Cherringham--The Last Puzzle (8 page)

“Full time?”

“Only days — not nights. He could still get himself up to bed, you know. Didn’t like to be too dependent.”

“And did he like you?”

She hesitated. “I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

He saw her shiver and pull her coat tight.

“Cold out here,” Jack said.

She nodded quickly. “It is.”

“Can I buy you a tea, Emma?”

Another bit of hesitation. Then: “I’d love one.”

“Come on then. Huffington’s doesn’t look too full. I might even stretch to a cake, how about that?”

Emma smiled and Jack realised he hadn’t seen her smile at all — and that it quite lit up her face.

He turned with her and they threaded their way through the parked cars towards the teashop.

As they did, Jack recognised the figure of James Carlisle in the front seat of a parked black BMW.

He saw Carlisle nod at him and then climb out of the BMW, holding a notepad.

When they reached the entrance to Huffington’s, Jack turned and looked back across the street: Carlisle was now standing in front of the stocks. Jack watched him jot down a brief note in his pad, then head back towards his car.

And Jack thought:
seems like the competitors for the millions are starting to fall over each other …

*

Jack watched Emma as she pecked at her chocolate cake like a caged bird.

“It must have been awful for you … the day Quentin died,” said Jack.

“I feel bad that I wasn’t there. If I had been, maybe …”

“You’d left for the day?”

“I did his tea. Washed up. He was looking forward to his chess game.”

“His pills just didn’t work this time, I guess.”

“Um … It happened too quickly I suppose.”

“You guessing … that he didn’t try to take them?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t have his pills with him?”

“I think — he did, I mean he always did. But …”

“Maybe they were just too far away?”

“I don’t really like to think about it.”

Jack watched her carefully as she picked up her chocolate cake again. Did she know where his questions were leading?

“Tell me about Marty,” he said, changing the subject.

“Did he do something bad?” she said quickly, putting down the cake. “He said you were at the house. He gets over excited sometimes, he doesn’t mean it … He’s a good sort really. Bit rough, around the edges, but—”

“He was fine,” said Jack, wondering quite how to phrase the next question. “But you know, it was quite a surprise to find him in the house …”

She looked away. “Some of my stuff is still there. I told him not to go round to get it, but he wouldn’t listen …”

Jack guessed that Marty not listening happened a lot.

“I’m thinking you probably shouldn’t have given him the keys.”

“Like I said, he wouldn’t listen.”

“Does he know about the will?”

“Yes. He asked. Had to tell him.”

“Did he ever ask you about it before Quentin died?”

Jack watched her carefully. She looked nervous.

“No.”

“You sure? Not even once, kinda casually?”

“No.” She looked right at Jack. “What are you getting at?”

Jack reached for his coffee and took a sip, still watching Emma.

“Old habits,” he said with a smile. And …

She’s lying,
he thought.

“Did Quentin ever mention the will to you, Emma?”

“No,” she said. “That’s not a thing — well, you know — doing my job, it’s not a thing you talk about.”

Or maybe not a thing you
own up
to talking about.

“What about the week before he died … Did Quentin have any people round? New people? People you didn’t know?”

“Wait a second. I thought you were supposed to be looking after this puzzle stuff. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

Jack nodded, smiled. “Oh, sorry. Not a big deal, Emma. I’m just interested in how Quentin came up with all the clues — you know?”

Jack watched her as she nodded back. She seemed to accept his reason. He didn’t like lying to her, but he didn’t want her going back to Marty and saying the New York cop thinks Mr. Andrews was murdered …

“I think he had the puzzle already written,” she said. “He always spent a lot of time in his office, working.”

“So — no strangers in the house?”

“Not that I saw. Though in the last few week before he died, I wasn’t there every day.”

“Oh?”

“He gave me three whole days holiday! Out of the blue. Paid as well — got the full eight hours.”

“And that didn’t often happen?”

“
Never
happened.”

“You know why?”

Jack watched her shrug, as if she hadn’t asked herself the question before.

“And when you came back — was anything different?”

“No,” she said. “Though the place was a bit of a mess.”

“What kind of mess?”

