“Till it doesn’t!” Danny said.
At this, Melissa raised her now-empty red wine glass. “Oops, all gone. Do believe I am in need of a refill.”
At that Steve dutifully stood up, not needing a more direct prod, and took her glass, heading to Patrick at the bar.
And Melissa leaned across, touched Jack’s hand.
“Will you have another?”
Jack nodded — a small smile. “Thanks. But I’m good.”
Melissa let the hand linger a moment before reclining back into the curved wooden chair.
“I bet you are.”
Steve returned, glass in hand.
And now, Jack figured, was the time to release the cat from the bag.
“Really came by… well… My good friend Will Goodchild is concerned about the fall yesterday. Up at Clevedon Crag? I wanted to talk to you four about it.”
And at that — silence.
*
“Crazy thing, slipping, falling like that. Stupid accident, hmm?” Danny directed his question at Jack. Jack noticed that the others nodded.
“Yeah. That’s what Susan Braithwaite said. Slipped. Fell.” Jack paused. “But I was just wondering — just trying to help my friend Will out. You know?”
Another pause.
“Any of you see something?”
“Something?” Steve said.
Jack turned to the man.
“Yeah. Was Susan Braithwaite alone when she fell?”
For a moment, quiet.
“I dunno,” Steve said. “I was actually eating lunch with Will when she — God — landed right in front of us!”
Jack nodded. Waiting for the others.
He turned to Danny’s wife.
“Me? I didn’t see a thing. Ate my lunch, had my shoes off. My feet, that walk — killing me. Some vacation.”
“So, you weren’t near the crag — where she fell?”
“Those nasty rocks? No thanks! I found a dry patch in the trees. Out of that terrible wind.”
Which left, Jack reasoned, Danny. And Melissa.
Jack let his eyes go from one to the other. “You guys?”
Danny answered first. “Hey, Jack. Got to ask you. The woman said she slipped. So why these questions? Jeez, I don’t get it.”
Jack nodded.
“Just clearing up some loose ends for my friend Will. He’s got all these insurance forms, you know, that kinda thing,” he said. “So…?”
“It was,” Melissa said carefully, “lunch. Free time. To explore. Pretty place, all and all. I was walking around, farther along the ridge, when I heard people yelling. After the fall, I mean.”
Jack had to ask the obvious.
“Alone?”
Her eyes locked on his — she was someone who did not blink easily — and said, “Of course.”
Doubtful, Jack thought.
“Yeah, me too,” Danny added quickly. “Lunch not much of anything, you know. What the hell is watercress anyway? But, you know, I like this history stuff. So, I was checking out the view to the Roman road down in that valley. Seeing what I could see. Map said it was down there.”
“And you spotted it, hmm?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hell — hard to tell! Me, I’m more of a World War II buff. Say, Jack, ever go see the sites where it went down? That Battle of Britain stuff?”
Stuff. New York elocution at its best, and a none-too-subtle change of subject.
“I have, Danny. Some sites near here. Planes went down, memorials in place. Worth a visit. If you have the time.”
“Damn. Few more hikes, then we’re back to London I’m afraid.”
“Thank God,” said Julie.
Jack nodded, then, looking around the group in turn: “Okay, so nobody here saw Ms Braithwaite up on the crag?”
“Didn’t notice her,” said Steve, shaking his head. “But then — like I said — I was talking to Will Goodchild.”
Jack paused. Their story — all of them not seeing anything — locked in tight.
“What about the other two hikers in your group?” said Jack. “What are their names?”
“Heidi and Stephanie,” said Julie.
“Yeah, right,” said Jack. “You see them anywhere near that ridge?”
“Nope,” said Melissa. “Those two? Just kinda disappeared.”
“Thick as thieves, too,” said Steve, nodding into his glass.
“Yeah, more like old pals,” said Danny. “That was sort of funny. I mean, not like they came on the trip together.”
Danny looked around at the others.
Almost as if checking that they were on board.
