“And this – right here – is what passes for the high street in Mydworth,” said Harry, grinning and pointing to the narrow, cobbled street she’d driven up in the Alvis. “Number forty-eight, we’re looking for. Should be down on the left.”
No room for cars this morning, the lane bustling with shoppers and workers, children playing, the little stores all open, Kat and Harry having to thread their way through the crowd.
They soon found the house they were looking for, sandwiched between a dairy and a cobbler; the paint peeling, windows with old grey net for curtains. Kat knocked on the door and they waited. No response. She knocked again.
After some minutes, she heard a bolt slide and the door opened a few inches. A woman with a worn, tired face peered out at them.
Jenny’s mother, guessed Kat. Old before her time, she thought.
Lots of work, not much joy, and maybe no husband in sight. Lost to the war perhaps?
The woman didn’t invite them in. But though guarded and respectful, she told them that her daughter had gone to the square to buy yarn in the market.
Kat thanked her. Just as they left, the door almost closed again, the mother said: “She’s not in any trouble, my Jenny, is she?”
Every mother’s concern.
And Kat turned to her. A smile. Then, perhaps not with quite the confidence the mother would have liked, Kat said, “No, I don’t think so.”
Then it was off to the square.
*
“Well, isn’t this something,” Kat said as they reached the bottom of the narrow, cobbled street and entered Market Square.
The scene – certainly nothing she had experienced in the Bronx, or even in the crowded lanes and market stalls of Istanbul or Cairo – was like something from another era completely.
Walking past a fishmonger, with his catch of cod, haddock and seabass – probably only hours old – sitting on beds of ice, melting, as the water dribbled down to the cobblestones below.
And giant cuts of beef, pork, chickens and even ducks suspended from another nearby stall. The portly butcher and what must have been his son, standing amidst the carnage, shiny knives ready to cut and wrap whatever sized piece desired. The man wore a dapper straw hat while his white apron had big splotches of blood red.
“This market,” Kat said, “had to be this way hundreds of years ago, right?”
“Imagine so. Never really thought about it. Farmers; fisherman from Littlehampton; local vegetables, season by season.”
“And all the handicrafts. They do this every Saturday?”
“Rain or shine. And, you know, at Christmas time, well, that’s something really special. All the stalls decorated, a chill in the air. Jolly great tree over there in the corner. Carols. Mulled wine in the pub.”
“Mulled wine, hmm? Now that’s one cocktail I never had.”
Harry took her hand. “Something for you – Lady Mortimer – to look forward to.”
“I will.”
She looked around the square, imagining this summer scene transformed by snow into some kind of Dickensian Christmas.
Towering above the square was what she guessed was the town hall, its large spire pointing to the sky. And midway up the spire, a golden clock face.
But so far, no sign of Jenny.
“Think we missed her?” Harry said.
“Maybe. Let’s keep walking – as for me, I’ll try not to get distracted.”
Kat had also noticed something else. When she spoke, people quickly turned and looked.
It wasn’t anything she had experienced working in places like Berlin and Cairo, especially in the tight circle of diplomats where there was always a plethora of languages and accents.
But here…
Her American accent, tinged with a bit of Bronx, must be so unfamiliar to people. Even the American actors in the talkies spoke mostly with what must have sounded like a British accent of some kind.
Kat made a note. Just by talking, I can create a bit of a stir.
And if this is going to be my home, best I tread gently.
She thought of that novel she’d read in her first year of college: A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
Except – one thing Kat knew for sure – her home on 231st Street in the Bronx certainly was no Connecticut farm.
Then, as she walked with Harry, taking in the brilliant sight of all the stalls, really just enjoying it while she thought about how she’d have to adapt, to fit in – she spotted someone.
“Harry—” she said, touching his arm. “Over there, that stall with yarn. That’s her.”
“Why, so it is.”
He turned to her. Without discussing it, she knew Harry was thinking that she should be the one to talk to the girl.
“You ready?”
Kat nodded. And they walked directly to Jenny, the young maid who perhaps had loved Coates.
Who perhaps had known what he had been planning all along.
And perhaps had even been part of those plans herself.
14. The Truth About Alfred Coates
Kat touched the girl’s shoulder. She was carrying a bag full of items purchased in the market, the bushy green stems of a bunch of carrots sticking out at the very top.
Jenny spun around.
“Oh! Sir Harry… your ladyship… I um—”
Kat smiled. “Jenny, my husband and I were hoping we could talk to you.”
Kat noticed Jenny’s eyes dart right and left. And what had been a warm, near-medieval scene of people purchasing the freshest of wares, now seemed more sinister, as if they had just cornered the young girl.
Jenny chewed at her lower lip.
“Talk? ’Bout what?”
Kat took a breath. “Alfred Coates.”
Now the hard bit…
“What you might know.”
At that her eyes stopped darting, and landed on Kat’s. Those eyes sad, resigned, as if the inevitable had just happened.
“Yes,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “B-but not here. Somewhere quiet.”
And Harry took a small step closer, his voice low.
