Juliette Paquet was badly shaken by the revelations surrounding George’s death and has not spoken to her parents since. She returned to her second husband in France, but within weeks, the stress of the case and her husband’s concerns that her family was, as he later wrote, ‘a bunch of nutcases’ brought an end to her second marriage. After brief but extremely bitter divorce proceedings, Juliette decided to make her home in the south of France, and now lives in Marseilles. Her daughter went to live with her maternal aunt in England.
Eleanor Ross inherited her brother’s estate and adopted George’s daughter. After founding a charity that provides support for bereaved children, she met her fiancé, but they have yet to set a wedding date. She is known to favor a very small ceremony close to home.
Emily and Harry married a little over a year after their visit to Jersey. Together, they manage the quartet’s business operations and have secured several new recordings and a large number of media appearances, many in connection with the haul of art they discovered at Orgueil Castle. Their recording of the Berg Lyric Suite will be released in the spring.
Marina is dating a violinist who plays with the London Symphony Orchestra. She still performs regularly with the Spire Quartet as well as teaching in London. She also accepts speaking engagements on the subject of the art discovery on Jersey. She continues to harbor hopes of riches resulting from the find but has sworn never again to open doors marked “no entry.”
Leo is semi-retired from music owing to his injury. He compiled “Dark Art,” a seminal work in which he discusses the Nazi campaign to rid the world of “degenerate art.” It also profiles the artists and the stories behind each of the paintings found in the castle. In the book, his contribution to the recovery of the artwork and the group’s rescue from the castle basement features prominently. “Dark Art” received international acclaim with the New York Times calling it a “splendid work of scholarship and one of the most important works of history of our time.”
Stephen Jeffries hasn’t taken any wedding bookings for quite some time, but visitors to Orgueil Castle are fascinated by the murder. Alongside nighttime events that focus on the Ross-Joubert case, Jeffries also gives guided tours of the new “Metal on Skin” exhibit, which tells the gruesome story of those who were imprisoned and tortured at the castle. He is applying for other jobs in the events management industry.
The “Orgueil Art Haul” was removed from the castle and conserved over the course of the fall and winter. Many of the paintings were claimed by their rightful owners or sold by the castle to museums. Orgueil was permitted to borrow three of Franz Lipp’s landscapes, which are displayed in the castle’s hallways. The Rafael Portrait of a Young Man is currently undergoing evaluation and restoration work before appearing at auction. It is expected to fetch well over $150 million, with a large number of potential buyers expressing interest. The precise ownership of the painting is the subject of intense debate. Insurers, owners, and other interested parties are still negotiating the financial aspects of the find, including whether or not the Spire Quartet will receive a finder’s fee. Industry insiders have speculated that 5% of the recovered value would be a reasonable figure. If agreed, it would set up all four musicians for life.
Constable Barnwell entered a twelve-step program and now volunteers with the local Scouts. He is studying for the exams required for his promotion to sergeant and has lost over twenty pounds while training for a charity walk across Jersey.
Constable Roach met his new girlfriend Lily while investigating the case of a stolen lawnmower. He recently scored twice for the Jersey Police in the final of the local five-a-side soccer championship. He is still awaiting his investigative “big break.”
Following the arrest of Mathilde Joubert and the rescue of the musicians, Detective Inspector David Graham, Sergeant Janice Harding, and Constables Roach and Barnwell ate a quiet, late dinner at the Bangkok Palace. The following morning, they were all back on duty at Gorey police station. They continue to police the Bailiwick of Jersey with a strong sense of duty, pride and professionalism.
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INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM WILL RETURN…
What happens next for our intrepid team in the Bailiwick of Jersey? Find out in the next book in the Inspector Graham cozy mystery series, The Case of the Broken Doll. You’ll find an excerpt on the following pages.
CHAPTER 1
IT WAS A Saturday morning, and it was not starting out well.
Graham awoke feeling groggy, tired, and uncomfortable. In his dream, someone had been knocking repeatedly on the roof of his police car, either demanding help or just trying to annoy him, he couldn’t tell which. He remembered trying to open the driver’s door, but it was stuck or locked, and so he struggled fruitlessly with it while the knocking became louder and louder…
“Bloody pipes again,” he grumbled, swinging his tired frame out of bed. The White House Inn suffered from an antiquated heating system that struggled to heat the vast, old building, and its pipes knocked and clanged throughout each night. Graham remembered now, as he started his morning routine, that the same knocking sound had afflicted his dreams for the past few nights, ultimately waking him and leaving him in a state that was decidedly unrefreshed. He looked in the mirror, frowning at the dark lines under his eyes. “I look a lot older than thirty-six,” he told his reflection. It showed no signs of disagreement.
He showered and shaved as he always did, but he knew that nothing whatsoever would lift his mood until he’d had his morning infusion of high-quality tea. In truth, Graham had never planned to stay at the White House Inn for ten weeks, but the daily pleasure of coming downstairs to the dining room and sitting at his own table by the window with a big pot of Assam or Darjeeling still felt wonderfully indulgent. One of the waiters – Graham knew them all by name now – would bring him a steaming pot of utter perfection, and the day could begin in earnest. His eyes regained a little of their twinkle just at the thought of it.
