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

by Sara Rosett

  He flicked to another screen on his phone. “After that, you went to the Chinese restaurant across the street from the pub? How did you get there?”

  “We walked.”

  “And how long were you at dinner?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe forty-five minutes, maybe an hour.”

  “And at some point, you saw Mr. Farraday arrive at the pub. What time was that?”

  “I’m not sure. Our food had arrived, so maybe eight. Oh, wait. Alex got a phone call around that time. He took the call outside. While he was away from the table, I saw Rafe walk to the pub. You could check with Alex for the time of the call.”

  “Did you see Mr. Farraday leave?”

  “No, but I suppose we might have missed him.”

  “And after dinner…?”

  “We walked down to the river. That’s where we were when we heard the sirens. We went back to Cottage Lane then.”

  Quimby must have been lightning fast at texting because he was tapping away with his thumbs, typing in what I’d told him. He finished and put his phone away. “Thank you, Ms. Sharp—”

  Before he could wind up the conversation, I licked my lips and said, “Could you answer a question for me?”

  “It depends on the question, I suppose.”

  “I have been helpful.”

  “Looking for a little quid pro quo, are you?” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Something like that. I did let you break into my cottage.”

  “All right, but no promises. I’ll answer your question, if I can. I seem to remember you like to ask very pointed questions.”

  I shrugged. “I like to get things sorted out. Sometimes pointed questions are the only way to do it.” I leaned forward. “It’s about Rafe. The producer of the documentary has some…concerns…about him. Can you tell me if you think he’s involved in the death of the woman?”

  “As opposed to her turning up randomly in his cupboard?”

  “Well, yes. I saw him this morning and asked him myself—a pointed question, if there ever was one. He said he didn’t have anything to do with it, and I believed him.”

  “So you’re taking a personal interest in my case, Ms. Sharp?”

  I sighed. “The producer, Elise DuPont, assigned me the task of finding out if Rafe is guilty of…well, anything that would reflect badly on the production. The plan was to rely rather heavily on Rafe’s interview as a hook for publicity, and she doesn’t want to be burned.”

  “The notoriety of a possibly murdering scholar doesn’t appeal to her?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a first,” Quimby said skeptically. “In my experience, television people jump at that sort of thing.”

  “Elise is not your normal television producer.”

  “Hmm. She asked you to question a possible murderer, and you trotted off and did it straight away?”

  “No. She asked me to find out if he was involved. I saw him this morning while I was scouting a location and asked him. Now, I’m asking you.”

  Quimby ran his hand along the back of his neck. “He’s involved. The victim was found in his burnt-out cottage, so yes, on that count. However, that’s all I can say.”

  I sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

  “I can add that, in my professional experience, coincidences rarely happen.”

  “So you do think there is a link.”

  “No. I don’t think anything. I’m gathering evidence, waiting to see what picture emerges.” He removed a piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  I took the sketch. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  Chapter 8

  QUIMBY HAD BEEN ON THE verge of standing, preparing to leave, but he went still. “Who is she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know who she is, but I saw her. Last night. She was walking along the path behind the cottage.” I stared at the page a long moment then put it down on the kitchen table. It was like looking at someone’s online avatar. It resembled the woman I’d seen in the lane, but in a cartoony way. “Her hair was not this dark, more blond,” I added.

  Quimby had his phone out again. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Not much. It was only a glance, but that’s what she looked like. Alex and I stopped to watch the firefighters for a moment dealing with the fire in the trash bin then we walked on to the gate at the back of my garden. We stopped there and talked, deciding to meet in twenty minutes and go to the Chinese restaurant. He went on, and I opened the gate, but had trouble latching it closed. As I was struggling with it—it doesn’t line up exactly—I looked up.” I touched the corner of the paper. “She was walking along the path, and we made eye contact. It was a bit embarrassing, to tell you the truth, standing there, repeatedly closing the gate. I gave her a self-conscious smile. She returned it as she went by. I finally got the gate latched, and I went inside.”

  I felt a little sick, looking at the sketch. A few hours—no less than that—an hour and a half after I’d seen her, she was dead. And she’d died in such a horrible way. A chill crept over me, and I crossed my arms across my chest. “That poor woman.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  I closed my eyes. “A pale green jacket—the waterproof kind. You know, athletic gear. Jeans and…” I trailed off and opened my eyes. “I don’t remember her shoes or her shirt.” My phone, which was on the table, rang. I didn’t recognize the number and pushed the button to send the call to voicemail.

  Quimby retrieved a plastic bag from another pocket. It contained a scrap of green material. “Similar to this?”

  I took the bag and turned it over in my hands. “Yes, it was pastel, like this.” Two edges of the fabric were stitched, but the third side was torn in a jagged pattern. The whole thing was only about an inch square. I handed the bag back to him. “Was she wearing this when you found her?”

  “No. We weren’t able to retrieve any of her clothing.”

  I closed my eyes again. Quimby kept talking. “This was caught under the threshold of the backdoor at Mr. Farraday’s cottage.” He pocketed the bag. “Keep that bit of information to yourself, please.” His demeanor had changed. From the moment I said I’d seen the woman, he’d been completely serious. “Which direction was she walking?”

