Cherringham--Murder by Moonlight

by Neil Richards

Where they stood concealed them from the other cottages and the road. But anyone coming down the lane from the village itself would have a clear view of them.

  “What’s the line from the Bard?” said Jack. “’If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere well. It were done quickly’.”

  He pulled out a thin piece of metal and a bit of wire.

  “I’m not sure this is quite what Shakespeare had in mind, Jack.”

  He used the flat metal piece to push in the latch part of the lock. That was the easy part.

  But to get the dead bolt to turn, he’d have to use the piece of wire on the mechanism, feeling where it gave a bit, working it in deeper.

  And then he’d have to hope that the wire was rigid enough to turn the lock.

  “Half-way there,” he said.

  The wire kept hitting parts of the bolt that stopped it.

  I’m out of practice, Jack thought.

  Then deeper, and the wire had to bend a bit.

  Now — if it was lodged properly — he could twist the wire and, with luck, get the bolt to move.

  “Wish there was something I could do,” Sarah said.

  “Pray,” Jack said.

  He turned the wire. It didn’t budge, the lock mechanism seemingly stuck in place.

  “Come on,” Jack said.

  It’s not a fancy lock, no high tech system here. Just an old door lock. Has to move.

  Has to.

  And then it did, his fingers holding the wire tightly so it didn’t lose any of the purchase he had gained, moving the lock mechanism a few millimetres.

  Then — after a few millimetres more — a click.

  He looked up at Sarah and grinned.

  “I must say, I have not lost my touch.”

  And with the flat piece of metal keeping the latch flush and free, he said: “If you’ll do the honours.”

  Sarah grabbed the brass-coloured knob, gave it a twist, and the door to Kirsty’s cottage opened. They slipped inside, shutting the door behind them.

  Sarah looked at Jack, a tall shadow in the small dark living room.

  Kirsty Kimball was gone, but in the chilly, dank air, Sarah felt as if she could sense the person who once lived here.

  It was — in a word — creepy.

  Jack sniffed the air. He had obviously done things like this before, but for Sarah? This was — what? — breaking and entering.

  Let’s do this fast.

  Jack turned to her, his face barely visible with so little light snaking past the thick curtains and blinds.

  “You okay?”

  A nod, then followed by: “Yeah. Just, well, this is new to me.”

  She too kept her voice low.

  “Let’s see what we can see.”

  Jack started moving through the living room, to an easy chair and then over to an end table piled with books.

  He picked one, another, reading the title

  “The Secret Lover, A Holiday Affair …”

  Sarah came beside him, her voice low. “Looks like she liked her romance.”

  A bookmark stuck out of one midway. Jack slid it out. “This one, not to be finished.”

  The cardboard bookmark showed two earthworms entwined, amid stacks of books.

  “The Bookworm,” Sarah said.

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s from the bookshop in the village.”

  “Makes sense.”

  She turned to Jack. “Emma and Thomas Hilloc both claimed not to really know Kirsty. But — looks to me like she was quite a regular customer.”

  Jack pursed his lips. “Interesting. Shall we move on?”

  They continued down to the narrow hallway that led to the front door.

  And right at that door, he stopped at a vase of flowers, dry, wilted, the colour faded.

  Sarah came close to them.

  In the vase were red roses, lilies and a cluster of once-colourful chrysanthemums.

  Quite the romantic bouquet.

  Jack reached into his coat pocket and took out the single rose — now faded — which he’d found in the lane where Kirsty had died.

  “Somebody knew she liked roses,” Jack said, a whisper.

  Sarah leaned close. Circling the crystal vase was a ribbon, tied tight and ending in a bow.

  She touched the satiny material with a finger, and then looked to Jack.

  “A ribbon. Not something you’d do if you bought the flowers yourself.”

  She got close to the dried flowers, the sweet smell long faded.

  “A gift then,” Jack said. “For someone who apparently didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  Then Jack started to step quietly into the small dining room, when Sarah touched his arm, stopping him.

  “Jack — I could swear I saw the same bouquet, the same mix, in the bookstore.”

  “Really? Could be … it’s just a popular ’bunch’ for the fall, hmm?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Those flowers had been fresh, alive. Such a contrast from these.

  But the same grouping.

  Jack kept walking slowly down the bleak hallway, and after a quick last look at the dead bouquet, she quickly followed.

  To see Jack standing beside a small dining room table with a phone in his hand. “Guess the police left Kirsty’s phone here.”

  “That strange?”

  “No. Not if they didn’t suspect anything. Leave it for the estate, next of kin. I wonder.”

  The phone was still plugged in to its charger. He pressed the flat screen and the phone came to life, too bright for the room, then it produced a trilling noise that sounded so loud when they were being so careful to whisper.

  She came close to Jack, looking at the screen.

  “Let’s see what’s on here, shall we?”

  Jack pressed the phone icon, quickly sliding to recent calls.

  And the screen showed no calls.

  ’Now that’s strange,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “No calls? Only way you see something like that is if someone took care to wipe out any record of calls.” Jack took a breath. “And you only do that …”

  “If you have something to hide?”

