“We saw every one of his plays on Broadway,” Sara said.
Jack hummed a bit of a song. “Is he coming?”
“Yes,” Sara said. “I contacted him through his agent. I didn’t speak directly to Mr. Lizmere, but he messaged me that he’d do anything to find out what really happened that night. He’s driving up from London to be here.” She looked at Jack. “You are going to sing with Byon Lizmere.”
Jack snorted. “I’m not up to his league. Broadway? London theaters? Not even close.”
Both women smiled. For all Jack’s protesting, they heard the desire in his voice. Had his life been different, music would have been part of it. But he gave that up for his family.
Jack looked away. “Okay, maybe. Anything else you want, besides me making a fool of myself?”
“You made friends with the daughter, how about trying with the mother?” Sara said. “Find out what she knows.”
“Mrs. Aiken? Are you crazy? I’d rather wrestle a gator.”
“Jack, my dear, you can charm anyone.” She turned to Kate. “I couldn’t persuade you to rummage in the attics, could I? We have Bella’s full permission to snoop. You can see if there’s anything in there about what happened.”
Kate looked as though Sara had offered her the Key to Heaven. All she could do was nod.
As Sara got off the bed, Jack said, “And what ultrasecret thing are you planning to do? Or are we not supposed to know?”
“I’m taking my camera and a couple of lenses out for a walk. I figure that after all these people arrive, I won’t get ten minutes alone. I’ll see you for dinner with Bella. It’s at seven.” She left the room.
For a few minutes, Kate and Jack sat on the bed facing each other but eyes not meeting.
She knew what he was thinking about. “You’ll do fine,” she said softly.
Jack didn’t want to think about, much less discuss singing for a professional of Byon Lizmere’s caliber. It was his highest dream and scariest nightmare in one.
Sara wasn’t the only one who could manipulate. He wanted to direct Kate’s thoughts in another direction. “Wonder what the attic is like? I bet when Bella bought this place they cleaned it out. But isn’t Bella a relative of the family who built this place? She might have kept a few mementos.”
Kate tightened her lips. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Did Sara say when these people are arriving?”
“If Mrs. Aiken is starting to cook for them, it’s soon.”
“So if I’m going to talk to her—and that seems to be my assignment—maybe I should go now.”
“And you’re sending me off to the attic.” Kate was trying to sound put-upon, but there was so much excitement in her voice that Jack laughed.
“Go! Be Miss Indiana Jones and seek and find.”
Kate leaped off the bed and was instantly at the door. “With Harrison Ford I’d be a Mrs.,” she called to him as she ran down the corridor. She didn’t seem to be aware that she was barefoot.
Smiling, Jack got off the bed, picked up Kate’s shoes and put them outside the door where she could find them. She loved all things historical so much that he wondered if she’d miss them.
As he left, he didn’t bother going back through the labyrinth Kate had led him through but went toward the main part of the house. It was silent, the lush carpets cushioning all sound. The walls were covered in pale gold silk brocade, and giant oil portraits were everywhere. The halls were wide enough that furniture was on both sides. Little half-round tables, small sofas, museum-quality chairs lined the way. As a builder, Jack knew the price of it all—and it had cost Sara a lot of money.
When he saw an abnormally narrow door, he opened it. As he’d guessed, it concealed a servants’ staircase, where they’d probably hauled up buckets of hot water. He went down and wasn’t surprised to enter the kitchen.
Mrs. Aiken was there with her pans and bowls. Jack took a breath, put on his most pleasant face and stepped forward. He smiled at the woman, but she glared back. “I was wondering where Puck is,” he said.
“She’s in that house Nicky gave her.”
Jack blinked at the woman’s tone. If her words were put in a text, there would be a skeleton emoji by “that house” and a smiley face with hearts by the word “Nicky.”
Sara Medlar, you owe me, he thought, and cleared his throat. “Nicky liked Puck?”
“Young Master Nicky liked everyone. He was kind and generous to all. He would have made a wonderful earl. But someone killed him.”
At that pronouncement, Jack wanted to run to get Sara and Kate and fly home. Not another murder! “I hadn’t heard that,” Jack said. “You think he was murdered?”
“Of course. That’s what his father said at the funeral. ‘Which one of you bastards killed my son?’”
“And the bastards were...?”
“Them. The ones I’m supposed to cook for. They want to re-create that weekend when they killed dear Nicky. What I don’t understand is why?”
“Sorry to be dense, but I thought he died years after that party.”
“His body was smashed by a tree but his soul died that night. When she left him. She walked out with Nicky’s heart.”
Jack was confused. “Is this Diana? She and Nicky were a couple?”
Mrs. Aiken squinted at him in threat. “Are you here to interrogate me? Find out what I know to be true?”
Jack smiled in a way that he knew women liked. “If I say yes, will you tell me the story?”
She gave no smile in return. “You’re like him.”
“Nicky?”
“No, the other one. Thorpe. Worked in the stables.” Her tone sounded as though the man was a criminal. “He used to come in here and steal food. I knew it was for someone he was meeting. Didn’t know it was for the love of Nicky’s life. Nicky could have had anyone, but he chose her. Then that man stole her.” She looked at Jack as though it was his fault.