“Yeah. Always together,” said Melissa.
“Real buddies,” said Julie.
Jack nodded again. Is there any more I can pry out of this lot? he thought
He smiled to himself for using a British expression — you lot.
But it seemed perfectly apt for this group.
Might be good to talk to them again. Perhaps individually.
Especially now that Jack could see the dynamic of the four of them. Danny as leader, Melissa seeming a remarkable mismatch for dour Steve. Whining Julie wishing she could be anywhere else.
Could there be something here?
But that would be best done after he heard how Sarah got on facing the Bucklands and their house guests.
“Just, um, one last question…”
“Ha, you won’t catch us out with that old ’one last question’ schtick,” said Danny. “Worked on the force, did it?”
Then he turned to his business partner and grinned: “We’ve seen too many crime shows, huh, Steve?”
“Right. Sure. Seen ’em all, Danny,” said Steve.
“Okay — you got me,” said Jack smiling. “But seriously, my question: you notice anyone else up there on the ridge at all that day? Someone around, maybe… not part of your party?”
He watched them look to each other, then shrug and shake their heads.
“In that rain? That mud?” said Julie.
“Only an idiot would be wandering around those woods in that weather,” said Steve.
“Hey! I thought — until the fall, that is — that it was a great hike. Screw the weather!” said Danny, laughing loudly.
Then silence, as they all stared awkwardly.
Jack stood up, and as he did, he knew one thing.
Bunch of things going on here with this quartet.
But the big question was, did any of it have to do with Susan Braithwaite’s supposed fall? Or the mystery person who may — or may not — have been behind her on the cliff?
Jack knew he wasn’t any closer to anything that resembled an answer to those questions.
But sometimes, just even having the questions is a good place to start.
“Well, thanks folks. You, um, enjoy the rest of your trip here.”
Nods around the table, Jack’s departure not bringing the smiles that his arrival did.
Jack guessed — with Danny and his number two, Steve, involved in New York real estate — this wasn’t the first time they had faced some uncomfortable questions from a cop.
Danny — at least — knew how to put his guard up, fast.
At Jack’s move, Danny stood up. Put out a hand.
Meaty, is the word that came to mind.
“Thanks Jack. Good to meet you. New York — damn! Great.”
Then the handshake.
The type that Jack had experienced many a time.
Way tighter than needed, a little test there. Danny, with a few extra pounds around the middle, but a strong guy.
Hand clasped. Jack kept his smile on.
And he answered in kind, his own hand closing until he felt Danny go slowly limp, eager to be released.
Childish, thought Jack. But perhaps — in this instance — useful.
Then Jack let go. A last smile.
“Have fun in my village.” Then, not that he thought it would sink in, “It’s one mighty special place.”
<
br /> And at that, he turned and walked out to the hotel lobby, door still open, sun finally down.
The spring sky turning a deep purple, with stray clouds turning a ruddy orange from the last bits of light hitting high in the atmosphere.
My village, he thought. On a night like this… perfect.
And he started the hike back to The Grey Goose to wait for a call from Sarah.
8. Drinks at the Bucklands
Sarah cycled over Cherringham Bridge, then slowed as she passed along the tall laurel hedge that ran alongside the Bucklands’ cottage. Somewhere in here she knew there was a gate, but the massive hedge almost completely concealed it.
Aha! There it was.
She climbed off her bike, pushed open the little metal gate, stooped under the drooping arch of vegetation, and followed the weathered brick path to the front door.
An old bell and chain hung from the porch. She rang the bell and waited, turning to take in the garden in the last of the evening light.
Unlike Sue Braithwaite’s house, this place was definitely lived in. A garden full of flower beds bursting with colour; clematis and jasmine spilling over the porch; little hideaway corners with chairs and benches and lanterns crowned with melted wax.
Even though the house lay just fifty yards from the toll bridge over the river and the road that led up the hill to Cherringham, Sarah had never visited, though the Buckland twins — inveterate mystery fans — had often helped out on cases in the past.
