House of Lies

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Thomas smiled at her. ‘I love it when you take charge, Mrs Charles.’

  Cat bowed. ‘I’m pleased that you appreciate my strong personality.’

  Thomas chuckled as he and Cat set out to secure the house.

  ***

  When the clock struck midnight Cat woke up, entangled in Thomas’s arms on the thick rug in front of the study fireplace. Her arm was numb from sleeping on it, but she was content. The fire had gone out, the chilly air a reminder that winter would arrive soon. The empty champagne bottle and two plates that held the crumbs of the ham sandwiches they had eaten sat next to their empty glasses. Thomas lay on his side, his mouth open, snoring softly, his arm draped over Cat. She stood, covered Thomas with a throw and padded naked up the stairs. It’s cold enough to snow, Cat thought. Once in the bedroom, she lit the fire the missus had laid earlier, waiting for the flames to take hold, and throwing another two logs on before she drew herself a bath. She soaked until the water ran cold, surprised that Thomas didn’t join her. Surely he’d woken up when he heard the water running. Reaching for her warmest dressing gown, she headed back down to the study to wake him, knowing tomorrow his back would be sore from sleeping on the hard floor.

  Back downstairs, Cat’s eyes were drawn to the open window and the freezing night air that filled the room. Why did Thomas open the window? For a moment Cat envisioned the Luftwaffe above, seeing the dim light of the coals on the fireplace and dropping a bomb on them. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw the man who stood before Thomas’s desk, with his back facing her, a steaming cup of tea sitting on the table, eating the wedding cake she had saved for DCI Kent. She would have recognised him anywhere.

  Michael Grenville. Making himself very comfortable in her home. The desk chair had been moved over to the fireplace. Thomas sat in it, naked, his arms and legs bound, a gag in his mouth. Her stomach clenched in fear as her brain absorbed the scene before her. By some stroke of luck, she didn’t cry out. Cat should have flinched seeing Thomas so utterly dominated, but the anger rose from her stomach, like acrid bile, a bitter taste that blossomed in her mouth, enraging her all the more. Forcing herself to remain calm, she stilled her breath and backed out of the doorway, standing in the hall by the front door, just out of sight. She had the advantage. Michael Grenville wasn’t yet aware of her presence. Her eyes wandered to a bust of Alexander Hamilton, which sat on the sideboard to Cat’s left. In five steps she could take it in hand. Six steps to Grenville. One sweeping motion, one bash on the head and Grenville would be dead. Killing him would be so easy.

  Thomas met Cat’s eyes and gave a slight shake of the head. He winked at her, as though being bound and gagged was an everyday occurrence. Does he have some plan?

  She turned and ran up the stairs, quiet as a mouse and light as a feather, thanking the gods, the goddesses, and everything in between that she and Thomas had an upstairs telephone extension on the dial system.

  ‘Rivenby Constabulary,’ an anonymous voice said on the other line.

  ‘This is Catherine Carlisle – Charles. Catherine Charles. I’m with Thomas Charles. At Heart’s Desire. Michael Grenville is here. Please send help.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. Can you speak up? Seems we have a bad connection.’

  ‘No. I cannot speak up. Send the police. Help—’

  ‘Nice try.’ The voice whispered in her ear. Like a striking viper, Michael Grenville wrenched the phone out of her grasp, grabbed a large chunk of her hair and dragged her downstairs to the study, where he threw her on the couch.

  ‘You and I are going to have a little talk,’ Michael Grenville said. ‘You’re going to tell me what you’ve done with my wife.’

  ‘You don’t want her back,’ said Cat. ‘You want her money. What kind of a woman would want to stay with you, enslaved and living in squalor while you do whatever it is you do all day.’ She stood and moved towards Michael Grenville like she had when he confronted her in the garden. ‘Get out of my house, Mr Grenville. We’ve nothing to say to you.’

  He stood up, tipped his head back and laughed.

  ‘Your breath is odious,’ Cat said. ‘Do you ever clean your teeth?’

  The sting of a slap took Cat by surprise, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. ‘You don’t scare me, Mr Grenville. I don’t kowtow to bullies.’

