Cherringham--Death Trap Page 7

  “Well, thank you for talking. It’s been,” another Jack Brennan pause, “helpful.”

  Jack turned away, opened the door.

  And as Sarah walked through, she had the thought: Something in that room, something going on.

  Like Lane, like Ellingham, things not said.

  But what?

  For now, she walked down the dim hallway, Jack just at her elbow.

  *

  Jack waited until they were nearly at the stairs leading down to the lobby of the Bell.

  Again, keeping his voice low.

  “You buy that? What she said?”

  “Not at all,” said Sarah shaking her head.

  Then she told Jack about the card she’d seen.

  “Wow. Good spot,” he said. “You think maybe Ellingham tried to poach the hot young writer last night?”

  “And Kate found the card. Hence the big row — wine glass and all.”

  Jack laughed. “So, Ellingham bumps off one client in the snow — signs up another back at the party? Quite the malevolent agent!”

  Sarah grinned at that.

  “Doesn’t really play, does it?” she said.

  “I do hear agents can be ruthless — but, yeah, that’s pushing it.”

  He started down the stairs, Sarah at his side. Then she paused.

  “One thing. You see Kate Shaw? She literally turned away when you asked that question about being alone.”

  Jack paused too.

  “You thinking maybe she knows something to the contrary?”

  “Could be.”

  “But do writers and agents have something like attorney-client privilege? Because if that’s the case …”

  “Another thing,” said Sarah. “She never once asked why we were asking questions.”

  “Hmm, you’re absolutely right.”

  “Almost as if she expected Townes’s death to be treated as suspicious.”

  “Yep,” said Jack. “Though, might be she couldn’t care less.”

  Sarah laughed: “Hardly his biggest fan, was she?”

  Then, a rattling.

  A gust of wind so strong, it made the tall windows in the stairwell shake. And even the timbers above them produced a windborne groan.

  More snow predicted.

  But also winds: strong — even dangerous — winds.

  And with another gust, on the already dim landing — Jack standing close to Sarah as they quickly compared thoughts — the hotel lights flickered once.

  Twice.

  And then went out.

  And from the floors down below, Sarah heard a loud collective groan from the crowd of trapped guests.

  *

  As Jack and Sarah passed through the foyer, Jack saw a new face on reception — a young woman he recognised from the last time he’d been in, a few weeks back.

  “Hey Kate,” he said. “Giving Patrick a break?”

  “Hello Mr Brennan! Oh, yes — poor thing’s in the back office getting some sleep. Do you need him?”

  “No — that’s good. Just, um, we’re looking for a guest — a Mr Humphrey Lane? He in his room, you know?”

  “I do think he’s in the bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jack turned to go — then the lights flickered back on.

  “Power back,” said Sarah.

  “Sorry, no,” said Kate. “Just our emergency backup. Should last a few hours — until the fuel runs out!”

  “Guess we’d better be quick then, Jack, hmm?”

  And Jack followed her into the bar.

  *

  The place seemed even more crowded — and more noisy — than last time.

  Sarah spotted Lane at a table in the corner — in front of him, a small queue of people.

  On the table, she could see a cash box and an accounts book.

  “Looks like he’s paying the cast from last night,” said Jack.

  “Be easier just to cut out the middle man and hand it to the barman,” said Sarah, watching one woman take her cash and head straight to the bar.

  Next in line, she saw the man who’d interrupted them earlier — McLelland, she remembered.

  She made a mental note to talk to him later, as she watched him take his money from Lane without a word and push past them on his way to reception.

  Seems perturbed about something, she thought.

  No one likes this blizzard, still …

  They joined the back of the queue and edged slowly forward. After a couple of minutes — they stood in front of Lane.

  “Mr Lane,” said Sarah.

  She saw Lane look up.

  “Oh. You two.” He took a breath. “Again.”

  “Mind if we have another chat? A few things have popped up.”

  “Do I get a choice?”

  “Oh yes,” said Sarah. “Here — or somewhere quieter.”

  “Very funny,” said Lane. He looked around the crowded bar.

  “Look,” he said. “I have to go down to the Hall — help clear up. Why don’t we meet there?”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Ten minutes?”

  “Fine,” said Lane, and Sarah saw him go back to his paperwork.

  She and Jack headed back into the lounge.

  “No need for both of us to get cold,” said Jack. “Why don’t you hang here, see if you can get a few more statements? Never know what will pop up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hey, this? Just an average snow day back home.”

  “Okay. I’ll sort you a coffee when you’re back.”

  “Deal.”

  Sarah watched him head over to the main door, then zip up his parka and pull the hood tight.

  “One hour — then send the search parties.”

  Sarah laughed.

  Just a joke, of course. Still, watching the hotel door slam shut, she had to think: What would life be without Jack?

  A breath, and then she turned and took in the crowded lounge.

  Where to start?

  12. Find the Lady

  Jack pushed open the heavy wood and metal door of the medieval hall and stepped inside.

  So this was where the party had taken place.

  He looked around — the room dark and cold with no power.

