Cherringham--Death Trap Page 10

  “Plenty of time for you both to follow Townes. Maybe make him trip in the snow, hmm? Get him into the stocks, set him up to freeze to death.”

  “You have nothing …” Lucy said again. “Why would I—?”

  “Because you have the biggest secret in the room, don’t you? You aren’t ‘Lucy Brice’. That’s just your nom-de-plume. Why the name change?”

  Sarah paused, guessing she had everyone on edge while they all waited.

  “Your mother wanted to be a writer too, didn’t she, Lucy? Even had a finished manuscript. A romantic tale of an outlaw knight. She also had a ‘mentor’, didn’t she? Edward Townes. Who stole her idea, stole her characters …”.

  “You shut the—” Lucy said.

  “Your mother, her hopes, dreams. Destroyed. Never wrote again. Died when you were just a child. Your success was your revenge. But you wanted more, didn’t you? You wanted Townes destroyed as well.”

  “Bloody hell,” McLelland said. “I’m not listening to any more of this—”

  The jester took a step towards the door.

  But with a hand flying up as if directing traffic, Jack brought him to a halt.

  “Not so fast, Mr McLelland.”

  *

  Jack waited for McLelland to back off, then — as Sarah stepped to one side — he took over.

  “Easy to see Ms Brice’s motive, isn’t it?” he said, looking round the group.

  Then he turned back to the jester: “But you? Why would you want to kill the old writer? Well?”

  Jack gestured to Claire.

  “Seems Townes was pretty adept at screwing up people’s lives. Like your sister here. Who got you the gig last night as the merry jester.”

  He turned to Claire: “Not quite the way you told me earlier, hmm? But let me guess — he wanted to see Townes face to face. See just how he treated you … Before he, too, took revenge.”

  Then back to McLelland: “That about right? I think the police, well, they will be very interested in all this.”

  Which is when McLelland, hands curled into fists, looked around the room, his way blocked by Jack.

  Those eyes … desperate.

  And he moved towards the jumble of weapons, reached down, pulled out a long metal pole that ended in a curlicue hook — a medieval pike …

  And came straight at Jack with it.

  *

  Sarah watched Jack dodge the lethal thrust.

  “Get out of my bloody way!” he said, voice bellowing in the stone hall.

  And it seemed that Jack had no choice.

  But Jack’s feint left took him to the stack of armour. He, too, reached out and grabbed a shorter metal pole, another archaic instrument of battle and war.

  And as McLelland rushed him again, Jack stepped back towards the door, his weapon raised.

  Then — a mad moment — the two poles clashed and clanged together, the metallic noise deafening.

  As the rest of the group quickly fell back to the walls, Sarah watched as these two modern men fought in a way, centuries old.

  And though Jack was probably way more adept with his service revolver and his fists, he managed to parry each of McLelland’s powerful blows.

  “Out of the way!” McLelland said again, spinning his longer pike in a windmill motion, easily outreaching Jack’s smaller weapon.

  Jack’s weapon took the hit from the long pike, the force of it seeming to rock him back on his heels.

  McLelland … decades younger. Clearly fit. Better armed.

  Sarah was about to do something — she had to make a move to help — when there was a voice, coming from the others huddled together.

  A voice that had not yet been heard.

  Edward Townes’s wife — Emily.

  “Stop! Stop this now! He … they … didn’t do it. They didn’t.”

  Sarah saw both Jack and McLelland turn to the woman.

  No one said a word. The echoing sound of clanging metal suspended.

  “They didn’t kill Edward.”

  Sarah saw the woman look to Lane.

  Somehow complicit in what was about to be revealed.

  “You see,” the words faltering, “I did.”

  And at that, there was silence as the woman took a few steps forward. Away from Lane, her protector.

  To stand in the centre of the room.

  Just as, with a flicker — so appropriate — the lights finally came back on.

  *

  “When Jane called that night, I wasn’t going to go out. But then — well, and I’m not sure why — I did. I was done. All those years. Not sure what I hoped I’d see. And yes—”

  The woman, now fully lit by the garish floodlights of the hall, turned to McLelland holding his pike as if battle might be resumed at any second.

  “I saw these two people, taunting Edward. I watched, as they dragged him across the snow. Put him in the stocks. Laughed at him. Mocked him. Then went back to the party. Edward could have easily popped it open, you know. And stumbled away. Back to our life. If you want to call it that. But he was hardly awake.”

  Sarah moved closer to Jack. She assumed that the battle was over.

  And for this amazing revelation, she wanted to be next to the man who had worked with her to summon it.

  “Then I saw the latch, the metal pin on its little chain. How it just slid into the lock. So tiny. Seemed so easy to me. I’m not even sure I meant for him to die.”

  She sniffed, gave her handkerchief another twist.

  “No. That’s not exactly true. I knew he’d be stuck there. And with that cold, I knew … I knew.”

  And she dissolved into tears.

  And oddly no one then seemed to know what to do, though Sarah did see McLelland quietly replace his pike, and stand next to Claire.

  His sister — another victim.

  And Sarah did what had to be done.

  Walked over, put her arm around Emily, the self-confessed murderer of her own husband.

  Who now needed to be held as she cried in the ancient hall.

  18. Tea at Huffington’s

  Sarah watched Jack look up at Sally, one of Huffington’s veteran servers, prim as ever in her starched grey and white uniform, white hair done perfectly, waitress cap perched on top.

