“Which would they prefer?” Mills wondered. “To own it themselves to have a new baron or baroness in place.”
“It would have to be someone they knew,” I said. “But as far as we can tell, it’s only Lavinia, Teddy and Sara.”
“There might be other family members,” Mills said. “Ones that visit every now and then, holidays and such.”
“Who knows,” I sighed, finishing my meal and pushing the plate away, picking up my coffee and taking a long sip. It was nearly cold, so I downed it in a few mouthfuls, putting the empty mug down on the plate.
“We do know that it’s someone, or several someone’s, who are invested in the business. To the extent that they’d kill for it, which to me means that it’s definitely a local. I don’t think someone from Riggs’s own past followed him up here with the mind of seeing him off, do you?”
“Nope. At least that narrows down our suspects,” Mills said, finishing his drink. “And it means we don’t have to go to Devon.”
“A plus,” I added, with no offence to Devon. “A local, invested in the estate, let’s say, who’s strong enough to take down Riggs and move a body.”
“Rules out some of the older folks,” Mills muttered.
I drummed my fingers against the desk, contemplating. Anyone from the inn could be the ones we’re looking for. Anyone from the farm or the surrounding shops relies heavily on the estate to bring income and tourism. They’d lose a lot of money, I realised, without that appeal to being in people from around the globe. If I had to put money on it, I’d say that they wanted to keep things going the way they were going and had gone. The estate being owned by the Flitting family, with one of them at the helm. But if that person wasn’t the baroness, wasn’t Teddy or his wife, then who the hell was it, and did they know it would be them?
“Let’s get back to the station,” I said, pushing up from the table and yanking my coat on. “I want to work through these thoughts without worrying about an audience.”
“You have something?” Mills asked, hopping to his feet.
“I got thinking about the heir, if not Teddy and Sara, who would inherit? Maybe they want to make sure that they do.”
Mills’s face lit up, and he grabbed his coat, swinging his arms in and narrowly missing hitting Billie in the face as she slipped over, clearing the table.
“You look excited,” she commented, spraying the table down.
“I think we’ve got something,” I told her.
“See? You should come here more often.”
“We’re here all the time,” Mills replied. “I’m surprised there’s not a picture of us up on a wall somewhere.”
“She’ll do that now you’ve given her the idea,” I told him grumpily, looking at the expression of mischief on Billie’s face. I’d take it over the gloom, though.
“Good luck,” she said simply. I pulled my keys from my pocket and reached out, giving her a quick hug before I had time to think about it, then turned and strode away, Mills hurrying after me.
We jumped into the car, the engine revving to life.
“There’s got to be a way to track down who the heir would be,” I said, steering us away from the kerb. “A family tree we can get access to or something.”
“Always is,” Mills assured me. “But if this is the motive here, does that mean the baroness or Sara are safe?”
“Give them a call, ask them to stay in the house,” I said. “They should both be safe in there.”
“Safe together?”
I sighed. “The baroness might not be crazy about her daughter-in-law, but I don’t think she’d outright kill the girl in her own house. She loves her son too much to do that to him,” I added.
Mills nodded and pulled his phone, searching for the right number. I turned the radio down so that he could relay our message quietly and firmly, giving them no reason to panic.
I kept my eyes glued on the road, the rain that pattered down and trailed across the windows. An actual lead for this case was in sight, and I was not about to let it slip away, no chance. Someone was willing to kill for that estate. Willing to kill a stranger over it, purely because of a conversation he overheard, and there wouldn’t be many people who fit that description.
We could find the distant relation, narrow down our list of suspects and hopefully, if Wasco was as brilliant as he claimed, get some more intel from Riggs himself that would give us the perfect window of time. It seemed as if the facts were on our side, at long last, and I didn’t want to waste a single second.
Twenty-Three
She was running a bit behind; the others would be there now, waiting for her. She wasn’t sure why they were meeting. Surely they didn’t think to try again? After the whole mess with the soldier and the detectives that kept scoping around the village, trying again seemed foolish, seemed downright idiotic if anybody asked her, not that anybody would.
They had been here again today, the detectives. She’d spotted them from up on the hill a few hours ago; they’d been by the river, diving in. She wondered if they found anything or if there was anything to be found. They didn’t see her up there, watching them from afar and part of her hoped that they had. Hoped that she could be pulled out of this nonsense. She’d felt sick for days, ever since the incident with the soldier happened, barely holding food down, barely looking people in the eye. None of this was meant to have happened, she knew, and she just hoped that they did as well, and they’d find a way to put her out of her misery.
It was already getting dark outside, and it was freezing, so she wrapped her coat around herself and pulled a hat over her head as she hurried out of the house, pulling the front door quietly shut behind. The village was empty at this time of day, and people weren’t really in the mood for milling about late anyway, not with everything that had happened. Their own villagers, feeling unsafe, that certainly wasn’t meant to have happened. Hopefully, there was a way to fix it. She liked to think that there was, however naïve and foolish that might make her. Not the Inspector though, the others had made that clear. He was not the way to fix it, not in their books anyway. She wasn’t so sure. He seemed a reasonable man, and he’d probably be able to help her.