  Grenville moved to Thomas and tore the gag from his mouth. ‘Tell her to cooperate.’

  Thomas’s voice was husky from being gagged. ‘Don’t tell him anything. He’s going to kill us anyway. When he finds his wife, he’ll kill her, too. Or find someone else to do it.’

  Grenville punched Thomas twice in the face. The second punch knocked Thomas out. His head flopped forward, blood dripping from his nose. Grenville grabbed Thomas by the hair and forced his head up. Sneering at Cat, he said, ‘How’s that, you little bitch? You’ll talk now, won’t you? I’ve killed other men with these fists. Believe me when I tell you that I’ll kill him. Save him. Tell me where my wife is.’

  Cat didn’t think, didn’t evaluate her response or consider the consequences of her actions. She catapulted off the sofa and launched herself at Michael Grenville. She scratched and clawed and pummelled. Despite the quick fury of her attack, Grenville was not only stronger, but he possessed the skills of an experienced, dirty-playing street fighter. He pushed her away so hard she nearly stumbled to the ground. They stood facing each other. Scratch marks rose across Grenville’s cheeks. His eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘I’m going to beat your husband some more. When you’re ready to tell me where Alice is, I’ll stop.’ He spoke the words without anguish or emotion. He spoke as if killing a man with his bare hands were an everyday occurrence.

  When he turned his back on Cat, she launched herself at him once again, this time jumping on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and grabbing his neck in a strangle hold, squeezing for all her might. For the briefest moment, she felt the strength drain out of him. He wobbled on his feet. She squeezed harder. In a surprising show of strength, Grenville grunted before he backed into the wall, slamming Cat against it hard enough to knock the wind out her. When she let go and fell to the floor, Grenville hurried back to Thomas. Unable to breathe, unable to move, Cat watched as Grenville clenched his fists, taking his time as he approached Thomas, who still remained unconscious. She opened her mouth to cry out just as the front door splintered open, and Sergeant Jeffers, along with a slew of constables burst into the room.

  ***

  An hour later, DCI Kent, Sergeant Jeffers and Cat stood outside the closed door of the study, waiting while the doctor examined Thomas. He had drifted in and out of consciousness, and it was all Cat could do to not break down the door to get to him.

  ‘You did a good turn, Jeffers,’ DCI Kent said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  DCI Kent turned to Cat. ‘We heard Grenville had escaped. He told his cellmate he was headed to Rivenby. Scotland Yard didn’t believe him. Thought it was just a ruse to get them looking in the wrong place. He’s got a vast criminal network in the south. But Jeffers was onto him. Thought he’d come here looking for his wife.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Jeffers,’ Cat said. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and pulled her dressing gown tight around her.

  ‘Sorry about your front door,’ Sergeant Jeffers said.

  ‘That’s all right. Front doors are fixable.’ Cat accepted a handkerchief from DCI Kent and wiped her eyes. ‘Grenville was going to kill him. And enjoy doing it.’

  ‘He’ll be all right, Mrs Charles. You’ll see,’ Sergeant Jeffers said.

  ‘Grenville will go to prison now, Mrs Charles. He’s wanted in connection with three other deaths, and we’ve evidence of his smuggling operation.’ DCI Kent said. ‘This time he won’t escape.’

  The door opened and the doctor came out, closing the study door behind him. He gave Cat a kind look. ‘He’s concussed, but he should heal. He needs absolute rest. I cannot impress upon this enough. He must st
ay in bed for the next couple of days, after that very little activity. I’ll arrange a nurse, as he needs to be carefully monitored.’ The doctor turned to DCI Kent and Sergeant Jeffers. ‘If you gentlemen will help me get him upstairs, once he’s in bed, I’ll sedate him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cat said.

  Cat stayed out of the way while Thomas put his arms around Sergeant Jeffers and DCI Kent. With some effort, they managed to get him upstairs and into bed.

