The mayor and deputy mayor from St. Martin for instance.
They weren’t married — at least not to each other. But by all accounts they were a couple — Simon had whispered to her that they had requested a double room.
An odd couple at that: Laurent was in his sixties, blustering, red-faced, the bulging body of an ex-rugby player. And Marie: much younger, was rail thin, the archetypal political mistress; alluring on the outside and tough as nails inside, Sarah had no doubt.
And yet… Was there a hint of something here also going on between Marie and Lee?
There’d been half a dozen ‘exploratory’ trips to France over the last couple of years and from what she’d heard, Lee was just the kind of chap to take that kind of exploring literally.
Just before they’d all taken their seats Sarah had noticed the Cherringham vice-chair whispering briefly in Marie’s pretty little ear…
Then there was Harry Howden — gruff, no-nonsense Harry.
Rumour had it he was aiming to snap up some prime French property on the back of this partnership and build himself a meat processing plant in St. Martin.
Won’t the locals love that.
Next to Harry, Cecil Cauldwell helped himself to another glass of wine. This event was right up his street, Sarah could tell. Eating, drinking, and smooth-talking potential customers — he was in his element. And why not? The proposed twinning arrangement would give an extra spur to the little French property business he had started up, expanding from the Cotswolds to the sunny south of France.
Raucous laughter burst from the far end of the table, apparently generated by Simon, their host. Was that a turkey impersonation he was doing, complete with gobbling noises?
People were weeping with laughter…
And what was in it for Simon? Surely Cherringham Council wasn’t picking up the bill for this junket? She’d seen that he had his eye on Marie — perhaps he imagined a never-ending line of French fillies queuing up to use the Repton Hall spa?
She looked to the other end of the table, where June Rigby was deep in conversation with Harry Howden’s wife, Vanessa.
June was quiet and demure, but she was active on the council and had big political ambitions, or so Sarah had heard. Was she looking for a role at Westminster one day? And if so, perhaps Simon and the Repton name might be able to help?
She spotted them exchanging looks. Perhaps he’d given up hope of a French partner tonight and was going to settle for the prim English maid?
And what of Harry’s grim-faced wife, Vanessa? How would the twinning affect her? Vanessa was a self-proclaimed moral authority in the village — frequently writing to the local paper about the out of control “yoof”, the over-liberal licensing hours, the decline in social standards. Would her turkey-farmer husband be able to resist the dubious temptations of a French sea-side resort?
Ooh, this is too much fun, thought Sarah.
At which point the chairs at the far end of the table were kicked back, music blared, and Sarah saw that a conga line had formed with Simon at its head.
As the surprised waiting staff retreated to the edges of the room, the conga line laughed and stumbled its way around the table. “La la la la la la! La la la la la la!” they all began singing.
The line picked up more dancers as it went — and Sarah watched as it disappeared out of the room.
Waiter, cheque please, she thought.
Time to go.
Sarah looked around the table at the half dozen remaining guests. June looked embarrassed. Harry Howden was grinning — but Vanessa looked disgusted, her lips pursed. Tony Standish, as always, seemed remarkably tolerant.
Laurent and Marie were blinking in astonishment.
The conga line could be heard going up and down the corridors outside.
“La la la la la la! La la la la la la!”
In the Queen Anne room, the remaining diners sat totally quiet.
Suddenly, it was all too awkward.
“Les Anglais,” said Sarah smiling apologetically, trying to break the silence. “They’ll be back, I’m sure.”
And noisily they soon were.
“Come on you spoilsports!” cried Simon as the conga line burst into the room and swayed past the seated guests.
Simon whisked June Rigby up from her seat to join in. There was a quick exchange in French between June and Laurent as she passed him, stony-faced. Sarah could only assume it was an apology for the behaviour of her English colleagues…
Sarah watched as Cherringham’s Council chief awkwardly led the dancing line.
Round and round the table the line stumbled.
“La la la la la la! La la la la la la!”
“More champagne!” cried Simon.
“Champagne! Champagne!” echoed those behind Simon.
“La la la la la la! La la la la la la!”
Sarah looked at her watch. Still only eleven o’clock. She wondered where this evening would end…
And maybe — now — how…
Sarah stumbled into the fresh air at one in the morning. Standing outside on the gravel in front of the beautiful old house, it was hard to believe that the party was still going on within.
But it was…
Those party games.
Had they really played Sardines?
Had she really hidden in a cupboard with a French mayor while her own solicitor tiptoed around the room whispering ‘come out, come out, wherever you are’?
She shook her head in horror.
Luckily she was the one responsible for writing up the report of the evening for the parish council — and she knew exactly which parts would be censored.
Slowly the more sensible guests had drifted home, but there was still a hard-core party group remaining in the house. She’d sneaked away to get her coat from the ever-patient cloakroom staff, and managed to escape the house without being noticed.
Or so she thought.
Simon appeared at the doorway.
