Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder

by Neil Richards

  She shook her head. “I’m Hannah.”

  “Oh, sorry—”

  “Sophie’s roommate. Come in. She’s just on the phone.”

  As Sarah stepped in, Hannah saw the cartoon. Without saying a word, she ripped it from the door, crumpled it up, and stuffed it in the pocket of her jumper.

  Sarah entered the room and looked around. Another girl in a dressing gown sat on a small sofa, face turned away, talking quietly but intently into her mobile phone.

  Sarah looked around.

  There were two beds — nearly doubles — and as well as the sofa, TV, and to the left, an en-suite shower room.

  Not too shabby, Sarah thought.

  Boarding school had come a long way since her own days, when she’d been eight to a dorm and the bathroom had been a long walk down a cold corridor.

  “Can I get you a juice or a Coke?” said Hannah.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Sarah.

  “Cool.”

  She watched Hannah flop onto a bed and lean back against a big cushion, watching her. Sophie carried on chatting on the phone as if nobody had entered the room.

  “Maybe I should come back, if this isn’t a good time?” said Sarah.

  But Sophie looked over, said a quick goodbye, then turned in her chair. She brushed her hair back and smiled at Sarah.

  “God, I’m so sorry, that was just my mum, she wants to come and take me home. They’re all going totally crazy, Dad’s been on the phone to the Head twice, I keep telling them it’s no big deal but they won’t listen.”

  “Parents,” said Sarah. “I’m Sarah by the way. I think the Head’s told you about me?”

  “He said you were going to find the creep who did it,” said Sophie.

  “Are you like a private eye?” said Hannah.

  “Kind of,” said Sarah. “Part-time.”

  “They said you were American,” said Hannah.

  “No, that’s my partner, Jack.”

  “You and Jack an item?” said Hannah, grinning.

  “Oh my God, Hannah,” said Sophie. “I’m sorry about her, she has totally zero manners.”

  “No, that’s okay,” said Sarah, smiling. “He’s my business partner. And friend.”

  “So is he the real deal … a real detective?” said Hannah.

  Sarah laughed.

  “Yes, he is,” she said. “He used to be a cop in New York. Homicide.”

  “That is seriously cool,” said Hannah.

  “And what about you?” said Sophie. “What do you do when you’re not detecting?”

  “I’ve got a web business. And I’ve got two children to bring up.”

  “Wow,” said Sophie. “That’s a lot.”

  Sarah nodded. The two of them watched her.

  “Sophie,” she said. “You want to tell me what happened this morning?”

  “Sure,” said Sophie.

  “Start right at the beginning, so I know what you did from the time you woke up, until the time when—”

  “When Rat Man struck!” said Hannah.

  Sarah watched Sophie carefully. The girl smiled at Hannah’s joke, but in spite of her attempts to make light of the whole thing, Sarah could see she was anxious, edgy.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  “Any time you want to take a break, just say. It can be very upsetting talking about something like this. Believe me.”

  Sophie nodded and locked eyes with Sarah.

  “It’s all right. I want to tell you. I want you to find the person who did it.”

  “That’s good, Sophie. Now, in your own time …”

  And while Sophie told her story, Sarah sat, and made notes.

  *

  Sarah closed her notebook and put her pen away. Sophie had told her story like a perfect witness, strong, and clear all the way through.

  Whatever they teach these girls, it’s strong stuff, thought Sarah. No way was I that controlled at her age.

  “Is that it?” said Sophie.

  “Fine for now,” said Sarah. “We might come back and talk to you again when we know more, if that’s all right?”

  “Sure.”

  Sarah got up to go.

  “Just one thing though. You said that Emily Braithwaite should have been in charge this morning …”

  “Right. She didn’t turn up because she was ill.”

  “Has that ever happened before?”

  “I don’t know — today was my first time helping her out.”

  “So — who does she normally use?”

  Sarah saw Hannah and Sophie exchange a quick look.

  A look that surely meant — be careful …

  “It’s somebody different each year,” said Hannah, suddenly joining in the conversation.

  “Okay. Who was it last year?”

  That look between them again …

  “Um, not sure,” said Hannah.

  “I think it was — Freya,” said Sophie. “Yes, Freya. Freya DeLong.”

  Sophie acted as though she had to search her memory for the name. But it seemed like play-acting.

  “This Freya — she didn’t want to do it this year?”

  “Um, no. I don’t know,” said Sophie. “I suppose not.”

  Sarah realised that Sophie was clamming up. She wasn’t going to get anything more out of them now. She got up — time to go.

  “You’ve been so helpful, Sophie. And you, Hannah.”

  “Anything more we can do, just ask,” said Sophie.

  “I will,” said Sarah, heading for the door. Then she turned.

  “There was one more question.” Employing an old trick she’d learned from Jack.

  She saw the two girls exchange another look.

  “Where is Emily Braithwaite?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sophie. “Actually, I thought she’d come and see me. I texted her to say what had happened. But she hasn’t replied.”

  And now Sarah could see that Sophie was on the edge of crying.

  “Right. I’m sure she’ll be in touch,” said Sarah as briskly as she could. “You stay there — I know my way out. Bye, girls.”

