As they drove along the quiet English countryside, the evening air was tinged with a coolness that helped to clear their brains of any dullness or fatigue. Crickets and frogs sang soft lullabies in the hedgerow while moonlight gave the rounded haystacks, still drying in the fields, a ghostly luminescence. The Mini Cooper meandered along the peaceful country road bordered by ancient stone walls, with the occasional pretty cottage tucked into a grove of oaks or yew trees.
Pulling into the parking area to the west of The Grange, Helen turned off the car’s motor and headlamps. She slumped a bit, leaned over and hugged the steering wheel, resting her chin on its top curve. Without the drone of the car’s engine, the growing darkness and the deep silence of the night settled on the girls. The silhouette of the old Elizabethan building, backlit by a bright crescent moon hanging above its chimneys rose up in front of their car. For a moment both girls were aware of their hesitation to get out and enter the dark, empty building.
“You know what?” Helen asked studying the scene through the windshield.
“What?”
“I don’t want to go in. This whole situation seems to be getting edgy.”
“No kidding. I’m wishing I had a big stick,” Martha said. “Fortunately, I know how to use my hands as lethal weapons.”
Helen gave Martha’s hands a cursory glance but didn’t seem impressed. “Yeah, right. We probably ought to go get Chief Johns before we start looking around.”
“Nah, my instincts say it’ll be okay. Remind me again of why we’re going in there.”
“I need to get my briefcase. I’ve got my calendar and my phone charger in it.”
Martha dug around in the car’s floorboard under her feet. Something was lodged halfway under the seat. Reaching down, she pulled a bulky envelope out of its tight spot.
“Hey. Look what I found.” She held up a good-sized, yellow envelope.
“Where was it?” Helen asked.
“It must have fallen out of the bag Mrs. Thyme gave us and my foot pushed it back under the seat.” Martha smiled knowingly at Helen and arched one eyebrow. “What does this remind you of?”
In less than a second, Helen remembered. “The envelope in the video. It looks like the one Louis Devry took out of the satchel. This must be the book of poetry Sir Carstons was trying to steal.”
“Yeah, but it’s not waiting for you at The Grange, is it? It’s been hidden for some reason in a linen closet at Healy.” Martha plopped the envelope down on her lap and squeezed the metal bracket which kept the envelope closed.
She pulled out the contents. It appeared to be many pages of paper bound together. The writing was in someone’s natural hand but in an antique style. Helen’s curatorial instincts were flashing red. She always got a funny feeling when she was near something exceptional.
“Turn the overhead light on. May I look at it?” Helen asked.
Martha, with a perplexed expression, handed Helen what looked like a bunch of paper bound together and neatly enclosed in a plastic bag. Helen riffled around in her purse and pulled out some small glasses. Putting them on, she studied the front cover of the carefully hand-bound manuscript.
“Martha, this isn’t a book of poetry. In fact it isn't a published volume at all. It’s a handwritten manuscript. I won’t take it out of the mylar bag until I have the right equipment and gloves. Something isn’t right about this. Let’s go get my briefcase and a few other things I need to examine this more closely.”
“Okay, we should hide it again don’t you think? Under the seat would be good. I’ll take my flashlight with us.” Martha dug in the glovebox and unearthed a small silver flashlight.
They gently put the manuscript back into the envelope and tenderly maneuvered it under the passenger seat. Martha put a few things around it to hide it from view. Once out of the car, they locked the doors and walked in the dark with the flashlight towards a side entrance.
The garden walkway was easy to traverse because the moonlight illuminated the white gravel. A thoroughly modern metal door, half-hidden by two flanking cypress shrubs, told Helen she had found the right place. She waved her badge in front of the security pad and where a red light once flashed, a solid green light was displayed. The door made a click sound and Helen gave it a firm push.
Once both women were inside with the door shut, they found themselves in a dark hallway eerily lit by a security light which gave off a red glow. Helen felt for the light switch and flipped it on. They sighed in relief.
“Glad you found it,” Martha said. “The red light was definitely not giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling.”
“Follow me. I want to see if there are any other manila envelopes on Devry’s desk.”
“Good idea. I’m right behind you.”
Louis Devry’s office was down the hallway from the reception area, close to the library where Helen had been working. Devry’s office door was unlocked. Helen reached into the room and flipped on the light. From the doorway they could see how tidy he kept his office but not one manila envelope could be seen anywhere.
“Hmm? What do you think, Helen? Should we maybe poke around a bit? Lift papers up and look under them?” Martha flicked a pile of papers on Devry’s desk so she could see what was under them.
“Maybe we could also open a desk drawer or a file cabinet.”
With nothing to hold them back, they perused the room with an efficiency the CIA would have found admirable but they still did not find a single manila envelope.
“I think our work here is done,” Martha said then pursing her lips and settling her hands on her hips. “If he’s got the book somewhere, then it has got to be on him. The manuscript we have is definitely not poetry.”
“Or it wasn’t ever a poetry book in the first place. Maybe it was what is inside the manila envelope in your car. Let’s get my stuff and go to your house,” Helen said. “I want to get a better look at that manuscript. My briefcase is in the library. Follow me.”
