“Nope, Emma,” he said sternly. “Bed. You need to rest. Bed now.” He bonked her again.
Emma laughed and threw up her hands. “All right! All right! Bed!”
But first there was a very long, very hot bath and a good curl up in bed with the computer and Season 3 of The Great British Bake Off.
She was asleep before they announced the winner of the signature bake.
* * *
* * *
Wednesday was not a tea service day, so normally Emma let herself sleep in until the luxurious hour of seven a.m. Today, however, habit and leftover worries shook her awake at six.
After she let Oliver out into the garden, Emma decided she’d earned herself a proper breakfast and set about fixing a genuine meal—a piping hot cheese and herb omelet with buttered toast and marmalade and, yes, sausages for both her and Oliver. As she sat down with her plate and a cup of her favorite second-flush Darjeeling tea, she pulled the first of the Truscott Grange ledgers off the pile and opened it to the screen shot of the silver tea set.
Emma took a bite of toast, and savored the bittersweet marmalade. She also squinted at the bid amount and the sale date for the tea set. She groped for a pencil from the jar she kept on the table, and stuck it behind her ear, just in case she needed to make notes.
Then she flipped open the folder of bank statements and started leafing through them.
Oliver slid back in through the doggie door and trotted over.
“What’re you doing, Emma?” He put his front paws up on the coffee table so he could see better. “Are you Marpleing? Because Genny said you shouldn’t.”
“I’m not Marpleing. I’m accounting.”
“Oh. That’s all right then.”
“And there’s sausages.”
“Hurray!” Oliver yipped and made a beeline for his kibble bowl.
Emma chuckled and went back to flipping through the account pages. Marcie had been one for notes too, and clearly she hadn’t believed in relying solely on electronic bank statements. She’d religiously printed out her records, and just about every deposit or withdrawal had some kind of annotation.
Rent, W.F
Rent, A.G.I
Frank, monthly
Gus, monthly
Bert, monthly
So. The brothers were all on allowances. But evidently they weren’t shy about coming around and asking for more.
Frank, clothing
Gus, car repair
Bert, greens fees
Bert, club fees
Bert, tailor
Bert . . .
Emma stuffed another forkful of omelet in her mouth and went and got her calculator. Oliver plunked himself down beside her chair. “You’re going to be here awhile, aren’t you?”
“ ’Fraid so.” Emma rubbed his belly. “There’s numbers to crunch.”
“Are they good numbers or bad numbers?”
“They’re less confusing than the humans who made them.”
“Oh, well.” Oliver rolled over onto his back. “That is good.”
Emma smiled and gave his belly another rub for good luck, and went back to crunching.
At ten thirty, Emma’s phone rang.
“Yeah?” She stuck the phone between her ear and her shoulder.
“I hope you’ve got something good,” said Constance.
“You’re the one calling me,” she reminded the detective.
“Only because you haven’t called me.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re forgiven. If you’ve got something I can use with my boss.”
Emma surveyed her tidy piles of bank statements. “I don’t know.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Emma leaned back and stretched her legs out. Oliver had fallen into a post-sausage nap sprawled out on his back.
“Okay. Here goes.” Emma told Constance about the marked-up copy of Rebecca, and the solicitor’s card, and the ledgers with all the articles and reports about the earlier tragic deaths that had lead to the grange’s changing hands. She told her about the visit to the solicitor’s, and about the will, and how Helen and Daphne were set to inherit the grange. She told her about the blanked-out appointment calendar on Marcie’s computer, and Gus down by the lake, tossing what might have been the missing handbag into the pond.
“There is something going on with that lot,” said Constance decidedly.
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“It is. I just wish there was something I could do about it.”
“Well, we’re not done yet,” Emma told her.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it seems somebody’s been selling off some of the grange’s antiques. And Marcie kept a record of it, but she wasn’t doing the selling.”
“You’re sure?” Emma could picture Constance sitting up a little straighter.
“Fairly sure. I’m staring at her bank statements, and the grange’s bank statements, interestingly, and I’ve got a list of what’s gone missing and—”
“Do I want to know how you got all that?”
“Helen Dalgliesh hired me to act as her financial representative, and since she’s one of the estate executors, as well as a legatee, I get to look at the estate accounts.”
“Are you serious?”
“Thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am, I am. Very much so. Do go on, legally authorized representative person.” There was a rustle and a creak, like Constance was leaning back in her chair.
“Well, you know, as her financial representative, I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this without permission—”
“Emma, did I mention time’s getting on and I had to call you? Not in the mood for teasing.”
“Right. Sorry. Well, the antiques were all sold online. I’ve got the approximate dates. But unless she had an account we haven’t found yet, the money from the sale was never deposited, either in her personal account or in the estate account. So where’d it go?”
“I am breathless with anticipation.”
“I don’t think it was Marcie who was selling off the antiques at all. I think Marcie caught somebody else doing it, and she kept the records as proof.”
