by Amy Cross
“Hello?”
She wandered over to the foot of the stairs and looked up toward the landing. On her previous visits, there'd always been some hint of Phillip's presence, but now he was gone and the house felt different somehow, as if the walls themselves knew that something had been lost. At the same time, nothing else seemed to have changed, with the same dusty old ornaments and antiques decorating the tables in the hallway.
“Lord Chesleford?” Jo said again. “Are -”
“Is someone there?” a familiar voice replied suddenly, and Jo stepped over toward the doorway that led into the study. Stopping again, she saw that Lord Chesleford was in the process of pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
“Joanna Mason, is that you?” he asked with a faint smile. “I could have sworn you said you'd be heading off before now. Newcastle, wasn't it? Or Nuneaton? Somewhere up north, anyway. I'm afraid I don't pay much attention to the north of the country. Nowhere above Cheshire really has any relevance for people like me. Not that I'm not glad it's there, of course.” He smiled. “What are you doing still here? Your job is done.”
“The front door was open,” she told him cautiously.
“To tell the truth, the lock is a little broken,” he replied, before raising a finger to his lips, urging her to keep the secret. “The house is a listed building, so even the smallest repair is going to be very costly. I suppose I shall just have to hope there are no burglars any time soon. Still, I'm sure I can trust you, at least. After all, you're a fine, upstanding private detective. And a former police officer to boot. It was that last part that assured me you were the best person for the job. And I was certainly proved right in the end, wasn't I? Well done, Miss Mason. Well done indeed!”
“I heard Phillip's body was released by the coroner.”
“Was it? Oh, perhaps. I shall have to arrange a funeral. I must call the undertaker in the morning. Something discreet and tasteful, I think. No stone. There's no point erecting a stone for someone who...”
His voice trailed off.
“For someone who what?” Jo asked.
“Well, one should earn a headstone,” he continued, “by living a useful life that deserves commemoration. And if one does not, one simply fades from the records, does one not? As if one was never really here in the first place. Headstones are frightfully expensive, you know.”
“You want him to be forgotten?”
“You must beg my pardon,” he replied, “but I think I missed the explanation as to why you've returned. By the way, would you like a whiskey?”
“No thank you.”
“I believe I paid your full account, did I not?”
“You did.”
“And there are no further expenses?”
“No. No further expenses.”
“So...”
He took a sip of whiskey, while waiting for her to say something.
“I'm afraid my time is rather valuable,” he continued finally, “despite appearances. If there's something I can do for you, Miss Mason, please be so good as to come out with it, and I shall endeavor to oblige.”
Stepping a little further into the room, Jo stopped next to one of the coffee tables.
“I was just running through a few things,” she said cautiously, “and I kept going back to the question of why you hired me in the first place.”
“I think I explained that, did I not? I was sick of the police doing their usual incompetent job, and I wanted to ensure that poor Deborah's murderer was brought to justice.” He took another sip of whiskey. “Of course, as things turned out, I was inadvertently responsible for my own son being outed as that murderer. A double murderer, no less. I must say that hearing his confession was one of the most shocking moments of my entire life. Worse, even, that when he stabbed me a few moments before you arrived. Thank you, by the way, for coming when you did. I daren't think about what might have happened.”
“How exactly did Phillip end up stabbing you, again?”
“I've already told the -”
“You said it was when you found Deborah's laptop hidden in his room.”
“That's right.”
“And you were searching his room because...”
“I always did so, periodically. Just to make sure that everything was safe. On this occasion, evidently the boy had left Deborah's laptop out of its usual hiding place. I was shocked when I realized what I'd uncovered, and even more shocked a moment later when Phillip came up behind me with that knife.” He finished his whiskey, before immediately pouring another. “I cannot tell you what it feels like, as a father, to realize that not only is one's son a waste of space, but also that he has caused such harm to others in this world. I don't blame myself, however. The accident caused it all. My Phillip, the real Phillip, would never have done such things.”