Tidying up after themselves in Devry’s office, they made their way to the library. Helen found her briefcase and her laptop, and checked to make sure she had cotton gloves and her phone charger.
“My tools are all here. We should be able to get some information about the manuscript tonight,” Helen said while packing up her things.
“My question is why was it found in a linen cupboard at Healy? Odd, don’t you think?”
“Someone was hiding it, I guess. It’s as if they were in a hurry. Who knows though? It could be something someone laid there years ago.”
“Gotcha there, my dear. The envelope wasn’t made in the UK. It had a ‘Made in Exton, PA’ along the fold and it had a bubble wrap liner. Couldn’t be too old,” Martha noted.
“You’re good.” Helen was delighted with Martha’s observational powers. “We would make a great detective team.”
Without warning, the lights in the library went out. Martha and Helen could feel their hearts leap into their throats. The meager light filtering into the huge room came from the signs designating the exits.
“Get under the table,” Helen said.
The old library table was made of oak. If someone had wanted to do a jig on it, it wouldn’t have made a creak. Along one side of its length were short shelves full of books and along its short length was a desk which Helen had been using for her work. As they quickly hid themselves under the table, the door to the library slowly opened. A flashlight beam scanned the room.
Martha and Helen dared not breathe. From their position under the table, they watched the beam of light flip around then stop right above their heads on the tabletop. Light footsteps approached the desk but because of the darkness, it was impossible to see who it was.
Instinctually, it dawned on them they were being stalked. Martha and Helen could hear the blood banging in their ears.
Footsteps stopped and an unnatural voice pierced the darkness, sounding metallic, crazed and false. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
Martha flin
ched and Helen wrapped herself around her briefcase.
Fear made Martha act. With all her might she pushed one of the bookshelves laying up against the table. The shelves were linked together. If one went over, they all went. Shelves crashed one after the other against the wooden floor, making a noise so tremendous it could have waked the dead.
Martha, forgetting her flashlight, scrambled out from under the desk with Helen in tow. Then like two agile rabbits, they crawled towards an exit at the back of the room.
The spotlight frantically flitted around the room searching for its prey. Waiting until the beam of light crossed over the door where they crouched, Helen pushed the door open. They scuttled through and allowed the door to soundlessly close on its own.
“What do we do?” Martha asked breathlessly. “Where does this lead?”
Helen shook her head, indicating she didn’t know where they were, then took out her phone and dialed the police station.
“Helen, I hear someone coming.”
Quickly getting up off the floor, they maneuvered the best they could in the dark.
A woman answered. “Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. Constable Waters speaking. Hold please.”
Helen grimaced at the phone and with a flash of brilliance used the phone as a flashlight until they found their way back to the reception area. The huge entry doors had a bulky chain intertwined through the brass handles making the main entrance an impossible escape route.
Unsure what to do or where to go next, they began to panic. Then Helen saw the storage closet for the janitorial staff. Grabbing Martha, she dragged her inside. With cat-like quietness, Martha and Helen concealed themselves in between the mops, brooms and paper towels.
The phone came to life. “Yes? How may we be of help?” the female voice came back on the phone.
Helen said as quietly as possible into the phone, “Get DCI Johns to come over to The Grange.”
“I’m sorry Madam but you will need to speak louder,” the voice on the other end said loudly.
Helen covered the phone for fear the noise would give them away. Cupping the phone, she persisted, “Listen. I am hiding in a broom closet and being stalked by a homicidal killer. Get DCI Johns over to The Grange right now.”
“One moment, please.”
Back on hold, Helen heard a Carly Simon song. Appropriately, it was “Anticipation” and it was in its third stanza. Helen held out the phone for Martha to listen. “And these are the good old days” finished up and the chorus began again.
Right then they heard the faint sound of a footstep outside the doorway.
“Madam, are you still there? Madam?” The policewoman’s voice sounded like a train horn blaring their location to the crazy person in the corridor.
Martha grabbed the phone and turned the volume all the way to mute. They waited, not daring to move a muscle. Helen’s phone flashed a call coming in from the police station.
She hit ‘accept’ but didn’t speak. Muffling her mouth with her hands, she said, being careful to draw out her words. “H—e—l—p. The G—r—a—n—g—e,” and then hung up.
Martha reached for Helen’s arm and found it. She pulled Helen towards her and like a second grade schoolgirl, cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered as softly as possible, “Grab a mop or a broom and something to throw. If it opens the door, throw something and rush it with your mop.”
A beam of light flashed through the door crack. Holding whatever cleaning utensils they had managed to grab, they waited for the inevitable. The delicate sound of a turning latch signaled that someone was twisting the door knob. With every fiber of their bodies tuned and ready to attack, the girls watched as the door inched open.
With a jab to Helen’s side, Martha went first, screaming, “Ahhh!”
Helen plunged forward yelling, “Ahhh!”
They swung their makeshift weapons wildly in the dark. Finally, they found a sturdy mass to take their blows.
“What the hell is going on? Get them off me!” DCI Johns bellowed.
