“Get the hell out of here now,” said Dominic. “Before I call the police.”
And Jack left, thinking there was a first time for everything — and that was the first time in his life he’d left with that particular warning being issued …
9. Getting Nowhere
Sarah had called to invite Jack to join her for lunch at her parents’ but she was running late and Jack probably had them all to himself.
He’ll manage, she thought.
When she pulled up to the house, Jack’s Sprite sat outside in the autumn sun. She parked and raced up the steps.
Her breathless ‘hello’ was lost amid the sound of an opera quite literally blasting the house.
She followed the music to the sunny sitting room that overlooked the garden. Jack sat in her father’s favourite wing-back chair, one arm raised conducting an invisible orchestra, while her Dad commandeered the stereo, all hands on deck should even more volume be needed.
“Er, hi?” she said competing with the music.
Her dad was quick to hit the volume and the opera quickly lowered to the level of lift music.
“Sarah,” her dad said. “I was just …”
Jack turned, big smile on his face.
“Jack, so sorry I’m late. Chloe called from school, had some questions.”
His grin broadened. “No worries. Michael was sharing one of the best with me.”
“‘Madama Butterfly’ sung by Callas, ‘Un bel di’,” her dad said as if announcing that he had bagged a prize specimen on a big game hunt.
Sarah turned to Jack. “I forgot that you liked opera.”
Jack gave her dad a small nod. “Probably don’t know as much about it as your father.”
“Oh, I’m just a buff …”
“But Katherine got me into it. Took a bit of training, but I learned to love it.”
His eyes seemed to drift a bit at the mention of his dead wife. But then he recovered.
He turned to her dad again. “It was beautiful. Thank you.”
“Any time, Jack. Just pop on over, and I’ll be glad to sip a brandy and listen a bit with you.”
“I may just take you up on that.”
Sarah’s father hurried towards her, rubbing his hands together. “So, Mum’s fixing some sandwiches, and tea. We’ll have it in here, okay?”
Sarah nodded. “I don’t have a lot of time. Big project that I must get out today.”
“Right.” Her father raised a finger. “I’ll go see how things are coming along.”
Sarah turned to her partner in crime.
And they brought each other up to date on their first steps in what — so far — wasn’t a very fruitful investigation.
Jack nodded. “Right, same with Dominic. Not the best son in the world — and that wife! But could they actually plan a fire, to kill the old man?”
“I know,” Sarah said. “Susan Hamblyn is a cool piece of work. And mind you, she too believes that she will inherit it all.”
“And Terry? Ever get a show called ‘The Three Stooges’ over here?”
Sarah grinned at that. “Bit before my time! But I think it was too violent for our telly.”
Jack nodded. “That’s for sure. Kids loved it.”
“So, what next?”
“I have a few ideas …” Jack started but paused when Michael came in with a tray, cups and the family’s best teapot decorated with Renaissance figures bowing and curtseying.
“Tea first. Sandwiches along presently. Come on, Sarah sit yourself down.”
Sarah pulled a chair closer to the small bistro table that was scheduled to improbably hold the tea and the sandwiches.
She poured a cup for Jack, her dad, then one for herself, the steam swirling up among the dust motes in the air, lit by the low autumn sun.
“So — I hear you two are at it again, hmm? Regular private detective agency?”
Sarah wasn’t sure how her parents felt about ‘investigating’ — or her friendship with the American detective.
Her dad was always a cautious one.
Jack took the query.
“Just helping a friend of Sarah’s …”
“Hope Brown,” Sarah added.
Her dad nodded.
“Seems like it might be suspicious. But maybe not. Won’t hurt to look around, ask some questions.”
She noticed how when Jack spoke about what they were doing, his voice changed. She felt the authority that he must have carried as detective back in Manhattan.
And — he could turn it on or off with ease.
“I see. Hope is such a good carer. She’s helped a lot of people in the village. I guess if she’s concerned then …”
Jack took a sip and then: “Michael, did you know the man at all?”
“Victor? Well, not really. Past few years he’s been a recluse, as you know. Didn’t get out.”
Jack nodded.
“But …” her dad put down his tea cup, “I have to tell you, a few years back, I did visit Victor. I knew he had been in the diplomatic service, worked for the government, like me. Didn’t think he got visited much, not even from those awful children of his …”
Helen came in with a second tray, filled with sandwiches and small plates that matched the tea service.
“There you are, Sarah,” she said.
Sarah gave her mother a smile and tried to make space for the sandwich platter, the plates, the napkins.
“Perhaps we should have this in the dining room,” her mother said.
