seven o’clock, I ventured upstairs and found the men in the canteen, parked in front of the television, much as they had been the night I arrived. The little dog Much sat between Davey and Tom on one couch and the Professor’s chair was parked near them. Liam worked at the counter, peeling potatoes. A case of beer sat on the floor, with a chipped beer glass next to it, holding a few coins and a five pound note.

“Beer’s over there, Duchess,” Liam said. “Such as it is. Throw something in the kitty and help yourself. Professor Pardeep bought us groceries this evening, but he’d like us to pay him back what we can.”

The Professor waved at me, although his eyes remained glued to a televised game of “snooker”—a billiards-like game that seemed to fascinate them all.

“I apologize for the generic brew,” he said. I reckoned it would be better than nothing. It seems I’m the only one getting a proper paycheck around here.”

As I popped open a beer, Liam explained that the Professor had a regular disability allowance from the government, and Peter got an editor at nearly no cost.

Great. I was scrounging off a paraplegic’s disability check. I put two pound coins in the jar, picked up a knife and started peeling potatoes. Might as well make myself useful. As we chopped and peeled, Liam chatted. He told me he was of Jamaican descent and grew up in a small town in Yorkshire, where his family ran a fish and chips shop.

“You know what they say—‘you can always tell a Yorkshireman—but you can’t tell him much’,” Tom said over his shoulder. “We’re a stubborn lot.”

Liam said all of them but the Professor had been in a rock band called the Dire Weretoads, which Peter managed until he took off for the Caribbean. When Peter left, the band fell apart and they’d fallen out of touch until Peter showed up on Tom’s doorstep last September—mysteriously without luggage or funds.

I found this a little odd. If Peter had gone into partnership with Henry with no money—that meant Henry had paid for everything. No wonder he was annoyed.

“Was Henry Weems a Weretoad?” I was finding this hard to picture.

Raucous laughter came from the couch.

“Not him and not me,” the Professor said. “Henry knows Peter from the army. He was already a writer for Dominion Books and talked Peter into buying the company with him. The rest of us—Vera, Charlie, and me, we’re locals. Me dad runs the curry shop on the High Street. Charlie used to run the bookshop next door until Tesco put him out of business. Vera worked at the old Maidenette company years ago.”