Cherringham--The Body in the Lake

by Neil Richards

  Jack turned and looked back at the house.

  From here even at night you’d clearly be able to see figures approaching the far jetty. And while they rowed across, they’d have their back to you.

  Easy enough to ambush an unsuspecting visitor.

  And the woods provided perfect cover. Wait till they were tying up — then wallop!

  He approached the temple door and pushed it open, then backed away fast as a pigeon fluttered and flapped in panic against his face before flying away.

  The police had left the door open — who knew what wildlife would now make this their home?

  He turned around. The temple was bare, apart from some bird droppings. White walls and tall windows with recessed stone benches beneath. A stone floor. A tall cupola. A set of steps with a railing that curled up to an open gallery and window.

  Otherwise… nothing.

  What had he expected? Cops had been out here for a day, they’d have taken away any evidence — if there’d been any.

  It wasn’t even certain that the temple was connected anyway. The murder weapon had been found out here, but the killer — whoever it was — might just have waited down in those woods, in the darkness, ready to pounce…

  But even the best cops miss stuff — he knew that from personal experience. And if they were going to get Simon off the hook, they were going to need evidence.

  He climbed the steps which led up to the cupola. At the top there was a small balcony — room enough to sit — and a window that looked out upon the lake.

  Jack peered out — he could see the little jetty at the edge of the lake, and behind it the Hall itself. And by pressing himself back against the stone wall he figured he was probably invisible to anybody down in the temple below.

  Good place to keep watch, he thought.

  Then he climbed down the stairs, went over to one of the stone seats and sat.

  In his mind’s eye he turned the room into grids, then square-by-square he stared at each one, searching for clues.

  Exactly as he’d been taught to do when he was a rookie detective.

  Don’t think — just look.

  After half an hour, he’d done the walls and the windows. He reached into his pocket and treated himself to a mint.

  Now the floor.

  It was solid flagstones in rows.

  He counted the rows. Fifteen up, twelve across. One hundred and eighty squares.

  He squatted down in one corner and started checking each stone carefully on his hands and knees. Looking for signs, marks, recent scratches, running his finger round the mortared edges…

  Gotta get my knees looked at, he thought, as he shuffled awkwardly from one stone to the next. This had better be worth it.

  Half way through the task he stopped dead. One of the heavy stones was different from the others: twice the width, but it had a mortar line edged across it. Good enough to pass a casual inspection — it fit the size and pattern of the other stones perfectly.

  But as he ran his finger round the edge he could feel that the mortar was actually a lip of stone, a clever disguise.

  It wasn’t mortar at all.

  Jack got up quickly –

  Ouch, too quickly —

  – and went out to the boat. He pulled one of the heavy metal oarlocks out of its socket, grabbed an oar too, and went back into the temple. Kneeling down, he tapped a nearby stone with the oarlock. It gave a heavy, muted sound.

  Then he tapped the stone in question. It echoed. There was some kind of empty space beneath it. The oarlock had a sharp end — he’d remembered correctly.

  He slipped the point into the tiny gap between this stone and the next, and slid the oar under it to make a fulcrum.

  Then he placed his boot on the oarlock and pressed down with all his weight. The oarlock pivoted on the oar… and the stone lifted a couple of inches. While it was up, he quickly slid the oar round to wedge it open, then stepped back.

  Then, squatting carefully he gripped the edge of the stone, lifted it up and laid it on its side.

  In the fading light one thing was clear: the underneath of the stone slab was scored and marked with fresh scratches.

  And he hadn’t made them.

  Somebody recently had moved this stone.

  Now Jack turned his attention to the oblong manhole, which the slab had concealed. He peered down into the dark hole — but it was impossible to tell how deep it was.

  He took out his cell phone, checked the battery and flicked it into torch mode. Pointing it at the hole he could see an old, rusted set of metal hoops led down — and he could just see a stone floor about twenty feet below.

  Well whaddya know — a secret tunnel just itching to be explored.

  And with excitement building like he was a kid again, he put the phone between his teeth, swung himself round and climbed down the ladder into the darkness…

  15. Afternoon Tea

  Sarah checked the time on her laptop. It was nearly five — and already it was getting dark outside.

  Where was Jack?

  Lady Repton had installed her here in the old kitchen a couple of hours ago — “warmest room in the house my dear and apparently a serviceable Wi-Fi signal — isn’t that what you youngsters want all the time?”

  Long while since anyone called me a youngster, thought Sarah.

  She’d spent the time with her laptop on the big old kitchen table, going through various statements which Tony had emailed her, forwarded from Simon’s new and extremely expensive defence lawyer.

  From those statements and the interviews she and Jack had made, she’d managed to draw up a flow-chart showing everyone’s locations on the night of the murder.

  Now, she needed Jack here to go through them before she had to dash off to sort out the kids.

  She checked her phone for texts.

  Hmm, not like him to be out of contact, she thought.

  And, for the first time, she felt anxious about his safety. If they were right, there was a murderer still at large.

