Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor

by Matthew Costello

  “Well, wow!” Jack said. “Does that ever look and smell good.”

  Sarah saw Sam — so proud of his cooking — grin from ear to ear at that. “Hopefully, Jack, it tastes good as well.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Duck looks magnificent as ever,” Sarah said.

  And now she saw Sam put an arm around his wife. The stress of running such a high-end place — only a few servers and one sous chef to help — had to put strains on any relationship.

  Strains that — more than once — Sarah and Jack had helped overcome.

  Good to see them, in this moment, together, with that reassuring hug.

  “Enjoy,” Sam said, and it felt as if he almost got vicarious pleasure from the meals about to be consumed.

  He was, for a small village like Cherringham, an amazing chef.

  Sarah watched the owners return to the kitchen then turned back to Jack.

  “The hothouse, you were about to say?”

  Jack nodded, and continued, as he took up the first forkful of risotto, a scallop speared at the end.

  *

  “That’s it. The hothouse had plants that — well — have you ever been to the Caribbean?”

  “I wish.”

  “Gorgeous place. And the plants on the different islands, the varieties of hibiscus, the orchids, the colour … no place on earth like it. Guess grandfather Brimley brought those plants here. Outside of a botanical garden, they have to be amazing rarities, especially in England!”

  Sarah sliced off a bit of the duck with skin. Duck could be tricky, by turns greasy, or, if cooked too long, dry. This — perfection.

  “More of Brimley’s passion for collecting?”

  “Clearly. But, here’s the thing, it actually made me see the old, long-gone guy in a different light.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Having this passion for amazing objects in the world, whether a suit of Japanese armour or a rare orchid—”

  “Or a weird doll from the house on Haunted Hill?”

  Jack laughed. “Yeah, okay. Still, um, loopy. But — got to tell you — the plants in there? Being really well taken care of, too. One wrong move, and I imagine they’d vanish overnight. Impressive.”

  “So, you got Ben to finally talk — about the fire — by helping him?”

  “Got down — brushed up some clippings. And, yeah, he had been hostile but that’s when he finally told me about seeing Peregrine Brimley, right outside. Hiding. Watching the fire.”

  “Hmm. Certainly suspicious.”

  “Well, having met Mr Brimley with you, doubt he could not act suspicious. But, yeah, Brimley lied.”

  “And you really believe Ben? Even while you doubt his whole story of how he came here?”

  That gave Jack pause. “I do. Don’t think the guy would lie if he thought he might be caught in that lie. God — this risotto. So good. I hope this place never goes away.”

  “Me too.”

  “And that’s about it. So far. And I guess I saw all you gleaned from your encounter with Brimley, right?”

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to surprise.

  “Well, no. Actually, I ran into someone else. Coming out of his cottage. In fact, at first I thought it was Brimley.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A valuer — name of Guy Gibbons. Sophie told me about him. And guess what? He seemed to be hiding something as well.”

  Jack put his fork down for a moment.

  “Do tell.”

  And Sarah filled him in on what she had learned bumping into Guy Gibbons.

  *

  Meals done, the restaurant empty, Sam and Julie in the back, cleaning up.

  Jack guessed … no worries if they lingered a bit. Digesting not just the food but the information they shared.

  And, more importantly, making plans.

  “Okay. So, what do we have? Gibbons representing the Trust in pushing back against Brimley’s claim to — somehow — take back more of the estate.”

  “Brimley himself, clearly on edge — certainly harbouring a big grudge.”

  “Ben suspiciously just showing up,” said Sarah, taking a sip of her coffee. “And, let’s not forget, some connection with Sophie Scott.”

  “Aha, yes, the young researcher working for Gibbons. You think she’s been involved in some slightly more … unorthodox research up at the manor house?”

  Sarah laughed. “After talking to her? I’d put money on it. One minute she knows everything about Ben — next minute doesn’t know where he sleeps or how he gets to work.”

  “And then there’s that little argument we overheard.”

  “No way was that about the washing up!”

  “You say you got a glimpse of her boyfriend from the village?” said Jack.

  “I did,” said Sarah. “Know him from somewhere, just can’t quite place him. Name’s Karl. Not one of Chloe’s crowd, I’m sure, but maybe her year … or close?”

  “Ah — how is the prodigal daughter, by the way?” said Jack, pouring himself another herbal tea and looking enviously at Sarah’s cup.

  Times like this, he thought, I’d give anything to have an espresso again.

  Sarah laughed. “Well, she’s living in the same house as me and Daniel — I think — but I hardly see her.”

  “Still doing that temp job, waiting to go to uni?”

  “Waiting? Hmm, I’m not so sure. Think she likes earning money. Being independent. Uni might never happen. If I see her this week maybe I’ll ask her.”

  Jack laughed. “Guess you could leave her a note on the kitchen table?”

  “Ever come across a guy called Karl? Oh … and, Chloe? Are you going to live here forever?”

  “Second thoughts, maybe not,” said Jack, smiling.

  He watched Sarah close her notebook and sit back.

  “So what next?” she said. “Maybe there’s no crime here. Maybe we’re chasing thin air.”

