Jack put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder again: “Totally understand, Charlie, we really do. Why don’t you head off and we catch up with you … maybe tomorrow? I mean, if need be.”
“Hmm. Well. S’pose so,” said Charlie. “I’m done then?”
Spoken like a man just given a reprieve.
“You’re done.”
Jack watched him shuffle off through the door, then he turned to Ben.
“Saw the hothouse when we arrived,” he said. “How about we chat on the way?”
And as Sarah stepped forward to pull out a couple of chairs, Jack could see that he and Sarah had succeeded in forcing the issue.
The guy though — definitely not happy.
“All right,” said Ben. Then he moved to the door: “But this had better be quick. I don’t get bloody overtime you know.”
Everyone so pleasant on the Brimley staff, Jack thought. What was that all about?
“Catch you later,” said Jack to Sarah.
Then he followed Ben out of the kitchen.
*
Sarah smiled at Sophie. Early 20s, dark hair, dark eyes.
She wondered: what had she and the gardener’s assistant been discussing — more pointedly, arguing about?
“Really appreciate you taking the time to chat with us, you know,” she said. “Especially at the end of your working day.”
“No problem,” said Sophie, looking more at ease now she was on her own.
“And um, sorry if we interrupted anything. Barging in …”
“What do you mean? Oh — that …”
Sarah waited, nodded. A half-smile, maybe enough to prompt Sophie to continue …
“Wasn’t anything important,” said Sophie. “Just talk.” She looked over at the sink, as if for inspiration.
“Ben never washes up. I was having a go at him.”
“Ah. Men often do forget that, hmm?”
Not a convincing liar, thought Sarah. That wasn’t an argument about tea cups.
“You work here in the house?” she said.
“On the archive, yes. Cataloguing.”
“I remember now — Mr Jessop gave us a list of everybody working here. Sophie Scott?”
The girl nodded.
“You came straight from university, yes?”
“Right. Did art history. Got this job straight away. I’m lucky, I guess.”
“Art history? My daughter, Chloe — she’s on her second gap year — she’s been thinking about doing that.”
Sophie nodded but didn’t comment.
Hmm, this is like pulling teeth, thought Sarah.
“So — you enjoying the work here?”
The young woman shrugged. “It’s, um, okay. Not quite what I expected. I thought, working for the Trust, I’d be with loads of people. But there’s just me. And Mr Gibbons.”
“Mr Gibbons — who’s he?”
“My boss. Antiquities expert. But he’s hardly ever here.”
“So, who’s usually around in the day?”
“Well, there’s Clifford. He’s the gardener — doubles up looking after the house when it’s open. Ben too. His helper. Um … but, you know—”
“It’s all right — I understand. Not people you’d normally hang out with.”
“That sounds awful though, doesn’t it?” said Sophie.
“Hey — it’s totally understandable. At your age, you want to be around people you can have fun with. Young. University types. Makes total sense.”
Sarah saw Sophie smile. At last, she thought.
“How about Ben? You get on with him? Apart from the washing up issues?”
“Oh sure, yeah,” said Sophie, laughing. “No, he’s totally okay, Ben, he’s done some cool stuff. And Clifford, you know, he’s fine — but like, he’s as old as my grandad!”
“It must be a bit lonely out here for you.”
Sarah saw Sophie blink — as if that thought, expressed by a stranger, had suddenly pierced her armour a bit.
“Maybe,” she said. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About six months.”
“Quite a tough job too — I mean, the place is a bit topsy-turvy isn’t it? Crammed with stuff. And your job … getting it all down on paper?”
“Tell me about it. No one’s ever listed what’s in here. And it’s not just what’s in the rooms that are open — there’s other rooms full of boxes too. Packed.”
“So, what exactly do you do? I mean, I know you’re cataloguing it all — but how do you do it?”
“Got an office next door. Slowly working my way through the exhibition rooms. I list and photograph everything. Research what I can online. Do my own estimates, but also email all the info weekly to Mr Gibbons for a proper valuation.”
“You said he doesn’t actually work here?”
“Ha, no way! He’s got a nice little office in Oxford. Won’t catch him on his knees taking photos of Victorian toys and old suits of armour! He has meetings and takes people to lunch.”
“Nice work if you can get it, hmm?”
The girl grinned again.
“I could handle that — you know?”
Sophie laughed, and Sarah laughed with her.
Under this hard exterior she’s a nice kid, she thought. Wonder why she makes out she’s not?
“And all this stuff you’re researching … some of it must be valuable?”
“Ha! You have got to be kidding,” said Sophie. “I mean, sure, it’s got a kind of crazy rarity value — but it’s not like the place is full of amazing art!”
“You’d prefer that? Work somewhere that had really good pieces?”
“Course. That’s what I trained to do.”
“Guess you have to start somewhere.”
“Punishment posting? That’s what my mum calls it.”
Sarah laughed.
“You local?”
“No way. East Finchley. London.”
“Ah. So where do you stay? You got a flat here?” said Sarah. “Looks like there are loads of different buildings on the estate.”
