by AG Barnett
Mary let out a long breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding.
…Our baby we hide…
So, she did have another sibling, one that her father had hidden from her and Pea.
She frowned as she read through the words again. Why would her father write this cryptic message and hide it in a secret location? Surely it couldn’t be the location of the child. He or she would be forty years old now and could be anywhere in the world. So, why keep this hidden all those years and tell Pea to uncover it now?
There was a crunch of gravel behind her and she half turned as something heavy hit her across the head, and the world turned black.
Chapter Seventeen
“You’ll be fine, but you’ll need to rest for the remainder of the day,” the doctor said sternly. “No television, no reading, and I don’t want you to sleep for a good few hours.”
“Right,” Mary croaked. She had been lucky enough not to require the services of many doctors over the years, but this one had the bedside manner of a hippo and the physical presence to match.
“And try to be more careful in future,” the woman said as she rose and turned towards the door.
“More careful?!” Mary said to Dot when she had gone. “I was hit over the bloody head! What does she expect me to do? Wear a crash helmet?!”
“How’re you feeling?” Dot asked, peering at the back of Mary’s head.
“Oh, I’m fine, I would just like somebody to tell me what the hell is going on!”
Mary had opened her eyes from her prone position on the roof to find Inspector Corrigan standing over her. Confused and woozy, she had allowed herself to be checked over firstly by a constable with first-aid training, and then latterly by a doctor in her bedroom. Nobody had answered her questions about who had hit her. In fact, everyone had been particularly evasive, and she had noticed a number of whispered conversations, both when she was being helped down the spiral staircase from the roof and also as the doctor had checked her over.
“Something’s happened, Mary,” Dot said, her square face set.
“Well, of course, something’s bloody happened!” Mary said, “Someone whacked me over the head!”
“No, something else. It’s Flintock, he’s dead.”
Mary’s mouth fell open and stayed there as she tried to read her friend’s face to see if she was joking.
“Flintock’s dead?!”
Dot’s lips pursed in silence for a moment before she answered.
“He fell from the roof.”
“The roof? You mean… while I was up there?”
“It looks like that, yes.”
“So, whoever hit me over the head pushed him off!”
“Maybe, or he did it himself.”
Mary pushed herself up from the bed and swung her legs over the edge.
“What do you mean?”
“The police found a note in his pocket apparently, it says he killed Melanie.”
“Bloody hell,” Mary said breathlessly, “he hit me over the head so that I didn’t stop him?”
“That’s what the police think, but I don’t know why he wouldn’t just wait until you’d gone away.”
“Well, bearing in mind he killed someone and then threw himself off of a building, I’d say he wasn’t thinking straight, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, right. Of course,” Dot answered, but with the air of someone who had never not been in her right mind and couldn’t imagine what that would look like.
In this case, Mary thought she might have a point.
“I have to say, I can’t quite imagine Flintock feeling remorse over anything,” she said slowly. “And the idea of him killing himself just seems, odd. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever known someone who loves himself as much as that man.” She trailed off as something occurred to her.
“What if someone pushed him off?”
Dot frowned at her, her lips pursed. “You mean, the same person who killed Melanie?”
“Yes! What better way to get the attention away from them than to blame it on someone else?”
“An interesting theory,” a voice came from the bedroom door. They looked up as Corrigan pushed the door open from where the doctor had left it ajar.
“There are some things that don’t make sense about all of this, though,” he continued as he moved into the room, closing the door behind him. “Let’s assume that Miss Blake here is not the killer for a moment, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s assume that,” Mary answered testily.
“Then we know that the killer of Melanie Shaw tried to frame you by leaving the section of the murder mystery script.”
“Which doesn’t make any sense,” Mary said. “I mean, who did they want us to think put it there? Melanie could hardly have done it after I’d bashed her over the head, could she?” She caught the expression of them both. “Theoretically, obviously,” she added quickly. “My point is that if someone knew I had killed her and then put the note there, why wouldn’t they tell the police?”
“Maybe they were blackmailing you with the information?” Corrigan said flatly.
Mary stared at him.
“You mean someone like Flintock? Who I then threw off the roof and faked a bang on the head?”
“The thought had occurred to me,” he said. “But as we’re assuming you are not the killer in this scenario, let’s think of why someone else might have left that note even though it didn’t make sense.”
“They must have panicked,” Mary shrugged.
“Exactly,” Corrigan said, smiling. “It’s the action of someone who isn’t thinking straight, someone who’s desperate and is acting without thinking.”
“Someone who’s desperate enough to throw themselves off of a building,” Mary added.
“Maybe,” Corrigan said. “But why now? This person’s first thought was to point the blame at somebody else, to deflect attention away from themselves at all costs. Now, a few hours later and they are suddenly so full of remorse they want to end it all? No. I think those few hours gave this person time to think. They thought of a better way to frame somebody.”
