An Act of Hodd

by Nic Saint

  “Look, son, something’s come up,” the author of his being now grated in his ear. “I need you to listen to me and listen to me very carefully, you hear?”

  He did listen very carefully, even though he was quite sure that whatever the old man had to impart was probably a load of poppycock as usual. “Yes, Father. I am listening,” he announced with another eye roll. There was a crackling noise on the other end, and then his father said, “I need you or that valet of yours to go over to…” There was that crackle again.

  “There seems to be some sort of noise. What did you just say?”

  “I need you to pick up the parcel and bring it to…”

  “I’m losing you,” he said, quickly losing patience.

  “The parcel is at… right now, and if you don’t pick it up… it’s going to… along with your mother’s… and that’ll be the end of…”

  “You’re not making any sense,” he said, staring down at his nice new blue spandex outfit. He’d bought seven, a different color for each day of the week. He particularly liked the one he was wearing now. It looked exactly like the one Michelle Trachtenberg, the star of Ice Princess, wore in the movie. “What package? And what does Mother have to do with anything?”

  “Will you just listen!” the old man yelled, now audibly irritated. “If you don’t pick up that package right now… then… and… unmitigated disaster!”

  He sighed. Whatever his old man was involved in, it could probably wait, so he said, “First get decent reception, Father, and call me back, all right?”

  And he deftly clicked off the phone and handed it back to Deshawn. He then gave his valet a look of warning. “No more phone calls, Deshawn.”

  Deshawn, a rather thickset smallish man with perfectly coiffed thinning brown hair and an obsequious manner, had been in Jarrett’s employ for many years, and the two formed rather an odd couple. One thin and tall, the other short and stout, they resembled Laurel & Hardy in their heyday.

  The valet now muttered, “I know, sir. My apologies. But your father said it was extremely urgent.”

  “It’s always urgent,” said Jarrett with an airy wave of the hand. “But he’ll just have to wait, for I…” He glided away. “… am on my way to greatness!”

  And with these words, he allowed the wonderful music of Ice Princess to guide him back onto the rink and launch him into his most complicated movement yet: the twizzle, a one-foot turn. He usually worked with Vance Crowdell, trainer to the stars, but the man had some other arrangement tonight, so he’d been forced to train alone. Not that he minded. The crusty old trainer had already taught him so many new movements he needed to practice until he’d perfected those before learning any new ones.

  And as he closed his eyes and allowed the music to take him into a new and wonderful world of glitter and glamor and thunderous applause, he saw himself as the first male Olympic figure skating gold medalist to come out of Britain in quite a long time.

  Philo eyed the woman darkly. “I’m not asking, Madame Wu. I’m telling you. Take the package and hand it over as soon as you’re told.”

  “But I can’t,” the proprietress of Xing Ming lamented in nasal tones. Her jet-black hair clearly came from a bottle and her horn-rimmed glasses were too large for her narrow face. She’d been running the small family restaurant for thirty years, one of the mainstays of London’s Chinatown in the City of Westminster. “I have other matters tonight. I can’t do package right now.”

  He thrust the package back into her hands. “Just take it already. Lives depend on this,” he added with a meaningful look. A look that said it was her own life that depended on it.

  She rattled the package, her eyes unnaturally large behind the glasses. “What is it? Is it bomb?”

  “No, is not bomb,” he said, mimicking her accent. “It’s just something very important.” He leaned in. “Very important to Master Edwards.”

  A look of fear stole over her face, and she nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. Master Edwards. I will hand over package no problem. Hand over who?”

  “You’ll know her when you see her.”

  “Is woman?”

  “Apparently.”

  Actually he didn’t know himself. All he knew was that his contact had told him he would send his assistant, and she would be dressed in black. But since no one else knew about the package he wasn’t too worried. He pointed a stubby finger at Madame Wu. “Just make sure she gets it, all right?”

  She nodded, tucking the package beneath the counter. “Of course, Philo.”

  And as he stepped from the restaurant, the smell of Chinese food in his nostrils, he shook his head. Used to be that people like Madame Wu wouldn’t dare contradict him, but that was before Master Edwards had fallen ill. The rumor that the old man was on the verge of death was spreading fast, and already his criminal empire was crumbling and his influence waning.

  He crossed the busy street, bright neon lights announcing all manner of Asian food from every corner, and mounted the motorcycle he used to get around London in a hurry. And then he was off, narrowly missing the entry into the Chinese restaurant of a slender woman, all dressed in black.

  It didn’t take him long to race across town to his employer’s house, in the heart of the East End. Master Edwards’s house was located in a gated community, his own people providing protection, and Philo nodded to the guard as he passed. He’d hired him personally. A short drive up the hill led him to the house at the end of the street, which towered over all others. It used to belong to a famous actor in the sixties and was a sprawling mansion with fifty rooms, an underground pool, and cinema where Edwards and his cronies enjoyed watching gangster movies. Or rather, that’s how it used to be.

