Her father had never mentioned a Forces connection. And James Carlisle must have been considerably younger than Quentin …
“Patrick?” Tony said, when the next man didn’t immediately start. A look at him and she guessed that despite being dressed appropriately in a suit, the man had clearly taken advantage of another tradition, and fortified himself with a drink or two in advance of the funeral.
He licked his lips. “Patrick Andrews, esquire, lone brother … lone survivor,” he emphasised, “of my deceased brother, Quentin.”
Sounds like he’s had more than a couple, Sarah thought.
And then as he shuffled in his seat, she saw his shoes — scuffed, tattered.
Quentin’s brother looked to be on his uppers.
One last person in the circle yet to speak.
Another woman who sat neatly with her legs together, long dark coat, purse on her lap, hands locked on.
Tony gave her a nod.
“Tricia Guard,” she said quietly.
Then nothing more.
Tony seemed to wait for a moment as if the attractive middle-aged woman might add something.
But when that didn’t happen …
“And you will note that there are two observers in the room, Mr. Jack Brennan, Ms. Sarah Edwards. While not named in the will, instructions were left that I select appropriate party, or parties, to be observers to both this event … and the carrying out of the terms of the will. And I have selected them.”
On cue, the potential heirs all turned and took in Sarah and Jack as if they were a museum display.
Then back to Tony, who dramatically cleared his throat and took a seat at his massive desk.
He picked up two envelopes.
“The instructions from Mr. Andrews are quite specific. I am to open this envelope first.”
Tony took a slender, silver letter opener and slid it into an opening in the flap.
You could hear a pin drop, Sarah thought.
Then, with the opening made, Tony pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
He unfolded it and glanced at the document for a moment.
Then — briefly raising his eyes to the attending crowd — he said:
“Very well. I shall begin the reading of the last will and testament of Quentin Andrews …”
3. A Most Puzzling Will
Sarah turned and looked at Jack, both of them waiting to discover why they had been summoned.
Tony read the opening paragraphs of the will quickly; every now and then looking up to the potential heirs, who probably wished he’d jump straight to the division of the spoils.
“Now to the terms of the will. Firstly,” he read, “to my good friend Michael Edwards. Michael told me many times he had no wish to inherit anything from anyone, including me. I am sure that he was referring to cash money. In which case, I shall ignore his request—”
Tony smiled, and looked right at Sarah’s father …
“I bequeath to Michael the vintage Napoleonic chess set on which we fought many a battle. In addition, the complete contents of my wine cellar would surely find a welcome home with him and his lovely wife. Lastly, my first edition of Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire could surely find no better protector than Michael.”
Tony stopped, and lowered the paper.
“Michael, do you agree to accept Mr. Andrews’ last wishes in this regard?”
Sarah watched her father nod, turning to the others, and then shooting a glance at Sarah. “Yes. These items I will — indeed — accept and cherish.”
“Good. Continuing then to the heart of the will …”
So very quiet, Sarah thought. People sitting patiently listening … bated breaths all around.
“For the remainder of my estate, all other possessions and my financial assets, I have made the following arrangements.”
“Financial assets,” Quentin’s brother Patrick said with a snort. “Ill-gotten gains more like.”
Tony ignored the interruption.
“My entire estate — to be overseen by Tony Standish, Esquire, will go to one of the four people named here and in attendance. Or — it will go to the charity of my choice, Seafarers UK, for all the good work they have done and continue to do for sailors everywhere.”
“Excuse me,” the carer, Ms. Carter said, “What does that mean?”
Tony put a hand up, begging patience.
Jack leaned over and touched Sarah’s arm. When she looked at him, he rolled his eyes, a grin on his face.
Signalling: something is up here …
“I have created a …”
Was that a small smile now creeping onto Tony’s face?
“… a crossword puzzle …”
“What the h—”James Carlisle said. “A crossword?”
All the heirs leaned forward.
“The answers to the various clues are all to be found, here, in this very village that I have loved so much. Each one of the designated potential heirs will have forty-eight hours to solve and complete the crossword. Upon completion of the last clue, the puzzle is to be delivered — by hand — directly to my executor.”
Tony cleared his throat.
This is amazing, Sarah thought.
“That would be me. I will,” Tony added, “be available to you, night and day until this, um, competition, has ended. I have your mobile numbers; you have mine.”
Then, continuing to read …
“Mr. Standish will secretly note when each solution is delivered. And exactly forty-eight hours from now, this group will reconvene to learn which, if any, of the four completed the puzzle first and won the prize of my estate. If no one solves the puzzle, the entire amount will go to the charity I have named above.”
“This is ridiculous,” Tricia Guard said. “I’ve come all the way from London for this … nonsense. And for what?”
“Likely not much anyway,” Carlisle said. “I imagine old Quentin got by. Bit of a pension. And that’s just about it.”
But then Tony lowered the document.
