Death in an English Cottage: Book Two in the Murder on Location Series

by Sara Rosett

  A haphazardly folded map and a stack of papers were wedged into the gap between the passenger seat and the console. As Alex backed out, it all tumbled out and fell around my feet. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine.” I restacked the paper and was about to put it back, but Alex held out his hand. “Here. Let me get that out of your way.”

  As he drove with one hand on the wheel, he contorted his other arm around and shoved the pile into the miniscule crevice behind the seats. I glanced back and saw he’d stuffed many items back there. Papers and brochures, an umbrella, a squashed baseball cap, permanent markers, a pad of sticky notes, and a roll of tape were just the things I could see sticking up around the edges. He reached back for the map, which had unfurled when I picked up a corner, but I said, “I don’t think there’s room for it back there. At least, not in this state.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of criticism? You don’t approve of my storage system?” he asked, his face serious, but I knew him well enough now to see the tiny upturn of one corner of his mouth.

  I smoothed the map across my lap and folded it along the scored lines. “I’m not sure what you have could be called a system. Technically speaking.”

  “Oh, it’s a system. A highly evolved system.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have thought it. Looks rather haphazard.”

  “I won’t bother to explain it to you. Somehow, I don’t think you’d appreciate it.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ll only say that I can find anything I want back there within three seconds, but that won’t convince you. You’ll say it’s only luck. You wouldn’t be any more impressed with my storage system than I would be with your labels and cross-referencing. Neither one of us will convert the other, so I think we should each stick to our methods and be happy with that.”

  “Hmm. I do love labels. Actually, I’m a sucker for any office product.”

  We drove into Nether Woodsmoor, and he took the turn to Cottage Lane. “Good to know the way to your heart lies in staplers and file folders. Probably color-coded file folders, if I had to hazard a guess.”

  “Guilty. And I don’t apologize for it.” I folded the last section of the map. “There.” I put it back in the gap between the seat and the console. How did Alex and I slip into this banter so effortlessly? I glanced over my shoulder at the disarray stuffed behind the seats then to Alex in his wrinkled and creased oxford with his rumpled hair and stubble. Normally, clean-shaven guys appealed to me, but there was something about Alex’s unshaved look that I liked. It seemed masculine. We were so different, but I felt comfortable with him. It was…weird. He was everything I thought I didn’t want in a guy, and yet…

  He rolled to a stop in front of his cottage. He switched off the car then turned to me, his face serious. “Kate, there’s something—” He paused then started again. “I—you see—” He looked away from me and murmured something about getting it over with.

  “Um, no, I don’t see.” I tilted my head, worried because of his serious expression. “What is it?”

  He looked down at the map, then sighed. “Nothing.” He gave me a quick smile that crinkled the skin around his dark brown eyes. “Do you want to come in?”

  “No, I was planning to run back to my cottage and get my sunglasses.”

  “Right. Yes. Good. I’ll meet you back here then? At the car?”

  “Yes,” I replied, uncertainly. “Where else would I meet you?”

  “True. Very true.”

  I walked to Honeysuckle Cottage. What had just happened? Whatever it was had sucked the easy rapport right out of the atmosphere. I removed my sunglasses from the side pocket in my suitcase—right were I’d packed them. I wondered if Alex could find his as easily. Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be bantering about it on the way back.

  I heard the tinkling sound of breaking glass as I returned the suitcase to the storage area under the stairs. I paused, listening, but didn’t hear anything else. I hurried to the front door and cautiously opened it. Rafe, walking toward a rolling trash bin positioned at the curb, was the only person on the street.

  He held a dustpan. “Just a bottle that fell out of the wheelie bin.” He angled the dustpan with shards of glass toward me. “Completely my fault,” he said. “I wedged it in the side of the bin, but it fell out when I bumped the bin out here to the curb.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing more serious than that.” I glanced up and down the lane again.

  “Yes. We’re all a little on edge around here.”

