“Rats aren't that bad, really,” I told him as he pulled away, windscreen wipers buffeting away the oncoming torrent. “They’ve got a bad reputation, is all.”
“Well, you grew up in the countryside, you would think that. Nice little country rats eating acorns. I’m talking about city rats that sit on bins and slink about the alleys.”
“You should work on the tourism board,” I told him. “Come to York and see our slinky bin rats.”
He glared at me from the corner of his eyes but said. “I wouldn’t mind it that much, actually. When I was a kid, I wanted to work in the Walls, you know.”
“You’d have been good at it,” I acknowledged. “Full of weird history facts, you are lad.”
“What about you?” he asked, leaning forward as the rain picked up. “What did you want to do when you were a kid?”
I tipped my head back, trying to think back that far. There was a time I had wanted to train animals in a circus, then my mother made me watch Dumbo, and I very quickly changed my tune.
“I wanted to do what my grandad did,” I answered truthfully. “Work in the coaching house.”
“Shouldn’t take long to get the place back to its former glory,” Mills said with a nod. “I’ll help, if you like. And then that’s your retirement sorted.”
“Used to think I’d sell it,” I said as Mills turned the car into the museum car park, “but now I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t want some strange city chap coming in and ruining the village.”
Mills laughed, a sharp barking laugh and turned the engine off. “God forbid,” he said, glaring up at the sky from the window.
“I reckon we should make a dash for it, sir.”
“You go ahead, tell them we’re here while I get the case,” I replied. He handed me the car keys, opening his door and pulling his coat up over his head, legging it to the wide doors into the museum.
Should have brought an umbrella, I thought bitterly, climbing out of the car, my head quickly soaked as I walked around to the boot and pulled the case out. I locked the car and held the case above my head, the effect somewhat useful, jogging over to the doors, the pavement splashing water up my trousers.
I made it into the warm room, quiet today from many tourists. A few students lingered about, some drawing what they were looking at in the cabinets, others just making the most of the quiet, free space to read or scribbled in notepads that they bent over like gargoyles. I looked at one lad as I joined Mills and almost winced. He’d need a chiropractor later on in life.
“Morning,” I smiled at the receptionist, and pulled a crumpled fiver from my pocket, stuffing it in the donation box.
She smiled back. “Dr Dorland’s in a meeting right now, but she’ll be down in a moment. You’re welcome to wait.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Come on, Mills.” I started walking over to an exhibit. “Tell me what you know about,” I bent down, squinting at the display, “Roman coins.”
“Not a lot, to tell the truth, sir,” he replied, leaning against the wall. “A bit too far back for me, really.”
“Prefer the medieval times?”
He shrugged. “The dates are easier to remember.”
“And the king was usually called a Henry, which makes life easier, doesn’t it? Look.” I tapped the little information square with a finger. “These were excavated not far from the Walls twenty years ago. See? You’d have to know that if you worked there.”
Mills was studying me, his eyes narrow, a sort of smile playing around his mouth as he folded his arms. “You’re very chipper today, sir. Any particular reason?”
“We’re getting somewhere on the case, Mills, I’m happy about that. And the fact that Rita Jones didn’t die horribly last night.”
He nodded. “That is good. But not what I meant,” he added.
“I don’t—” I began, cut off by a figure that appeared beside us.
“Inspector Thatcher, Sergeant Mills.” Dr Dorland smiled widely at us both. “Good morning.”
“Dr Dorland.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry for springing up on you like this.”
She waved a hand, “Mara called me to tell me you were en route. Shall we?” She indicated the stairs, and we followed her up to her office, where she sat us both down and leant on her desk excitedly. “She also told me you had something interesting for me?” She glanced at the case in my hand.
“We do,” I replied. I placed it on the desk, unclasped it with a snap and turned the case around. She glanced at it and stood up, hands reaching in to brush the music boxes lightly.
“Two of them?”
“Yes.”
“We were hoping you’d be able to authenticate them for us,” Mills asked her.
“Oh, of course. I can do it now. You can wait if you want, it shouldn’t take me too long. They’re in great condition. A matching set?” Her eyes brightened, fingers fluttering happily over the case. She looked like a child with a new toy, and it was contagious.
I smiled back. “That’s one theory.”
“I’ll get right on it. You gentlemen are welcome to wait here, help yourself to tea or coffee.” Liene indicated the small, hotel-like kettle set up over on a far table. “I’ve got no biscuits left, I’m afraid,” she added mournfully, picking up the case and carrying it gently to a table behind her set up with lights and all manner of tools that I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
I felt strange sitting there, so I got up and started perusing her bookshelves, Mills pulling out his phone. She had a varied collection, and none of it seemed to make any sense. A book of ancient philosophy beside one on carbon dating, a copy of Wuthering Heights randomly lodged beside a sturdy looking volume on British Archaeology of the Nineteenth Century.
“Any sign on a key?” Liene asked, glancing back over her shoulder. She’d pulled a white coat on, her hands gloved, and a pair of glasses were pushed on her nose.
“Not yet. But hopefully, we can find one. Is there any way of opening them without it?” I asked.
