Cherringham--Death Trap
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
About the Book
Main Characters
The Authors
Title
Copyright
1. A Big Chill
2. Let the Show Begin
3. Crossed Swords
4. The Morning After
5. A Winter’s Tale
6. The Stocks
7. The Writer’s Wife
8. Mayhem at the Bell
9. Surprising Information
10. Where There’s Smoke
11. Lights Out
12. Find the Lady
13. Femmes Fatales
14. Truth Will Out
15. One Last Question
16. Candles and Crime
17. Secret of the Stocks
18. Tea at Huffington’s
Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.
About the Book
When Edward Townes — famed writer of novels about knights and maids, and castles and conquering — attends a medieval launch party for his latest book, he arrives ready to do more than celebrate. But party night brings a blizzard, a once-in-a-century storm that sees Townes staggering home, alone … only to be found dead the next day. With Cherringham cut-off and the blizzard still raging, Jack and Sarah start investigating. Their questions reveal that many of those still stranded in the dark village have secrets. And Townes’ killer is still in the village …
Main Characters
Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife three years ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.
Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Three years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …
The Authors
Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.
Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
Matthew Costello
Neil Richards
CHERRINGHAM
A COSY CRIME SERIES
Death Trap
»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Eleanor Abraham
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover illustration © shutterstock: xpixel | suns07butterfly | stocker1970 | Kristyna Henkeova
Cover design: Thomas Krämer based on an original design by Jeannine Schmelzer
E-book production: Jilzov Digital Publishing, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7325-5310-5
www.be-ebooks.com
Twitter: @be_ebooks_com
www.facebook.com/Cherringham
1. A Big Chill
The snowy billows that had greeted Jane Ellingham as she walked out of the door of the Bell Hotel had — seemingly with each step — grown fiercer, thicker; turning from puffy white flakes to something heavier, colder.
And as she took her uncertain steps down Cherringham High Street, she could see that what had been just a thin layer of white was already deepening.
I’m too old for this, she thought.
With the weather reports turning more dire by the hour, she couldn’t believe that publisher Humphrey Lane hadn’t just cancelled the damn event.
What was he thinking — with people trekking from London, intending to get back tonight? What hope for them arranging for a last-minute room in the Bell Hotel (now fully booked, she imagined)?
If the predictions were accurate, there was worse to come, and this snow — constant, fed by steady gusts — was only just beginning.
And for what? A book launch for Edward Townes.
She might be his agent, but weren’t his book launch days long gone?
With such steadily declining sales figures for his rather tired historical series — The Outlaw Knight — why this party in Townes’s home village? In Cherringham of all places? Probably charming and all that — during daylight, on a summer’s day — but not now with a blizzard on offer!
No. This particular gala was shaping up to be torture for all involved.
But then, as she took a turn by the medieval church — its upper spire now almost hidden by the fog created by the swirling snow — she wondered if Humphrey Lane had some other motivation for this party.
And was that the reason why he hadn’t cancelled — fired off a text to all and sundry, saying, ‘stay at home, nice and warm’?
If he had, then maybe she could have weathered the storm back in London, with a gin martini — extra olives please — always done to perfection at the Charlotte Street Hotel bar.
And with the city probably less likely to get the brunt of the storm.
I mean, she thought, it is London after all!
What storm would even dare!
She took her steps carefully, until she stopped, glanced at the printout of the small map Lane had sent ahead.
And there, not too far from the church’s graveyard — cheery place that! — Astley Hall. The barn-like building had been transformed into a miniature castle, complete with a faux turret — she guessed — at its top, pennants flapping wildly in the wind.
And Jane, now reaching out to the nearby stone wall that lined the path, was nearly there. Late for the party. Her coat thick with snow …
*
She pushed open the heavy wooden door, and, she had to admit, it was a surreal moment.
A quick gust of blessed warmth from inside, a young woman — a girl, really — ready to take her coat, her bag, her broad-brimmed hat (also with a good quarter inch of snow on top).
But not just the heat, the light — candles everywhere, with the regular hall lights dimmed down.
And music …
She guessed that’s what it was. Hard to tell, as it competed with the usual hundred-decibel output of the gossiping book world.
