“This village never ceases to amaze me,” said Roger.
“Yes, I know,” said Sarah laying on the sympathy. “It doesn’t matter how respectable you are, there’s always somebody wanting to bring you down.”
She watched him consider the situation.
“You think you can put an end to these vile slanders?”
“I’m sure I can try. The truth will out, eh? Speaking of which …”
Roger stared at her — she held his eye.
“All right. Okay, Sarah. But what I’m about to tell you didn’t come from me — understand?”
“Of course,” she said gently. “I’m completely on your side here, Roger.”
“Kirsty came to me about six months ago — for a business loan. She’d been badly hit in the crash. Some investment had collapsed. And her little shop — The Knick Knack — had been feeling the pinch and she needed help to tide her over. Until some money she was expecting came in. We had a few meetings …”
“Ah,” said Sarah. “That’s probably where the rumours come from.”
“Y-yes. I’m sure. But entirely innocent and legitimate fact-finding meetings.”
“Out of hours, I gather?”
“One or two — yes.”
“In the Angel. At her cottage?”
“Possibly. I really don’t recall exactly. But business loans can’t all be arranged in the office, my dear.”
Ouch. If there were two words that made Sarah’s blood boil they were — “my dear”.
Don’t ever call me … dear.
“Anyway, the business was in a bad way. But she couldn’t tell me where her mysterious rescue investment was going to come from. So I had to decline her request for a loan. No point in propping up a lame duck, if you don’t mind my metaphors.”
“She must have been very disappointed.”
“She was. When we started the Christmas choir I had to ask her — politely mind you — to put our business relationship to one side and think of the Rotary and our charitable works.”
“But she couldn’t?”
“Apparently not. She remained very angry. Took the whole thing personally. I would hate to think these rumours commenced as a result of something she said before she died. This kind of thing is just not on.”
“So you weren’t … romantically involved with Kirsty?”
“That would be most unprofessional.”
“Of course.”
“As you must know, Sarah — I am completely gender-blind in all my business dealings.”
“Completely,” said Sarah, giving Roger her most agreeable and understanding smile, while fighting the urge to pick up his keyboard and wallop him with it.
Good information here, she thought, but the room and company had turned stuffy. She didn’t want to stay a minute longer.
“Well, that’s so helpful Roger.”
“On the contrary, you’re helping me.”
“It’s so important to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,” she said getting up from her seat and fighting the urge to laugh out loud as she looked at him, uncertain how to take the metaphor.
“Um, not at all,” he said, getting up too.
“One other thing,” she said, hoping this was the right time. “How do you think Kirsty did end up eating a biscuit with a peanut in it? Any theories?”
“Frankly I’m baffled,” he said. “Everybody knew the danger — the tiniest trace was enough apparently. People made the biscuits and cakes at home. Awful.”
“And the police did investigate?”
“Oh, yes. I gather they took away all the remaining biscuits for sampling. Martha and Emma went round and popped all the bits in a bag for them.”
“But they didn’t find anything?”
“Not a trace. And from what I hear the post-mortem found evidence of minute quantities of peanut — but no way of telling how the poor woman ingested it.”
“A tragedy.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make sure people give those rumours short shrift when they come up.”
“You’re very kind, Sarah,” he said, coming round the desk to see her out.
She smiled, eager to make her getaway. How come she got this assignment, she thought.
“We really must go out for that dinner you promised — remember?” he said, putting out his hand.
Sarah shook it briskly, his skin slightly damp.
“Right,” she said, not concerned with how insincere that sounded. And she left.
A dinner with Roger Reed certainly not on the cards.
10. Some Like it Hot
Jack pulled up in front of the grand entrance of Mead End House, turned off the engine and squeezed out of his little Austin Sprite.
The white, stuccoed Georgian manor was apparently divided into four apartments — and Simon Rochester had told him he occupied one of the ground floor wings.
Jack approached the front door but he could only see one bell which seemed to be for the main house. He stepped back and took in the place. Surrounded by mature oaks, the ivy-covered house was perfectly maintained. A couple of Porsches and an Audi 4-by-4 sat in the gravel parking bay.
Music was playing from somewhere deep in the house.
Neither Simon nor his neighbours appeared to have been too troubled by the collapse of the world economy, thought Jack. No surprise there … Pulling his coat close against the bitter wind, which he’d quickly come to realize was a regular features of a Cherringham winter, Jack followed a gravel path around the side of the house.
If the facade was imposing, the view from the broad terrace at the back was worth even more. Jack paused to take it in: he could see gentle meadows rolling down into the valley below, where the curve of the Thames was catching the morning sunlight.
And there was his beloved Grey Goose, the very furthest of the canal boats and barges moored on the edge of the village. On the hill opposite, Cherringham itself was clearly visible, as was the tree-lined lane where Kirsty had died.
Jack followed the route of the lane against the landscape. It led past the cottages where Kirsty lived, through woods, and then, after many kinks and curves, all the way up here to the back of Mead End House …
Interesting.