  I nodded then said, “So tomorrow must be trash day.” A rolling bin was positioned near the curb in front of each cottage.

  “Yes, and they come to empty them at an ungodly hour of the morning. Best have yours out tonight.”

  “Right. Thanks for the tip. I’m not sure I have anything in mine. In fact, I’m not sure I even have a trash bin.”

  “Oh, I think all the cottages do. Mine was behind a hedge. Yours is probably the same.” He pointed to a hedge of about shoulder height that extended in an L-shape at one side of the cottage. I struggled with the lock on my front door until it clicked, then checked the hedge, and emerged with my own bin. It had a bag of trash in it, probably left over from either the last tenant or the cleaning of the cottage after she left. I bumped it down the little path to the curb. “I’m all set now.”

  “Excellent.” Rafe tilted the dustpan, and the glass shards jingled into the bin. He slapped the lid closed. “See you.”

  “I’d love to see the letters,” I called after him. I couldn’t let him disappear back inside without at least broaching the subject.

  His steps checked, and he looked back over his shoulder. “What letters?”

  “The Jane Austen letters.”

  I think he tried to laugh, but it came out sounding more like he’d choked. “Jane Austen letters? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. You can tell me. I’m working for the production company. I’ll keep your secret. I’d really love to see the lost Austen letters.”

  He glanced up and down the street quickly, a horrified look on his face, then he closed the distance between us, coming to stand beside my trash bin. “How did you find out?”

  “Word gets around on a set.”

  Rafe looked skyward. “You’ve been here less than a day.”

  “Yes, but I’m interested in Austen. I heard you had some exclusive material, and I asked a few questions. Most people wouldn’t do that—or even care, actually.” Most people liked Austen’s books and the adaptations of her work, but they weren’t as enthusiastic as I was.

  Rafe put an arm on the lid of the bin and leaned against it. “I was given promises. People signed confidentiality agreements. And they made me sign confidentiality agreements. Obviously, I’m not the weak link in the chain when it comes to secrecy.”

  “It’s okay.” I put a hand on his arm, envisioning him complaining to Elise, and her blaming his anger on me. “I’m not about to say a word to anyone outside the production, and the people who told me—well, they didn’t understand the significance of what you have. I didn’t believe them until I saw your reaction.”

  Rafe let out a snort. “I gave the game away, did I?” His initial anger was gone, and now he sounded dismayed. “That’s a lesson for me.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “I don’t have them here.”

  “But they’ll need to be filmed for the documentary. I’m sure Elise will want shots of them,” I said, thinking of those super slow motion close-ups of papers—usually an incriminating letter or report—that was used on news programs to provide a visual while a voiceover described the contents.

  “Of course, but they are too valuable to drag around in my luggage. No, they are under lock and key.”

  “A safety deposit box?”

  Rafe pushed away from the bin and shook a finger at me. “Oh, no. You’ll get nothing else out of me.”

  I sighed. “
You can’t blame me for trying.”

  “No, but from now on, my lips are sealed. I’m as quiet as a grave. And I’d appreciate it if you were, too.”

  “Of course. We all have a stake in the documentary and want it to be a success. And what you have will make news.” I shook my head. “Oh, my gosh. Think of the headlines. You better get a publicist if you don’t already have one. You’re going to be swamped.”

  “Hmm…I’ll begin practicing now. No comment. Good-bye, Kate.”

  We are in the home stretch of the day now, I thought, as I watched our Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy pause beside a fountain and kiss. The actors ran through the scene three more times before the sun dropped so low in the sky that the light changed to the point that they couldn’t film anymore. If only love were that simple, endless do-overs until everything was exactly perfect…and if it wasn’t perfect, then there was always editing.

  The actors left to change, and the crew began to pack up their equipment. I got to work, cleaning up the area, definitely the least glamorous part of location management. The sun had dipped behind the highest tree branches and the woods were already deep in shadow by the time we finished.

