“They’re being charged with manslaughter. I think it was an accident. Perhaps Rick pulled just too hard on the twine in a sudden fit of anger and frustration. The pair panicked when they realized the woman was dead and they tried to make it look like a crime of violence.”
“With a meat hook they found in the hotel kitchen?”
“Right. But which they deny.”
“And why did they take her to Trenchers?”
James looked at me darkly as if he’d just signed the Official Secrets Act. “The War Office meetings were held at Trenchers Hotel. You were right there and she told them that much. Latching was considered safe from the bombing. And the banknotes were stored in a re-enforced area off the wine cellars, but she didn’t tell them that. There were only two keys to this underground vault. Oliver Swantry held one of them.”
“Who held the other one?”
“A Bank of England official. He hasn’t been traced.”
“Have you broken into the wine cellars yet?”
“We’re waiting for permission. I had to fill in a dozen forms. And guess what else we found at the Weston’s bungalow.”
“A signed photo of the Beckhams?”
“Close. It was a photograph, a wedding photograph of Ursula Carling and her first husband, the accident prone Ted Burrows. And guess the name of the cute bridesmaid?”
Suddenly I knew. “Betty Weston?”
D I James nodded. “Apparently Ted Burrows was her step-brother. Their mother married twice, hence different surnames. But she always thought there was something fishy about Ted’s death, and that Ursula had somehow driven him to it.”
“So the rubble down Ursula’s chimney was another ill-conceived plan? Long-delayed sibling revenge. Did you check on the mattresses?”
“Right again, Holmes. We found enough left of the mattresses in burned debris in Weston’s yard. Flecks of the same cheap flock stuffing were found in Ursula’s back garden.”
The police dropped the charges relating to me for lack of evidence. I didn’t go to the Weston’s trial. I was too busy on another case.
The Beeches was sold for development as a rest home for retired gentlefolk and Ursula also sold up and bought a tasteful flat in Norfolk which I guess she immediately repainted her favourite sugary pastels. The young couple who bought her confection in Lansfold Avenue liked primary colours, red and indigo, which didn’t show sticky little fingers.
Both new owners agreed that the air-raid shelter was an eyesore and should be demolished. On their first day, the workmen made a gruesome discovery. Inside the shelter, near the heavy steel door, was the mummified body of a man.
The dental records confirmed that the body was that of Oliver Swantry of The Beeches, Lansfold Avenue. The body, although shriveled, was well preserved because of the vault-like, airless atmosphere of the shelter and a PM indicated that he had probably died of natural causes - either a heart attack or suffocation from lack of air or both.
Whether Oliver had been shut in the air-raid shelter on purpose or accidentally, only Ellen would have known. A strong gust of wind might have slammed the door. Maybe she had not discovered that her husband was accidentally shut in until it was too late. She must have been in a torment of indecision whether to call for assistance or not. By the time she decided, if she ever did, it was probably too late anyway. Oliver Swantry had died surrounded by security boxes stuffed full of Bank of England Army issue banknotes. The locked wine cellar at Trenchers was empty.
The garden seat outside became Oliver’s memorial gravestone. A nice touch.
I felt I had to make sure Oliver’s death was properly registered. It was the least I could do for him. I checked at the Family Record Office in London. The staff were beginning to recognize me.
Afterwards I called in at the same street market cafe, remembering the good coffee. I ordered a prawn and salad sandwich. It was freshly made by the same blonde boy who had served me before. He gave me the same smile but this time it clicked.
“Ben? It is Ben Frazer, isn’t it?”
He jerked back, scattering prawns all over the counter. His face went pinched. He looked ready to run.
“Hold on. Don’t be alarmed. Hear what I’ve got to say, Ben. Your dad only wants a phone call from you, to know that you are all right. There’s a special line you can use. You won’t even have to speak to him. It’s called Phone Home and you can leave a message.”
“You’ve made a mistake, miss. My name’s Joe.”
“He only wants a call. Will you do it? Please?”
“No, I won’t. He doesn’t understand. I’ve got a life of my own. I’m not going back to that dump.”
“All he wants is to hear from you,” I pleaded. “Just to know that you are all right. Nothing else.”
He paused, then shoveled a generous scoop of prawns into my sandwich. “You’ve got it all wrong. Some other guy, sorry. He just looks like me.”
“Great coffee,” I said with a bright smile. “Here’s the phone number of Phone Home.”
Cleo Carling set up house with her stepfather, Arthur, and whatever their relationship might become was nobody’s business. They bought a terraced cottage in a back lane close to the city wall. Arthur smartened up and got a part-time job as a guide in Chichester Cathedral.
I was invited to their house warming party.
“And bring a friend,” said Cleo over the phone. “We both can’t thank you enough. Arthur’s getting well again and he loves his job at the cathedral. I’m looking after him and he’s looking after me.”
“Sounds great. Of course I’ll come to your party and bring a friend.”
