The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Alison Golden

  “Doubt it,” Leo replied. “It was worth a fortune even then. Now it’d be worth perhaps six or seven million dollars at auction, – can I have some water? I’m unbearably thirsty.”

  “You need to take it easy,” Emily advised him. “You’ve had a serious injury. I’d hate to think you’d make it worse and end up being unable to play for even longer.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Leo told her. “But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “These paintings will all see the light of day now,” Emily replied. “We’ve achieved something remarkable down here.”

  “Yeah, right.” Marina, who had been quiet through this exchange. “Great lot of good they’ll do us if we’re crushed to death down here.”

  “It’s going to be dark outside soon,” Harry said. “If they’re searching for us, they might call it off.”

  “Okay, team.” Emily said cheerily, clapping her hands. “We’re still in a bit of a pickle, and we still need a way out of it. Anyone got any suggestions?”

  They’d already thoroughly searched the room and found it entirely without doors or access points to anywhere else. It was sealed in from all angles. Beyond shouting for help, attempting to dig through the rocky mêlée of the entrance tunnel, or simply sitting and waiting to be rescued, they had none. The tunnel was a potential disaster, all agreed, with jagged rocks holding up the remainder of the structure. One wrong move, and the remainder of the tunnel could collapse, trapping them even further. Or worse, killing them all.

  “I can’t believe no one noticed that part of the basement just came crashing down,” Marina complained. “I mean, the noise must have been something else.” She was becoming increasingly agitated.

  “Apparently not,” Leo said caustically. “We’re either too deep, or too far from civilization.”

  “And who’s fault,” Harry asked next, “is that?”

  Emily quieted him with a gentle hand. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here, and we’re going to deal with reality.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that,” Marina snapped. “Let’s sit here and think about how wonderful it is that we’re surrounded by priceless art, buried under a castle, with no one even trying to find us.”

  “Take it easy, sweetie,” Emily put an arm around her, but Marina shrugged it off angrily.

  “I’ll take it easy,” Marina growled, “when we have a plan for getting out of here. When we have enough water for more than the next hour. When I’m not bloody starving, Leo’s arm can be properly seen to, and I feel confident that this whole lot isn’t going to fall in on top of us.”

  “We’re going to have to be patient,” Harry told her. “It might even be best to go to sleep for a while. You know, save energy and pass the time.”

  “Sleep?” Marina shrieked. “How can you possibly think about sleep at a time like this?” She paced the chamber like a caged animal. “They don’t even know we’re down here. There’s no way for them to get us food or water. We can’t call them because there’s no bloody signal. And all you can do is talk about ancient paintings nobody’s cared about for donkey’s years.”

  Leo spoke to her softly. “All true. And yelling about it won’t change things.”

  “But we don’t have a plan! We’re just sitting here waiting for someone to rescue us! Waiting and waiting… We need to do something!” Marina protested.

  “Why don’t you try and get some rest, eh?” Emily tried again, and this time succeeded in wrapping a soothing arm around Marina’s trembling shoulders. “Deep breaths, girlfriend. We’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Then she said to the others, “I’m with Harry. Let’s all see if we can get some sleep.”

  In the dark and quiet, it remained only to find a comfortable place. They put together crates, packing material and sweaters to make rudimentary cots, and within moments, half of the quartet was sound asleep, snoring even.

  The other half was wondering whether they’d ever see daylight again.

  Exactly sixty-four horizontal yards away from the sleeping musicians, but critically, eighteen yards above them, Constable Barnwell was having trouble getting his boss on the phone.

  “He’s working that mysterious death, isn’t he?” Roach reminded his older colleague. “Which is just a bit more important than this, I reckon. I mean, so far it’s just been us two, rummaging around this castle like a pair of twits. Waste of bloody time.”

  Barnwell got a laugh out of this. “You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? What happened to our ‘sacred duty to find the missing’? To ‘bring home the lost’?”