  She left. As she shut the door behind her, she could hear Sophie sobbing and Hannah comforting her.

  She can deal with the rats. But her teacher doesn’t reply to a text and she falls apart.

  Interesting …

  Sarah headed back down the corridor, the place still deserted. As she passed the common room she noticed one wall covered in student art work.

  She went in. The pictures were good — some of them excellent. Bright acrylics, gentle watercolours.

  But a few were cartoon sketches. Caricatures of students — but also of political figures, many of them American.

  They were cruelly accurate.

  All of them had ‘a Freya original’ written in the corner.

  And all of them were clearly drawn by the same hand that had created the cartoon of Princess Sophie escaping the rats which Hannah had torn so quickly from her door.

  One thing suddenly clear: Freya and Sophie weren’t friends.

  And if Sophie had taken Freya’s job with the Minnows — how did Freya feel about that?

  She knew there was more to be found out about Sophie, the rats … and the non-responsive Emily Braithwaite.

  6. Contradictions

  After leaving Tahir, Jack decided to mosey around on his own for a moment before heading back to the main school building, in spite of the dripping, deadening rain that continued to fall.

  Someone, somewhere, he guessed must be watching him on CCTV.

  School like this … had to be covered in cameras.

  But after he’d toured the sports block, the dining hall, and the kitchens, he realised he’d seen no cameras anywhere. Which was a shame. Cameras might have picked up the culprit.

  Nobody challenged him. In fact the mostly East European kitchen staff seemed happy to give him a coffee and chat in broken English about life at the school.

  They all seemed happy,
no complaints — and none the wiser as to how the potato dauphinoise had so famously poisoned the school just weeks before.

  A quick ‘off the record’ chat with one of the chefs though convinced him that the outbreak of food poisoning wasn’t accidental.

  “This kitchen,” he said, raising an index finger into the air like a culinary general, “is absolutely spotless! And we source all our produce locally, our meat is organic …” He took a deep breath. “I know there’s nothing wrong there.”

  “Then how do you explain it?”

  The chef lowered his voice. “I’ve been around long enough in this business to know when somebody’s done something deliberately.”

  But having said that, the chef was none the wiser as to who might have done it. “How would I know? Maybe some rival school; they don’t like the competition, want us out of business.”

  Well, it’s a theory, thought Jack.

  Not a great theory but more than I’ve got.

  Moments later, Jack texted Sarah and arranged to meet in the main hall.

  Time to see exactly how much they didn’t know.

  Which he guessed was a lot.

  *

  Jack sat now on a rather dainty antique sofa looking at the grim portraits of nineteenth-century headmistresses.

  One mean set of ladies, he thought. They wouldn’t have put up with rats in the pool.

  The main door opened and he looked up to see Sarah enter. He watched as she took off her raincoat and shook the rain from it.

  “Cats and dogs, eh?” he said.

  “Do we still say that over here, Jack?”

  “Dunno. Still do in Brooklyn.”

  She came over to him: “You found anything?”

  “Maybe. We should compare notes.”

  But before they could, Jack heard a door slam shut, and footsteps. He looked across to the corridor that led to the Head’s office.

  A man emerged and strode over to them.

  Stocky, in his forties, in an expensive suit, the guy’s face had a pinkish tinge as if, thought Jack, he’d shaved too close.

  “Mr. Brennan? Ms. Edwards?” he said, not offering his hand.

  Jack nodded.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. …?”

  “Weiss, Karl Weiss. I’m the manager.”

  “Ah,” said Jack. “I thought Mr. Ward was the boss?”

  “Gavin’s the Head. I’m the … manager.”

  And then, as if Jack and Sarah were children who didn’t quite understand: “Gavin is responsible for the academic and pastoral care of the school. I run the business.”

  “And business is good?” asked Jack.

  “It was. Until this nonsense. When are you going to be able to sort it out?”

  “Well, Mr. Weiss, we’ve only just started,” said Sarah.

  “Hmm. Well, I’m sure you don’t have time just to sit around here. Do you?”

  “Just comparing notes, Mr. Weiss,” said Jack. “Part of the job.”

  “Good. Might I suggest you do that back at your office? It doesn’t look good having you here. Taking notes. Just sitting here.”

  “Of course,” said Jack. “Come on, Sarah.”

  He motioned towards the main doors. Then turned.

  “Mr. Weiss — reminds me. We do need to talk to Emily Braithwaite. Can you tell us when she will be available?”

  Weiss made a face at the request.

  “I believe she had a medical commitment in London today. I shall arrange for you to see her on Monday.”

  “And we also need to talk to the staff who had their tyres slashed.”

  “Not necessary at all, Mr. Brennan. The cars have all been repaired and I really don’t want to put the owners under any more stress.”

  “It would only take a few minutes,” said Sarah. “And I can promise you there would be no stress involved.”

  “No, not possible. They don’t need to be brought into this. Anything else?”

  Jack stared at the man.

  This guy’s hiding something too, he thought. Every damn person I meet here has a secret.

  “No, nothing right now, Mr. Weiss,” he said, smiling. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Wondering if he got sarcasm …

  Jack walked with Sarah to the doors.