  “She came from the village. When I left the gate, she was continuing along the path toward the cottages at the end of the lane and the woods.”

  “And Mr. Norcutt, was he still walking on the path as well?”

  “Yes.” Quimby nodded and stood. “Do you know where Mr. Norcutt is now?”

  I glanced at the time. “He’s at Parkview Hall. They’re shooting in the drawing room there today.”

  “All right. Thank you, Ms. Sharp. You’ve been very helpful. We’ve been working our way through the village, asking at the inn and at restaurants if anyone had seen her, but so far we hadn’t turned up anything.” He handed me a business card as he moved to the front door. “Give me a call, if you remember anything else about the woman. We’ll need a formal statement from you later.” He tapped the bolt as he opened the front door. “Keep these bolts locked when you’re home,” he said.

  I returned to the kitchen table. The sketch sat on top of my Moleskine notebook. I grabbed it and hurried back to the front door, but Quimby was already gone. I picked up the business card and dialed his phone number. When he answered, I identified myself. “You left the sketch of the woman here.”

  “No worries. I also have it on my phone, but thanks for the call. Can you go to the church hall this afternoon and give your statement to Sergeant Olney?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll bring the sketch with me then.”

  “No need. We have plenty of them. You can bin it.”

  We ended our call, and I stared at the sketch, then folded it and put it inside the cover of my Moleskine. I couldn’t throw the woman’s picture away. It just didn’t seem right.

  I picked up my phone and called Alex. He didn’t answer. I couldn�
�t think of a quick way to summarize everything about my conversation with Quimby concerning the woman, so I only said, “Inspector Quimby needs to talk with you. He’s on his way to Parkview Hall now. Call me when you can.”

  I listened to the message from the call that had come in while Quimby was with me. It was Beatrice returning my call about a bookish location in the area. “Doug and Tara also own a nice little B & B, a renovated farmhouse with a charming study. They put large parties out there. You could check with them.” She reeled off the number for the inn, which I jotted down in my notebook.

  I hung up and dialed the number. Tara, Doug’s wife, answered. I identified myself and told her we were looking for a possible location to shoot some interviews for the documentary. I described the look I would need and said Beatrice had mentioned a B & B they owned.

  “Oh, yes, the West Farmhouse. It has a lovely little library. Quite nice. Shelves of antique books and an Adam fireplace. Doug is out there now, seeing to a repair in the kitchen. Would you like to see it now?”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

  She gave me directions, and I told her I’d go directly there. I hadn’t sent off my scouting report yet, and I wanted it to have at least one other option besides Grove Cottage.

  Fifteen minutes later, I turned the red MG onto a long drive and breathed a sigh of relief that the land surrounding the West Farmhouse was only gently rolling. No steep hills to navigate that would send the car seat flying back out of position.

  The word farmhouse, to me, meant a frame house with a front porch set in a wide expanse of land. Farmhouses still existed in Southern California. I’d found several farmhouse-style locations for television shows and commercials once I got far enough out of Southern Cal’s urban sprawl, and that was what I expected as I rolled to a stop in front of West Farmhouse, but it looked more like an upsized version of my cottage. Ivy covered the two-story stone building, and I could imagine a country squire living in it, and instead of working the land himself, he assigned that task to servants and tenant farmers.

  I rolled to a stop beside a dirt-spotted station wagon. As I stepped out of the car, Doug came out the front door of the house, carrying a bucket and a trowel. “Tara called. You want to see the book room?”

  “Yes, is this a good time?”

  “Certainly. Come in.” He put the bucket down on the step at the front door and waved me inside, wiping his hand on a white-spotted towel.

  “We don’t have any guests here today, so I was doing a spot of repair work. This way.” He led me by a set of stairs finished in a dark wood with a matching bannister. I glimpsed a spacious kitchen with modern appliances and a long rectangular table under a wood-beamed ceiling before we reached a door. Doug stepped back so I could enter first.

  “We converted the rest of the rooms to bedrooms, but kept this as a sitting room. Guests seem to like it.”

  “I can see why.” The room was smaller and not nearly as extravagantly furnished as the study at Grove Cottage, but the room felt cozy. “What a wonderful place to curl up with a book,” I said, pointing to the chairs on either side of the fireplace. White built-in bookshelves lined two walls, the fireplace with its delicate carvings and accents filled the third wall, and the last wall had large windows that overlooked the gently undulating green countryside. I already had my camera out. “Mind if I get a few photos?”

  “Not at all. I’ll be loading up the car.”

  I got to work, quickly getting the photos and notes I needed. I didn’t want to keep Doug longer than was necessary. I put everything away and went to find Doug, thinking that if I was making the final decision, I’d pick the farmhouse room for the interview simply because I wouldn’t have to work around Becca’s finicky moods.

  I found Doug in a small stone building around the side of the house filled with all sorts of maintenance equipment from mowers to paint brushes. “I’m done. Thank you so much. I’ll let you know if the production is interested. Do you have any reservations coming up soon?”

  “No, the family who booked it for this week cancelled. If I’d known a few days ago, you could have had a room.”