  “I’m tired,” Roach confessed, “my feet hurt, and all I want is a takeout from the Bangkok Palace and a cold pint.”

  Barnwell did everything but lick his lips. “I’m right there with you. Let’s just see what the gaffer says when I ask if we can call off the search for the night. ” He did not, Roach thought, sound particularly hopeful.

  Thirty seconds later, they had their answer.

  “No, you bloody well can’t!” Graham growled down the phone. “You’re on a search, and unless they’ve changed the definitions of such things while I’ve been struggling with recalcitrant French witnesses, searches continue until they are resolved.”

  “Right, sir.” Barnwell hesitated.

  “Do you need something in writing, Barnwell?” Graham barked. “In triplicate? Witnessed by a Notary Public?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Splendid. Then get back on it, and stick to it until you find them.”

  “Right, sir.” There was little else he could say.

  “Over and bloody well out,” the DI said.

  Barnwell slid the phone back into his jacket pocket and then let fly a particularly strong oath.

  “Wow, Bazza,” Roach said, stepping back to admire his colleague’s colorful and flamboyant use of language. “I didn’t even realize you knew that word.”

  “I know a few more than that,” Barnwell warned him. “Okay, no pad Thai or cold beer until we’ve got this wrapped up. And if ever there was an incentive to find four missing prats…”

  “Where do we begin?” Roach asked. It was the fourth time they’d been obliged to re-think their search.

  Barnwell sighed heavily. “Okay, well first, let’s see if that little Leprechaun guy is still around, and get him to call all the local cafés and bars to see if they are in any of them. It’d be a fine thing if that were the case and we were wandering around here looking for them.”

  “You mean Mr. Jeffries, the events manager?” Roach said. He never tired of giving Barnwell a hard time over his apparent inability to remember names.

  “Yeah. Let’s get him on the phone. Then we’ll sweep the place from top to bottom. Again.”

  By now, Roach resented this assignment almost as much as his colleague, and the lack of any progress whatsoever had put him in a bleak and uninspired mood. He yearned for the opportunity to do proper police work, the kind of case-cracking, mystery-solving wizardry that Sergeant Harding was apparently being groomed for. What, he wondered in that sober, frustrated moment, did she have in her locker that he lacked? That it was because of her superior ability and greater experience never occurred to him.

  They knocked on doors, beginning at the top of the castle where the more expensive guest rooms were. Most of the guests had left, released from the inquiry into George’s mysterious demise, and only a handful of the large, comfortable rooms remained occupied. Nobody had seen a quartet of musicians; even Barnwell’s unforgettably vivid characterization of the beautiful Marina failed to elicit any positive responses. The second floor, almost as empty, was similarly barren territory; the four had simply vanished into the stonework, it seemed.

  Jeffries was found, and put to work in his office. He was, the two officers could see, extremely tired and put out. “I just want to be helpful,” he muttered, the dark lines under his eyes testament not only to a stressful day of tragedy and confusion, but the taxing task of organizing the major wedding which had come immediatel
y before. He called the first place on his list and received a negative response; Roach and Barnwell left him to it and headed into the basement for the fifth time that day.

  “Even with the lights on,” Barnwell admitted, “this place gives me the creeps.”

  “Afraid of ghosts, are you?” Roach asked, and then gave an appropriately long and eerie hoot which resounded down the basement passageways.

  “Of course not, you idiot,” Barnwell replied, with just a tinge of genuine frustration. He didn’t enjoy being ribbed by the younger man, especially in these miserable circumstances. Apart from being a less experienced police officer, Roach, a island boy born and bred, could not claim to have lived through anything remotely like the tough and often downright frightening upbringing that Barnwell, a Londoner through and through, had faced. Roach was still a kid, wet behind the ears, really.

