by H. Y. Hanna
It was Thane Blackmort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Thane!” cried Pomona, her face lighting up. “So good to see you again!” She rushed towards him and stretched up to peck him on the cheek.
So this is the enigmatic Thane Blackmort, Caitlyn thought. Known by the press as ‘The Black Tycoon’ for his quirky habit of always wearing black, travelling in a black private jet, and only drinking black vodka, Blackmort had risen seemingly out of nowhere to become one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world. She had seen brief mentions of him in the press—his bodyguards ensured that the paparazzi never got close enough to get much of a story—but she had heard longer accounts of him from Pomona, who had met him at a London party a few months ago and seemed completely infatuated by his sex appeal.
Looking at the man in the flesh now, Caitlyn had to admit that Pomona’s description of him hadn’t been wrong—there was something mesmerising about Thane Blackmort. It wasn’t just his saturnine good looks or debonair appearance—there was a sense of power, an “aura” to the man that Caitlyn couldn’t define.
“Pomona.” Blackmort turned his head slightly so that his lips brushed Pomona’s cheek, but he never took his eyes off Caitlyn, who shifted uneasily under that piercing blue gaze.
His voice was deep and gravelly, with an accent that Caitlyn couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t British, it wasn’t American, it wasn’t European or Australian or Canadian or like any other accent she had ever heard.
“Thane, this is my cousin, Caitlyn Le Fey.” Pomona gestured carelessly to Caitlyn. “Omigod, I’m so happy to run into you here! When did you get back to London? Are you staying long?”
“Just for a few days.” He paused, then said abruptly, “I am having a private party in my suite. You must come. My limousine is waiting below.”
Caitlyn noted the commanding language and tone. This was a man who was used to giving orders and being obeyed. It rankled her slightly and she said, more sharply than she intended:
“I’m afraid we can’t. We’ve already got plans for this afternoon—in fact, we’re already missing a lunch date. We should be leaving now to head back.” She looked pointedly at Pomona.
Her cousin glanced at Blackmort and bit her lip. “Ohhh…”
“Stay,” he said to Pomona, who seemed to melt under that piercing blue gaze.
She turned to Caitlyn and handed her the car keys. “You go,” she said.
“What?”
“James won’t really mind me not being there,” said Pomona. “I can always see the grounds and go boating another time—”
“But Pomie—”
“You should stay too,” said Blackmort, turning to her.
Caitlyn looked up into those vivid blue eyes—so blue that they looked almost unreal—and felt the full force of the man’s charisma. For a second, she was almost compelled to do as he said, then she frowned, resisting the urge. She saw his eyes flicker and a hint of surprise cross his face.
“No, thank you,” she said coolly. “I appreciate the invitation but I need to get back to the Cotswolds.”
Blackmort said nothing, although his blue eyes swept over her. Then he inclined his head—a strange, regal gesture—and said softly, “In that case, I hope to have the pleasure of your company some other time… Caitlyn.”
The sound of her name on his lips made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, although she didn’t know why. Caitlyn shook off the thought. I’m imagining it, she told herself. She was being beguiled by the air of mystique surrounding Blackmort—but that was nothing more than a lot of hot air created by the media. He was just a very rich, very good-looking man, who was used to getting his own way—and he had been startled when she had resisted the force of his personality…
Caitlyn glanced at her cousin, annoyed with her—and slightly surprised. Pomona was no pushover. Nor did she normally ditch people at the last minute for a better offer. Although she might have looked like a blonde airhead, Caitlyn knew that her cousin was no shallow social butterfly—Pomona had a strong sense of ethics and integrity. So this kind of behaviour was not like her.
“Pomona…” she started to try again, then sighed and gave up. Her cousin wasn’t even looking at her—she had eyes only for Blackmort. “Okay… well, I’m going now… Um… if I take the car, how are you going to get back to Tillyhenge?”
Pomona waved a hand. “Oh, I can get a taxi…”
“From London? It’ll cost a fortune!” Caitlyn said. She knew that, like her, Pomona had a large trust fund set up by her celebrity mother and money had never been an issue. Still, her cousin wasn’t normally extravagant.
