Cherringham--The Secret of Brimley Manor

by Matthew Costello

  To the next room, opening up to see a dozen chunky dress mannequins, all wearing Japanese armour from centuries ago.

  Samurai, he imagined.

  Breastplates. Curved, ornate swords nearly as large as the figures, strange helmets that looked far less functional than their European counterparts (with a Brimley room devoted to that medieval armour all the way on the other side of the manor house).

  Slower now.

  He could feel the smoke at the back of his throat.

  With his free hand, he dug out his phone, to have it at the ready.

  More steps, such cautious steps now, as the smoke thickened.

  Until he reached another narrow hallway that led into the next room.

  The music room.

  Least that’s what he called it …

  Filled with instruments of every kind.

  Old, ancient instruments, kind of thing Charlie was sure nobody played these days.

  And then in the corner of the room he saw the forked flickers of a flame.

  He backed away, fast as he could, bumping into a suit of Samurai armour, sending the wobbly swordsman falling down with a loud clang, making even more noise as it bumped into another full suit of armour, that smashed backwards into a glass display case, the noise suddenly deafening in the still-quiet manor house.

  Charlie had the phone out, screen glowing, even as he took more clumsy steps back, to the hallway out.

  Hitting the number that was at the top of his screen.

  One ring, two rings.

  Then a voice — calm. Almost too calm!

  “Emergency, which service do you require?”

  “Fire!” Charlie yelled, as if sharing the bad news. “We got a fire.”

  “Putting you through …”

  “Bloody hell!” said Charlie. “Can’t you—?”

  “Fire service,” came a new voice. “What’s your location, caller?”

  “Brimley Manor, Cherringham. Fire! There’s a fire. A bloody fire! Upstairs! First floor,” he said, hurrying on. “I can see it now! Room to the left, past the room with Japanese armour. Smoke spreading.”’

  The voice finally cut him off.

  “On our way,” the voice simply said. Then, as if stating the obvious, “Sir, please leave the house now and get as far away as you can, the engine will be with you shortly.”

  And with the alert sounded, Charlie turned his backward crawl into a stumbling bolt, racing back past the perhaps now-doomed dolls, to the stairs.

  Take care here … don’t want a nasty trip … tumble down. House going up in flames! That would be bad …

  So, the steps, one at a time, hand on the bannister as if locked on.

  To the door.

  Always so wedged into the frame, needing a real hard yank to open.

  Remembering now, even in his panicked dash, to press his key card against the plastic square with the small illuminated red dot near the doorknob.

  Quick thought: What if electricity in the house is damaged, and the door doesn’t open?

  What then?

  But he heard a click, saw the small red dot turn green and, with as strong a tug as he could, pulled open the door.

  The night air had never tasted so good.

  And always one to follow good advice, he hurried down the stone steps, across the gravel driveway, and even kept going past his small stone guard house to the side.

  Getting as much distance between himself and the fire as he could imagine.

  Not looking back.

  And as he kept on moving away for just a few more moments, he heard the siren.

  The fire brigade on its way.

  He’d be safe.

  That was good!

  But Brimley Manor?

  Who knew?

  And save for the measly job and the money it offered him … who the hell really cared?

  3. Anton Jessop of the Conservation Trust

  Jack had found parking not far from Huffington’s. With the peak tourist season passed, fall in the air, it became a tad easier to find a free space in Cherringham’s Market Square.

  And with his “new” 1962 MGA — still not a large car though certainly roomier than his old Sprite — he could easily fit in tight spots.

  The sleek, racing-green MGA, on an open straight road, a Roman road? Pretty amazing to push its 1600cc engine, and see just how speedy it could be.

  Jack guessed it would perform real well in a road rally — not an activity that he had yet indulged in.

  But with this beauty? Maybe someday …

  Might be something fun to try.

  And as he entered Huffington’s — getting, as always, bright smiles from the staff, none of them ever quite used to the novelty of an American in Cherringham, it seemed — he spotted Sarah sitting at what he thought of as their “usual table”.

  Near the back, away from the bustle, and when not lunch time, tea time, or morning rush, always a quiet spot to chat.

  About Cherringham and crime.

  She was sitting with a man who, she had told Jack, wanted rather urgently to meet them. Apparently, the elderly gentleman in the dark suit wanted to discuss “a matter of utmost urgency and discretion”.

  And Jack had responded “You know me, Sarah, I’m a sucker for such ‘matters’.”

  At that she had laughed.

  Now as he made his way over, a third chair awaiting him, Sarah spotted him, waved, and Jack joined them.

  *

  The man rose from the table, nodded and shook Jack’s hand.

  “Mr Brennan—”

  “Jack, please.”

  Funny, how he always thought how “Mr Brennan” never sounded quite right.

  Mr Brennan? That was his dad — tough old guy, hard working.

  But Jack, to all those who worked with him, both above and below in the ranks of the NYPD, was always “Jack”.

  And he liked that just fine …

  “I was just explaining to your colleague here that — oh my name, by the way, Anton Jessop — I’m on the Board of the Conservation Trust.”

  Jack nodded as the man produced two business cards.

