Jack found himself pulled into conversation with Pete Bull, the plumber who asked if Jack wanted to “grab a pint” before heading home.
Jack smiled “Maybe next time. Have some … things to do.”
No cookies for snacks tonight, Jack noted. Just slices of cake, what in the States would be called pound cake but who knows what they were called here. Two urns on a table at the back, one with hot water for tea, the other for coffee.
He had his eyes on Martha who grabbed her cane and used it to get to a standing position.
She was still alone, away from the other choristers.
A good time for a chat — with everyone at the back with the snacks, and Martha by herself.
“Excuse me — I have a question for our accompanist …” Jack said to Pete Bull, and walked to the front of the hall.
Except suddenly Martha wasn’t alone.
Roger Reed stood there, and held out his hand with two fingers as if measuring well …
…who knew?
As Jack came close, he heard Reed’s comments.
“The motet, Martha. Much too slow. Can’t have that dragging us all to a dead stop.”
Jack could see Martha looking up to the much taller Reed, her wrinkled lips like a tight purse.
This could be entertaining. You don’t go to battle with an old battle axe.
“Really? I am playing the piece at the marked tempo, Roger.” She said his name with disdain. “You see, it is marked lento, and I …”
The choir director forced a smile. He turned to see Jack but quickly looked back at Martha. “Yes, my dear, but there’s lento and there’s lento. A bit of a lilt, please. It is the joyeux Noel we are celebrating after all!”
When Martha said nothing to that, Reed gave Jack a quick smile then retreated from the battlefield to the safety of the spongy cakes and spicy tea at the back.
Which is when Martha fixed her eyes on Jack.
As if thinking … next.
Jack’s voice was low. He didn’t want anyone to hear this.
“Martha, can I ask you a few questions?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. Did she expect what was coming? Everyone knew his history now, and what he and Sarah had been doing in the not-so-quiet village of Cherringham.
But then — maybe because she somehow liked Jack, maybe liked his being an American — those pursed lips eased into a smile as she said, in a way that was so funny and unexpected, “Shoot!”
Jack smiled at her. “Shall we sit down?” and pulled two folding chairs close together.
Her smile widened.
Guess she doesn’t bite off everyone’s head.
And as she sat, “Why, do you have a lot of questions? It is getting late.”
Jack smiled back. And he felt that there was no way this woman had anything to do with Kirsty’s death, despite Beth labelling her the wicked witch of Cherringham.
“It’s about the cookies,” he began carefully, but her smile vanished.
“Everyone knew that Kirsty had that allergy.” Martha began, “We never had an incident. Those biscuits were baked by our members, and each and every one of them knew that there could be no peanuts, not a trace.”
“So you think it was … an accident?”
The question seemed to surprise Martha as if it was unexpected.
“I — well, yes. I mean, what else could it be?”
Some witch, Jack thought.
“Right. And which cookies did you bake, Martha?”
Another nod from the old woman of the keyboard. “None. You see, Mr Brennan, unlike the stereotype of the old woman toiling away at the stove baking goodies and treats, I don’t do that. Never have. It’s that lot who bring the biscuits. Though again, I could not tell you who brought what that night, they just put them on the table at the start of the evening.”
Jack could sense that he had planted a smidge of doubt in the woman’s mind. The accident suddenly not so much an accident.
“Perhaps time for some tea,” Martha said. Her grip tight on her cane.
She’s hard as nails, Jack thought. But he liked this old woman.
He put a hand on her elbow.
“Martha, you’re right. Might be an accident. Most likely, yes. But a question. You’ve been here a long time.” Jack paused. “Did anyone here have reason to not like Kirsty?”
Martha’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly nodded.
But then another woman in the choir, Emma Hilloc came up to them. “Tea, Martha? Chilly night.”
Jack feared that his private chat with Martha was over, but then the older woman said,
“In a bit, Emma. Just having a nice chat with Mr Brennan here.”
Emma nodded, gave Jack a smile, then returned to the refreshments.
“Okay. Now to your question, hmm?”
And Jack couldn’t wait to hear her answer.
8. The Singing Suspects
Jack watched Martha look to the back of the room, then to him, one hand holding her cane tightly as if she might want to bop someone with it.
“Kirsty created quite a stir when she joined the choir.” Martha snorted. “If that’s what you call it. A flirt, opinionated — one of those modern single women.”
“I’m not hearing that you liked her much?”
Martha’s eyes widened, perhaps aware that she was undoing her earlier protestations that she herself could have absolutely nothing to do with the fatal peanut and Kirsty’s death.
“Not that I minded. Live and let live. To each her own.”
Jack wondered how many more homilies might emerge.
Another breath from the piano player: “And speak no ill of the dead, I always say.”
“Me too,” Jack said, immediately hoping his hint of sarcasm didn’t shut Martha down.
“But,” her voice lowered, “There are others here. Like that old fuddy-duddy Reed. Heard them have a heated chat about a loan, probably for her business.” Another snort. “Probably declined.”
She leaned into Jack. “I think she may have had something on him. Someone like Roger Dodger is sure to have secrets and maybe Kirsty knew a few.”
