Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor (7 page)

Jack had spotted more than a couple of estate agents in the village. Sales and rentals must be good, based on all the pictures of pricey properties covering their front windows.

Made sense — nice part of the world, he thought.

Though — in some ways — not that different from Manhattan. People still did bad things to each other, people still had their secrets, and there was still a need for people like Jack to ask difficult questions.

He pulled the collar of his jacket up, the chilly wind finding its way through the narrow streets.

About to enter one agent’s office, he took a breath and hoped he looked like a well-off client in search of a big property.

Two down, and this last one to go.

Both conversations useful but tricky to end. The important thing was that both agents confirmed what he suspected — Mogdon Manor may not be worth all that much with the massive amount of repairs and restoration it needed. Would take a small fortune just to get it up to code, let alone desirable.

But the property, the grounds?

Easily worth millions.

One could bulldoze the Manor, and still walk away with a ton of cash.

He debated skipping the last of estate agents, Cauldwell & Co, at the far end of the town, near the car park. Looked smaller than the others, maybe dealing with less glitzy properties.

But as he often reminded himself, you never knew where something useful would pop up.

So he went in, his act as prosperous owner-to be now well honed.

A man at a large wooden desk raised his head from the
Daily Telegraph
and immediately flashed Jack a broad grin.

Like estate agents anywhere, they do love when a fresh body walked into their place.

“Ah, hello! Can I be of assistance to you?”

The man had walked out from behind the desk and grabbed Jack’s hand and vigorously pumped it.

“Cecil Cauldwell of Cauldwell & Company.”

“Jack Brennan.”

“And are we looking for something …?”

“As a matter of fact …”

“An
American!
” The agent interrupted. “Can tell that accent anywhere. Looking for a summer rental perhaps, or maybe …“

“Actually — thinking I might be looking for a place to purchase.”

Could Cecil’s smile get any broader? Jack didn’t think so.

“Fan-tastic! Well, you have come at the right time. Things get low sales-wise just as soon as summer fades. So perfect timing for a good buy! Please …” he gestured to a leather chair facing his desk.

Jack began thinking if there was any way to shorten his charade and still get any information from the proprietor.

Cecil had whipped out a yellow pad, grabbed a pen, and — eyes bright — looked ready to transcribe whatever Jack might say.

“Now, regarding the potential property, it would help me if I knew your, um, price range, and what particulars would be important to you.”

Jack nodded. “My price … is pretty flexible.”

Cecil made a broad ‘O’ with his lips. Perhaps interpreting ‘flexibility’ to mean equal unlimited resources.

“Then, you are looking for something in the village, or maybe a country house of some kind? Perhaps with a bit of property?”

Jack scratched his head.

“Not sure. Been living on a river barge so not too sure what I’d want.”

The words ‘river barge’ seem to have a deflating effect. Perhaps Cecil thought that someone living on a barge couldn’t possibly be looking at high-end properties. He’d be right about that.

“I did see that old Manor House. Looked damaged, needing work. Too big maybe … but I don’t know — interesting.”

Cecil’s smile faded even further. “Mogdon Manor, yes, quite in need of repair. And the property has been totally let go.”

“Would you say the house is worth much?”

Cecil laughed. “That old house? Maybe if you favour claptrap and
fin de siècle
that’s truly
fin.
”

“And the grounds?”

“Different story, Mr Brennan. The grounds have not been maintained, but that location, absolutely
prime
. You wouldn’t be looking to … develop, would you? Maybe some flats or …”

“Who knows. It did catch my eye.”

Jack had the confirmation he needed. Property worth a lot, house
nada
. But he asked a last question anyway.

“So the place itself, worth nothing?”

But Cecil raised a hand.

“Hang on. As
is
, probably not. It is need of massive repairs. But the potential? Someone had it surveyed recently for possible flats. As I said — lot of potential!”

Jack stopped.

“Surveyed? Who did that?”

Cecil froze, then recoiled to the back of his seat.

He paused as if aware that what was going on here was more than chit-chat about the local real estate scene.

