Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4)

by Lynn Morrison

  Hearing the rumbles coming from my side of the table, Edward leaps to his feet and offers to retrieve my plate from the warming oven. H lends a hand, and soon enough I've got a full meal and tall glass of cold water sitting in front of me.

  Seeing the two men squirming in their seats, I send them off to entertain themselves. "I'm going to eat this food, have a hot shower and then fall into bed. The garden is yours to defend. All I ask is that you keep it down to a dull roar."

  "Done!" H shouts and then darts out of the dining room as fast as his wings will carry him.

  With the men occupied in the garden, I turn the tablet in my direction and scroll through the video options until I see something of interest. A nature documentary on deadly predators seems oddly appropriate. I hit the play button and tune out the sounds of Edward and H huffing away in the garden while I enjoy my dinner.

  Edward tromps through the room once, carrying a load of wooden scraps on his way back. I go to my zen place, forcing myself to ignore whatever is happening outside.

  After I finish, I move onto the next step in my plan. Heated shouts and banging noises abound, overpowering the pitter patter of the shower head. The noise takes me back a few months, to the evening Edward and I attended a High Table dinner at St Margaret. Who'd have thought that only a short time in the future, Edward and H would be working together, fighting against a common enemy… or that it would be a huddle of tabbies and marmalade cats living in our neighbourhood.

  The setting sun casts a reddish light into my bedroom as I slip into my pyjamas. I open the window, letting the cool evening air into the room. Curiosity gets the better of me.

  Leaning out of the window, I search the garden, finally spotting Edward and H hiding beside the garden shed. "Everything all right down there?"

  "Ssshhhhh!" they reply, in unison. H hovers above the ground, scanning the area for any intruders before flying up to greet me. "We got everything set up, Nat. Ya need ta be quiet, we don't want ta scare tha tossers off from coming by, especially now that we 'ave our defences ready."

  When I look confused, H explains, pointing around the garden. "See that bucket over thar? Iffen those muggins leap onta tha fence, it'll tumble over. That will pull tha string ya see and cause tha water hose ta turn on and spray everywhere. After that…"

  I flap my hands, halting him there. "I think I'll sleep better if I don't know how many traps you've put out in the garden. If you're done, is Edward coming to bed soon?"

  H flaps back, affronted by my question. "Goin' ta bed? Not bloody likely, mate. We'll stay out 'ere all night iffen that's what it takes."

  I shake my head, laughing to myself and wondering whether Edward knows the siege will go on for hours. "And on that note, I'm off to find my earplugs. Have fun defending the castle."

  Still hovering in front of the window, H clicks his heels together and executes a perfect salute.

  I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

  Chapter Eight

  I wake up, morning sunlight streaming in through windows. Edward's side of the bed is cold, the covers still neat and tidy.

  "Did they actually stay out all night?" I ask the room, but no one answers. Avoiding the creaky step, I tiptoe downstairs and into the front room. The blinds have been drawn leaving the room dark.

  I spot Edward first. He is spread across the sofa, his feet dangling over the edge, snoring away like a steam train. I check H's cat bed, but it is empty. Worried, I begin searching the room, creeping across the wooden floor so I can see every corner. Finally, I spot a trickle of smoke trailing into the air. Little H has practically disappeared, his body rolled into a tight circle to allow him to fit between the sofa cushion and Edward's bent knees.

  I think to myself that a loving partner would drape a blanket over their sleeping forms, but I immediately discard that idea for a better one. My handbag sits abandoned at the front door, exactly where I left it. A quick rummage through yields my mobile. I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling as I take a photo of the pair and post it in my group chat with Kate, Mathilde, and Harry. The emojis I get in reply confirm I made the right choice.

  Not wanting to disturb my valiant defenders, I decide to skip breakfast and go straight back to my bedroom to get ready. After a final glance to reconfirm they are still asleep, I slip out the front door and turn towards Somerset.

  It is early enough that the roads are still quiet. A haze hangs over the city, obscuring any view of the crinolined towers of the colleges. It matches my mood. Although I got a goodnight's rest, I'm no closer to figuring out who could be the poisoner.