She couldn’t wait to see inside.
“Aha! Sarah my dear!” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Jen (or was it Joan?) standing in the doorway, a crime books apron on, and a cooking spoon dolloped in red sauce in one hand.
“I won’t kiss you, I’m all garlicky! Come in, come in!”
Sarah went inside, a delicious smell wafting through from the back of the house.
Jen (or was it Joan?) closed the door and slipped past her.
“Tarry not! Joan’s been doling out the gin and tonics since six and our guests should both be nicely oiled by now.”
“Oiled?” said Sarah, following Jen down the flagstoned hallway towards what Sarah guessed must be the kitchen door.
“Always helps if the evening’s suspects have had a couple of looseners, I’m sure,” said Jen conspiratorially, pausing at the door.
“Um, I just wanted a bit of a chat, Jen, I don’t really see your guests as—”
“Ha! Don’t give me that! You never know! They’re all suspects until proven innocent — isn’t that what the great Poirot used to say?”
And with that she swung open the kitchen door and Sarah followed her in.
*
The Bucklands’ kitchen wasn’t at all what Sarah had expected.
When they were out and about in the village, the two women — Jen and Joan, simple dress, sensible shoes — generally gave the impression of still living in the fifties. Certainly, they both dressed identically with more than a nod to classic Miss Marple.
I wonder, Sarah thought, do they enjoy that people can never tell them apart?
But Sarah could see that this kitchen was top-end design: big and discretely modern, with an enormous professional cooking range, steel and marble worktops, deliberately mismatched cupboards, bronze lights hanging over a pine table set with candles, modern art on the walls — and Charlie Parker playing through speakers set into the walls.
Not at all what she expected.
In another corner, two old leather sofas with a coffee table stood by French windows.
Jack and Sarah had often joked about how much the twins must earn from the ancient toll they operated on Cherringham Bridge. It was pretty clear from this kitchen how the two ladies liked to spend their money.
Joan — who stood at the cooker, stirring a pot — turned briefly to Sarah as she entered: “Supper in twenty minutes, Sarah — will you join us? There’s plenty!”
“That’s very kind of you Joan, but I have Daniel at home tonight and that’s a rare chance for a catch-up.”
“Ah, the vagaries of the teenage male,” said Jen, handing Sarah a very large gin and tonic in a crystal glass. “It is a mixed blessing that Joan and I have never had to contend with such creatures! More power to you, dear!”
“And here’s to the single life!” said Joan taking a swig of her own glass and raising it high, before turning back to the stove.
“The single life!” said Jen, responding with a swig.
The single life? thought Sarah, looking at the twins.
“So, how’s your bed and breakfast business getting on?” she said.
“Highly profitable,” said Jen. “We moved all our books upstairs and created three crime-themed rooms.”
“Room one: Scandi Noir — all Nesbos, Mankells and Larssons,” said Joan. “Not exactly my cup of tea — but so very popular!”
“Room two: Golden Age — Ngaio Marsh; Dorothy L Sayers; dear, dear Agatha,” said Jen.
“And room three: not for the faint of heart — hard-boiled Pulp Fiction!” said Joan. “Chandler, Hammett, James M Cain. That room — well — you really should see!”
“No sleep for the wicked in there!” said Jen. “Though one can imagine many other things going on!” Then, leaning in conspiratorially to Sarah, “Speaking of which, let’s bring in our suspects, shall we?”
Suspects… they really won’t let that go!
“I think ’witnesses’ is really the word I’d use, Jen—”
But Jen was off, and Sarah watched her disappear down the hallway — only to reappear a minute later with two women in tow, also carrying large gin and tonics.
“Sarah Edwards — Stephanie Bruckner, Heidi Blake,” said Jen thrusting the women forward. All three smiled and shook hands. “While Joan and I stay out of your way, why don’t you sit over there on the sofas and have your little chat?
