Cherringham--The Last Puzzle

by Neil Richards

  No — best take a second here, Jack thought.

  After all, if this little quest was turning into something, why not take some time to find out as much as possible?

  “Quite the shove, pal …” Jack said, on his elbows. Ready to move fast if the guy dared do anything else threatening.

  “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

  Now slowly, with the guy’s initial apprehension of a counter attack possibly assuaged, Jack stood up.

  “About to ask you the same thing. See, I’ve got keys? From the estate’s executor. Wondering, well …” Jack smiled, trying to be as disarming as he could …

  For now …

  “…who are you, and how’d you get in here?”

  The tank of a man in front of him nodded, his mouth tight, lips pursed — a fighter’s face.

  Could be the guy had even boxed at one time. The bulbous nose looked like it had taken some damage.

  The man dug into his pocket.

  Jack tensed.

  But he pulled out a pair of keys.

  “Name’s Marty, and I’ve got keys, as well mate. From Em.”

  “Em?”

  “My old lady. Emma Carter, the dead bloke’s carer.”

  Jack nodded. “She had keys?”

  Marty took a moment before saying anything else.

  “Well, how do you think she got in and out? The old man, that Andrews fellow, gave them to her so she could come and go as and when. She took care of the old sod, you know.”

  “I do,” said Jack. “Still—”

  Marty was quick to fill in the next gap in the flow of information.

  “Em was worried that she might have left some of her things here, personal things. I said I’d come and take a look round. Get anything she left behind.”

  Jack nodded, thinking that the story was complete BS.

  This boyfriend of Emma Carter had come here for a reason. Maybe — Jack guessed — it had something do with solving the puzzle, getting all that money.

  Or — maybe it had to do with something else.

  Jack worked hard to make sure his face didn’t show any of his suspicions.

  “Okay, that makes sense, sure. Still …”

  Jack took a step towards the man.

  A tough customer. Mousy Emma Carter must jump when he so much as raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m thinking that — all things considered — you better clear any, er, visits with the executor of the estate.”

  Marty nodded, his bullish head taking this in.

  Jack guessed that maybe the man in front of him hadn’t finished looking around the place … and hadn’t found what he was looking for.

  “Just need to look around a bit, make sure—”

  Jack shook his head.

  He hoped that Marty wouldn’t think that his lucky tackle that sent him to the floor presaged a successful encounter if he actually went toe-to-toe with him.

  Don’t be stupid, Jack thought.

  “You best leave,” Jack said. “Get an okay from Tony Standish tomorrow. When his office reopens.”

  Marty’s crumply face turned even more wrinkled.

  This was like annoying a porcupine.

  Then Marty nodded, opened his mouth, his tongue swabbing brownish teeth.

  Doing his damnedest to look threatening.

  Then, the impasse … passed.

  “All right, whatever. But I will be back. Tomorrow. When that lawyer fella says okay.”

  Then — the oddest question.

  “Guess we both oughta leave …”

  And at that Jack laughed.

  “Guess wrong. I’m here at the suggestion of Mr. Standish. Need to check on things …”

  Ooh, Marty the Bull didn’t like that.

  Maybe he thought Jack might be helping some other heir?

  “Whatever,” Marty finally said, the word spat out as he passed Jack and barrelled out of the house, leaving the front door wide open.

  And as he watched, Jack had to think …

  Marty and Emma. What an unlikely pair.

  Or maybe that was just it.

  Maybe — they weren’t unlikely.

  Jack went and shut the door tight, making sure it was locked.

  Then he turned and saw the great staircase leading up, past the military paintings on the wall.

  He’d start — by taking a look at the room in which Quentin Andrews died.

  *

  Though Jack had walked through some creepy places when he worked cases back in New York, one thing he discovered is that … creepiness never gets old.

  Like now.

  Walking along the dark hallway upstairs, gently pushing doors open to bedrooms, the empty bedrooms for guests.

  Until he came to a large room at the end. He looked in.

  A giant four-poster bed, a thick bedspread tight and perfect, shades drawn making the room even darker.

  He reached in and felt for a light switch. Finding it, an art-deco ceiling fixture came on, and he could see Quentin’s room.

  Outside of the rich carpet, the polished wood bedposts, the deep maroon of the bedspread … the room was Spartan; nothing here of a personal nature. Could whoever had come here to clean the place put such things away?

  Jack stepped in. He saw a chair near the window, a floor lamp dangling over it, a small ottoman.

  Perfect spot to sit quietly and read by the window, Jack thought.

  And beside the chair, a small table, something to hold a brandy perhaps, or a bookmark?

  And then, feet away a larger wooden table, near the closet and next to an equally severe dresser — all dark wood and brass handles.

  Could the dresser’s drawers hold any secrets?

  This part of investigating always felt a little odd to Jack. Opening another man’s closet and drawers to look through pieces of his life left behind.

  Part of the job back in Manhattan.

  But here?

  Jack walked over and opened one drawer.