“St Thomas’s? Find a quiet pew, near the back?”
Kat reminded herself that Harry knew every part of this town. All of it new to her – but not for him.
Jenny nodded, and then – almost as if they were escorting a captured culprit – they all walked away from the lines of stalls, away from the square and back up the main street to the imposing stone church that overlooked the town.
*
Harry looked around the church, the stained glass sending shafts of multicoloured light onto the rows of pews and the pulpit.
How many sermons had he listened to here as a boy?
And while he didn’t think the rector’s words had brought any real solace to him – not in those early years, when Lavinia had moved to the manor house to look after him – this place, the quiet, the deep rumble of the organ, the voices of the choir… all of that seemed to somehow make things better.
He knew that, in one of the side chapels, there was a plaque with just a few people’s names on it… and his parents’ names were there.
15 April, 1912.
That – he always tried to avoid looking at.
Turning to the right, he saw something new. A great slab of marble.
Etched in gold letters at the top, “In Proud and Perpetual Remembrance of the brave men of Mydworth who gave their lives in the Great War 1914 – 1918. Lest We Forget.”
For such a small town, so many names. Friends that Harry knew. Others, mere acquaintances.
On either side of that conflict, Harry knew, mere boys facing boys.
But not on a football or a cricket pitch.
In muddy, rat-filled ruts, carved deep into Flanders fields.
Harry ran his eyes slowly down the list of names, not skipping a single one.
Then he turned to see Kat, sitting close to Jenny. The church empty, just lines of small candles glowing up front.
But also, he wondered, maybe the result of the mysterious work she used to do for the State Department?
For now, Harry listened.
*
“Jenny…”
Harry saw that Kat said the word and let it hang there, a mere whisper in the quiet of the old church.
“We know. About you and Alfred.”
The girl’s lower lip trembled a bit. “Know. About—?”
“That you and Alfred were close, that maybe,” Kat slid a hand on top of Jenny’s, “you two were in love.”
At this the girl only nodded. “I-I’m not in any trouble, am I? I mean, the police and all their questions?”
The answer to that, Harry thought, will depend on exactly what Jenny says, or reveals, in the next few moments.
Kat’s response – perfect: “We’re not the police, Jenny. We’re just trying to help Lady Lavinia. To know everything that happened. You understand that, don’t you?”
The girl nodded again.
And Harry was amazed to see Kat smile. That smile – devastating in so many good ways!
“Great. So – I need to ask you then – what did you know? About the robbery? About what Alfred planned?”
Jenny looked away; up to the front of the church; to the pulpit, the altar, the stained glass at the very front, now darkening with the sun slipping into the western sky.
She took a long time to respond.
But then the girl turned back. And the words came fast.
*
“We had a plan, we did. I mean, I didn’t want to have my mother’s life. And him too. Neither of us wanted to stay like this, in service. He said he knew how to get out.”
Harry slid a bit closer to Kat, wanting to catch every word. Curious, of course, but also tense with the thought: This girl may tell us everything.
“Out?” said Kat.
“Th-that’s right. How to get both of us out.”
“Did he say where? Was there a place he talked about going to?”
“A place? No. Just – out. Away.”
Harry saw Kat glance over at him.
If Jenny was telling the truth, then she knew nothing about Coates and his single train reservation.
And that there never was a plan to go anywhere with this young girl.
Poor kid had been lied to.
He watched Kat lean in close to Jenny again. “So, Jenny – did Alfred tell you how he was going to get you out?”
“He said, there were people coming to the house, people travelling with jewels. Rich people, people with so much, when we have nothing.”
Harry had to ask something, even as Kat still held the girl’s hand.
“He told you he planned on robbing someone?” Harry said.
Jenny nodded.
“And so, you knew who he was going to rob?”
Another nod. “Lord and Lady Tamworth.”
“He said how he planned to do it?”
“Yes… h-he said he would slip into their room, when everyone was down having their drinks, getting ready for dinner.”
Another look from Kat, both of them being so careful.
“Am I in trouble now? Will the police find out, will I—?”
Harry saw Kat give the girl’s small hand a squeeze. And then not answer that question.
“Jenny. I imagine,” Kat said slowly, “that he must have asked you to find out where Lady Tamworth kept her jewels, that you—”
At that Jenny shook her head.
“No, not at all. He never asked me to do anything.”
Interesting, thought Harry. Actually… confusing.
Not the answer he’d expected. A young maid, in and out of Reggie and Claudia’s rooms would know exactly where to go for the jewels.
And yet, if she was telling the truth – and Harry now had no doubt that the frightened girl was telling the truth – it seemed Coates didn’t ask for that help.
He let that odd revelation sink in.
*
Kat took a moment to work out what to ask next. She hadn’t expected that answer – not at all.
Why would Coates not use her help, or need it?
For that, Kat could think of no reasonable answer. But there was one more area that she knew that they had to dive into.
“Jenny, I believe you. And that means, you know, you didn’t help Mr Coates. You weren’t part of the robbery.”