“Head injuries don't usually turn people into murderers,” she pointed out.
“But they do upset thought processes,” he continued. “That's what the police say, anyway. That Phillip's actions were a combination of mistakes, errors of judgment and downright panic. How I wish I had seen the truth earlier, but that is why I availed myself of your services. I'm quite sure, Miss Mason, that it was your arrival here that helped spur events on and help us reach this resolution.”
“And that's why you hired me? To get to the truth?”
“What other reason could there possibly be?”
“That's exactly what I've been asking myself.” Reaching into her pocket, she shifted her phone slightly, while keeping it out of sight. After a moment she stepped past the chaise lounge and over toward one of the other tables, trying to get a little closer to Lord Chesleford while still keeping a safe distance. “I was talking him down off the roof,” she pointed out. “I think he was about to take my hand.”
“Nonsense. If he'd taken your hand, he'd have surely pulled you over the edge as he went.”
“I don't think so.”
“I'm afraid it's rather obvious, Miss Mason.”
“No. He wasn't going to do that.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“Because Phillip was not a murderer.”
He opened his mouth to reply, before hesitating for a moment.
“The night I came here for dinner,” Jo continued, “you ended up passed out after drinking so much wine.”
“And I have apologized for that.”
“Except that when I saw one of the empty bottles, I noticed that it was alcohol-free wine.”
“Well that must be a mistake,” he replied. “I certainly have no habit of getting drunk on glorified grape juice.”
“You weren't drunk. You were listening. You were hoping that I'd go up to Phillip's room. You knew he'd be making a noise, because you knew his triggers and you'd planned ahead. So you pretended to get drunk, and then you waited as I went up to your son's room, which is exactly what you wanted. You also knew I wouldn't drink any of the wine, because I'd already mentioned to you that I don't drink alcohol these days.”
“Had you mentioned that?”
“Yes. The first time I came to see you.”
She watched his face, and now she could see a hint of irritation in his features.
“Maybe you even knew that Phillip would show me the photos on his phone. There had to be a good chance he would. The photos you stole from Harry Morgan's phone. You knew Harry was seeing Deborah, so one day when you went to his farmhouse to buy meat, you took his phone. You found the photos and you sent them to yourself, but they also ended up on Phillip's phone because he wasn't trusted to have his own, was he? His phone was set up on your account, and you didn't realize at first that photos in your cloud were also shared to his device.”
“That seems like an awfully convoluted theory,” Lord Chesleford replied, with a hint of grit in his voice now.
“Phillip didn't understand the photos,” she continued. “Not really. Sexual things were beyond him after the accident, weren't they? I realized that when he saw me in the shower
and reacted the way he did. He became very fond of Deborah, in a completely innocent way. But you, Lord Chesleford, had a different interest. You thought she'd make good breeding stock, didn't you? I'm sure that's how you saw the whole thing. You wanted to have more children, and you thought Deborah would be perfect. Did you ask her outright, or did you just try to ingratiate yourself into her life?”
“I never uttered a word to her!”
“So you just tried to get her to like you?”
“You don't know what you're talking about!” he sneered.
“Deborah was a troubled woman. Married once, too, although I doubt you knew that at the time. She was still in love with her husband, even though she'd tried to move on by forcing herself to have a relationship with Harry. Eventually her demons caught up to her and she thought, mistakenly, that Lucas had found her. You knew she was going to run, didn't you? How did you know that, exactly? Did you have the cottage wired?”
“That's -”
“I'll find out. I'll have the place ripped apart, and when I do, I'm confident I'll find microphones. Maybe even cameras.”
Finishing his whiskey, he began to pour another.
“So you went to the cottage to stop her,” she continued, “and to beg her to stay. Were you planning to kill her if she refused?”
“Nonsense.”