“To kill Flintock and leave a note on him saying he did it?”
“Exactly,” Corrigan said, pulling an evidence bag from inside of his jacket pocket. “Have a look at the note.”
Mary took the bag and peered through the plastic to the paper inside. There was a single line, written in blue ink:
I killed her, time to pay
“You can barely read it,” Mary said, passing the note to Dot, who studied it as she had done. “He must have been shaking like a leaf when he wrote it,” Mary continued.
“Either that or someone was deliberately trying to hide their own handwriting when they wrote this,” Corrigan said, taking the note and placing it back in his inside pocket.
“You mean like that old trick of writing it with your left hand?” Mary asked.
Corrigan raised an eyebrow. “Could be. In any case, our list of suspects has grown smaller. I’m afraid I’m going to have to confine you all to your rooms from early evening. We’ll have men on every door and more at various points around the house.” He looked at his watch. “It’s gone two already and I know that no one has had anything to eat yet, so I think it best you all get something. I know that a woman, who insisted I call her Hetty, by the way, has been cooking up a storm down there—half my men are drooling at the smell. Shall I get your brother to send some up to you?”
Mary’s heart gave a jolt as she thought of Pea and the box she had found.
“When you found me, did you find anything else?”
“Ah, yes. I wondered whether you were going to bring that up,” Corrigan said, his eyes twinkling suddenly in the dim light of the room. “Very mysterious.”
“You read it?” Mary asked, aghast.
“Of course I did. This is a murder enquiry. Can you tell me what relevance it has to the case?”
“None whatsoever.”
“OK then, can you te
ll me where it came from and why you had it?”
Mary sighed and glanced at Dot who was sitting, tight-lipped with a look of utter confusion on her face.
He’s right, this is a murder enquiry, Mary thought. There’s no sense in trying to hide anything.
“I found it in a secret panel under the stone seat in the folly down by the lake.”
“What on earth?!” Dot said, her eyes widening.
“I went there because my father had told my brother there was something there relating to our family.”
“And how does that scrap of paper and its contents relate to your family?” Corrigan asked, his eyes narrow and serious now.
“I’m not quite sure.” She paused and looked up at him. “You’ve read it, it’s just some silly game my mother cooked up, she was always one for crosswords and cryptic clues. It has sentimental value though, and so I would like it back.”
Corrigan seemed to think for a moment before giving a small nod and heading for the door. “We’ll have to keep it, for now. I’m afraid it is evidence until proven otherwise, but we’ll get it back to you as soon as we can. Please make sure you both get something to eat, won’t you?”
“What on earth was all that about?” Dot asked once the door had closed.
“Go and get Pea and some food and then come back up here and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Dot gave her a stern look, sighed and left the room on her errand.
Mary lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Flintock was dead. She could hardly believe it. She reached her hand up to the patch of gauze that the doctor had applied to the wound on her head and sighed.
Chapter Eighteen
“Are you sure you’re remembering that right?” Pea said, frowning.
“Of course I’m not remembering it right!” Mary exclaimed, rolling her eyes. Her brother questioning her was high up on her list of annoyances. “I only read it once and then I was clubbed over the head! All I know is they said they had hidden their baby and then there was something about Crickwood.”
Despite having eaten—Hetty had apparently whipped up a round of bacon sandwiches for everyone in the house, including the police—the dull ache from her head was still making Mary grouchy.
“And the inspector has it now?”
“Yes, they picked it up when they found me. What do you think it means?”
“Well, I remember Crickwood. Do you?”
“I know where it is, if that’s what you mean?”
“No, I mean that we used to go there quite a bit in summer, but it was before Mum died. I think she might have had some distant family there at some point. It’s only about fifteen miles away.”
“And they hid a baby there?! What on earth does that mean? You don’t think one of them had an affair, do you?!”
“Wait a minute!” Pea said, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Do you know, I don’t think they did!” He laughed.
“What is it?” Mary said, glancing at Dot who looked equally baffled.
“Don’t you remember? All those stories Dad used to tell us about Grandpappy treasure hunting?”
“Treasure hunting?” Dot exclaimed.
“Oh, it wasn’t treasure hunting,” Mary said dismissively, “he was just a hoarder. Travelled the world and grabbed every little thing he could find and brought it back here. You should see the attic and cellar, it’s full of the stuff.”
“Yes, but I’m talking about his baby!” Pea cried, laughing again and throwing his hands up in the air with excitement.
Mary frowned. “What do you mean ‘Grandpappy’s baby’?” She paused, light dawning from a distant memory that fought to the surface. “You don’t mean that nonsense about the Russian egg?!”
“Yes!” Pea cried. “Didn’t Dad always say it was true?”
“Well yes, but he used to tell me I was descended from a fairy princess, so I think we should take the children’s stories with a pinch of salt, don’t you?”
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Dot said, folding her arms, her beady eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them.
