Just one, she realised.
The man who seemed so desperate to get back to London. McLelland.
As her eyes moved across the bar and the lounge area, she saw Lucy Brice emerge from the stairs in a fur-hooded parka and boots.
Sarah stepped out of sight as the author paused at reception for a brief word with Patrick — then headed to the doors outside.
As she pulled open the door, billows of snow blew in — and then she was gone.
Strange, thought Sarah. Where’s she going in weather like this?
And where was Alex Shaw — who up until now didn’t appear to have left Lucy’s side?
Sarah walked over to reception where the receptionist was writing on a pad — the computer screens all blank.
Long time since I saw someone actually writing, thought Sarah.
“Patrick,” she said, “how are you this afternoon?”
“Tons better,” said the young man, smiling up at her. “Thanks to you. Just a little cat nap. Still, that was good advice.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe you can do me a favour? The woman that just left — I don’t suppose you know where she was going?”
“Ms Brice? She didn’t say,” said Patrick with a shrug. “Only place open is the Angel, far as I know. She’s probably gone to buy some cigarettes.”
“Ah, okay. Well, thanks anyway.”
“She’s cleaned us out completely, that one. What with last night and today …”
Sarah nodded, then zipped up her coat and headed towards the doors. But then she stopped. Turned.
“Last night, you say?” she said, walking slowly back to reception.
“Yeah. She came up here from that party. Bit pissed if you ask me. Bought a whole carton. Asked me to keep ’em here, safe for her.”
“Then she went back to the party?”
“Yeah. Guess she could see the weather was closing in. Didn’t want to run out.”
“I’m sure,” said Sarah. “What time do you think that was, Patrick?”
“Around eleven.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, positive. I’d just closed the bar to non-guests. Had to go unlock the back office to get the cigarettes.”
Sarah smiled. “Thanks, Patrick.”
Sarah turned away, thinking over what Patrick had just said.
So Lucy Brice had lied. She’d been away from the party for some time. Half an hour maybe?
Certainly long enough to deal with Edward Townes, that was for sure.
Sarah needed to find out where she’d gone.
She turned and headed back towards the main doors.
And out into the blizzard.
*
Jack waited while Claire Owen sipped her tea. The kitchen was quiet — the other two women taking advantage of the break to sit in the main hall.
“So, Mr Lane said you should talk to me?” said Claire.
“Yes.”
“But you’re … not police?”
“Nope. Just helping figure out what happened to Mr Townes last night.”
“Why me?”
Jack heard a thin note of anxiety in Claire’s voice. She was nervous.
He needed to find out why.
“Because … apparently you had a bit of a … moment last night with Mr Townes.”
“Ah, right. That.”
“Thought maybe you could tell me what that was about.”
“About?”
Jack shrugged. “You know. Was it something important? Something he said that upset you?”
He watched as she stared into her tea.
“What have other people told you?”
“Nothing. Just that Mr Townes got a bit over-friendly with you, and you had to deal with it.”
Now she looked directly at Jack.
She’s got something to tell me, he thought. But is she going to?
A deep breath.
Something coming …
“Okay. Few years back, me and Edward had a thing — you know?”
Jack nodded, waited.
“I was working for a PR company — I had to look after him for some interviews. We had a few drinks together after. Stuff happened. I made a mistake. I thought it was more serious than it was.”
“So how long were you and he …?”
“Couple of years, on and off. He used to make sure I was booked for all his book tours, stuff like that.”
“But then it ended?”
“Think his wife got fed up always seeing me in the local shop.”
“She knew about you?”
“Edward wasn’t much good at hiding things. Don’t think he cared.”
Poor Emily Townes, thought Jack. What a bastard.
“So, you were living here in Cherringham?”
“He got me to move up from London. Then, when it was over, he said I had to move away.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I was going to.”
She looked at him. “I know, stupid, hmm? But he said maybe we could keep things going, long as we were careful.”
“Let me guess — then he changed his mind again?”
“Yeah. Like he was two different people. Driving me mad, it was. So back in August I told him it was definitely over. He got real angry — hit me. Since then, I stayed out of his way.”
Jack shook his head.
Maybe a night in the stocks back in the summer might have done Townes some good.
“So why did you work at his party last night?”
Jack saw Claire look away.
She shrugged: “I needed the money, I suppose.”
Really? thought Jack. Suddenly this doesn’t ring true.
“And you knew the party was for Edward Townes?”
“No. Well … yes. Sure.”
“You’d done this kind of work before? Banquets, roleplay stuff?”
“No, but this … friend of mine told me about it. Said it paid good money.”
“Local friend?”
“Someone from back in London. Look — I thought Edward wouldn’t bother me, all right? Wife here and all. His publisher, all those people. I was stupid. Made a mistake.”
“What did you fight about?”
“What do you think? He wanted to pick up where he left off again.”