But Jack and Michael helped make space, pushing the teacups one way or the other, and amazingly the tray and its tower of sandwiches made a safe landing.
“There. Enough room, I think.”
Helen smiled. “There’s a lovely tuna with chutney, bit of mutton and redcurrant jelly on a whole grain bread, and, of course, egg mayo.”
Sarah saw Jack smile at that. “Egg mayo. One of my faves, or as we say ‘egg salad’.”
That made Sarah’s mum laugh. “Never understood that; it’s not anything at all like a salad. Well, enjoy.”
And sitting around the small table, each of them grabbed a triangular quarter of sandwich of their choice and started eating.
Sarah’s dad wiped his mouth with his napkin. “As I was saying. I decided to visit the old man …”
Resuming his story brought a look from his wife. “We’re not talking about Victor Hamblyn, are we? Poor soul. And you two — playing detectives.”
“Well, Jack is a detective,” Sarah said.
“Was,” Jack added. Then, with perfect timing, “But it is a bit like learning to ride a bike. You never forget.” He flashed Helen a smile before turning back to Michael. “You were saying?”
“I like to look in on others who have left the service whether military or the government. Makes a man feel good. And Victor seemed perfectly agreeable to see me.”
Jack shot Sarah a glance as if saying … you never know where a bit of valuable information can pop up.
“He was a tad more mobile then. Didn’t require as much care, to be sure. And don’t think he had that stair lift thing. Anyway, had a nice visit with him, reassuring him that we were close should he need anything.”
“Because it’s doubtful his kids ever said anything like that to him!” Helen added. Sarah knew that this, from her mother who didn’t often judge people, must mean that she really didn’t like Victor’s children.
“I get the impression that they weren’t a very close family,” said Sarah, pouring herself another cup of tea.
“Yes, I think that’s right. And Victor’s wife died when the children were still young,” said Helen.
“So Victor brought them up on his own?” said Sarah.
“In a fashion, yes,” said Helen.
“Can’t have been easy,” said Jack. “But, Michael — I wonder — did he ever talk about India?”
“I knew he had served out there as a young man. Difficult post, right after the war, that country about to fall in
to turmoil. End of an empire, and all that. And his house was filled with things from there, that big elephant statue—”
“Ganesh,” Sarah’s mum added.
“And all sorts of Indian stuff. But when I brought up his years there … he simply clammed up.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. “The conversation just stopped?”
“Exactly. As if the memory was too painful, or something had happened that he didn’t want to remember, or certainly didn’t want to talk about. I mentioned him at the Rotary club, and old Praveer took me to one side, said that for many who lived through Partition it was best to leave it in the past.”
“Partition?” said Sarah.
“When India got her independence in ’47. There was a lot of violence. It was a terrible time by all accounts.”
“You think perhaps Victor was caught up in that?” said Jack.
Sarah saw her father’s face furrow.
“He was certainly serving out there,” he said. “Anyway — whatever it was, it was his secret and he wasn’t sharing it with me.”
The room fell silent.
“All ready for cake?”
Sarah turned to her mum and placed her hand on her mother’s arthritic fingers.
They’re getting on, she thought. Need to remember that.
“I would love a piece, Mum. Really. But I must get back to the office.”
“More deadlines, hmm?”
“Jack?” her dad said.
“I too would love some but,” he patted what was really a very small belly, “think I’d best save dessert for next time.”
Sarah’s mum gave her hand a squeeze back before looking from Jack to Sarah.
“You will be careful, yes? The two of you?”
“Mum, there’s no …”
But Jack, his voice solid, grounded gave the perfect answer.
“We will indeed.”
And that voice, the assuredness, made her mum smile.
“Then let me clear and you two can get going …”
***
Outside the house, Jack stopped by his car.
“I like those two.”
Sarah nodded. Though it wasn’t always perfect, she was one of the lucky ones who actually got on with her parents. And somehow, it seemed important that Jack liked them as well.
“I’m glad,” she said. “Interesting story from my Dad, eh?”
Jack nodded. “And unexpected. Some old secret. Does it have anything to do with what happened?” He gave a shrug.
“What next?” Sarah said.
“Up for a bit more digging?”
Sarah nodded.
“Okay. Good. I’m going to visit the village’s real estate offices.”
“Estate agents.”
“Right. Pretend that I’m growing tired of the barge, and maybe hinting I have piles of cash for a property. Get some idea of what that manor house might be worth. If it was burned by one of Victor’s children, they would have found out if it had value.”
“Good. I’m a bit swamped this afternoon, but is there something you had in mind for me?”