But she couldn’t make any rash decisions. She hurried along the road to find out what it was exactly that they wanted to talk about, what they wanted to do. To be honest, she wasn’t even that sure why they wanted her there; they didn’t listen to her last time, and they wouldn’t listen to her now. She didn’t want to argue though, she was involved whether she liked it or not, and she had to see it through to the end.
Her way was lit by a few dim streetlights and the glowing windows of houses that she walked past. Nobody spotted her, scurrying up the winding paths to where they were meeting, and she doubted that any would think twice about it if they had. She was always taking this back road around the village, it was the fastest.
The wind pulled at her hair, danced cold across her cheeks, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She went up the gently sloping hill to the familiar building on the corner. None of the front lights was on, so she snuck round to the side door, where the outside light had been left on, attracting a few moths that danced about above her head. She’d never minded moths all that much, always felt a little sorry for them if anything. They were basically butterflies only with a not as nice reputation. Poor, fuzzy little things.
The door was unlocked, and she pushed inside, kicking it shut behind her. She was in the process of pulling off some of her layers since the building was nicely warmed when one of the others wandered into the room, looking her over and tapping her foot impatiently. Her hat and coat off, she followed her old friend through to the kitchen, where the others had gathered around the table. A mug was passed into her hands as she took a seat in the corner and watched it all unfurl.
“I think we can all agree,” the man started off. “That this was something of a failure.”
“Something of a failure?” the woman repeated. “It wa
s a disaster.”
“A soldier’s dead,” the girl reminded them.
“And if he wasn’t, he’d have ratted us out,” the man retorted.
“We’re ratted out anyway,” the woman said before refilling her mug. “Or have you not noticed the policemen that have been snooping about these past few days?”
“Aye, I’ve noticed them,” the man pushed his hair back from his face. “Question is, what do we do next?”
They all sat there silently, staring into their mugs.
“What are our options?” the girl asked.
“We can do nothing,” the woman said. “And wait for the police to track us down, anyway.”
“They will track us down unless we up and move to Paraguay or some other such nonsense,” the man shook his head. “But shall we be tracked down for what we did do or what we failed to do?”
The girl frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean finishing what we started.”
“Then they’ll definitely track us down,” the woman pointed out.
“They’re doing it, anyway. I had a look into that chap, Inspector Thatcher, and to be quite frank, I don’t like our odds. We might as well do what we set out to do and have our peace with it.”
The girl grimaced and propped her legs up, cradling her knees. That didn’t bode well. The woman didn’t look so sure either, her lips pursed, one knee jogging in place as she looked the man over.
“Killing two people?” she asked, eventually.
“You want to save this place, or don’t you?” the man asked, slamming his hand down on the table. “We’re in trouble anyway, so we might as well get into trouble for what we wanted to get in trouble for, anyway!” The woman still didn’t look convinced because the man added. “We can run for it afterwards if you want. But this whole thing was your idea as much as it was mine.”
The woman nodded at long last, playing with her shirt collar. She spoke up then, but the girl wasn’t sure what she said from over in her corner. The pair of them then turned and looked at her.
“What are your thoughts?” The woman asked her, her face sympathetic.
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” the girl replied. “I never did.”
“We know that,” the man looked impatient, “but will you sell us out?”
“She hasn’t so far,” the woman reminded him.
He looked the girl over appraisingly. “You know we’re right about all of this.”
“She can’t be involved any more than she is,” the woman put in. “You know she can’t. We’ll finish this off, she keeps our secret, but there’ll be no blood on her hands. We can’t all three of us go to jail, her especially.”
The man grimaced but nodded. “Very well. Are you agreed, girl?”
Her stomach twisted into knots. She was not, not at all. She wanted to go back home and crawl under her blanket and stay there and never leave. Or move to Paraguay. But she saw the way that they were looking at her, and she nodded.
The woman looked relieved and gave her a warm smile. “Good. So, what’s the plan?”
“We need to get her alone, of course,” the man answered.
“They’re both up in the house,” the woman told them both. “So that’s no favour to us, is it?”
“We need to lure Sara out then,” the man said. “Get her out of the house so that they’re both alone. Keeps her out of it then too.”
The woman nodded. “How do we do that? Get her to the inn?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“How?” the girl found herself asking. The others looked down at their mugs, faces twisted with thought. The woman reached up, scratching her head, and the girl felt her spirit’s lift. If they wouldn’t find a way to do it, maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe she could forget all of this at last.
“We could do some sort of memorial for the soldier chap,” the man said suddenly. “Get her to come and give it her seal of approval, then just make her stay however long we need to.”
The woman nodded. “Sounds reasonable. I can sort out a memorial.” She turned to look at the girl again. “You’ll give me a hand?”
No, the girl said in her own head. No, no, no, no, thank you.
But again, she found herself staring at the woman’s stern eyes and nodding. Her own eyes lined with tears, and she bent her head to her mug, hoping that the steam would mask them. Stupid girl for getting caught up in this. Should have moved away, gone to the city, gone to university or something. But she couldn’t have left, that wasn’t right. Her throat felt thick, like she’d swallowed a large, uncomfortable stone, and she sipped her tea, hoping it might help.
