Cherringham--Death Trap Page 9

  And at that Jack turned.

  “Just remember …”

  “Yeah?”

  “We may still come up with nada.”

  “I know. But at least we’ll have some fun doing so.”

  And with that they turned and began to retrace their steps through the deep snow, back to the Bell.

  15. One Last Question

  Sarah turned to Jack, the door to the Bell Hotel feet away.

  “Gambling a lot on this, aren’t we?”

  Jack smiled. “You might say that. But then, not sure we have a choice.”

  “Meet you at the hall. Wait for people there?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think so. Church will be open, right?”

  “Oh, I think so. Reverend Hewitt probably making sure it’s there … for a haven, food, solace.”

  “I imagine he has a lot of candles as well.”

  “That’s for sure!”

  “So — meet you in that little side chapel. I’ll have Patrick tell people … to go to Astley Hall in an hour, near 7pm.”

  “That long?”

  “Gives them time to debate not coming, and have second, third thoughts.”

  “More tension?”

  “Precisely. And if someone doesn’t show up—”

  “That will tell us something too.”

  She looked at the door.

  “Hope I can find the agent in there.”

  “Me too. She just might have a missing piece of the puzzle.”

  Sarah took a breath, the wind having died down, no snow flying. Above — stars starting to glisten and twinkle in the icy winter sky.

  “You first,” Jack said. “Then I slip in, talk to Patrick, then quickly up to the hall.”

  With a nod, Sarah grabbed the doorknob, and with a hearty yank, pulled the heavy wooden door open.

  *

  And inside, the mood — definitely different.

  Even with the emergency backup powering some of the hotel’s lights, with the reception area and one small area of the lounge lit — for the people there, sprawled as before, the mood had turned quiet.

  What had once seemed like an “adventure” was now getting tiresome, even grim.

  Sarah wasted no time hurrying to the stairs.

  The way up: dark. The nearest light: a lone bulb in the ceiling above. She grabbed the wooden bannister to steady her climb up the dim stairs.

  At the top, she turned.

  Darker still.

  And despite there being no apparent danger, just walking down this hallway, she had to remember what Jack had said.

  If someone had killed … they could kill again.

  That desperation capable of making people do terrible things.

  She could barely make out the doors to the rooms on this upper floor.

  But she could see brass doorknobs picking up the scant light. She took steady breaths as she got to Lucy Brice and Kate Shaw’s room.

  Then — with a sound that seemed so loud in the hushed hallway — she knocked.

  Hoping that the writer would still be in the pub.

  And the agent would be here, alone.

  *

  Patrick the receptionist nodded, eager about what Jack had asked him.

  His task: to find all the people, give them a simple instruction. Patrick was able to say, truthfully: Sorry, that’s all I know. He just said … meet in an hour … seven o’clock.

  Patrick seemed actually excited at the task.

  Which left one more thing to do.

  And Jack had made his way to Astley Hall, the trek easier now the snow had stopped.

  Also, there was enough ambient light now that people would be able to find their way, the snow itself reflecting the brilliant pinpricks of the starlight above.

  Once inside the hall, lit by the tall tapers and heavy metal candle holders on the tables, Jack could see the clean-up, just about done.

  He spotted Claire.

  And when she turned and saw him, he noted the look on her face.

  Shocked — maybe scared — but, as if she had expected him.

  Jack walked over slowly.

  And trying to diffuse that fear in her eyes, he said his words gently, as if they might calm her:

  “Claire — I have everyone coming here in a bit.”

  She nodded at first, as if understanding, then a look of confusion, a question: “Everyone. Wh–what?”

  “Everyone who was involved with Townes last night. Everyone who didn’t tell us the truth.”

  Then he thought: Not to make too fine a point of it … “You too. Need you here as well.”

  She nodded.

  And Jack had to remind himself that even gentle people, frightened people, if pushed …

  Could kill.

  “When they come, tell them that Sarah and I will be here as well—”

  “You’re not going to wait for them?”

  Jack knew he wanted the group already together for those precious moments where they would look at each other, suspicious, intimidated, paranoid — key elements in the stew.

  Jack looked at his watch. A Seiko diver’s watch the department gave him on his last day.

  A beauty. The only watch I’ll ever need, Jack thought.

  “Little after seven, I’ll be back. With my partner. No one will have long to wait.”

  A nod from Claire, as if not at all understanding what this was about.

  Jack looked around the hall. No emergency power here, and the multitude of candles making it look truly medieval.

  A time of plots. Of schemes. Of rulers deposed.

  A time of knights too.

  This setting — for what was about to happen — couldn’t be more perfect.

  He turned and went to the hall’s great doors. St James’s Church a short but snowy hike away.

  *

  The hotel room door opened, and there was Kate, backlit by a lone candle.

  “Lucy, why’d—”

  She caught herself, taking in that it was Sarah standing there.

  “Wh–what are you doing here?”

  Sarah stood at the threshold. As if protecting herself from something unwanted, Kate held the open door with her hand, arm barring entry.