Now knee-deep into the suspicions and character assassinations, Jack turned to look at the grouping at the back. So far, no one else seemed to take any notice of their chat.
Martha’s face curled up into a dozen wrinkles like a map of train lines shifting, converging, separating.
“Then there’s Emma.”
“The soprano?” Jack said.
“Yes,” Martha said as if Jack was on board with this game of “Who’s the Killer”. “She never had a good word about Kirsty. I swear, I could look over and see her glaring at the woman at every rehearsal. Clearly — bad blood there.”
As opposed to you, Jack thought.
“Anyone else?” Jack said, though he thought the plate was now rather full with possible candidates for the murder-by-peanut, even if there were scant motives to be found.
“You’ve chatted with Simon Rochester?” Martha said.
From her tone, Jack could easily imagine this old woman wanting Simon — or any of her likely candidates — out of the picture.
“Well, he’s some financial bigwig. Think it’s insurance, investments, or something. And I saw him talking to Kirsty many a night after practice. Bit of an … operator our Simon. And word has it she gave him money to invest. That’s another thing! Where would a single woman like that …”
A woman like what? Jack wondered.
“… get money, to invest? Yes. This whole thing is very suspicious.”
Jack realized that Beth had nothing on Martha in the suspicion department.
Then he noticed the choir director, tea cup and saucer held high, bit of cake perched at the base of the cup, look over and — eyes wide with what looked like alarm — hurried over to Jack.
“Mr Brennan, do join us for some post-rehearsal sociability!”
Guess he doesn’t want the old woman filling in the new arrival on the choir’s secrets.
“Was about to do just that.”
He got up. Most of what Martha had told him might be completely useless — the idle speculations of a woman who viewed everyone with suspicions.
But it was a starting point, which was exactly what he and Sarah needed.
As he joined the rest of the choir he looked back over his shoulder. Roger Dodger, as she called him, was deep in a whispered exchange with the Wicked Witch …
Jack stood on the cold steps of the village hall as everyone filed away.
Pete Bull again asked if he wanted to grab a quick pint, but Jack again passed. “Next time for sure,” he said.
The plumber might have a take on all of this. But for now Jack wanted to keep suspicions to himself and Sarah. He watched the other choristers vanish to their cars or the curving streets of Cherringham.
He especially studied the three people who Martha’s bony finger had pointed out.
Roger Reed, hustling away quickly as if late for a party. Simon Rochester, chatting to one of the young sopranos, all smiles and a tip of his Borsalino hat to the other Rotarians and Jack as they passed.
Definitely currying more than just business …
Then Emma Hilloc and her husband, a tall man who lurked at the back of the basses and to whom Jack had not yet spoken. He knew they operated the small bookstore and it struck him that they looked like quite the odd couple, Thomas was at least six feet tall and his wife barely reached his chest.
They walked away in silence.
They do look like bookstore owners, Jack thought.
And when the streets had turned empty, Cherringham became quiet. Clouds cleared and a half moon slipped from behind the last cloudbank in what was turning into a clear night sky.
He took his phone out and dialled Sarah’s number.
“Not too late?” he said.
“No. Not at all.”
“Interesting rehearsal tonight,” he said. “That Martha Bernard … she should write mystery novels. Or at least be in them!”
Sarah laughed. “She got your ear, hmm?”
“Yes. Both of them.”
And Jack filled Sarah in on Martha’s line-up of suspects.
“Interesting. Not anything I knew,” Sarah said. “Course, it could all be in her head. Surprised she didn’t see the entire choir as suspicious.”
“With time, she may have.”
“So any ideas?”
“A few. Martha may be a tad over suspicious. But one way to tell is to ask some questions.”
“Right. Well, I know Roger Reed, of course, who doesn’t? The local bank manager. I think he may have had hopes of a more … personal relationship than just the arrangement of my mortgage.”
“Not surprised. That was maybe part of Martha’s suspicion of him regarding Kirsty.”
“I could go talk to him, checking my accounts, get around to Kirsty … see what pops up.”
“Might be nothing.”
“And you know, this Simon Rochester fellow … if he’s some kind of investment magnate, might be interested to have a chat with you, the mysterious American who may have secret millions.”
Jack laughed. “I wish. But good idea.”
“Invite him over to your boat. Might get his guard down.”
“And the bookstore couple?”
“That seems so unlikely. May just be Martha’s paranoia. They’re so quiet. Least Thomas is. Not sure I’ve heard him say more than five words at a stretch.”
“His wife makes up for that.”
That seemed to give Sarah pause. “Yes. Now that you mention it. Definitely not two peas in the proverbial pod.”
“Chloe doing okay?”
“Got her on Vitamin C, Echinacea, those swab thingies but she’s not doing any better. I’m taking her to the doctor’s tomorrow if there’s no improvement.”
“If I can help. I mean, if you’re busy with work.”
A pause.
Friends, Jack thought.
“Thanks, Jack. I do appreciate that.”
“No biggie,” he said. “And now, it’s too cold to be standing guard at the village hall. We’ll check in tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
“Night.”