It didn’t.
“We have a plan then.” The man caught her attention. “Best get to work before it gets too dark.” He drained the rest of his tea, then stood up from the table and rested his hand on the woman’s shoulder. She stood up too, grabbing her coat from the hook behind her. The girl left half of her tea there to grow cold, unable to swallow much more and slipped from her chair, pulling her coat and hat back on, hands shaking, legs feeling weak.
One more night, she told herself, and then she would be done. Done with the old sodding lot. She didn’t want to, though. Killing the lady seemed extreme, really, and she’d never been anything but sweet to her. Too late to switch back now, though, she supposed, she knew too much. She had made her bed, and now she was to lie in it.
She had never been particularly religious, but as they left the building and made their way to the road, her eyes found the church spire in the distance, and she looked at it for as long as she could see it before it vanished behind some trees.
It would be an accident, a proper one this time. A slip in the bath. The memorial was set up, and the woman called the big house as the girl started meddling with some flowers, arranging vases. It was all set up, ready to go. The man had joined them, hanging about in the kitchen, and so all they had to do was wait.
They weren’t waiting long, soon Sara Graham came and went to see the memorial, as kind as ever, talking for a bit about Teddy and the baroness, and guilt and nausea built up in the girl’s guts. They were up there for some time, talking, and the girl made herself busy, folding and unfolding, cleaning things that were already clean. The woman came back down, her face flushed, and she waved her over.
They snuck into the kitchen, the door shoved shut behind them, and the man rose to his feet.
“Well?” he asked.
“We talked, I asked about Lord Teddy, and that pulled a few strings. Convinced her to stay here, to get some weight off her shoulders. She’s just drawing the bath.”
“We’re good to go then?” the man asked before rubbing his hands together in a way that made the girl feel sick.
“We are,” the woman confirmed, a slight flicker of doubt on her face. Too late now, the girl knew. Far too late now.
Upstairs, the lady in question watched as the bath filled up, the smell of roses filling the air, the mirror steaming up. She hadn’t planned to stay here, should probably be home as instructed, but the whole estate was her home really, and a night of peace and seclusion never hurt anyone. There was even a glass of wine for her, though she’d had a few at dinner already. Maybe she shouldn’t have, as she wobbled a little on her feet, taking a seat on the toilet as she waited for the bath to fill enough for her to climb in. In the room, everything was ready. The curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, a clean and fluffy dressing gown laid out on the bed. It was excellent treatment.
She peeled off her clothes and sank into a warm, deep bath, breathing in the heavenly scent, her head tipped back against the cold edge of the tub. She’d pinned her hair up out of her face, and her toes peeked out from the water. The lady smiled to herself, picking up the cold glass of wine. This place really was rather lovely, all told.
In the grand house, the baroness walked from the dining room to her parlour on her own, a glass of whiskey in her hand. It was more than she usually drank, but she needed it today. What with all
the business in the village of the dead soldier and her own dear Teddy suffering in hospital. She’d sent Brown away, giving him the evening off, so now she walked around, making sure that doors and windows were closed and locked, curtains drawn, and lights turned on in the rooms she usually occupied.
It wasn’t the nicest thing, being alone in the house, but she’d make do. She’d drink her whiskey, have a nice long bath and an early night and then she would be right as rain tomorrow. An evening of relaxation, she thought, pulling a curtain closed. It was getting dark outside already, the sky streaked with sunset, and soon she wouldn’t be able to see much out there, anyway. She stroked a dog’s head as she walked past, heading up the stairs to the bathroom and turned on the taps for the bath.
The man said that they had to wait for the right opportunity. Let her drink a bit more, let her relax fully. He said it would be easy enough to do, and once it was done, they were to call an ambulance. It wouldn’t get here on time, of course, but it would help to take the heat off them. The girl was fairly certain that they were up to their armpits in heat by now, but she didn’t argue. Didn’t know how to argue. It was all going ahead. The lady was alone, relaxing without a care in the world, and they were down here, in the kitchen, figuring out the best way to make it happen.
The man had made sure that she was paying attention, that she was as involved as they were up to a certain point. She felt sick and clammy and worthless. There had to be something she could do, she wasn’t sure what, but something. Her mind went to the Inspector. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a scowl on his face, but his grey eyes, when they were focused on her, were kind. He would do something. She knew he would, him and the handsome sergeant.
She had to do something.
Twenty-Four
Thatcher
I’d never really been one for delving into old records and censuses. Frankly, I’d always lacked the patience more than anything, but thankfully Mills had the right mentality for such work. Once we got back to the station, we headed upstairs and got to work on finding out if there was another relation who would inherit the estate if Teddy and Sara weren’t there. I was not looking forward to sloughing through document after document, and a small part of my brain was still focused on Billie, on the struggle she was currently having. But I couldn’t do anything about that now, not until this case was wrapped up, and even then, Billie would only talk to me when she was good and ready.
Buried With Honours: A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thriller Page 19