“Or was it genuinely an accident? One that had to be covered up, to protect your good name, but an accident nonetheless. There's no point denying it, Lord Chesleford. I know Phillip didn't really kill anyone, even though you managed to make him think he did. You went to Skellin Cottage that night, and you were the one who murdered Deborah Dean, or Alice Pritchard as she was really called. You murdered her and then you framed your own son.”
“It wasn't murder,” he replied, staring down at his whiskey glass for a moment before finally turning to her again. “I assure you, it was a terrible, terrible mistake.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Six months ago
Grabbing her suitcase, Deborah hurried to the coffee table and tossed her front-door keys down. Then she turned, lugging the suitcase toward the hallway until finally she pulled the door open, hurried outside, and ran straight into the blade of a waist-level knife.
Letting out a shocked gasp, she dropped the suitcase and reached out, holding the door-frame to support herself. After a moment she looked down and saw the blade embedded deep in her belly, and then she looked up into the eyes of Lord Martin Chesleford.
“You stupid woman,” he stammered, stepping back and pulling the knife out in the process. “What the hell did you -”
Clutching her belly, Deborah felt blood rushing from the wound. She held her hands tight for a moment, as if she was trying to somehow hold the blood inside. Then she flinched slightly, as if she felt just the slightest flicker of pain.
Suddenly her knees buckled and she fell forward. Lord Chesleford stepped out of the way just in time, letting her slump out onto the muddy ground, and then he stood and stared at her for a moment before looking at the bloody knife in his right hand.
“No!” he hissed, reaching down and grabbing Deborah's shoulders, struggling as he dragged her shuddering body back into the cottage. Setting the knife on the counter, he got down onto his knees and rolled her over, only to see that a thick bloody stain had now spread across her belly, glistening in the soaked fabric of her shirt. Blood was dribbling down onto the floor, and a moment later the old man looked at Deborah's shocked face and saw that more blood was running from her lips as she stared up at him. Already, she looked paler.
She let out a faint gasp, but she seemed unable to get any words out.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, his voice trembling with fear. “I was only trying to help you! I heard you talking to yourself earlier, you seemed to think someone was after you! I even followed you when you drove to Harry and Susannah's houses, but then I lost sight of you so I came back here. I was going to protect you and take you back to my home! I was going to look after you and keep you safe, and all I wanted in return was -”
Suddenly she tried to sit up, only to turn and bump against the counter. Slumping back down, she tried to reach up and catch the counter's edge, as if she was trying once more to haul herself off the floor, but her fingertips slipped and she crumpled back down. She let out another groan as Lord Chesleford turned her onto her back.
“I shall call an ambulance,” he continued, reaching into his pocket for his cellphone. “I'll tell them I -”
“No!” she gasped, grabbing his wrist.
“Deborah -”
“Let me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let me!”
“Let you what?”
He stared at her, shocked by the sense of peace in her eyes.
“Let me,” she whispered again.
“I don't understand!” he stammered. “You're hurt! You might -”
Suddenly she squeezed his hand, in a moment of tenderness that somehow matched the old man's daydreams.
“Let... me...”
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but slowly he was starting to realize. After staring at her, shocked, for a moment, he began to shake his head.
“Laptop,” she continued, with tears in her eyes. “Password is Merriwig, one word. The book's almost done anyway, it can stand. It can go as it is, it can...”
She hesitated, her pupils enlarged now, as if she was struggling to remain conscious.
“Merriwig,” she added. “Password. Don't forget. Everything's on there, just...”
He stared at her wound.
“You're dying,” he said finally.
“I don't want to go to jail.”
“Jail? What are you talking about?”
“No more running,” she continued, her voice starting to fade now as she began to lose consciousness. “I just want to... the book...”
“No, stay awake!”
He slapped the side of her face as her eyes slipped shut. Although she briefly opened her eyes again, she quickly turned her head away and closed them again.
“Tell Lucas I...”
She let out a brief cough, spraying blood across the floor.
