by Cate Dean
“Martin! Is he okay?”
“He just went into interrogation with Ian. It will be all right, Maggie; Ian will treat him with respect.”
“I never thought I’d go through this again. It was hard enough with you, and I hardly knew you at the time.” She let out a sigh. “I wish I could be there.”
“Just focus on the documentary. I know it will be difficult for you, love, but you need to put this aside. Worrying yourself sick will not help Spencer.”
“I know. That won’t stop me from worrying. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.” The humor edging her voice faded with her next words. “Look out for him, Martin. You know what he’s going through.”
“I will be here for every step. And, yes, I’ll keep you updated.” He looked up as the door opened, not surprised to see Grace rush in, her face pale. “I have to go, love. Grace just arrived.”
“I’ll keep my phone on. Call me, Martin, the second you hear anything. I love you.”
“I love you, Maggie.”
He ended the call and headed over to Grace. She stood at the front counter, arguing with Jackie. He stared at her, his cheeks flushed.
“I’m sorry, miss. Spencer Knight is in with DI Reynolds. I can’t be disturbing him.”
“I want to see him. Now.”
“Grace.” Martin took her arm and gently led her away, nodding at Jackie. “Let’s sit over here. Spencer will be in there for some time.”
“How do you know?” She shook her head. “Sorry. I can’t believe this is happening. Spencer doesn’t have a violent temper.” Turning to Martin, she clutched his hands. “But I’m afraid he might have done this.”
If Martin hadn’t been sitting already, he would have needed a chair.
“Why do you think so?” He kept his vice mild, but he studied Grace, watching for signs of stress. Years as a uni professor had taught him what to look for.
“Regina kept pushing him, and pushing him. He was so angry after the last confrontation. I was terrified that he would hurt himself.” She tightened her grip on Martin’s hands. “Please don’t repeat that! I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Grace.” Martin eased his hands free. Her grip was bordering on painful. “You may be questioned by Ian, about Spencer’s state of mind, and his whereabouts. You have to tell him the truth.”
She nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. Martin wasn’t normally good with emotional women; living with Maggie hadn’t improved that, since she was the most level-headed woman he had ever known, aside from his mother.
But he did know they usually wanted comfort. He settled her back in the chair and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, letting her compose herself without him staring.
Ian walked out a few minutes later, and headed straight for them. “Grace. Thank you for coming in.”
“As if I had a choice.” The anger in her voice had Martin pulling away.
Ian raised his hand. “I understand, but as his partner, you have spent the most time in his company. We can speak here, or in the interrogation room.”
“Here is fine. I want this done, so I can go.”
“Very well. Stay, Martin,” he said, when Martin started to stand. “You know all the details of the case.” He sat next to Grace, studying her for a moment before he spoke again. “Can you tell me where you were last night?”
“I was home, for a while. I went to visit Spencer at the museum, around 9:30, because I knew he planned a late night.” She frowned. “But he wasn’t there. I left the thermos of coffee and sandwich I’d brought him, and went to my flat.”
“So, you weren’t at Spencer’s flat after 9:30?” She shook her head. “Did anyone see you at your flat?”
“I spoke to—no, that was the day before. Wait, yes. My neighbor passed me in the foyer, as I was going in. She could confirm I was there. I’m not a suspect, am I?” Her voice shook, and Ian closed his hand over her shoulder.
“I’m afraid everyone who could have been in the flat is a suspect, which is why my first job is to eliminate people. Do you know the name of this neighbor?”
“Amy. I think. I’m sorry, I can’t think at the moment.”
He patted her shoulder and stood. “That’s fine. Just bring the information over sometime today, and leave it at the front counter. Martin, may I have a word?”
Nodding, Martin stood and followed Ian to the hall, stopping outside the interrogation room. “Will Spencer be staying, Ian?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid so. The medical examiner narrowed the time of death. Regina was killed between 9:30 and 10:30 pm.”
Dread shot through Martin. “When he was missing from the museum.”
“If Grace’s timeline is correct. The fact that Spencer has a blank spot from 8 pm until after 10 leaves me no choice. I have to hold him, until details are sorted. I’m sorry, Martin.”
“May I speak with him, before I leave?”
“Of course.” Ian unlocked the door. “You have five minutes, then I will have to take him to a holding cell.”
“Thank you.”
He walked into the interrogation room, squashing the memories that threatened.
Spencer lifted his head, so pale Martin was afraid he was on the verge of passing out. “Hey, Professor.” He sounded hopeless. “Quite a mess I’ve gotten myself into.”
“Spencer.” Martin sat, and reached his hand across the table. Spencer gripped it like a lifeline. “Did Ian tell you what would happen next?”
Spencer swallowed, then nodded. “I’m getting my very own room with a view. I didn’t do this, Martin,” he whispered. “I know I have some lost time, but in my soul, I know I didn’t kill Regina.”
“I believe you. The problem is that time. Until we can account for it, Ian has no choice but to hold you.”
“We?”
“You are not alone in this, Spencer. Remember that.”
Spencer lowered his head. Martin held his hand, let the younger man know he was here, supporting him.