  After everyone had left and Thomas was tucked in bed, asleep from the sedation the doctor administered, Cat stood in the study, amid Michael Grenville’s destruction. In the chaos, Thomas’s inkwell and favourite fountain pen had been knocked off the desk. The nib of the fountain pen was ruined. The inkwell had spilled and it now lay in a pool of blue on the rug. Cat shook her head. It would take all day to clean up the mess. She didn’t have the heart to leave it for the missus.

  She thought of the women who by necessity were forced to live with brutes like Michael Grenville. Thank goodness Alice had got away. Cat allowed herself to feel a brief moment of pride. This work would never end, but the satisfaction of making even a small difference was worth the risk.

  Cat shut the door of the study just as the sun came up. She’d clean the evidence of Michael Grenville’s destruction tomorrow.

  Chapter 23

  Christmas Eve, 1941

  Saint Monica’s glittered with the Christmas candles Emmeline Hinch-Billings had spread through the hallway. The smell of biscuits and cakes in the oven permeated the house. Lydia had woven garlands around the sweeping bannister, and by some unknown set of circumstances, Lydia and Emmeline had managed to find a piano in need of a new home. It now rested in the corner, fitting perfectly near the stairs. The newly founded Board of Directors of Saint Monica’s were circled around it, along with Ambrose Bardwell and the three men he’d hired to serve as a security detail. Emmeline did a fine job of playing Christmas carols, while Lydia, whose voice was entirely off key, sang the loudest.

  It was official. Cat had formed a board of directors and had handed the running of Saint Monica’s off to a more competent and less emotionally invested group of people, handpicked by her. Soon Cat and Thomas would meet Annie’s train and return to Heart’s Desire to celebrate their first Christmas as a married couple.

  Things were changing for England and for the world. It didn’t take long after the Japanese bombed a naval base in Hawaii for the Americans to enter the war. Churchill and Roosevelt were working together, and a sense of hope and optimism hung in the air. They still lived with the worry of bombs, rationing and curfews. But there was no denying that the tide was turning.

  ‘Champagne?’ Thomas handed Cat a flute of bubbling golden liquid. She sipped and leaned into him.

  ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘Enjoy it. We’ve only two more bottles left.’

  Cat clinked glasses with her husband.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mrs Charles,’ he said.

  Cat stood on her tiptoes and gave Thomas a quick kiss. Arm in arm, they stepped towards the group as Emmeline played the opening notes of ‘Silent Night’.

  If Lucy’s murder and the missing chalice had you gripped, find out how Cat’s story began in The Silent Woman. Cat Carlisle is trapped in a loveless marriage and the threat of the Second World War is looming. She sees no way out … that is until a trusted friend asks her to switch her husband’s papers in a desperate bid to confuse the Germans. Soon Cat finds herself caught up in a deadly mixture of espionage and murder. Someone is selling secrets to the other side, and the evidence seems to point right at her. Can she clear her name before it’s too late?

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  Acknowledgements

  I’ve dreamed of writing novels and entertaining readers with my stories since childhood. As my love of reading developed over the years, British mysteries quickly became my go-to source of entertainment and writing inspiration. The Cat Carlisle Series is an homage to the mysteries that have inspired me so deeply.

  As with all my books, many people helped me stay the course and write the best story possible. My beta readers in the US and the UK caught my silly mistakes and inconsistencies. Big thanks to Courtney Swan, Kim Laird, Gloria Bagwell-Rowland, Janet Robinson, Angela Baxter, and Cheryl Henriksen. Annie Whitehead made herself available to chase down strange questions about train travel and other miscellaneous details about the Northern England in the 1940s. Heartfelt thanks to Abi Fenton for pushing me to grow as a writer and dig deep for a more meaningful story.

  And finally, a big thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed my books. I appreciate you so much!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Silent Woman …

  Prologue

  Berlin, May 1936

  It rained the day the Gestapo came.

  Dieter Reinsinger didn’t mind the rain. He liked the sound of the drops on the tight fabric of his umbrella as he walked from his office on Wilhelmstrasse to the flat he shared with his sister Leni and her husband Michael on Nollendorfstrasse. The trip took him the good part of an hour, but he walked to and from work every day, come rain or shine. He passed the familiar apartments and plazas, nodding at the familiar faces with a smile.

