Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor

by Neil Richards

  There’s something here, he thought.

  And that always gave him an appetite.

  11. A Matter of Electricity

  Sarah got to her car; her client’s files all cleaned up and sent. Time to dash and pick up Chloe.

  Except, she realized — amazed — that she was early — Chloe’s dance group up at the school didn’t finish for another half hour.

  There was just time for a coffee and maybe — that rare thing these days — twenty minutes of ‘me’ time. She locked the car and walked across the village square towards Huffington’s, already feeling cheerier.

  But Huffington’s was closed. She remembered — as the autumn nights drew in, and the summer visitors dried up, they shut shop on the dot of five.

  Half an hour — time to visit Robinson’s Electric? Would it still be open?

  Then she noticed the old-fashioned neon sign announcing ‘electrician’ still on.

  Not surprising, she thought — the old place couldn’t afford to close early with all the discount stores and online competition.

  Old Josh Robinson somehow made a living selling toasters and bedside lights and fuses — though Sarah was sure people only shopped there now out of loyalty.

  And why not — Josh was a lovely man, always helpful, always had the time of day.

  But Josh also had two sons who were qualified electricians — and who between them did most of the electrical work in the village. Where better to ask for the low-down on electrical work at Mogdon Manor?

  The doorbell pinged as she went in. Mr Robinson sat on a stool behind the counter — as he had been, she felt, since she was a little girl.

  “Ah, Sarah,” he said. “How are you, my dear?”

  “All the better for seeing you, Mr Robinson,” and seeing his jovial face, Sarah suddenly realized she meant it.

  “Come for more of those funny long-life eco spots have you? Well, you’re in luck: I ordered a couple extra for you back in the spring — thought you’d be needing them!”

  “You must be psychic,” she said, racking her brains for any other business she could put his way. “I need a new security light as well — for the front door …”

  After Mr Robinson had spent ten minutes talking through the various options on security light installation, and had rung up the sale on his old-fashioned till, Sarah felt it was time to mention Victor’s funeral.

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr Robinson. “Old Mr Hamblyn. My father always had time for him — though I have to say when I was a lad we always thought he was a miserable beggar. Always yelling at us to get off his land.”

  “They say it was an electrical fire,” said Sarah innocently.

  “Yes. Doesn’t surprise me,” he replied. “My lads have been in and out of the place this year replacing bits of wiring, but they said it was a waste of time doing it piecemeal — whole system needed ripping out and starting again.”

  “They must have been upset when they heard about the fire,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, they were,” said Mr Robinson.

  He leaned across the counter towards her and lowered his voice.

  “Though — between you and me — they reckon Mr Hamblyn was hard done by …”

  “Oh yes?” said Sarah, leaning in a little herself.

  “Well, those kids of his. They could have taken better care. Instead … well, I shouldn’t …”

  “What?”

  “Like they couldn’t wait for him to pass away. It was disgraceful.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “And what do you think about this latest fire? Another case of bad wiring?”

  Josh looked around as if uncomfortable with what he was about to share.

  “My son Todd. They asked him to take a look at it. Part of their investigation, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he did. Now, most electrical fires just spark a bit behind the walls. Even those old places designed to keep any frayed wires away from the wood.”

  “But this was different?”

  Josh nodded. “Todd said that there was nothing in the library to overload the wiring. Yet something triggered a fire there, in a room full of books! He said that it didn’t make sense at all.”

  “It wasn’t like the other fires at the manor.”

  Josh stared right at her, his suspicion something she could feel.

  “Exactly. He told the fire chief. Not sure if they thought it meant anything, whole place such an electrical mess. And truth be known, it could be nothing.”

  Sarah nodded. This was definitely something to tell Jack.

  But then an old grandfather clock in the corner of the shop binged.

  Sarah turned to it.

  “I’ve always loved that clock,” she said smiling.

  “Yup, keeps on — just as I do.”

  “And I must run. Pick up my daughter.”

  The old man reached out and took Sarah’s hand. “So good to see you again, Sarah.”

  “You too.”

  And with a last smile, Sarah left the shop and headed back to her car.

  12. Night in Cherringham

  “So, no stars for mum’s dinner tonight?”

  Sarah watched as her two children wolfed down the chicken fricassee that she had whipped up. Bit of lemon, fresh tarragon, portabello mushrooms, brown rice. Fresh, tasty and, with hungry kids, not destined to last long on the plate.

  Daniel paused in mid-forkful to say, “It’s good, Mum.”

  Chloe quickly agreed. “Yup, really good.”

  Might as well have been a meal from the frozen aisle at Sainsbury’s.

  “Thanks,” she said. “And any school updates?”

  Sarah feared that she had already entered that teen realm where kids shared information only under the pain of torture or losing Wi-Fi privileges.

  “Daniel, how’s the play going?”

  “It’s a musical, you know,” he said. “Weird. ‘Macbeth’.”

  “Isn’t that a play?”

  “Not this version,” Daniel said. “Even the weird sisters …”

  “The witches?”