  Sarah guessed she was alone.

  “Kate — I had a question. Couldn’t ask it before. Not when your client was here.”

  Kate looked left and right.

  “Lucy will be right back, she just—”

  “I know. I saw her at the Angel. With Tim McLelland.”

  The girl’s face suggested she didn’t know who Tim McLelland was.

  “But when I was here before, my partner Jack and I sensed that you knew what Lucy was telling us … was not exactly true.”

  The agent looked away.

  “And you have an opportunity, right now, to fix that. You see, we’re getting everyone together, to find out what really happened.”

  Sarah took a breath. “What you know, might really help. But we don’t have much time.”

  It was hard for Sarah to see if her words were having any effect.

  Still Kate’s arm didn’t unbar the door.

  But then … a nod.

  “My dad, you know, used to be in the police. In a village even smaller than this.” A bit of a smile, visible in the gloom. “Always was one for the truth.”

  Sarah nodded. Thinking: C’mon Kate. Tell me what you know.

  The young woman took a deep breath. “When Lucy went out last night, she was gone for a while.”

  “How long?”

  A nod. “Thirty minutes at least. More than for just a smoke, I was even getting worried.”

  This is important, Sarah thought.

  “Anything else?”

  Kate looked away. Despite maybe wanting to tell the truth, this still wasn’t easy for her.

  “When she went out, someone followed right afterwards. Like he wasn’t just going out for a smoke.”

  “Someone you know?”

  Kate
shook her head: “One of the actors. It sounds stupid, I know — but he was dressed like a jester.”

  McLelland.

  “I know the man you mean …” said Sarah. “Does Lucy know him?”

  “I don’t know. Is it important?”

  “I think … it might be.”

  “She wouldn’t do anything, you know? Lucy is tough, but she’d never—”

  We never know what people are capable of, Sarah thought.

  That was one thing all these years working with Jack had taught her.

  Sarah waited, about to turn and hurry off to meet him in the church.

  Which is when Kate’s arm released the door edge, and went to Sarah’s arm.

  “That’s not all. I mean — it may be nothing. Probably is.”

  Sarah held her breath.

  How many times had she heard those fateful words?

  “There’s one more thing, well, that almost no one knows … about Lucy. Lucy Brice.”

  And Sarah stood there and listened.

  16. Candles and Crime

  Sarah walked into the stone church — so much the real heart of Cherringham — and was immediately hit with a feeling that she had stepped back in time.

  Looking down the row of worn pews to the main altar, tall candles lit the way, providing a warm, flickering glow that made the memorials and plaques on either side seem as if they were alive.

  The candles, though, did little to dispel the chill in here.

  The church was open for anyone needing shelter, but it was probably colder here than most people’s homes as they waited for the power to return.

  Certainly, it would be chillier than the Bell, blessed with a generator, for as long as fuel held out.

  She took a few steps, the echo adding to the sombre feeling.

  Then, voices, as she turned left to a small side chapel area. She couldn’t remember the area ever being used, with its row of three or four pews and a miniature version of the altar, fronted though by one of the more dramatic paintings in the church, the Resurrected Christ, hand raised in blessing.

  The voices, coming from over there, and with the candles providing enough light on the massive stones at her feet, she walked over.

  *

  Jack sat in a front pew, hands folded. Reverend Hewitt — standing to the side.

  “Sarah, good to see you,” the young vicar said.

  Sarah looked at Jack as he turned. She wondered: Had he told him why they wanted to meet here? To plan?

  She turned back to the minister, in collar and grey suit. “Good of you to keep the church open, Vicar,” she said.

  Hewitt smiled. “Haven’t had any takers yet. I imagine the Bell is offering more warmth, of all kinds. Still—”

  He looked around at the interior with the dancing candlelight making the colours and glows shift on the stone and wood.

  “It’s always good to have the doors open. Not the first time this church has been opened to shelter people.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “I know — you have things to discuss — so, I’ll leave you.”

  He started to turn, and then, he stopped, added: “And you two … stay safe?”

  She smiled at that as the vicar walked away from the small chapel area, and down the centre aisle to the sacristy, that led to the rectory, his home … with his wife and children.

  And then Sarah sat down next to Jack.

  *

  “Been trying a little prayer while you’re here?” Sarah said.

  Turning to her, Jack’s face caught the warm yellow light.

  “Not really. Place like this, always good for thinking. And not that I am opposed to a prayer now and then. Can’t hurt.”

  “That it can’t. And you got our young man Patrick in motion?”

  Jack looked at his watch, the dial luminous in this low light.

  “Yup. Told him exactly what to say. I kinda know what words can push people’s buttons in a situation like this.”

  She laughed at that, a quiet laugh but it echoed in empty church. “That you do.”

  Jack turned to look at the painting in front of them, just behind the altar.

  “Claire’s all set as well. Seems a bit — dunno — fragile? But she’ll be there. The others due to come at seven as planned. You chat with Kate?”

