Cherringham--The Last Puzzle (3 page)

“They are contained inside this envelope …” Tony said, again picking up his letter opener and wielding it like a miniature rapier.

He slid it into one end of the envelope. A dramatic swish with the blade.

And Tony pulled out copies of the puzzle. A small note attached as well, Sarah could see.

Tony held that up and read it.

“Herein: one copy of said puzzle for each of my potential heirs, and duplicates for Mr. Standish and his designated observers.”

The solicitor fanned out the puzzles, their clues hidden in the folded sheets.

The four heirs all took a step forward.

Tony now stood up and as if firing the gun for the race of a lifetime, handed them each a puzzle.

And in an almost comical blur, Sarah watched the two men and Emma Carter bolt from the office, nearly barrelling into her and Jack, as they scrambled out of the door.

Only Tricia Guard remained, folding her sheet carefully and placing it in her handbag, before following the others out of the room.

Forty-eight hours,
thought Sarah.

Ten million pounds.

And when they had finally all departed in near cartoon fashion, she had to laugh aloud.

“Lunch on me,” Tony said.

Jack looked around at what had to be his favourite restaurant in Cherringham, or even the whole Cotswolds … the wonderful Spotted Pig.

And for lunch — which Jack had never done — the place was packed. Co-owner Julie racing around, taking orders, and bringing them to her husband Sam whose passion for locally sourced, sustainable foods was only matched by his desire to absolutely knock diners’ socks off with the taste.

Jack turned back to Tony. “No need to do that.”

“None at all,” Michael Edwards agreed.

But Tony insisted, and even ordered a lavish bottle of wine, again not a midday practice for Jack.

“That crowd of heirs …” Sarah said, taking a sip of the pricey Châteauneuf-du–Pape, “
That
was absolutely mad, Tony.”

“I know. If I ever get around to writing my memoirs, that scene will surely be one of the highlights.”

Only Sarah’s father seemed quiet. Sipping the wine, sitting there.

“Michael,” Jack finally said. “You have … some thoughts?”

Sarah’s father had seemed to be staring off into the distance, but Jack’s words brought him back.

“Um, well …
yes
,” he winced as if whatever his thoughts were, they were bothering him.

“Do tell us, Michael, You were his good friend, after all …” Tony said.

“Right, well, this
puzzle
thing. I know he loved the history of Cherringham … and chess, of course. But this
game
? It’s … I don’t know …
bizarre
. I mean, does he want any of them to actually win the inheritance?”

“He certainly isn’t making it easy,” Sarah said.

“Then there’s—” Jack watched as Michael stopped himself, took another sip of deep red wine.

He lowered his voice.

“All that … money? A fortune! I never knew.”

“Nor did I,” said Tony, “Not until I opened his ‘Instructions to the Executor’.”

Jack nodded at this.

Quentin Andrews was creating quite a stir from beyond the grave. And here Jack was, sitting with Michael — the one person who should have known him best — and who seemed in the dark about his friend.

“What did he tell you … about his life?” Jack said.

“Well, over our gambits and scotches, not much, now I really come to think of it …”

Jack nodded.

He looked at Sarah.

Did she realise that Jack was having his own thoughts?

That maybe there was something going on here, something intriguing … mysterious …

And for the first time he had this thought:
with all that money … who knows?

What would someone do …
could
have done … to get their hands on it?

*

When the main courses arrived, Sarah watched Jack as he took the measure of his steak and then moved in for the kill.

In a lot of ways he was hard to second guess — but she knew by now that a meal at the Pig meant only one thing for her American friend: a T-bone, rare, with Sam’s special peppercorn sauce.

Sarah savoured every mouthful of her poached salmon — lunch out at a restaurant was a rare treat these days.

Years ago, back in London, it was a regular event — always another wealthy client to be treated, stroked, and spoiled. But the typical customers for her web agency in Cherringham were more likely to bring a sandwich from Costco’s if Sarah ever suggested meeting over a bite to eat.

She watched her father put down his knife and fork, and pause.