“When we were little,” Pea began, “our dad used to tell us this story about our grandfather. In his younger days, between the World Wars, he was quite the party animal. He spent his days in the clubs and cocktail bars of London, playing cards, gambling and chasing the opposite sex.”
“I always wondered where you got it from,” Dot interjected, looking pointedly at Mary.
“Very funny,” Mary replied in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Anyway,” Pea continued, “one night he was making his way back to the apartment he used when he was in town and he saw a man being attacked in the street by three others. Grandpappy had fought in and survived World War I and was as tough as old boots. He knocked two of the attackers clean out and the third ran away.
“He knelt beside the man who had been attacked and asked him if he’d been robbed. This poor chap was in a pretty bad way, but he could talk. He said “No! They attacked me because I am a foreigner! Not for my bag, the fools! Now, you must take it, it will be no good to me where I’m going. Do more than me with it, save it for your family, and look after it like a baby.”
Pea, getting carried away with the part, had spoken these words in a distinct accent.
“Was this man German, then?” Dot asked, causing Mary to burst into laughter.
“No, he bloody wasn’t!” Pea said, looking hurt that anyone could confuse his attempt at a Russian accent. “Anyway, the man died, but Grandpappy took the bag he had had with him and inside it was a decorative egg worth millions.”
Pea rattled out this last sentence like a machine gun and folded his arms.
“Millions?!” Dot said in a breathless voice.
“Oh, come on Dot, it’s nonsense!” Mary laughed. She turned to her brother and saw his glazed expression.
“What if it isn’t?” he said in a whispered, faraway voice. “What if it really was the answer to all our problems?”
“You can’t be serious?!” Mary gawped at him, incredulous.
“Think about it, Mary—why else would Dad hide a note in a secret panel in the folly?!”
Mary opened her mouth to reply, but the words escaped her as she considered her brother’s point. Why would her father have gone to all that trouble?
Donald Blake had been a good father to both her and her brother. He had told them stories, played with them and been there when they needed it. Despite this, he had been a straight-laced, sensible man much of the time and wasn’t prone to flights of fancy and imagination. The idea of him creating an elaborate treasure-hunt-style clue hidden within the grounds, which he had told no one about until now, when his mental functions were diminishing, seemed ridiculous.
“Wait,” Mary said, “maybe someone else did know?”
“What do you mean?” Pea asked.
“I mean that in the note, Dad said ‘we hid our baby’—he must have been talking about Mum.”
“Well, there you go!” Pea said. “You can’t tell me that they both would have been in on hiding this note if it was just a joke or something. It must lead to something, and maybe it’s the egg!”
“Well we’re not going to find out unless we can get that note back, and that’s not going to happen until this case is solved.”
“I thought it was solved?” Pea said, with a puzzled expression.
Mary filled him in on the recent developments before the three of them fell into a thoughtful silence, which was broken after a few moments by Dot.
“Did you see some reporter when you were out in the grounds?”
“Oh, yes I did. I was in the folly getting the box out and some weedy little man sprung up behind me. I think the police kicked him out again. How did you know?”
“When I was fetching Pea I saw the TV reporting that you had been acting ‘suspiciously,’ as though you were trying to bury something and that the police had been informed.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, bloody hell!” Mary said, throwing herself back onto the bed. “I’ve had enough of all this!”
“I’m sure Inspector Corrigan will work out what’s going on soon,” Dot said in the calm voice of someone who believes in authority absolutely.
“He hasn’t got a clue!” Mary said, sitting up again. “The only person who could have had any reason to kill Melanie, other than me that is, just fell off the roof. And we don’t think he did it, even though he confessed through a note! I just can’t see…” She stopped suddenly, her train of thought derailed by a sudden landslide of previously unseen possibilities.
“Oh, blimey,” she said in a whisper.
“What is it?” Dot asked, looking at Pea as though she suspected the blow to the head might have made some more lasting damage than previously thought.
“Come on,” Mary said, jumping up. “We need to go and check some things!”
Chapter Nineteen
“Slow down!” Dot called from behind as Mary rushed along the landing and leaned over the bannister to see Inspector Corrigan talking to two officers.
“Inspector!” she called out as she headed down the stairs towards him.
He gave a final word to the officers who left through the front door and moved towards the staircase, reaching it as Mary descended the last step.
His arm snapped out, steadying her as she stumbled to her left.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head to clear it, “I think I got up too early. I need to know if you think you could get a fingerprint off rough stone,” she said in a rush.
“Off rough stone? It would be difficult. What do you know, Miss Blake?”
“Damn. What about a wire?”
“If it has a plastic coating, possibly.”
“Right.” She pushed past him and headed for the door, leaving Dot and Pea, who had followed her down the stairs, to give the inspector sheepish grins as they passed.
Mary jogged down the steps and turned left, striding with her long legs as she headed around the house.
“Mary!” Pea called out from behind her, “Where on earth are you going?!”