“No, I live in Cherringham. Well, I’m sharing with Karl, my boyfriend. He’s got a house there.”
“Ah okay. You drive in every day?”
“Karl gives me a lift. Or if he can’t, I get the bus. Then walk.”
“What about Ben? Does he drive in?”
That gave her pause.
A subtle shift with the question about Ben.
“Um, I don’t know.”
“He hasn’t got a car?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so.”
“So he must live locally.”
“Maybe.”
Again, hesitation.
“You don’t know where he lives?”
Sarah saw Sophie freeze for a second, as if deciding whether to tell the truth or not.
“He hasn’t said. I mean — we don’t really talk that much. You know — about personal stuff.”
Sarah heard Sophie’s phone ping. She waited while the young woman took it out, swiped the screen.
“We going to be much longer?” said Sophie. “Only, Karl will be here in a minute to pick me up.”
“Just a couple more questions, Sophie, then we’ll be done. Really appreciate the help you’re giving.”
Even though much of it was not ringing true.
Something curious here, Sarah thought.
But what?
6. In the Hothouse
Jack followed Ben into the enormous glass hothouse, the steamy, moist air hitting him like a wall.
He looked around. The building must have been fifty yards long and half as wide, filled with tall wide-leaved plants, giant succulents, orchids, ferns.
Jack didn’t know a lot about such things, but it all looked pretty exotic.
Like suddenly stepping into a tropical rain forest. Clearly old Brimley’s habit of acquiring oddities had extended to bringing back plants from his travels abroad.
J
ack unzipped his Harrington jacket and hung it on a hook by the door.
The walk from the house had been silent, Ben leading the way at route-march speed.
Now he watched as the grim young man rolled an old rusty wheelbarrow into the narrow aisle between plants and picked up a broom.
“I haven’t got time to stop,” said Ben.
“No problem,” said Jack, following Ben as he turned and started sweeping cuttings from the floor between the raised beds.
“You trained as a gardener, Ben?”
“What do you mean?”
Hmm, prickly …
“Place like this — I’m guessing you have to know your way round all the plants, species.”
Ben lifted a pile of leaves and dumped the into the wheelbarrow: “You kidding? I’m just the bloody hired hand. Clifford — he’s the guy knows what he’s doing. I just dig. Clear up. Do what I’m told.”
“I’m sure it’s more than that” said Jack, smiling. “You like it here?”
“It’s okay.”
“Better than London?”
“Different.”
“How’d you get the job?”
Ben stopped for a moment.
Not liking these questions at all.
“What does that mean?” said Ben and turned around. “How does a guy like me get a ‘dream’ job like this?”
Jack shrugged. He also adjusted his tone. “It means exactly what I said, okay? How did you get the job. Did you apply to the Trust? To the house? Did you know Clifford? Or maybe Jessop? Did you get offered the job at a Job Centre in London? It means all of those things, Ben. That’s all. Nothing more. Got it?”
He watched Ben taking this in. Then he nodded, as if some question of his own had been answered by Jack’s reply.
“Beginning of the summer, I was in the area, walking. Hiking. Just to get out of the city. You know — the Cotswold Way — up on the ridge there? Picked up a local paper. Saw the ad. Came over, talked to Clifford, did a trial day. He hired me on the spot. I never even went back to London. Mate sent along my stuff.”
“You like it here?”
“It’s okay.”
“You found a place to stay?”
“Why you wanna know that?”
More pushback.
And Jack responded in kind.
“There was a fire. So — I want to know who lives on the estate, and who doesn’t. Who was here that night? Who saw what?”
“Who might have started it, you mean?”
“Hmm? Nobody’s talking about the fire being deliberate.”
“Yet.”
“You think it was?”
“Look. I’m just the guy that helps the gardener. What do I know?”
“That how it is for you? Really?”
Jack watched him, trying to work out if Ben’s aggressive attitude was real or just a pose. Then he saw Ben laugh and shrug.
“Okay, got me. No, it’s not like that. Fact — to be honest — I like it here.”
Jack nodded. “So back to the first question. You got a place to stay?”
“Part of the deal. Back of the hothouse, there’s a shed. Clifford let me put a bed in. Table. Chairs.”
“Sounds pretty spartan.”
“Sure. But you know what? It’s also free.”
“Trust know about it?”
“No way,” said Ben. Then he stopped and looked directly at Jack. “And I’d appreciate it staying that way.”
“Sure.”
Jack picked up the broom: “Can I help?”
“Thanks.”
So as Ben pushed the wheelbarrow, Jack went ahead, brushed the leaves into piles for him to gather.
*
Sarah watched Sophie climb into her boyfriend’s old Ford Escort and drive off, back to Cherringham.
The boyfriend: a face she recognised from the village; early-twenties, surly, silent.
Not someone she would have paired with an art history graduate.
She thought back to her chat with Sophie.
The young woman didn’t know much about the fire. She’d left work at the usual time, got the bus home, came in the next day to find all the mess.