“Theoretically, yes, but it could damage the artefact, and I’d rather not risk it.”
I held up my hands. “Key it is then.”
She smiled, turning back to her work, and Mills sniffed. When I turned to look at him, he had his hand clasped around his mouth, eyes bright with amusement as he met my stare. I flipped him off, and he almost let out another laugh, distracted by his phone ringing.
“Sorry,” Mills muttered, fishing it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen. “Smith. Excuse me.” He ducked out into the hallway, his voice cutting off as the door closed.
“Mara told me that two of you make a good team,” Liene remarked casually, focused on her work.
“We get on,” I answered, leaning against the shelf nearest to her. “He’s a good sergeant, and he’ll make a good Inspector one day.”
“Under your careful tutelage?”
“Naturally, unless things change.” I shook my head. “Not that I would want that.”
“I’m not a fan of change myself. It’s what got me into history,” she told me. “Everything from the past is exactly what it is. It’s not suddenly going to change and become something else, you know?” She looked up suddenly, glancing at me. “Did that make any sort of sense?”
“I understood it.”
“Good,” she laughed. “Usually, I have to explain. It’s why I like being friends with Mara,” she added. “She’s too smart for me to ever explain. Normally I’m asking her what the hell she means.”
“I know the feeling,” I told her. The door opened, and Mills stuck his head in, jerking in chin towards the hallway. “Excuse me.” She nodded absently, already focused again, and I headed over to the door that Mills propped open, joining him in the hallway.
“What’s happened?” I asked, my mind already whirring along the thoughts of something happening to Rita.
“Smith’s been going over some of Viviane’s records for us,” he told me, looking at ease, looking hopeful. “She did some cros
s-referencing with her contacts and found a regular contact that Viviane was in touch with. One she spoke to on the Saturday she died, initialled H.C.”
“Harry Cuthbert,” I stated. That wasn’t surprising. We knew that they had some form of relationship.
“She found a loose connection between Harry’s initials and Viviane’s records on her collection,” Mills went on. “And the money in her account.”
I froze. “The savings that weren’t savings?”
Mills nodded.
“Call Harry,” I ordered. “Tell him we want to speak to him as soon as possible, preferably somewhere other than Henbell House.”
“When we leave here?” Mills checked.
“Ideally, but we can leave here early if need be. Dr Dorland has my number.” Mills gave me a nod, already dialling as I stepped back into the room. To my surprise, Dr Dorland was placing the boxes gently back into the case.
“You’re in luck, Max,” she said. “This one’s a fake.” She tapped the one on the right, the lighter one from Rita’s bag. “A very, very realistic one, but a fake. I can do some more work on the other, though, if you want?”
“Go ahead. The more we know about it, the better. But I’ll take the fake,” I said, and she passed it over. “Know anyone who can make replicas this good?”
“It’s not much of a business I know a lot about,” she answered regrettably, pulling her gloves off, “but I’ll ask around and let you know.”
“Thank you, Liene. Truly, you might have turned this case around.”
She beamed. “Be sure to tell Mara. I can use it to get out of babysitting one day.”
“Will do.” I laughed and nodded. “See you later.”
“See you later,” she called back as I stepped out into the hallway. Mills was already waiting by the lift, holding the doors.
“Harry Cuthbert’s at home. He sent me his address,” he told me as I stepped inside. “The box?” He noted the one under my arm.
“A fake,” I told him as the doors slid shut. “A very convincing fake.”
Twenty-Two
Thatcher
The house where Harry Cuthbert now lived was just outside the city, and as we drove out into the meandering fields, the rain lifted. I’d texted Sharp as we left the museum with an update on the music boxes and to tell her about our visit to Harry.
I couldn’t think of him as a villain in all of this. He played a part, knew more about Viviane that we needed to know, but had been with us last night, had volunteered to take Rita to the hospital and had all around been helpful and complacent.
And yet, time and time again, his name turned up in this case. It was his house, after all, where Viviane was killed, where Rita was trapped and where the music box, both of them, came to the surface. He was fond of the place, filled with childhood memories and family loyalty. Surely he could not be so ignorant as to everything that was happening there.
“Where do you want to start, sir?” Mills asked, switching the windscreen wipers off as the rain finally drizzled to a stop, though there were no signs of any blue skies or sunshine in the distance. “With Harry, that is. Start with the music box or Viviane?”
“Let’s start with Viviane. The music box was hers, after all, part of her collection from her grandfather. We need to know about her to figure out what exactly she planned to do with it.”
“Maybe she donated it to the house?” Mills suggested. I waited a moment as the SatNav piped up, then said.
“If she did, someone would have known about it. Josephine Goddard or Harry himself. I still say someone stole it.”
“The killer?”
“It’s most likely. If we can find out who made the fake, that will be a blessing in disguise.”
“There are all sorts of things like that,” Mills told me. “People who replicate famous paintings of Rembrandt or Van Gogh and stuff like that. They can get a lot of money from making forgeries and then selling them on. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if it were the same with museums.”
“Nor would I,” I agreed. “But I’m guessing that it's just as difficult to find those people as it is the painters.”
“Most likely.” Mills nodded. “I think this is it,” he muttered.