As Jack ended the call, he looked around the deserted square, just a lone Yank staring out at the perfect little village. Except, as he knew all too well by now, it wasn’t perfect at all.
9. The Matter of Accounts
Roger Reed popped up like a jack-in-the-box when Sarah was shown into his office the next morning.
“Sarah!” he said, making her feel as if her name had acquired a few additional syllables.
“Roger. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in without an appointment?”
“You? Never!”
Sarah walked in, taking care to shut the door behind her.
Roger smiled as he sat back down behind his desk where everything looked meticulously in place.
He folded his hands in front of him.
“So, what can I do to help you? All well with the mortgage? Not thinking …” and here he looked dubious, “of a re-finance, are we? If so, best move fast since …”
Sarah shook her head.
“No, just wondering. You mentioned,” she had cooked up what seemed a plausible enquiry to at least begin this chat, “that if I pay a bit extra each month, it could produce substantial savings down the road with my mortgage.”
Reed’s head was bobbing even before she finished. He started typing into the computer which stood between them on the desk.
“Absolutely. I mean, it depends on how much extra you pay and so on, and so forth … shall I get your account up and we can,” he produced a grin as if they were about to do something deliciously naughty, “take a peek?”
“That would be great.”
He spun the screen round so they could both share it and leaned in across the desk.
Sarah felt a tad guilty exploiting the man’s interest in her like this. But then she thought — isn’t that what real detectives do? Anything to get at the truth …
“Hmmm, so see here, you’re obviously paying mostly interest right now. But, with — what additional figure were you thinking of paying?”
“Hundred or so?”
“Yes. Okay, well, over the life of the mortgage, well, you can see, you’d save close to twenty thousand pounds!”
Like a magician who had succeeded in pulling a rabbit out of a hat, Reed sat back, a satisfied smile plastered on his face.
“Not too shabby, eh?”
“Not at all. And I just add it to my payment?”
“Easy peasy,” he said.
Sarah smiled at him.
“Thanks, Roger. I’ll see if I can handle that.” She took a breath. “And, I, well … wanted to ask you about something.”
His eyes narrowed, perhaps picking up the first whiff of something else in the air.
“About Kirsty. I know she had her accounts here. And, well I’ve been talking to your new chorister, Jack Brennan, my American friend.”
Sarah knew that Roger would have heard about their side-line in sleuthing.
“I really cannot talk about someone else’s accounts, Sarah. Especially the deceased.”
Sarah leaned close. Time to turn on the charm.
“Oh, I know. But, look, here’s the thing, Roger. There are some very odd rumours going around the village at the moment about Kirsty. Rumours which need to be quashed — quickly — before people get upset.”
Like a turtle whacked on the nose, Roger had pulled back in his chair.
“Rumours? What kind of rumours?”
“The usual tittle-tattle. About how she died. About who she was involved with before she did. And I’ll be honest with you — I’m afraid I’ve heard your name come up more than once.”
“What?”
“Of course, I thought straight away what nonsense! And then I thought — if you and I had a chat, then perhaps I could help clear things up.
”
“But this is preposterous! Who would spread rumours about me and Kirsty Kimball?” Roger looked up to the ceiling as if searching for the answer. Then back to Sarah: “Oh, I bet I know who, that old bi…”
“Roger, easy. I’m just asking a few questions.”
Sarah could see Roger’s temperature was up. His cheeks were flushed and the usual pedantic calm and control were on the edge of being swept away.
“I know. It’s just small-minded people with nothing better to do. But as Chair of the Rotary, you simply can’t let rumours like that continue. Could be very damaging.”
“But what rumours?”
Roger’s voice had gone high and squeaky. Sarah suppressed a smile. She leaned in and looked around conspiratorially.
“People are saying …”
“Come on, Sarah!”
On the spot, Sarah decided to invent a rumour and see where it led.
“People are saying that you and Kirsty were having a relationship last year.”
“What?”
“And that when it finished — badly — you put the kibosh on the loan she was expecting through the bank.”
“But that’s …”
This line of enquiry seemed promising so Sarah continued.
“And that when she threatened to go to the Area Manager and complain about your inappropriate behaviour — you killed her.”
“Ab-surd! She simply got the wrong biscuit, that peanut thing, how could I even …”
“Just the rumours, Roger. But would be good to put them to rest, no?”
Roger sat back in his executive chair, arms limp at his sides, mouth open in disbelief. Sarah wondered if she’d gone too far. What if the poor chap had a heart attack? After all, the only thing she wanted was a bit of background information.
Then she remembered the patronising hour she’d spent in this office a couple of years back when she’d needed the mortgage for the house. He’d insisted on going through every tiny detail of her weekly expenditure — as if she was a student — to justify the loan he finally, magnanimously gave her …
Heck, why not, she thought, he needs bringing down a peg or two.
Had she been like this before she and Jack started sleuthing? she wondered.
Hmm, yes — I do believe this is how I was when I left school. And it was rather fun …
Cherringham--Murder by Moonlight Page 4
