by Sara Rosett
I swallowed the defensive reply that came to my lips and instead gave her a quick summary of what had happened.
“So there’s no way to use the location?” she asked.
“No, the fire totally destroyed the front room, and the whole cottage is a crime scene because of the body they found.”
Melissa stopped stirring her tea, Felix looked up from his phone, and Paul’s pen hovered over his clipboard.
“I thought you would have heard,” I said.
“That news hadn’t traveled as far as Upper Benning,” Elise said. “Do they know who it was?”
“No, they haven’t been able to identify the body. A young woman in her twenties is all they know now.”
“Accident or murder?”
“Murder,” I said.
“And Mr. Farraday is embroiled in this?” Elise said, her tone tinged with distaste.
“I don’t know. He was stunned when the police told him about the body.” I looked toward Alex, who nodded his agreement as he passed me a cup of coffee.
I took a long sip. I still wasn’t fully adjusted to the time change, and getting up this morning had felt like I was dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night. As Alex raised his coffee cup to his lips, he murmured the word, “Letters?” so low that only I could hear him.
I gave a warning shake of my head. There was no way I was breaking the news to Elise that the Jane Austen letters had gone up in the fire. That was something that Rafe could tell her himself.
Alex sent me a half smile before drinking from his cup. He understood.
Elise’s voice snapped my attention back to her. “We need another location. I suppose we could use the library at Parkview Hall.” She tapped her pen on the table.
“The library is off limits to filming,” Alex said.
“What?” Elise said.
“It’s in the contract. Sir Harold was worried about the damage the lights could do to the books. It was one of the tradeoffs we made to get Parkview Hall.”
Elise wrinkled her lips to one side. “Yes, I remember that bit,” she said reluctantly. “Seemed a good thing at the time. Well, I suppose we could run him up to London and interview him with the other experts next week.”
“Not if he’s a murder suspect,” Felix said.
Elise pinned her gaze on Felix. “He’s a suspect?”
Felix didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny. “Dead body found in his burnt-out cottage? The police may not want him scampering off to London…or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Elise frowned. “That’s true. If he did have something to do with it, we need to find out. A large portion of the hook for this documentary depends on Rafe Farraday and his material.” Elise swiveled her focus to me. “Find out if he’s involved, and get us a new location, somewhere nearby with lots of books in the background for his interview. We’ll carry on as if everything is fine unless you find something that indicates he’s going to be implicated in the murder. If that’s the case, we’ll have to drop him.” Elise picked up a piece of paper. “Which would be a shame because he comes across so well on camera, but if he’s a murderer, well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. Better to cut ties now than have the whole project tainted. All right, moving on to today’s schedule. We start at noon to catch the best light in the drawing room windows at Parkview Hall—”
I cut in quickly, “But you’d need a private detective for something like that. There’s no way that I can—”
Elise slapped the paper down. “Our budget doesn’t include private detectives, and you apparently have a knack for that sort of…” she circled her hand in the air “…thing. It seems you’re the perfect person for it. Oh yes, we’ve all heard about what happened last time you were in Nether Woodsmoor. You’re quite the little celebrity here. I suggest you get to it immediately. Alex can handle the shoot this afternoon. Find out what you can about Rafe Farraday and send a scouting report for possible new interview locations.”
I sat a moment, feeling a bit like Alice talking to the Queen of Hearts.
Elise had picked up her paper again. When I didn’t move, she tilted her head, inquiringly. “Problem?”
She was looking for an excuse to fire me. I needed this job. I had nothing lined up back in California, job-wise. And no place to live. My lease had expired this month. Since I had planned to move to a new apartment anyway, I’d given up my apartment and put most of my things in storage in California.
A return to the States would mean moving in with my mother, at least temporarily. I loved my mom, but I didn’t want to go back to fighting off her constant attempts to fix me up with eligible men. Anyone who was male and had a pulse qualified for that category in my mother’s opinion.
And, I really wanted to stay in England for a while.
The misgivings I’d felt when I first arrived had faded. I liked my snug cottage and the unrelenting green landscape, which was so different from the dusty gray-brown hills of Southern California. I liked listening to the cadence of the British accent in all its varieties. I liked the quieter more rural lifestyle in Nether Woodsmoor, well, except for the vandalism and the murder, but those things weren’t the norm. They were aberrations. I hadn’t even had a chance to explore the trails and paths on my own. I loved hiking and wanted to get out and have a good “ramble,” as the Brits called it, among the hills and valleys around the village.
“No. No problem at all.” I stood and settled my tote bag on my shoulder. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”
I strode away, head held high, and got to the inn’s door before I realized I was going to have to spoil my exit by crawling back and asking for a car. I turned and found Alex a few strides behind me. “Take my car.” He handed me his keys. “I can catch a ride with someone here out to Parkview Hall. We’ll go directly there in a little while to get started with set-up.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You have your International Driver’s Permit. You’re fully qualified to drive in the U.K.”
He grinned at me as he echoed my words from earlier today, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “That is true. I’ll be careful.”