  “It would have been lovely, but a little far out of the village for me.”

  Doug stepped out of the building and secured a padlock on the door. “Still looking for locations?”

  “Yes. We’d planned to use Lilac Cottage for an interview.”

  “I see. Sad business, that.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do they know who she was?”

  “No, not yet.”

  We walked around the side of the house to the cars. “Tara said the police came around with a sketch this morning, asking if the woman had stayed in the inn, but Tara didn’t recognize her. Of course, Tara’s been out of town lately. Her mum has been in hospital.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She’s fine now.” He pulled out a set of keys. “Well, I best lock up and get down to the church hall. They want me to look at the sketch as well.”

  “Oh, I can save you a trip.” I took the sketch out of my notebook and handed it to him. “Inspector Quimby came by my cottage today and left that.”

  Doug unfolded the paper and gave it a cursory look, then his gaze sharpened. He patted his pocket and removed a pair of glasses. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Do you recognize her?”

  “Yes. She stayed here.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the farmhouse. “Came with a big group for the bike ride last weekend.” He ran his hand down over his mouth as he shook his head. “Awful to think she’s dead now.”

  “I know. I feel the same way. I saw her, too.”

  “But you weren’t here last weekend.”

  “No, it was yesterday, walking down the lane behind the cottages.”

  “Hmm. I wonder why she came back? And where did she stay this time?”

  “Well, the police will be able to track her down now. You’ll have her details.”

  Doug was still working his hand up and down along the side of his mouth. “I don’t think so. One person from the group reserved the whole farmhouse, and it wasn’t her. A biking club, coming in for the race. I’ll only have the one person’s information.”

  “Still, that’s a start,” I said. “I’m sure the police can check with that person and track her down.

  “Yes. Well, I better get on.” He held out the sketch, but I waved him off.

  “No, you keep it. You can give it to the police. Thank you for letting me photograph the room. I’ll let you know if they’re interested.”

  Doug climbed the steps to lock up the farmhouse, and I drove away, his words echoing in my head. Why had the woman returned to Nether Woodsmoor so soon after her visit last weekend? The bike race that Doug mentioned must have been the one Alex had told me about. If she came to the village for that, why return so quickly? More bike riding? To meet someone? Had she forgotten something?

  My phone buzzed with a text. I stopped at the end of the farmhouse’s lane to read it. It was from Elise’s assistant, Mary. Do you have the scouting report for new interview locations?

  Yes. I’ll send it to you within the hour, I texted back and headed back to the cottage. Time to put thoughts of the unknown woman out of my mind and focus on my job.

  I finished the report and sent it off with five minutes to spare. I leaned back in the kitchen chair and stretched my arms over my head, debating if I should go to Parkview Hall. I checked my phone. No response from Alex, which seemed odd. Well, I wasn’t his keeper. He didn’t have to check in with me, I reasoned, but I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit miffed. He had been flirting with me. I knew it. And I was flirting back. I blew out a sigh. I wasn’t great at this relationship stuff. I always got tripped up along the way.

  Lori, the starry-eyed intern at my old job, used to tell me I was too picky and that I couldn’t shove love into a spreadsheet. But Lori fell in and out of love on a near hourly basis, so I wasn’t sure she was the best pe
rson to take advice from. Besides, there was nothing wrong with having a plan and some standards. I hadn’t had time to date much during the last few years, but when I had, this was usually about the point that things sputtered and died. Meet guy. Find out more about him. Go on a few dates. And then I’d begin second-guessing and analyzing everything he said and did along with everything I said and did, which made me more self-conscious and nervous, which the guys seemed to pick up on. It was a vicious circle. Enough. I was doing it again. Thinking too much.

  I flipped my Moleskine notebook closed and returned the memory card to my camera then packed everything away in my tote bag. I would head over to Parkview Hall, but first I needed food. I’d only had a cup of coffee this morning at the inn. I’d worked straight through lunch while finishing up the scouting report, and now I was starving.

  I didn’t even bother opening the old-fashioned refrigerator. I knew there literally wasn’t a thing to eat because I still hadn’t gone shopping. Time to fix that. If I was going to settle in here in Nether Woodsmoor, I couldn’t continue to eat out every meal. At least not if I wanted to continue to fit into the small number of clothes I’d brought with me. I slipped my phone and some cash into my jeans pocket then left through the back garden.

  I’d had enough of driving on the wrong side of the road for one day. I needed to walk, get out in the fresh air. I could have walked along Cottage Lane to get to the small grocery store a few blocks away, but the more rural-feeling path that ran along the back of the cottages tempted me.

  I hesitated for a second at the back gate, thinking of the woman found in Rafe’s cottage. She’d walked along this path shortly before she died. A few bikers whizzed by me, and I saw one other walker in the distance, a serious one. She had walking poles and was huffing along at a quick pace as she came toward me from the village. In the other direction, just past Alex’s cottage, five or six people were repairing a section of the dry stone wall. A pile of the flat stones that had been in the wall had fallen onto the path. I could hear the faint clinks and thuds of the stones knocking against each other as the group fitted them back into the wall.