  On the walk into the centre, I weigh my options on whom to interview next. Caleb is a top choice, but getting him alone and out of character won't be easy. There's also Joyce, a couple of the lighting techs, and Marcello to consider. Although the video footage has helped narrow the list of potential suspects, it is still longer than I'd like, particularly given I've got to fit interviews around my work and filming schedule. And what if it turns out to be a red herring? I'll have wasted so much time looking in the wrong direction. I need more information than what the camera captured.

  Thinking about the footage triggers a thought in the back of my head. "The camera crew! Of course! Anything the camera caught, they may have seen as well. If they were moving around, potentially they had an even better view."

  Donald is once again standing guard at the front entrance, his wide shoulders enough to make any intruder have second thoughts. We're on a first name basis by now, but he still checks my ID against the approved list before letting me inside.

  "Any word on Vivian?" I ask as he scans the list of names.

  He glances up and gives me a weak smile. "Still hanging in there, as far as I know. From what I heard through the grapevine, there isn't much the doctors can do except keep her comfortable. Only time will tell whether she can fight off the effects of the poison."

  His words cast a pall over our friendly banter, each of us, in our own way, feeling responsible for Vivian's desperate situation. The sad look in Donald's eyes compels me to reach across and lay a hand on his arm. "She'll recover, Donald. She just has to get better."

  Donald gives me a grateful nod and then shakes off the doldrums as we hear another group of people coming up the front path. "You're all set, Nat. Go on in."

  I beeline across the inner courtyard and through the arched stone walkway. On the far side, the back garden is still relatively quiet. Sam waves from the Craft Services trailer and holds up a coffee cup. The thought of coffee distracts me from my plan to go directly to the camera crew trailer. I justify the delay by deciding a jolt of caffeine will make me a better interrogator.

  As Sam steams the milk, I eye the lavish display of fresh pastries and muffins. The sheer volume of options overwhelms me.

  "Here you are, Nat. One extra hot latte. You're here early this morning."

  "Thanks, Sam. I was hoping to catch the camera crew before they set up today's shoot. I'm desperate and also terribly nervous to see yesterday's takes so I find out how I did."

  "You must have inherited that gene from your uncle. He also likes to start the day with a review of the prior day's footage. If I'm not mistaken, he's in their trailer now."

  "Really?" I debate whether to wait until my uncle leaves, but decide having him there might be a help. "Have they had any breakfast yet?"

  "No. Want me to plate up a selection of pastries for you to take in with you?"

  "Yes, please," I say, pleased to not have to decide which item I want. "Put a few extras on there in case people want to have more than one."

  Sam gives me a knowing look, not at all fooled by my attempt to cover up my desire to gorge myself on the baked goods. But he leaves the snarky remark unspoken, passing me a heaping plate, and sending me on my way.

  It takes me a second of juggling to manage the coffee, plate, and the trailer door handle, but somehow, I manage. Indeed, my Uncle Harold is sitting dead centre in the room, the camera team spread
on either side of him. The camera trailer is one of the smaller ones, and most of the space inside is taken up by displays and equipment storage bins. All eyes turn my way as I breeze inside, annoyance quickly turning to delight as the smells of fresh croissants fill the tight space.

  "Why am I not surprised to see you here this early?" Harold asks, motioning for one of the men to pull up an extra chair. "And delivering breakfast as well. You remind me of your grandmother. She was always feeding everyone."

  I give my uncle a wink. "If I promise not to tell Dominic you cheated on your diet, will you let me watch yesterday's takes in exchange for a pain au chocolat?"

  He pretends to mull over my question, but we both know he is a sucker for the flaky, gooey pastries. "Andy, pull up the clips!"

  Before long, the trailer is filled with lively banter, as the camera crew pokes fun at my failed acting attempts. Thank goodness I have no dreams of achieving fame on the big screen, because most of my takes range from mediocre to downright horrendous. One of them is so hilarious, I make Andy edit it into a meme for me so I can send it to my friends.