Ian knocked on the door before he walked in. “I’m afraid time is up, Professor. Spencer, if you can come with me, please.”
“Right.” Spencer squeezed Martin’s hand before he let go, and stood, moving around the table. “Is breakfast on the agenda? I don’t remember the last time I ate.” He looked less deathly, his voice almost normal.
“That can be arranged.” Ian took his arm, glancing over at Martin. “Will you be close by today, in case I have more questions?”
Martin nodded. “You can reach me at the shop.” He smiled at Spencer. “I’ll see if I can persuade Ian to hand you a couple of Lilliana’s blueberry scones.”
“Thanks, mate.” He managed a smile, and Martin watched it fade as Ian led him out.
With a sigh, Martin left, needing to feel cool, fresh air on his face. He waved to Jackie before he left, and didn’t stop until he stood on the boardwalk, facing the Channel.
The cold wind snapped at him, and he pulled up the collar of his tweed jacket, enjoying the feel of it, the view of the water. The sound of the waves, the cry of the seagulls, and the constant wind all helped him clear his mind.
He had to ring Maggie, let her know what was happening, but he wanted to be in a better frame of mind. Too many memories scratched at him, wanting to be relived. He refused to give them space, turning his thoughts to Maggie.
She would be devastated by the news that Spencer was being held. He needed to break it to her gently, when she didn’t have to focus on filming.
“Ah, love. I wish I had good news for you.”
“Talking to yourself, Martin?” Patrick Tucker stood on the boardwalk, a few feet away. “A habit I have, myself, but it’s best to keep the talk to a minimum in public.” He moved closer, pushing his thick glasses up. “I heard about young Spencer. How is he?”
“Well enough, considering the circumstances. How did you hear?”
Patrick waved his hand. “The usual village gossip. Enid told me this morning, while I was unlocking the door
to my shop. She believes that the boy could have done murder even less than I do, which is not at all.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
To his surprise, the older man laid one hand on his arm. “If you or Maggie need anything, please let me know. I have friends in London, solicitors who can help.”
“Thank you, Patrick. I appreciate the offer, and your support. So does Maggie.”
“Give her my best.”
He patted Martin’s arm, and wandered down the boardwalk.
Still surprised by the encounter, Martin watched him, smiling for the first time when the wind tossed Patrick’s wild, grey-streaked hair around his head. The reclusive bookseller had a soft spot for Maggie; obviously, that extended to those important to her.
“Speaking of Maggie,” he muttered, pulling out his mobile. It was past time to leave her a message. He tapped her name, and waited for her message to play.
“This is Maggie—I’m off hunting for antiques, so please leave a message!”
He smiled at the enthusiasm in her voice. “Hello, love. I have news about Spencer. Ring me when you’re done for the day. I miss you.”
He rang off, and walked down the boardwalk, in the direction of the cliffs. Above him, the castle dominated the view, standing watch as it had done for centuries.
“Martin!” He turned at the shout, and saw Lilliana, waving at him as she strode along the boardwalk. “It’s brisk out here. Any news about Spencer?”
“He’s being held, for now, while Ian investigates.”
Lilliana shook her head. “That poor man. Surely, Ian knows he didn’t kill that woman.”
“His personal opinion can’t be part of the investigation.”
“Of course not. But—well, my biased view of Spencer doesn’t matter. How is Maggie?”
“Keeping herself busy. She is out at Cragmoor Manor.”
“The restoration—of course. It’s good that she keeps busy. It will help.” She rubbed Martin’s arm. “I’m here, if either of you need anything.”
“Thank you, Lilliana. I do have one request; would it be possible to send some scones over to the station?”
“Blueberry?” She smiled, nodding. “Consider it done. On me,” she said, when Martin reached for his wallet. “It is the least I can do.”
“Thank you.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“My pleasure. I’ll go back right now and pack them up. Can I send anything over to the shop?”
“Lunch for three would be welcome. That I will pay for, Lilliana. Send it over, and I’ll ring Ashton, let him know it’s on the way.”
“I’m so glad you and Maggie found each other.”
She left before Martin could think of a response.
He pulled out his mobile again, and had a quick conversation with Ashton as he headed back up the high street. Spencer wasn’t the only one who hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
***
Maggie’s mobile chirped at her, letting her know she had a message.
They hadn’t started filming yet, since Heather’s start time was 12:17 pm, so Maggie found a somewhat secluded spot and pulled out her mobile.
Her heart pounded when she saw the message was from Martin. She sat on the retaining wall before she listened to it, and was glad she’d taken the precaution. Martin hadn’t said much, but she knew the news had to be bad. It was in his voice.
She took a few deep breaths, and stared out at the countryside. Cragmoor stood close to the cliff, which left little room in front for more than the long driveway. The back was a different story.
Rolling green hills stretched for miles, gorgeous, calming. Even with the cold wind blowing off the Channel, it was a pleasant place to sit. A good place to compose herself before she faced the crew.
“Maggie!” Heather’s gruff voice cut through the air. She turned and waved, to let Heather know she heard. Heather strode over to her. “Since you’re here early, let’s start work now. Bayley’s tearing at the paneling upstairs, and I want footage of him taking it down.”