  “Yeah, even they sing too. But it’s fun,”

  “Are you one of the weird sisters?” Chloe said to him. But her tease was quickly followed by a smile.

  We’ve been through a lot, she thought.

  Seems like everyone is trying to be as nice as they can be.

  “Well, we’ll all be there on opening night.”

  Daniel nodded. “There’s some great battle scenes, with swords and stuff.”

  “Mum, I’m done.”

  “Right, Chloe. You … can head on to do your homework. I’ll clear.”

  She watched Daniel scoop in the last bit of thick tarragon sauce.

  So, a hit, she thought. And pretty easy to do.

  “Me too,” Daniel said.

  “Okay, rinse, dump the plates in the machine, and …”

  Then her mobile, recharging at a socket near the stove, rang.

  She heard Jack on the phone, but also a sound of something brushing against the phone.

  Wind, she guessed. Maybe he was outside on the deck of his barge.

  She walked out to the living room, far away enough that her kids wouldn’t hear.

  “I spoke to the electrician,” she said.

  She updated Jack on Josh’s thoughts on the fire. How his son Todd said it was different from the others, with no evidence in the library to say that something triggered an overload, bad wiring or not.

  “Hmm,” Jack said. “And I played rich American with your estate agents today.”

  “You deserve a medal for running that gauntlet.”

  “They can be persistent, can’t they? But I learned something very interesting.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Someone — unnamed — had plans drawn up showing how the manor house could be renovated and divided into upscale flats.”

  “Really?”

  “Think the agent — Cecil Cauldwell …”

 
“Oh. That one. You do deserve a medal.”

  “… Think maybe he thought I was looking for something similar.”

  “All done, Mum!” Chloe shouted from the kitchen.

  Sarah smiled. ”Thanks Chlo …” She called out.

  Then back to Jack. “Did Cecil reveal who had this done?”

  “No. I’m afraid that’s when he went all quiet and wanted me to leave his establishment asap.”

  “But we can guess who.”

  “Three guesses at least. But which one? Susan, Dominic … Terry?”

  “Doubt the latter.”

  “I imagine you are right there. Still — I think we should pay Terry a visit at his trailer …”

  “Caravan.”

  “Right. After all, he was looking for something in the house when Hope gave me the tour.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Perfect. I’ll pick you up. And no worries … I put the top up. I’m all set for my English fall.”

  “Good. Say half-ten?”

  “Right.”

  Then Jack was quiet for a moment and Sarah, beginning to understand how Jack worked, guessed there was something he wasn’t saying.

  “And tonight, Jack, just some telly, a walk for Brady?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, I had an idea. If Terry was rummaging around the place looking for something, something of value, then maybe I should try to find it first.”

  “Going to call Hope? To let you in again?”

  “No. If I do find something, and if we want to use it, then best she knows nothing about it. Make sense?”

  “Yes. Okay, I can meet you there, but not till …”

  “Um, I think … no again. Just let me noodle around, on my own. If I do get spotted, you won’t have to run down to the police station with me, yes?”

  “Okay. But be careful.”

  Sarah just realized she echoed the words her mother said.

  “Always. But there is one thing you can do. This evening, or maybe in the morning.”

  “Go on.”

  Standing by her front door, Sarah again realized how much she enjoyed all this. It was, amid the quiet of her business and village life, exciting.

  Funny how things work out, she thought.

  “Maybe you can make a few calls, see if you can find out what firm did the plans, and who booked them.”

  “Tough one that.” Then she had an idea. “Wait, I could use Grace in the office. She’s in touch with quite a lot of the companies, checking on their web and printing needs. And any architectural firm will have their own P.A.s. A little friendly chit-chat, and maybe she could find out who did the plans …”

  “And who commissioned them? Great.”

  Again, that sound, and Sarah thought that Jack was probably near the manor house, sitting in his sports car, lights and engine, off.

  Waiting for night, about to go in.

  And that too … was exciting.

  Then: “See you in the morning Sarah. Half-ten,” he said.

  But his ‘half-ten’ didn’t sound quite right.

  “Ten thirty it is,” she said laughing. “Good hunting.”

  “You bet.”

  And then, the called ended, and Sarah went back to the kitchen and the clean-up.

  Though she would much rather have been walking alongside Jack, in the dark, straight into Mogdon Manor.

  13. Hidden Treasure

  All Jack had to do to get the back door of the manor open was put a little weight against it, and the ancient latch popped free of the frame.

  He had a flashlight in his back pocket but as he entered what seemed to be a storeroom that led into the kitchen, he kept it off.

  Better to let his eyes adjust, and use the flashlight only when he had to.

  Never know who might be taking a walk, spot the light … or the place might even be on the cops’ local rounds.

  He could still smell the fire, the sodden stench from the hoses that had sprayed the library, ruining the carpet, furniture, and hundreds of volumes of books.

  The man’s entire life of reading, turned into soggy mush.