  “Right. Maybe Kirsty had a secret. Unfortunately,” he tilted the phone left and right, “this won’t be of much help.”

  Sarah nodded.

  Then: “Jack, should we hurry up. I mean, if someone strolled by, saw us.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. Let’s just give the place a quick walk through.”

  “Right.”

  And now, Sarah, eager to be out of here, out of this cottage that felt positively funereal, led the way into the kitchen.

  Jack opened the fridge — more unwanted light — holding the door open for a minute.

  “Little sparse,” he said, shutting it. “Nothing odd in that. For a single woman, I guess.”

  But Sarah’s attention was caught by something on the side of the unit.

  She walked over. This side of the fridge caught light from the twin windows over the sink.

  Just enough light to see the calendar, still in the month of November. A photo of trees, all turned a ruddy orange.

  Then the dates below.

  A half dozen or more, neatly circled.

  “Jack, take a look here.”

  “Rehearsal dates?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, that’s strictly Thursdays until they get close to performance. Something else important about these dates?”

  “Could be anything.”

  Sarah nodded. “Right, but why not write what it is? Dentist, appointment of some kind.” She turned to him. “I mean, isn’t that what you would do?”

  “Normally.”

  Then back to the calendar, Kirsty’s presence in this place growing stronger by the minute.

  “Unless, you thought … if people came here, you didn’t want anyone seeing, knowing why that date was important.”

  Jack pointed below the calendar.

  “Loo
k here. She took the danger of anaphylactic shock pretty seriously. Look,”

  Below the calendar was a large sheet with illustrations showing exactly how to use an EpiPen.

  “Not someone to be careless, hmm?” Jack said. “Take a peek upstairs?”

  And Sarah nodded, even though — if she told the truth — she wanted to leave.

  Instead, she followed Jack up the stairs to the second floor of the small cottage.

  14. Company

  Sarah went into the bathroom first, opening a medicine cabinet packed with jars and tubes, and a one shelf filled with EpiPens in their boxes, stacked and ready to be used.

  A small bedroom was empty, no coverlet, no sheets, looking unused. And then at the other end of the upper floor, a larger master bedroom. The mansard roof angled down, and exposed beams ran the length of the bedroom.

  Off to the left was a wardrobe with double doors next to a claw-footed dresser.

  Sarah saw an open box on the dresser, about a foot square. She walked over to it and picked it up.

  “What’s that?” Jack said.

  She shook her head. “Jack, it’s filled with her EpiPens. Kirtsy certainly had no shortage of fresh medication.”

  Sarah shivered. If anything, it was chillier up here. “Jack, I don’t know … but there’s something wrong here. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Me too. None of this adds up. But it’s like we’re missing something key, someone else we need talk to, something to find, or …”

  “And weeks have gone by. Maybe it’s too late.”

  To that, Jack said nothing and Sarah guessed that they might — in fact — indeed be too late to find out what really happened to Kirsty.

  “Think we’ve seen everything up here. So maybe …”

  But just as Jack was about to end their illegal search of the cottage, Sarah heard the rattle and squeak of the front door being opened below.

  Instinctively her hand shot out to Jack.

  “Jack …”

  He put a finger to his lips. She saw his eyes dart to the doorway to this room. Then she heard voices below, an undecipherable muttering, but two male voices, talking, moving around down there.

  She turned back to Jack, as he looked around.

  Quite clearly they couldn’t risk trying to get down and out the back door.

  Jack touched her elbow and pointed to the wardrobe.

  Really? she thought. We’re going to hide in a wardrobe?

  But all the prompting that she needed came when she heard the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

  It might not be a great idea but it was — unfortunately — the only one.

  There were clothes in the wardrobe, Kirsty’s clothes, so when she and Jack plastered themselves against the back wall, they were pretty well hidden.

  That is, Sarah thought, if you didn’t look down and see — amid the row of elegant shoes, trainers and boots — actual legs and feet.

  And while this was scary, as Sarah felt her heart racing, it felt — at the same time — exciting.

  It reminded her of something.

  Like so many memories a movie, some movie. But what?

  Then she flashed on it, having watched it a year or so ago with her kids when it popped up on BBC2.

  E.T. When the kids hid the little alien in a closet.

  And remembering that almost made her laugh.

  Which is when the two people wandering the cottage walked into the bedroom …

  “Master bedroom. Cosy, as you can see, and the full ensuite right nearby.”

  “Tad small, Cecil.”

  Sarah recognized the voice. Cecil Cauldwell, the estate agent.

  Showing the property.

  “Well, it’s just for the two of them you say, your daughter and her partner?”

  The other man grunted, another familiar voice but not one she could immediately place.

  “For now. But they have all sorts of crazy plans. Their own business. Having bloody kids! God, they’re still kids themselves!”

  “Um, there is the other bedroom. Perfect for a little tyke …”

  “How big is this wardrobe?”

  Steps came closer. She held her breath — and she couldn’t hear Jack breathe at all.

  The handle of the wardrobe rattled, and one of two doors started to be pulled open.

