Cherringham--Last Train to London (4 page)

“Some kind of silly dare, I suppose,” said Sarah.

“End of term hijinks – which today of all days I could do without,” said the Head, for once unsmiling. “I wouldn’t normally get the police involved – but Mrs Pynchon insisted.”

And Mrs Harper led them out of the office, past the oh-so-curious eyes of the assistant head, and through the now quiet halls of the school.

Jack drove the puppet van, thinking it must be odd for people to watch it go by and instead of seeing their beloved Otto Brendl, see him driving, oversized for the small van, his head grazing the ceiling.

He saw a switch that he guessed would turn on a speaker, music designed to signal that the puppeteer was nearby.

But now he drove in silence, thinking about what he had agreed to do.

He might have thought it nothing, simply dealing with returning Brendl’s puppets and maybe a little background work to reassure the teacher.

But there was one thing playing on his mind, something he hadn’t yet mentioned to anyone, not even Sarah.

The matter of the tattoo.

Instinct’s a funny thing,
he thought.
We don't know where it comes from, but boy do we ever trust it.

Ahead, he saw Sarah slow down and indicate to turn off the main road onto a narrow, single lane leading up into a wooded area.

Turning in, Jack hung back as the bushes and hedge – not as orderly as Jack had grown used to – made Sarah’s car disappear around the hairpin twists and turns.

He came round one corner and just missed a young guy in jeans and waterproof jacket, who pressed himself back into the hedge.

Jack checked the mirror to make sure the man was okay – and he seemed all right, standing at the edge of the road, calmly watching the little van until Jack rounded the next curve.

The rutted dirt road made the puppet van bounce up and down. Jack heard the heavy pieces of the stage, stacked behind him, jump with each bump and indentation.

He hoped that the Punch and Judy puppets were securely fastened.

Should have checked that,
he thought.

Then – a hundred metres ahead – a small cottage, girded by trees, overlooking a ravine.

All by itself.

He pulled up beside Sarah’s car as they both got out to look at the cottage.

“Kinda isolated,” Jack said. “Wonder why he’d live way out here?”

Sarah looked out over rolling hills, the nearby farms, glimpses of the main road. But no question – Brendl was all on his own out here.

She turned to Jack.

“Must have liked his privacy. Or maybe, even after all these years he still didn’t feel part of the village.”

“Maybe. Let me open up the van and get the stuff out. Then – perhaps take a look around?”

“You think Mrs Harper might have something to worry about?”

“Who knows?”

She felt Jack hesitate – something else he was thinking but not saying? But he went to the garishly coloured van, opened the back, and began unloading the pieces of Brendl’s stage set.

Sarah went to the front door, and a security light flashed on above her.

She held Brendl’s key ring – so strange to have something so personal belonging to a dead man.

The front door had two locks, and she began the trial and error process of trying each key while Jack brought Brendl’s props and stage set over.

“There’s a big old basket in the back, buckled. Think it has Brendl’s ‘cast’. Any luck here?”

“Lots of keys.”

Finally one went in, and she turned it.

“Got that open. Now …”

Sarah tried the same process on the lower lock.

“Pretty substantial locks,” Jack said.

Sarah nodded, and pointed overhead. “And he has one of those motion detector lights. Came on soon as I stepped near.”

Sarah got better at guessing which shape might fit the second lock, and she opened the heavy deadbolt. “Wonder if old Mr Brendl kept some jewellery here?” Jack said.

“That would explain all this …”

As the last key found its home they entered the puppeteer’s cottage. And despite having the keys and even though they were doing a favour, it felt – as they walked into the shadowy darkness – as if they were breaking in.

Sarah helped Jack stack the stage pieces just inside the front door.

They probably had a proper place to be stored – but all of this would vanish sooner or later anyway.

With no heirs, Brendl’s isolated getaway would be sold, his possessions as well.

“Want to bring the puppet case in?” she asked.

“Er – let's take a look around first.”

In the shadows, she looked at him, surprised. “You mean search the place? I think Mrs Harper meant just do some digging into his background.”

