A Death in the Family

by Neil Richards

  “Hey Daniel, how you doing?” said Jack.

  “Good Jack, good,” said Daniel, brushing the hair from his eyes and giving a kind of embarrassed shrug.

  “You off out for the day?”

  “Er … train. Oxford. You know.”

  Jack watched the other guys all hover together, nodding, smiling, not sure how to deal with this interruption by an adult.

  And an American adult at that.

  “Well, have a great day.”

  “Yeah. Bye.”

  Jack watched as Daniel and his pals shuffled together towards the garden gate, then along the road. He thought back to when he’d first come to Cherringham.

  In those days, Daniel must have been around ten, still at the local primary school, still into toys and bikes.

  Now, he suspected, it wasn’t toys luring him into town.

  Kid’s growing up fast, he thought.

  “You’re safer out here, Jack,” came Sarah’s voice from behind him.

  He turned as Sarah came out of her house and locked the door.

  “Bio hazard,” she said, grinning and nodding towards the departing boys. “I should put a sticker on the front door.”

  “Sleep–over, huh?” said Jack.

  “Theoretically,” said Sarah. “Can’t say I got much sleep. Four of them on the PlayStation all night in Daniel’s bedroom and two more watching some awful horror movie downstairs. God knows what the age rating was. There was a lot of screaming.”

  “Teenagers in training, hmm?” said Jack. “How did Chloe deal with it?”

  “Chloe’s in France. Language exchange — remember?”

  “Oh right. Tough duty. I can’t keep up with your kids.”

  “Join the club. These days I only know where they are by checking my bank statements. We walking or driving?”

  “Let’s walk. Saturday market in Cherringham — we’ll never be able to park.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  Jack opened the gate to let her through and together they walked up the road towards the village.

  “Any idea what this is about?” she said.

  “Nope. Tony just said it was confidential.”

  “Hmm. I’ve learnt now that when Tony Standish invites both of us to a meeting there’s some wrong in Cherringham that needs ‘righting’. If that’s the word?”

  “Just as long as it can wait until Monday,” said Jack.

  “Too right,” said Sarah. “The only thing I plan on doing today is sitting in the garden with the papers and a big jug of iced tea.”

  Jack grinned. “I’m with you on that …”

  *

  “Murder! That’s what it is, Jack!”

  “Murder most foul!”

  Sarah stared at the Buckland twins, trying not to smile.

  They stood next to each other in front of Tony’s Georgian fireplace, rather like matching statues: each in a sensible blouse, skirt and shoes; each brandishing their cup of coffee like a weapon.

  The question was — as always — which one was Jen and which was Joan?

  Or perhaps — did it matter?

  The two of them dressed the same, had the same interests, shared the same stubborn intelligence — and could both be relied upon to do the right thing.

  Both were seventy going on forty — bright as buttons, sharp as nails, fit as fiddles — as if all those metaphors had been invented just for them.

  And both were passionate fans of crime novels, their collection spanning old–school mysteries from the 1920s all the way through to the most lurid American police procedurals.

  They were quite the pair …

  More than once Jen and/or Joan had come to Jack and Sarah with a possible case — and on every occasion they’d been right.

  Sarah knew the Buckland girls — as they were known throughout the village — had to be taken seriously.

  “Perhaps you should start at the beginning?” said Jack, smiling patiently at the twins. “And meanwhile, Tony, you mind if I have another coffee?”

  “Of course, Jack. Help yourself,” said Tony.

  Sarah saw Tony get up from his oak desk, with its green leather top, and walk over to the sideboard where a coffee pot steamed. “I’m afraid I don’t have my secretary here on a Saturday, so it’s every man for himself.”

  “And every woman,” said Jen sternly (or was it Joan, thought Sarah). “You really do employ some rather out-dated terminology, Tony.”

  “Yes, get with the programme!” said Joan. “Isn’t that what you Americans say, Jack?”

  “I believe … something like that,” said Jack.

  “I hope you take care to be a little more correct in court,” said Jen.

  “I’m sure I do,” said Tony looking sheepish as he handed the coffee jug to Jack.

  Jack went round the room, pouring more coffee for everyone. Sarah saw him wink at her as he poured hers.

  She knew he enjoyed the sheer … Englishness … of these little meetings. The wood–panelled lawyer’s office, the ticking grandfather clock, the tall windows looking out onto the village market.

  Even Tony himself, the elderly country solicitor, Oxford–educated, urbane, with his younger and very discrete partner at home.

  And the oh–so–eccentric twins.

  “So,” said Jen. “Tony’s given you the official line on Harry. Silly old beggar, suffers from dementia, wanders around the house while his wife is in the garden …”

  “…somehow ends up at the top of stairs,” said Joan. “Stumbles, loses his footing …

  “…and falls to his death!” said Jen.

  “No need for a police investigation, they say—”

  “Because the forementioned silly old beggar was just—”

  “Old.”

  “Which apparently mitigates against any possibility of foul play.”

  “But you think there was foul play?” said Sarah.

  She saw the two women turn as one and stare at her.

  “Well, obviously!” they said together — astounded that anyone could disagree.

  “Proof?” said Jack.