Jack would have liked to ask more questions but he didn’t think he’d get anywhere. It was better that he change the subject. “Where is Puck’s house?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She made Jack sound like a predator. “I—” He didn’t say any more because a phone on the wall rang and she grabbed it. With a look at Jack like he was a spy trying to find out her secrets, she stepped into the pantry and loudly shut the door behind her.
Jack’s first thought was If there is a murder in all this, I hope she did it. He’d like to see her in handcuffs. As he started to leave the big kitchen, the oven timer went off. He couldn’t let whatever was in there burn. He opened the oven door and pulled out three sheets full of little potpies. They looked delicious. With a quick glance at the closed pantry door, he wrapped four of them in a white kitchen towel. There were half a dozen bottles of wine on the counter by the door and he took one.
He didn’t run across the drive, but he certainly hurried.
Oxley Manor covered acres and there were buildings everywhere. Had there been people about, he would have asked directions but it was eerily deserted. There were fields with empty farm machinery. Houses with no signs of life.
Even if he found Puck’s house, he didn’t know if she’d be there.
When he came to a stone wall, a continuation of the one at the gate, he started to turn back. But then he saw a cemetery. The old headstones were covered in moss, the faces of angels blurred by time and weather.
At the end was a house. It was three stories tall, very narrow, with an octagon-shaped tower in the corner. At the bottom, almost hidden from view, was a pointed arch with an iron gate across it. It was not a place most people would want to enter, certainly not to live in. Jack had no doubt that it was Puck’s house.
He made his way through the gravestones. The names were mostly Renlow, third, fourth, eighth, etc, earl of Oxley. He
paused at one for a Nicholas, died 1996.
As he read the words about being a beloved son, a movement caught his eye. It was Puck standing in the doorway.
With a slight tilt of her head, she motioned for him to follow her inside.
When he got to the entrance, he saw that the gate could be locked. To get to the front door he had to go up a winding staircase. There was no way that someone could enter her house secretly.
He stopped at the top of the entry stairs and was in a tiny hallway with coat hooks and a bench. There was a heavy door—another security measure—standing ajar. He pushed it open and entered a large, light room with a kitchen at one end and a living area at the other. The rooms were separated by a huge oak table, which was covered with dried plants, spools of wire and string, and several pairs of pliers. On the walls were wreaths made of herbs. They were elaborate and beautiful works of art. No wonder they sold!
Puck was standing by the kitchen sink that was slate and big enough to bathe a calf. From the overhead rafters hung hundreds of tied bundles of herbs.
“This is beautiful,” Jack said.
Her face pinkened at his heartfelt compliment.
He held up his packet of pies. “I stole these from your mother. She’ll probably kill me, so let’s enjoy them before she ends my life.”
Puck gave a laugh that was a bit like the sound of bells. It was quite pleasing—and he guessed that it was rarely heard by anyone.
Jack held up the wine bottle. “You have any glasses?”
She did. She also had cheese and mustard, pickles and olives. She filled a basket, then led him through a room that had a glass roof. She used it as a greenhouse. Her plantings were thick and lush.
At the end was a door that opened into a garden. For all that the English complained about the weather, Jack loved it. It was cool, a bit damp; the sun was bright but not broiling. The plants certainly did love the climate. The garden was a feast of greens that ranged from gold to almost black. Around the perimeter were fruit trees that had been trained to create a fence. The smell was heavenly.
Next to the house was a pergola covered in grapevines, a table and chairs beneath them.
“Wow,” Jack said, as he put everything on the table. “This place is a knockout. And I’m guessing that all these plants are edible.”
“They are,” Puck said, as they sat down at the table.
Jack opened the bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“Will you tell me what happened?” Jack didn’t think he needed to explain what he was referring to.
Puck hesitated. “What have you been told so far?”
“Very little. Your mother said—I think I understand this—that Nicky was madly in love with Diana, but the night of the party she ran off with the horse guy. And by the way, he was a thief and I look just like him.”
He was watching Puck’s profile and could see the muscle in her jaw working. Good! Anger often brought out secrets in a person.
“Later,” he continued, “Nicky was so depressed at losing Diana that he smashed his car into a tree. Or maybe one of the other party guests murdered him. Or that’s just your mother’s theory. And Nicky’s father’s.”
He was watching her but she was silent.
“Do you know what happened to the two runaways? Sara searched but could find out nothing. Kate thought maybe they changed their names, got new identities, but that seems drastic. I know that what happened to Nicky was awful, but the world is full of brokenhearted lovers.”
Jack waited but Puck just sat in silence, her profile to him, her body rigid.
He tried to stamp down his annoyance but couldn’t. He stood up. “I thank you for lunch but I need to help Kate. She—”
“It’s not true,” Puck said.
He sat back down and refilled their wineglasses. “What isn’t?”
“All of it.” She looked at him. “What people think isn’t true.”
Jack repressed a groan. He hated language that didn’t say what was meant. “Was there foul play in Nicky’s death or not?”