As Jack worked his way round the back of the house the music became louder and clearer: Charlie Parker, unmistakeable. Classy and classic.
A tall ivy-clad fence divided the garden space of the apartments. Jack clicked the latch on a gate in the fence, went through — and stopped dead.
Just a few yards ahead of him sat Simon Rochester in a large foaming hot tub, reading the Financial Times, and drinking coffee. Clouds of steam billowed around him. On a tray beside him, a cafetiere and a laptop. The jazz that Jack had heard was playing through open French windows which were surrounded by tubs of climbing plants and shrubs.
“Well how ’bout that — if it isn’t our new tenor and private eye all rolled into one …”
Simon put down his paper and waved Jack over.
Hmm, like some kind of medieval king at court, thought Jack.
“You’re early old boy — thought you Yanks were always late to the party?”
“Late or early …” said Jack. “We’re always there when we’re needed.”
“Aha — touché!” Simon attempted an accent, vaguely Texan. “Spoken like a real American. Now help yourself to coffee. In fact — hop in if you fancy it — I’m sure there are some spare togs in the house.”
“Coffee’s good. But I’ll take a raincheck on the tub, if you don’t mind.”
“Wise choice,” said Simon. “Once you’re in, it’s damn hard to get out.”
“You do this every morning?” said Jack pouring himself a coffee and sitting on a bench next to the tub.
“Rain or shine. Hit fast, hit early. Six o’clock run, work-out in the gym, then into the hot tub when the markets open.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Hard work. And not for everyone.”<
br />
“I’m sure.”
“But the rewards are good.”
“For your clients, too?” said Jack.
“For most of them.”
“How about Kirsty Kimball?”
“Ouch. Bit below the belt that one, Jack.”
“Hit fast, hit early.”
“Oh, very good,” said Simon, pouring himself another coffee and moving round in the hot tub so they were face to face.
Jack wondered what he could do to rattle the tanned, confident broker. The guy’s oily confidence was becoming irritating, but Jack knew he mustn’t lose control.
“Of course, I knew you weren’t coming up here to ask for investment advice,” he said, smiling. “Poor Kirsty. All over a peanut. Tragedy, isn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“See, the whole thing about the Rotary, Jack, is that we all look after each other. You can’t go around stirring up trouble and not expect us all to know about it straight away. Especially — you know — not being from around …” The accent again …“these parts.”
Jack put up his hands in mock surrender.
“Last thing I want to do is stir up trouble, Simon. I just want to find out how one of your members ended up dying alone down a country lane, when everyone took so much care. And I hope you can help me do that.”
“How?”
“Word is she lost a lot of money in the crash — and you were responsible.”
“I handled her investment. But that doesn’t mean I’m “responsible”.
“Oh,” said Jack. “See, now you’ll have to explain the logic of that — because the world I live in, those two sentences don’t fit so easy.”
“Let me spell it out for you. Kirsty had a legacy she wanted me to invest on the markets. I asked her what kind of a portfolio she required. Capital growth or income, tech or bonds, tiger or old-school, those kind of questions …”
“And she understood what she was doing? What you were doing?”
“Totally. She wanted high growth. High risk. Quick results.”
“And let me guess — she got the growth she wanted. But not the result?”
“Exactly. As the old saying goes –’shares may go down as well as up’.”
“And hers went down?”
“Like a rocket.”
“How much did she lose?”
“Nearly all of it. Plus my fees of course.”
“I guess she was pretty upset.”
“Too right. She and I had been pretty good friends up to that point, but she took serious umbrage. Blanked me, to be honest.”
“Good friends, huh? I see you got a road that goes right by her cottage.”
“So?”
“Must only take a few minutes to drive down there. To the lane. To her cottage.”
Jack watched as Simon Rochester realized.
“Oh, Jack, are you really going to go there? My relationship with the deceased?”
“Which was?”
“We were adults. She came up here. I went down there. Then it finished. Full stop. Now pass me the towel would you please?”
Jack reached behind him to a neat pile of laundered towels and handed one to Simon as he climbed out of the hot tub. Barely pausing to dry, he tapped a cigarette out of a packet and lit one.
“Jack, it’s wonderful that you’re helping us out with the Christmas concert. But you’re really not making any friends digging all this stuff up. Kirsty wasn’t a victim, you know. Far from it.”
“Oh really?”
“She tried to make trouble for me with FINRA — our regulators. Then she said if I didn’t refund her investment she’d tell the Rotary about … well, you know, my personal life. Partners. That kind of thing.”
“So she was a pain in the ass — that what you’re saying?”
“Too bloody right. Threatened my reputation, my livelihood.”
Jack trusted his instincts, and though Rochester had a motive, he wasn’t picking up any signs that the financial, not-so-much, wizard could have killed Kirsty.
“And what do you think about the whole business with the EpiPens?”
“Now — that is something I don’t understand. She used to leave them all over the place. Side of the bed. Kitchen table. Bathroom. Place was full of the bloody things.”
“Yet when she really needed one — it wasn’t there.”
