by S M Hardy
Laura’s smile was a little brighter. ‘I will, I promise.’
Back in our room, Emma took a look on her iPad to see if there was any information about a drowning at Kingsmead. I wasn’t surprised when she could find no mention of it.
‘How about disappearances of young women from the village or visitors to the area?’ I suggested.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that could take some time. I’ll try searching local papers, etcetera.’ Emma’s fingers tapped away as I shrugged on my jacket and grabbed my mobile and car keys off the bedside table.
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’ll have to wait until we get back.’
She dropped the tablet into her handbag and got to her feet. ‘I don’t know about you, but I feel a little nervous.’
Emma wasn’t the only one. I didn’t say, but gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.
By car the village was at most ten minutes away and it took almost as long to drive out of the estate as it did to get from the outer gate to the village centre.
I had been right about the building I’d noticed the day before when we’d visited the pub. Brandon’s office was indeed directly opposite the Fox and Fiddle Inn.
Brandon’s Merc was already ensconced in the corner of the small car park at the side of the building and I pulled the Jag in beside it. As I switched off the engine, I felt a tentative tickle at the back of my neck. Looking at the building I wasn’t unduly surprised: it was old, probably Tudor like the pub across the road, judging by the white and faded black-beamed exterior.
Emma grabbed her bag from out of the footwell and hooked it over her shoulder. ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked.
In reply I opened the door and climbed out. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. This time, though, it was followed by a sudden blast of emotion that practically forced the air out of my lungs and I had to rest my hand on the car roof to steady myself.
Emma had started towards the building but stopped. ‘Jed?’ I heard her say. Realising I wasn’t beside her she glanced back at me. ‘Can you feel it?’
I swallowed down the fear that was in danger of choking me. ‘Emms, please get back in the car and lock the door,’ I said as I pushed myself away from the Jag and started towards the building. Something terrible had happened and not so long ago; I was sure of it.
She fell into step beside me. ‘If something’s wrong I’m coming in with you,’ she said, her tone brooking no argument. My eyes met hers and she gave me a little nod. I took hold of her hand and she was by my side as we walked from the car park.
At the front of the building I stopped to peer through the leaded windows and, although it was dark inside, I could make out a reception desk and waiting area with high-backed, uncomfortable-looking chairs and a small table covered with various magazines. The front door was old, possibly as old as the building. Banded with iron, the once-black, cracked and pitted wood had faded to silvery grey. I gave it a push and it silently swung open into a darkened hallway.
Moving in front of Emma I stepped inside with her following close behind me, her hand still gripping hold of mine.
‘Brandon,’ I called out, my voice sounding hollow in the narrow confines of the hallway. ‘Brandon.’
We carried on along the passage, the rickety floorboards creaking beneath our feet. To the left there was a door into the reception and waiting room I had seen through the window. I took a quick peek inside; it was empty. In the corridor straight ahead an open door beckoned. It was dark and gloomy and the further we went inside the darker and gloomier it became – and cold – very cold, but maybe that was an illusion. I pushed the door open with my fingertips. It took us into another reception area. There were three doors, each emblazoned with a brass plaque, I guessed inscribed with the incumbent solicitor’s name. Brandon’s office was through the central door.
‘Brandon,’ I called again and still there was silence. I reached out and took hold of the door handle. The metal was cold against my palm and my senses screamed for us to turn around and walk out of this place. ‘Stay here,’ I whispered, though by now you’d think I’d know better.
‘You have to be bloody joking. I’m not letting you go anywhere without me.’
I turned the handle and pushed the door open and the aroma of man’s mortality filled my nostrils.
‘Dear God, what is that?’ Emma asked with a grimace, one hand rising to cover her lower face.
‘Death,’ I whispered. ‘It’s death,’ and her other hand tightened on mine.
A large, polished mahogany desk filled most of the opposite side of the room. Light streamed in through the three large, leaded windows behind it, casting diamond-shaped patterns on the desk and carpet that weren’t overshadowed by the ample leather office chair facing the window.
Squeezing Emma’s hand, I said, ‘Stay right here.’ For once she didn’t argue; she didn’t want to see this any more than I did.
I padded across the plush carpet, the stink of death wrapping itself around me and so thick I could taste it on my lips.
Walking around the desk, I stopped in front of the windows. Sunshine filled the large, walled garden outside. Bird feeders hung from a wrought iron stand beside a grey stone bird bath. A crow was sitting on its edge dunking a piece of bread into the water, while two blue tits jostled for position on an almost empty tube of peanuts. Bright and peaceful, a beautiful scene to look out upon to briefly escape the tribulations of the day.
I forced myself to turn and face the chair. My feet didn’t want to work, I’m not sure I wanted them to.
It was as bad as I was expecting. I knew it would be, I’d seen the rope holding his right wrist to the chair’s arm rest and suspected the other would be similarly tied. I wasn’t wrong. The elderly solicitor would no longer look out upon the tranquil gardens. His eyes were gone and, judging by the blood soaking his chin and the front of his white shirt, so was his tongue. I made my eyes travel over his body. I had seen worse in the past and, God help me, would probably in the future. Not necessarily a once-living body sprawled out in front of me, but sometimes the visions were as terrible. The ones I’d been seeing recently certainly were.