  But then stopped one-quarter way open. “All this furniture — that will be included as well? They got nuffin.”

  “We’re still working out details with the estate. Just an aunt and uncle in Birmingham. But once everything is nice and tidy with the solicitors, I’m sure the place can be sold furnished.”

  Then, as if a gift, the prospective buyer closed the wardrobe door.

  “Good. They’ll need everything I can get for them.”

  “Yes. So, shall we head back to my office and do some, as they say, number crunching?”

  “Sure, right. Just as long as there’ll be no signing of papers today.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Sarah permitted herself one deep breath as she finally heard the footfalls on the stairs, as the steps and voices faded, followed finally by the loud squeak of the sticky front door popping free of its frame.

  In minutes, Sarah had nearly raced Jack down the stairs, laughing now that the danger had passed, back to the side door, Jack giving the place a quick look to make sure that all looked untouched and locking the door behind them.

  Then, as if emerging from a stroll on the lane to the village, they made their way back to their cars.

  And when they stopped there, Jack wore a big grin.

  “I thought you were going to faint from lack of air in there.”

  “Nearly did.”

  A breeze whipped around them, and with clouds darkening, rain probably on the way, Sarah thought.

  “Jack, we’re on the same page, right?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I mean — thinking that what happened to Kirsty was no accident?”

  “Can’t have been. The whole business with the pen.”

  “Okay. I need to get back, check on Chloe. But what next? Are we at a dead end?”

  “Hope not. I have another rehearsal tonight. Having stirred up, as we say, a few hornets’ nests, maybe tonight I can catch a break.”

  “And if you do …”

  Jack laughed. “I know. Will call you asap, right?”

  And Sarah laughed as well.

  “Right.”

  “And give Chloe my best, though I bet your parents are treating her like a princess.”

  “More like the queen.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She watched as Jack somehow fitted his oversized frame into the small sports car and thought, as he drove away, that she wasn’t at all sure what they had — certainly no evidence.

  But seeing him, feeling Jack’s confidence, she felt that they would get to the truth about what happened to Kirsty and, more importantly, who killed her.

  15. Suspicious Minds

  Decided chill in the air, Jack thought entering rehearsal room.

  And it wasn’t about the temperature.

  While he garnered a few nods of acknowledgement from some of the choristers, and even a wave and smile from Pete Bull, specific others were conspicuous in ignoring him.

  The Hillocs stood off to the side, engaged in a tête-à-tête, although Emma seemed to be doing most of the talking, while Thomas’s head bobbed up and down.

  Roger Reed stood at the front, studiously leafing through music as though the group hadn’t rehearsed the programme at least a dozen times before.

  Only Simon Rochester gave him a look, and the financial advisor’s smarmy grin seemed more like a dare.

  Rochester oozed confidence, and probably — Jack guessed — some pricey cologne designed to remove the smell of his hot tub plunges.

  Jack had debated talking again to each of them, but then he’d had a much better idea.

  Now that both he and Sarah were convinced that
something had been done to trigger Kirsty’s death, Jack had a plan that — with luck and enough paranoia — would trigger the answer.

  He walked over to Martha Bernard, sitting at her bench and talking to another equally ancient woman standing next to her.

  “Excuse me, Martha. Wonder,” and here Jack gave the other woman a nod and a smile, “if I might have a word?”

  Bernard gave Jack her usual scan up and down as if her glasses came equipped with laser targeting.

  Then she turned to the other woman. “Rosie, if you don’t mind?”

  Rosie looked from Martha then to Jack, forcing a smile, but probably leaving with a host of ideas of what “the American” was up to.

  “Such a busybody, that one,” Martha said. “Warning to you Jack, be careful what you say to her unless you want the whole village to know.”

  Jack kept a smile on his face. “Good to know, Martha. Thanks.”

  Then Jack sat down on the bench close to the woman.

  He saw Emma look over, then deliver a none-too-well hidden nudge to her husband.

  Good. They’re seeing this.

  And Roger Reed looked up from his scores, and his eyes narrowed upon seeing Jack sitting so close to the accompanist.

  Finally, from across the room, Simon Rochester pretended to be in conversation with one of the younger male singers but couldn’t resist letting his eyes slip away from the young man and shoot over to Jack.

  Perfect.

  “Well, Mr Brennan. How’s your ’detecting’ been going?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard.”

  “In Cherringham, you hear everything.”

  Jack nodded. “Wanted to thank you. For your leads.”

  Now Martha’s eyes went wide, suddenly excited. ”You’ve discovered something?”

  “Think so. Let’s say that Kirtsy Kimball left something behind that I think will tell us what — or rather who — made her go into allergic shock — and die.”

  “You think it’s murder?”

  “I do. Actually, just about positive.”

  “Who?”

  The owl-eyed woman’s question perfectly matched her gaze.

  “Now Martha, not one hundred percent sure yet. But thanks to you, your … um, leads …”

  “Yes, I gave you leads, didn’t I? Just like on the telly!”

  She seemed completely delighted with the idea.

  Though truth be known, she had given him something closer to mean-spirited suspicions. But Jack had to admit they had been useful.