Cherringham--The Last Puzzle

by Neil Richards

  “It means … that Quentin worked in intelligence too. But when? Well, we can work that out. How old was he? Eighty-nine?”

  Sarah saw Tony nod, and Jack continued.

  “So — he missed World War Two, if he was lucky — and therefore — was a Cold War warrior. Behind a desk, I’d guess. I bet thirty years ago he’d climb in his car every morning and tootle off to work in Cheltenham — Tony?”

  “Hmm, well, yes,” said Tony. “He always had a little flat right here in the High Street. He had said that he worked for a small investment company in Cheltenham.”

  “Investment?” Jack smiled at the word. “You could say that. It wasn’t called GCHQ then, but from what I’ve read over the years, you guys had a big intelligence set-up in Cheltenham. Our NSA used to send people over. Once in a while, I’d need to chat to them at One Police Plaza.”

  “Jack –you think he picked ‘investment’ for a reason?” asked Sarah.

  “Well, in those early days of digital intelligence and data, the spooks all knew who was at the cutting edge in technology on both sides of the ocean. And quite a few took advantage. Quietly, secretly, they could use that insider knowledge to amass a fortune for when their spying days were done.”

  Sarah watched Jack turn to Tony.

  “Let me guess — Quentin’s ten million comprises of a large stock in Microsoft and Apple, yes?”

  “Good Lord,” said Tony, nodding slowly at Jack.

  Sarah could see that Jack was spot on.

  “The crafty beggar,” said Michael, laughing. “He bought the stocks early …”

  “Nothing illegal about it, as far as I know,” said Tony.

  “Right place at the right time,” said Jack. “We’d all do the same.”

  “But Jack — when all’s said and done …” said Michael, “… what are you driving at? Quentin worked in intelligence and had pots of money. So what?”

  Sarah watched Jack consider this.

  “Well, here’s the ‘so what’. What if Quentin always knew there might be … vultures … hanging over his estate at the end? And what if he set up this little puzzle as a way of ensuring that nobody took a share that wasn’t rightfully theirs? I’m not sure how. Just an idea. Or worse — what if he set this up so that anyone who couldn’t wait for the pay-out, who maybe wanted Christmas to come early, would be found out before they made off with the cash?”

  Sarah looked around the table: Tony and her father were motionless.

  Gobsmacked is the word the kids would use, she thought.

  “Hang on. Are you suggesting that Quentin Andrews might have been … murdered?” said Tony.

  “With a prize of ten million pounds,” said Jack. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “But Quentin died of a heart attack …” said Tony.

  Sarah watched Jack shrug — as if to imply heart attacks might not be heart attacks …

  “We’ve got spooks involved,” said Jack. “One dead, one alive. So, I think we should all be very careful over the next forty-eight hours. Who knows who — or what — we’re really dealing with?”

  Sarah looked around the table. She could see from her father’s face — and from Tony’s — that Jack’s words were being taken seriously …

  Very seriously.

  5. Let the Games Begin

  “‘Where Charles lost his head from above’.”

  “How many letters?” said Jack.

  “Five.” Sarah turned from the whiteboard in her office, put down the marker pen and crossword and stared at Jack. He stared back at her.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “King Charles lost his head in London — not in Cherringham. Everyone knows that. Even a NY cop.”

  Sarah picked up the crossword again.

  “Give me another one,” said Jack. “I’m feeling lucky.”

  “Okay. Three down. ‘Noble New Englander’. Eight letters.”

  She wrote the clue on the board and eight dots for the letters.

  “That the easiest one you could find, huh?”

  “They’re not grouped according to how easy they are, Jack.”

  She watched him sink back into his chair and fold his arms.

  “I thought you’d be good at crosswords,” she said. “Being an investigator and all …”

  “And I thought you’d know the history of Cherringham. Being a local and all …”

  She smiled at that. “Touché! You want another coffee?”

  “Great …”

  She went through to the little kitchen at the back of her office, switched on the light and started pouring the coffee. She heard the bells of St. James chiming just the other side of the line of bare oak trees, and out of habit counted … Four o’clock.

  She and Jack had come straight from lunch to her office on the High Street, so they could plan their next steps.

  She’d cleared the whiteboard and written up the four puzzle chasers — Tricia, James, Emma, and Patrick, alongside their mobile numbers. Then, she’d put up some of the clues that Tony had handed to them both in sealed envelopes.

  The idea was that through regular calls and texts they’d be able to keep track both of the players’ locations and their progress through the puzzles … doing their best to follow Quentin’s dying wish.

  That would satisfy the ‘official’ remit from Tony to monitor and supervise the ‘competition’.

  But with Jack’s suspicions in the air, beyond that she and Jack both wanted to meet the four individuals — and, for want of a better word … interrogate them.

  Solving the clues now should give them an advantage in tracing the four as they moved across Cherringham.

  And she and Jack could follow them.

  But with tackling what seemed like easy clues, it was fast becoming clear that neither she nor Jack had a natural ability with crosswords.

  She put a bit of milk and sweetener in each coffee and then heard Jack’s mobile ring. And when she took the cups back through to her office he was just finishing a call.