“You know, one thing that really does surprise me …” he said, breaking the silence, “… was the number of people at the funeral. I mean — who on earth
were
they?”

Tony topped up the wine glasses and Sarah saw him casually order a second bottle with a practised nod to Julie across the restaurant: “Believe it or not, Michael — they were Quentin’s fans.”

“Fans?” said Jack.

“Yes. I guess I can reveal Quentin’s big secret. This funereal crossword game is no piece of … frippery. Quentin, for many years, was actually one of the chief crossword compilers for
The Times
.”

“Good Lord,” said Michael.

“I doubt anybody in Cherringham knew,” said Tony. “I certainly didn’t. Quentin didn’t have a by-line for his puzzles; they simply said ‘Argus’. But as soon as his death was announced, I was besieged by enquiries and commiserations from crossword devotees around the world.”

“Of course …
Argus
,” said Michael. “His
nom de puzzle,
I mean, it makes perfect sense …”

“That’s absolutely right,” said Tony. “Argus — the all-seeing giant of mythology.”

“Dad — why does it make sense?” said Sarah.

“Above his desk he had a print of that Velazquez painting — you know the one —
Argus and Mercury
? He used to say —
it doesn’t matter how fast you are, it’s how good you are at
seeing
that really matters
.”

“Sounds like there was quite a lot going on with our departed friend Quentin that nobody saw …” said Jack.

With that one secret revealed, Sarah guessed that Jack wondered — as did she — were there others?

Sarah watched Jack place his knife and fork together, sit back in his chair, and take a sip of water.

He had been quiet since the reading of the will, and Sarah guessed he’d been thinking hard.

He’d also been the one member of their little group to forego the wine.

And Sarah knew that meant only one thing — Jack was on the clock, no booze in working hours.

To paraphrase Doyle — and quite literally Sarah thought —
a game was afoot.

“Come on then, Jack,” said her father. “What are you thinking?”

This is going to be interesting,
thought Sarah.

“Well …”

Sarah watched him assembling his thoughts.

“Okay. I’m a cop. Always have been. So I can’t help thinking — what’s the motivation? What
motivates
a man to make a puzzle out of his inheritance? Why not just leave the money to the people he loved, or who loved him, or his family, or that charity you mentioned, Tony?”

“One last joke from beyond the grave, perhaps?” said Tony. “A little playful wielding of power? One last brilliant puzzle?”

Sarah watched Jack nod to this, then turn to her father.

“And what do you think, Michael? That fit the Quentin Andrews that you knew?”

“Hmm, well — with all due respect to you Tony after this wonderful wine — no, not at all! Quentin was analytical, thoughtful, combative even — but never … playful.”

“So from that I would say that this is
not
a game then,” said Jack. “And if it is not a game — that means it is for real.”

“For real?” said Sarah. “I don’t quite understand, Jack …”

“This crossword puzzle is important. It has a meaning. Either in the way it plays out, how the players behave … Or in the result itself.”

“Surely the result is just the eventual winner of the spoils, Jack?” said Tony.

“On the surface, yes,” said Jack. “But that could have been done with the stroke of a pen — it doesn’t need a high-stakes competition.”

Sarah looked around the table. Her father and Tony were both pondering this. She turned to Jack.

Time to play devil’s advocate.

“What if Quentin is just what he seems, Jack? An English eccentric, playing that quirky role to the very end?”

“You know how very odd we English can be, Jack,” said Michael, offering up his glass to the new bottle which Julie had brought over.

“Don’t you dare drive home, Dad,” said Sarah, herself turning down the offer of more wine.

She watched her father wink at her.

“Don’t worry, darling — Mum’s picking me up,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “But not before Jack’s
spilled the beans
!”

Sarah saw Jack smile and put down his napkin.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with the beneficiaries — or, better still — let’s call them the players. Now who’ve we got?”

“Emma, the carer,” said Sarah. “And Patrick, the brother.”

“Tricia, the rather alluring lady friend,” said Michael. “Quentin never even mentioned her.”

