Chapter 2
The Detective’s Investigation
Dear reader, let it be known that for all things there is a time and a place. This includes little things like British comedy, and big things like the focus of our tale, which up to this point has remained squarely on our friendly necromancer, but must now shift to our private detective. For in solving the mystery of the Festival murders, it is John King who is the more relevant figure in our tale. At least for now. Although given his progress in the case thus far, if asked John King would certainly not consider himself so worthy of our attention. But this is where we are dear reader. And nothing that I can do will change that fact...save of course for a re-write. But I am not paid enough for such things. So on we must go to the path of our tale.
John King spent the first part of his investigative process surveying the land, learning the ins and outs of the festival grounds in case any killer were to present themselves any time soon. He then questioned off-duty members of the staff, learning all that he could from them only to draw a blank response. There was nothing significant to be learned. Nothing that would indicate any insight into who might wish to sabotage the fair.
It was 1:37 PM, and John King was both tired of walking, and famished. For the express purpose of having lunch at the fair, he’d kept his tummy reserved after breakfast in order to enjoy some traditional, olden European cuisine. Shamefully, the menu wasn’t as exotic as he had hoped. There was hummus, funnel cake, quiche, and the staple of all Renaissance beverages, Pepsi.
The lines were crowded, and there was little in the selection that sparked in him any genuine dietary interest. He considered coming back when the crowd was less abundant, although it didn’t seem that that would ever be the case, and at any rate it was simply too late to be picky. John King could hear his stomach growling, and he knew that to go on any longer without a meal would only amplify the protest. And so off he went to have himself a meal, and continue his investigation with a more satisfied belly.
With no other leads to pursue, John King went to question the remainder of the staff, continuing his cycle of dead ends until he reached the theater troupe parked beside rows of caravans.
“What can I do for you sir?” came a man clad in a black and white tuxedo, pale complexion, short and stout.
There was an estimation of ten to twelve men and women gathered around, most of them dressed for the Renaissance occasion. Without having to launch a query, John King understood that they were staff, but that more than that, they were members of a group separate from the rest of the festival’s crew. Given the way that they turned to the man in the black and white tuxedo as the detective approached, John King surmised him to be their leader of sorts.
“I’m here to investigate the possibility of an impending murder.”
The gang behind the black and white tuxedo man shriveled.
“And you are?”
“Private investigator John King.”
“Is that right?”
The man suddenly lost his mood.
“Figures that the old man would hire a private investigator. As much as he wants these killings to stop, he doesn’t want the police to interfere with his business. Seems evident to me that so long as he makes a profit at the end of the day, if it means another one of us winding up dead then so be it. Is that right?”
The incentives for Mr. Parsley contracting a private investigator for the job were not at all lost to the detective. In this sense, the man was right. However, there was the other fact to consider.
“So far there’s been two victims. Police hasn’t found bupkiss on either. Maybe it would help if you think of me as a new approach.”
John King understood that in questioning potential sources, an element of trust must always be present. He had thus made his point to the frightened people around him that despite their fears and feelings of helplessness, there was still hope to be found. And from the various glances amongst the others, he knew he had achieved just that.
Although suspiciously, the man in the black and white tuxedo did not seem impressed.
“Mind telling me your name?” the detective asked.
“Tom.”
“Alright Tom. Can you tell me of anyone who might want to bring harm to either Mr. Parsley or the festival?”
“Mr. Parsley? What about us? What about the customers that are here right now? Aren’t you going to ask about their safety?”
“Now now,” interrupted a third man. “No need for hostility. Tom, go see to Mrs. Genevieve. See if she needs any help with preparations for the play.”
Sparing a word of protest, Tom did exactly as he was told, and left. This in itself a revelation that perhaps he was not their leader after all. That title, he presumed, went to the other man. One who upon observation was both tall and slim, wore a white and black tuxedo, and bore a dark complexion.
“Name’s Bobby Rendell. You’ll have to excuse my brother. He hasn’t been taking the tragedy very well.”
“Brother?” was John King’s first reaction, for in every conceivable way possible the two seemed nothing alike.
“Adopted since youth but no less a blood. Though admittedly his tends to be far easier to boil. But on the matter at hand, I believe that in a way Tom protests for us all.”
“Care to clarify?”
“Mr. Parsley has not been a very kind man. Least of all to my troupe.”
The ten or so gathered around John King steeled their eyes on him, confirming the fact that Tom’s taller, darker brother had been referring to them. They were all clad in colorful renaissance clothing and even brighter tones of make-up, but no amount of masks could hide the persecution that John King saw in their eyes.
This sparked in his mind a possibility.
“The killer is one of you,” he muttered.
“Right you are. And I will tell you who. But only on the condition that you take to heart what I have to say.”
The detective’s ears were split wide open, ready to catch the smallest drop of a name.
As it turned out, this case would be far simpler to solve than he had originally anticipated.