Death in an English Cottage: Book Two in the Murder on Location Series

by Sara Rosett

  “I see. Sort of a deadbolt. But shouldn’t you keep these? Aren’t these your own set?”

  “No, I have another copy back at the Hall. And the keys to the cottages that haven’t been renovated are practically interchangeable in a pinch anyway. You looked shocked, which is perfectly natural, you coming from the city, but it’s not common knowledge, and it only works if you jiggle the key about in the lock quite a bit.” She tapped a sliding bolt at shoulder height on the door. “Use this when you’re in at night. There’s one on the front door as well. Normally, I wouldn’t even tell you to use the bolt, but well,” she shook her head and pressed her lips together before continuing, “lately, our little village has had a rash of vandalism.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing serious. Just a few broken windows here and there. A car scratched up all along the side.”

  “Keyed, you mean?”

  “Yes, that’s what Constable Albertson called it. Such a shame. But things always get a bit wilder during the summer season. All the visitors, you know.”

  “And the production company is here as well. Anyone blaming the incidents on them?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Everyone is thrilled to pieces with the attention, as far as I can tell. We’re the envy of every hamlet for miles around, even if we don’t have any Hollywood stars here.”

  I had to smile. The documentary was quite a step down from the feature film production. There were no big names attached to the current project, except for Elise DuPont. She was famous in some Hollywood circles for her documentaries, but she certainly wasn’t a household name who turned up in the tabloids.

  “I’ll let you get settled in. There’s a grocery at the end of high street where you can get some nice veg. Farmer’s Market every Friday. Better produce there. And there’s a nice fish and chips takeaway on your left when you cross over the high street. Can’t miss it.” She opened the door and the dogs surged toward her, yapping joyfully. She petted them both as she snapped on their leashes then headed up a narrow path to a back gate in another stone wall. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still hung low.

  A couple on bikes, their waterproof jackets glowing brightly in the dimness of the overcast day, flew by along the stone wall at the back of the garden. Another single walker in a tangerine jacket strode along behind them. “Is there another road behind the cottages?”

  “No, it’s a footpath.” She frowned after the bikers. “It’s not wide enough for bikers and ramblers, but these summer people ignore the posted signs. The footpath starts down in the village and curves around here then continues up the hill to a fork. The right fork takes you up to Tate House.” She pointed through the treetops at the gables. “The left fork takes you down to the river. Drops you near the Parkview Hall bridge—” she broke off, obviously remembering what had happened at that bridge. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I love to walk, and the bridge is a beautiful area. I’m sure I’ll go that way someday.”

  “Stop in and say hello when you do.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Don’t worry about the garden.” She gestured at the many rosebushes, climbing vines, and flowerbeds. “The gardener comes one day a week. He does all the holiday rentals.”

  I nodded an acknowledgement, glad that I wasn’t responsible for the lush plantings. I love the English garden look, but the extent of my gardening experience was limited to an ivy plant that I had kept on my desk at work. I half-closed the door, then stepped back outside.

  “Is Lilac Cottage close?”

  She pointed to the row of tall yews that lined each side of the small yard, separating the properties. “Right next door.”

  Chapter 3

  AFTER BEATRICE LEFT, I MANEUVERED my suitcase upstairs and unpacked, which didn’t take long. I’d always traveled light and even though I knew I was going to be in England for an extended amount of time, I couldn’t break the habit of only bringing the bare minimum. I’d compensated for this quirk by stuffing two cardboard boxes full of clothes and mailing them to the inn. I knew that even though I wasn’t staying there, Doug would call me as soon as they arrived.

  I hung up my last shirt and headed for the shower to freshen up. I learned that just because something looks like it has been updated doesn’t mean it has been. The shower had all the water pressure of a garden hose trapped under a car tire. The trickle of water was at least clear and warm. I slipped on fresh clothes, added some makeup to cover the circles under my eyes, and brushed my hair up into a neater ponytail before calling Alex.

  The call went straight to his voicemail, so I told him my room situation was sorted, and he could find me at Honeysuckle Cottage. I sent a quick text to Marci. Things are looking up. I’m staying in an English cottage. Too quaint for words. I finished the message with a smiley face then scanned the cozy room. All mine, at least for a few weeks, I thought. The boss situation might not be exactly what I would have picked, but the living quarters, despite the modern furniture downstairs, were all that I could have hoped for.

  I wrangled the suitcase back down the stairs and stowed it in the closet under the stairs. I dialed the phone number listed in Rafe Farraday’s file and listened to it ring. When it clicked over to his voicemail, I said, “Hello, my name is Kate Sharp. I am a location scout working with the Jane Austen documentary production, and I need to meet with you as soon as possible, preferably at your cottage. Please give me a call back. Thanks.”

  I hung up and skimmed the rest of the file, not expecting to find anything I didn’t know. During my short-lived expedition to graduate school, I’d heard about Rafe Farraday. An untenured professor at a nearby university in Southern California, his online course on the introduction to the English novel hit at just the right time when online courses were gaining in popularity and expanding the reach of college education far beyond colleges’ typical geographic boundaries.