  “I know what you mean, though,” Roach allowed. “Some seriously grim stuff happened down here. Long-term imprisonment. Torture.” They had both read the signage – several times, in fact, during their repeated searches – and were impressed by the depth of the castle’s history. They were keenly aware of the stark unpleasantness of life down here for those who’d been unlucky enough to find themselves incarcerated, centuries before.

  “You’ve got to be thankful,” Barnwell observed, shining his flashlight into every dark corner, “for advances in the justice system.”

  “You mean,” Roach replied, “that we no longer string people up and burn off their toenails because they won’t give us a confession straight away?”

  “Yeah, like that. I’m sure it got the job done, mind you.”

  “Cut down on paperwork, I’d imagine.”

  Roach headed down a passage, one he knew to be a dead end, just to make sure, and when he returned to the intersection, noticed that Barnwell was wiping his mouth with the back of his uniformed sleeve. As they walked together down the next passageway, the older man tried, but largely failed, to stifle a burp.

  Roach stopped. Barnwell carried on for three paces, but then stopped too. Neither said anything, but then Roach extended his hand, palm up, his face stern and unyielding.

  “What?” Barnwell asked.

  “You know bloody well what,” Roach told him. “Hand it over.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Roach moved toward him and Barnwell backed up a step. “Okay, take it easy,” he relented. From his inner jacket pocket, Barnwell produced a small, silver flask. He looked at it for a long moment, almost as if contemplating tipping the contents of the container down his throat rather than surrendering it, but then sheepishly gave the flask to Roach.

  “Christ, mate.”

  “I just…” Barnwell began.

  But Roach wasn’t angry. “You don’t…” he began, glancing around rather unnecessarily to ensure they were alone. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  “But I do, mate. It’s… You know, this job. I get so bored and down. Like it’s all pointless. I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere.”

  Roach gestured to a couple of chairs in a nook near a corner in the passageway, placed there for the docents who watched over the castle during tourist season. “You want to sit down for a minute? I need to get off my feet before they begin a rebellion.”

  The two men sat, and Barnwell took a long moment to compose what he was going to say. He was obviously embarrassed; both men knew that Barnwell’s drinking had a long history, but that in recent months he’d been doing a lot better.

  “I thought, with the new boss and what have you,” Roach was saying, “that you were feeling, you know, a sense of forward motion, and all.”

  Barnwell shook his head. “It only stayed with me for a few weeks. After that murder at the White House Inn, you remember. I thought to myself, ‘Good on you, mate, you actually helped solve a murder’. Felt like a proper cop.”

  “You are a proper cop, mate. You’ve just lost your way a little.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And bloody stupid errands like this,” Roach said, waving a dismissive hand at the great castle which loomed around them, “really don’t help. Those four are probably in the pub, like you said.”

  Barnwell was silent for a moment. His shoulders were hunched over and he seemed thoughtful. “You know,” he began, “I only chose Jersey because I figured nothing would ever happen.” He looked up at Roach who, he knew, had chosen to stay in Gorey where he had grown up because it was small, the ideal place to show his talents and gain a quick promotion or two. “And now I’m here, after… Hell, is it really seven years? Now I’m here, I want to do something more.”

  “Like what?” Roach asked. His shoes were on the floor under his chair and he was massaging his aching soles.

  “Become a detective. Spend time with Graham and Tomlinson, examine a few bodies, learn the tricks of the trade. Run an investigation.”

  “You will, one day,” Roach said.

  With a glum shrug and a derisive snort, Barnwell made his feelings known. “You’re loopy, you are. The gaffer will have us chasing down bike thieves and the odd tax evader, arresting people for not having the right boating license or scuffling with their landlord over their annual rent increase. Nothing ever happens here,” Barnwell complained.

  “I beg to differ,” Roach said, sliding his shoes back on. “Two mysterious deaths in the last few weeks. Crazy French people and nutty brides. I’d call those happenings. Granted it’s not exactly CSI Miami, and I know we’re not at the forefront of this one, but…”

  “No, we’re in the sodding basement again,” Barnwell growled.