“Don’t go. Can’t go now,” he’d said. “Now’s when the fun starts.”
He came over and swayed boozily next to her.
“Hmm, that’s what’s worrying me,” said Sarah, just keeping her balance herself.
“Hot tub’s filling up,” he said. “Dress code’s au naturel or so I hear. Everyone’s feeling jolly frisky…”
“I’m sure they are,” said Sarah. “Oh look — there’s my taxi!”
A set of headlights swung round into the drive in front of them both.
Thank God, she thought.
“Kissee kissee goodnight at least,” said Simon, his face drifting closer to hers, eyes shut…
But Sarah disappeared.
Nick of time, she thought.
3. The Island on the Lake
Laurent stood at the edge of the lake, took a deep drag of his cigarette, and peered into the darkness.
The lake stretched ahead, the water flat and black in the moonless night. He could just make out the shape of the island and the little Greek temple which stood upon it.
A folly, they called it.
Folly.
Bien sur. So very… English!
This whole project was a folly and he wanted to wash his hands of it.
Nothing good had come from it and nothing good ever would. Rien!
These people with their grand ideas and their patronising views. Getting drunk on such good wine! And never following through with the money. Always “a little cash-flow problem”.
He shivered.
Should have put a jacket on.
Not in the south of France now.
Mon Dieu — I wish I was home.
But he couldn’t go home — yet. He had work to do. One final meeting. Why on the island though? It didn’t make sense.
He’d left the hot tub when things got too wild. Then Simon Repton had cornered him in the empty bar. Making all sorts of promises. Slurring his words…“you’ll do the deal, hmm?”
Laurent didn’t like being cornered,
so that meeting hadn’t gone quite as expected.
But what did he care? Rich bastard needed bringing down a little.
He’d wandered around the place looking for Marie but he couldn’t find her. Then he’d gone back to his room to lie down — and found the note under the door.
Someone telling him they had to meet — now.
So here he was out in the cold night looking for a way to get out to the damn island.
So very… caché!
He thought back to when they’d arrived that the morning and Simon and his mother had given them a tour of the Estate. There’d been some boats, he was sure of it.
He wandered along the edge of the lake, slipping on the wet grass.
Ah-ha — there they were.
Two small rowing-boats were tied to a metal stake set into the bank.
He held one steady and clambered in, half-falling.
Was he still drunk? Maybe, a little.
There were two oars — and rowlocks.
Good.
Untying the rope, he used one of the oars to push off, then spun the little boat round, sat, and began to row towards the island.
Fifty years living by the sea, he knew how to row.
He felt the oars dig deep in the black water and the boat slide smoothly. Ahead of him he could see the outline of Repton Hall. Some windows were still lit.
In one upper room a figure appeared at a window, silhouetted.
Could they see him?
It was unlikely — so dark out here on the lake.
The figure disappeared.
To bed? Or was the party still going on? Surely not, it was nearly three in the morning.
Incroyable…
He looked over his shoulder.
The island was now just a few metres away and he could clearly see the temple.
There was a faint glow from within — a light on?
He shipped the oars and the boat glided on, bumping against rocks until it reached the grassy bank of the island.
He climbed out carefully and tied the rope to a tree stump.
Then he stood up on the rough grass, looked around and listened.
Not a sound.
And no other boats — as far as he could tell.
What was this — some kind of trick? Another stupid English joke.
But no — there was a sound now, a faint sound from inside the temple.
Laurent shivered again.
And suddenly felt a sliver of fear. The hairs on his arm were standing up.
What am I afraid of? He thought, surprised at his own emotions.
No — it must be the cold. The chilly night air out here on the lake.
He walked up the sloping grass towards the temple, his eyes now adjusting to the darkness.
He faced tall marble pillars and just behind them, a large metal door which must open on to the temple interior. The door — not quite shut.
And inside — yes, he was right — there was some kind of light.
Quietly he approached the door, and reached out to nudge it.
He sniffed the air — there was a scent — familiar…
He pushed the door hard and it swung open.
The inside was lit by candles — small tea-lights — it seemed like hundreds of them, like stars. And on the floor were cushions and blankets.
And there, ahead of him, he saw someone standing in the shadows.
Not waiting for him, but startled.
He took another step closer and finally — in the scant light — he could see who it was, but not understanding, now suddenly confused.
And all Laurent Bourdin could do was say “Non.”
4. The Morning After
Jack pushed open the door to his boat, the Grey Goose, and the morning sunlight hit him square in the face. A slight breeze blew, carrying the scent of the grassy field only steps away. Looking down to the water, the Thames lapped gently by the side of the boat.
The dream, he thought.
He and Katherine had planned to come and retire here. Have this crazy kind of life; an English life for two Americans.
What fun it would be, they both agreed.
And then — as if the whole thing was a joke, the dream simply that — Katherine got sick, and began slipping away bit by bit, day by day.
Until she was gone. And for some reason, Jack had decided to come here anyway. He knew she would have wanted that.