  Dark socks, folded, not bunched up, all in careful rows, neatly on top of each other. The next — underwear, as if in a shop. Then a drawer of crisp shirts, all folded, neatly pressed, the high quality of the material visible even with a casual glance.

  Jack thinking: there has to be one drawer here with something personal. Something that says who Quentin Andrews really was?

  He crouched down to begin opening the bottom drawers, seeing one with cufflinks, a watch, what looked like suspenders, again all neatly placed as if in a museum.

  “Keeping your secrets to yourself, eh Quentin?” Jack said.

  Then to a centre drawer.

  Where he saw what looked like a stack of leather-bound notebooks.

  He took a few out, the one at the bottom old, the leather cracked, while the one at top shiny and new as if it had just arrived from the stationery store.

  He opened the first one.

  To see notes.

  About castles, about kings and queens. About dates. Some things were crossed out, and as Jack flipped the pages, he saw lines with quotes around them.

  ‘Four letter word for the last smoke stack.’

  Then below it the apparent answer … ‘faux’.

  A sketch of a ship, surprisingly well done in a fine black line. A few strokes indicating water, a shape nearby. An iceberg.

  And Jack — certainly not one for puzzles as he had confirmed today — knew what ship this clue referred to.

  R.M.S. Titanic, with its false fourth smoke stack.

  And as Jack flipped through these books, all dated with years, he knew he had found the great puzzlers’ archive, his years of secretly constructing crossword puzzles that were so popular …

  But about his life? Government service? How he acquired his money?

  No clues to any of that within the clue books.

  Then to the last drawer.

  Where there were only two things. A framed photograph. An amazingly beautiful woman, eyes sparkling, a face that s
eemed ready to break into a warm laugh.

  And the style of dress … something from three or four decades earlier, when ruffles and chiffon still had not gone completely out of fashion, a lost world.

  This must be Quentin Andrews’ wife, Sylvie.

  And for a moment Jack felt lost looking at the picture. Just a bit of Quentin’s personal life — the only bit, apparently — everything else … what, erased? Discarded?

  But then he looked to the space that had been under the photo.

  A velvet box of some kind, flat, not much larger than a cigarette case.

  Jack put the photo on the flat surface of the chest of drawers and picked it up.

  Flipped it open.

  And saw a medal.

  The picture of Britannia, and the words ‘For God and the Empire’.

  Jack wasn’t up on his British Medals, but he guessed this was important, and had been given to Quentin for …

  Well that was the question, wasn’t it?

  What had Quentin done before he left government service and raked in all that money?

  And did that have anything to do with his game to reward one heir?

  Jack put the photo of Quentin’s wife back in the drawer. But the medal in its dark velvet case … he pocketed that.

  No need to learn exactly what a man has to do to get a medal like that.

  And — he thought — it could be useful to have it at hand.

  He stood up, and looked around the room. Back to Quentin’s chair, such a perfect spot he thought, to sit, read, relax.

  I could enjoy such a spot, Jack thought.

  And then he stopped.

  His eyes on the small table right next to the chair.

  He thought of Quentin’s condition, how they found his vial of pills—

  Jack turned and looked at the drawer over on the other side of the room.

  His pills were over there.

  But if Quentin knew how important they were, wouldn’t they always have been nearby in his pocket, or in this case …?

  Right on that small table?

  So that if something happened to the old man, his heart started tripping up, feeling that first slam of chest pain, he could just reach …

  But they weren’t.

  They were found far away, … all the way over there.

  *

  For a moment, Jack just stood there, letting that thought float.

  Was he jumping to a conclusion, his detective-born paranoia getting the better of him?

  The room felt cold. Heat was on but low and the place already had the feel of an abandoned house.

  Abandoned until whoever became the heir inherited the grand place.

  Another glance at the big table, where a struggling Quentin would have had to stagger to reach his life-saving pills.

  Then another question — which only made the chilly room feel colder.

  Did someone move them?

  Had someone deliberately put them out of reach, maybe even kept Quentin from them as his heart struggled to keep him alive, a battle inside the old man’s body that without the life-saving pills he was doomed to lose?

  Weird such things, Jack thought.

  You get an idea. Not really sure why.

  And somehow it seems right.

  For now it was time to leave.

  And as he made his way downstairs, plans, possibilities, strategies started taking shape.

  The game … was indeed afoot.

  9. Brotherly Love

  Sarah was late into the office next morning. Chloe hadn’t got home until way after midnight and they’d exchanged some heated words over breakfast about respecting ‘house rules’.

  Then in the chaos Daniel had forgotten his lunch box so she’d had to drive up to the school and drop it off for him.

  Grace brought her a coffee while she took her coat off and waited for her desktop to boot up.

  “Oh — Mr. Standish left a message,” she said. “Wants you to give him a call.”

  “Oh right,” said Sarah. “I wonder if he’s checking up on me? I was supposed to phone Patrick Andrews first thing but this morning’s been a nightmare.”

  She looked over at the whiteboard, filled with writing — and a crossword grid which looked almost complete.

  “Wow — Grace! You’ve nearly done them all!”