“I doubt it. He drank too much and drove too fast. That night he drank a lot, then stole his father’s car because he’d smashed his own the week before. The police report said he was doing over eighty when he hit the tree.”
“So your mother...?”
“Romanticizes him,” Puck said. “She practically raised him and thought he could do no wrong.”
“But she—” Jack halted himself. Mrs. Aiken had actually raised Puck, her own daughter, but she hid in trees to escape the woman. “Your mother said Nicky’s father thought one of the others murdered him.”
“One of the Pack?”
Jack nodded. “Did everyone call them that?”
“Mostly. Bertie—Nicky’s father—wanted to blame anyone he could.”
“That’s normal. He must have loved his son and—”
Puck made a scoffing sound. “Bertram Renlow loved no one, certainly not his son.” She waved her hand. “None of this matters. It’s Sean who is important.”
“And Diana, since they ran away together.”
“No,” Puck said softly. “They didn’t.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
She started to answer but didn’t. “When the others get here, you’re going to ask them questions, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“They will lie. One of them will certainly do what he or she can to not tell the truth.”
He was staring at her. “You know something, don’t you? Has Sean contacted you? Do you know where he is? If you do, please tell us so we can leave here. Kate wants to see Great Britain, but we won’t leave Sara behind, and she won’t leave until she has proof that there is no mystery. A couple of lovers ran off together. They’re probably living on a sheep farm in New Zealand under new names because they didn’t want people called Nicky’s Pack to find them. I bet they have four grown kids now.”
When Puck didn’t smile at his jest, he knew she was hiding something. “Tell me what you know,” he said.
“Not now.” She stood up and began to clear the table, then stopped and looked hard at him. “Go and look at this place. At all of it. Keys for the little trucks are under the floor mats. Explore and see. Mrs. Guilford will be at dinner, but don’t talk about me.”
Jack knew he was being dismissed—and he knew when he was being given a message. There was something he was supposed to see on the estate.
He said goodbye and made his way out. He went back to the utility truck, found the key and drove around the estate.
Because Mrs. Aiken said that he reminded her of Sean, Jack was especially interested in the stables. He’d grown up working on cars, as his father and grandfather had done, but he wondered if, in a different time, his interest would have been horses.
The long, narrow stables were empty now, the stalls cleaned out, but they still had a feeling of the years they’d been used. He could imagine the place full of animals and people in riding suits.
The builder in him saw a way to convert the stalls into housing. He’d leave the stone walls, and especially leave the wooden floors that had been trampled and seasoned with decades of manure.
Smiling, he imagined some banker in a three-piece suit bragging about the patina of his floors.
Jack left the stables and went into the sunshine to further explore. He found a couple of foundations from demolished buildings. One looked as if it had burned down.
In the far corner of the estate was a closed-off area. A high fence had signs declaring danger and forbidding entry, saying it was a “wildlife preserve.” Jack wondered what nesting critters lived in there. He’d have to ask.
By the time he got back to the big house, he had a layout of the acreage in his mind.
Had he been through enough that he’d found whatever Puck wa
nted him to see? Or had he imagined her message?
For all his hours exploring, there wasn’t anything that stood out as unusual or mysterious. Maybe he should have climbed the fence of that place that was labeled “dangerous.” Maybe he’d do that tomorrow. But everything depended on when the Pack was going to arrive.
As Jack headed up the stairs, he knew he didn’t want to think of their arrival. Meeting Byon Lizmere was out of his realm of comfort. The man had written great music and even greater plays. The most magnificent singers in the world had performed his music at Carnegie Hall, Albert Hall, the MTV awards. Everywhere and everyone.
But I am supposed to sing for him, Jack thought as he headed for the shower.
Five
For dinner, Jack put on a clean white shirt and black dress trousers. He didn’t know if he should wear a tie or not or even a jacket. From the look of the house, people liked to pretend they were Edwardian aristocracy, so he might be required to wear a tux to dinner—which he had, thanks to Sara. His only thought was to find Kate. Sara was probably outside, on her belly in the grass snapping photos of some ugly bug, and Kate was likely to be knee-deep in dusty old diaries.
It took a while, but he found a door that opened to a narrow stone staircase that led upward. From the worn-down centers, he knew he was in the oldest part of the house. At the top, he found unrenovated rooms. They had faded Victorian wallpaper and old metal beds. Servants’ quarters.
“Bet Sara loves this,” he muttered as he went down two long hallways, past doors with number plates, came to the ends, then had to retrace his steps before he finally saw an open door. Kate was sitting in a fat chair with faded upholstery, a big book across her lap.
She smiled when she saw him. “Have any trouble finding this place?”
“None whatever.”
She laughed at his lie. “You look nice. Glad you cleaned up.”
“Anything for my ladies.” He stretched out on the bed and looked around. It was a very plain room with a small window and white cotton curtains. There was a stand with an old-fashioned bowl and water pitcher on it. The bed, the stand and the chair were the only furniture. “Bleak,” he said. “You make any progress in finding out anything?”
A Forgotten Murder Page 4