“I’m ready.” She stood, and started walking past Heather. She didn’t get far.
“You all right? I heard about your friend.”
“I’m good. This is the best thing for me right now.”
“Then let’s get to it.”
Maggie had to run to keep up with Heather’s fast pace. By the time she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, she could hear Heather shouting orders to both crews. It made finding her easy.
Ted Bayley was working in one of the huge bedrooms Maggie hadn’t explored yet. With twenty of them in the manor, that wasn’t surprising. She stepped inside, and halted, her eyes widening.
Half of one wall had been revealed, and even from the doorway, Maggie knew the wallcovering was silk. She headed across the room, careful to avoid the equipment set up in the center, and joined Ted.
“Hello, Maggie.” He studied the wall, a grin on his face. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen silk from this period in such pristine condition. May I?”
“Just to look. We’re going to figure out a way to protect it, without affecting the sheen, so the fewer hands on it, the better.”
“Of course.” She moved closer, leaning in to study the fabric. It was a rich blue that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, thicker than she expected. “Jeremy spared no expense when he built Blakeney.”
“It’s been like finding treasure, in every room,” Ted said. “Come see what we found over here.”
Maggie followed him to the small marble fireplace, not surprised when he pushed one of the panels and it opened.
“Another secret room,” she whispered.
“Not a room, Maggie. A passage. Come on.” He stepped inside and pulled a torch off his belt. In the beam of light, she saw the narrow staircase, laced with cobwebs. “I requested a copy of the original plans, but they’ve proved to be elusive. I have a feeling Arthur Cragmoor either destroyed them, or hid them somewhere on the property. It would be an advantage for him, being the only one to know the layout of the manor.”
“Did you follow it down?”
He winked at her. “You bet. Want to see where it leads?”
She nodded, and he led her to the stairs.
He kept the beam aimed at their feet, and she pressed one hand on the wall to anchor herself. Behind her, she heard the cameraman, not surprised by Heather’s loud whisper.
“Get as much as you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie smiled, since she knew Heather couldn’t see her, and kept moving down the stairs.
They curved around, away from where Maggie thought they’d end. When she hit the bottom, Ted held out his hand.
“There’s a long, pitch black tunnel from here.”
“Okay.” She took his hand, and let him lead the way.
The tunnel was ice cold. When she touched one of the walls her hand came away wet.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“Almost there.”
A couple of minutes later, Ted stopped, and she heard the squeak of a door. Bright light spilled in, threatening to blind her after the darkness of the tunnel. Ted’s hand closed over her wrist and guided her out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I should have warned you.”
“I’m okay.” She blinked her eyes clear, and took in a sharp breath. The cliffs were in front of them, the sun dancing on the water of the Channel. She turned around, orienting herself. “We’re on the other side of the road.”
“I’m guessing this was a smuggler’s tunnel.” Ted pointed to the entrance, which had been well concealed, hidden under a hillock, and invisible from the road. “The smugglers were quite active along this part of the coast, and many of the locals supported them.”
Maggie shoved hair out of her face. The wind created havoc with her loose ponytail. “Is the tunnel in good shape?”
Ted smiled at her. “Remarkably good considering its age. You want it restored.�
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“Absolutely. It wouldn’t be open to everyone, but it would be the perfect highlight for special tours of the manor, and its secrets.”
“I will keep it as it is, and repair any rough spots,” Ted said. “Walking in the darkness will heighten the experience.”
“Perfect.” Maggie smiled at him, then wrangled her hair in, again. “Okay—time for a bun.”
She pulled her ponytail holder free, then bent over and gathered her hair in a bun, using the holder to anchor it. When she straightened, Ted, the cameraman, and Heather were all staring at her.
Maggie smiled. “A lifetime of practice,” she said, and headed across the road.
Her smile faded when she reached the other side. Ted had been a wonderful distraction, but her fear and dread surfaced again. She had to know what was going on.
Pulling out her mobile, she tapped in the number to The Ash Leaf, pretty sure that Martin would be there by now.
She was right; he picked up after the second ring.
“Thank you for calling The Ash Leaf.”
“It’s me, Martin.”
“Maggie. Are you finished at the manor?”
“Not yet. I know,” she said, before he could interrupt. “You didn’t want me to call until after I was done. But I have to know.”
He sighed, and her throat tightened. “Spencer is being held at the station, while Ian checks on things.”
“What things?”
“I’m sorry, love, but Ian didn’t confide in me. Spencer hasn’t been arrested, but Ian had no choice; there were too many hours unaccounted for.”
“His blank spots,” she whispered. “He still can’t remember?”
“I’m afraid not.” Martin paused, and she braced herself for more bad news. “There is something else. Grace gave her statement, and according to her, Spencer wasn’t at the museum when she went to visit him at 9:30 last night.”
“And?”
He sighed. “Regina was killed between 9:30 and 10:30.”
“Oh, no.” She lowered herself to the ground, afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her. “Spencer doesn’t have an alibi.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I need to call my solicitors. I need to—”