“But he’ll take the money if it comes his way …”
“Absolutely,” said Sarah. “And use it to tear down the walls that his brother built.”
Jack paused.
Then: “You think he could have killed Quentin?”
“Big question there, Jack. Seems to me like he genuinely hated him. But murder? His own brother?
“When did he last see Quentin?”
“Not for years, apparently.”
“Really? Even though they both lived in the village?”
“Worked hard to avoid each other.”
“And what about our spy?” said Jack. “How was he getting on?”
“Mr. Carlisle is on the ball I think. As smooth as they come …”
“I spotted him this morning. Did he say when he last saw Quentin?”
“Same story — several years ago.”
“Hmm, and I got the same line from the lovely Tricia, not that I believe it now. But here’s the thing … Emma says Quentin had a string of visitors in the weeks before he died.”
“You think he invited the puzzlers round? Could they all be lying?”
“You know what? I think they could be …”
“Maybe Quentin wasn’t murdered,” said Sarah.
“Sure. Maybe. But those pills … something’s definitely not right. Your dad told me Quentin had an attack one evening while he was there — reached for his pills, they were right there in his pocket. Swore they were always at his side.”
“I spoke to Tony just before you got here. He was chatting to Quentin’s doctor — heart specialist in Oxford. Apparently he’d warned Quentin that now was the time to ‘get his house in order’.”
“You mean he knew he was going to die?”
“Can’t mean anything else — can it?” said Sarah. “In which case — if he was going to die anyway, why bother killing him?”
“That presupposes the killer knew what the doctor said.”
“But if you’re right — and Quentin did invite the puzzlers over — wouldn’t he have told them why?”
Jack looked away, and Sarah knew his mind was racing with thoughts, suspicions, plans …
Then: “Well, we’re just speculating here Sarah — maybe he didn’t tell them anything. Maybe he simply wanted to meet them just to see if they should be … in the game. See if they had a right to be players …”
Sarah wiped her hands on a paper towel and dropped the sandwich wrappers in the bin.
“Here’s an idea. Grace is going to be back in a minute. Why don’t you and I head over to Quentin’s house and take a look around? I still haven’t been there.”
“Sure, great — why not? You may see something I’ve missed.”
“And you can run me through the whole ‘death by heart pills’ theory.”
“Now what makes me think you don’t quite buy into that?”
“Come on,” she said, picking up her coat. “You persuade me and on the way back I’ll buy you that chocolate cake you know you should have had …”
She saw Jack grin as he grabbed his coat too.
“You’re a bad influence on me, Sarah Edwards.”
And they headed off to Cherringham Crescent.
12. The Fatal Truth
Sarah stopped in the hallway — and took in Quentin Andrews’ home.
“Jack — this is … classic. The wood, that staircase.” She turned to him. “So beautiful.”
“Thought so too. Used his money well. Money he made by exploiting his inside connections …”
She turned to the living room, where elegant eighteenth-century furniture floated on a thick-pile carpet that nearly covered the shining, dark wood floor.
“The house alone has to be worth a small fortune.”
“Yeah. So, shall we go upstairs? To the scene of what … you don’t think is a crime?”
She nodded.
Thinking: it’s rare for me to doubt Jack’s hunch.
But she also knew that she had developed her own hunches about such things.
With everyone so guilty here, with so many of the heirs with grudges, even hatred for Quentin, with so much money at stake.
And with the crazy puzzle competition …
None of it added up.
She followed Jack up the stairs.
*
Then — into the dead man’s room.
Jack pointed out the chair where Quentin died, and then back, to the table where the pills were found, seeming like an oversight, as if he’d put them there, sat down … and just couldn’t get to them.
That was the story.
And Sarah didn’t buy it.
She turned and looked around the room. “So, let’s say Quentin feels an attack coming on. Tries to get up, but can’t?”
Jack nodded, and stared at the chair, the small nearby table. It was, she thought, as if he was imaging how it might all have happened.
“Right, tries to get up. Usually keeps the pills by his chair, but that night—”
Sarah turned to him.
“Wait a second. What did you just say?”
Now Jack’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out what was going on in his partner’s head.
“I said … that he feels the attack, tries to get up — but …”
“Right,” Sarah said. “Okay. Hear me out. First, we know a bit about who this Quentin was. The tricky details of his crossword puzzles. And look around — the way he kept this place. Immaculate. Add to that his reputation as someone who could easily create global havoc for foreign governments …”
“Yes — and — your point?”
“So — first question: do you buy that somehow he’d just accidentally left the pills feet away?”
Jack didn’t answer.
Which — for Sarah — was answer enough.
“Then, that other thing you just said.”
“Got to admit, Sarah. You’re losing me.”
“You said … ‘feels an attack coming on, tries to get up’.”
“That I did.”
“What if …”
She took a step closer to Jack so they both stood in front of the chair, the last place where Quentin had been alive.