“Thanks, Jen,” said Sarah, knowing full well that Jen had picked just the spot where she and Joan could hear the whole conversation.
*
Sarah listened and took notes as Stephanie and Heidi described their movements on the day of the accident.
She watched the two women carefully, listening for any hint they might be somehow involved in the accident. But both accounts seemed completely credible — although the two women were each other’s alibis for the moments right up until Susan Braithwaite fell.
Or was pushed.
Of course, it was possible they were in cahoots (as Jack would have said). But, talking to them, Sarah thought it unlikely. It seemed like the two of them had just formed a real friendship during the days’ hikes, even though they were a generation apart.
“So, you were both at the far end of Clevedon Ridge, taking pictures when Susan fell?” said Sarah.
“Yes,” said Heidi. “I’d say approximately two hundred metres west of — I think you call it — Clevedon Crag?”
“We were both tracking a rather beautiful kestrel that was hovering over the ridge,” said Stephanie.
“But you’re certain you saw somebody?” said Sarah, looking at Stephanie.
A bit of hesitation there.
“It was just really a glimpse through the mist,” said Stephanie. “But yes — I think… I’d have to say…”
A nod.
“I’m sure. Just a glimpse. A shape — then gone.”
“What about you, Heidi?”
“Not me. I was looking the other way.”
“Right. So, you can’t confirm what Stephanie saw.”
“No,” said Heidi. “Or say that there wasn’t someone there, either.”
Interesting point. And interesting also how she phrased that.
The phrase “can neither confirm nor deny” came to mind.
Sarah turned back to Stephanie.
“That’s quite a distance. I mean, to see and all. Especially with low cloud and rain,” said Sarah.
“True,” said Stephanie, with a shrug. “But I know what I saw. Susan was standing alone o
n the rock, looking out across the valley. Then — so quickly — a person just seemed to pop up, from out of nowhere in the rocks, moving so fast. And then, well, I can’t be sure, but it looked, well, like the person pushed her. And she disappeared over the edge.”
“Definitely pushed?”
Another pause.
On this point, maybe Stephanie not so sure.
“I — I couldn’t say. Not for sure.”
Sarah watched her nod slowly.
“And the person you saw — they disappeared too?”
“Yes. I even had to doubt — did I really see someone there?”
“Man? Woman?”
“Ah well, yes — it was way too far to see that, for sure.”
“Do you think, it could have been one of your group? One of the other walkers?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Stephanie. “But wait — no — because we all had our special coats on, bright purple — and it looked like this person did not.”
“Special coats?” said Sarah.
“Part of the tour,” said Heidi. “To keep us together, maybe? Will gave us purple raincoats.”
Sarah nodded. Then: “Um… and this person you saw, they weren’t wearing a purple raincoat?”
“No. But it was far away. They looked just… kind of grey-ish. As I said, barely visible, happening so fast!” Then she added quickly, “But I did see them! I know that.”
“Of course, Sarah,” said Jen from the other side of the kitchen, “it would be easy for one of the hikers to remove their waterproof, pitch Susan over the cliff, then pop the coat back on again.”
Sarah turned. “Um, yes, quite possible, thank you, Jen.”
When she turned back to the group, she saw Heidi smiling at her.
“Jen and Joan here have been getting us to draw pictures of where we think all the suspects were at the time of the fall,” said Heidi.
“Of course! A classic way to solve a murder attempt like this,” said Joan.
Murder? First time that word had been used in connection with Braithwaite’s accident.
“Never fails,” said Jen.
“Yes,” said Heidi. “We tried to do that. But Stephanie and I weren’t greatly interested in the other walkers, to be honest. We stuck together. We couldn’t really map exactly where they were before the fall happened.”
“I can imagine,” said Sarah. “Well, let’s talk about the other walkers a bit if we could. Were there any arguments at all that morning? Was there any friction between Susan and anyone else?”
Cherringham--Cliffhanger Page 5