More like someone with a bag of cats, alternately squeezing and prodding them to produce some bleating noise and howls; accompanied by others in costume thumping at tubby drums and tambourines.
Probably completely aut
hentic, musical tastes being what they were in fourteenth century England. Who knew?
But after the sombre walk from the Bell Hotel to here, the sound, the candles — all rather bizarre.
And then, relieved of her coat, she looked around. The hall — all ancient beams and high ceiling. Stone pillars. Faux medieval tapestries on every wall. Even a couple of knights in armour standing in the corners.
And underfoot — a hard stone floor.
No way I’m dancing on that tonight, she thought, remembering the launch party she’d been to in Bloomsbury last week. God, her feet had hurt next morning.
As had her head.
She looked around at the crowd, sizing them up with all her forty years’ experience of such events. A lot of locals, she guessed, but also many Londoners for sure, people she knew in the biz, and wenches — if that word was still in any way acceptable — in full low-cut costume, circling with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres.
King John’s court: famous for its prosecco and canapés, of course. This crowd probably not so keen on authentic swan gizzards.
And before she could spy the honouree and perform her usual ritual of warmth and friendship — at least as much as any agent could summon after forty years of dealing with him — the host, Humphrey Lane had turned …
And spotted her.
Dressed perfectly, dark blue suit — fashionably thin cut, and pulling it off despite his own advanced age. Vivid yellow tie.
Bright eyes, big smile.
His party after all.
And now, looking over at her, eyes wide, as if she had simply materialised, unexpected.
A delight — his smile seemed to say, broadening as he hurried over to her.
And Jane Ellingham’s first thought, I really should tell him just how dreadful the weather is getting out there!
*
“Jaaaane! You’re here, darling!”
Obviously …
“I was about to send the king’s men out on a search party. Trouble finding us?”
She forced a smile. She and Humphrey Lane went way back — decades, not years.
Not for the first time, she noted that he looked, well, good, in that rather unfair way. Men got to wear their age so much more easily.
Dapper. Groomed.
Like Colin Firth playing the romantic lead with ingénues when middle-aged. All the sassy Helen Mirrens of the world did little to restore her own confidence, the years sapping away both shape and skin tone.
“Humphrey, have you looked outside?”
“Um, no. Got here early. Had to get the band and players sorted, food arranged, and all that.”
“Players?”
“Oh, part of the entertainment! Some re-enactors to perform one or two little scenes of knight errantry!”
She was tempted to suggest that the added stage show might be less errantry and more error.
Still, she wasn’t footing the bill.
“Current predictions,” she said, “and straight from the BBC weather app, are for blizzard-like conditions.”
For a moment that seemed to take the air out of Humphrey — just a bit. But then his smile returned.
“Well, you know, lot of people — like you — staying at the hotel.”
He put a hand on her shoulder.
“Think of it as an adventure!”
She decided not to remind him that some of the bloggers, reporters and even more than a few of the publishing people in attendance had planned to catch a last train back to civilisation.
Good luck with that, she thought. She decided to cut to the chase.
“And where’s our boy?”
The hint of a droop appeared in Humphrey Lane’s smile.
“Oh, where you’d expect. To the side there, near the young lad pouring the hard stuff.”
Jane nodded.
And having engaged with the publisher, the man paying the bills, it was time to greet her client, Edward Townes.
Who was — she saw — engaging with the twenty-ish bartender as if they were lifelong mates, separated at birth.
No interest in the lad’s good looks. Not Townes’s cup of tea, Jane knew.
But the table of delights, and the young man’s speedy elbow …?
Townes knew where his priorities lay.
*
She stood there a moment, waiting for Edward to look over.
But as she did, someone came up to her side — actually, slinked up to her — making her turn away from her client.
A man in a garish patchwork outfit, pointy hat, a jumble of red, yellow and green. And bells hanging from the cap!
A jester. Who, for some unknown reason, felt it necessary to approach her.
“Stepping back from the cauldron for the evening, are we?”
Jane favoured the man and his loopy grin with a head shake and an eye roll, hoping that would be sufficient to dispense with him.
But it wasn’t.
“In search of eye of newt, or some such?”