  “Okay, Tony, thanks. Sure. Will let you know.”

  Sarah handed Jack his coffee. “Something up?”

  “Tony just had an interesting chat with one of his partners who remembered a conversation he’d had with Quentin’s brother last year about inheritance tax. Tony looked up the notes and it seems Patrick raised the issue of whether particular mental states might — and he quoted here — ‘affect the validity of a will’.”

  “Wow … interesting,” said Sarah. “This from the man who thought his brother might only have a few thousand to pass on.”

  “Yep. Exactly what I thought …”

  She sipped her coffee. Behind her she heard footsteps on the stairs, and she turned as the office door opened, to see Grace come in.

  “Hi there — oh, hi Jack! How are you?”

  “I’m good, Grace. You’re just in time for coffee.”

  Sarah watched Grace take off her winter coat and put down her bag before noticing what was on the whiteboard.

  “Ooh — what’s this? A puzzle?”

  No harm in telling Grace about this, thought Sarah.

  Her assistant knew that Sarah and Jack had a side-line in detective work. And though Sarah made sure to keep Grace out of anything dangerous or remotely illegal, she was happy to get her young assistant’s take on a case whenever she showed an interest.

  Grace was sharp and sometimes could be gold dust.

  “Kinda crossword puzzle — though with a slightly higher prize than usual …” said Jack, as Grace read the clues.

  “Funny,” she said. “Looks like they’re all connected to Cherringham.”

  Sarah looked at Jack, then back at Grace.

  “How did you know, Grace?”

  “Sort of obvious, really …”

  Jack caught Sarah’s eye.

  “What way?” he said.

  “Well … ‘Noble New Englander’ — that’s got to be Harry Marshall.”

  “Harry Marshall?” sai
d Sarah, smiling. “Who’s he?”

  “Come on Sarah, everyone knows about Harry Marshall! Came to Cherringham from Boston in 1912 to teach out at Cherringham Hall, then joined up with the Gloucesters when war broke out and got killed at Gallipoli.”

  “American, huh?” said Jack.

  “That’s right,” said Grace. “He didn’t need to fight — just said … he had to. There’s a plaque in the church all about him.”

  “There you go,” said Jack.

  “And this one here … ‘Good place for a ditch’, twelve letters, well that’s got to be Wykeham Field where that plane did an emergency landing. I was still at school then!”

  “Thinking you should be tackling this puzzle,” Jack said.

  “Oh I am a fan. Love ’em!”

  “Okay then. Charlie’s head?” said Jack, and Sarah watched him nod to the whiteboard.

  “Five letters — hmmm … right! Angel. The old pub. Has to be. King Charles slept there the night before that big battle, but he didn’t get a wink of sleep and they reckon next day it cost him the battle and the war and his life — Sarah, do you seriously not know this?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I feel totally ashamed. If I had any more money I’d promote you.”

  She watched Grace grin back at her. “You heard that, Jack, sounds like I’m the new boss round here.”

  “Don’t take the job, kid, too much stress,” said Jack.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” said Grace, laughing and sitting at her desk.

  “Grace — how about you solve some more of these — while Jack and I head out? You’ve been a great help!”

  “Love to,” said Grace. “Can I ask — is this a case?”

  “Kinda,” said Jack.

  “There a prize?”

  “For you, dinner at the Spotted Pig — on me and Sarah.”

  “For two?” said Grace. “No fun on my own …”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” said Jack. “Okay — that’s a deal.”

  Sarah handed over the crossword puzzle, then turned to Jack.

  “So … We’ve got four players,” she said. “Who do you fancy first?”

  “Why don’t I track down Tricia Guard — and you root out our new friend Mr. Carlisle?” said Jack, putting on his big winter coat again.

  Sarah felt a rush of excitement.

  Of the four players, Carlisle — the spy — was surely going to be the tricky one. And it was a vote of confidence from Jack that he felt she should be the one to talk to him.

  “Sounds good to me,” she said, then turned to Grace: “If anyone calls, better put them through to me, Grace. Jack and I are kind of on call today …”

  “No problem.”

  Sarah picked up her coat and hat, headed to the door with Jack and then turned to look at Grace who was already filling the whiteboard with clues.

  If — one day — this little office became a genuine detective agency, then it was clear that Grace would be an indispensable part of the operation …

  6. Find the Lady

  When he hit the High Street, Jack called the number for Tricia Guard that Tony had given him, but it went straight to mailbox.

  Not the way this is supposed to work, he thought.

  But just as he was leaving a message, Tricia texted him.

  King’s Head Hotel, lounge bar.

  He carried on up the High Street, past Huffington’s, to the King’s Head — the only really decent hotel in the village.

  Into the bar …

  And he didn’t have to look hard. It was just five o’clock — too late for the lunch crowd and still too early for the after-work tipplers.

  Tricia Guard sat on a sofa in the corner of the lounge, her coat neatly folded next to her. Jack saw her nod briefly to him and he walked over to her table.

  “Mr. Brennan …”

  “Jack, Miss Guard. Or Mrs.?”

  “Tricia. Please.”