The girl nodded at this, relief filling her face.
“Could have just been all talk, as far as you were concerned. But about that ‘talk’, there’s one other thing I need to ask you.”
A big moment here, something key to finding out what really happened the night before.
“There was another man who helped Alfred. A man who got away, taking most of the jewels.”
Another pause, Jenny’s eyes locked on hers.
“Did Alfred ever speak of this man; this accomplice?”
And now, oh-so-slowly Jenny shook her head.
“No. He just said he was going to do it. That it was all worked out. Kept saying that, he did. Nothing for me to worry about. It’s all ’set’, is what he said. But no mention of anyone else.”
Kat felt Harry, who had been so still beside her, shift in his seat.
“Jenny,” he said, “is it possible that Alfred had an accomplice all lined up, and never told you?”
The girl’s face showed that she found the question incomprehensible.
“No, m’lord. Alfred told me everything. If there was someone else he would have said,” she said firmly
“I’m sure he would, Jenny,” said Kat, nodding.
“Is that all?” asked the girl. “Can I go? Mum will be wondering where I am.”
“Just one last question,” said Kat. “Did Alfred ever mention Salisbury to you?”
“Salisbury?” said Jenny, looking confused. “Why would he?”
“He never talked about going there? Or having friends there? Or near there?”
Jenny shook her head: “Salisbury’s miles away!”
“It is,” said Harry, smiling. “How about France? Did he ever talk about France?”
But Jenny just shook her head again and looked confused. Kat felt sure now that Coates hadn’t planned on taking Jenny with him to the Riviera.
Whoever he’d imagined having on his arm on the promenade in Nice it clearly wasn’t this country girl.
More likely poor Jenny was to be used if Coates needed help with the robbery. If he needed help getting into a room, learning where the jewels were kept, or even creating some kind of distraction.
In a word, the gullible girl was just – insurance.
Kat looked back to Harry. They couldn’t interview the dead man, so all they knew was what Jenny was sharing. And she clearly knew nothing about the second man, the man from London’s East End – or possibly Salisbury.
But if so, then there was another obvious question. Were there other things that Alfred Coates didn’t tell this girl?
At that, the door to the church opened with a creak that echoed in the vaults. An elderly woman walked in, a bit of an unsteady wobble in her walk.
Wanting some quiet perhaps; a solitary prayer.
Kat looked at Harry and gave the girl’s hand a final squeeze, signalling that the chat was over.
It was time to leave.
15. The Cocktail Hour
Harry eased the Alvis through the gates of Mydworth Manor and opened the throttle as they headed up the long gravel drive across the open meadows.
They’d dropped in at the Dower House to pick up the car – Kat desperate to have her luggage with her.
They hadn’t lingered outside the house – both of them keen to ‘arrive’ in style, as they’d always planned.
And in truth – they had matters to talk about. Urgent matters.
He looked across at Kat
who was staring out at the meadows, fields dotted with sheep and the occasional deer straying from the nearby woods.
She’d taken the clips out of her hair and it streamed and billowed behind her in the wind.
So beautiful, he thought.
“So – investigator Reilly – what are you thinking?”
She turned to him: “I’m thinking, something here doesn’t add up.”
“Go on.”
“Start with Jenny. She telling the truth, you think?”
“Certainly seemed like it to me,” said Harry.
“Me too. In which case – if she didn’t help him, how did Coates know where the jewels were hidden?”
“He took their bags up to the room, remember?”
“True. But that must have been some lucky break if he just chanced upon the right bag. He couldn’t rely on it happening. Or that the jewels wouldn’t have been locked away, handed over to Benton.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “So, somebody helped him. Somebody else on the staff?”
“Yep. What I was thinking. Especially after what Huntley said about the flowerbeds. But if that’s true, we don’t have much time to find out who.”
Harry slowed down as the drive turned away from the meadows and into the woods.
“You going to tell the police about the train ticket?” asked Kat.
“I’ll give Timms a call, he can have the Paris train watched. But if the plan was to make the getaway on the Continent – maybe meeting up with his accomplice – I imagine Coates’s pal will be long gone.”
“And the jewels with him.”
“That’s right. I’m afraid we don’t have much good news for Aunt Lavinia.”
“We don’t have much of any kind of news, Harry,” said Kat. “Just a lot of mysteries.”
“Not least the mystery of the seven bullets, hmm?”
“Ah, yes – that too.”
They emerged from the woods and, ahead, Harry saw the manor house, glowing in the late afternoon sun. He drove past the front of the building, around the fountain and over to the stables, parking next to the line of guests’ cars.
It looked as if the riders were back: horses in the paddock, and a couple of stable boys from the town with brooms and pails of water cleaning up after the day’s hack.
He and Kat climbed out, and Harry unloaded their suitcases. He looked up as Lavinia emerged from the stables, leading one of the big greys that Harry knew she loved to ride, its flanks still wet with sweat.
Mydworth Mysteries - A Shot in the Dark (A Cosy Historical Mystery Series Book 1) Page 9