  He parked his bike in the garage and mounted the stairs, deftly making his way upstairs until he reached the landing and heard the telltale sounds of Master Edwards’s snoring. Entering the bedroom, where the bedridden gang leader was laid up, he wasn’t surprised to find him sound asleep. The moment he flicked on the light, the old man awoke with a start.

  “Philo!” he muttered, blinking against the light. “Is that you?”

  “It is, Master.”

  A look of annoyance crept into the man’s eyes. “Why did you wake me?”

  “Just to tell you that the package is being delivered as we speak.”

  The man’s irritability dwindled. “Good,” he said, settling back against the pillow. “Very good. Let’s just hope the book works as advertised.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  The old man licked his dry lips. “A lot depends on this, Philo. But then I probably don’t need to remind you.”

  No, he didn’t. He’d reminded him plenty of times since the chain of events had been set in motion a fortnight ago.

  “There’s only one small matter left to attend to,” he said.

  Master Edwards, whose eyes had drooped shut, opened them again. “Mh? What’s that?”

  “There’s a witness,” he said. “A young woman by the name of Henrietta McCabre. She’s seen my face and might possibly become a nuisance.”

  “So?” snapped Master Edwards. “Just get it done, Philo. You don’t need my permission to handle such a minor detail.”

  “No, Master,” he said deferentially, though of course he did need the other’s permission. In Master Edwards’s world nothing ever happened without his approval, and most definitely not something of this importance.

  “See to it that she’s silenced, Philo. And make sure nobody sees you this time,” the old man snapped, before closing his eyes once again. Soft snores soon sounded from the bed, and Philo bowed his head and retreated from the bedroom of his employer of twenty-five years. In this, the man’s final days, he wasn’t about to disappoint him. Not if he valued his own life. Henrietta McCabre, whoever she was, would not see her next birthday, he would make sure of that. And as he stalked over to his own room in the mansion, he sat down at the computer to begin an intense study of the life of Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCa
bre. This time, there would be no mistakes. And no witnesses.

  Chapter Four

  Bright and early the next morning, Inspector Darian Watley frowned as he went over the evidence he’d gathered so far in the murder of Sir Geoffrey Buckley. He didn’t have all that much to go on, he admitted ruefully. The crime scene had been squeaky clean, the safe revealing only Sir Buckley’s prints and not even this McCabre woman’s. The blow to the head he’d received had been the cause of death, all right, but of course there was no sign of the murder weapon. According to the coroner what they were looking for was a club of some kind. A heavy blunt object. Either that or someone possessing extraordinary strength.

  Which was one of the reasons it was doubtful Henrietta McCabre was the culprit. She was of slight build and didn’t possess the physical strength to kill a man with a single blow. No, whoever was responsible was probably a powerfully built male. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be an accomplice. His initial theory was that she’d somehow smuggled an associate into the shop, who’d done the dirty work and who’d absconded with the money and whatever other valuables Buckley kept locked up in his safe. At which point she’d called the police herself, so as not to draw suspicion to herself.

  But then why had she left a million pounds in the store till?

  He leaned forward in his chair and went over the CCTV footage his constable had collected. Going backward, it started with McCabre arriving at the store, then traced her movements back along the path she’d traveled until she disappeared from sight for half an hour. Coincidentally or not, she’d traveled to a part of London where no cameras could follow her. The theory was that she’d met someone there, for the cameras had picked her up again half an hour prior to her arrival at the underpass, coming from the store.

  He quickly tracked other footage of cameras around the auspicious area, and to his surprise saw that a motorcycle arrived around the same time McCabre did and left again when she did. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  She’d gone there to meet this mysterious motorcycle man.

  He peered at the screen and started. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  He quickly tapped a key and printed the image of Motorcycle Man. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were implicated in the Buckley murder as well.

  Of course, this presented him with a dilemma. Both McCabre and Motorcycle Man had an obvious alibi for the murder. And the most baffling thing of all: even though Buckley Antiques was covered by a camera from across the street, no one had entered or left the building around the time of the murder. He’d scrolled through the footage up until the time the police arrived, and the murderer was never seen leaving the premises.

  Furthermore, there was no back entrance, nor a window through which the killer could have escaped. They’d checked with the inhabitants of the house sharing the back wall: there was no way to go from one to the other. They’d also checked the apartment above the store, but even there they hadn’t found any manner of egress, not even along the roof of the building. It was, in other words, a real mystery how the killer had left.

  He went over the footage captured around the time of the murder again. The only customer who’d been in the store was a young doctor, but she’d left at three forty-five. They’d interviewed her, and she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. And as Watley scrolled through the footage, he saw Buckley appearing at the door, bidding his final customer goodbye and even helping her carry her packages to her car, which was parked out in front. Then Buckley had retreated into the store, closed the door, and that had been the last time anyone had seen him alive. So whoever the murderer was, he or she had to have been inside, perhaps hiding? But they’d gone over the footage of the past twenty-four hours and everyone who’d entered the store had been seen leaving it at some point. No exception.

  The only lead he had was the suspicious behavior of Henrietta McCabre and her meeting with Motorcycle Man. Those two could perhaps shed some light on the murder, as he was willing to bet they were both involved, as well as a third person, the one who’d actually perpetrated the murder.