  Excerpts of his witty lectures were posted around the Internet where they went viral. Not viral in a Call Me Maybe kind of way, but viral for the academic world. From Southern California to the Ivy League, Rafe Farraday was the talk of English departments—both among the professors and the students. He was a star on the rise, one of a handful of celebrity professors who drew publicity to their university and boosted enrollment because of their charismatic personalities. He’d written many articles and been published in several peer reviewed journals. It was no surprise that he’d been offered a tenured position at his university.

  I tried to read through the file with an objective eye, but it was hard to ignore the whisper in the back of my mind saying that could have been you. If things had worked out differently, if I hadn’t had to drop out of the program, if I could have scraped up the money to re-enroll…I could be teaching students about Jane Austen, writing papers about her life and books…

  I shook my head, moving on to the next page of information. I couldn’t change the past. I had to keep moving forward from where I was. I paused over the last bit of information in the file. Rafe Farraday had written a book analyzing the popularity of Jane Austen and how her fame had changed over time. I wasn’t up on all the latest Jane Austen studies and wasn’t aware of his book, or that he was currently on sabbatical, working on another book that was under contract.

  I closed the file then gathered up my Moleskine notebook, my camera, extra memory cards and batteries, as well as my cell phone and the set of keys to the cottage. After jiggling the key in the lock on the front door for quite a bit longer than Beatrice had, I finally managed to lock the door from the outside. I walked down the front path, took a right, and entered the gate of the cottage next door. I walked up three steps and rang the bell. Elise didn’t seem to be the sort of person who’d take it well if I said I’d called Rafe Farraday and sat around waiting for his return call. I pressed the bell again.

  After a long pause, the door jerked open. “Yes?” Rafe Farraday said with a slightly annoyed expression raising his already peaked
eyebrows. Instead of wearing a button down shirt, blazer, and no tie, his usual teaching attire that I’d seen on his videos, he had on a T-shirt with an In-An-Out burger logo, worn jeans, and sandals. He held a piece of board cut into a square in one hand.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said, jumping in with my brightest smile. “I’m Kate Sharp. I called you earlier—”

  “About five minutes ago.” He had an expressive face, something that I remembered from watching a few of his lectures online. It wasn’t only what he said in class that made an impact, but the expressions he used as he worked through a text or discussed ideas—a grimace or a mocking shudder or surprise—all conveyed with a comedian’s impeccable timing, that was the main thing that stood out in my memory of his talks. Now his pointy brows were flattened into an impatient frown.

  “Yes. Sorry for the intrusion, but the producer really wants to nail down locations for your interview, and since I’m staying next door,” I glanced at Honeysuckle Cottage, “I thought I’d just run over on the off-chance that you might be home.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “Not long. I only need to get some photos and make a few notes.”

  He opened the door wider. “Fine, I’ll let you in since you’re a fellow American—it’s nice to hear someone without a British accent—but you’ll have to help me first. I could use an extra pair of hands.”

  “Okay.” I walked into the cottage. The design was identical to mine down to the storage space under the stairs. I only had a quick glimpse of the living area at the front of the house, but it was obvious that Rafe’s cottage hadn’t been renovated or updated either. The shabby chic chintz armchairs by the fireplace and the ornately carved desk looked worn and well used. The kitchen looked like mine as well with the same layout and similarly aged appliances.

  He went straight to the back door, which had a glass insert in the upper half. Two panes of glass on the bottom were broken out. “Watch where you step.” He gestured to a dustpan full of glass shards and a broom leaning against the counter.

  “What happened?”

  “Kids, I imagine.”

  “Someone broke in?” I surveyed the empty panes. Once broken, it would be easy to reach inside and turn the knob on the night latch or unlock the sliding bolt that was positioned higher on the door.

  “No, the door wasn’t even opened.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess. Although, I’m having serious doubts about the neighborhood I just moved into.”

  Rafe grinned. “It’s a one time thing. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Really? I heard there was some vandalism of cars as well.”

  “Hmm. Didn’t know about that. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. If someone wanted to rob a house, I doubt that they’d pick these cottages. Tate House would be a much better target. The most valuable thing I’ve got in here is my copy of The Great Gatsby.” He held up the board so that it covered the empty panes. “Would you mind holding this while I drill it into place?”

  “Sure.” I held the board while he produced an electric screwdriver and efficiently buzzed the screws into place. “There. Thank you very much.”

  “So you have to do your own repairs?”

  “No, the maintenance crew from Parkview Hall is quite good at taking care of things, but I don’t mind doing it myself, at least a temporary repair, to help out. I put myself through school working in home construction, so I can handle some of the minor things.” He wound the cord around the drill, replaced it in a carrying case, and snapped it shut. “They provided the tools and materials, and I put in the elbow grease. Not a bad trade, especially since they’re busy repairing several broken windows around the village.”

  “How many?”

