Another look to the side. This room — so claustrophobic, Sarah thought. Almost as if they could feel each other’s breathing.
And likewise — when they held their breath.
So, still keeping her pen down, knowing that whatever the answer, she’d remember it, Sarah pressed on.
“Is that all? All that was said? I mean, before Townes trudged away?”
A headshake.
“No, I wish it was. Then lovely Edward turned to me and — not for the first time — said that I was fired. Though he had said it several times before, I imagined this time it would stick. So much for decades of my loyalty …”
Jack nodded. “And Humphrey Lane … he went back to the party then?”
His voice low, almost confessional.
Sarah often thought she’d like to meet the person who could resist a direct question — delivered with such care — from the New York detective.
Nearly an art form!
Another headshake from Jane Ellingham.
We like surprises, Sarah thought, and now we’re getting them.
“No. They had more words. Lane a tad hot under the collar, with Townes firing off threats, accusations. And then Townes grabbed him and threw a punch. Sent the old boy sprawling in the snow.”
Sarah looked at Jack.
They had been with Lane, interviewing the dead man’s wife, and he had said absolutely nothing about any of this.
And when Sarah turned back to the woman, sitting so stiffly in the simple wooden chair, she noticed that the agent now hurried to finish the tale.
“Humphrey scrambled up, got to his feet, and stormed away, back into Astley Hall. And Townes, well — he went off, down the path. Heading home, I imagined.”
Jack nodded.
As if the story just told made sense.
And, for the most part, it did.
But Sarah had to wonder if there wasn’t still something else being left out. She could, of course, ask a very direct, “Is that all?” But that question could have the opposite effect. A look to Jack. Did he have the same feeling?
But instead of pressing her, he asked about one more detail.
“The storm … full-on by then? Really coming down?”
Ellingham nodded. “Horribly. Inside the hall, the partygoers, all completely unawares. Outside, well, a blizzard in the making, as we saw.”
“And your client just walked out into the thick of it?”
A nod. And nothing more.
“And you went back into the hall.”
“Yes.”
Then Jack stood up, like a giant in this biscuit tin of a room.
“Thank you. This has been helpful about Townes’s state that night … the last anyone saw of him …”
Funny choice of words, Sarah thought, standing as well.
As if Jack said them without believing them.
Since it was more likely not the last anyone saw of Edward Townes.
The agent remained seated.
“What is all this anyway? All these … questions?”
“Just trying to clarify how Mr Townes ended up trapped in the stocks,” said Jack.
“Knowing Edward? I imagine he fell into them,” she said, with a bitter laugh.
But when neither Sarah nor Jack replied, Sarah saw her frown: “Wait a minute,” said Ellingham. “You don’t think somebody did it deliberately, do you?”
“Just looking at every angle,” said Jack.
“But that would mean — someone left him in that storm — that’s tantamount to … murder?”
“If it was deliberate?” said Jack. “Yes.”
“Oh God,” she said, her hand going to her mouth. “I just assumed he’d been playing silly buggers, got trapped. But you think somebody …? I mean … who would do a thing like that?”
Sarah watched the agent carefully. It was almost as if she was reviewing a list of suspects. A long list.
“You mean — if it happened? That we don’t know, Ms Ellingham. Perhaps you might have an idea?”
“Me? Good lord, no. I mean, he had few friends, but he didn’t have enemies. Not real enemies anyway.” She paused at her own words. “Not people who would … you know …”
She looked out the window. And Sarah wondered if she was thinking of potential killers. Then she shook her head slightly.
“I do hope we don’t get more horrible snow,” she said, turning back into the room. “And the trains. God. They have to start running soon, no?”
She looked at them both as if they might have a hopeful answer.
“I think,” Jack said, “you and a lot of other people are going to be staying another night in Cherringham.”
Jack moved to the door, opened it.
Sarah turned. Despite her feeling that there had to be one more secret here, she said: “Thanks. For talking to us.”
And as if to show that the surprises weren’t over, Jack spoke as though a thought had just occurred to him.
“Oh. We wanted to talk to the author that Townes had words with.”
“Lucy Brice?” said Ellingham.
“That’s the one. She staying here?”
Still remaining seated, Ellingham nodded. “Yes.”
“Know what room?”
At that, the agent made a disdainful grunt. “Can’t miss it. Down the hall. Just follow the smell of smoke!”
Jack nodded. “Thanks.”
And Sarah kept her notebook in hand. Not sure what the other, younger author might have to add.
She wouldn’t be surprised by anything.
10. Where There’s Smoke
Jack reached out and touched Sarah’s elbow, his voice a whisper.
“Hang on a sec …”
She turned to him. The hallway dimly lit. Scant light seeping in from the small windows at either end.
“Yes? I smell the smoke. Don’t think we’ll need bloodhounds to find Lucy Brice’s room.”
“I know. But — just a minute. That, in there.” He nodded towards the agent’s room, just behind them. “That’s something, hmm? Lane certainly didn’t share that information.”