Had the lights come on at that moment, they would have revealed two women, one with a toilet brush and one with an old mop handle, beating a well-built policeman who was trying desperately to fend off their attack.
Helen and Martha had been so keyed up, they didn’t slow their attack on the yelling, flailing person in the dark. It was only when strong hands grabbed them and flashlights blinded them, that they finally stood still, holding their cleaning utensils limply by their sides.
“Ladies, calm yourselves. It’s the police. We’re working to get the lights back on,” a male voice said firmly.
Lights flared, bringing the reception area into full illumination. There stood Helen, Martha, and DCI Johns all with disheveled clothes, wild hair and in the case of the two women, slightly crazed looks beginning to melt into simple, “Oh God, what have we done” expressions.
Four uniformed officers were stationed along the wall attempting to maintain their composure at the Chief’s ruffled appearance after being attacked by the two terrified, toilet-brush-brandishing women. The officers busied themselves with whatever tasks they could find.
“Take these two and put them in a nice, strong cell at the station,” Johns commanded.
“What?” Helen and Martha asked in unison.
He ignored them and pointed toward the entrance with a jabbing gesture which indicated to his subordinates to respond to his directions with immediacy.
A woman officer and a middle-aged male officer quickly walked over to Helen and Martha and motioned for them to follow them outside. Johns had already walked away towards the library.
“Wait!” Martha yelled after him. “Don’t you want to know what happened to us in there?”
Johns turned around and took a solid stance in the hallway. He compressed his lips tightly in an expression of determination and focused his eyes menacingly on Martha. “Madam, tomorrow I will discuss with you many things, but first you will be treated to a private accommodation, a simple meal and a lumpy cot compliments of the Marsden-Lacey Constabulary.”
And with that announcement, DCI Johns turned on his heels and walked like a bull-dog into the library.
Once Martha and Helen were firmly ensconced in the back of a police car and rolling toward the village and their confinement, Helen turned to Martha and said, “Your instincts stink.”
“Yeah?” Martha asked truculently.
“Yeah.” Helen said firmly.
Chapter 23
MARSDEN-LACEY’S CONSTABULARY WAS NOT a typical police station. It was housed in a honey-colored stone building built in the late Georgian period. Due to the efforts of two former inmates who needed to keep busy and recognized the desperate need to improve the aesthetics of the place, the building’s facade and its surrounding garden was a picture postcard image of English flower baskets, climbing roses and tidy garden beds full of flowering plants and shrubs.
It hadn’t always been so. Four years ago the station’s curb appeal had dwindled to an all-time low and was in serious need of a pick-me-up. Along came the two aforementioned horticultural enthusiasts, Perigrine Clarke and Alistair Turner.
While being held in connection with a counterfeiting crime ring, Perigrine and Alistair quickly became bored sitting in their cells and requested to be allowed to work on the garden beds around the station. Chief Johns had them shackled and allowed them to work wherever they pleased. They were dedicated gardeners.
Their work won them the coveted Lord Litton Village Improvement Award in 2008 and they were allowed to attend the ceremony on a day-out pass accompanied by Chief Johns, also a gardening enthusiast.
Only once did Perigrine and Alistair toy with the idea of escape. Their award and their excellent behavior earned them a great deal of freedom about the station. It was this freedom that worked on their minds. They had conceived the plan for a new pave-stone path wrapping around the constabulary working its way out toward the back garden. As the path was reaching the outer limits of
the garden, it was Alistair who gave voice to the thought in both their minds: “Perry, dear, we have been toiling away on this garden for nearly six months and I miss the outside. Lets hop the wall.”
“Not this time, Alistair.” Perigrine lay down his spade. “I’ve been thinking the same thing and I’m pretty sure we have both jumped on this pave-stone idea because we were getting antsy. We can’t make a run for it. I want to go straight.”
That is exactly what they did. Once their sentence was up, they bought the garden center next door. They continued to maintain the constabulary partly because they were community-service-minded ex-criminals but also because it adjoined their garden center and they didn’t want an eyesore to detract from their exquisitely-maintained grounds.
Fortunately for the village, most crime was limited to a few muggings, petty thefts, shoplifting, and vandalism. The murder at The Grange and the attack on Piers Cousins had sent the village into a tizzy of gossiping and speculation. Everyone was enjoying themselves discussing the threats to their lives and recounting the story until no one could have given a fair account of the actual happenings if they had been asked. On the plus side, the lurking, homicidal menace had actually brought people closer.
Needless to say, DCI Johns couldn’t go anywhere without being asked how his investigation was going by the more polite denizens or chided and teased by the scrappier villagers. But because most, including the young toughs, respected their Chief Inspector, they had confidence in his abilities and felt secure in their homes at night.
It was at this quaint and attractive police station that Helen and Martha were incarcerated and spent an uneventful night. In fact, the station was comfortable and homey.
Constable Waters, an extremely intelligent mother of two young boys, had made them comfortable. She made them tea and shared some of the homemade lemon bread she brought in that day.
Since there weren’t any other boarders for the night besides Sam, Martha’s marketplace mugger, Constable Waters doubled up the pillows and blankets for the girls’ cots and loaned them some of the magazines from the front office.
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