“And you didn’t …”
“Exactly. End of story.”
She stood up suddenly.
“Are we done? Because I don’t want to talk about this any more.”
Jack stood up too. “Sure. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Claire.”
“Yeah, well. You have.”
“Maybe we can carry on later, give you a bit of time to—”
“No. I haven’t got anything else to tell you. Anyway, I’ve got work to do. I’m busy. All right?”
“Right. No problem.”
Jack watched her go back into the main hall, pulling the door shut behind her.
Whatever just happened — Claire’s story didn’t hold together.
She was lying. But why?
From what she’d said, Townes had treated her terribly.
What was she hiding?
He took out his cell to call Sarah. But he quickly saw that he had no signal. Through the kitchen windows he could see the snow falling even more heavily against the darkening sky.
This storm … bad even by NYC standards.
Time to head back to meet Sarah … maybe head back to the hotel.
Or maybe … not.
*
Sarah stood outside the steamed-up windows of the Angel, her back to the raw wind, snow swirling around her.
Falling so thickly now that she could barely see the outline of the stocks just twenty yards away. The High Street — with no street lights — dark and silent.
Candle lights flickered in all the cottage windows. The smell of wood smoke in the freezing air.
But the pub was open — and even through the blurred windows she could see candles on every table, oil lamps on the bar, the fire bl
azing.
All rather … cosy.
Any other time — and she would have welcomed an evening drink in here, no electricity, no piped music, no phones interrupting …
But right now, she needed to see in — without being seen.
The Angel had two bars — with luck, Lucy was in the one at the rear.
Sarah pulled her hood up tight, then stepped forward and pushed open the door.
Inside — a blast of warmth, the crackle of the big open fire and the scent of mulled wine. She looked around quickly: the place was nearly empty. Just a handful of hardy souls sipping pints around the fire.
And luckily — no sign of Lucy Brice in the front bar.
If she was in the pub — she must be in the back.
“What can I get you?” said the barman, as she approached the bar and tried to peer through to the back.
Heck, why not? she thought. Been a long day.
“Whisky Mac, please.”
She took the drink, paid, then sipped.
Whisky and ginger wine: the perfect choice on a day like this.
And now, with a drink in her hand, she had an excuse to slip along the bar, find the right position where she could just lean forward, peer through the back of the bar and see …
Lucy Brice. Huddled close to someone in the corner table. Deep in conversation, heads down. But who was she with?
Lucy suddenly looked up, some instinct maybe telling her she was being watched.
Sarah sat back, just out of sight. Waited. No sound of a chair being moved. Nothing.
Then she edged forward again, and this time she could see who Lucy was talking to …
The young man from the hotel. One of the actors from last night. The angry one — who wanted out of Cherringham, fast.
McLelland.
The one person she hadn’t talked to so far.
Interesting.
She sat back.
How did these two connect? They didn’t look like they’d hooked up at the party. And anyway — weren’t Lucy and Kate perhaps “an item”?
Maybe not. If Lucy could change agents overnight — then perhaps she could switch partners the same way too …
Time to talk to Jack — see what he’d managed to find out from Lane. And tell him about this duo and their secret chat.
Sarah drained her glass — pulled her coat tight — and headed for the door.
Outside, the snow getting thicker. Already a foot deep — maybe more.
Whoever was responsible for the death of Edward Townes — they’d be going nowhere fast tonight.
14. Truth Will Out
Jack walked beside Sarah, both of them bundled tight.
He had met her inside the hotel lobby and suggested that they take a walk through the snow to share what they knew.
Where no one could hear or see.
“The snow, Jack …”
“Hmm?”
“I think it’s stopped.”
And then Jack paused on the snow-covered High Street, bearing only a few tread marks from whatever vehicles had dared challenge the blizzard-battered streets.
“That it has …”
She turned to face him. They had shared their respective interrogations, and she guessed that — for all the surprises, all those people hiding something — they still hadn’t narrowed down the suspects.
And motives?
Weak tea indeed.
“You don’t seem pleased?”
“About the snow? Guess the kid in me kinda likes it when the world comes to a full-on stop. Mother nature showing who’s boss.”
Sarah looked around.
“And the candles in people’s houses, the windows glowing. Makes Cherringham look pretty magical.”
Jack smiled at that.
“This village … always magical for me.”
But she suspected that there was something else.
“What’s bothering you, Jack?”
He looked around. They were alone, having agreed to take this walk to discuss and compare notes away from the madding crowd at the Bell.
He looked worried.
“Snow over,” he said. “Imagine sometime in the next few hours, ploughs will come?”
“They’ll be trying,” said Sarah. “Working their way through the villages.”
“Still, they will get here. Roads cleared.”
“And no one will be trapped anymore.”
“Yeah, right. And the trains? Imagine they will be running first thing. All those Londoners back at the hotel will — as we say — get out of Dodge.”