“Yeah, takes a punch — and not even a word.”
“But also, the agent herself didn’t seem too pleased with being canned.”
“Think ‘bitter’ would be apt,” said Sarah. “On the other hand — she did seem genuinely surprised that there might be foul play involved.”
“She is an agent — remember?”
“Aha, you mean poker face part of the job description, hmm?”
Jack took a breath. “So far, there’s more here than we thought. People not being honest with us …”
“My instincts say the same thing. I felt something else, too. Watching that woman.”
“Yes?”
“She told us a lot — that whole scene with Townes, Lane and her — that we didn’t know at all.”
“And yet …?” said Jack.
“Felt like there was still something she left out …”
“Like?”
“Not sure. But hear me out. When Lane left, and Townes supposedly stormed off, she was alone. Either watching Townes …”
“Or following him?”
“Or — well — who knows what.”
“I imagine she was upset with him. But do you really see her heading out into the snow, whacking her client, popping him in the stocks? Then heading back for a nightcap of Cabernet Sauvignon?”
“Dunno,” said Sarah. “She must have been angry — being sacked like that.”
“You think angry enough to kill?”
“Here’s another, er, grim thought. It can’t completely hurt having a fading author die suddenly.”
“Good for sales, hmm? You serious?”
“One thing I’ve learned working with you, Jack — we don’t know, right?”
“Not yet.”
She laughed at that.
“Now,” she said, “let’s follow the trail of cigarette smoke.”
And she led the wa
y down the narrow hall to its source.
*
At the door, Jack stopped. From inside the room — raised voices.
A full-on argument going on in there.
He looked at Sarah — both trying to hear through the door.
But the words — muffled. The only thing clear — that it was two women.
He shrugged, and knocked loudly.
Then, to Sarah: “You lead?”
A quick nod from Sarah.
In answer to his rapping at the door, a voice barked.
“Will you — bloody hell — leave us alone about the smoking!”
Jack looked at Sarah.
This was going to be fun.
He rapped again, harder.
And the door popped open, with a ferocity that recalled a rodeo bull being released with an unwanted cowboy strapped on it back.
Revealing a woman, early thirties, cigarette brazenly between fingers in this smoke-free hotel that now smelled like a Red Hook pool hall.
“I refuse to take this,” she waggled the cigarette, “out into that bloody snow.” The woman made her eyes wide as if they might have Superman’s X-ray ability to turn whoever was standing in her doorway into toast. She took a big puff. “So — deal with it!”
She went to close the door but Jack stuck his foot in the way.
“Um, Ms Brice? We’re not with the hotel.”
Jack’s words caused some of the pressure on the door to ease.
“An American in Cherringham, how quaint.”
And Jack thought, Okay — one of those.
But he simply smiled.
And Sarah — taking the lead — stepped forward.
“Ms Brice — Lucy — we’d like to have a few words with you about last night.” Jack noted that she paused. “About Edward Townes.”
“You the cops?” Brice said with a mocking accent. “Already told them my story — which is no story.”
Sarah nodded. And she took a step closer.
“Just helping the family, you know,” Sarah said. “I’m sure you understand. Just a few questions? After all, with the snow kicking in again, not much else to do, hmm?”
Apart from fight, thought Jack.
The woman in the doorway hesitated. Then — game, set, match — the door opened and she let Sarah in as Jack followed.
*
This room was one of the Bell’s few doubles, Sarah saw.
But more interesting, the other woman standing at a small desk. Younger, dark hair. Mid-twenties maybe. Face flushed. She made a small smile as Lucy Brice permitted them entry.
“Oh, she’s my — agent. We writers have agents, you know.”
The younger woman frowned as if Lucy’s words carried extra meaning.
“Kate Shaw,” she said sticking out her hand. Sarah shook it — then saw on the floor by the desk a shattered glass, red wine dripping, a red stain growing.
How fierce had the argument been?
And over what?
Lucy stepped past her, a towel now in her hand, reached down to mop it up.
“Had an accident,” she said. “Silly me, hmm?”
Sarah waited as Lucy mopped up the mess. Then noticed — on the desk — a business card.
And — in the split second before Lucy wiped the table and pocketed the card — she saw the name on the card.
Jane Ellingham.
Sarah looked across at Kate. The woman looked quickly away. Back to Lucy — bustling with the towel as if nothing had happened.
But that card — maybe the reason for the argument?
The attention of another agent causing a stir perhaps?
She waited while Lucy dumped the towel in the bathroom, then came back.
“Right then,” the young woman said. “How can we help you?”
Sarah looked for somewhere to sit, saw the bed nearby. Maybe for this one we remain standing, she thought.
Give the illusion that yes, just a few oh-so-fast questions, and then we’re gone.
“We just spoke to Jane Ellingham,” said Sarah. Thinking: Why not cut to that particular chase?