“So far, so normal,” said Jack. “Just your average line up at a will-reading. No other family, Tony? No children?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“Okay,” said Jack. “So let’s look a little more closely at our final player …”

“James Carlisle?” said Tony.

“James Carlisle,” said Jack. “A spook if ever I saw one.”

Sarah leaned forward. “Jack — are you kidding? A
spy
?”

She watched her friend look straight at her father. “Michael?”

“Hmm, well …”

Sarah could see that her father was taking Jack’s suggestion seriously.

“Dad! Surely not? A spy — here in Cherringham?”

“I have to say, time spent dealing with the various agencies back in my RAF days, um … well, yes, I’d probably have to agree with Jack. That sort … well, you could always tell.”

“Good,” said Jack. “And by his own admission, a work colleague of Quentin’s.”

“Work colleague … Good Lord …” said Tony, as if only now registering what James Carlisle had said. “That means …”

Sarah looked around the table at the three serious faces. This conversation was now going into a totally unexpected place.

“It means … that Quentin worked in intelligence too. But when? Well, we can work that out. How old was he? Eighty-nine?”

Sarah saw Tony nod, and Jack continued.

“So — he missed World War Two, if he was lucky — and therefore — was a Cold War warrior. Behind a desk, I’d guess. I bet thirty years ago he’d climb in his car every morning and tootle off to work in Cheltenham — Tony?”

“Hmm, well, yes,” said Tony. “He always had a little flat right here in the High Street. He had said that he worked for a small investment company in Cheltenham.”

“Investment?” Jack smiled at the word. “You could say that. It wasn’t called GCHQ then, but from what I’ve read over the years, you guys had a big intelligence set-up in Cheltenham. Our NSA used to send people over. Once in a while, I’d need to chat to them at One Police Plaza.”

“Jack –you think he picked ‘investment’ for a reason?” asked Sarah.

“Well, in those early days of digital intelligence and data, the spooks all knew who was at the cutting edge in technology on both sides of the ocean. And quite a few took advantage. Quietly, secretly, they could use that insider knowledge to amass a fortune for when their spying days were done.”

Sarah watched Jack turn to Tony.

“Let me guess — Quentin’s ten million comprises of a large stock in Microsoft and Apple, yes?”

“Good Lord,” said Tony, nodding slowly at Jack.

Sarah could see that Jack was spot on.

“The crafty beggar,” said Michael, laughing. “He bought the stocks early …”

“Nothing illegal about it, as far as I know,” said Tony.

“Right place at the right time,” said Jack. “We’d all do the same.”

“But Jack — when all’s said and done …” said Michael, “… what are you driving at? Quentin worked in intelligence and had pots of money. So what?”

Sarah watched Jack consider this.

“Well, here’s the ‘so what’. What if Quentin always knew there might be … vultures … hanging over his estate at the end? And what if he set up this little puzzle as a way of ensuring that nobody took a share that wasn’t rightfully theirs? I’m not sure how. Just an idea. Or worse — what if he set this up so that anyone who couldn’t wait for the pay-out, who maybe wanted Christmas to come early, would be found out before they made off with the cash?”

Sarah looked around the table: Tony and her father were motionless.

Gobsmacked is the word the kids would use,
she thought.

“Hang on. Are you suggesting that Quentin Andrews might have been …
murdered
?” said Tony.

“With a prize of ten million pounds,” said Jack. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“But Quentin died of a heart attack …” said Tony.

Sarah watched Jack shrug — as if to imply heart attacks might not be heart attacks …

“We’ve got spooks involved,” said Jack. “One dead, one alive. So, I think we should all be very careful over the next forty-eight hours. Who knows who — or what — we’re really dealing with?”

Sarah looked around the table. She could see from her father’s face — and from Tony’s — that Jack’s words were being taken seriously …

Very seriously.

“
‘Where Charles lost his head from above’
.”

“How many letters?” said Jack.

“Five.” Sarah turned from the whiteboard in her office, put down the marker pen and crossword and stared at Jack. He stared back at her.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “King Charles lost his head in London — not in Cherringham. Everyone knows that. Even a NY cop.”