We were on a wide, peaceful road, where a few houses sat very far apart, all old and rambling, the road lined with hedges. He turned in, through a wide wooden gate and up a long grassy drive that curved around to reveal a modest stone house surrounded by a very well-kept garden. Mills parked the car by a small, moss-covered fountain outside, and we climbed out, feet squelching into the rain-sodden earth beneath us.
“Nice place,” I commented, fishing the fake music box from the back seat and tucking it under my arm.
Where Henbell House had been carefully preserved, kept free from the effects of time, the current Cuthbert residence had given into it. Ivy crawled up the walls, tangling with other climbing vines and flowers that had yet to bloom fully. It looked like the house from an old story, and I half expected a young girl in a long dress to come running along barefoot with flowers clutched in her fist. Instead, the door opened, and Harry Cuthbert stepped out. He was wearing a pair of joggers and a plain Henley top, but he had thrown a fantastic silk dressing gown over the top. It dragged on the floor behind him, the dark green embroidered with gold and silver. He definitely looked like he belonged here, I thought as we made our way up to the front door.
“Inspector, Sergeant. Please come in,” he stood aside, letting us walk into the entrance and shut the heavy wooden door behind us. Mills and I looked around, impressed. It was a big house, the stairs curving up the wall, the arches to the other rooms tall and wide, the ceiling above us high enough that Mills could stand on my shoulders without hitting his head. But it was warm, homely. Pairs of shoes, muddy boots and discarded umbrellas were left around a coat rack and settle. The walls were painted blue and lined with family photographs, pictures of dogs and maps of the area. A large rug swept over the stone floor, and the place was well lit, warm and inviting.
“A very lovely home, you have, Harry,” I told him. He stuck his hands in his dressing gown pocket, looking pleased.
“Thank you, I like it. Come through this way,” he said, leading us through one of the arches into a long kitchen. A dog sleeping in a basket by the fire raised his head as we walked in but quickly fell back asleep, the brown fur around his muzzle streaked with grey. A big table split the room in two, with the kitchen on one side and a small section of sofas and armchairs on the other. Harry kept walking, through to another room just off the side, a rounded room lined with windows, plants outside turning the light coming in green.
In one of the high-backed chairs, a woman sat, one hand resting on a fancy walking cane, her feet propped up on a little stool. She had pulled her silver hair up and away from her stern-looking face, her clothes old fashioned and impeccably neat. She examined us as we walked in with the same set of green eyes that Harry had.
“Granny, this is Inspector Thatcher and Sergeant Mills with the North Yorkshire Police. Chaps, this is my grandmother Sybil Cuthbert.”
She dipped her chin regally, and Harry waved for us to take a seat on the wooden bench.
“I hear you’re the ones looking into the death at my house?” she asked in a clear, clipped voice.
“We are,” I confirmed.
“And you have questions for my grandson about it?”
“We do. But if there’s anything you can tell us about the house, we’d be grateful.”
“I doubt I’d recognise anything,” she answered, turning her face away. Harry gave us a rueful smile, taking her hand.
“Granny hasn’t been to the house since mum and dad turned it into the museum. Thinks it’s a sacrilege.”
“It is! I was born in that house and fully ready to die in it until they decided to let strangers come in and poke about everything. My own mother’s vanity, with random folks rifling through it.” She shuddered and shook her head. “No. I shall remember it
as it was.”
“Do you remember this?” I asked her, holding out the music box. She looked at it, her eyes tracing the shape.
“No. Not one of ours, my boy. My grandmother had a music box not too, unlike it,” she said, “but I have that now. In my room.” She lifted her cane to the ceiling.
“Granny smuggled a few things out when we moved here,” Harry told us.
“Too right,” she answered smartly. “They’re my things, after all. That,” she pointed at the music box, “I have never seen before. It is not a Cuthbert heirloom, that’s for sure.”
“Is it real?” Harry asked, looking at the box.
“This one isn’t. It’s a fake. The other one appears to be genuine, but we’ve left it with an expert to get a full story.”
“Which is which?” Harry asked.
“This one is the one found in Rita Jones’s handbag,” I told him. “The one she found in the cellar is the real one.”
He frowned. “I see. Excuse us, granny, we’ll take this chat somewhere else and not bother you anymore.” He stood up and gently let go of her hand. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine. Off you go.” She whacked him on the leg with her cane, and he yelped. Mills and I stood up, nodding respectfully to the woman.
“Thank you, Mrs Cuthbert,” I told her earnestly.
She waved a hand dismissively, and Mills and I followed Harry back into the kitchen where we sat around the fireplace. The dog got up then and loped over to Harry, resting his large head on his knee.
“So, there are two music boxes, one real and one fake, and both were found in my house,” Harry recited, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and propping his face on it, the other scratching the dog’s ears.
“Yes. What we’d like to determine next is which one Viviane had, and then how it made its way from her flat and into Henbell House,” I answered.
Harry nodded and crossed a leg over. “Ask away, Inspector. Hopefully, we’ll have no interruptions of stolen handbags or girls locked in cellars this time,” he added with a small amount of humour.
Dangerous Relics (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 3) Page 18