“Why?”
“Just in case that other person decided to kick up a fuss when she told them she was selling the whole estate. Remember, Marcie was in control. She didn’t have to have anybody’s permission to sell, and she didn’t have to share the profits. The brothers are all living off their allowances, and handouts, and they all have very expensive habits. If their income from the estate went away, they would all be in serious trouble. Marcie had to know that.”
“Phew. That is a serious motivating factor, that is.”
“Money makes the world go round,” sighed Emma.
“Well, keep digging, but—” Constance hesitated. “Maybe be a little discreet, all right?”
“Why?” asked Emma. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing I can’t handle, but just . . . be careful.”
“Because that’s not going to make me worried at all,” Emma muttered.
“Sorry. Listen, I have to go.” Emma heard paper rustling. “I’ll give you a call around eight tomorrow, all right?”
Emma agreed, they said goodbye and rang off. Beside her, Oliver snorted in his sleep and pawed anxiously at something. Emma chuckled, and rubbed his tummy again.
Then she thought of something, picked her mobile up again and dialed.
“Trevena Taxi.” Brian answered on the second ring.
“Good Morning, Brian, I thought you’d be out with the spanners and things.”
“Wish I was, but paperwork waits for no man.” She heard the sound of paper flapping and she pictured him waving a stack of invoices by th
e phone. “What’s going on? You’re not going to back out on me again?”
“No, no, I will be there. Friday night. Six sharp.”
“That’s good, because, some people are saying it’s getting pretty tense up at the grange.”
Emma’s eyebrows raised. “Some people?”
“I was grabbing a bite at the Roundhead, and ran into Ned Giddy.”
Villages. She sighed. “Well, yeah, he’s right. There’s some special drama brewing. And that’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“I need a favor. It’s pretty huge.”
“At your service, ma’am.”
“Can I borrow the car?”
48
At least, Emma reflected, she was used to being up with the sun.
Emma had arranged a short-term rental agreement with Brian over the phone yesterday, and he even agreed to show up with the taxi at her place first thing in the morning to drive her down to the garage.
She greeted him with scones.
“Is this a thank-you, or a bribe to keep me from asking too many questions?”
“You’re learning,” she said. “And I’ll tell you later.”
Brian shrugged. He also ate an orange and vanilla scone in two bites.
Now, she was driving down the narrow roads in the Mini with the top down. She had to admit, having Cornwall’s early morning air in her face was almost as good as an extra cup of coffee. Almost.
Oliver, of course, was in his element.
“Faster, Emma!” he barked from the passenger seat.
“Constance will arrest us if I do that!”
“What’s arrest?”
“Trust me, we don’t want to find out!”
Although, technically Constance could arrest them for what they were about to do now too. Because, technically, they didn’t have permission to be here at the grange, and they really didn’t have permission to be poking around in the (locked) shed.
* * *
* * *
The grange was dark. Emma tensed up as she slowly drove around back, like she was trying to will the car to tiptoe.
“I left my briefcase, I wanted to come back for it, sorry,” she whispered to herself. “I left my briefcase, I wanted to come back for it, sorry . . .”
She eased the Mini Cooper into the little muddy niche beside the garage where it would be harder to see from the house, grabbed her rucksack and unbuckled Oliver.
“Okay, Oliver, we’re being stealthy, right?” she whispered. “I need you to show me where that shed is.”
“Yes, yes!” Oliver huffed. “It’s this way . . .” He cast around for a moment. “No. This way.” He took off at a steady and, Emma hoped, confident trot.
Emma crossed her fingers, slung her rucksack across her shoulders and followed.
* * *
* * *
Oliver’s path took them around the edges of the garden and into the walnut grove and the tangled bit of “wilderness” on the far side. They were about halfway through when Emma heard a loud rattling. She ducked instinctively. An ink-black crow swooped right overhead, cawing.
“Hey!” Emma yelped, and then bit her lip.
“That crow is extremely rude,” sniffed Oliver. “You watch out for him, Emma.”
“Can you try to make friends with the wildlife next time?”
“A corgi always tries!” he insisted. “You need to talk to the crows.”
No, thank you, Emma sighed.
All at once, Oliver broke into a run. “Here, Emma! Here!”
Emma hurried to keep up. They were on a dirt path and the shed stood right at its edge. It was a weathered wooden building not much bigger than a walk-in closet with a battered tin roof. A rusted padlock on an equally rusted hasp held the door shut.
Emma tugged it once, just in case. The lock rattled, but didn’t open.
“What do we do now?” asked Oliver.
“I need you to keep watch for me.”
“Yes!” Oliver growled. “The crow might come back!”
“That too. But I was thinking more about any of the humans from the house.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Oliver turned his back to her, planting himself square in the center of the path.