  Roach stood. “Alright, I’ll do you a deal. One more sweep of these haunted passages, and we’ll report to DI Graham that we’ve thoroughly searched the place, and are about to become ineffective as law enforcement officers due to lack of sleep and sustenance. We’ll recommend they bring in the big guns.”

  “Eh?”

  “You know, heat seeking equipment, firefighters, land and sea rescue, if need be. Now that would be a happening.”

  Rising slowly, Barnwell smiled and gave his friend a nod. “Agreed.” He straightened his uniform. “Just one more time.”

  CHAPTER 13

  IT WAS WELL into the evening before Graham had a moment to consider just how odd it was that these interviews were taking place within yards of his own room. Mrs. Taylor had made sure to give him one of her larger, more recently renovated suites, with a terrific view of the bay and the English Channel beyond. Now, he noted, it was directly above the room at which he was now knocking for the second time that day. “Let’s hope it’s a more productive meeting than our first visit,” he whispered to Harding as they heard footsteps approaching the door.

  Juliette looked much more awake and had done Graham the unwitting courtesy of keeping the windows open, which aired out the lingering, blue fog of cigarette smoke. The room still smelled awful, though, and Graham wondered just how long it would be before Mrs. Taylor was forced to make the entire hotel a non-smoking one.

  “Again?” was the first thing Juliette said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Graham answered. “May we come in?”

  That Gallic shrug again. Graham took a deep breath and pulled up the same chair as before. Harding, following behind, found the room’s third seat, and they began.

  “I’m starting to think,” Graham told her, relieved that the woman had not yet reached for the pack of cigarettes on the window sill, “that in order to understand what happened to George last night and this morning, I will also have to get to the bottom of events at the farm, back in France all those years ago.”

  Juliette was considerably brighter than before. “You mean, the accident with his parents?” she asked.

  “It’s becoming obvious that your two families are interconnected in some rather special ways,” Graham said delicately.

  “You think it strange?” Juliette asked, glancing at the cigarettes but failing to take one. “That a man would mar
ry a woman, divorce her, and then marry her sister?”

  Graham glanced at Harding. Their new rule was that, upon receiving such a signal, Harding was to ask the next question. It meant a much expanded role for the sergeant, and she was keen to make the most of the opportunity. “We’re not here to judge anyone’s marital choices,” Harding said. “No laws were broken. But some serious questions remain concerning the death of George’s parents.”

  Now Juliette reached for the smokes. Bugger, Graham muttered inwardly. She lit one quickly, with a well-practiced and fluid gesture, and then emitted a thin plume of smoke as though she were a leaky industrial pipe. “He killed his wife,” she said with a distinct lack of compassion. “Then killed himself. Non?”

  “Peut être,” Graham tried.

  “Everyone knows this!” Juliette complained. “They were unhappy, or in debt, or had some kind of problem in their relationship. The two children found them dead, and we helped them through it.”

  Harding decided to go for it. “What kind of relationship did you have with young George? He’d just lost his parents. How did you guide him through such a difficult time? You couldn’t have been much older than him.” Three years, Harding judged, no more than that.

  Another blue-grey billow of smoke filled the room. “It is,” Juliette announced solemnly, “a man’s world.” She let this cryptic aphorism hang in the air with the smell of burning tobacco. “Men run everything. Look at my father, and then at my mother. Who runs our family?” Neither police officer spoke. There was the sense that something meaningful was on its way, and Graham didn’t want to stem this new flow of information, however characteristically cynical its presentation might have been. “My mother, oh, she might seem strong, but it is all an act,” Juliette continued. “She is a little mouse, and my father is a strong, majestic lion. They had nothing in the beginning. He worked, and she cleaned. Eventually it happened for them, but it took so long. You think,” she asked, “that I wanted to be like her? That I would spend thirty years waiting for my husband to make some money, to achieve something, to support me and his children?”