  I dropped into Alex’s MG with a sigh. “I’m wiped.” I was too tired to care whether or not the slightly strained atmosphere that I’d felt earlier between us still existed.

  “Long day,” Alex said. “Especially, considering it’s only your second day here.”

  As I agreed, I felt something catch on the heel of my shoe. I reached down and picked up a black hair scrunchy from the floorboard. I held it out to Alex. “You really do have everything in here.”

  “Ah—right.” He tucked it into a storage compartment on his door. “You sure that’s not yours?”

  “Nope. Not mine.”

  “Must have fallen out of someone’s pocket when I gave them a ride. It’s quite popular, this car.”

  “It’s cute,” I murmured through a yawn. “I can see why people would want to hitch a ride.”

  I must have nodded off because I had no memory of the short trip through the winding hedge-lined lanes back to Nether Woodsmoor. I only started and sat up straight when Alex hit the brakes. “Sorry,” he said. “They’ve closed our street.”

  Police tape stretched across the only entrance to Cottage Lane.

  I was closest to a uniformed constable, so I rolled down my window. “Excuse me, can we get through? We live here.”

  “Sorry, no. Not until the investigation is complete.”

  “Investigation?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A fire.”

  “In one of the cottages?” I asked, picturing my tiny suitcase and my meager belongings going up in smoke.

  “No, in a wheelie bin.”

  “Oh. Well, how long to you think until we can get in?”

  “Couldn’t say. Possibly another hour. If you’re residents, you can park and walk in on the path that goes along the back gardens.

  “All right. Thank you.” I cranked the handle, rolling up the window—the car was an antique and didn’t have anything automatic in it.

  Alex put the car in reverse and backed out the way we’d arrived. “I know where we can park.” He drove down the high street then took another turn. “There’s a car park here.” He checked before turning in. “Yes, there are some parking spaces.” He whipped the little car into one of the last spaces. “It’s the beginning of one of the bike trails.” We got out, and he locked the car then I followed him to a sign posted at the back of the lot with a map of the area. We walked by the sign, and he gestured to the right. “It goes over to Upper Benning. Quite a good ride, actually. Very scenic.” He turned to the much smaller trail on the left. “This one meets up with the path that runs behind the cottages.”

  “This place is like a rabbit warren with all the paths across the countryside. How do you keep them all straight?”

  “You get used to it. The paths are handy shortcuts, and everyone likes a shortcut, right?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  We reached the back gardens of the first cottage. In the small openings between the cottages, we were able to see a group of people, some of them in police uniform, moving around a plastic rolling bin with smoke drifting out of it. Twilight was fading, but there was still enough light to see the activity on the lane.

  We watched for a few moments. Things seemed to be wrapping up. The constable who’d spoken to us was taking down the police tape.

  “Beatrice assured me this was a nice, safe area.”

  “It is. Usually.” Alex frowned. “This vandalism streak came on suddenly. In the last few weeks.”

  “Has it been all over the village?”

  “I believe so. It seems random, but I haven’t been paying that much attention to it.” He shook his head. “Hard to understand why someone would do that—willful destruction of property. And that bin was close to the cottage. It could have set the whole thing on fire. At least, this seems to have gotten the police’s attention in a big way.”

  “Well, a fire is more serious than throwing rocks.”

  “Yes, someone could have been hurt quite badly.”

  Alex let out a sigh. “Hopefully, they’ll catch them and then we can get back to being the sleepy village where nothing happens. Are you up for dinner tonight?”

  “Yes. I haven’t even bought cereal yet.” We resumed walking.

  “How about something different? Do you like Chinese?” Alex asked.

  I stopped at the gate to my cottage. “Yes. Love it.”

  “Okay, there’s a good place across from the White Duck. Let’s go there.”

  “Sounds great. Twenty minutes?” I asked, looking at my watch. It was seven. “I may not be able to stay awake much longer.”

  “Sure.”