“I’m afraid … I could not tell you that. Confidential. I was just …”

Jack leaned forward to close the distance.

“You mean, Cecil … that someone had the property surveyed, plans drawn up all in secret? It must be a secret since you’re not telling me.”

At that Cecil Cauldwell of Cauldwell & Co. stood up.

“I think it’s time you left Mr Brennan.” He rolled his eyes. “If that’s even your name.”

“Oh it is.” Jack grinned. “You can check.”

He started for the door out.

“Hope you don’t mind if I pass that information along, do you. Maybe the police? All so interesting.”

Cecil stood silent, frozen.

And as Jack walked back to his car, again he thought … NYC, Cherringham, everyone, everywhere with their secrets.

Jack sat in his car, the engine rumbling. He’d call Sarah later, after her dinner with the kids.

Now, time for the barge, a medium-rare steak and a martini.

There’s something here,
he thought.

And that always gave him an appetite.

Sarah got to her car; her client’s files all cleaned up and sent. Time to dash and pick up Chloe.

Except, she realized — amazed — that she was early — Chloe’s dance group up at the school didn’t finish for another half hour.

There was just time for a coffee and maybe — that rare thing these days — twenty minutes of ‘me’ time. She locked the car and walked across the village square towards Huffington’s, already feeling cheerier.

But Huffington’s was closed. She remembered — as the autumn nights drew in, and the summer visitors dried up, they shut shop on the dot of five.

Half an hour — time to visit Robinson’s Electric? Would it still be open?

Then she noticed the old-fashioned neon sign announcing ‘electrician’ still on.

Not surprising, she thought — the old place couldn’t afford to close early with all the discount stores and online competition.

Old Josh Robinson somehow made a living selling toasters and bedside lights and fuses — though Sarah was sure people only shopped there now out of loyalty.

And why not — Josh was a lovely man, always helpful, always had the time of day.

But Josh also had two sons who were qualified electricians — and who between them did most of the electrical work in the village. Where better to ask for the low-down on electrical work at Mogdon Manor?

The doorbell pinged as she went in. Mr Robinson sat on a stool behind the counter — as he had been, she felt, since she was a little girl.

“Ah, Sarah,” he said. “How are you, my dear?”

“All the better for seeing you, Mr Robinson,” and seeing his jovial face, Sarah suddenly realized she meant it.

“Come for more of those funny long-life eco spots have you? Well, you’re in luck: I ordered a couple extra for you back in the spring — thought you’d be needing them!”

“You must be psychic,” she said, racking her brains for any other business she could put his way. “I need a new security light as well — for the front door …”

After Mr Robinson had spent ten minutes talking through the various options on security light installation, and had rung up the sale on his old-fashioned till, Sarah felt it was time to mention Victor’s funeral.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr Robinson. “Old Mr Hamblyn. My father always had time for him — though I have to say when I was a lad we always thought he was a miserable beggar. Always yelling at us to get off his land.”

“They say it was an electrical fire,” said Sarah innocently.

“Yes. Doesn’t surprise me,” he replied. “My lads have been in and out of the place this year replacing bits of wiring, but they said it was a waste of time doing it piecemeal — whole system needed ripping out and starting again.”

“They must have been upset when they heard about the fire,” said Sarah.

“Oh, they were,” said Mr Robinson.

He leaned across the counter towards her and lowered his voice.

“Though — between you and me — they reckon Mr Hamblyn was hard done by …”

“Oh yes?” said Sarah, leaning in a little herself.

“Well, those kids of his. They could have taken better care. Instead … well, I shouldn’t …”

“What?”

“Like they couldn’t wait for him to pass away. It was disgraceful.”

Sarah nodded.

“And what do you think about this latest fire? Another case of bad wiring?”

Josh looked around as if uncomfortable with what he was about to share.

“My son Todd. They asked him to take a look at it. Part of their investigation, you know.”

“Yes.”

“So he did. Now, most electrical fires just spark a bit behind the walls. Even those old places designed to keep any frayed wires away from the wood.”