  And Jack guessed that … all that motivated him to do this. Decades of being a detective, and he hated it when someone’s life was taken from them, a near personal thing with him.

  It always felt good to see a suspect finally found guilty.

  At least the dead had that bit of peace.

  Though Jack guessed, it was more about his own peace, the way he wanted the world to be. Crimes solved, people punished.

  He shook that thought off — never one to indulge self-reflection for long — and he started for the main staircase.

  He walked up. The hallway was so black, just the faint light from the two windows at either end of the long corridor. His eyes had adjusted, but still he took very small steps, taking care not to stumble into a chair or lamp positioned to blockade his passage. At one end of the hallway was Victor’s bedroom.

  Breathing low, moving as silently as he could, he reached the door and slowly turned the handle. The door creaked as it opened.

  Inside, the room was stuffy, the smell overpowering … old, and familiar. It took him back to the room of his aged father all those years ago. Those weekly ferry rides to Staten Island, the dread of seeing his dad so alone, grumbling, not coping. Dying.

  He flicked on the flashlight, fingers wrapped around the lens to mask the beam.

  He scanned the room: old heavy furniture, a big iron bed, stripped bare, an old armchair, bookshelves. On the floor more books, and against one wall, some old shelves, most empty, a few with dusty and cobwebbed ceramic pieces.

  He even saw an Indian statue, a deity with several arms, hands extended, sitting cross-legged.

  But though the statue was missing one of its eight arms, old Victor still hadn’t thrown it away, preferring to keep it here in his bedroom.

  Jack flicked off the light. Nothing here.

  Back into the hallway, he shut the door carefully behind him, trying to make do without the flashlight.

  Finally he reached the locked entrance to the attic room.

  Only one key, Hope said.

  He pulled out a thin bit of rigid wire.

  Never stopped me before.

  And Jack started working the keyhole, back and forth until he heard a click, a bolt slipping back and if welcoming him the door slowly slid open.

  He took a breath.

  He didn’t get spooked too easily, not with everything he had seen.

  But this dark, empty manor house, and the narrow staircase …

  Some company right now, he thought, would be good.

  ***

  In the attic room again he had no choice but to turn on the small flashlight, wrapping his hand around the lit end to make the beam as narrow as possible.

  The place was a puzzle. No boxes. No old furniture. Completely empty. Which in itself was strange, in a house this old and lived-in.

  He looked around one more time, letting the light slowly scan the room.

  And he noticed something. The room seemed smaller than it should be, based on what this upper floor looked like from outside, and even from the dimensions of the floor below it.

  It wasn’t uncommon for an attic to narrow; but — somehow the size here seemed off.

  Which meant …

  He let the light play along the angled wood of the roof, the walls, looking for … something.

  And then he saw an outline on a wall to the right. To the casual eye, it might look like the grain of the wood, or where one wooden slat joined another. But as Jack went closer, he saw that wasn’t the case.

  He pressed against it, tapped. A hollow sound answered him back.

  And then he realized … the attic contained a hidden room.

  Amazing, he thought.

  But with no door knob, no key, how to get into this hidey-hole?

  He started tracing the mystery door’s outline with his light.

  Jack w
as beginning to think that he was stumped.

  There may be a room on the other side of the wall but he was dammed if he knew how to get the flush door without a knob to open.

  But he was always a big fan of trial and error.

  So he began pressing against the nearly invisible outline, listening to what those hard presses did.

  And when his hands got to the top, and he pressed hard, he heard something. Some movement or slippage.

  And it looked as if a bit of the hidden door bowed out, mere millimetres, but it was something.

  Could there be latches all around it?

  Now he did the same thing, on either side, pressing hard, hearing more sounds, the door popping out a few more millimetres with every push.

  Until, kneeling down in the dark attic, he pressed at the very bottom, and the door opened.

  Giving up its secrets.

  And he stood up, and pulled it wide open.

  The room was small, not much larger than a walk-in closet and there were no windows so he could use his flashlight without worry.

  And what he saw made him stop.

  A small table, covered by rich red material with gold stitching that glistened under his light. On top of it was yet another elephant god but this one was holding something right in its broad lap, as if guarding it, protecting it.

  It was a faded black-and-white photograph of a woman. Dark eyes, long dark hair, dressed in a traditional sari. Her smile was radiant; she was an astounding beauty.

  What is this? Jack thought.

  A shrine to a lost love?

  But then why so secret? Why not keep it downstairs?

  The he noticed something on a small shelf suspended on a wall to the right of the table.

  An ornate wooden chest with a metal latch, but no lock.

  Feeling almost as if he was violating a tomb but compelled to see, Jack tucked his light under an armpit, and picked up the box, opening the lid.

  And for a moment he stared, before placing it on the table and rifling through its contents.

  Victor Hamblyn’s secrets. All here.

  Behind him all of a sudden, he saw a light hit the attic behind him.

  He shut the lid, and quickly turned off his flashlight.

  He picked up the chest and walked out to the attic room taking care to shut the hidden room’s door behind him.