  I stepped in and closed the gate, but it was rusty and didn’t want to fasten. I struggled with it for a moment. What was it with the latches and locks here? Another person, a young woman in a pale green jacket with light blond hair, was moving down the lane.

  I felt a little silly standing there banging the gate repeatedly, trying to get the catch to fasten, so I smiled at her. She smiled back and continued on down the lane a few paces behind Alex. The latch finally clicked into place, and I headed up the little path to the cottage, pausing for a second to scan the twining rose vines just beginning to bud that climbed up the mellow stone. Around me, the flowerbeds gave off a rich earthy scent. I couldn’t quite believe how lucky I was—I was staying in an English cottage.

  I popped the last bite of my eggroll appetizer into my mouth and leaned to the side, peering out the Bamboo Garden’s window, trying to see where Alex had gone. Earlier, I had showered and changed into a white camp shirt and a fresh pair of jeans because the English evenings still felt cool to me after the boiling desert heat of California. Alex had met me in front of my cottage, and we’d walked to the Chinese restaurant. I was seated at a window table that overlooked the high street, waiting for Alex to return from stepping outside to take a phone call.

  The call had come in right after we ordered, and he’d been gone quite awhile. I hadn’t seen the name on the caller I.D., but I wondered if the call was from Grace. Alex and I had been at dinner together another time when he had taken a call from someone named Grace. He’d quickly stepped outside that time, too.

  The breeze from the opening door stirred the leaves on the bamboo plant on the table as he returned. “I’m sorry that took so long.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine.” Our food arrived, cashew chicken for me and combination fried rice for Alex. The Bamboo Garden was located directly across the street from the pub. I’d been watching a steady stream of people arrive while I waited for Alex, and now I caught sight of Rafe, leaving the library, which was at the other end of the street, his leather messenger bag slung across his chest. He walked to the pub while talking on his phone then took a seat by the window inside the pub.

 
I raised my eyebrows in the direction of the White Duck. “I asked Rafe about,” I glanced around the busy restaurant and lowered my voice, “that thing we discussed last night. At first, he acted like he didn’t understand.”

  Alex deftly picked up a cluster of rice with his chopsticks. “But I bet you got him to admit it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you in action. When you’re determined to accomplish something, there’s no stopping you.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

  Alex grinned and chewed.

  “Anyway, I found out he does have them, but not here with him. He says they are in a safe place.”

  “And you’re dying to see them.”

  “Of course! Aren’t you? Don’t you want to see,” I leaned forward and whispered, “letters in Jane Austen’s handwriting?”

  Alex chewed and shrugged half-heartedly.

  “I can’t believe it. You don’t care?”

  He swallowed and took a sip of his drink before answering. “Sure, I’d like to see them. It would be interesting, but it’s not going to change anything, is it? She’ll still be a famous author. Her books will still be the same.”

  I fell back against my chair. “You obviously haven’t spent much time in academia.”

  “No,” he said completely without remorse. “I did two years of college in the States, but I was much more interested in snowboarding. The whole university thing seemed a waste of time to me, especially philosophy. I know that’s terrible to say. Maybe it was my professor, but it all seemed like a bunch of hogwash to me. Something is here or it’s not. None of that reality and shadows of reality for me. Math, English, history, science, I get that, but the rest of it? Too esoteric for me.”

  “Well, esoteric or not, the academic world will go nuts when the news breaks, not to mention pop culture. It will be huge, especially if it answers questions about Austen’s personal life. She and her sister were close, and we only know about a few of Jane’s encounters with men because they happened when she and Cassandra were apart. She wrote to her with the details, but there’s so much we don’t know. Austen agreed to marry a wealthy man one night then broke off the engagement the next morning. Why? And her relatives mentioned an attachment later in life that never came to be—what happened to him. Did he die? There’s been movies made—feature films—speculating about her love life and relationships. If we could really know what happened…it would be…” I trailed off at a loss for words.