  Jack looked at it. Conservation Trust. Having visited many of the historical sites in the area, he knew that the Trust was responsible for maintaining and running most of them.

  Then Janey, a waitress who never seemed to let Jack’s visits go unnoticed, was at his shoulder.

  “Sorry, Jack. Get you something? Your usual?”

  Jack’s usual — these days at least — tea, no milk. A scone, if any were still to be had, with a pat or two of butter. His New York City regimen of endless cups of joe … gone. Pleasantly so, he observed.

  And the bakery items here? About as close to paradise as one could get.

  “Great, Janey.”

  The grey-haired woman beamed again, then turned.

  Jack nodded at Sarah, who was enjoying her own tea and a scone.

  It had been a while since they had done any ‘work’ together. They’d had a few dinners over the past month, catching up on her kids, and news of her assistant Grace’s wedding plans (and boy, was that date looming close).

  “Yes, um, so there has been an unfortunate incident at one of our local properties, Brimley Manor. Perhaps you’ve visited it? Driven past it, maybe?”

  Not only had Jack not visited it, but the name rang no bell.

  Guess, he thought, there are always things to be discovered, even in a small village in the Cotswolds.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  Sarah jumped in. “It’s not terribly far from here, Jack — tucked away off the Hook Norton road. And not really open to the public. Isn’t that right, Mr Jessop?”

  Jessop nodded. “’Fraid so, with the budget cuts and all, and the place in need of work, a lot of work … we have actually been opening to the public only one day a month.”

  Once a month? Jack thought. Why even bother?

  “We do our best — of course — to maintain the place, and i
ts collection. The grounds, as well.”

  “Collection?” Jack said, as his tea arrived, accompanied by an absolutely beautiful looking scone, with two pats of butter on the plate.

  “Yes, the collection of Mr Horatio Brimley. Eccentric old chap. Travelled the world in the 1920s and gathered a rather eclectic array of items.”

  Jack turned to Sarah. “You’ve been there Sarah?”

  “Can’t say I have. Like I said, I knew of its existence. Assumed it would eventually open full time. Like the rest of the Trust’s sites.”

  “Of course, that was … is the plan.”

  Jack noticed that Jessop still hadn’t responded to his query about the collection within the manor house. Collection of what?

  Some secret there, Jack wondered?

  “And the incident?” Jack said, picking up a dainty butter knife, splitting open the scone, and then smearing butter inside.

  While Jessop answered, he took a bite.

  Heaven indeed …

  “A fire, I’m afraid. Destroyed one room completely, and did some major damage to an adjoining space. Fortunately, our night watchman had already begun his rounds, alerted the emergency services. Still, as I said, one room, absolutely destroyed. Everything in it.”

  “Which was?”

  “Musical instruments. From all over the world. Some dating back hundreds of years.”

  “How awful,” said Sarah. “I imagine they were valuable?”

  “The actual instruments? Hmm, surprisingly not. Luckily, we have had someone going through all the items during the last few months. Cataloguing them, you see. All very interesting, to be sure. But real cash value?” Jessop shook his head. “Not really. Curios, copies, oddments. Still, there is a loss — it will all add up. Damage to the room, the house itself. The sprinklers in the second room made a mess of things there. When the fire hoses went on, that water went down to the ground floor — another room’s ‘treasures’ ruined, I’m afraid.”

  Jack nodded.

  Interesting and all, he thought. But why did this Jessop, on behalf of the Trust, contact me and Sarah?

  He caught Sarah look at him.

  Probably wondering the same thing.

  He took another bite of his oh-so-delicious scone. And, as if passing a football, Sarah did the smallest of nods, and turned back to Jessop.

  *

  Sarah could guess that Jack was — well — as confused as she was.

  Fire. Caused some damage. Significant loss.

  But why us? she thought.

  Jessop paused — perhaps sensing that question.

  “The insurance company, of course, has initiated an investigation. Until that’s completed, we will get no payment. Any restoration work delayed. But everyone on the Board unanimously felt that we should have our own people, if you like, look into the incident. If the insurance company discovers something or not, it’s best we know exactly what happened. How it happened.”

  Sarah nodded again: “Was there anything suspicious about it?”

  “Suspicious? Ah, well that’s not for me to say. But I’m doubtful. Brimley Manor is an old place, just about being maintained. God, one can only imagine what the electrical system was like.”

  “You mentioned sprinklers damaging a second room,” Jack said, “but not where the fire started?”

  A nod from Jessop.

  “The sprinklers are original to the house, going back fifty years or so. Not exactly state of the art, I’m afraid. And not in every room. It was felt that if an accidental tripping of a sprinkler happened, the entire contents of the room could be destroyed. So the music room — all the aged wood of the instruments — well, it simply did not have one.”

  “Giving the fire an opportunity — however it was started — to take hold?”

  At that, Sarah watched as Jack turned to her. The quickest of looks.

  And it was almost as if she could see the gears in his mind clicking, connecting.

  Questions leading to suspicions. Suspicions leading to theories.

  Jack’s scone had disappeared. But Sarah could see that her detective partner — sitting across from the representative of the Trust — was engaged.

  “So, um,” Jack said slowly, “why contact us, specifically?”