This Saturday morning, it was Polly, a bubbly redhead. “What’ll it be, Detective Inspector?” Try as he might, Graham could not persuade the staff to call him simply “Mr. Graham.” Even an informal “David” would have been alright, given how long he’d been staying there. But after success with two extremely high-profile murder cases, and the recent celebratory article about the Gorey Constabulary in the local paper, his title had become a firm fixture.
“I feel like having something from China today, Polly.”
“Isn’t that how you feel every day?” Polly replied, grinning cheekily and standing patiently with her notepad and pen.
“That,” Graham admitted, “is probably fair comment. Jasmine pearls, please. And make sure to bring the…”
“Timer. Yes, Detective Inspector.” Polly scurried away to place the order and handle Graham’s unusual request, one that he’d made almost since his arrival. There was absolutely no point, Graham insisted, in serving some of the world’s best teas if the customer had no idea for how long the tea had been steeping when it arrived at the table. His solution was to have the waiter start a little digital timer as soon as the boiling water came into contact with the tea leaves and bring it along with the tea tray. That way, Graham knew when his tea was at its absolute peak.
Some would have called him fussy. But on matters of such importance, he knew he was merely being correct.
Polly also brought the morning paper. Two evenings before, the town had fired off its biggest ever fireworks display to mark Guy Fawkes Night. An impressive sum was collected for local charities and, better still, the district hospital was glad to report only three minor injuries, far fewer than in previous years. Graham made a note to give his team a solid “well done” for their “Safe Fifth” firew
ork safety campaign, especially Constable Roach, whose idea it had been.
There were the usual births, marriages, and deaths – none suspicious – but it was just this relative peace and quiet that was beginning to bother Graham just a little. His first few weeks in Gorey had seen a pair of thoroughly unpleasant murders, requiring the very best from himself and the Gorey Constabulary, but in the last few weeks, their investigative powers had been focused on more routine matters like stolen cars, shoplifters, and the odd break-in. There had been a spectacular case of vandalism at the high school, but even there, little challenge was to be found. The guilty party had obligingly signed his name – for heaven’s sake – at the bottom of the colorfully defaced wall.
Revitalized by the tea, Graham set off on the day’s errand. He was determined to finish his Christmas shopping well in advance of the annual crush that, he was warned, could make Gorey’s small shops nearly intolerable. As usual, he assigned a single objective to this outing: a suitable present for his now ex-wife.
“What’s she into?” asked the first shop assistant he spoke to. “You know, hobbies? Interests?”
The question stumped Graham. He could hardly confess that he was looking for the kind of gift which might cheer up a woman who had barely smiled in months. “I think she’d enjoy something a little… different.” When this was no help, he tried, “Perhaps something with some history? With a story behind it?” He was met with a blank expression.
The second shop was hardly any better, and was even more crowded. “You mean,” the female assistant tried, “like, something that’s used by a sleb?”
“A what?”
“A sleb. You know, a celebrity, a famous person.”
Graham tried again. “Something that is special because of where it has been, or what it was used for, as much for what it is.”
The assistant frowned. “Nah, I don’t think we have anything like that.” Then she bustled off to address a question about Christmas lights, and Graham searched fruitlessly for a while before making his exit.
Further along, he came upon an archetypal Channel Islands tourist shop, and after some thought, decided to give it a try. “How about this?” the storekeeper asked, presenting him with a highly polished, eighteenth-century pistol. “Belonged to a notorious pirate, that did,” he said proudly.
“Anything a little more… peaceful?”
In the end, he found what he felt to be the perfect gift. It was a small and beautifully detailed painting of Gorey Harbor, based, he was told, on a sketch found in the notebook of a priest who had lived on Jersey some four hundred years before. It showed the castle, splendid and dominating on its hilltop, above a harbor busy with fishing vessels, the old wharf, and a bustling fish market. “Eighty-five pounds,” the storekeeper said. “But for a member of our brave Constabulary, let’s just call it eighty.”
As he was leaving with the painting neatly wrapped in brown paper under his arm, Graham noticed something that he’d overlooked on the way in. In the front corner of the shop’s window was a doll, dressed in an ornate, eighteenth-century nightgown, with curly blond hair and blue eyes. Something about it stood out to him. Perhaps he’d considered one of these for his daughter’s birthday one year?
No, that wasn’t it. He pondered the doll as he made his way back to the White House Inn, past the three other shops he’d tried. And, there in the window of one, was a nearly identical doll, dressed the same way, but with black hair in neat braids. The manufacturer was the same, he was certain, and the doll was displayed just as prominently, right at the front by the door.
Moments later, he saw another. This one seemed older, slightly more worn, and hardly in saleable condition, but yet it occupied pride of place in the window. Before reaching the Inn, he spotted two more staring out at him. And there, on the reception desk of the Inn, was yet another; a pale-skinned, beautifully made doll in a green bonnet.