  She shivered — in spite of the warmth of the old kitchen. Lady Repton was right — this place, with its giant gas range and ancient radiators was indeed warm and cosy in spite of its size.

  Once upon a time this kitchen had been tasked with preparing dinners by the score.

  But the old cook who’d clocked off at four-thirty (leaving Lady Repton’s supper to be microwaved when she wanted) had told her that the conference centre was serviced by a new set of kitchens in the extension.

  This place was now run solely for family.

  Just Lady Repton and Simon. And tonight he’d be dining with his new friends in Bullingdon Prison…

  Once there’d been a staff of fifty here full-time, the cook had said: now there was just her, a couple of part-time maids and the gardeners.

  And after they left the place was empty. Not a soul, apart from Lady Repton.

  Sarah started to pack away her laptop. She was going to have to find Jack herself — or order a taxi back to Cherringham.

  She reached for her coat –

  – which was when she heard the sound…

  A rattling, echoing deep within the house below.

  Below? What was down there? Cellars?

  Sarah felt a pang of fear.

  Ridiculous, she thought. Must be one of the staff, still here.

  But no — the cook had said they all got a lift home together.

  So it must be Lady Repton.

  But Lady Repton wouldn’t be venturing down to the cellars, especially after dark, when the staff had gone home.

  The rattling started again — now more frenetic.

  And was that a voice — shouting?

  Sarah’s mind raced: what if there was someone else who lived in the house, someone they’d all failed to record in their notes and interviews?

  Not Simon, not one of the hot tubbers.

  But somebody unknown.

  Unknown and dangerous.

  The real killer!

>   The idea seemed crazy.

  The rattling continued.

  No, this was ridiculous.

  She was going to have to confront this sound, ignore her fears.

  She crossed the empty kitchen, tracking towards the noise. In the far corner was a door.

  She opened it. Stairs down into darkness: she reached around for a light switch, found it and flicked it on.

  It’s the cellars.

  Swallowing hard, she stepped forwards, down the cold stone cellar steps.

  The rattling grew louder.

  At the bottom of the steps she looked round. The cellar was enormous, as if it might stretch underneath the whole house.

  Racks and racks of ancient pots and pans, old tins, dusty boxes.

  A dank, musty smell.

  Bare stone floor and cobwebs everywhere.

  This place clearly wasn’t used much anymore. Perhaps only by Simon to retrieve his wine, she thought, because there along one wall were racks with hundreds of bottles.

  Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling, illuminating the cellar as far as Sarah could see.

  The rattling came again, then a bang, bang, bang — as if someone were trying to smash a door down.

  She walked down the aisle towards the sound, making her way between racks of old boxes until she came to a wall with a tall empty cupboard.

  The banging was coming from behind the cupboard.

  And the cupboard was jolting and moving with each thump.

  What am I doing? I must be crazy, thought Sarah, surprising herself with her own bravery. I wouldn’t have done this a year ago…

  She reached out to the cupboard and pulled it back.

  Surprisingly, it slid back easily.

  She saw a door behind the cupboard, with a heavy bolt drawn across it.

  She took a deep breath, and slid back the bolt.

  Then turned the door handle and pulled the door wide open.

  A bright light blinded her and she stepped back.

  Then the light switched off — she could see.

  Jack! Standing in the doorway grinning at her.

  “Well, hey there partner. What kept you?”

  Jack chucked a couple of logs into the little wood-burner then shut the glass door with the poker.

  “There you go, boy,” said Jack to his dog.

  Riley looked up at him as if to check there were going to be no more disturbances, then lay down again on his cushion in front of the fire.

  Jack picked up his mug of tea again and sat back in his armchair opposite Sarah.

  Good to be back on the Grey Goose on a night like this, thought Jack.

  “You’ve got the place nice and snug,” said Sarah from the sofa.

  “Last winter was pretty cold — I’m figuring with this little stove — if we get another bad one — I can stay warm and cook too.”

  “It can happen. The winds we get up here push the snowdrifts — only three roads in and out and we’re easily cut off from the world,” said Sarah. “It’ll be a couple of months away yet though.”

  Jack sat back feeling pretty content, all things considered. Sarah was good company and — with the breakthrough in the case back on the island — he had that old thrill of being back in the game again.

  Not that the case was solved.

  But he felt it was accelerating towards a conclusion. Funny how investigations picked up momentum…

  “One thing I still don’t quite get,” said Sarah. “Why didn’t the police find the trapdoor out at the temple? They had a couple of days to search the place.”

  “They weren’t looking for it,” said Jack. “They had Simon in the frame. Their scenario required two boats — and they found two boats.”

  “So it was… illogical to search for another way on to the island?”

  “Spot on. Illogical — unless you believed somebody else was out there that night.”

  “Okay. What happens now?” said Sarah.

  “Good question. We know it was possible for somebody to get to the island unseen — we just don’t know who.”

  “Or why,” said Sarah. “Show me the note again.”

  Jack took the small clear sandwich bag out of his pocket and laid it on the coffee table between them.