  “For starters,” said Jen, “Harry had no reason to go upstairs. We know that for a fact.”

  “Indeed. He could barely even get upstairs.”

  “His bedroom was moved downstairs exactly two years ago this month because he wasn’t strong enough.”

  “And you know this — how?” said Jack.

  “Because Jen and I went to Harry’s ninetieth birthday and he was insistent on showing us his new room,” said Jen.

  “Always was a ladies’ man,” said Joan.

  “Never stopped,” said Jen. “Hands all over the shop.”

  “Even with his wife there. What was her name … Peggy?” said Sarah.

  “Ah, he couldn’t care less,” said Joan. “Persistent he was too.”

  “Anyway, he tried to go upstairs that day to get some photographs — and he never got past the third step.”

  “So two years later? All the way to the top? Impossible!”

  “Don’t get us wrong,” said Jen. “We’re not on this case because we liked Harry.”

  “On the contrary, we could barely put up with him,” said Joan.

  “Most days, he was a total pain in the posterior,” said Jen.

  “But you can’t have people being bumped off willy-nilly just because you’re not fond of them, can you?” said Joan.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Jack said.

  Whatever Jack’s weekend plans were, he clearly seemed to be enjoying this.

  “Which is why we got in touch with Tony here. And he got in touch with you.”

  “I see,” said Sarah, wondering where this was going. “But, ladies, is that the only proof you’ve got?”

  “Well, what else do you want?” said Jen.

  “Isn’t that enough?” said Joan.

  Sarah looked across at Jack and Tony. She knew Jack well enough to see that he was sceptical too.

  But Tony se
emed serious.

  “Tony?” she said.

  “I agree,” said the solicitor. “I mean, it doesn’t seem like much at all, does it? But here’s the thing … and I must ask you all to treat this in the utmost confidence — yes?”

  Sarah nodded and saw Jack and the twins nod too.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Tony continued: “I had a preliminary meeting yesterday with the beneficiaries of Mr. Platt’s estate. Four, in all. And a very considerable estate it is, I must say.”

  “How much, Tony?” said Jack.

  Sarah watched Tony walk over to the centre of the room, before he answered. She knew he liked the drama of moments like this.

  He looked slowly around the room.

  “Well, not counting the value of the house of course …”

  He put on his reading glasses. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notebook, flicked through the pages and coughed gently, before raising his eyes over the top of the glasses:

  “Approximately eight hundred and forty–eight thousand pounds” said Tony.

  “Gosh,” said the twins together.

  “Wow,” said Sarah.

  “Quite the inheritance,” said Jack.

  “A sum worth killing for,” said Jen.

  “Indeed,” said Tony.

  He turned to Jack. “So, you see my concern?”

  “I do indeed,” said Jack.

  And Sarah felt her quiet gardening weekend vanishing before her eyes.

  3. The Suspects

  “We’d better go through the beneficiaries,” said Jack.

  He watched Tony go back to his desk and sit down. Then he pulled out a folder from the drawer and opened it.

  “There are four in all,” said Tony. “And they all have equal shares.”

  Jack took out his notebook and started to make notes.

  “There’s Peggy, of course — Harry’s wife. Geoffrey, their son. Then, we have the non-relatives …”

  “No other family?” said Sarah.

  “In the will — no,” said Tony. “Though there is another daughter, Jane. I haven’t met her. Lives in France. She was not part of the meeting, not being a beneficiary and all.”

  “So that makes two,” said Jack. “Who are the others?”

  “Well, you see, here’s where it gets interesting,” said Tony. “There’s Harry’s long–time carer — a lady by the name of Maria Slaski. Her partner apparently did some work on their place as well. And, well, um, a neighbour, Kirsty Lane.”

  “Hmm, Harry left money to a carer and a neighbor — but not his own daughter?” said Jack.

  “So it would seem,” said Tony.

  “And have all the beneficiaries been informed?” said Sarah.

  “Yes, as I say, I had a meeting with them yesterday, and well …”

  Tony paused, looked out the window of his office.

  “Go on,” said Jack.

  He had a feeling Tony was coming to the real reason he’d called him and Sarah into his office on a Saturday morning.

  “Well, I have to say, it was an extraordinary meeting.”

  “In what way?” said Sarah.

  Tony seemed unsure how to describe his feelings.

  “I’m not someone who deals in instinct or whim, or gut–feelings — you know that Sarah, Jack, don’t you?”

  Jack nodded.

  “But I have to say, I have never seen a roomful of beneficiaries act as they did, in all my years practising law.”

  “And how was that?” said Jack.

  “Well,” said Tony, taking a deep breath, and looking around the room, “they just all seemed … guilty. Totally, completely, utterly guilty.”

  “All of them?” said Sarah, surprised.

  “Every damn one. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, muttered, couldn’t wait to go. Most bizarre.”

  “Murder most foul,” said Jack, looking at the twins who were hanging on Tony’s every word.

  “Exactly!” said the twins.

  “I realise how ridiculous that must sound,” said Tony.

  “Not at all, Tony,” said Sarah. “Jack and I both always take what you say very seriously.”

  He smiled at that. “I just hope I’m not going barmy in my old age!”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Jack.