“What if he tried to get up — and someone stopped him.”
And with those words, she saw Jack turn from the chair, to the table across the room, rubbing his chin — a habit that always revealed he was suddenly deep in detective mode.
Before he finally turned back to her.
“You mean … he tries to get to his pills … and …”
She nodded, excited to see Jack pick up the thread of her idea.
Jack continued: “And maybe someone stops Quentin … right there next to him … and he can’t get to them?”
“He was an old man, Jack. Frail. It wouldn’t have taken much,” she said.
“And he was alone — Emma had gone for the day …” Jack said.
“Wait a second, Jack. Isn’t that just a little bit too convenient? He has his attack precisely in the time between Emma leaving, and my dad coming to visit?”
Jack said nothing.
Which spoke volumes.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that we’re missing something here. Emma out of the house, Quentin tries to get his pills. Stopped … by someone.” She took a breath. “I think you might be right, Jack. This could be murder.”
Now she scrunched up her face. Maybe it was a bit much.
“Crazy idea?”
Jack hesitated a moment … and then shook his head.
“Not at all. In fact, it would be the perfect way to have Quentin die and make it look like a fatal mistake. With the difference between life and death the few feet between the chair … and that table.”
“Looking so much like an accident when …” and now Sarah felt chilled. “It was anything but.”
And Jack’s smile faded as well.
Because if she was right, they both stood in the middle of a crime scene, He had been convinced
that something was wrong with this — and now so was she.
There were suddenly so many questions … starting with who would do it, and why.
But Jack had another, darker concern.
“Trouble is, Sarah — I think you may be right. It all fits. But—”
“The trouble?”
“Not one bit of evidence.”
And as if in a plummeting lift, Sarah realised that Jack — the pro that he was — was completely right. No evidence. Just a theory that seemed to fit what had happened; fit the players, and their anger at Quentin.
But absolutely no evidence.
“Tell you what, Sarah. The clock is ticking. How about we fix some tea, sit down, think things through?”
“Here? Now that I think the old man was murdered, in that chair, I’m not sure I—”
“In the kitchen then. Maybe his spirit will help us, hmm?”
“Okay. Tea it is.”
And with a last look at Quentin Andrews’ bedroom, Jack led the way downstairs.
*
The kitchen matched the rich details of the home. A dark stone countertop for food preparation, a massive refrigerator and a good-sized Aga.
No expense had been spared.
But did anyone ever cook here? she wondered.
Metal stools with intricate, wrought-iron backs circled an island with a thick butcher’s-block top in the centre of the room.
Now Sarah sat in one of the chairs, as Jack poured the hot water from the kettle into a pair of delicate cups.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said to him.
“Need to concentrate on the tea, no?” he said with a grin.
But she knew the truth.
Grappling with Sarah’s sudden insight, evidence or not, Jack was now thinking about what it meant, where it led.
“Okay,” he said, dropping a single cube of sugar into his tea. “Need you to check me on this. But, I don’t see Emma capable of killing the man.”
“Agree on that one. But her Marty?”
“Well — I’ve gone toe-to-toe with him. Bit of a brute, desperate even — but I doubt that he’s a killer.”
“So who then?”
Another laugh. “Any of them. Emma did say that it looked like people had been here while she was away on her vacation. But do you think she could have kept something back, about what happened?”
“Like what?”
“She said that on the evening Quentin died, she left for the day, just as she normally did,” Jack said. “But how do we know that’s true?”
“What do you mean? You think she left earlier? But why would she do that?”
“Maybe somebody asked her to.”
“But what would she have to gain?”
“Money? Big motivator. And her Marty? Desperate guy. Imagine he could be persuaded to do a lot of things — short of murder.”
Sarah nodded … it all becoming clear. “So say she leaves the house … And clears the way for a visitor …”
“Who triggers an attack — and then keeps Quentin away from his pills.”
“God, Jack. That’s grisly.”
“Pretty cold blooded.”
Sarah took a sip of her tea. Just a bit of lemon, bit of sugar. A smoky billow from the cup, a perfect match for her thoughts.
“There is one person who could tell us if we’re on the right track,” Sarah said.
“Emma?”
A nod. “If she’ll tell us. Though with Marty by her side, I doubt she’ll say much.”
Jack looked around the brightly lit kitchen.
“You’re right. And why would she or Marty talk now, even if we tried to threaten them. We have, as they would say in Brooklyn, nuttin …”
“Wait a second, Jack.”
Sarah got off the stool. “She said there’d been a lot of cups here, when she came back after her days off, yes?”
“Meaning?”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t just one person who came to hear Quentin’s plans for his money. What if he met all the heirs, baiting them with the quest he had planned. And what if you needed money?”
“Not only that,” Jack said. “I mean … what would be the best way to guarantee getting some of the millions?”
She hadn’t even thought about that.
“What if a couple of them worked together?” Jack said.