  Dieter liked his routine. He passed Mrs Kleiman’s bakery, and longed for the pfannkuchen that used to tempt passers-by from the display window. He remembered Mrs Kleiman’s kind ways, as she would beckon him into the shop, where she would sit with him and share a plate of the jelly doughnuts and the strong coffee that she brewed especially to his liking. She was a kind woman, who had lost her husband and only son in the war.

  In January the Reich took over the bakery, replacing gentle Mrs Kleiman with a ham-fisted fraulein with a surly attitude and no skill in the kitchen whatsoever. No use complaining over things that cannot be fixed, Dieter chided himself. He found he no longer had a taste for pfannkuchen.

  By the time he turned onto his block, his sodden trouser legs clung to his calves. He didn’t care. He thought of the hot coffee he would have when he got home, followed by the vegetable soup that Leni had started that morning. Dieter ignored the changes taking place around him. If he just kept to himself, he could rationalise the gangs of soldiers that patrolled the streets, taking pleasure in the fear they induced. He could ignore the lack of fresh butter, soap, sugar, and coffee. He could ignore the clenching in his belly every time he saw the pictures of Adolf Hitler, which hung in every shop, home, café, and business in Berlin. If he could carry on as usual, Dieter could convince himself that things were just as they used to be.

  He turned onto his block and stopped short when he saw the black Mercedes parked at the kerb in front of his apartment. The lobby door was open. The pavement around the apartment deserted. He knew this day would come – how could it not? He just didn’t know it would come so soon. The Mercedes was running, the windscreen wipers swooshing back and forth. Without thinking, Dieter shut his umbrella and tucked himself into the sheltered doorway of the apartment building across the street. He peered through the pale rain and bided his time. Soon he would be rid of Michael Blackwell. Soon he and Leni could get back to living their quiet life. Leni would thank him in the end. How could she not?

  Dieter was a loyal German. He had enlisted in the Deutsches Heer – the Germany Army – as an 18-year-old boy. He had fought in the trenches and had lived to tell about it. He came home a hardened man – grateful to still have his arms and legs attached – ready to settle down to a simple life. Dieter didn’t want a wife. He didn’t like women much. He didn’t care much for sex, and he had Leni to care for the house. All Dieter needed was a comfortable chair at the end of the day and food for his belly. He wanted nothing else.

  Leni was five years y
ounger than Dieter. She’d celebrated her fortieth birthday in March, but to Dieter she would always be a child. While Dieter was steadfast and hardworking, Leni was wild and flighty. When she was younger she had thought she would try to be a dancer, but quickly found that she lacked the required discipline. After dancing, she turned to painting and poured her passion into her work for a year. The walls of the flat were covered with canvases filled with splatters of vivid paint. She used her considerable charm to connive a showing at a small gallery, but her work wasn’t well received.

  Leni claimed that no one understood her. She tossed her paintbrushes and supplies in the rubbish bin and moved on to writing. Writing was a good preoccupation for Leni. Now she called herself a writer, but rarely sat down to work. She had a desk tucked into one of the corners of the apartment, complete with a sterling fountain pen and inkwell, a gift from Dieter, who held a secret hope that his restless sister had found her calling.

  Now Michael Blackwell commandeered the writing desk, the silver pen, and the damned inkwell. Just like he commandeered everything else.

  For a long time, Leni kept her relationship with Michael Blackwell a secret. Dieter noticed small changes: the ink well in a different spot on Leni’s writing desk and the bottle of ink actually being used. The stack of linen writing paper depleted. Had Leni started writing in earnest? Something had infused her spirit with a new effervescence. Her cheeks had a new glow to them. Leni floated around the apartment. She hummed as she cooked. Dieter assumed that his sister – like him – had discovered passion in a vocation. She bought new dresses and took special care with her appearance. When Dieter asked how she had paid for them, she told him she had been economical with the housekeeping money.

  For the first time ever, the household ran smoothly. Meals were produced on time, laundry was folded and put away, and the house sparkled. Dieter should have been suspicious. He wasn’t.