Cherringham--Death Trap Page 5

  Sarah took her tea, handed the other mug to Jack, who reached down, took a biscuit.

  She thought, Tony said he had no friends.

  No real friends.

  “I imagine you felt a little uncomfortable with that behaviour Emily?”

  “Well, yes, I did. But … no more than usual, I suppose.”

  “So, were you with him during the whole evening? Or did you move around, talk to people on your own?”

  Again, Sarah saw Emily glance at the publisher before she replied.

  “Um, I mingled really. You know?”

  “And at the end of the evening, did you and Edward leave together?”

  Again, another quick look to Humphrey before she answered.

  Looking for reassurance? thought Sarah. Or fixing a lie?

  “No, I had a bit of a headache, so I told him I was going home. Early.”

  “And he stayed?”

  “Yes. He said it was his party. And he still had people to talk to.” Then, almost under her breath, “or start fights with.”

  “You don’t know who? These other people …”

  “No.”

  Sarah saw Jack take this in, nodding. Lane stood there, quiet.

  Adding nothing.

  But even without his help, she and Jack were getting the shape of the evening clear.

  “And when you left, what time was that, do you think?”

  “Oh about nine, I suppose,” said Emily.

  “Snow must have been thick already.”

  “Oh it was. Very slippy too.”

  “But you made it home safe and sound?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you stay up for Edward?”

  “Well, no. I made a cup of hot chocolate and went to bed.”

  “To sleep?”

  Sarah saw a tear roll down Emily’s cheek. This was difficult. But she didn’t want to stop Jack, the questions had to be asked.

  “I didn’t mean to. I knew he wouldn’t be long. I didn’t lock up, you know. It’s not that I didn’t care about him. I must have just … drifted off. It’s how we lived. Him off somewhere … me dozing off.”

  “And you didn’t wake in the night?”

  “No.”

  “So, when did you know that something had happened to Edward?” said Jack.

  “In the morning. That nice policeman — he knocked on the door.”

  “Alan Rivers. He woke you, yes?”

  “I must have been very tired. It was all so … emotional, the night before, you know? The party.”

  “And when Alan told you what had happened — what did you do?”

  “I-I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t real. You know that feeling? But I got dressed. Went with him, up to the square, I wanted to know, to be sure. Be sure it was Edward. They had put him on a stretcher. Got him … out of that … thing, the stocks.”

  Emily stopped. A paper napkin being worried into a twisted knot between her fingers.

  Jack waited. Then: “What did you think when you saw him?”

  “For God’s sake man,” said Lane, stepping forward. “You can’t ask questions like that! Can’t you see how upset Emily is?”

  “It’s all right, Humphrey,” said Emily. “I can answer that.”

  Sarah waited as Emily Townes blew her nose on her little handkerchief. She seemed to gather strength. Then: “I’ll tell you what I thought. I thought how ironic that Edward should die like that. With his head in the stocks.”

  “Ironic?” said Sarah.

  “Yes — don’t you see? That book series — those medieval stories — they’d trapped Edward all his writing life. The money they made — he couldn’t bear to give it up. He always wanted to write other things. But The Outlaw Knight wouldn’t let him go. Those books — they were his stocks. His medieval punishment.”

  Sarah saw Jack turn to Humphrey Lane. She expected him to ask the publisher some questions.

  And Lane — probably expecting that as well.

  Which was when Jack surprised them.

  He turned to Sarah, then back to Emily Townes.

  “Thank you for telling us all this. Very helpful. And yes, as you say, so very sad. We’ll talk to other people of course. But for now …”

  He stood up.

  “All I want to know is what happened to him,” said Emily, looking up at them both. “You will find out — won’t you?”

  “We’ll do our best,” said Jack.

  Then Sarah saw him turn slightly towards Lane.

  And Sarah thought she sensed Lane stiffen, still waiting for questions.

  But they were not to come.

  With a nod, Jack indicated that they should leave.

  With Sarah thinking: That was just a “move” that Jack just did.

  And she couldn’t wait to hear what was behind it.

  8. Mayhem at the Bell

  Jack turned to Sarah, who was trudging her way through the snowdrifts. He realised that with his longer legs, this march in the snow was easier for him, so he took care to keep his pace manageable.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  “Slow and steady,” she said.

  And with another step, Jack pointed at the sky ahead, to the north.

  The light dusting that had begun falling earlier had stopped. But those skies to the north promised more to come.

  “Ominous, hmm?”

  “Unfortunately, looks like the prediction of more heavy snow may be right. And speaking of ominous …”

  “Yes?”

  “I did note that you had no questions for Humphrey Lane.”

  “You did, hmm?” Jack laughed. “That was intentional.”

  “Thought so. Want to tell me why?”

  He looked ahead. He could see the Bell Hotel. Warm lights in the windows.

  But out here, on the deserted impassable street, this might be the only time to strategise with Sarah.

  “Sure. First of all, did you expect to see him there, at the widow’s home?”

  “No, but, him being Townes’s publisher, I suppose it might make sense.”

  “Lot of qualifiers there.”

  Sarah laughed. “Okay, yes — so could be suspicious.”