  Jack nodded. “The house itself, a firetrap for sure. But think there is something off about it, beyond the wiring.”

  “Yeah. Remember Charlie saying he thought he was sometimes being watched?”

  “Course, that might be the whisky talking. Up close, you can tell he likes an on-the-job nip now and then.”

  “And Jessop? Anything strange there?”

  Jack looked away.

  Jessop also had the aura of someone hiding something.

  “Don’t know. Still find it unusual that he came to us. He’s already got a fire report. And we’re no specialists. But, well, maybe our price is right.”

  “Whatever that will be. So … plans?”

  “Think you can work some of your web wizardry tonight? See what you can learn about the house’s history, get plans—”

  “Sure. That’s easy. But also, I can try to dig into Ben’s story. Is he everything he claims? And Sophie too. There’s something bothering me about how easily she got taken on by the Conservation Trust.”

  “Funny, that. Like all she and Ben had to do was just turn up, and the perfect jobs fell into their laps.”

  “How about you?” said Sarah. “You heading back to the boat?”

  “Oh, I’m going to stay in the village for a bit. Go visit Ben’s boss, Clifford. Ben said he drinks at the Ploughman’s, every night, regular as clockwork.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to see him at the estate tomorrow?”

  “No. Just a hunch that I might get more insight if we have a chat over a pint. Someone taking such great care of those flowering plants? That’s an interesting gardener.”

  “One other thing, Jack. Sorry, actually two. Maybe a chat with Pete Bull? About any electrical incidents at the manor that he had to deal with?”

  “Yup. Been thinking that too. And the other idea?”

  “We passed on it earlier. But, I think — given what you told me about that room on the top floor — we should see the other rooms, on the undamaged side of the house.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Never
know. Might tell us nothing.”

  And at that Sarah laughed. “And how many times, Detective Brennan have we said those very words?”

  “And suddenly found ourselves getting lucky. Shall we get going? You want a lift down the hill?”

  “I’m fine, Jack. Walk will do me good.”

  Jack stood up. “Sam, Julie — great as usual.”

  He saw the two owners both wave from the kitchen, and Jack followed Sarah out, the early autumn air having turned very cool.

  Beautiful night in Cherringham.

  The two of them had a lot to do — so much to dig into — over the next twenty-four hours.

  Jack wondered would any of it lead … anywhere?

  11. Ask and You Will Find

  Jack pushed open the door of the Ploughman’s and looked around. He rarely came in here during the week and was surprised to see how empty the place was.

  In the far corner: a bunch of students, who looked like they were making their pints last as long as possible. Up at the bar: a few locals, a couple of whom recognised Jack and gave him a welcome half-wave.

  And the rest: just a scattering of solitary souls who clearly preferred a drink on their own to sitting in front of the TV at home.

  So which one is Clifford the gardener? thought Jack.

  He went up to the bar, nodded to Billy Leeper the landlord.

  “Usual, Jack?”

  “Please, Billy.”

  He watched Billy take a pint glass and pull on the ancient wooden pump. One, two, three pulls — and there was Jack’s glass, full of foaming English ale.

  An acquired taste — and so unlike his usual Bud back in Brooklyn.

  But here, in this English village, it just seemed the right thing to drink.

  Billy slid the pint across the bar and took Jack’s money.

  “Hey, Billy. Looking for a fella named Clifford,” said Jack. “Gather he drinks up here of an evening?”

  “Clifford Nailor? Works up at Brimley?”

  “That’s the one,” said Jack.

  Billy seemed to consider this for a minute.

  “That there’s Clifford,” he said, nodding to a white-haired man who sat in the corner, looking down intently at a newspaper, pencil in hand.

  “Cheers, Billy.”

  Jack picked up his pint and headed over.

  *

  As he approached, he could see that Clifford was doing the crossword — so engrossed that he didn’t notice Jack.

  “Mr Nailor?”

  “That’s me,” said Clifford, barely looking up.

  “Jack Brennan.”

  Then, a slight tilt upward.

  “Aha. The man from the Trust.”

  “Not exactly,” said Jack. “More like — helping them out.”

  “And you want to ask me some questions?”

  Jack smiled. Clifford Nailor was on the ball, no doubt about that.

  “If I may,” said Jack.

  “You may. On one condition, mind.”

  “Go on.”

  “How’s your Greek myths?”

  “Pretty good — for a yank.”

  “Excellent. Today’s crossword — full of the buggers. Got me stumped. So, we’ll finish this then you can ask me your questions. Deal?”

  “Deal,” said Jack, smiling.

  Then he nodded towards Clifford’s nearly-empty glass: “Since we’re going to be a while — can I get you a refill?”

  “Trust paying or you paying?”

  “Oh, Trust paying, I think. Eventually.”

  “Pint of Hooky will do very nicely.”

  “Pint of Hooky it is.”

  And Jack headed back to the bar, thinking That year at college reading the classics … maybe it’s finally going to pay off.

  *

  Sarah put the little teapot of chamomile tea on a tray with a proper cup and saucer, and walked out of the kitchen into her office — “CSI Central” as Jack called it way back when she first moved into the cottage. Her “safe space” for detective work, out of the way of her two kids.