He had been dressed for the office: white shirt, plum-coloured tie, charcoal waistcoat to match his trousers. His jacket was hung over the back of the chair. The shirt and tie were now mainly crimson, the waistcoat discoloured and slick with blood. His sleeves were rolled back, the ropes around his wrists brutally tight and stained where they had rubbed his flesh raw as he had strained against them. And his hands … I swiped my own across my lips. They had tortured him. Whether it had really taken mangling all eight of his fingers to find out what they wanted I would never know. I thought probably not; he wasn’t a young man full of ego and pride. As a man grows older and gets closer to the end he will sacrifice pride if it means living a little longer. He probably had given them what they wanted upon the snapping of the first joint, the rest had been down to sheer cruelty – and these people were cruel.
I looked away. I’d seen more than enough. As if on cue my mobile began to ring. I pulled it from my pocket, fumbling to answer the call, my own fingers seemingly unable to work.
‘Mr Cummings, you wanted to see me and I’m here at Kingsmead as you asked. Where exactly are you?’ Detective Inspector Brogan was pissed off, I could tell.
‘I’m at Brandon Fredericks’ office,’ I said, ‘and I suggest you get here as quickly as you can.’
‘I haven’t time to run around the countryside searching for you.’
‘He’s dead.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘What did you say?’
‘Brandon Fredericks is dead,’ I repeated.
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘I’ll be straight there. Don’t touch a thing.’
I didn’t dignify this with a reply, ending the call with a stab of my forefinger. There was one thing I did have to do, though. I needed to take a look at the papers spread across Brandon’s desk. There
was a file lying open directly in front of where he’d been sitting when he was interrupted. In it was the Last Will and Testament of Oliver James Pomeroy. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and lifted the first page.
‘What are you doing?’ Emma asked.
‘Seeing if there is anything here that will give us a clue as to why Brandon wanted this meeting.’
It quickly became apparent there wasn’t. There were no codicils and no letters when there should have been. There was a second file underneath the first. Across the top was written ‘Simon Pomeroy’. It was as helpful; it contained his will and not a lot else. Surprisingly, there was no file in the name of Edward Pomeroy. I strode over to the filing cabinets in the corner. No grey metal for Brandon; fine mahogany cabinets that matched his desk.
‘Jed?’
I shot her a weak smile and quickly found the drawer containing the Ps. There was one empty master folder headed ‘The Pomeroy Family’, but nothing for Edward and there should have been – I knew there should have been.
We went outside to wait by the front door, the fresh air smelling all the sweeter after the lingering stink in the office. Emma’s complexion was unusually pasty; I doubted mine was much better.
Brogan arrived within minutes. He must have driven like a maniac. He pulled into the car park with a screech of tyres and, with a slam of his car door and the thump of hurrying footsteps, he rounded the corner, his expression grim. He was wearing a different suit, shirt and tie, even so they were as rumpled as his face. I was beginning to wonder whether he ever spent his nights in his own bed.
He gave me a hard look. ‘What were you doing here?’
My eyes met his and I could see the realisation dawn that I wasn’t some hick for him to mess with. ‘He asked us to meet him,’ I said, ‘and he sounded scared.’
‘Where’s Miss Simmons?’
‘He didn’t want us to tell her we were coming. In fact, he insisted we keep it from everyone back at the house.’
He frowned at me. ‘Did he say why?’
I shoved my hands into my pockets. ‘No. He said it would become clear when we spoke.’
‘Where is he?’
I gestured inside. ‘In his office, by the window.’
‘Have you touched anything?’
‘Other than to open the doors – no,’ I lied.
He gave an abrupt nod and marched inside. I let him go in alone. I didn’t need to see it again.
‘Do you want to sit in the car?’ I asked Emms, as we walked back around to the car park; her pallor was beginning to worry me.
She shook her head. ‘This is all turning into a nightmare,’ she whispered.
I didn’t disagree.
The policeman was inside the office for about ten minutes. He came out just as the first of Brandon’s staff pulled into the car park. The young woman greeted us with a bright smile and a ‘Can I help you?’ We stood to one side and let Brogan deal with it. He told her there had been an incident and Brandon was dead. Surprisingly enough, he came across as kind, considerate and even provided a small, handy pack of tissues when the young woman dissolved into tears.
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you inside,’ he said.
‘Could I at least print the solicitors’ diaries off my computer?’ she asked, dabbing at her eyes. ‘Then I can rearrange the appointments.’
He acquiesced gracefully and took her inside. In the meantime, several other members of staff turned up, together with a police van and men in white suits, the forensic brigade.
‘Maybe we should sit in the car,’ Emma said.
It was getting a mite uncomfortable; the staff visibly distressed as the news was broken to them and it was clear Brandon had been loved by his mainly female members of staff.
Gradually the other cars disappeared from the car park leaving just ours, Brandon’s and Brogan’s. The police van was out front parked on double yellows. Brogan reappeared after about twenty minutes of our waiting.