I took James to the party. He had been fractionally more civil to me since my apprentice wing-walking. Rosie, Ursula’s sister, was overjoyed to be invited to the party and it was obvious that a family of sorts was bonding. It was all very satisfactory.
“Are we supposed to be together?” James asked as I got out of his car. He had parked some distance from the party.
“Well, sort of,” I said. What sort of answer was that? I was wearing my best indigo jeans and a new silk top from Monsoon. It was blueberry-coloured with belled sleeves and scooped neckline. My skin still hurt, between being steamed then blow dried, so the silky fabric felt devine.
“I’d better hold your hand then,” he said. “Solely in case you get into trouble.”
The palm of his hand was warm against mine. It was strange uncharted waters. As I walked beside him, I studied his rugged features. Would I ever get to know this enigmatic man? One day, if I was patient. Meanwhile I would drink in all that was offered, remember the feel of his hand in mine, cradle the memory of his scent in my nostrils.
“Don’t look at me like that, Jordan,” he said. “Or I may have to kiss you.”
But he didn’t because his phone went off. He let go my hand and went into one of those mobile huddles so I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then he switched off and turned back to me.
“Problem solved,” he said. “I’m still off duty.”
There was music coming from the stone-faced cottage and welcoming lights in the windows. I tripped in my new boots as we walked up the paving stones to the front door. James gripped my arm to steady me and a surge of wildness threatened my composure. I was stunned by the look he gave me before striding ahead to open the door for me. God, how I loved this man. But of course I didn’t say it aloud. This was not the right time.
So I am still one of the talking wounded. But perhaps it isn’t the end. Perhaps one day he will look at me and see the real Jordan Lacey.
Something still irks me about the Sister Ellen murder and I am afraid to follow my thoughts. Why didn’t she take her spectacles with her on the retreat? She was going to read the Bible, wasn’t she?
Ah, perhaps she forgot them in her haste. Maybe they were her spare pair. That was the answer. But I couldn’t get that pathetic plastic bag of belongings out of my head.
I stood in a corner at the party letting the l
aughter and chatter float over my head. James was standing across the room, head and shoulders above everyone else. I watched him. Occasionally he sent me a look, an unreadable look. A pen, a small cheap silver-metal crucifix, her glasses in a spectacle case, a pair of good leather gloves, a heavy brass key, packets of hairpins, brush and comb, toothbrush.
“Sorry, that must be a mistake. I don’t believe the key should be among Sister Ellen’s effects. I’m sure it belongs to the hospice.” I heard Sister Lucinda’s smooth voice in my memory. “I’ll remove it.”
I remembered the hospice with its modern security locks and entry phone system. Sister Lucinda had been lying. Who needed a key? The key fitted Trenchers and I knew that because I used the same key to open the back entrance. She might have witnessed the abduction, followed Rick Weston, guessed Sister Ellen was being held prisoner in Trenchers, used the key to open the door and found her conveniently unconscious. It would have been only too easy to kill her, especially if you were gym fit and strong.
And especially if the motive was The Beeches, spacious and substantial, a house sale that would raise a staggering six-figure sum and the hospice wanted that money now. Needed it. Even a saint might not be prepared to wait too long.
Then I remembered why Lucy Grey had given up her modelling career. There had been a nasty fraud case, a lot of money being embezzled. It was in all the papers. Not exactly good publicity.
“Excuse me, James,” I said tentatively, touching his sleeve. His sleeve was my path to closeness.
“There’s something I want to tell you …”
He gave me one of his tired looks. But it was a tiredness tingled with tenderness. “Not again…”
•
ABOUT STELLA WHITELAW
Stella Whitelaw began writing seriously at the age of nine. She was ill with measles when her father gave her an Imperial Portable typewriter. Covered in spots, she sat up in bed and taught herself to type.
At sixteen, she became a cub reporter and worked her way up to Chief Reporter. She was the first woman Chief Reporter, the youngest, and the only one who was pregnant.
After producing a family, she became Secretary of the Parliamentary Press Gallery at the House of Commons. Secretary then meant the original meaning, Secretariat, the keeper of secrets. She was awarded an MBE in 2001 but is not sure why.
Like Trollope, she wrote books on the train and in the recesses. The Jordan Lacey PI series is her favourite and the cruise crime books. Her big romances, No Darker Heaven and Sweet Seduction, were a marathon adventure.
Stella has won a woman’s magazine national short story competition and the London Magazine’s Art of Writing competition judged by Sheridan Morley. The Elizabeth Goudge Cup was presented to her at Guildford University.
Homeless cats find their way to Stella’s lifelong hospitality and she has written eight books of cat stories for those 7 – 70 plus.
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Get in touch with Stella
Stella Whitelaw (http://www.stellawhitelaw.co.uk)
• • • • •
Thank you for reading Pray and Die.
If you liked this story, watch for other releases in The Jordan Lacey Mystery Series.
Please log into Tirgearr Publishing (http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com) and Stella’s website for upcoming releases.
Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die Page 23