Both of them following that thought, the suspicions …
Evidence or no evidence.
“Could be, right? That would certainly guarantee you’d get a big cut of the prize.”
Jack downed his tea.
“That’s interesting,” he said. “Now if we had an idea on how we could find out if that happened …”
“I know how you think, Jack. You mean, trap them?”
“Yes.”
“Well I’ve got an idea about that too. Let’s go back to my place. I think it will be easier to show you there.”
“And Emma?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to have another chat with her.”
“My guess … now with Marty by her side …”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well, Tony did ask for our help in this. I’ll give him a call and update him while we’re en-route.”
Sarah started for the door out of the kitchen to the front of the house. “And won’t he be surprised …”
“Doesn’t surprise easily I imagine, But all this …” Jack said following her. “Don’t think our good friend will have seen it coming.”
13. Changing Rules
Sarah listened as Jack updated Tony Standish.
“Right, it all fits Tony. But we don’t have anything, hence we’re—”
Jack looked over: they were only a couple of minutes’ drive away from her house.
“—going to have to bend the rules of the contest a little. Yes, we’ll be careful. I understand Tony. There are legal issues here. But we think—”
Another look.
“It’s what Quentin would have wanted.”
Silence for a minute, Jack listening to Tony as Sarah pulled up outside her house.
Normally her kids would be glad to see Jack show up.
But Chloe, with the words they’d exchanged over breakfast … there could still be some tension in the air.
She stopped the car.
“Thanks for your trust, Tony. We’ll let you know what happens. And we will be there tomorrow, no matter what. Bye.”
“All set?” Sarah said.
“You bet.”
But before Sarah got out, Jack put a hand on her shoulder. “Got to say, Sarah, this may be the toughest nut we’ve tried to crack.”
She nodded, smiled at that. “That’s for sure.”
“No. What I mean is … that if we do crack it, it will be due mostly to you.”
“To us, Jack. A team, remember?”
“Right.”
And then she opened her door and led the way into her home, so different from the Georgian mansion they had just come from.
*
She had just opened her laptop, about to explain her plan to Jack when Chloe walked in — not a word, as she opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice.
Jack gave Sarah a look, obviously feeling the chill.
Then he jumped into the void.
“Hey Chloe … how’s things?”
Sarah watched her daughter turn to Jack, normally one of her favourite people.
“Hi Jack.”
She took down a glass, and poured some juice.
For mum, though, the ice wasn’t melting.
Sarah thought she’d better try to heal the breech.
“Chloe — we’ve got your favourite for dinner — stroganoff. Good for a chilly night, hmm?”
The words were out of her mouth before she realised that they could be taken in a sarcastic light.
But when Chloe — her face set — turned to look at her, she allowed a bit of a smile.
“Thanks …,” then more slowly “Mum.”
<
br /> Then: “Is Jack staying?”
Jack smiled. “Stroganoff? You kidding? If I’m invited, absolutely.”
“Good.” Chloe smiled, nodded, and walked out of the kitchen.
And when Sarah sat down …
“Storm clouds there … parting a bit?”
“I hope so. It can be hard sometimes, you know?”
“Tell me about it. So easy to think you did or said the wrong thing to this kid. A kid you would — quite literally — die for.”
“I would.”
“I know. And so does she. You’re a good mom, I mean mum. It will pass.”
“Right.” Sarah took a deep breath.
“Now, show me what you plan on doing with your amazing skills here.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. “And I think you’re going to like this.”
*
After a dinner of what had to be the best stroganoff Jack had ever eaten … creamy, tender beef, mushrooms … Jack went off to play his role in the plot to trap the scrambling heirs.
He didn’t relish what he was about to do.
So many ways it could go wrong.
But as the person who had first interviewed Emma Carter, this job fell to him.
Only now — big Marty would be by her side.
He parked close to their tiny cottage, and hopped out of his Sprite. The sun had set, and the sky had turned a deep purple, with a light blue at the horizon. Stars dotted the sky, but it wasn’t so cold tonight. Maybe winter was finally leaving …
He knocked on the door.
And of course Marty answered.
“You?”
“Hi Marty — was hoping to have another quick chat with Emma.”
Marty’s lip curled, his bowling ball eyes squinting as he said … “You already spoke to her. Now didn’t you?”
But then Emma appeared by the door, standing close to Marty.
Jack knew that they could easily refuse to talk to him. But he gambled that they both might be a little scared.
Because he didn’t think that Marty had just gone to the house to look for a stray scarf or pair of gloves Emma might have left behind.
Marty might have been worried about something far more important.
“Not out on the puzzle hunt?” Jack said.
The woman’s hooded eyes drifted over to her boyfriend who was staring at Jack as if it was a contest.
“It is kind of hard, isn’t. Damn puzzle. For folks like us. And those people … so smart, so clever …”
Cherringham--The Last Puzzle Page 7