“Dirty cups left all over the house. Tea cups. Coffee cups. I said to Quentin — you must have been up and down to the loo all night what with all that coffee you’ve been drinking!”

“I bet he laughed at that, huh?”

“He didn’t actually. Just asked me to clean them up.”

Jack nodded, and he watched Emma get back to finishing her chocolate cake.

Mysteriouser and mysteriouser
, he thought. So Quentin had some guests round in the week before he died.

Guests that he didn’t want Emma to meet.

His mobile pinged and he took it out. A text from Sarah.

We need to meet. My office?

He texted back.

“I’m really sorry, Emma, but I’m afraid I have to go. Something’s come up.”

“Oh,” she said, wiping her mouth with her serviette.

“I’ll cover the tab — you stay here and finish your tea.”

“Thank you.”

As he got up he leaned in.

“You ever been in the square on May the first?” he said. “You can hardly move. And they say there’s been a fair held on that day for a thousand years …”

He could see she was confused at first, but slowly she realised what he was saying.

She smiled at him, then he watched her take out her crumped bit of paper and start writing.

He could just see the word — MAYDAY — and knew she had understood. There couldn’t be a worse day to spend in the stocks than May Day in Cherringham …

He paid the bill, and headed out into the High Street.

He looked across towards the car park. The black BMW had gone.

Was James Carlisle one of the mystery guests who had visited Quentin just a week before his death?

Pulling his jacket tight against the chill wind, he headed down the High Street towards Sarah’s office.

Sarah spent five minutes filling Jack in on her meeting with Patrick Andrews.

“Interesting — the delightful Tricia was a full-blown spook?” he said.

“So it seems.”

She saw Jack shake his head.

“She had me totally fooled.”

“I wouldn’t feel bad about that, Jack — I imagine she was pretty well trained …” Sarah grinned, “… at fooling men.”

Jack smiled back. “Gotcha. Even so, I
should
have known she was lying,” he said. “You think she knew Carlisle?”

“Hmm, good question,” said Sarah. “Carlisle told me he hardly knew her.”

“Well that can’t be true — if Carlisle worked alongside Quentin then he must have known her, right?”

She saw Jack get up and go over to the whiteboard.

“You know what?” he said, turning back to her. “I don’t trust any of these people. They’re walking rings round us.”

He sat down again.

“And this case — if it is a case even — is like playing Telephone.”

“Hmm?”

“Kids’ game. You tell someone something, in a whisper. They pass it on, and the message changes each time.”

“Oh — we call it ‘Chinese Whispers’ over here!”

“Really?”

“And it’s also a bit like those Russian dolls.”

“
Matryoshkas
? Lift one top, and another is there, and another …”

“Exactly. Hey — have a sandwich, egg mayonnaise and cress,” said Sarah.

She slid the plate of sandwiches across the desk to him and watched him take one.

“My favorite. Boy did I need this,” he said. “Turned down the chocolate cake at Huffington’s so I’m feeling virtuous — but also starving.”

“Did you get anywhere with the carer?” she said, picking up a sandwich herself.

“Emma? Yes and no,” said Jack. “She’s covering for her orangutan boyfriend for sure — jury’s still out on whether she’s been up to something herself …”

“Hmm — the charming Mr. Marty Kane,” said Sarah. “I pulled this from the
Cherringham Gazette
database.”

She angled her laptop so Jack could see. She watched him lean forward to read.

“Six-month suspended sentence for handling stolen goods,” he said.

“And that’s not his first offence,” said Sarah. “Did a year inside a while back for a serious assault.”

“Nasty piece of work,” said Jack. “But a killer too? Guy like that is more likely to kill by accident. Let’s go back to the brother. What else he say?”

Sarah put down her sandwich, and nodded to the whiteboard, which now listed the last three clues alongside the nearly completed puzzle.

“After his second Jameson’s he wasn’t making a great deal of sense. I don’t think he’s going to be doing much puzzle solving this afternoon.”

“Less than twenty four hours to go …” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Given up?”