Seeing us sitting in the Jag he marched over, his expression strained. He stooped down to talk to me through the window. ‘You might as well go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be tied up here for some time. I’ll meet you back at Kingsmead at, say’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘two-thirty or so.’
‘We’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Do you want us to inform Miss Simmons of what’s happened or do you want to tell her?’
He paused. ‘Let me do it,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested to see her reaction.’
He gave an abrupt nod and stalked off with me frowning after him. I know I had trust issues with the Pomeroys, but I didn’t for one minute consider Laura could be complicit in, let alone capable of, murder.
I wasn’t the only one who watched him walk away wondering at his reasoning. ‘So,’ Emma said, ‘is he one of the good guys or not?’
I wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘I’ll reserve judgement until we’ve spoken about the mystery woman.’
‘Hmm. I can’t really see that him sleeping with this woman is grounds for blackmail.’
‘It could if he’s married, Emms.’
‘Easier and safer to fess up to your wife rather than risk your career, I’d have thought.’
‘Easier and safer not to have illicit nooky in the first place,’ I said.
She laughed and leant over to kiss my cheek. ‘Not everyone has your strict moral code.’
I started the car. ‘Perhaps they should. It would certainly solve a few of the problems in this world.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Laura was still out riding when we got back to the house, which was good news. I didn’t like that we were keeping things from her. Visiting her solicitor behind her back was bad enough, but lying to her, albeit by omission, I wasn’t at all comfortable with. We went straight to our room. This way we didn’t have to play-act as if everything was all right for the rest of the morning. Finding a murder victim wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you kept to yourself.
‘At least it won’t be us having to tell her even more bad news,’ Emma said.
‘I suppose.’
‘I wonder what it was Brandon wanted to talk to you about.’
I shook my head. ‘He sounded scared, Emms.’
‘Do you think he found something in the papers you said he had to read through?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, what could there have been that would frighten him so much? Most of it he’d have seen already.’
It was a mystery and another I didn’t think I’d be getting the answer to any time soon.
Lunch was difficult. Laura had been out all morning with Dan and was full of the joys of spring. She chattered away happily. Despite her fall, she was getting more and more comfortable in the saddle.
‘Dan said I was a natural,’ she said, her cheeks flushed.
I gave Emms a pointed look, which she ignored. ‘He seems like a nice young man,’ she said, and I had to stop myself from groaning out loud.
‘He’s very knowledgeable about the local wildlife and Kingsmead’s history.’
‘Hmm,’ and I almost missed it I was so wrapped up in my thoughts of how he was most likely trying to get into the new mistress of the house’s knickers. ‘Kingsmead’s history?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘It was built in the 1700s as a country retreat for the then Lord Pomeroy. Apparently, he was into all manner of nasty stuff and wanted somewhere away from London so he could carry out his debauched practices. Story has it he was a member of the infamous Hellfire Club.’
Emma and I exchanged a glance. ‘Wasn’t the Hellfire Club some dubious society for upper-class devil worshippers?’ Emma said.
‘Huh. More like another place where they could get their kit off and act out their baser fantasies,’ I muttered.
Emma ignored me. ‘How come Dan knows so much about Kingsmead? I didn’t think he’d worked here very long.’
Laura took a slurp of coffee, warming to her current favourite subject – and I didn’t think it was
the history of Kingsmead. ‘Dan has a degree in history.’
‘Really?’
‘Hmm, he said once he started living here he couldn’t resist looking into the estate’s past.’
It was true Dan had said – what had he said? Then I remembered: Some men do evil things to get what they want out of life – the Pomeroys are such men. If you don’t believe me look, into the family history. Violent death being the least of it.
Violent death being the least of it – he’d got that much right. There had been a few of those recently. I wondered whether it was time I had a long talk with Dan Crouchley. If he already knew the history of Kingsmead it could save Emma hours searching on the Internet and would probably be more accurate than anything she could find. Once we’d dealt with DI Brogan, I’d seek Dan out.
I had just dropped my knife and fork onto the plate when Mrs Walters came hurrying in, a concerned expression clouding her face.
‘Miss Simmons, the detective inspector is here and he wants to speak to you,’ she said. ‘I’ve put him in the study.’
Laura’s smile all but disappeared. ‘I’ll be right there,’ she said, getting to her feet and dropping her napkin on the table. ‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘Hopefully he’s here to ask about what we found in the clearing,’ I said.
‘Possibly, though what else I can tell him I don’t know.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’ I asked in surprise.
‘No, I’ve never met him. I saw Detective Sergeant Peters.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday. You were out walking, when he called. It was before I went riding and got thrown.’
I wasn’t surprised she’d forgotten to mention it. The day had become a little hectic. ‘I suppose at least someone’s taking it seriously,’ I said.
‘I’d better not keep the detective inspector waiting.’
‘If you need us, we’ll be here,’ Emma said.
Laura gave us a tight smile and hurried off while Emma poured coffee for us both, giving us an excuse to stay right where we were. The DI would no doubt be wanting to speak to us soon – and if he didn’t – well, I definitely wanted to talk to him about a certain dark-haired woman, who I was pretty sure had committed murder.