“Mrs. Taylor?” he asked, his curiosity welling up.
The proprietor looked up from her tablet, which she had been studying with an unusual frown. “Oh, hello Detective Inspector,” she said brightly. “Been doing your Christmas shopping early?”
“Indeed so, Mrs. Taylor, but I have to ask… These dolls,” he said. “I’m seeing them everywhere. They must be in half of the shop windows. Am I imagining things?”
She clicked off the tablet and sighed slightly. “No, sir, you are not. But I suppose I’m surprised no one’s told you about her yet.”
“About her?”
“Beth Ridley,” she said sadly. “Poor thing.”
The girl’s name, which Graham was embarrassed to admit meant nothing to him, obviously carried real emotional weight for Mrs. Taylor. “I’m afraid I don’t…”
“She disappeared, you see. Ten years ago today. Only fifteen, she was. The brightest, nicest girl you could ever meet. Absolutely tragic.”
“Disappeared?” Graham asked. “Was there any evidence of what happened to her?”
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “Absolutely none. That’s just it. She was walking to school one morning and simply vanished into thin air. No phone call, no sightings, nothing.”
“But surely there was a search for her?”
“Oh, goodness me, yes!” Mrs. Taylor replied. “They searched the whole island, it seemed to me. All the woods and the beaches. The Coast Guard patrolled out at sea, looking for her. But all to no avail.”
“What do people think happened to her?”
Mrs. Taylor frowned darkly. “Well, not long after she disappeared, people started talking about her in the past tense, if you know what I mean, Inspector.”
He nodded, his lips pursed. “Does her family still live on the island?”
“Oh, yes. Haven’t you heard of Mrs. Ridley?” The proprietor seemed to have extra time on her hands during this pre-Christmas lull, and so she gave Graham as full a background as she could. “The poor woman was beside herself, of course. Her only child, gone. Can you imagine?”
Graham didn’t have to imagine, but he chose not to share that very private pain. He simply nodded again.
“So, the community rallied around her. Made sure she had everything she needed. Then some people, at the Rotary Club, I think, set up a kind of charitable foundation for her. People donated money so that she could keep the search going. She hired private detectives, forensic scientists, sent experts over to Europe to look for her, you name it. None of it came cheap, of course, and I hear the private investigations have tapered off quite a lot lately, but her charity is quite well known here, and a lot of people give what they can every month.”
“It’s not uncommon for the parents of missing children to carry on the search, or at least try to keep hope alive. Even when…”
Mrs. Taylor gave him a look that told him exactly how upset the people of Gorey were about Beth Ridley. “Hope springs eternal, Inspector. There are cases, you know, of kids going missing and then showing up in some basement, years later…”
This, he had to concede. “It’s rare, but it happens.” But mostly, Graham thought morosely, there was a murderer who had thoroughly disposed of the evidence. Or had gotten lucky.
There were other possibilities in these types of cases, of course. A child could be spirited away to live elsewhere. Or they might have simply run away, never making contact with those they were running away from. All over the country, the filing cabinets of “cold cases,” those with no practicable leads, grew in number while grieving families could be told nothing to ease their pain.
“Poor lamb,” Mrs. Taylor said in summary.
“But why dolls?” Graham asked.
“Oh, yes, I quite forgot. She collected them, you see. Had quite a number. Her uncle in America sent them to her. She had one in her bag when she disappeared, as I remember, taking it for repair or some such. The theory goes,” Mrs. Taylor confided, “that the doll was somehow damaged in whatever struggle took place. Nothing but its leg was ever found.”
“Its leg?” Gr
aham said, thoughtful. He reached for his notebook but found he’d left it in his room. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”
She caught him as he turned to go. “Are you going to…? You know… Look into it?”
Graham smiled thinly. “I really can’t say, Mrs. Taylor. It’s a very old case, and we’re short-staffed at the station.”
“People hereabouts,” she said, leaning in close, “would think the world of you, even for trying. Not that they don’t already,” she added quickly. “But, you know, it would give her family hope.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Taylor. Would you be an angel and keep our conversation to yourself, just for now?” he asked politely.
“Of course, Inspector. You can rely on me.”
Graham returned to his room and set up his laptop. Mrs. Taylor had not exaggerated about the case’s high profile locally or the extent of public sympathy. There was a Wikipedia page, a dedicated website, and all manner of opportunities to contribute to the Beth Ridley Foundation. Graham began bookmarking sites and taking notes, finding himself greatly enlivened on what would otherwise have been just another Saturday.
On Monday morning, Graham arrived a few minutes early, as usual, and found Constable Roach at his desk, taking a phone call. Roach took notes as he listened, and Graham decided to hover briefly and find out what the call was about. But as he did so, he noticed that there was – of all things – what he now knew to be an “American Girl” doll on the edge of the desk, by the stack of public information leaflets. Next to the doll, in a small, silver frame, was a photo of a girl.
The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 15