  At the far end, a couple of guys on a scaffold tower were removing a “medieval” tapestry. Two more men stacked boxes by a rear door that presumably led to a kitchen and back entrance. Off to the side, a young woman slid plates, cups and saucers into plastic trays. A couple of other workers were noisily tossing empty bottles and trash into a couple of dumpsters.

  He guessed — with the storm last night — nobody had wanted to hang around clearing up. Looked like just a few people had come back over from the hotel this morning to help finish off.

  All of them looking weary.

  To one side, Jack saw costumes hanging on movable rails. Next to them, suits of armour stood on wooden plinths. Propped up against them — a pair of heavy metal shields, painted with dragons and crests.

  Behind them, lined up against the wall, Jack could see a line of lethal-looking swords.

  Very real. Maybe even valuable?

  Not much security around here, he thought. Anybody could walk in and steal these.

  But then again, on a day like this, nobody was leaving Cherringham fast.

  He walked over to the swords.

  Picked one up, and, yes, it felt real, the blade sharp to his touch, and no protection on the point. He leaned it carefully back against the wall.

  Below the swords, lying on the ground, Jack saw two long pikes.

  Again — the temptation too strong — he picked up one. Ten, maybe twelve feet long. Heavy — but perfectly balanced as he held it horizontally. The wood smooth, old — with a lethal-looking steel spearhead at the end.

  A genuine weapon of war.

  He wondered: How many people have felt the bite of its metal hook?

  “I do hope you don’t intend to use that in our interview, Mr Brennan,” came the voic
e of Humphrey Lane from behind him.

  Jack turned.

  Lane, in a black woollen overcoat — more suited to a funeral than a blizzard — stood shaking snow from his fur hat.

  Jack smiled.

  “Kinda depends if I get the answers I’m looking for.”

  “Oh — I shall exercise due caution then.”

  “Just stick to the truth,” said Jack. “Most people I interview find that in the end that works just fine.”

  “Then I shall endeavour to do just that,” said Lane, gesturing to a small office on one side of the costumes. Banter over. “Shall we?”

  Jack followed him in. A desk, two chairs. Stacks of publicity material and big posters for Townes’s book filled one corner.

  “I hope this won’t take long,” said Lane, sitting behind the desk. “Bloody cold in this old stone barn with no heating.”

  Jack nodded, then sat down and took out his notepad.

  “Those things out there — swords, pikes — authentic?”

  “Oh yes. Edward insisted. Not that he thanked me, of course. Turns out my assistant ordered the wrong bloody year. Wrong bloody century actually.”

  “Difficult client, I hear?”

  Lane laughed. “Oh yes. Dear old Edward. Difficult? One of the best.”

  “I gather he’d stopped making you money in recent years?”

  “Rather a crude way of putting it. I prefer to think of it as his readership having moved on.”

  “To Lucy Brice?”

  “Among others.”

  “You talk to Jane Ellingham last night about her?”

  “Gosh. You have been doing your research. Bravo.”

  “Was this before or after Mr Townes knocked you to the ground?”

  “Oh. You heard. Does it matter?”

  “I’m interested to see if you were of a mind for revenge.”

  “Really? You can’t possibly think I somehow killed Edward?”

  “Who said he was killed?”

  “My dear chap … half the editors in London are tweeting about who murdered ‘wandering-hands-Townes’.”

  “That his reputation hmm?”

  “Sadly, yes. The other half are tweeting about what the reward should be for the killer.”

  “Any of those suspects here last night?”

  “A few. But come on, Mr Brennan, really, it’s all very tongue-in-cheek.”

  “Okay — back to you, then. After Townes left — maybe you went after him? Payback time for that punch?”

  Lane straightened up in his chair, his bantering face vanished.

  “I didn’t leave here until nigh on two in the morning, Mr Brennan. And there are plenty of witnesses who will swear to that.”

  “Witnesses can be unreliable.”

  “True enough. I’ve published enough crime novels to know that. But that same experience tells me — cui bono? Hmm? Who benefits? Who has the motive? Isn’t that what drives matters such as this? If it is, as they say, ‘foul play’? And what pray might my motive be?”

  Jack shrugged. “Murdered authors sell more books, I believe?”

  “And publicity campaigns are a more expensive, but less hazardous, route to the bestseller lists, I believe.”

  Jack nodded. Made a note in his book.

  “Okay, is there anyone you do think had a motive?

  “Oh, well, that’s an impossible call. We’re talking a very long longlist.”

  “I hear Townes had some other ‘disagreements’ at the party last night.”

  “Oh, that’s true enough,” said Lane. “But a row is hardly a motive for murder.”

  “So, nothing that happened last night struck you as odd? Nothing unusual?”

  “No, not as far as I—”

  Lane paused, as if only now reflecting properly on what he’d seen.

  “What is it, Mr Lane?”

  “Oh, um, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Please — go on. Tell me …”

  “Okay. Well … early in the evening — just after Edward and Emily arrived — I saw Edward outside having a bit of a tête-à-tête with one of the women we’d hired on tables.”

  “Women? You mean staff from the hotel?”

  “No, not at all. For the servers, we used an agency. Actors mainly. But also people who work at these themed dinners. Know how to wander round handing out jugs of ale, mead. Looking medieval. That’s the deal.”