  “Could be. But that’s not the reason I felt we should hold fire with Lane …”

  “Because of the way he welcomed us?”

  “There you go! He didn’t seem at all happy to see us. And when we questioned Townes’s wife …”

  “He said nothing … added nothing. So, are you thinking … something to hide?”

  “Maybe. You feel that too?”

  “I did. After the hostility, he really said nada. Think he was waiting for us to ask him questions … Bracing for them.”

  “Precisely.”

  The door of the Bell just ahead, Jack stopped.

  “Okay. So, put together the fact he was there, how he reacted to us, his silence … I figured let’s make him wait. Nothing like a bit of anxiety to make things happen, hmm?”

  “Oh, I’ve learned that from you to be sure. One more thing though …”

  “Yeah?”

  “The grieving widow. Something not quite right there.”

  “Agree. You think she and Lane …?”

  Sarah’s instinct always good on such matters.

  “Hmm — I don’t think so. Could be just … guilt at not grieving quite as much as she thinks she ought to?”

  “Possible. Once we get inside, and we start asking questions, we’ll know more, right? And when we come back to Lane, we might be able to spring a surprise or two on him.”

  “Good point. And I do like surprises.”

  Jack glanced at the door. “All set, then? Think this will be a working lunch. Probably a madhouse in there.”

  “A lot of witnesses, all in one place … yes, this could be interesting.”

  He reached out, grabbed the curved brass door handle, and, with a sturdy click, opened the door, and they walked in, accompanied by an eager gust of icy cold air.

/>   *

  Just feet into the hotel, at the edge of the lounge area, with the tall wooden registration desk to the left, Sarah stopped.

  The scene: absolutely amazing.

  Every seat in the lounge was taken, mostly by people slumped over, sleeping. A few people were even squatting on the floor by the fireplace.

  “Wow,” she said. “I guess all of these people spent the night here?”

  “Good of the management to let them camp out.” He turned to her. “Who shall we try to find first?”

  “I’m thinking his agent, Jane Ellingham? She would have been keeping an eye on her client, I imagine?”

  “And might have other names for us,” Jack said. A quick look at the registration desk where a young man stood. “Want to do the honours?”

  Sarah nodded and walked over to the desk. The young man didn’t even look up.

  Probably has been swamped with endless questions and requests — and up all night too.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Finally, the clerk, not much older than Daniel she guessed, looked up. He barely managed a limp smile.

  Even in times of crisis, old practices die hard.

  Greet the guest!

  “I’m wondering if you could help us?”

  He cleared his throat. He had a shiny metal bar pinned on his shirt pocket that said Patrick. The bar was at an appropriately askew forty-five-degree angle.

  “Um, yes, what can I—?”

  But before Sarah could reply, a loud voice from behind her interrupted:

  “Anything yet? Jeez! Been over an hour!”

  Sarah turned, to see a man in his thirties approaching. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Unshaven. Smudges of stage make-up on his neck.

  He brushed past Sarah and Jack as if they weren’t there.

  “I am sorry, Mr McLelland,” said Patrick. “As I told you previously … there are no trains yet, and the taxi company says the roads are just—”

  “Bloody hell! This is ridiculous. I have to get to London. You understand the words? Have to?”

  “Imagine everyone … well, we’ll do our best, sir.”

  “In which case, that’s pretty pathetic!”

  Sarah looked at Jack who shrugged back. Waiting. Then she watched the man storm off back into the lounge, muttering darkly.

  “Tempers getting frayed, hmm?” said Jack, smiling.

  With a weary smile back, the clerk seemed to appreciate the words.

  “You could say that, sir. How can I help?”

  “We’re looking for someone who we think is a guest here. Probably checked in yesterday. A Ms Jane Ellingham?”

  “A lot of people here.” Patrick’s smile faded. “And a lot of them not guests. But we’re doing our best.”

  Sarah nodded, smiled at him. The staff stretched to the limit of their resources — and patience.

  “I’m sure she would have had a room booked. Can you check?”

  Patrick turned to his computer screen.

  Sarah wondered, if the power were to go out, did this place have a generator? If not, no lights, no internet. Maybe no heating even. And an already chaotic scene made far worse.

  “Um, ‘Ellingham’ you say. Let me … here. Yup, she’s staying here. Oh yeah, I remember her. Older woman. Asked a lot of questions.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. Sarah guessed Patrick had had it with guests’ requests.

  He looked back to Sarah.

  She saw that, meanwhile, Jack was looking over the sea of people in the lounge.

  One key thing she knew about him: he could read people. Any one of these unexpected guests, more like squatters, might know something.

  “Can we go up to her room? We really do need to speak with her.”

  Patrick seemed confused by the question. Enough sleep deprivation and ordinary topics of discussion become impossible.

  “Oh, yeah. Um. But she’s not there. Try the bar. Lot of people in there talking, getting some lunch. Though, I’m thinking, that’s probably all gone!” Then with a hint of disapproval or maybe worry, “Some of them drinking. Yeah, saw her head in there. After she asked about food.”

  Another eye roll.