  “Exhibit number one, your honour,” said Jack. “The crumpled note found by the detective in the tunnel under the lake.”

  He watched as Sarah picked it up and examined it again closely under the reading light by the sofa.

  “‘It’s a deal. Take a boat. Meet me on the island tonight’,” said Sarah, reading aloud from the slip of paper. “How do we know it’s not years old? Maybe it was lying in the water at the bottom of that tunnel since Victorian times?”

  “I thought that too,” said Jack. “But if you look carefully you can see the little logo — Repton Hall Conference Centre. The water almost washed it out — but not quite.”

  “So it can’t be more than a month or two old.”

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “Crumpled up, dropped by mistake — another few days it would have been gone. Just a soggy mess.”

  He watched Sarah thinking.

  “You know, Jack, it doesn’t seem to say much, but in fact it does say quite a lot.”

  “Go on.”

  “First — ‘it’s a deal’. There’s been a conversation, an argument, a proposition. And recent enough that the writer knows that Laurent will understand what ‘deal’ refers to—”

  “You’re assuming it was written for Laurent?”

  “We have to, don’t we? This note’s the only motive we have for him going out to the island.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with that.”

  “Good. Second — ‘take a boat’. Either the writer didn’t know about the tunnel, or they didn’t want to give away its existence. And third — ‘meet me’. Me — not us. It’s a one-to-one arrangement.”

  “Sounds like there’s a fourth?”

  “Well, yes. It’s kind of obvious — but ‘island’ locates the message to Repton Hall. It’s not a note written about a meeting at a different location — say in the village. No, it’s about that island — on that night.”

  “You’re right. Good thinking.”

  “Learning from the best. Only trouble is — we still don’t have a prime suspect,” said Sarah. “It could be anybody…”

  “It’s one of the hot tubbers though — don’t you think?”

  Sarah laughed. “I do,” she said. “That’s what my instinct says. I just can’t back it up.”

  “Welcome to the police force,” said Jack laughing too.

  “It makes sense though, doesn’t it? They were going to profit from the twinning. So when Laurent said he wanted to pull out of the deal…”

  “Laurent had to go,” said Jack. “And we know — thanks to you — that Marie can’t wait to sign. Only trouble is, they’re all backing each other up.”

  “If you were back on the force, what would you do now?”

  “Easy. I’d bring ’em all in, one at a time and keep asking questions till one broke down.”

  “But we can’t do that,” said Sarah.

  “Nope,” said Jack. “One of the downsides of being an amateur detective.”

  “There are some advantages, though, Jack.”

  Jack stared at her. He’d seen that playful look on her face before.

  “Okay…” he said. “Exactly which law are you thinking of breaking, Sarah?”

  She shrugged innocently. Jack had seen that innocent shrug before, too.

  “Not breaking a law, exactly,” she said. “More like… bending it a little?”

  “Go on.”

  “You got anything planned for tomorrow night?”

  “Sounds like maybe I don’t…”

  “Good. Because we’re going fishing.”

  “Let me guess — not for trout?”

  “No, not trout. Truth,” said Sarah, shaking her head with a smile.

  He watched as she set about explaining he
r plan.

  16. Entente not so Cordiale

  “You know, we weren’t really planning on having dinner, Lady Repton,” said Jack, his arms filled with the ancient picnic basket.

  “Nonsense, dear boy,” said Lady Repton, now handing a pile of chequered blankets to Sarah. “You may well be out there all night. So I had Cook make up two flasks of Mulligatawny and you’ll find a very serviceable cheddar in one of the tins.”

  Jack stowed the basket under the seat of his little rowing boat and took one last look around the lake in the fading light.

  “We really have to get going, Sarah,” he said.

  “Don’t let me hold you up,” said Lady Repton.

  “You will stay inside, Lady Repton, won’t you?” said Sarah, as she climbed carefully into the little boat. “Seriously. This really might be dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Lady Repton. “I’m not much use in a fight anymore. But give me a shout on the walkie-talkie and I’ll have the police here in two shakes.”

  Jack climbed in the boat and grabbed hold of the little oars, as Lady Repton cast off and gave them a gentle push into the dark waters of the lake.

  “Isn’t this exciting!” she said as they drifted away from the jetty with its two moored wooden boats, and Jack began to row.

  He watched as Lady Repton gave them a brief wave then turned and walked quickly back to the house.

  “No use in a fight — anymore,” said Sarah. “You hear that?”

  “I did indeed,” said Jack. “There’s more to that old lady than meets the eye.” Then: “Glad we’re helping her with this.”

  He rowed a few more strokes, and peering over his shoulder he could see the island drawing near.

  “What the hell’s Mulligatawny by the way?”

  “Curry soup,” said Sarah. “Relic of our imperial past.”

  “You don’t say. Well, I guess if it was good enough for the redcoats, it’ll do me just fine. It’s going to be pretty cold out here.”

  He looked down at the boat, checking they’d brought everything. Didn’t want to be out on the island missing something vital. Because this plan was based on a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’…

  First of all — would all the hot tubbers have received Sarah’s spoof email?