Jack seemed to pause. “Sarah. I saw something – when I opened Brendl’s shirt.”

And he told her about the tattoo, how he’d seen it before, decades ago on the shores of Brooklyn. On another dead body.

“What is it? What do you —”

“Not at all sure. I’ve sent an email to a friend at One Police Plaza. He worked the streets of Brighton back then.”

“And?”

“No answer. It was the weekend. Should hear later today. Probably nothing.”

Sarah nodded, and though it was definitely a sunny day she felt chilled.

“Okay – let’s explore. But I’ll be very surprised if we find anything.”
And they began walking through the small cottage.

Sarah entered the tiny kitchen, shaded by a large tree outside, and looking gloomy and unused, just a lone upturned coffee cup in a rusty dish drainer.

Nothing attached to the old-fashioned fridge with magnets; no notes or reminders. And it looked as if it was the original ancient appliance from decades ago when Brendl had moved here.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow flick across the kitchen window. She turned, thinking that maybe Jack had gone outside again – but there was nobody there. Then she heard a banging sound – and she froze.

Then again. Close by.

She almost called out for Jack, the fear so quick and sudden. She walked over to the back door that led out of the kitchen. It was shut, but just outside, an outer storm-door flapped in the summer breeze coming off the nearby hills west of Cherringham.

Open. And outside – nobody.

And now – not from fear – she said, “Jack? Can you come here?”

The outer door flapped again, banging against its frame while she waited.

“Okay,” Jack was crouched down looking at the door’s handle and lock. He touched the wooden frame. “See? Scratched. Someone pried this open, then – here, the wood around the lock here, all chewed up?”

Sarah nodded.

“Based on what we saw out front, I doubt old Otto Brendl would leave the back door in such disrepair.”

“Someone has broken in?”

“Looks that way. They were able to lock the kitchen door behind them, but this – they chewed up the wood too much.”

“And what would they break in for?”

Jack stood up, and she saw him wearing a now-familiar lost-in-his-thoughts expression.

And Jack’s thoughts usually led somewhere.

“I think,” he turned to her, “the real question is — what did Brendl have that he was so concerned about? Why did he have multiple doors, locks, the lighting system? Did he keep jewels from the store here?”

“Perhaps some locals thought that. Broke in.”

“Maybe. You see that guy back on the road just now?”

“Yes. You think something’s odd there?”

“Not sure. Probably just a walker,” said Jack, shrugging.

She could see that he wasn’t convinced.

More ideas in play than a simple break-in at a dead man’s cottage.

“Let’s keep looking around. Head upstairs?”

Sarah nodded, and Jack led the way back inside.

Brendl’s bedroom was simply furnished. A small four-poster bed, covered by a faded duvet with swirls of flowers, their colour long faded. A plain dresser with claw feet. A wooden chair.

It was a room almost devoid of personality, Sarah thought. Or a bedroom as someone might leave it … if it wasn’t theirs.

Something odd about it.

She went over to the dresser, aware that they were doing more now than simply returning Brendl’s Punch and Judy puppets. There had been no crime – yet here they were snooping around the old man’s house, looking for something.

Sarah opened a drawer to see a foreign-language newspaper, dated a week ago.

But she could tell one thing: the newspaper wasn’t in German. And now it was as if opening that drawer allowed a secret part of Brendl’s life to suddenly appear in the featureless room. She spread the paper on the bed as Jack stood beside her.

“Not in German, right? Do you know what language it is?”

“Something – I dunno – Eastern European. See this,” he pointed to a word at the top. “
Bucharesti.
That’s —”

“Romania. Dated last week too.”

“Why would Mr Brendl have a Romanian newspaper? I mean, if he came from East Germany?”

“Good question.”

As Sarah flipped through the paper and recognisable words and images leaped out … Obama … then a photo of Putin.

Jack looked around the otherwise characterless room.

“Nothing else here,” he said.

“Seemed to be another room off the sitting room, possibly a cupboard. Worth a look?”

Downstairs, they went into the small sitting room and towards what looked like a large cupboard door. Sarah kept her ear cocked. Though they had a reason to be here … they had no right to be doing
this
.