  “And this woman — she came from the agency?”

  “She did, yes. Last-minute addition. But also — funny thing, coincidence really — I gather she actually lives in Cherringham.”

  Coincidence … thought Jack. A rare thing, a true coincidence.

  “You think Edward knew her?”

  “Certainly looked that way. In fact, at first, I do believe he wasn’t terribly happy to see her.”

  “And this was when Mrs Townes was around, hmm?”

  “Um, well, yes. It was early on.”

  “She saw this conversation, you think?”

  “Possibly,” said Lane, with a slight hesitation.

  Jack paused — made a note. Lane was waffling. Maybe not telling the truth.

  Had he talked to Emily Townes about this?

  “Did you see Townes with the woman again?”

  Lane squirmed in his chair.

  Definitely not enjoying this chat.

  “Um, well, yes actually. A few hours later — when the party was in full swing. Emily had gone by this time.”

  “And what were they doing?”

  “Um. Well, to be honest, he was all over her.”

  “Define all over?”

  “Oh, come on … you know. Arm around her. Kind of leaning in drunkenly … smooching at the ready!”

  “Really? And how did she react? Did it look like the feeling was mutual?”

  “Ah well, there you have it. No. She didn’t seem at all happy.”

  “Pushing him off, hmm?”

  “Trying to. I went over to help — but actually one of the actors beat me to it.”

  “That was lucky, wasn’t it?” said Jack straight-faced.

  “Um, yes.”

  “You remember which one?”

  “Some medieval chap. I don’t know. They all look alike to me. The one with the silly stick perhaps? Yes, that was him. The jester.”

  Jack made another note.

  “What happened then?”

  “Edward finally backed off — and the woman shoved him out of the way and ran off into the kitchen.”

  “And the actor?”

  “He and Edward, um, had a few words. Then the thing just … fizzled out.”

  Jack gave Lane a hard stare.

  “After you saw that happen — did you say anything to Townes?”

  “Um, well, you see, I didn’t want to cause a fuss. After all — his party, you know? I might have got it all wrong.”

  “Sure. An older guy giving a young woman a hard time at a party. Easy to misinterpret that, hmm? Last thing you want is to cause a scene, Mr Lane. Not in front of all your friends from London.”

  Jack waited while this sank in.

  “Yes, I see,” said Lane. “Right. I was a little remiss, wasn’t I?”

  Jack stared, his feelings clear.

  “This ‘woman’ as you call her. She got a name?”

  “Um, yes, of course. Though I don’t quite recall. Anyway — she’ll be out there in the kitchen I expect. They were all hired for today’s clear up. Let me check …”

  Jack waited while Lane took out his account book and flicked through the pages.

  “Um, yes, here she is. Um … Claire. Claire Owen. Yes. Sweet girl. Booked until 5pm today.”

  Jack jotted the name down in his notebook, then closed it, slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “We finished?” said Lane.

  “Nearly,” said Jack. “I wonder — did you tell anybody at the party about Mr Townes throwing a punch at you?”

  “Hardly a story I’m going to dine out on, is it
?”

  “But did you?”

  Lane paused. Then: “I may have mentioned it to Lucy Brice. My suit was rather a mess. She asked about it.”

  “And you said Edward had gone?”

  “I might have done. Wait a minute! You surely can’t think that slip of a thing could overpower Edward — put him in the stocks?”

  “Just crossing ‘t’s, Mr Lane,” said Jack, getting up. Then: “I assume you’re not going anywhere today.”

  “Some hope,” said Lane. “I suspect it’s another night at the Bell for me.”

  “Good. We’ll talk later, back at the hotel.”

  Jack got up and headed for the door. Then he turned.

  “One last question.”

  “Hmm?”

  “How long have you known Mrs Townes?”

  “Emily? Gosh. We’ve been friends for years. Since I first published Edward.”

  “Good friends?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Jack waited, not asking the next question. The obvious question.

  He could see Humphrey Lane’s face flush slightly.

  “Um — is that all?” said Lane. “I really must finish these accounts.”

  “Sure,” said Jack.

  And he went to look for Claire Owen.

  Thinking: If there’s one person guaranteed to benefit from the death of Edward Townes, it’s Humphrey Lane.

  13. Femmes Fatales

  Sarah stood at the French windows in the lounge of the Bell Hotel, trying to get a signal on her phone.

  Nothing …

  Not just the power lines down — now even the cell network had gone.

  Outside she could see snow falling heavily again. And even though it was only four in the afternoon, the sky now so leaden it looked like dusk.

  She turned and scanned the room.

  People huddled together under blankets on the sofas, or curled up on the floor. The few staff still in the hotel had been working hard to hand out teas, coffees, sandwiches.

  But most of the stranded guests had got past the excited “all in it together” stage and were now ignoring food and drink, and just trying to sleep through until they could be rescued.

  She’d talked to everyone who’d been at the party. But although most had witnessed Townes having an argument at some stage of the evening, nobody remembered seeing him leave.

  And apart from a few unlikely theories, nobody had anything valuable to add to the investigation. She checked one last time. Was there anyone she hadn’t talked to?