“Either that or he knows all the answers,” said Sarah. “He said that he and Quentin used to do Cherringham treasure hunts when they were kids, and he didn’t seem troubled by any of the clues.”

“Hmmm … they were once close, huh?”

“Oh no! Quite the opposite,” said Sarah. “Quentin may have been a pillar of the establishment — but Patrick was quite the rebel. Spent twenty years on the barricades — Grosvenor Square Vietnam demo, miners’ strike, poll-tax riots — you name it, if there was a cause, Patrick signed up to it.”

“But he’ll take the money if it comes his way …”

“Absolutely,” said Sarah. “And use it to tear down the walls that his brother built.”

Jack paused.

Then: “You think he could have killed Quentin?”

“Big question there, Jack. Seems to me like he genuinely hated him. But murder? His own brother?

“When did he last see Quentin?”

“Not for years, apparently.”

“Really? Even though they both lived in the village?”

“Worked hard to avoid each other.”

“And what about our spy?” said Jack. “How was he getting on?”

“Mr. Carlisle is on the ball I think. As smooth as they come …”

“I spotted him this morning. Did he say when he last saw Quentin?”

“Same story — several years ago.”

“Hmm, and I got the same line from the lovely Tricia, not that I believe it now. But here’s the thing … Emma says Quentin had a string of visitors in the weeks before he died.”

“You think he invited the puzzlers round? Could they
all
be lying?”

“You know what? I think they could be …”

“Maybe Quentin wasn’t murdered,” said Sarah.

“Sure. Maybe. But those pills … something’s definitely not right. Your dad told me Quentin had an attack one evening while he was there — reached for his pills, they were right there in his pocket. Swore they were always at his side.”

“I spoke to Tony just before you got here. He was chatting to Quentin’s doctor — heart specialist in Oxford. Apparently he’d warned Quentin that now was the time to ‘get his house in order’.”

“You mean he
knew
he was going to die?”

“Can’t mean anything else — can it?” said Sarah. “In which case — if he was going to die anyway, why bother killing him?”

“That presupposes the killer knew what the doctor said.”

“But if you’re right — and Quentin
did
invite the puzzlers over — wouldn’t he have told them why?”

Jack looked away, and Sarah knew his mind was racing with thoughts, suspicions, plans …

Then: “Well, we’re just speculating here Sarah — maybe he didn’t tell them anything. Maybe he simply wanted to meet them just to see if they should be … in the game. See if they had a right to be players …”

Sarah wiped her hands on a paper towel and dropped the sandwich wrappers in the bin.

“Here’s an idea. Grace is going to be back in a minute. Why don’t you and I head over to Quentin’s house and take a look around? I still haven’t been there.”

“Sure, great — why not? You may see something I’ve missed.”

“And you can run me through the whole ‘death by heart pills’ theory.”

“Now what makes me think you don’t quite buy into that?”

“Come on,” she said, picking up her coat. “You persuade me and on the way back I’ll buy you that chocolate cake you know you should have had …”

She saw Jack grin as he grabbed his coat too.

“You’re a bad influence on me, Sarah Edwards.”

And they headed off to Cherringham Crescent.

Sarah stopped in the hallway — and took in Quentin Andrews’ home.

“Jack — this is … classic. The wood, that staircase.” She turned to him. “So beautiful.”

“Thought so too. Used his money well. Money he made by exploiting his inside connections …”

She turned to the living room, where elegant eighteenth-century furniture floated on a thick-pile carpet that nearly covered the shining, dark wood floor.

“The house alone has to be worth a small fortune.”

“Yeah. So, shall we go upstairs? To the scene of what … you don’t think is a crime?”

She nodded.

Thinking:
it’s rare for me to doubt Jack’s hunch.

But she also knew that she had developed her own hunches about such things.

With everyone so guilty here, with so many of the heirs with grudges, even hatred for Quentin, with so much money at stake.

And with the crazy puzzle competition …

None of it added up.

She followed Jack up the stairs.

*

Then — into the dead man’s room.

Jack pointed out the chair where Quentin died, and then back, to the table where the pills were found, seeming like an oversight, as if he’d put them there, sat down … and just couldn’t get to them.