Then she paused. Such a useful manoeuvre. Inject a little … delay. Let the bit of information … land.
Then — let it percolate.
Sometimes the trail of a question’s journey was visible on the face of whoever was being interrogated.
Because, like it or not, Brice was being interrogated here. But both women, not reacting.
“And she told us some, well, disturbing things about the party last night.”
Brice shot a look at her agent, smirk firmly in place. “Like how bad the food was? No surprise in a dead-end village like this. First and last time you’ll get me here, I can tell you.”
Sarah smiled at the non-joke. Thinking she might have told her about all the awards the Spotted Pig had won.
But best to remain focused.
“No. The arguments that Townes had. With a lot of people. You.”
“Oh that.”
She stubbed out her cigarette in a rather delicate teacup.
How charming.
“The drunk — I mean, that’s what he was — stumbled up to me and said something snide and—”
Another look to the young agent. Did the younger woman usually play the role of cheerleader for everything Brice said?
“—frankly uncalled for. I felt compelled to respond with, I must admit, a quite truthful, albeit wounding, statement about Townes’s God-awful book series and declining sales.”
Then the woman’s face fell a bit.
“Course, I didn’t know he was about to go get himself killed in the blizzard. Sad, really.”
A nod.
Sarah noted that the agent shifted in her seat.
Brice dug out another cigarette, turned to her agent.
“Kate — open the window a bit more.”
Then Jack spoke.
“Snowing again.”
And Sarah looked out the now half-opened window. A heavy snow, like last night’s, just now kicking in. This time of year, it would be dark in a couple of hours.
She looked at Jack, thinking: We, too, might end up getting stuck here for the night!
She turned back to Brice.
“Thanks for explaining. I wonder — had you met Mr Townes before?”
Brice flicked a lighter, brought it to the fresh cigarette, took a drag.
“First time. And last, so it turns out.”
“So this … incident was a one-off?”
“Thankfully.”
“Any reason why he picked on you?”
“Any reason?” said Brice. Sarah watched her turn to her agent and roll her eyes. “Not exactly hard to figure that one out, is it?”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “You’ll have to explain — to me at least.”
“Townes was well past his sell-by date — in every way,” said Kate. “And he knew it.”
“All he could do was drink — and then attack people,” said Brice.
“Ms Brice just happened to be in his line of fire,” said Kate. “She represents everything he isn’t.”
“Sounds like a nasty line of work to be in,” said Jack.
“You get used to it,” said Brice. “Still a lot of dinosaurs. The ancient herd needing culling!”
“Time they were extinct, hmm?”
“You said it.”
Sarah nodded. Then: “One other thing to check. Something … we wondered about.”
Another pause, while Sarah made the woman wait for this supposedly last question.
11. Lights Out
“After Townes left, I just wondered—” Sarah looked at Jack. Did he suspect the direction in which this question was going? “—did you leave the party at all?”
The woman was midway through her second cigarette of the interview. And now she seemed to take her time with an answer.
A deep drag. Then a smile.
“Well, of course I did. I mean, no way I could smoke in that ridiculous hall, co
uld I? I’d be drawn and quartered.”
At that moment, Lucy Brice turned away from Jack and Sarah to look out the open window.
“Bloody hell. Look at it out there. All that snow coming down!”
Sarah had to wonder, did she call attention to the snow as a distraction? Hoping to move away from this topic?
But then a sudden strong gust actually sent flakes swirling into the room.
“Kate — shut the damn window.” The agent turned to Sarah and Jack, who would now be in the room with no ventilation.
A look to the window.
“Shame, hmm? I mean, presumably you have homes to go to … and now there’s a typhoon outside.”
Sarah didn’t correct her by pointing out that a “typhoon” related to weather in the tropical Pacific.
As the agent quickly and dutifully slammed down the window — conversation over — Jack was quick to jump in.
To show that it wasn’t quite.
“So, out for a smoke?” he said. “Makes sense. But that’s all, hmm? Quick break then back to the hall?”
Lucy Brice nodded.
If she had been attempting to distract or terminate the questions, maybe a bit of disappointment on her face that she hadn’t had success.
“And when you took that ‘break’ — imagine more than once — always by yourself?”
“Ha. Guess you haven’t been to a book party. Think any of them attending would dare to smoke? A capital offence. And the ones that do light up — they’d never do it among their oh-so-virtuous peers.”
Sarah had her eyes locked on Jack.
Picking up on something here.
“So, out by yourself, alone? That it?”
Now with a finality born — quite clearly — of irritation.
“Yes.”
And while Sarah looked at the author, she also caught the eyes of the young agent, sitting by the window, as if guarding the portal against the newly alive storm outside.
And something else, a small thing, almost imperceptible.
The agent’s frown.
But Lucy Brice shifted in her seat. Then — even more telling — looked away.
Did Jack see that? she wondered.
That hint of discomfort?
And with that, Jack nodded. Turned to Sarah.
Cherringham--Death Trap Page 6