  When the laughter dies down, Harold gets serious. "Now that you've seen what has been left on the cutting room floor, do you want to see the end result?"

  I cross, uncross, and recross my legs, so nervous, I am barely able to nod.

  Andy closes the outtakes folder and navigates to a different part of the screen. A couple of clicks later, the video player opens, starting with a close-up of Caleb and Gideon, puffing on pipes in their roles as Wren and Wilkins. The scene unfolds, the camera gradually sliding back to allow a wider view of the screen. A knock sounds at the door and Wilkins calls out a command to enter. It's a servant woman, with a dusty bucket and rag in hand. Wilkins waves her into the room, with an order to be quick about her work.

  I can't take my eyes off the servant, even though I know it is me. On screen, I move silently around the room, the men immediately forgetting about my presence as they return to their discussions. I can hear Molly's voice in my head as I watch myself dust the shelf and straighten the books before moving to the table in between the men. Wren is the one who makes the request for a drink. Moments later, I reappear, keeping my gaze low as I deposit the tray on the table and back out of the room, dismissed.

  "If I didn't recognise myself, I would swear you replaced me with a real actor. How did you manage it? It must be the magic of the editing room. You can tell me the truth; I won't be offended."

  Harold chuckles. "Your early takes were terrible, as you've seen for yourself. But after Gideon asked for the ten-minute break, things improved dramatically. I think part of the problem was in the scripting. The instructions to cross the room were too abrupt, and you kept distracting the viewers from the focus of the scene. What made you decide to add in those extra touches — dusting and straightening the shelves and that sort of thing?"

  I shrug, taking my time before answering and coming as close to the truth as I dare. "I don't know what happened. Maybe I channeled the original laundress or something."

  My uncle searches my face, somehow sensing that I'm hiding something from him. He knows me too well. I make extra sure to keep my expression completely neutral. Eventually, he huffs, "Well, whatever you did, do it again, but ideally a bit sooner, okay?"

  "Ha! Will do, Uncle Harold." I help myself to another croissant, making it clear I'm not quite ready to go yet. "Speaking of yesterday's shoot, I noticed Gideon and Caleb exchanging harsh whispers. Do Wilkins and Wren have a falling out planned in the script, or has Gideon finally had enough of Caleb's method acting?"

  My uncle gives me a strange look, wondering where I'm going with this discussion. I wag my eyebrows at him, silently communicating for him to play along. I expect my uncle to reply, to keep the conversation going, but it is Andy on the camera crew who pipes up instead.

  "I agree there is something going on between those two, but I don't think Caleb's annoying behaviour is causing it."

  Sabrina, the camera woman sitting beside Andy, throws her hands in the air, grumbling, "Not again with your conspiracy theories, Andy." I narrow my gaze, glaring the woman into being quiet.

  I twist my chair, turning until I'm looking straight at Andy. He gulps as I lean forward, subtly inviting him to confide in me. "Tell me what you think is going on, Andy."

  Andy rubs the back of his neck and shifts in his chair, glancing to my uncle for approval before responding. "Back me up here, mates. When we started blocking scenes early in the production, Caleb and Gideon got along just fine. In between takes, they were always running lines and walking through their movements, remember?"

  Sabrina rolls her eyes but doesn't contradict him.

  Empowered by Sabrina's silence, Andy sits up straighter in his chair. "Gideon would grumble about Caleb, but it was always a good-natured complaint. He'd never admit it, but I think Gideon actually appreciated how reliable Caleb was. Haven't you all noticed that Caleb never flubs a line? His method might seem unorthodox, but it clearly works for him."

  "That's true," Uncle Harold adds, giving Andy another boost of confidence. "I knew all about Caleb's preferred way of working before we cast him. He throws himself into his roles and the end results speak for themselves."

  "Okay, so things started off fine but presumably changed at some point." I shift my focus to Andy. "I guess this is where your theory comes in?"