Then the man rattled the stick he held, a mini-baton wrapped with a candy-cane swirl of colours, with matching bells dangling from ribbons at its top.
Now sensing it was a necessity, she was about to tell the jester to go the hell away. But Townes — in mid-conversation with the bartender — caught the last line, and turned, tumbler filled to the brim with ice and his usual whisky. Ever one for the courtly gesture, Townes looked at her.
“Jane, good of you, coming here and all that.” Then, shifting to the still-riveted jester. “And you — are you bothering this woman?”
The question made the little man do a quick spry jig as if a burner had been turned on beneath his feet.
“Dunno! Why not feel her forehead and check?”
At that, Townes reached out as if to grab the jester. But with a wave of his bell-adorned baton, the man bounced safely away.
Leaving Jane with her client who was — as soon became apparent — already in his cups.
Even without the blizzard outside, this was shaping up to be, as the infamous Bette Davis once quipped, a bumpy night.
2. Let the Show Begin
“Is that what passes for entertainment this evening?” Jane said.
“Humphrey’s idea. That fool — literally — and the wenches, that caterwauling band, oh, and soon, I hear we are to be favoured with enactors … enacting.”
“Enacting … what?”
Townes took a big swig of his drink, showing — Jane could see — no restraint, with a sip that more resembled a parched man’s gulp.
“Imagine we’ll find out soon enough. Half of them are locals apparently.” He forced a smile. “That idiot jester? Probably tends pigs as his day job.”
He raised an eyebrow and, for a second, Jane was reminded of Edward Townes in his heyday.
Back then — she knew — the author’s slick charm had helped him cut a wide swath through the junior editors and assistants in publishing houses on two continents.
Now — middle-aged, whisky-sozzled — those days were well over. As were the sales that supported the rather ridiculous playboy manner.
Which made this launch party by publisher Lane all the more odd.
Declining sales and declining author … why the big show?
Then Townes reached out and tapped the back of her hand. “Still — good of you to come.”
Jane nodded back. Not exactly sure she had a choice in the matter.
But there were positive virtues to Townes.
Though she had been a young agent, and he a youngish author, he’d been sensible enough not to cross certain lines with her — and never had.
Now, as they stood making chit-chat, the medieval house band once again kicking in with a thumping something that barely resembled music, she had the thought, Odd how the honouree is stuck here in a corner, talking to his agent and the bartender.
She watched Townes kill the drink — way too fast — then slap the glass down on the table-cum-bar where it was soon hoisted up for a rapid
refill of ice and booze.
Which is when Townes took a moment to scan the room.
And she followed where he was looking.
Right to the other side of the room, where Lane stood engaged in conversation with two women, while an outer circle of people clustered nearby as if they might get precious titbits spilling over from the discussion.
“Who the hell are they? Lane’s been all over them since I got here.”
But Jane knew who they were.
Lucy Brice, a “writer of the moment”, as they say. Apparently, her debut book, a historical fantasy filtered through the changed world of today, about to get — so she heard — a mammoth push.
“You’ve seen her before, Edward. Lucy Brice.”
“Oh her.” He turned to Jane. “Tell me, are the horror stories true? It really is a book about the female knights of the round table?”
Jane nodded. “So I hear.”
“God. And that other woman?”
Someone else Jane barely knew, the young agent who had discovered Brice and was now basking in the reflected glory to come.
“Kate Shaw. Lawson Literary Agency.”
“Those sharks. Hmph. And the harpies — gathered round?”
“Reviewers … probably bloggers.”
Townes rescued his now-full glass from the table, ice clinking, and — now visibly agitated — even making some of the liquid slosh over the side.
“Bloggers. Don’t those bloody people know this is my party?”
The words sounded petulant but, Jane had to admit again, it was weird that she and Townes stood over here by the bar as if uninvited guests.
She guessed Townes must be feeling the same way because, drink in hand, he now pulled away from the table and made as straight a course as he could towards his publisher, the new writer, and her surrounding coterie.
Things, Jane thought, are about to get bad.
*
As Jane hurried to follow, she passed Townes’s wife, Emily.
If the dictionary had a picture to match the definition of “long-suffering” it would be Emily’s face.