“Yep. As you Yanks say — ’ain’t that always the way’?”
Jack felt the meeting was over. But to his surprise a figure appeared at the French windows. A young woman — barely in her twenties — in a shirt and not much else.
She ignored Jack completely.
“Simon the effing internet’s down again, sort it for me would you? It’s such a bore.”
“I’m on it, darling,” said Simon blowing her a kiss and then turning back to Jack. The girl shook her head in frustration and headed back inside.
“As you can see Jack, I’m rather busy. So glad I’ve been able to help you, anyway. You’ll see yourself out, won’t you?”
He offered up a hand in a silent wave. Jack nodded, not sure that his tub-side chat had produced anything conclusive.
As he reached the gate Simon gave a cheerful call.
“See you at rehearsal tomorrow!”
Jack shut the gate behind him with exaggerated calm.
And, with a glance out to the meadow, to the lane that led to Kirsty’s cottage, he made his way to the Sprite, still thinking about what Simon told him, wondering …
What am I missing?
11. Whodunnits
Sarah pushed open the door of The Bookworm and ducked her head to avoid the low lintel.
The little bell on the ancient door tinkled like an old-fashioned grocery store.
“Hello!” came a bright female voice from the back room. “Let me know if you need any help!”
Sarah ventured toward the back, past the crammed bookshelves. The place was always immaculate, she thought, the carpets always hoovered, not a hint of dust on any of the shelves or the spines of the books.
A vase of mixed flowers added a touch of country sitting room, while the old leather armchair and the Pembroke table with scattered literary magazines suggested an arts club or a literary agent’s office.
About as cosy a bookstore as there could be.
Sarah emerged at the back of the bookshop, but the owner of the voice seemed to have disappeared.
She looked around: this room had the same low ceiling and exposed beams as the front — and Sarah wondered how the place had managed to survive with so little room for stock.
It had been a bookshop for ever — even back when she was at school in the village. In fact, Sarah had worked part-time behind the counter for her summer job here before she went off to university. But the ownership of the business changed quite often: Thomas and Emma Hilloc had only taken over a couple of years back.
She knew them to nod to in the shop or on the street.
And according to Jack’s source in the choir they should be on the list of “suspects”. Which, in these gentle surroundings, seemed pretty unlikely.
“Freezing out there, isn’t it!” said the voice whose owner now appeared out of the back kitchen, a big smile on her face. “I’ve just put the kettle on — do you fancy a tea?”
Sarah smiled back. “I’d love one … Just milk — no sugar, please.”
The woman now facing her seemed friendly enough, albeit a little brisk. One of those worker ants, thought Sarah — probably makes lists of all the day’s jobs on yellow paper and rattles through them.
“I’m Emma, Emma Hilloc,” the woman said. “I know you, don’t I? You’ve got that little design office up above the estate agents?”
“Yep, that’s me. Sarah Edwards.”
“Nice to meet you, Sarah. So — you surviving?”
“Just about,” said Sarah. “Not easy. Rates, electric …”
“Repairs, insurance, utilities, water, advertising …”
“Tell m
e about it!”
“Got to stick together, that’s the secret.”
“You’re right,” said Sarah, genuinely agreeing. “Every pound people spend in the village rather than in Oxford or out at one of the big superstores keeps us going.”
“You do online stuff, don’t you? Afraid we’re a bit Luddite here. Wish we weren’t.”
“Luddite?” said a tall man coming down the stairs at the back of the shop which Sarah knew led up to the little flat. “You might be a Luddite darling, but I’m certainly not.”
Emma rolled her eyes, for Sarah’s benefit it seemed. She leaned across.
“My husband, Thomas. He thinks that just because he’s mastered our stock ordering system he is now a qualified member of the digerati!”
Sarah watched as Thomas lifted up a big pile of books from a corner table and started to insert them one by one in the shelves. He seemed to be muttering to himself rather than replying.
“Isn’t that right, Thomas?” called Emma.
Sarah suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if these simple exchanges were the continuation of a private discussion — perhaps an argument — from before her arrival in the shop.
Thomas placed the last book in a shelf and came over to Sarah and Emma. He was tall, too tall for the ceiling, so he had constantly to keep his head tilted forward to avoid the low beams. This, combined with a weary-looking face, gave him a hang-dog expression, almost comical, like a Basset Hound.
Sarah felt rather sorry for him, trapped here like an animal in a cage.
“Can I help you?” he said in a dull tone. “Were you looking for something in particular?”
Sarah realized she hadn’t thought through a strategy for this at all. What was she doing here?
“Crime,” she said. “I’m interested in crime.”
Thomas seemed to stare straight through her. It was as if he had just stopped, frozen — a robot without power.
“Yes, of course,” he said, blinking quickly. “We have quite a comprehensive selection. Over there by the window.”
She followed his gaze — and there was a whole wall of crime fiction. Good, she thought — maybe that’ll give me some ideas how I’m supposed to turn this friendly chat into an interrogation.
Cherringham--Murder by Moonlight Page 5