When Emma was growing up, her family had lived in a row house that dated from early in the twentieth century. One day, she managed to accidentally lock herself in the loo and lose the key down the drain. Her mother, who believed in professionals, had wanted to call a locksmith. Her father, who was a bit tightfisted, had slipped a butter knife under the door, and talked Emma through the process of dismantling the hinges.
Her brother, Henry, had looked on, all the while predicting this could only lead to trouble.
The experience taught Emma two important lessons. The first was never put the door key on the side of the sink. The second was that doors were not as solid as people thought. You just had to look at them the right way.
Emma squinted at the padlock hasp. She unzipped her rucksack and pulled out the brand-new screwdriver kit, which her friend Rose up in London had given her as a housewarming gift, and the oil can, which was only about a quarter full. Nancarrow had a lot of squeaking hinges.
“Now then,” Emma whispered to the hasp’s screws. “You’d best come along quietly . . .”
It took all the remaining oil, and a whole lot of cursing. And there was a pause to call back Oliver because the rude crow had put in another appearance, and this time it brought friends. For a minute Emma was afraid they might try reenacting a scene out of The Birds, and found herself wondering if the shed roof would be solid enough to keep them out.
But the crows evidently decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. They took themselves off in a flurry of wings and what Oliver assured her was very rude cawing. Without the distraction, Emma was able to get the last screw undone with only a moderate amount of swearing.
The hasp came away from the shed wall. Emma tucked it into her pocket along with the screws and opened the door.
Oliver zoomed straight past her.
“Here!” he barked. “It’s here! Right here!”
“Shhh! Oliver!”
“Sorry, Emma.”
The morning was brightening around them, but the inside of the shed was pitch-black. Emma had planned for this and fished her pocket torch out of the rucksack.
Oliver was scrabbling at a tangle of old shovels, spades and gardening forks. Emma took a steadying breath, and stepped inside. She shone the torch down to where Oliver was, and the beam caught a gleam of brighter silver among the wooden handles and dirt-encrusted blades. Emma tiptoed closer and leaned in.
It was a golf club. Rusty patches stained the steel handle.
It’d have to be something heavy, that’s for sure. Constance’s words came back to her Or something with a handle, so they could swing it. A cricket bat, maybe . . .
Emma made herself point the torch down closer to the floor. The club had a round, brown, blobby handle, or foot, or whatever the technical term was for the bottom bit that you actually hit the ball with.
Did that make it a wood? Emma asked herself.
We’ll let the experts work that out, she answered herself, and reached for her mobile. All at once, Oliver whipped around and zoomed back out the door.
“Oliver!” On pure reflex, Emma darted after him.
Oliver was bouncing up and down to say hello to Dash. Evidently, in his excitement, he’d forgotten about being stealthy, or about keeping a lookout for humans from the house.
Bert was standing in the middle of the path. He was dressed in a thin black T-shirt, running shorts and high-end trainers. He was breathing hard and sweat gleamed on his forehead.
“Well, well.” He smiled. “What’s all this, then?”
Emma remembered her carefully rehearsed line a
bout her briefcase. So much for that idea.
“Erm. Sorry . . .” she began.
“Turns out Dash is good for something after all. Led me right here. Maybe you can let me know what kind of treat he should get.”
Bert brushed past her to examine the spot where the hasp used to be.
“A little light breaking and entering to start the day, Emma?” he inquired.
“Yeah, well, this does not look good, I know.”
“It looks like somebody’s in a spot of trouble, if you ask me.”
“Well, yes and no,” said Emma. “You see, I’ve just talked to Detective Brent . . .”
“Oh, good,” said Bert. “Did you tell her about the part where you’re trespassing?”
Emma closed her mouth.
“And breaking and entering.” He shook his head. “And, what else?” He looked around them. “Maybe you were thinking about planting evidence?” His dark eyes gleamed. “Oh, wait, I’ve got a better one! Planting evidence with the cooperation of Detective Brent, with whom you’ve just been talking!”
Emma’s heart thumped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Maybe.” Bert’s smile broadened. “But maybe not. After all, you are on my property, and you did break into my shed. And you were the one who pointed out this does not look good.”
“Actually, it’s Helen’s property now,” Emma reminded him, and herself.
This fact did not seem to worry Bert at all. “That has yet to be conclusively determined,” he said. “You know, I’ve been talking to people about you, Ms. Reed, and that business last year with Victoria Roberts.” Bert took two steps forward. Oliver stopped his frisking with Dash and bounded over to Emma’s side. He put up his ears signaling with his whole body that he was on high alert.
“Now,” Bert went on pleasantly, “I don’t know what kind of stories you’ve been telling Helen and Daphne, and frankly, I don’t care if you get a kick out of playing Nancy Drew or Miss Marple or Sherlock bloody Holmes. But you do not do it on my land, or with my family, or I will see you in court, where you will get to find out exactly what kind of story I can spin. Understand?”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 28