And suddenly Sarah knew the problem.
Their suspects scattered back to their world, to their lives. And whatever opportunity they might have to get at the truth of what had happened — lost.
Edward Townes’s death slipping into the improbable category of an accident.
Even though neither she nor Jack believed that.
“I get it. You’re worried all our suspects will be gone?”
“Exactly. Lights come back on, candles go out, and this may be one mystery we never solve.”
“That would be a first for us, hmm?”
“For us? Yes. For me, no. Left quite a few of them back in New York. And I tell you, they never go away …”
“The ones that escaped?”
“Never liked that feeling. And though Edward Townes doesn’t seem like a paragon of virtue—”
“To put it mildly.”
“Still, if someone did that to him, locked him in the stocks, to freeze to death … no one deserves that.”
Sarah nodded. “Something else. Though maybe, Jack, you’ve thought of it.”
“And what is that?”
“If someone killed Townes — if we have a killer trapped in Cherringham — could be that killer will do it again.”
“You must have read my mind, Sarah Edwards.”
And at those words … a funny feeling in Sarah. Because, well, sometimes she felt she knew Jack — this big, broad shouldered, rough-around-the-edges New York detective — better than anyone she had ever met.
“Well then,” she said, “we have a limited opportunity here, right?”
“A ‘window’, as they say.”
She nodded towards the High Street ahead — the bright, white snow picking up whatever light was left in the clearing sky.
Glistening, prismatic. Altogether beautiful.
“Shall we walk some more? Wind’s eased up. Review our cast of characters … what we know … the lies told, secrets held?”
“Good idea. Seems to me we often do our best thinking … walking around, looking at things.”
“Letting our left-brains do the work!”
He laughed. “If you say so …”
And they continued walking straight down the middle of the road.
*
“Okay,” Sarah said, “I don’t think I need a notepad for this. Our suspects … Humphrey Lane, Jane Ellingham—”
“The agent. You think?”
“Last person to see the victim, Jack.”
He smiled. “You’re right.”
“Next — our smoking writer, Lucy Brice. Then there’s the mystery jester, Tim McLelland. The sometime mistress, Claire Owen. Oh — and let’s not forget Brice’s agent. A stretch but I think she knows her author lied. That about it?”
She saw Jack nod. But then: “And … Emily Townes.”
“The wife?” she said. “Really?”
“We know she and Lane, well, connected in ways they haven’t shared. And I’ve got a hunch she knows something about Lane that she hasn’t told us.”
“Okay. So how about motives?”
And that triggered another laugh from Jack.
“Plumb out of them today, I’m afraid.”
“Well, they all have gripes with Townes, that’s for sure. But there has to be a bigger motive than that. And the clock’s ticking.”
“Guess we could go back to the Bell, and give each of them another go,” said Ja
ck. “But don’t see that working.”
And then, taking another step, thinking over Jack’s words, Sarah stopped.
“Wait a minute. There is something. Something I’ve seen you do before.”
A big smile. “Go on.”
“We know … and they know … that they’ve all hidden things, kept secrets about that night.”
“Right. And?”
“So, they all might be a little paranoid. They know they’ll be able to leave in the morning. But they might be worried about anything that will interfere with that.”
“On the other hand,” said Jack, “if you happen to actually be the killer, you definitely do not want to just fly away and appear guilty.”
“Precisely. So how about we bring them all together?”
“You mean — get them out of the Bell somehow? But where?”
“Scene of the crime. Where better?”
“Astley Hall, hmm? You know, Sarah, I love the way you think. And I assume, if I’m following your thinking, we’d want them all there at the same time? But how?”
“Ah,” said Sarah, smiling. “Afraid I haven’t figured that one out yet.”
She saw Jack look away. Scratch his ear.
His process. Thinking things over.
She waited, patient. Hoping — maybe even knowing — that a really good solution was about to appear.
“I could swing by, ask Emily Townes to come to the hall, tell her we have information. Can go ask Claire to stay at the hall. She might still be cleaning up.”
“Sounds good. But what about the others?”
“How about … we use Patrick, our new friend at reception? He can tell each one of them, from us, that they need to meet us at the hall. For a few discrete questions before the night is over. Properly worded, they might even think the police are involved.”
“But they aren’t …”
“Oh, think if we flush out a killer, we can hold it together till Alan shows up.”
“You know — if I was one of them, and I had done something … I might feel I’d have to go back to the hall for more questions. Make sure I had no problems.”
“Yup. Your idea … brilliant!”
“Why, thank you.” She laughed “It is okay to enjoy all this, right?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. One thing, though, there is one last story we need hear. Maybe it’s a chat. Just you?”
“Let me guess. Kate Shaw?”
“Right. She knows her author lied about leaving the party. So, what else does she know? Why don’t you have a shot with her? I’ll meanwhile brief Patrick.”
Cherringham--Death Trap Page 8