  Jessop took a breath, almost as if the answer to that simply must be obvious.

  “We — some members of the Trust and I — well, we’ve asked around, as to who might help us. Including my good friend in the village, the solicitor Tony Standish.”

  “Know him well,” Jack said.

  Jessop paused and nodded at that, waiting a moment before continuing. “Yes, well, quite consistently from everyone, I must tell you, even from the local constabulary — your two names kept popping up.”

  Another breath.

  “We can pay your usual fee, of course, to investigate the fire. Interview all the staff, the night watchman … just to be absolutely sure we are not missing anything.”

  Jessop squinted as if afraid of the answer.

  “Think you might consider taking it on?”

  Jack grinned, then a look to Sarah as she answered …

  *

  “Usual fee? I’m afraid that Jack and I, well our usual fee is usually zero.”

  “Oh,” Jessop said, a bit disappointed at that.

  She hurried to explain. “What we do, we do gratis, Mr Jessop. If we feel we can help someone who needs help. And I’m sure you can find a professional who investigates such things.”

  But Jessop shook his head. “I’m afraid with all your recommendations, and being local, the Trust would be most disappointed.”

  Then Sarah had an idea.

  She looked at Jack. “I don’t know. Things are pretty quiet in the office; the holiday madness over for another summer. Think you might be interested?”

  And she knew the answer to that one.

  Those gears, clicking away? He was already interested.

  A nod. “Sure.”

  She turned back to Jessop. “As to our fee, how about whatever you would be paying, you donate to a worthy cause of our choice?”

  “Splendid. All and sundry will be most pleased to hear this news.”

  Then Jessop produced a manila envelope.

  “The papers in there have everything you will need: all the people who work at the property, contact numbers for the Trust, my personal contact details. I shall definitely need you to keep me posted. Oh, and I have alerted everyone on that list that we will — in addition to the number crunchers from the insurance company — have some people looking into the incident.”

  Sarah reached out and pulled the envelope close.

  The title in block letters on the folder itself was interesting.

  Brimley Manor Investigation

  “And I shall warn them all that they will be contacted by you two.”

  And at that, Jessop stood up, as if his good fortune might dissipate if he lingered.

  “I’ll do that right now.”

  And he stuck his hand out to Jack, then to her. A quick shake, a smile; and the funny little man from the Trust, so precise in his words, sailed to the exit, and out of Huffington’s.

  Sarah looked at Jack.

  “Well — shall we?”

  And equally bemused, Jack grinned back as Sarah undid the clasp of the envelope and opened it to see just who they might be talking to over the next few days.

  4. A Not-So-Guided Tour

  Sarah leaned back in the passenger seat of Jack’s new car, enjoying the wind in her hair, this warm September afternoon.

  “You still miss the Sprite?” she said, looking at Jack, shades on, his body filling the tan leather seat of the sports car.

  “Hmm. Sure. Had a lot of fun in that car — didn’t we?”

  “That we did,” said Sarah. Thinking back to some hair-raising chases, night-long surveillances, careful tailing …

  “But you know — this car — heck, it’s built for a guy like me,” said Jack. “Comfy, too. Si
tting here — could be in one of those armchairs, what do they call them, all electric …?”

  “It’ll come to me.”

  “And boy … put my foot down? Like this?” Sarah heard the engine snarl as Jack kicked up a gear and hit the pedal — the car shot forward along the empty road. “And I can’t see anybody in these parts catching us.”

  “Hmm, yes. Speed limits? Cops? Remember?”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Well, just saying, you could give anyone a run for their money.”

  He slowed down.

  Looking ahead, she saw a battered old signpost to Brimley village.

  “There you go. Think this could be our turn.”

  Jack slowed some more — and they turned off the main road, down a narrow country lane, stone walls soon pressing tightly in on either side.

  “I meant to ask you what you made of Mr Jessop yesterday?” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  “You had that expression …”

  He grinned at that. “Go on.”

  “The ‘something not quite right here’ look.”

  Jack laughed. “True fact. Guess I was trying to figure out why he needs us. Kinda overkill, hmm? What with the insurance people giving it a close look.”

  “I know. But I looked up Brimley Manor online last night. Dug around. The Trust has big plans for the house. Part of a new national policy. Multi-million investment.”

  “Ah. So — maybe wanting to make sure there’s no bad apples lurking in the barrel?”

  “Exactly. Or maybe Mr Jessop’s just — pardon my French — covering his ass?”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Jack, smiling.

  Minutes later, they drove through a tiny hamlet — Brimley village perhaps? — and Sarah checked the map on her phone.

  Hardly a village at all.

  “Should be just a couple of hundred yards,” she said, peering ahead.

  Round another blind bend, and there was Brimley Manor.

  On a hill, just a hundred yards ahead, surrounded by a huddle of barns and buildings, the elegant ivy-covered building rose above them. Its soft Cotswolds stone caught the late sun, and there was a run of five or six windows on the top floor below tall chimneys and triangular eaves.

  A “Conservation Trust” sign on the side of the road pointed to an almost-empty visitors’ car park where Jack swung the car round and parked facing the house, next to an old beaten-up Golf.