  She lowered a pot of tea between them, cups and saucers already in place to do their duty.

  Jack smiled broadly.

  Huffington’s back in operation — kind of, she noted, from the few tables occupied and what seemed like a skeleton staff.

  But still — open, serving. And after what the village had been through, wasn’t that a wonderful thing?

  “So, Sally, you weather things all right?”

  “Oh, what a storm that was, Jack. So fierce! But me and my Henry holed up in our little place, fireplace roaring. Was all sort of exciting, you know? Still, glad we’re getting back to normal here: open — up and running.”

  Sarah watched as Jack kept his eyes focused on her.

  He had that way of giving you his full attention, and in that moment it was like you were the most important thing in Jack’s world.

  And the thing was — it was totally genuine.

  “Good to hear it, Sally.”

  At that the server, no young thing, smiled, nodded and then slipped away, leaving them to talk.

  And — after the events of last night — trains running, people leaving, the Bell emptying out. A crime solved.

  There was a lot to talk about.

  *

  “Jack, you think Lucy and McLelland will face charges too?”

  Jack looked away, the teacup dwarfed in his two hands.

  “Not too sure. I mean, could tell you what would likely happen in the US. But here …”

  “I guess they didn’t intend to commit a crime, certainly not a murder.”

  “That’s true. Any judge, court … would see that they left Townes drunk, but able to pop out of the stocks on his own. Really, for a lack of a better word, a prank.”


  Sarah nodded.

  She and Jack knew that Alan was out getting statements now — all of that in his hands. And thankful for what they had done.

  “Then there’s Emily,” she said. “No way out for her, I imagine?”

  Jack took a sip of his tea. As usual, with just a bit of sugar, no milk or cream.

  “’Fraid not. Though, again, in the States, the courts have been looking with more, er, empathy on those cases where an abused wife did something. This, well kinda falls into that category.”

  Sarah nodded. “It’s not like she planned it.”

  But Jack didn’t immediately agree.

  “No? She did get a call. She did decide to let her husband wander out there. Was there something a bit … murderous there?”

  Another long sip.

  “Not for me to decide.”

  “Tough one,” she said. “But I have another question. Different kind of question …”

  And it had been one that Sarah had been thinking about all afternoon.

  “This morning I found a bit online about Lucy’s mother. Her unemployment records after being sacked at Lane’s — no reason given. As a single mum I can relate. Guess she later told her daughter everything. About what Townes did.”

  “Talk about motive,” Jack said, “after what Townes did. She’s innocent, of murder at least.”

  “But Emily? And here’s my question …”

  She took a sip. (The tea was always so good here. Was it the setting, the company … just being in Huffington’s?)

  “If you knew her story, and what she did, before we began, would you have suggested that maybe … we let it go?”

  Jack’s eyes were locked right on her.

  A serious question and he was giving it serious thought.

  “You mean, like the case with that Punch and Judy operator?”

  Jack looked away. “That was different. That was about correcting the balance. The murdered man had escaped any kind of justice for his crimes.”

  “Townes’s murder, different?”

  A nod. “Not a nice guy. Did some bad, even reprehensible, things. But did he deserve to be killed? Did anything he did warrant that? No. So, my answer, Ms Edwards — and thanks for the probing question — is, knowing the outcome, I’d still pursue it. Sadly, perhaps. With understanding, definitely.”

  “Interesting. I wasn’t sure how I felt. Maybe — still not. But what you say, makes sense.”

  He smiled at that.

  “You know, just outside Foley Square and the big courthouse in Manhattan — a place I had to show up to many a time — there’s a statue of justice. Blindfold on. Holding those scales. Kind of makes sense to me.”

  For a moment, Sarah could picture a young Jack Brennan hurrying through New York — a windy, wintry city — racing up the steps to the courthouse.

  A lifetime ago.

  “I imagine,” she said, “that the court will take her experience into account.”

  “I’m sure. There will be a penalty. But I hope it will be a light one.”

  And at that, Sally came back, now holding a tray.

  *

  “Jack,” Sally said. “Fresh out of the oven — those biscuits you like. And Sarah — same for the scone here. Finally getting up to speed back there.”

  Sarah watched her put down the tray, the tiniest jet of steam escaping.

  Piping hot.

  Jack beamed.

  And — as for Sarah — after the cold days and the darkness, the comforting warm scone was more than welcome.

  “Enjoy,” Sally said, turning away.

  Sarah picked up the scone. So delicious. And with a dollop of butter, even better!

  Jack had already made a biscuit disappear.

  “Is that good or what?”

  “Oh,” she said, “I meant to ask. Did Riley weather his time with my dad okay?”

  “Seemed to. Though his tail was wagging mighty hard when he saw me. Guess he also was glad the storm was over, lights back on …”

  “Cherringham … back,” Sarah added.

  “You know,” Jack said, “think it would take more than a storm to make this village disappear.”

  At that, she saw him look around. Even after his years here, Jack — by Cherringham and Cotswold standards — was a relative newcomer.

  But, she thought, Jack’s as much part of this village as the church, the High Street, the shops, the pubs, the locals who have been here their whole lives.

  His village, as much as anybody’s.

  He grinned and raised his teacup. “Here’s to having some heat!”

  She laughed and clinked her cup to his. “And here’s to walking the streets again!”

  And finally, Jack raised a second biscuit. “Yes, and here’s to sitting here, eating these, and talking to my best friend.”

  And, with that — well — she had nothing to add.

  END

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

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