  “Please join me. Would you care for a drink? A rather limited bar I’m afraid. Putting a slice of lemon in the gin seems to be the height of our barman’s powers.”

  Jack pulled a chair back and sat down. “I have tried to educate the barman Steve here on the finer points of the ice-cold martini. So far, no luck.”

  While Tricia waved to the waiter, Jack glanced down at the table. A large gin and tonic sat in front of her. The fact that there were two empty bowls of snacks suggested this drink was not the lady’s first of the afternoon.

  “Think … I’ll just have a tea, please,” he said, as the young barman came over.

  When he’d gone he turned back to Tricia.

  She looked to be in her fifties, and strikingly beautiful. Classic features — like one of those slender sixties models who can still dazzle a room when they walk in. Long legs, elegant wool suit in soft pastel green. There was a hint of a foreign accent in her voice — was she French? Or maybe, some exclusive private school?

  He wondered what her story was …

  “How are you finding Cherringham?”

  “Same sleepy village as it always was.”

  “So you know the place?”

  “A little.”

  “Through Quentin?”

  She hesitated. Then: “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing you’re not family.”

  “No.”

  Jack saw the barman come over with his tea and waited while it was poured.

  “When was the last time you saw Quentin, if I might ask?” he said, when the barman had gone.

  “It was 1983,” she said. “June fourteenth, at five o’clock in the afternoon.”

  Jack smiled at that. “You have a good memory.”

  “No more than anyone else. I remember the time Jack, because it was the day Quentin chose to stay with his wife rather than live with me.”

  As she said the words, Jack felt that in some way he was as much to blame as Quentin, her eyes still burning with anger.

  “Ah,” said Jack. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised your relationship was so …”

  “Intimate?”

  “Close,” Jack said. “And I didn’t know Quentin had been married.”

  “Sylvie. She died only a few years later. They had no children.”

  “But he never got back in touch with you after she died? To rekindle the relationship?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm …” Jack sipped his tea and took stock. This was one brittle conversation. He felt that if he said the wrong thing the little chat would be over instantly. And he couldn’t afford that — he needed as much information as he could get.

  “Did you know about the inheritance?”

  “No,” she said. “It was a complete surprise.”

  “He must have still cared deeply for you, to leave you an involvement in the estate.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “This farce? It’s just another of his silly games.”

  “That why you’re not out there solving the puzzles?”

  “Very good Jack, you should have been a policeman. Oh but yes — I see it now — you were a policeman. No?”

  “NYPD. Detective. Retired.”

  He watched her drain her gin and tonic and wave to the barman for another.

  “As to Quentin’s game … I haven’t decided whether I shall compete or just get out of this dreary backwater as soon as possible.”

  Funny, Jack thought, I don’t like people talking about Cherringham that way.

  “What did you know about Quentin’s work?”

  “He worked for an insurance company, or something. Why would I be interested in that?”

  Jack watched her carefully. Did she know what Quentin really did? His eyes on hers and he couldn’t believe she didn’t.

  “I’m just wondering …” he continued, “Where did you first meet Quentin?”

  Jack waited, expecting her to answer. But instead, she sat back and folded her arms, now a knowing smile on her face.

  “What exactly is your role Jack? I feel our count
ry solicitor didn’t really make it quite clear. Observer? Of what?”

  “Sarah and I are here to monitor this … ‘competition’ … for want of a better word.”

  “Monitor — yes? Right. No collaboration, hmm? So you’re not here to investigate my relationship with Quentin? Dig into the past? Because forgive me — silly me, what would I know? — but I have the distinct impression you’re interrogating me.”

  One sharp lady …

  “Well, I’m sorry it feels like that. Old habits, you know …”

  “Of course. Makes sense, Jack.”

  Is she flirting with me, Jack thought, a few G&Ts to the wind?

  Sure feels that way …

  Or playing me?

  “It’s what you do — what you have always done, right? Anyway, sorry this interrogation is over. Don’t worry about the tea. I’ll pick up the tab. After all –maybe I will try to win all of Quent’s millions. One can never have too many yachts, hmm?”

  Jack didn’t know whether she was kidding — or not.

  She stood up, and Jack followed suit.

  “Nice talking to you, Tricia. I’m sure we’ll meet again. As I, um, monitor the ‘contest’.”

  “I’m sure …”

  And as he turned and left, he thought …

  She feels she won that one, he thought.

  Could be.

  But I got more than I thought I would …

  And once outside, he called Sarah to give her a quick update …

  *

  On his way back down the High Street, Jack dropped into Tony’s office before it closed and picked up the keys to Quentin Andrews’ house from reception.

  At lunch Tony had agreed it would be a good idea for Jack to give the place the once-over.

  And now, suspicion building, it felt like a very good time.

  He also wanted to find out more about the mysterious and glamorous Tricia. And Quentin’s departed wife Sylvie. Tony had said nothing about a wife — and Jack realised he and Sarah knew very little about the man himself.

  Might even find a little ill-concealed spookery, he thought.

  What were the odds that Quentin — nearly in his nineties — might have lost some of the art of Cold War deception?

  He took the short cut through the churchyard and then zigzagged through a little walled alleyway that led to Cherringham Crescent.