“Oh, and you might check Grove Cottage. I’m pretty sure that’s where Rafe went last night after the fire. When I left, he was calling Becca, asking if she could come pick him up.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Sounds like a good place to start.”
Despite having an International Driver’s Permit, I was a bit rusty in the area of driving a car with a standard transmission. I was glad the inn’s parking lot was deserted as I lurched into gear and merged onto the road that would take me to Becca’s cottage. I remembered the way from my last visit to Nether Woodsmoor. It wasn’t far, but by the time I neared Grove Cottage, a fine sheen of sweat covered my face. I had to fight my instinct to drive on the right. At every roundabout I gripped the steering wheel and chatted the mantra I’d used when I drove the last time I was in England, stay left, stay left.
I saw the gates to Grove Cottage and breathed a sigh of relief. They were open, thank goodness, which meant I wouldn’t have to do that tricky half gas pedal, half clutch maneuver to keep the car from rolling back down the hill while I spoke into an intercom. I hit the gas and accelerated up the hill to the gates with a burst of speed. My seat suddenly slid back, slamming into the position farthest away from the steering wheel, jerking my hands off the wheel and leaving my toes just brushing the pedals. I flailed there for a moment, trying to inch my way forward. The little MG sailed through the gates, crested the hill, and began the immediate descent down a steep slope that allowed me to scoot forward to the edge of the seat and get my hands firmly on the wheel as I applied the brake, coming to a stop on the gravel sweep beside a dark sedan near the front door of the two-story yellow house.
I put on the parking brake and took a moment to let my heartbeat calm down. Once I wasn’t breathing like I’d just run sprints, I adjusted the seat, pulling it back
into position, then pressed my feet against the floorboard, trying to push it back. It held for a moment then flew back to the far position again. Alex had long legs. I’d had to adjust the seat forward when I got in the car. I bet he always drove with the seat in the setting the farthest away from the steering wheel. He might not even be aware that the seat didn’t completely lock out in the other slot. I gingerly returned it to the position closer to the steering wheel and got out of the car.
Located in a valley and backed by a woodland, Grove Cottage had been on the list of potential locations for the Pride and Prejudice film. “Cottage” was a misnomer for the building. I followed the maid who had opened the door through the entry, which was larger than all of Honeysuckle Cottage, and around a large table with a vase of flowers so tall and extravagant that the center blooms almost touched the chandelier suspended above them.
The house was quiet, and the maid’s heels clicked loudly along the hardwood floors until we reached the plush rug covering the floor of a sitting room, which was decorated in pale yellow, cream, and pastel green. I took a seat on a Queen Anne wingback chair upholstered in a green and cream lattice pattern. I sat with my knees swiveled to one side, my feet together, and my hands in my lap. It was the sort of room that made you feel like you had to be on your best behavior.
Books and framed photos were spread across gleaming hardwood tables in seemingly casual arrangements, but every pillow was plumped to maximum fullness, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. It looked so perfect that I felt as if I had walked into a Country Home article.
The day was beautiful, and the windows were open to the cool morning air. The sound of voices drifted in through the windows. I’d taken out my phone to check my messages, but then a voice spoke, and my head came up. I’d heard that voice earlier this morning.
I moved to the open window and saw Quimby’s suited figure seated in a wicker chair on a flagstone terrace at the side of the house, his back to the windows. Across from him, Rafe and Becca sat on a matching sofa. Becca tilted her red-gold head to listen to the murmur from the maid. Even this far away, I could tell that Becca was less than pleased to hear my name. She sighed impatiently and waved the maid away, then turned back to Quimby. Apparently, I was a guest who could be kept waiting.
I moved to the window closest to them and could hear Quimby saying, “…when did you last open the cupboard under the stairs?”
Rafe shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. Weeks ago probably. What has that got to do with anything?” He had one arm flung along the back of the sofa behind Becca’s shoulders. His other elbow rested on the arm of the sofa. His shoulders tilted in the direction of his bent arm as he propped his head against his hand. He looked tired, but not especially worried. Had Quimby not told him the woman who died in his cottage had been murdered?
“It’s where the body was found.”
Becca huffed and inched closer to Rafe. “I can’t believe you’re asking these types of questions. Of course, Rafe doesn’t know a thing about this…person.”
“Woman,” Quimby corrected. “A young woman, mid-twenties, about five-feet-three inches tall. One-hundred-sixty centimeters.”
Becca’s face settled into sulky lines. “See? Far to young for Rafe.”
“Perhaps one of your students?” Quimby asked.
“No. I haven’t seen anyone I know from the United States here. I’m on sabbatical, after all. Getting away from my normal routines, you know.”
“So you haven’t been visited or contacted by a student recently?”
I blew out a long breath. It seemed that Felix was right, that Quimby was seriously considering Rafe as a possible suspect.
“No.”
Quimby handed a piece of paper to Rafe. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Rafe frowned at the paper. “No. I’m sorry.”
Becca looked it over, a sour expression on her face. “Tolerable, but nothing special. I doubt if I’d remember her if I had seen her. But, in any case, no, that person doesn’t look familiar to me either.”
“Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?”
Rafe lifted his head away from his hand, and his relaxed posture disappeared. “What is this? It was some sort of bizarre accident, wasn’t it?”
“We’re assessing the whereabouts of everyone in the neighborhood yesterday.”
“It was murder, then. And you think I did it,” he said in a tone of wonderment.
“This is absurd,” Becca sputtered. She reached for her cell phone, which was on a wicker table beside the sofa. “Don’t say another word. I’ll call my solicitor.”
Rafe put a hand on her arm, but didn’t look at her. He fixed his attention on Quimby. “No need. I worked in the library all afternoon, until they closed at eight, in fact. They had to kick me out. I went from there to the pub. I’m sure several people there will remember me,” he said.
“And you stayed inside the pub how long?”
“Until a group of people came in babbling about a fire in Cottage Lane. After what happened with the wheelie bin, I figured I should check it out.” His conceited tone faded. “I didn’t expect to see flames halfway up the roof when I arrived. It was shocking. I—well, I lost it for a moment. The local bobbie had to hold me back. I expect you already know about that bit.”
Becca put her phone down slowly. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“My research,” he said with a quick grimace. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to go in and get it, but obviously it was gone. As I said, not thinking straight.” Rafe removed his arm from the back of the sofa and leaned forward. “Have you figured out how it started?”
“Our investigators found shattered glass on the floor and a rock in the room, which appears to have hit a lamp and overturned it. The light was on, and heat from the bulb caught the shade on fire, which then ignited the rug. Once the rug caught fire, it spread quickly throughout the room.”
“So it was vandalism,” Becca said, straightening her shoulders, seemingly glad to move back to outrage, which seemed to be her forte. “Really, this is disgraceful. The police should have put a stop to it long ago. A few more patrols would have taken care of it, I’m sure.”
“The Nether Woodsmoor constabulary is stretched thin already, Mrs. Ford. They don’t have the manpower to patrol every street all night long.”
“Then they should increase the number of officers. If things are let go, this is what happens.”
“Murder?” Quimby asked.
“No, of course not. What happened with that person, I mean, woman,” she said after Quimby sent her a sharp look, “had to be a horrible accident. You said yourself that you’re only checking everyone’s whereabouts.”
“The woman was murdered. She was struck on the back of the head prior to the fire.”
“Well, she must have fallen while she was in the cottage and knocked herself out. Then the smoke…”
“I can assure you that the wounds, the type and severity, were not caused by a fall.”
Instead of acknowledging that she was in the wrong, Becca simply changed tacks. “Well, I’m sure more details will emerge. She must have been…” She flicked her fingers. “Part of a group of vagrants who happened to pick Rafe’s cottage to break into. One murdered the other one during the robbery or something like that.”
“Purely coincidence that Mr. Farraday’s cottage was involved?” Quimby asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.
“What else could it be?”
“Many other things,” Quimby said repressively, but Becca was on a roll.
“I’m sure it was one of those…what to they call them on the telly? Crimes of opportunity,” She bobbed her head in an assured nod. “Someone saw Rafe leave. It’s no secret he has a nice laptop. He carries it around the village constantly. That’s probably what she was after.”
“If he carries it around the village, wouldn’t it most likely have been with him? And how did she get in the cottage? The locks were not tam
pered with. Fire services had to cut the door and locks to get inside. Do you think your random thieving woman was also an expert lock pick?”
“Oh, it’s no problem to get into the cottages on that lane.” Becca waved a hand and sat back, a patronizing smile on her face. “Everyone knows the keys to the cottages are practically interchangeable, and a screwdriver works just as well in a pinch. Our maid lived in one of the cottages for a short time. Told us all about it.”
“So you’re saying the locks aren’t secure?” Quimby asked sharply.
“I’m afraid so,” Rafe said. “That’s why Beatrice had the slider bolts. The night latches are decrepit. Not hard to jimmy at all.”
“And the bolts on your doors, did you use them?”
“Not the front door, no, because that’s the way I left for the pub. And the back door,” Rafe stared at the house, and I faded to the left a bit. I was standing well inside the window casing, so he shouldn’t have been able to see me, but I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Rafe looked back to Quimby. “No, I don’t think so. Hard to say for sure, but I doubt it.”
Rafe looked toward the windows again, so I moved back to the chair, thinking about when I’d held the square of wood in place so Rafe could repair his door. I was almost sure the bolt had been locked into place so that the door couldn’t be opened, but I supposed he could have opened it sometime between when I’d seen it and last evening.
Chapter 7
“SO YOU DIDN’T TELL ELISE about the letters?” Rafe asked. “Why not?”
I put down the cup of tea that Becca had reluctantly told the maid to fetch before excusing herself from the room. “Because I’m not that brave,” I said.
Rafe’s face broke into a grin. “She’s quite…um…focused, shall we say?”
“Yes, let’s leave it at that. And I’m already in her bad books.”
“Why?”
“I wish I knew.” I leaned back in the chair I’d occupied earlier. Despite looking very pretty, it wasn’t comfortable. “When will you tell her?”