It hadn’t surprised her — she’d seen the lights in the house flicker every day or two, and talked to Clifford about the old wiring. In fact, she’d even emailed Mr Jessop with her worries about the safety of the building.
Sophie had said that Jessop had acknowledged her email and told her not to worry, things would soon be sorted.
Mr Jessop needs to be careful, thought Sarah. It’s beginning to sound like the blame for this fire could be laid at his door.
She looked over at the hothouse. She could see Jack and Ben together, chatting.
Best not disturb them.
She checked her phone. A few emails from Grace, which she dealt with quickly, though with the usual bad mobile coverage it took a while for the mails to go.
Then she took out the file from her handbag which Jessop had given them and looked down the list of employees. Who else to talk to? Clifford the gardener — but it was getting late and she guessed he might have already gone home.
Funny, there was absolutely nothing in the file about Peregrine Brimley, the last surviving Brimley heir. Charlie had said he lived on a farm nearby, though he’d never met him.
Sarah walked over into the centre of the empty car park, looked around the estate. Just half a mile away, across the valley, she could see a small farmhouse — and a figure working in the field next to it.
Could that be Brimley?
Only one way to find out.
She set off across the field to the farm.
*
“So, where were you the night of the fire?” said Jack, leaning against the side of the tiny shed that Ben seemed to have made his home.
Helping Ben with the clean-up seemed to have put the man at ease, but still …
“Wanna try and say that without it sounding like you’re accusing me?” said Ben, shaking his head, serious again.
Jack smiled. Hoping to disarm the question.
“I’m asking everyone. Up to them how they take the question.”
He watched Ben sigh.
“You won’t believe me, anyway.”
“Try me.”
“All right. I was in here. On that bed—”
He pointed in through the door to the dark space that had a camp bed up against one wall.
“Asleep.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“Not till the sirens came.”
“Didn’t see anybody?”
“Got up. Saw Charlie running around in the car park. Otherwise — just firemen and police.”
“You go and help?”
“You kidding? I came back here. Stayed out the way, mate.”
“So, nothing odd? Suspicious? Out of the ordinary? I mean, except for the fire of course.”
Jack watched Ben think about this.
“Okay. One thing …”
“Go on.”
“That old bloke — Brimley …?”
“The collector?”
“No, not the dead one. The grandson or whatever the hell he is. The nutter who’s got the farm up on the hill …”
“Peregrine Brimley?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Well, I saw him. Watching the fire.”
“Where?”
“In the car park. Edge of it anyway, in the trees by the front gate.”
“And he didn’t come and help? Or come closer?”
“Nah. Just watched. Kinda weird.”
“You sure it was him?”
Ben nodded. “Pretty sure. Month back I had to go get some fertiliser from him. He made me a cup of tea. I chucked it away when he wasn’t looking. Milk was well off.”
“Did he see you — the night of the fire?”
“Nah. I was back there, away from all the lights, the fire.”
Jack thought about this. Jessop hadn’t mentioned Brimley or anyone as a witness.
Maybe nobody had talked to him yet. He turned back to Ben.
“Ben, thanks for this. One more, if I could. You got any theories about the fire?”
“Nope,” said Ben. “On principle.”
“Principle?”
“Simple life, mind my own business, stay out of trouble. Theories equal trouble. That’s me.”
Jack nodded, grinning. “Hear you. Good principles, for sure.”
He turned to go.
“Thanks for talking, Ben.”
“No problem.”
“Um — might be back tomorrow. Need chat to Clifford. What time’s he in?”
“In summer he gets in early, especially when the house is open. Six, seven.”
“Have a good evening then,” said Jack. And he turned and headed back to the main house to look for Sarah.
What’s Ben hiding?
And what’s making him so angry?
7. The Heir, Apparently
Sarah found that the footpath to the farm was well worn. Maybe used by local dog-walkers, or hikers heading up onto the Cotswold Way.
As she got closer, she could see the cottage and surrounding property, a small patch of farmland. Closer to the house there was what looked like a rickety chicken coop, and next to it, a pen with a scattering of pigs.
Not much of a farm, she thought.
She stopped for a moment, and looked back at Brimley Manor. Not far away at all; this small house could originally have been for tenant farmers, or maybe a place rented to caretakers who worked at the manor.
Certainly not intended to be the home of the lone heir to the Brimley fortune. Well … maybe not fortune, but the Brimley name at least.
As she continued her walk up the path, she had the feeling that this was — based on what she had seen of the Brimley “collection” — about to be an odd chat.
Exactly how odd, she was about to find out.
*
The cottage’s front door was painted a chocolate brown like the cottage itself, the windows all grimly masked by wooden shutters.
Such a beautiful evening, a perfect sunset … but whoever was inside clearly wanted no part of it.
Sarah was no more than a few yards away from the door when it flew open — then, just as quickly, slammed shut.
A man dressed in a powder-blue blazer, matching trousers, and a crisp white shirt — not a look she had expected — stormed out.
The man, taking broad steps as he shook his head, face grimacing, was certainly not pleased about something.
Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor Page 4