  “Just three left — I’m totally stumped though.”

  “Oh come on — that’s amazing! And I’m sure between us we can get the last ones.”

  “Long as that doesn’t disqualify me from the free meal …”

  “I think Jack will let you off,” said Sarah laughing.

  Grace dug out the papers and handed them over. Sarah took her mobile from her handbag and dialled Patrick Andrews. He answered immediately.

  “Mr. Andrews? It’s Sarah Edwards.”

  “What took you so long?” he said.

  So much for pleasantries, thought Sarah.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant to call you earlier—”

  “I hope you’re taking your duties seriously.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hmm. Well. We’ll see.”

  In the silence, Sarah could hear music and the babble of children’s voices.

  Where was he? A school?

  She bit her tongue and put on the voice she reserved for the most difficult clients.

  “Perhaps we could meet, Mr. Andrews? And you could let me know what progress you’ve been making? I mean — to fulfil my ‘duties’.”

  She rolled her eyes at Grace.

  “Yes, all right. Let’s get it over and done with. I’m in the library.”

  And with that he abruptly ended the call.

  Sarah turned to Grace. “Afraid you’ll have to pour that coffee away. I’ve got to go out again. In fact — I’ve been ordered …”

  “Hmm — unlike you to obey orders,” said Grace.

  Sarah smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “But in this case I rather feel it would be disrespectful to the deceased if I didn’t obey. Or at least — disrespectful to Tony.”

  She put on her coat again and headed out of the office.

  *

  Cherringham Library occupied the ground floor of the Village Hall, just across the street from Sarah’s office.

  As she climbed the steps she could see that the lobby was filled with buggies — and then remembered: Thursday mornings was pre-school playtime in the library.

  Years ago, back in London, she’d done exactly this herself — first with Chloe, then Daniel — looking forward to catching up with the other mums while the kids played on the floor and listened to stories.

  Chloe was such a little sweetheart … thought Sarah, suddenly wanting to make amends for that argument over the breakfast table.

  I need to keep that balance, she thought.

  She entered the library, smiling at the bustle and chaos. She looked around: there must have been twenty toddlers all in a circle, most of them spellbound as one of the library assistants read from a picture book.

  In a far corner, mums, dads, and carers drank coffee and chatted.

  The rest of the library looked empty — but in the reference section, she saw Patrick Andrews at a table, his head in his hands, ears covered.

  She walked over.

  In front of him she saw stacks of books and newspaper cuttings files. She pulled out a chair opposite and sat.

  He looked up.

  “God. Bloody kids,” he said.

  “Thursday morning story club,” said Sarah. “It’s a Cherringham institution.”

  “What nonsense. Libraries are for study. Peace and quiet. Not silly, squealing children.”

  Sarah waited. This wasn’t an argument she wanted to get involved in.

  “So, how’s the puzzle going?”

  “He did this on purpose, you know. Quentin knew I’d have to use the library to research his damned clues. Knew it would be like this. Typical, bloody typical.”

  “I’m not su
re your brother could have planned his own death to hit a timetable, Mr. Andrews—”

  “Pah! You don’t know Quentin. He could bring down a government on the far side of the world just by clicking his fingers. Always with his secrets … like moves on a chess board.”

  “Really? I hadn’t realised he was so powerful.”

  “Powerful? Absolutely. Corrupt too. Even immoral.”

  No love lost here, she thought.

  In the far corner of the library the children started to sing together.

  She watched Andrews turn and shake his head.

  “Oh, for God’s sake …”

  Then he picked up one of the books, pushed back his chair, and stood.

  “Come on,” he said. ”I have to get out of this infant hellhole!”

  He turned on his heels and headed for the door.

  Sarah got up and followed him.

  *

  When she reached the lobby there was no sign of Andrews. She stepped out onto the street — and spotted him on the opposite pavement, just outside the door to her own office, squinting, peering up at the roof of the Village Hall.

  Sarah crossed the road and joined him.

  “God. I should have known,” said Andrews. “We did this on a treasure hunt when we were children. I’d completely forgotten about it. Course I was only a toddler. Quent was ten years older.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews — I don’t really—”

  He took hold of her arm and pointed to the clock tower of the Village Hall.

  “Eight letters. Bramwell! His sword cuts time in half! It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it one of the clues?” said Sarah.

  “Well, of course it’s one of the bloody clues! Don’t they teach you anything?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m totally lost.”

  She watched him peer at her, almost piteously.

  “See that hour hand on the clock there? It was constructed in 1805 from the broken sword of Sir Richard Bramwell. Eight letters.”

  “Ah, I see. His sword cuts time in half. Yes — Bramwell.”

  “Of course, the clue’s only half of it. Bramwell murdered his younger brother. So it’s a little ‘dig’– do you see — from Quent. To me. He’s saying — I wanted to kill you, Patrick.”

  “Really? Or perhaps he was saying — you wanted to kill me?” said Sarah.

  She watched Andrews carefully for any sign, for a tell …

  “Who didn’t?” he said. “Not exactly the most beloved man in the universe!”