  All he had to do was find out why McCabre had gone to that meet.

  And since he didn’t like wasting time, he decided to pay her a visit right now. Rattle the cage a bit. And just when he was shrugging into his overcoat, his phone went, and he picked it up, barking, “Watley.”

  “Inspector Darian Watley?” a gruff voice sounded at the other end.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you’re in charge of the Buckley murder investigation?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Chief Whitehouse. Happy Bays Police Department.”

  Watley frowned. “Who? What?”

  “Whitehouse. I’m chief of police in Happy Bays.” There was a slight pause, then the man went on, “A small town on Long Island. The States.”

  Reluctantly he sat down again. “What can I do for you, Chief Whitehouse?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.

  “I used to work for you guys at Scotland Yard about, oh, ten years ago? I worked under Thaddeus Yaffle at the time. Specialist Operations.”

  “Yaffle retired three years ago.”

  “I know. Good man, Thaddeus. You could always count on him to help you out in a pickle. My wife and I used to join him and his wife at your mother’s dinner parties back in the day. And great parties they were.”

  Watley was starting to wonder if this Whitehouse would ever get to the point. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to my mother’s dinner parties.”

  “Met your dad once or twice. Great man, your dad. Great commissioner.”

  “Dad retired five years ago.”

  “Pity. He was always ready to help out a man in a pickle.”

  This obsession with pickles was starting to irk Darian. “And do you? Find yourself in a pickle, Chief Whitehouse?”

  “Not me personally, but my niece does.”

  “And who is your niece?”

  “Henrietta McCabre. My daughter tells me she’s a suspect.”

  Watley raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Henrietta McCabre is your niece?”

  “That’s right. A very sweet-natured young woman. Absolutely incapable of murder. Or any other mischief for that matter. Which is why I’m calling.”

  If there was one thing Watley hated, it was outsiders butting into his investigation, and that included chiefs of police of small American towns. “Look here, Chief…” he began therefore, his tone not too friendly.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Whitehouse grumbled. “Butt out. I’d say exactly the same thing if I were in your position, Watley. But the fact of the matter is that I promised Harry I’d look after her. My sister and her husband died a couple of years ago, and her only other relatives are in Scotland and the States. And I hate to see Harry in a pickle like this.”

  “Well, that’s entirely up to her now, isn’t it? Nothing I can do about it,” Watley returned. He was getting more and more annoyed. This Little Orphan Annie story might work on other people, but to him it reeked of manipulation.

  “I’m going to ask you straight out, Watley. Is my niece a suspect?”

  “I’m sorry, but as the investigation is still ongoing, I really don’t see how I can disclose anything at this point, not even to a friend of my father.”

  “I see,” said the man thoughtfully. “Then let me put it this way, Inspector. If anything were to happen to my niece, anything at all, I will personally come over there to make sure that the ones responsible will see justice served.”

  Watley gawked at the phone for a moment. Was this guy for real? “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice taking on a steely tone.

  “Well, if the shoe fits…” riposted Whitehouse gruffly.

  “If your niece finds herself in a pickle, I’d say she’s the one responsible. Not me—not anyone else in the Yard—she and she alone!”

  “So she is a suspect?”

  “Of course she’s a suspect!” he yel
led. “She was meeting some guy at the time of the murder and refuses to tell me who he is and why they were meeting. Innocent people don’t refuse to share this kind of information!”

  Even before he’d finished talking, he knew he’d said too much. He was giving this man critical information from his investigation. This odd American who proclaimed to come after anyone who harmed his niece.

  “I see,” grunted Chief Whitehouse. “In that case, I’ll have a word with my niece. I’m going to extract this piece of information from her, Watley, and then I’m going to share it with you. Together we’re going to crack this case!”

  Watley massaged his temple. “Please don’t interfere with my investigation.”

  “Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t. I’m just going to talk to Harry, that’s all. Get her to spill the beans.” He barked a curt laugh. “I like this, Watley. I like this intercontinental cooperation we’ve got going here. Just like old times.”

  “Please. Sir. I really don’t need your help,” he said curtly.

  “You don’t have to thank me, Watley. Just doing what needs to be done!”

  “I’m not thanking you, and nothing needs to be done!” he cried.

  “How would you feel,” the other man rumbled, “if you had an orphaned niece, living all alone in a big city, her boss murdered, and no one around to help her? No family, no job, no future prospects, hounded by the cops…”

  “Hey! I’m not hounding your niece!”

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this and then I’ll get back to you, Watley. Can I call you Darian?”

  “No, you may not!”

  “Great. Just call me Curtis. Much appreciated, Darian. And say hi to your mom and dad, will you? My wife still raves about those dinner parties.”

  “Wait—you can’t do this!”

  “Good day to you, too,” the chief growled, and promptly disconnected.

  Watley stared at his phone. What the hell had just happened? But then he knew exactly what had happened. For some nebulous reason, he’d just been coerced into an intercontinental investigation into the Buckley murder.