Yes, to stand here, on a picture-perfect morning in the Cotswolds. Katherine would have loved it.
He heard the kettle whistling behind him. Riley came up and nuzzled him, ready for his walk.
“Yes,” Jack said to his Springer. “Let's get this day going.”
He walked on the mushy field, dodging places where the tufts of grass gave way to oozing piles of mud.
Riley seemed to have learned how to navigate the field, barely getting any dirt on his legs as he dashed away from Jack, then ran back as if fetching an imaginary ball.
Jack walked with a tall mug of English Breakfast tea, the warmth in his hands was wonderful. This was not his world, but Jack loved it anyway.
The dog raced up to Jack as if he should begin running with him. Back in the day, Jack had loved a nice long run. Especially after a long tour on the streets. Cleared the head.
His wobbly knees ended that.
Riley cocked his head, barked, and then streamed away, running fast, zig-zagging in the direction of the ancient church that sat on the western end of the field where a small road passed by.
Jack started following Riley’s path, sipping the already cooling tea, when he felt his phone vibrate.
He slid the phone out of his jacket pocket, already guessing who was calling.
“Jack, Sarah here.”
“Good morning, Sarah,” he said.
“Jack, I'm at Tony’s office. He gave me a call.”
“Tell Tony ‘hi’,” Jack said. Riley had reached the end of his invisible tether and started racing back.
Jack liked Tony Standish, the very epitome of a British solicitor and, for Sarah and her parents, a trusted family advisor.
But Jack waited. He guessed that if Sarah was calling him, there would be a reason.
“Can you pop over here, do you think?”
Her voice, a mix of strained and excited.
“Let me guess,” Jack said. “Something’s happened?”
Cherringham may be a small village, but people were people everywhere, from the streets of New York to the village lanes here.
“Yes.”
He waited, thinking she would add some detail about her call, her request to come.
Then: “Best I tell you when you get here. I need your help, Jack.”
And without knowing what the call was about, what Tony had contacted Sarah for; Jack nodded as if they were standing there, in the field.
“Sure. Let me get Riley back on the Goose and I’ll run right over.”
Then — again, maybe with a good friend’s sense of something in the air — Sarah said, “Thanks.”
And Jack, his day begun, something in the air, said, “No problem. See you soon.”
On a perfect, blue-sky day, one his wife would have loved, Jack was curious about what lay ahead.
“Coffee, Jack?”
“Most definitely, black will be fine.” The solicitor’s secretary stood at the door and nodded to Jack. “Right away, Mr. Brennan.”
Mr. Brennan.
Jack felt like a homeless person standing in the impeccable office. Tony dressed — as usual — in a crisp dark suit, maroon tie, with a neatly folded handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.
Jack, on the other hand, still wore the rumpled jeans he had slipped into that morning, a flannel shirt that — for all Jack knew — was dotted with last night’s dinner. His black shoes were spotty from the morning’s walk; mud now dried to a light brown.
He did say he’d run right over…
Jack took a chair and Tony’s receptionist, a prim,
grey haired woman, quietly brought the cup of coffee.
“Thank you, Emma.” Tony smiled; he waited until the door was shut.
“So what’s up?” Jack said.
Tony turned to Sarah. “Sarah, would you like to tell Jack what this is all about? Terrible business, I'm afraid. Not good at all.”
Jack sipped the dark rich coffee. He turned to Sarah.
“It’s about last night Jack. At Lady Repton’s…”
And she began.
“In the lake, they found a body.”
Jack nodded, sat back, and listened.
A body in the lake.
She certainly had his attention.
5. The Body
Sarah started by describing the previous night’s event to Jack — the big bash to woo the French mayor and his deputy for a twinning arrangement.
She had to explain that term. Twinning. Seemed like in the States they called it a ‘sister town’.
Two countries separated by a common language.
How true.
She explained her role and the PowerPoint presentation she’d given: Cherringham and St. Martin, connected, the opportunities for both.
Then, the dinner, the drinking, the — God, she was embarrassed to say it — conga line.
“You didn’t, um, do that?” Jack said with a small smile.
Sarah shook her head.
“No, but everyone was well beyond tipsy. It was nearly one by the time I left. Probably should have gone earlier. But it did seem to be spinning out of control.”
Now Tony jumped in to carry on.
“I must confess; I only stayed a little longer. After all, I was the solicitor of record for the arrangement.”
“And Tony I don't imagine you… conga-ed?”
Tony took the question in earnest.
“Heavens no. I was a mere spectator to them all, laughing, drinking. When the party continued in the hot tub, I made my excuses and left.”
“Oh, dear,” Jack said. “Doesn't sound very Cherringham.”
“Exactly.”
“Tony called me this morning,” Sarah said.
“Indeed,” the solicitor continued. “The police have been all over the place, talking to everyone. It's becoming something of an international scandal at this point.”
Cherringham--The Body in the Lake Page 2