“I guess I’ll get the train to Oxford, then, and get a taxi from there.”
Caitlyn frowned. “It’s not a good idea to travel alone on the trains late at night. How late are you going to be?”
“I don’t know.” Pomona glanced at Blackmort and giggled. “I guess it depends on how good the party is.” She turned back to Caitlyn. “Oh, quit worrying! I’ll be fine! If it gets too late, I’ll get a room in London. I’m a big girl now and I don’t need you to babysit me!”
Caitlyn was left with no choice, and a few minutes later she was retracing their steps, wandering slowly back through the Harrods Food Hall alone. She wondered fleetingly where Antoine de Villiers was—somehow, she had completely forgotten him after meeting Blackmort—but in any case, she was unlikely to catch up with him now. Instead, she stopped at a few of the counters to pick up something to eat on the drive back to Tillyhenge.
As she walked past the aisle where all the cookies were displayed, Caitlyn paused by the packet of traditional Dutch biscuits—speculaas—and stared at them thoughtfully. Suddenly, she remembered what Pomona had said earlier: “…I had some the night of the Open-Air Cinema—they’re delicious…”
How had her cousin managed to get speculaas at the Open-Air Cinema? They weren’t the type of thing that was sold everywhere and she was surprised that Pomona even knew their name. On an impulse, she pulled out her phone and called her cousin. Pomona was notorious for not hearing her own phone ring because it was always lost at the bottom of her handbag or something similar, but to Caitlyn’s relief, this time she answered.
“Pomona?”
“Yeah?” There was giggling in the background, along with several excited voices. It sounded like the party had already started wherever Pomona was.
“Listen, Pomie—you know you were talking about speculaas earlier in the Food Hall… How did you know about them?”
“Huh? Whaddya mean?”
“I mean—you said you tasted them on the night of the cinema. Where did you get them from?”
“Uh… oh, that guy, Rochat, gave me some.”
Caitlyn jerked upright. “Rochat? Pierre Rochat?”
“Mmm…” Pomona’s voice faded and Caitlyn could hear her yelling something to someone in the background, then giggling wildly as music blared from loudspeakers somewhere.
“Pomona!” she said sharply. “This is important!”
Her cousin came back on the line. “Huh? Oh, yeah… sorry. Pierre Rochat had some with him and he offered me a couple. They were really good—freshly baked.”
Freshly baked.
Caitlyn’s thoughts whirled. Surely it couldn’t be…?
“Uh… Caitlyn? I gotta go. They’re doing this champagne fountain thing—”
“Okay. Have a good time.”
Caitlyn hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, then she gathered her purchases and made her way out of the department store. Back at the car, she dumped the food on the seat next to her, took a couple of hasty bites of a sandwich, then started the car and began navigating her way out of London. She drove on autopilot, munching and thinking furiously.
Traditional Dutch biscuits weren’t common—it was unlikely that Rochat had come to Tillyhenge with some in his pocket. So he must have been given the biscuits after arriving in the village… and there was one person she knew
who had been making freshly baked speculaas.
Gertrude Smith.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Caitlyn felt her mind whirling. Could they have been looking the wrong way all along? If Rochat got the speculaas from Gertrude Smith, did that mean that when Amy Matthews saw him walking in the direction of the workers’ cottages, he hadn’t been going to Lionel Spelling’s place—he had been going next door?
But why? Was Gertrude Smith the person Rochat had been planning to meet in Tillyhenge? Could she have been the ringleader of the jewellery thieves? Caitlyn shook her head in disbelief. That was a crazy idea. She couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be a criminal than that stolid, middle-aged Englishwoman with her wellington boots, her yappy terrier, and her gardening obsession.