“Tell Lucas I...”
She hesitated, before suddenly turning and looking toward the coffee table.
“There's one more thing I need to change,” she added suddenly, her voice filled with a frantic burst of desperation. “Pull me over there. I have to change one more line before... I figured out what's wrong in chapter one, I need to...”
She reached out toward the laptop with a bloodied hand.
“What are you talking about?” Lord Chesleford asked.
“I need to change it,” she gurgled, as her hand trembled. “Put me on the sofa, I just need to change one thing before I... Lucas...”
Her voice suddenly choked, and finally she slithered down until her head bumped against the dirty linoleum and her dead eyes stared at the side of the counter.
“Lucas?” Lord Chesleford stammered. “Who the bloody hell is Lucas? For God's sake, woman, what are you going on about?” Grabbing her head, he turned her back to face him, but now her glassy eyes stared up at him with no hint of life. “Deborah!” he shouted, slapping her face a couple more times with no response, before checking the side of her neck for a pulse. Detecting nothing, he tried her wrists too, before leaning back with an expression of stunned disbelief.
For a few minutes, he simply sat with his back against the side of the counter, staring at Deborah's dead body as light rain continued to fall outside in the yard.
“They'll never believe me,” he whispered finally, looking down at his bloodied hands and then up at the knife on the counter. “They'll have me for murder, they'll think...”
He hesitated for a moment, before stumbling to his feet and grabbing the knife. Heading out into the dark, muddy yard, he took a few steps toward the gate before stopping and looking back. Staring through the doorway, he saw Debora
h's bloodied corpse on the floor, and the horrific sight spurred him to turn and run, rushing out of the yard and away into the night. As his car's headlights finally raced away into the distance, Deborah was left on her back in the doorway, her dead eyes staring up toward the night sky.
***
Half an hour later, after Deborah's body had remained undisturbed, the lights of a car swung between the gateposts and then came to a halt outside the cottage. The headlights and engine were quickly switched off, and finally Lord Chesleford climbed out of his car and hurried around to the other side. Pulling the door open, he reached inside and began to unbuckle his son's seat-belt.
“Now listen to me,” the old man stammered, his voice filled with panic. “You might not be much use, but at least you're strong, and you're going to help me move something. I need you to not ask questions, Phillip. I need you to be your usual docile, unthinking self and just do what you're bloody told. Do you understand?”
He looked into his son's face and saw that Phillip was already staring out toward the doorway. He'd already spotted Deborah's body.
“Don't look at that!” Lord Chesleford hissed, grabbing Phillip by the chin and forcing him to turn away. “Look at me, and listen to my voice! I need your strength, boy. This is the only time in your waste of a life that you're actually going to be useful to me. You're nothing but a brute, but at this moment a brute is what I need. We're going to move something, and you're not going to ask any questions. Then we're going to go into the forest and dig a hole. You're strong, you can dig fast, and you have to be done before morning. Then we'll put something in the hole and fill it in again, and then you'll never speak of this to anyone! Is that understood?”
He waited, as Phillip's gaze slowly returned to the cottage's open doorway.
“Is Deborah sleeping?” he asked finally. “Is she okay?”
“Phillip, I need you to focus!”
“Why's she sleeping there?” he continued. “Isn't she cold? She should be sleeping in bed. That's where people usually sleep.”
“Oh for God's sake, just get out of the bloody car!” Grabbing Phillip's arm, Lord Chesleford pulled him out into the mud and then led him toward the cottage. Already out of breath, the old man finally stopped next to the door and stared down at the dead body, while Phillip hung back slightly. “We'll have to be careful transporting her,” he muttered. “We don't want the police finding fibers in the car. Damn it, how am I going to do this? If they find out what I've done, they'll think I killed her on purpose. We have to get rid of the body and then tell them she went away. She doesn't have many friends around here. We'll tell everyone she just upped and left.”