“But this was different?”

Josh nodded. “Todd said that there was nothing in the library to overload the wiring. Yet something triggered a fire there, in a room full of books! He said that it didn’t make sense at all.”

“It wasn’t like the other fires at the manor.”

Josh stared right at her, his suspicion something she could feel.

“Exactly. He told the fire chief. Not sure if they thought it meant anything, whole place such an electrical mess. And truth be known, it could be nothing.”

Sarah nodded. This was definitely something to tell Jack.

But then an old grandfather clock in the corner of the shop binged.

Sarah turned to it.

“I’ve always loved that clock,” she said smiling.

“Yup, keeps on — just as I do.”

“And I must run. Pick up my daughter.”

The old man reached out and took Sarah’s hand. “So good to see you again, Sarah.”

“You too.”

And with a last smile, Sarah left the shop and headed back to her car.

“So, no stars for mum’s dinner tonight?”

Sarah watched as her two children wolfed down the chicken fricassee that she had whipped up. Bit of lemon, fresh tarragon, portabello mushrooms, brown rice. Fresh, tasty and, with hungry kids, not destined to last long on the plate.

Daniel paused in mid-forkful to say, “It’s good, Mum.”

Chloe quickly agreed. “Yup, really good.”

Might as well have been a meal from the frozen aisle at Sainsbury’s.

“Thanks,” she said. “And any school updates?”

Sarah feared that she had already entered that teen realm where kids shared information only under the pain of torture or losing Wi-Fi privileges.

“Daniel, how’s the play going?”

“It’s a musical, you know,” he said. “Weird. ‘Macbeth’.”

“Isn’t that a play?”

“Not this version,” Daniel said. “Even the weird sisters …”

“The witches?”

“Yeah, even they sing too. But it’s fun,”

“Are you one of the weird sisters?” Chloe said to him. But her tease was quickly followed by a smile.

We’ve been through a lot,
she thought.

Seems like everyone is trying to be as nice as they can be.

“Well, we’ll all be there on opening night.”

Daniel nodded. “There’s some great battle scenes, with swords and stuff.”

“Mum, I’m done.”

“Right, Chloe. You … can head on to do your homework. I’ll clear.”

She watched Daniel scoop in the last bit of thick tarragon sauce.

So, a hit,
she thought. And pretty easy to do.

“Me too,” Daniel said.

“Okay, rinse, dump the plates in the machine, and …”

Then her mobile, recharging at a socket near the stove, rang.

She heard Jack on the phone, but also a sound of something brushing against the phone.

Wind, she guessed. Maybe he was outside on the deck of his barge.

She walked out to the living room, far away enough that her kids wouldn’t hear.

“I spoke to the electrician,” she said.

She updated Jack on Josh’s thoughts on the fire. How his son Todd said it was different from the others, with no evidence in the library to say that something triggered an overload, bad wiring or not.

“Hmm,” Jack said. “And I played rich American with your estate agents today.”

“You deserve a medal for running that gauntlet.”

“They can be persistent, can’t they? But I learned something very interesting.”

“Do tell.”

“Someone — unnamed — had plans drawn up showing how the manor house could be renovated and divided into upscale flats.”

“Really?”

“Think the agent — Cecil Cauldwell …”

“Oh. That one. You
do
deserve a medal.”

“… Think maybe he thought I was looking for something similar.”

“All done, Mum!” Chloe shouted from the kitchen.

Sarah smiled. ”Thanks Chlo …” She called out.

Then back to Jack. “Did Cecil reveal who had this done?”

“No. I’m afraid that’s when he went all quiet and wanted me to leave his establishment
asap
.”

“But we can guess who.”

“Three guesses at least. But which one? Susan, Dominic … Terry?”

“Doubt the latter.”

“I imagine you are right there. Still — I think we should pay Terry a visit at his trailer …”

“Caravan.”

“Right. After all, he was looking for something in the house when Hope gave me the tour.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up. And no worries … I put the top up. I’m all set for my English fall.”