  Sarah smiled at the desk clerk. Kid probably couldn’t even get back to his own home. Trapped here.

  “Thanks. We’ll just go on through. And Patrick …?”

  The young man’s eyes widened at another question about to come.

  “You really need to get some rest. Lie down somewhere. These people may be here for a while.”

  Patrick nodded, blinked — and if a face could represent the word “groan” it was his.

  Sarah turned to Jack. “She’s in the bar.”

  She led the way — down a narrow corridor lined with photos of Cherringham from the past century — to the equally packed hotel bar.

  *

  “Think that’s her?”

  The bar — with its scattering of heavy wood tables — was indeed packed; every chair taken.

  At the bar, on a stool, was the man who’d interrupted them at reception — a shot glass in front of him.

  Apparently this was the area for noise and chatter, with the lounge reserved for those who desperately wanted some sleep.

  Sarah saw where Jack was looking: a table at the far end, near an exit door that led to the rear car park — which she imagined would also be jammed.

  A woman in her sixties, looking at her phone. Older than anyone else in the place. A cup and saucer in front of her, and an empty plate. No other chairs at the table — again, every seat claimed.

  Sarah headed over, navigating the sea of tables, chairs and people, until she and Jack stood by the table.

  The woman’s eyes were locked on her phone’s screen.

  That’s another thing, Sarah thought. Power goes out, phones soon start dying.

  For this lot — the closest they’d ever get to the Dark Ages.

  The woman slowly looked up. “Can I help you?”

  And this time, with a smile as if this was simply a friendly chat, Jack answered: “Jane Ellingham, yes? I hope so.”

  He looked around the room.

  “I wonder if there is somewhere we could talk? It’s about your client, Edward Townes.”

  The woman took a breath, looked away for a moment, then back, none too happily.

  “Yes. My room. Not much more than a cupboard — but at least we’ll be able to hear each other.”

  And with that, the agent stood up.

  *

  Jack looked around the woman’s room. Not quite a closet, but the woman hadn’t been exaggerating by much.

  Least she has a real bed to sleep in, Jack thought.

  The woman gestured at the bed, not really made, the covers simply thrown back.

  The housekeeping staff definitely hadn’t made it to the hotel.

  No rooms getting made up today.

  The woman sat down in a chair.

  “You two with the police? I’m afraid I told them everything I know.”

  Jack nodded. Sometimes, he found the hardest thing to do was to reassure someone that their help, their memories, might be important.

  Which, if they didn’t have anything to hide, he could usually do.

  Even here — even with his New York accent — innocent people eventually learned to trust him.

  “A friend of your client’s, his lawyer, asked us if we could learn anything more. About last night.” Jack took a breath. “He’s — naturally — very upset.”

  The woman sat still. One thing she seemed to have in common with Lane: not offering anything unsolicited.

  Jack leaned forward, arms on his legs, the three of them all sitting uncomfortably close in the cramped room. Jack kept his voice low, reassuring.

  “Can you tell us what you saw last night? Townes? At the party. Who he spoke with and—”

  “You mean argued with. It was, as they say, one of his classic performances. And party? Definitely a misnomer.”

  Sarah had pulled out
her pad.

  Jack opted to stay leaning close, taking no notes, the woman about to speak.

  He knew Sarah could catch the details. While Jack hoped this woman, just feet away, might reveal something about how Townes ended up in the snow, locked into the stocks.

  And perhaps … murdered there.

  9. Surprising Information

  Sarah jotted down everything Jane Ellingham said. The names, the arguments the rough timings — all perfectly mirroring everything Townes’s wife had shared.

  But then came the point in the timeline where the wife had left.

  And where this agent might fill them in on what led to Townes leaving.

  She saw Jack hesitate.

  As always, taking his time.

  “And, after she left, you stayed at the party until Townes walked out?”

  And now the agent hesitated, looked away.

  So hard, Sarah thought, for people to hide the fact that they are struggling to not say something.

  Sarah kept quiet. Knowing that patience would be their best ally.

  “Yes. I mean, I didn’t actually leave, but I saw that when Edward left he wasn’t alone.”

  Jack nodded.

  Bingo, Sarah thought.

  “He had been having words with Humphrey Lane. His publisher — you know?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Hmm. Anyway, they clearly decided to,” small smile here from the woman, “take it outside. Edward could be quite loud. When in his cups.”

  Another look away. She was not comfortable sharing this.

  Sarah put down her pen, made eye contact with Ellingham.

  “And you remained inside … or …”

  That “or” … an important bit of fishing.

  Ellingham hesitated — then: “No. I mean, my client, my problem, hmm? So, I grabbed my coat, and went out as well.”

  Jack: “And they were having a chat?”

  “You could call it that. Apparently, in the minutes they had been out there alone, Lane had told Edward that the latest book, The Squire’s Secret, would be the last in The Outlaw Knight series. Poor sales having done their part to end the run.”

  “This … surprise you?”

  “Not really. We’d had some chats about that, Lane and I. I think the latest book deal … well, that was part sentiment, part respect after so many years. But the series was, well, so dated. Edward of course had little interest in any changes, writing them the same way he did thirty years ago!”