“I’ve also been authorised to tell you that the financial element of Quentin Andrews’ estate, aside from the property in Cherringham Crescent, furnishings, the land, and so on … has a current value — pending market fluctuations — of over ten million pounds …”
The words hung in the air as if a dirigible had just crashed into the office, its silvery skin pressing against each and every one’s gob-smacked face.
Ten million pounds, Sarah thought.
A fortune! To be decided by a race to complete a crossword puzzle?
Unbelievable …
Tony lowered the single sheet of the will.
“As mentioned,” he said, “I’ve been authorised to designate observers to this, um, contest. They will be Ms. Edwards and Mr. Brennan. They will intermittently monitor your progress, to assure that you all, well, play fair. There are some rules attached which specify that you must not collaborate, and then conspire to split the spoils.”
“Bloody hell, was he crazy? God. That brother of mine. Always was a slippery bastard …”
“And as said,” Tony continued, “we convene here in exactly two days, at eleven …”
Tony looked at his watch.
“Eleven twenty-three a.m. precisely, for the results.”
Patrick Andrews stood up.
“So, how about the damn puzzle so we can get on with it?”
Like horses at a starting gate, the other three members of the quartet stood up as well.
“They are contained inside this envelope …” Tony said, again picking up his letter opener and wielding it like a miniature rapier.
He slid it into one end of the envelope. A dramatic swish with the blade.
And Tony pulled out copies of the puzzle. A small note attached as well, Sarah could see.
Tony held that up and read it.
“Herein: one copy of said puzzle for each of my potential heirs, and duplicates for Mr. Standish and his designated observers.”
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The solicitor fanned out the puzzles, their clues hidden in the folded sheets.
The four heirs all took a step forward.
Tony now stood up and as if firing the gun for the race of a lifetime, handed them each a puzzle.
And in an almost comical blur, Sarah watched the two men and Emma Carter bolt from the office, nearly barrelling into her and Jack, as they scrambled out of the door.
Only Tricia Guard remained, folding her sheet carefully and placing it in her handbag, before following the others out of the room.
Forty-eight hours, thought Sarah.
Ten million pounds.
And when they had finally all departed in near cartoon fashion, she had to laugh aloud.
4. Questions at the Pig
“Lunch on me,” Tony said.
Jack looked around at what had to be his favourite restaurant in Cherringham, or even the whole Cotswolds … the wonderful Spotted Pig.
And for lunch — which Jack had never done — the place was packed. Co-owner Julie racing around, taking orders, and bringing them to her husband Sam whose passion for locally sourced, sustainable foods was only matched by his desire to absolutely knock diners’ socks off with the taste.
Jack turned back to Tony. “No need to do that.”
“None at all,” Michael Edwards agreed.
But Tony insisted, and even ordered a lavish bottle of wine, again not a midday practice for Jack.
“That crowd of heirs …” Sarah said, taking a sip of the pricey Châteauneuf-du–Pape, “That was absolutely mad, Tony.”
“I know. If I ever get around to writing my memoirs, that scene will surely be one of the highlights.”
Only Sarah’s father seemed quiet. Sipping the wine, sitting there.
“Michael,” Jack finally said. “You have … some thoughts?”
Sarah’s father had seemed to be staring off into the distance, but Jack’s words brought him back.
“Um, well … yes,” he winced as if whatever his thoughts were, they were bothering him.
“Do tell us, Michael, You were his good friend, after all …” Tony said.
“Right, well, this puzzle thing. I know he loved the history of Cherringham … and chess, of course. But this game? It’s … I don’t know … bizarre. I mean, does he want any of them to actually win the inheritance?”
“He certainly isn’t making it easy,” Sarah said.
“Then there’s—” Jack watched as Michael stopped himself, took another sip of deep red wine.
He lowered his voice.
“All that … money? A fortune! I never knew.”
“Nor did I,” said Tony, “Not until I opened his ‘Instructions to the Executor’.”
Jack nodded at this.
Quentin Andrews was creating quite a stir from beyond the grave. And here Jack was, sitting with Michael — the one person who should have known him best — and who seemed in the dark about his friend.
“What did he tell you … about his life?” Jack said.
“Well, over our gambits and scotches, not much, now I really come to think of it …”
Jack nodded.
He looked at Sarah.
Did she realise that Jack was having his own thoughts?
That maybe there was something going on here, something intriguing … mysterious …
And for the first time he had this thought: with all that money … who knows?
What would someone do … could have done … to get their hands on it?
*
When the main courses arrived, Sarah watched Jack as he took the measure of his steak and then moved in for the kill.
In a lot of ways he was hard to second guess — but she knew by now that a meal at the Pig meant only one thing for her American friend: a T-bone, rare, with Sam’s special peppercorn sauce.
Sarah savoured every mouthful of her poached salmon — lunch out at a restaurant was a rare treat these days.
Years ago, back in London, it was a regular event — always another wealthy client to be treated, stroked, and spoiled. But the typical customers for her web agency in Cherringham were more likely to bring a sandwich from Costco’s if Sarah ever suggested meeting over a bite to eat.
She watched her father put down his knife and fork, and pause.