  Sarah nodded. She was still processing what the agent had revealed.

  It was, she thought, beyond important.

  Vital.

  “I did. And Jack, she not only told me that Lucy and McLelland were gone for a good long while, probably together. She told me something else. Totally unexpected.”

  Jack sat back.

  Patiently waiting.

  “I do like the unexpected.”

  “Then,” Sarah said, “as we have a few minutes, I think you’re just going to love this piece of information …”

  *

  They stopped at the door to Astley Hall.

  “Like opening a present, isn’t it?” said Sarah. “Seeing who’s inside, what they’ll say, what will happen?”

  Jack nodded.

  All this, he thought, dramatic, but not without its playful moments.

  But he didn’t forget … a killer, if exposed, could be capable of anything.

  He and Sarah had some rough ideas of what may have happened now.

  But they were still short of hard evidence. And this bit of theatre that they were about to stage might determine it all.

  “Showtime,” Jack said.

  He saw Sarah nod.

  And then he reached for the door, and they entered the medieval hall to see who awaited them.

  *

  Jack stopped just at the edge of the open area of the hall. To one side: stacks of boxes, crates, unopened wine. On the other, stacked together awaiting transport: the weapons and props used by the re-enactors.

  And standing in front of them: everyone.

  Lane, near Townes’s wife.

  Who, Jack thought, maybe shouldn’t even be here. But then, she too may have things to reveal.

  Lucy Brice, and her agent Kate.

  Brice, who had left with McLelland.

  And the jester himself, eyes already glowering, looking angry, standing near Claire who turned away even as Jack and Sarah entered.

  Since it was Sarah who had trailed Lucy and McLelland to the Angel, who had uncovered what Kate Shaw knew, it had been decided that she would lead.

  Which suited Jack just fine.

  In the pale glow of the tall candles in their wax-covered holders, he wanted to watch people.

  Their eyes, even in the low light. Their reactions.

  Could reveal so much.

  He stood by Sarah as she began.

  *

  “Thank you, all of you, for coming.”

  Lane wasted no time interrupting.

  “That boy, back at the hotel, said it was a matter of few more questions, that ‘discretion’ was called for.”

  He gestured at all the others standing in a wobbly semi-circle. “But this … is discrete?”

  Sarah waited until he paused. Taking her time …

  Turning away from Lane, she spoke to the group.

  “Everyone here, yes?” She looked at each one, seizing and holding their attention. Then: “It seems you all have something in common.”

  Another pause.

  This was so much easier with Jack standing only inches away.

  “Last night, you all had a problem with Edward Townes.”

  She looked at his wife then. Noting, barely visible, a crumpled handkerchief in her hand.

  This: hard for her.

  “A row. Some history. Bad blood. Full-on fights even. But — you see — no one here shared any of that. Since then, you have all kept your secrets. You might even say, that some of you decided to lie.”

  “Oh, gawd,” Lucy said, digging into her purse, and quickly and expertly extracting a cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke in—” Lane started to say, but a look fr
om the author shut him up.

  A flick of her lighter, and now bluish smoke mixed with the dancing candlelight.

  “But why? What secrets? What was being hidden? In the end, it could only really have to do with one thing. The death of Edward Townes.”

  A look to Jack. The slightest of nods indicating that she was perfectly on point.

  “His supposed accidental death, that was perhaps … no accident?”

  She let that one land. The screws in this particular device being tightened.

  “Townes left the party last night alone. But did he stay alone? What was not said? Who lied?”

  Now, as she and Jack had discussed, she turned to McLelland. And, as smoothly as she could manage, she moved slowly over to Lucy.

  “Who had a motive? Who wanted him … dead?”

  She took a step closer to the group.

  Even Lane had grown quiet.

  Everyone waiting to learn.

  What did these two people — the American and the single mum — actually know?

  17. Secret of the Stocks

  Jack sensed the growing physical tension in the group they had assembled.

  But, among them, different reactions. Claire, clearly upset, turned away. Townes’s wife Emily looking down, as if this was all too terrible to hear.

  But McLelland took the smallest of steps forward even as Sarah came close.

  Defiant.

  Or maybe something worse.

  And Lucy, puffing on her cigarette so fast as if it might speed all this up.

  Jack turned again to Sarah as she continued.

  *

  “But, you see, there are so many lies. Mr Lane, you took a punch and came in and told Lucy here, right? About Townes storming off, drunk. But you didn’t tell us that. And Ms Ellingham? Not exactly ‘punched’, but you were suddenly fired by a writer you championed for decades.”

  Lane, first to respond: “So what?”

  Sarah took a breath. The plot about to thicken.

  “And you, Lucy; leaving with Tim McLelland trailing behind you, right? But not for one of your beloved cigarettes.”

  “Oh, do shut up. I’ve just about—”

  “Gone for a long time. Half an hour at least, according to your agent.”

  She saw the writer spin towards her young agent standing across the hall, visual daggers flying.