  Course, these days the kids were hardly around, so she rarely needed to close the door when she was at work.

  As she sat down at her computer, she saw Digby, her spaniel, shuffle in and make himself comfortable on the sofa behind her with a loud sigh.

  “Not bedtime yet, Digby, sorry.”

  She turned on the main computer and took out her notebook. Then poured her first cup of chamomile tea and sat back in her big leather office chair.

  “So — what’s going to be first, Digby? Find the plans for the manor house? Or dig a little deeper into our mysterious gardener from London? We mustn’t forget the oh-so-lucky arts graduate Sophie, must we?”

  But when she turned back she saw that Digby was already asleep.

  “Okay. Sophie it is then,” she said, turning back to her keyboard and getting to work.

  *

  “Sisyphus! That’s the fella!” said Clifford, leaning forward to fill in the clue in the crossword. “Funny, how you knew him.”

  “Times I think he and I have a lot in common,” said Jack.

  “Ha, you and me both,” said Clifford, smiling.

  Jack watched the gardener fold the newspaper, lean back and take a sip of beer.

  “There we are then — all done. Thanks to you, I might say.”

  “Benefit of a public-school education. City College. Means the opposite here of course.”

  “Here’s to our two nations, divided by a common language, eh?” said Clifford, raising his glass and clinking it against Jack’s.

  Jack grinned and shared the toast. He’d enjoyed sitting here in the quiet pub, gentle chatter in the background, easy atmosphere, crossword to fill in.

  Not something easily replicated back in the States.

  Might pop up here myself mid-week, he thought. Bring a book, have the odd chat.

  “So, let’s talk about the fire, shall we?” said Clifford. “I’m guessing you want to find out if I think it was started deliberately — and if so, by whom?”

  Jack shrugged and smiled: “Pretty much.”

  The gardener nodded. “Got me on the list of suspects?”

  “Never take anyone off — until we find the culprit.”

  “Very wise. What if I’ve got an alibi? Off that list?”

  “Have you?”

  “Best one in Cherringham,” said Clifford — and he pointed at Billy Leeper.

  “So — you were here the night of the fire.”

  “Every Wednesday, rain or shine. When my Kath was alive — God bless her — we used to have a foursome here, playing cribbage. The three all gone now, sadly. Just old Clifford left to keep up the tradition.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “You married, Jack?”

  “Was. My wife passed. A Kath — like yours.”

  “Not easy, hmm? Think of her all the time. I’m sure you do.”

  “Every day.”

  And even now, with the years passed, Jack still felt that old familiar pang, knowing how much his own “Kath” would have loved to be here right by his side in this village pub, drinking a warm English beer just like him because it felt … right.

  Her love of England had brought Jack here twenty years ago for the very first time. After she’d gone, he’d still bought the houseboat they’d both dreamed of retiring to.

  His reason for being here in Cherringham.

  The future they’d planned together … it turned out, was his alone.

  “To Kath,” said Clifford, raising his glass.

  “To Kath,” said Jack raising his.

  *

  Sarah sat back from her computer, disappointed.

  “Sophie Scott” appeared on a handful of public sites — mostly to do with job searches in the arts. Her resume on one site showed she’d worked briefly at one of the big London auction houses. But otherwise it seemed she’d had to make do with jobs where her expertise wasn’t required.

  And her soci
al media pages were pretty innocuous — the usual round of selfies, holiday albums, festival exploits and cute kittens.

  A couple of her online friends looked familiar from Chloe’s profile — possibly Cherringham pals of Karl?

  She made a note to definitely ask Chloe about Karl if she turned up before Sarah went to bed.

  As to the history research, although she’d managed to find public information about Brimley Manor, and some history of the Brimley family, the key files she was after — plans of the house — apparently only existed as documents.

  Nothing digital at all.

  Still, they were listed as being archived in the Cherringham reference library in the village hall, just across the road from her office — so perhaps tomorrow at lunch she could pop over and ask to see them.

  If they were there.

  For now though, she was stumped. All she knew was that the first Brimley who bought the manor (and renamed it) had been a naval captain and then a merchant in the eighteenth century.

  Turned out, the Brimley family didn’t come from a long aristocratic line, but rather from trade: a common story in these parts.

  She checked her watch. Enough time to see what she could find about Ben Davis — then hit the sack.

  It had been one very long day, and she knew she’d have a lot to catch up on in the office tomorrow.

  She opened her notebook — lots of question marks and blank spaces — and realised she didn’t really have much to go on. Just what Jack had passed on to her: his name (a very common one), the fact that Ben Davis came from South London, and a rough age.

  She doubted she’d be able to track down his online presence unless she was lucky enough to find him on social media — in which case the various hacking skills she’d picked up — and used a few years back to finally nail her philandering ex-husband — might come in handy.

  Not expecting much, she put what she had into a search engine … and got page after page of hits.

  Some mistake?

  No, for there, at the top of the screen, in the image search, was the serious face of the very same young man she’d seen today arguing in the kitchen.

  And beneath it, the words: “Slavery Restitution activist insists — families will be made to pay.”

  Sarah leaned forward and took out her notepad.