And yet…
Maybe that was the point. Maybe those elements were all part of the perfect disguise, so that people wouldn’t suspect her. Caitlyn thought back to the day she had visited Gertrude Smith—something had struck her as slightly odd when she looked at the cottage. At the time, she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it, but now as she conjured up the image in her mind’s eye—the shiny new gumboots, gleaming spades and trowels, the pretty gloves in a floral fabric—she realised what it was. Everything had been so clean, so new, so shiny… If Gertrude really was as keen a gardener as she claimed, surely those spades and trowels, those pretty floral gloves, would have been covered in dirt?
They’re props, Caitlyn thought suddenly. She was sure of it. In fact, now she also remembered Old Palmer grumbling about how Gertrude Smith didn’t know that azaleas needed acidic soil. Only a true gardener like him would have picked up on details like that—the rest of the world had been easily fooled by her clever disguise.
And then Caitlyn remembered something else. When Rocco the terrier had been turned to chocolate, Gertrude had seemed more selfishly concerned with the fact that she had lost her “brilliant guard dog” than with the dog’s well-being. Why would she care so much about having a guard dog—unless there was something valuable she needed to keep guarded?
Such as the stolen jewels.
Yes, if Gertrude Smith was the ringleader, then she would have the loot. That was why she needed a vicious terrier patrolling her property. Then Caitlyn remembered something else: when she and Bertha and the Widow Mags had returned to the cottage, they had met Gertrude coming out, carrying a suitcase. At the time, she had been so preoccupied with Rocco, she hadn’t paid much attention, but now it occurred to Caitlyn that Gertrude might have been planning a getaway. With her guard dog gone and Rochat’s murder bringing too much police presence, she could’ve decided to leave her hiding place.
In fact… Caitlyn furrowed her brow as she strained to remember… Gertrude had said: “first Rochat and the vampire… now this…” And then later, when Bertha had pressed the cup of tea on her, she had mumbled: “…need to get out… place is getting too hot…”
Gertrude hadn’t been talking about the weather—she was using the word “hot” as criminal slang for a situation that was too risky for illegal activities.
It all fit. Caitlyn felt a surge of excitement. She couldn’t wait to get back and share her suspicions with James: Gertrude Smith was the ringleader of the Blue Magpies!
But wait… If Gertrude had the loot, surely she wouldn’t have risked hiding it in her cottage? Inspector Walsh had even spoken about searching the two cottages. Of course, Gertrude could have refused or insisted on a warrant, but that would have drawn attention. If she was perfectly willing to allow the police inside, the jewels must’ve been hidden somewhere safe.
But where? Amongst the gardening equipment? No, Caitlyn couldn’t see Gertrude stashing millions of pounds worth of jewellery in something like a watering can outside, where it could be lost or damaged… The jewels had to be hidden in the cottage. And they had to be easily accessible too, in case Gertrude needed to make a quick getaway—so they couldn’t be buried deep under the floorboards or anything like that…
Caitlyn pondered the question all the way back to Huntingdon Manor but was still no nearer an answer when she pulled up in front of the main entrance of the elegant country house. Giles Mosley came hurrying to meet her as she entered the front door.
“Ah, Miss Le Fey—Lord Fitzroy has been worried about you and Miss Sinclair.”
Guiltily, Caitlyn realised that they hadn’t called to tell James that they would miss lunch. “I’m sorry—we got a bit… um… side-tracked. Anyway, my cousin won’t be returning today so it’s just me.” She glanced around. “Do you know where James and the others are? I’ll go and join them.”
“Yes, that is why I have been waiting by the front door,” said Mosley. “Lord Fitzroy expressly asked me to inform you that they are down at the lake. If you turn left at the Summer Pavilion, next to the rose gardens, and follow the path all the way down, you’ll come to the lake. Would you like me to escort you?”
“No, no, I’m sure I can find it, no problems. So did they change their minds about visiting the Folly?”
“I believe they visited the Folly already, straight after lunch.”
“Oh.” Caitlyn felt guilty again. “I hope me and Pomona being away hasn’t messed up the numbers for boating—”
“Not to worry—Lord Fitzroy invited Mrs Smith to join them.”
Caitlyn paused. “I’m sorry? Do you mean Gertrude Smith?”