  "Shortly after Vivian joined the cast, their dynamics changed. I noticed it in Gideon first. I was getting the camera ready for filming, adjusting the lens and that sort of thing. I happened to zoom in where Gideon was standing. He was staring at Vivian and Caleb, with his jaw clenched so hard you could see it tick. I elbowed Sabrina, to show her, but by the time she glanced over, his expression was back to one of casual indifference."

  Sabrina throws her hands in the air. "I'm sorry, Andy, but I think you are seeing things. I've watched Gideon enough, we all have. I've seen plenty of signs of his annoyance with Caleb, but outright hate?" She shakes her head and flattens her lips.

  Sensing a potential dispute, Harold steps in and points out the time, reminding us we need to get back to work if we want to make call time. As I gather up the plate and dirty napkins, my mind is spinning. Sabrina may think Andy is imagining things, but I believe him. The interaction I saw between the two actors yesterday did not look like a case of simple annoyance. Nor do I think Gideon would waste his breath trying to convince Caleb to abandon his approach to acting.

  I'd been thinking to speak with Joyce next, but Gideon Pomerance just moved to the top of my list.

  ❖

  I wonder if fate has a different plan in mind when Joyce flags me down as soon as I exit the camera crew's trailer.

  "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you." Joyce sprints up beside me, thrusting a bunch of papers at me so she can massage a stitch in her side. She swipes her long fringe out of her face and explains, "I've got your next batch of scenes from the writing team. They thought you might appreciate having a full day to practise before shooting begins."

  "Wow, twenty-four whole hours! Yes, please." I resist the urge to flip through the pack, instead rolling them up and shoving them into my handbag. "Thanks for going to such an effort to find me."

  "No worries, it's literally my job." She straightens up, breathing normally again, and pulls her phone from her pocket to check her next task.

  "You don't happen to know the filming schedule for today?"

  "Yes, I do," she replies, opening another app on her phone. "Let me see… Gideon is up first this morning, filming his solo scenes. We've got an hour break for lunch and the afternoon is marked off for Caleb's solos and finally more B-roll shots."

  "Perfect!" I start to say something else, but Joyce looks up from her phone with a grimace and makes her apologies for having to dash off.

  I check my own phone, but there's no word yet from Edward. He and H must still be recuperating from their nighttime antics. My calendar is empty until early af
ternoon when I'm due to regroup with Will and Jill to see how they are getting on with their event plans. I wing off a quick message to Edward, telling him I expect a full report when he comes to pick me up for lunch.

  With Gideon tied up in filming, only one thing remains to be done: my scenes. After grabbing a coffee refill from Sam, I settle at one of the picnic tables and unfurl the roll of papers.

  The sight of the thick stack of papers makes my throat go tight, but I soon realise it isn't as bad as it seems. Most of the text is the dialogue. I fish a pack of hi-lighters from my handbag, using the bright colours to break out my actions from those of everyone else. Skimming over the colour-coded lines, I soon grow bored. The actions are bland and obvious. 'Carry a basket of laundry' or 'Hang clothing on the line'. Even though I'm nothing more than an insignificant extra in the film, Molly the Laundress deserves better.

  A spark flickers, turning to a full-on fire in my belly. This simply won't do and there is only one way to solve it. I crumple my empty takeaway cup and toss it into the bin, striding off to track down the woman herself.

  I find her in her vegetable garden, sitting on her knees with her hands in the dirt, mumbling under her breath words of encouragement for her tiny green sprouts, newly shooting from the ground.

  "Morning, Molly. I can see you're busy with some very important tasks, but I wonder if you might be able to spare an hour or two for me."

  Molly leans back onto her heels, squinting her eyes against the summer sun. "I've been talking to these plants for generations, so I suppose they can survive for a day without me babying to them. What do you need?"

  I size up the shady bench, but the call to absorb some vitamin D is too strong. Instead, I stake out a small patch of grass nearby, stretching my legs out. "Tell me what you did when you were the laundress. Alive, that is," I clarify.

  Molly tilts her head, wondering where I'm going with my question. "I gathered up the linens and washed and dried them. Sometimes I'd tidy up after the men and boys. On special occasions, I helped out in the kitchen."