“You know, one thing that really does surprise me …” he said, breaking the silence, “… was the number of people at the funeral. I mean — who on earth were they?”
Tony topped up the wine glasses and Sarah saw him casually order a second bottle with a practised nod to Julie across the restaurant: “Believe it or not, Michael — they were Quentin’s fans.”
“Fans?” said Jack.
“Yes. I guess I can reveal Quentin’s big secret. This funereal crossword game is no piece of … frippery. Quentin, for many years, was actually one of the chief crossword compilers for The Times.”
“Good Lord,” said Michael.
“I doubt anybody in Cherringham knew,” said Tony. “I certainly didn’t. Quentin didn’t have a by-line for his puzzles; they simply said ‘Argus’. But as soon as his death was announced, I was besieged by enquiries and commiserations from crossword devotees around the world.”
“Of course … Argus,” said Michael. “His nom de puzzle, I mean, it makes perfect sense …”
“That’s absolutely right,” said Tony. “Argus — the all-seeing giant of mythology.”
“Dad — why does it make sense?” said Sarah.
“Above his desk he had a print of that Velazquez painting — you know the one — Argus and Mercury? He used to say — it doesn’t matter how fast you are, it’s how good you are at seeing that really matters.”
“Sounds like there was quite a lot going on with our departed friend Quentin that nobody saw …” said Jack.
With that one secret revealed, Sarah guessed that Jack wondered — as did she — were there others?
Sarah watched Jack place his knife and fork together, sit back in his chair, and take a sip of water.
He had been quiet since the reading of the will, and Sarah guessed he’d been thinking hard.
He’d also been the one member of their little group to forego the wine.
And Sarah knew that meant only one thing — Jack was on the clock, no booze in working hours.
To paraphrase Doyle — and quite literally Sarah thought — a game was afoot.
“Come on then, Jack,” said her father. “What are you thinking?”
This is going to be interesting, thought Sarah.
“Well …”
Sarah watched him assembling his thoughts.
“Okay. I’m a cop. Always have been. So I can’t help thinking — what’s the motivation? What motivates a man to make a puzzle out of his inheritance? Why not just leave the money to the people he loved, or who loved him, or his family, or that charity you mentioned, Tony?”
“One last joke from beyond the grave, perhaps?” said Tony. “A little playful wielding of power? One last brilliant puzzle?”
Sarah watched Jack nod to this, then turn to her father.
“And what do you think, Michael? That fit the Quentin Andrews that you knew?”
“Hmm, well — with all due respect to you Tony after this wonderful wine — no, not at all! Quentin was analytical, thoughtful, combative even — but never … playful.”
“So from that I would say that this is not a game then,” said Jack. “And if it is not a game — that means it is for real.”
“For real?” said Sarah. “I don’t quite understand, Jack …”
“This crossword puzzle is important. It has a meaning. Either in the way it plays out, how the players behave … Or in the result itself.”
“Surely the result is just the eventual winner of the spoils, Jack?” said Tony.
“On the surface, yes,” said Jack. “But that could have been done with the stroke of a pen — it doesn’t need a high-stakes competition.”
Sarah looked around
the table. Her father and Tony were both pondering this. She turned to Jack.
Time to play devil’s advocate.
“What if Quentin is just what he seems, Jack? An English eccentric, playing that quirky role to the very end?”
“You know how very odd we English can be, Jack,” said Michael, offering up his glass to the new bottle which Julie had brought over.
“Don’t you dare drive home, Dad,” said Sarah, herself turning down the offer of more wine.
She watched her father wink at her.
“Don’t worry, darling — Mum’s picking me up,” he said, raising his glass in a toast. “But not before Jack’s spilled the beans!”
Sarah saw Jack smile and put down his napkin.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with the beneficiaries — or, better still — let’s call them the players. Now who’ve we got?”
“Emma, the carer,” said Sarah. “And Patrick, the brother.”
“Tricia, the rather alluring lady friend,” said Michael. “Quentin never even mentioned her.”
“So far, so normal,” said Jack. “Just your average line up at a will-reading. No other family, Tony? No children?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “So let’s look a little more closely at our final player …”
“James Carlisle?” said Tony.
“James Carlisle,” said Jack. “A spook if ever I saw one.”
Sarah leaned forward. “Jack — are you kidding? A spy?”
She watched her friend look straight at her father. “Michael?”
“Hmm, well …”
Sarah could see that her father was taking Jack’s suggestion seriously.
“Dad! Surely not? A spy — here in Cherringham?”
“I have to say, time spent dealing with the various agencies back in my RAF days, um … well, yes, I’d probably have to agree with Jack. That sort … well, you could always tell.”
“Good,” said Jack. “And by his own admission, a work colleague of Quentin’s.”
“Work colleague … Good Lord …” said Tony, as if only now registering what James Carlisle had said. “That means …”
Sarah looked around the table at the three serious faces. This conversation was now going into a totally unexpected place.
Cherringham--The Last Puzzle Page 2