“Yes, she happened to be walking her dog in the rose gardens when the party was on their way to the lake. She seemed pleased to accept Lord Fitzroy’s invitation.”
“How long ago was that? When did they go down?” asked Caitlyn eagerly.
“About half an hour ago.”
“And do you know how long James plans to stay on the lake?”
“I couldn’t say, madam. A couple of hours at least, I should think.”
Which meant that she probably had an hour’s grace before Gertrude Smith and her terrier was likely to return. Caitlyn knew that she really should have called the police and told them her suspicions—let them do a search of the woman’s property—but there was no police station in Tillyhenge, and by the time she got hold of Inspector Walsh, explained everything, and convinced him to come, Gertrude would probably be back. No, it was too good an opportunity to miss—she had to seize the chance to search Gertrude’s cottage now.
She realised that Giles Mosley was still standing politely next to her and she gave him a quick smile.
“Thanks—I’ll head down to the lake now.”
Conscious of the butler’s eyes on her, Caitlyn walked away as sedately as she could, resisting the urge to break into a run. Once she was out of the Manor, however, she quickened her pace to a jog. She made her way through the rose gardens, pausing by the Summer Pavilion to check that no one was coming up the path from the lake, then turned and headed for the other end, where she found the shortcut path.
A few minutes later, she was outside Gertrude’s cottage. She glanced over at Lionel’s place next door, wondering if he might be in. She didn’t want to have to explain herself if the English teacher saw her breaking into his neighbour’s house. But the curtains were drawn and everything seemed quiet next door. She turned back to Gertrude’s cottage and considered her options. Obviously, going in through the locked front door was out of the question, but Viktor had got into the kitchen the other day, so perhaps there was a way in the back? Although he had been in his bat form so he could have easily squeezed in through a half-open window…
She walked around the cottage. There was a back door, which probably led into a laundry room next to the kitchen. As she had expected, it was locked and the key wasn’t under any of the potted plants nearby. Caitlyn sighed in frustration. Then she remembered a spell she had learnt from Evie—a spell which forced hidden things to reveal themselves. Stretching out her hand towards the door, Caitlyn whispered:
“Manifesto clandestina!”
A large rock tucked next to the back door glowed brightly before fading ba
ck to a dull grey. Caitlyn frowned. She had already picked up that rock and checked, and hadn’t seen a key underneath. She lifted it again and, as she turned it over, she realised that it wasn’t a normal rock—it was a clever replica with a small hollow, a secret compartment where you could hide something. She stuck her fingers in and triumphantly extracted the slim Yale key. A moment later, she was inside the cottage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Quietly, she crept around the tiny property, trying to look for a place where the jewels could have been hidden. She didn’t dare disturb things too much, for fear that Gertrude Smith would notice when she returned, and in any case, Caitlyn didn’t think that the jewels would be in the obvious hiding places. She paused at last in the kitchen-dining room and stood looking around, her hands on her waist. She sighed again in frustration. Where could the jewels be?
Then something in the corner of the room caught her eye. It was a dog bed and there, tucked in amongst the blankets, was a stuffed toy rabbit. Caitlyn remembered it from the day Viktor had been here, being chased by Rocco the terrier—she had reached to grab the toy, to use it to distract the dog, and Gertrude had yanked it out of her hands. The older woman had claimed that Rocco was possessive of the toy—but now Caitlyn wondered if that was a convenient excuse. Telling everyone that your dog might bite them if they tried to take his toy was a very effective way of keeping their hands off it… and preventing them from discovering that something was hidden inside.
Caitlyn bent down to pick up the toy rabbit and instantly felt the weight of it. No stuffed animal should have been that heavy! Clutching it against her chest, she ran back outside. But once out of the cottage, she paused. Before rushing to the police, she wanted to make sure that the jewels were hidden inside. It would be really embarrassing if she turned up at the station, making wild accusations about Gertrude Smith, to then discover that there was nothing more than an artificial weight inserted into the toy. For all she knew, there were dog toys made to be extra heavy for some special reason!