The cupboard had a lock.

“Interesting,” said Sarah.

Jack ran his finger over the surface of the lock. “This lock’s all scratched up too. Someone tried to break in. Maybe they succeeded.”

“Jack – you think we should call Alan?”

“In due time. Let’s see what's behind … door number one. Have Brendl’s keys handy?”

Sarah dug the key ring out of her jeans pocket and gave them to him. Jack began testing one key after the other until finally he found the right one. Jack gave it a turn...

The door opened with an appropriate creak. Jack stood back so that Sarah, who was using her phone as a torch, could go in first.

It was probably one time she could have done without the chivalrous gesture.

She bent down – the entryway was low, just enough for the short Mr Brendl, but not Sarah. What she saw stopped her dead in her tracks.

This ‘cupboard’ was actually a room, and looking around she saw that it was girded by a series of empty cases, lined in black velvet, all tilted at an angle. Each case was three or four feet long, and each looked like a miniature coffin, the light from her phone casting an eerie glow that made the comparison even more apt.

Jack found the switch and with a click the room flooded with light, but it did little to dispel the funereal atmosphere in the cramped space.

“Wow,” is all that Jack could say.

She turned to him. “He kept his puppets here.”

Jack nodded. “And not just his Punch and Judy performers. Must have been a dozen other puppets
used
to be here.”

“Whoever broke in must have taken them. But why take puppets?”

Jack went to each case, felt the plush black velvet, the perfect indentation matching each missing puppet. “Doesn’t make sense. I expected a room of Rolexes. Tiaras. But missing dolls?”

“Now we call the police, right?”

He nodded. “Could be just what you said … locals break in, find these puppets – Brendl’s ‘treasure’ – and take them, maybe figuring they’re worth something.”

“Could be,” Sarah said.

Jack looked at her. “Not so convinced?”

She shook her head. “Why would Brendl go to all this trouble?”

“That’s the question. Not sure where we go for the answer.”

Sarah paused a moment. Then: “What about Jayne Reid? If Otto did have secrets, she might be the one who knows. Though right now all we have is an old man whose house has been burgled.”

“Maybe. I'm thinking that I’d best find out about that tattoo. NYC is waking up, weekend over. See what I can learn.”

“But what about the puppets we brought? Put them back in here?”

Jack shook his head. “No. What if it was those Punch and Judy puppets that whoever broke in was looking for? I think for now I’ll just keep them with me on the Goose. I’m sure the police and Mrs Harper would agree.”

“Good idea,” Sarah said. “I’ll drop you back at the boat then pay a visit to Ms Reid”

She hesitated before leaving the room. “Jack – you really think there’s something
here
, right?”

Jack took a breath as if weighing the question up. “Beginning to look that way to me.”

And then the two of them walked out of the deserted room of empty puppet cases, leaving the door open.

Alan showed up and once Jack had explained things to him, he agreed that it was best that Jack hold onto the Punch and Judy puppets for now. It was clear though that he felt it was probably just locals preying on the abandoned cottage of a dead old man.

Sarah thought that Alan looked harassed so she and Jack silently decided not to mention the newspaper or tattoo, at least until they knew more.

She dropped Jack off at his boat, helping him carry the basket with the surviving puppets inside.

“Be careful, Jack,” she said, before she left. “As you said, could have been these puppets they were looking for – and now you have them.”

He smiled at her concern, and she immediately felt silly considering the dangers he must have faced on the streets of New York.

“I will. Call me as soon as you’re done with Ms Reid?”

She nodded. Daniel was playing cricket up at the nets all day, Chloe had signed up to a drama workshop. Grace, her assistant, was hopefully managing things at her web studio – summer was slow anyway.

So, a good time to dig into Otto Brendl’s life. And for once, Sarah really hoped she wasn’t going to find anything.

Sarah had expected the proprietor of the ‘Why Knot’ knitting shop to be a little old lady, round and soft and sweet, wearing a knitted cardigan and almost certainly in a misery of mourning.