  “Five or six that I heard about. Now, how can I help you?”

  “I need to take photographs and make some notes for the filming of your interview. You want it to take place in the front room?”

  “Yes, in the parlor. It’s a perfect setting, don’t you think?” He led the way back down the hall.

  I surveyed the room with a critical eye. “It is small, but considering it will be an interview, I think it will work. And the shelves of books on either side of the fireplace would make a wonderful background. Very professorial.”

  “Great. What do I need to do? Clean up?” He moved toward the desk, which had a scattering of papers and books splayed open and stacked on each other with sticky notes protruding from their edges. He moved a leather messenger bag off the desk, revealing a laptop computer. I noticed it was a slim, expensive model in shiny silver. He did have something that would be fairly valuable to steal. He hung the messenger bag on the back of the chair and straightened some books.

  “Nothing. It’s fine. This assessment looks at the big picture. If we need to make any changes, the set dressers will see to that, but everything will be photographed and then put back exactly as it was before.” In theory that was what was supposed to happen. In practice…well, it depended on the thoroughness of the location manager. I kept those thoughts to myself, knowing that Alex or I would make sure everything was perfectly replaced before we left.

  I took my camera out of my tote and photographed the room from several angles then checked the compass app on my phone and jotted down the position of the room along with notes about the quality of the light.

  The camera does funny things to people. Rafe Farraday wasn’t what I thought of as traditionally handsome, but he had nice, regular features, brownish-blond hair, and a normal physique. He wasn’t extremely broad shouldered or extra lean—just your average joe. Maybe that was part of the reason for his popularity. Some people become introverts when a camera appears, closing off from the lens, while others react in the opposite way, opening up in a way that instinctively draws viewers to them. They have that sparkling of pixie dust, the elusive it factor, that either you possess or you don’t. Rafe Farraday had it, and when the camera came out, it was as if someone had flipped a switch. His face became even more animated as he settled on the corner of the desk, one leg swinging jauntily as he reached for a pair of glasses and settled them on his nose. “Scholarly enough for the masses?”

  “Replace the In-and-Out Burger T-shirt with a tweedy, elbow-patched jacket and I think you’re almost there.”

  “These are just for show anyway.”

  “Why do you need them here? No students or faculty to impress here.”

  He shrugged. “Some habits are hard to break. I picked up a pair of clear lens glasses when I started as a teaching assistant. I wanted to be taken seriously. Sometimes it’s the appearance more than the substance that matters, especially in this new media age.” He tossed the glasses back on the desktop and moved around to the chair where he began to sort and stack papers. “Let me know if you need anything from me.”

  I took measurements, made my notes in my Moleskine notebook, and snapped a few more pictures. I moved to the desk. “That should do it, Mr. Farraday.”

  “Call me Rafe.”

  “Rafe, then. Thank you so much for your—” I broke off as I noticed a familiar blue spine with white lettering under a spray of papers. “Is that your copy of The Great Gatsby?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Rafe shoved the papers aside, revealing the famous cover illustration of sad eyes over a bright landscape. The cover, which had a few rips and gouges, was encased in a sleeve of plastic. He handed it to me.

  “I love this cover.” I studied it a moment then flipped to the book description on the back. In the center of the text, the first letter of the name “Jay” was darker than the rest of the printing. I ran my finger lightly over the plastic cover then paused with my index finger at the corrected capital letter. “First edition,” I breathed.

  “You know your stuff,” Rafe said, his tone more respectful than it had been.

  “I did some graduate work in English Lit.” I handed the book back. “This is valuable. If vandals knew it was here…”

  He shook his head and flicke
d through the pages. “I doubt someone who throws stones to break windows would recognize the monetary worth of this. Besides, it’s not a first-rate example.” He pointed out the scuffs and dings on the cover as well as several pen marks inside. “As an English grad student, you’ll appreciate this.” He turned to a page and pointed to a line of text that read “sick in tired.”

  “One of the many typos,” he said with a grin. “Makes me feel better to know that the great F. Scott didn’t proofread perfectly either. I know it would be smarter to have it hidden away in a bank vault somewhere, but books were meant to be read and talked about, not tucked away.” He turned and placed it in an open slot on the bookshelf among John le Carré and Robert Ludlum books. “Besides, I pull it out when I get a particularly scathing one-star review. Helps me keep it all in perspective. Couldn’t do that if it was locked in a vault.”

  He leaned a shoulder against the bookcase. “So you were a grad student. What was your area of study?”

  “I was always partial to Jane Austen.”

  “Good choice.”

  I tilted my head. “So you have some exclusive material about Jane Austen?”

  He frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Production company chatter.”

  He stepped away from the shelves, his manner frosty. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sure you understand. A word here, a word there, and then it’s not exclusive anymore. But back to you. So what happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were a grad student. Did you graduate? Do you teach? What happened?”

  “Life got in the way.” I gave him a quick smile and moved to the door. “Thanks so much for your time. The production will get in touch with you with details about the interview.”