  “Still, it isn’t much to go on,” said Tony, “But I’d appreciate it if you both could sniff around a bit, and — I hope — prove me and my instincts wrong.”

  Jack saw Sarah look at him. He guessed she knew that Tony wouldn’t have raised this lightly.

  And murder was murder.

  “Sure,” said Jack, after a pause. “Why not?”

  “Sarah?” said Tony.

  “Of course.”

  “Jolly good,” said Joan.

  “Ha — I’m so relieved,” said Tony. “Now, the funeral’s on Monday. Perhaps you should start there? Not really much you can do before then. In the meantime, let me give you a few more details …”

  And as Tony jotted down some phone numbers and addresses, Jack caught Sarah’s eye and gave her a wink.

  Looked like they were going to get their weekend off after all …

  *

  Jack stood with Sarah amongst the trees in St. James’ churchyard and watched the small group of mourners over in the corner as Harry Platt’s coffin was lowered into the grave.

  Heads bowed, the figures in black stood respectfully as the Reverend Hewitt conducted a brief service.

  A single soldier in uniform carried the folded Union Flag, which had draped the coffin, under his arm.

  Jack could see Harry’s cap and medals on a small cushion by the side of the grave, resting on a small stool.

  He nodded to Sarah at his side and the two of them moved a little closer to the group.

  They had decided against joining the church service — and really were only here in order to get a proper look at some of the people that Tony had mentioned. People they were going to have to talk to.

  He watched Reverend Hewitt close his Bible. The young soldier now stepped forward with a bugle, and after a few seconds of silence, pressed it against his lips to play.

  The Last Post.

  As the mournful notes drifted across the churchyard, Jack looked at the mourners. He recognised some from the village. Lou Tidewell, Martha Bernard from the choir, the farmer Pete Butterworth.

  He guessed that over the years, the Platt family had made connections with many other Cherringham families.

  But the turnout wasn’t as big as for other village funerals Jack had been to in recent years.

  Perhaps because Harry was so old? Or was it because the Platts had few friends?

  In the centre of the group by the graveside, in a long black coat, was Harry’s wife, Peggy. She wore a vintage black hat with a veil … but even through the veil, Jack could see tears trickling down her cheeks.

  On one side, supporting her with an arm, stood a stocky man in a threadbare suit and cloth cap.

  Jack recognised him from photos that Sarah had emailed the night before: it was Harry’s son, Geoff. Jack knew that the son had a wife and children, but he didn’t see any of them here.

  Most of the mourners stared down at their feet or at the grave. Jack noticed, though, that Geoff kept his head up, as if bored by the ceremony — even, from the look on his face, angry …

  On the other side of Peggy, a short woman stood in a grey coat. Jack didn’t recognise her.

  “I see the son,” said Jack quietly to Sarah. “You think that’s the daughter?”

  “I guess so,” said Sarah. “She looks older than the pictures.”

  “And I don’t recognise anyone else,” said Jack.

  He saw Sarah nod to the far corner of the churchyard. Another woman in a vivid red flowery coat stood on her own, a handbag clutched in front of her in both hands.

  “I think, if I’m not mistaken, that’s Kirsty Lane, the neighbour,” said Sarah. “I recognise her now from schoo
l meetings.”

  Jack nodded. Tony had mentioned Kirsty as one of the beneficiaries of Harry’s will.

  Just a neighbor?

  He wondered about that.

  “No sign of the carer,” said Jack.

  “Not surprising,” said Sarah. “I don’t imagine she’s popular with the family.”

  The bugler finished playing.

  Jack watched him salute and then step back to stand at ease by the church wall. One by one, the mourners now reached down to throw earth into the grave.

  He turned to Sarah.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get a coffee. And work out a plan …”

  *

  Sarah took a bite of a flaky croissant, a Huffington’s speciality, and one that could rival any French patisserie.

  Jack — she saw — stuck to some simple biscuits to go with his Earl Grey.

  “If we ever charge for this thing we do, we must build cakes and biscuits into the budget,” she said.

  “Amen to that. Half the fun of these cases is coming here.”

  She smiled.

  But more than that, she thought.

  Their friendship in doing this … was so very important.

  “By the way, how was the barbecue on Saturday?” she said.

  “Rained off,” said Jack. “Shame. I sure was looking forward to that steak.”

  “Maybe next weekend,” said Sarah, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Hmm, maybe. Least we got some sunshine yesterday.”

  “So what do you think, detective?” she said.

  Jack took a look around — always cautious of nearby ears.

  Especially after all their cases together. The villagers must always imagine that they were up to something.

  “Tell you, first thing I’d like to do is see the house …”

  “Scene of the crime?”

  “Accident — for now.”

  “Except there is a wake going on right now.”

  He smiled at that. “Where we wouldn’t exactly blend in.”

  Sarah had a thought.

  “What if … well, we wait until everyone leaves? Then appear. Not wanting to cause any disruption. With a few questions … we say, on behalf of Tony?”

  Jack furrowed his brow.

  He wasn’t sure.

  “Well, depends on how distraught the widow is. Will she be alone? Will she be too upset to talk?”