  “Make sure you call me first on Monday,” said Weiss. “I’d rather you didn’t turn up without an appointment.”

  “Will do,” said Jack over his shoulder. “Pleasure meeting you.”

  And as they went through the doors he added sotto voce: “Not.”

  *

  The rain was still coming down hard, and the small wiper blades on the Sprite’s windscreen struggled to keep up.

  Meanwhile, the noise of the heavy splatters hitting the stop top of the small sports car sounded like gunshot.

  “Nasty storm,” Jack said.

  “Even for England. Quite a downpour.”

  He drove slowly, the car sending water from the rain shooting up to the pavement as they came to Sarah’s house.

  They’d spent the drive sharing information. And agreeing that right now they didn’t have many leads.

  The missing link seemed to be one person: Emily Braithwaite.

  And until she returned to the school it would be hard to dig down into the various relationships that the interviews had thrown up.

  But Jack did have one idea.

  “We need to talk to whoever had their cars damaged. But I think I can get their names even without asking the headmaster.”

  “How?”

  “I imagine Tim’s Tyre Repair had to send someone over. Closest place.”

  Jack pulled alongside Sarah’s house, letting the car idle, but with the slapping windscreen wipers stopped.

  “Worried?”

  “Hmm,” Sarah said.

  “About Chloe. This weather.”

  “No. Well, maybe yes. Guess that’s what mums do?”

  “And dads.”

  Jack didn’t offer the thought that young girls had an amazing habit of ignoring such things as curfews and clocks.

  Especially when they were having a good time.

  No way to avoid going through all that, Jack knew. He was just glad that his days were over.

  And a reminder he’d have to be as supportive of Sarah, all on her own, as possible.

  “Is Tim still going to be open?” said Sarah, looking at her watch. “It’s pretty late.”

  “Should be.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t mention that bit to our friend Mr. Weiss.”

  Jack nodded and smiled at that. “Good to keep everyone on a ‘need to know’ basis, Sarah. ’Cept for you, of course.”

  “Thanks. Meanwhile — after I fix Daniel some supper — I’ll go online and see what I can find out about Cherringham Hall.”

  “Great. Love to see where they get their money from. Place looks more like a country club than a boarding school.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  In the moment they had been talking, the rain lessened a bit, though the grey clouds overhead didn’t seem ready to release their hold over the village anytime soon.

  “Okay, rain’s eased a bit. Think I’ll head to Tim’s place.”

  “Drive safely …” Sarah said. And then she popped open the door and bolted for the front door of her small house.

  And once she was in — funny habit that he had, checking that Sarah was home safe — he turned the windscreen wipers on and headed south, to where the repair shop sat just outside the village.

  7. Straightforward Lies

  As Jack pulled up he thought that, with the weather so dreadful, Tim might have closed up early.

  But though the shop’s roll up garage doors were down, he saw a bright light inside, hanging from the garage ceiling.

  Jack pulled the Sprite to the office door of the shop, and hurried in.

  All quiet for a moment. But then he heard banging and clanging coming f
rom one of the repair bays, and he walked into the garage.

  “Hello? Tim?”

  Then Tim Cooper slid out from under a black Mercedes, wheeling out to check on who had come in.

  “Jack?”

  “Tim, sorry to interrupt you.”

  Tim rolled off the creeper, and wiping his hands on his already smeared overalls, he walked over to Jack.

  “Good to see you, Jack. Now don’t tell me …”

  Tim leaned close, eyes wide, big smile on his face, “You’re finally going to let me do some work on your precious Sprite? I can make her sing, Jack.”

  He nodded to the car behind him that he had just been under.

  “Not like this elephant here. German engineering? More like a German tank.”

  Jack laughed. “Well, you know me. Kinda like to take care of the little beauty myself. But if anything serious ever pops up you will be the one I entrust her too.”

  And Tim Cooper laughed at that. “Good man. So, if you’re not here for a repair, why the visit?”

  Jack looked around the shop.

  “You alone today?”

  “Yeah, I let my lad go early. Quiet day, and no one’s going to be coming in for a quick tune up in this rain.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Okay, then. I have a question for you. Just between us, if that’s okay.”

  Tim made a locking gesture with two fingers of his right hand across his lips.

  Sealed tight.

  “Good. It’s about the cars. The ones that were vandalised at Cherringham Hall.”

  Jack watched Tim’s eyes narrow.

  “Cars, Jack?”

  And though he had told himself not to be surprised … since being a detective was all about not being surprised … he had hit — in this strange case — his first surprise.

  He guessed it wouldn’t be his last.

  *

  They had moved into the small office of the repair shop. Tim sliding some unopened post to the floor to clear a seat for Jack, while he plopped down on an old swivel chair.

  Tim opened a desk drawer and brought out a half-full bottle of supermarket Scotch.

  “Wee nip, Jack? Take the chill off.”

  “Um, no I think—”

  But Tim already had two water glasses out, both sporting smears, and he poured a healthy splash into each.

  “Just a splash. Hate to drink alone. Though in a pinch …”

  Jack laughed at that, and reached out for a glass. As they clinked, Jack said, “To your health and this lovely weather.”