“If you have time, I was thinking a visit to the local electrician’s might be worthwhile. If they had fires there previously, some wiring repairs must have been done. And we know Dominic did some.”
“I know just who to see,” she said. “Been a fixture in the village for decades. I’ll try and pop in when I get my layouts sent out.”
“Great. And we can touch base this evening?”
“Absolutely.”
Another nod, and Jack opened the door to the Sprite. But Sarah put out a hand to his arm to stop him.
“And Jack — thanks for reassuring my mum. She needed to hear that. From you.”
“About being careful?”
“Yes.”
“Easy to say, Sarah, since I meant it.”
A small breeze kicked up, sending orange leaves scurrying under the small sports car.
“Getting chilly,” Jack said. He angled his big frame into the too-small driver’s bucket seat. “Going to have to put the top up soon …”
“The village in winter? You’ll love it.”
“I bet I will.”
And then Jack started the engine and Sarah walked back to her Rav 4.
Autumn was definitely in the air, and winter — waiting in the wings.
10. Property Values
Jack had spotted more than a couple of estate agents in the village. Sales and rentals must be good, based on all the pictures of pricey properties covering their front windows.
Made sense — nice part of the world, he thought.
Though — in some ways — not that different from Manhattan. People still did bad things to each other, people still had their secrets, and there was still a need for people like Jack to ask difficult questions.
He pulled the collar of his jacket up, the chilly wind finding its way through the narrow streets.
About to enter one agent’s office, he took a breath and hoped he looked like a well-off client in search of a big property.
Two down, and this last one to go.
Both conversations useful but tricky to end. The important thing was that both agents confirmed what he suspected — Mogdon Manor may not be worth all that much with the massive amount of repairs and restoration it needed. Would take a small fortune just to get it up to code, let alone desirable.
But the property, the grounds?
Easily worth millions.
One could bulldoze the Manor, and still walk away with a ton of cash.
He debated skipping the last of estate agents, Cauldwell & Co, at the far end of the town, near the car park. Looked smaller than the others, maybe dealing with less glitzy properties.
But as he often reminded himself, you never knew where something useful would pop up.
So he went in, his act as prosperous owner-to be now well honed.
A man at a large wooden desk raised his head from the Daily Telegraph and immediately flashed Jack a broad grin.
Like estate agents anywhere, they do love when a fresh body walked into their place.
“Ah, hello! Can I be of assistance to you?”
The man had walked out from behind the desk and grabbed Jack’s hand and vigorously pumped it.
“Cecil Cauldwell of Cauldwell & Company.”
“Jack Brennan.”
“And are we looking for something …?”
“As a matter of fact …”
“An American!” The agent interrupted. “Can tell that accent anywhere. Looking for a summer rental perhaps, or maybe …“
“Actually — thinking I might be looking for a place to purchase.”
Could Cecil’s smile get any broader? Jack didn’t think so.
“Fan-tastic! Well, you have come at the right time. Things get low sales-wise just as soon as summer fades. So perfect timing for a good buy! Please …” he gestured to a leather chair facing his desk.
Jack began thinking if there was any way to shorten his charade and still get any information from the proprietor.
Cecil had whipped out a yellow pad, grabbed a pen, and — eyes bright — looked ready to transcribe whatever Jack might say.
“Now, regarding the potential property, it would help me if I knew your, um, price range, and what particulars would be important to you.”
Jack nodded. “My price … is pretty flexible.”
Cecil made a broad ‘O’ with his lips. Perhaps interpreting ‘flexibility’ to mean equal unlimited resources.
“Then, you are looking for something in the village, or maybe a country house of some kind? Perhaps with a bit of property?”
Jack scratched his head.
“Not sure. Been living on a river barge so not too sure what I’d want.”
The words ‘river barge’ seem to have a deflating effect. Perhaps Cecil thought that someone living on a barge couldn’t possibly be looking at high-end properties. He’d be right about that.
“I did
see that old Manor House. Looked damaged, needing work. Too big maybe … but I don’t know — interesting.”
Cecil’s smile faded even further. “Mogdon Manor, yes, quite in need of repair. And the property has been totally let go.”
“Would you say the house is worth much?”
Cecil laughed. “That old house? Maybe if you favour claptrap and fin de siècle that’s truly fin.”
“And the grounds?”
“Different story, Mr Brennan. The grounds have not been maintained, but that location, absolutely prime. You wouldn’t be looking to … develop, would you? Maybe some flats or …”
“Who knows. It did catch my eye.”
Jack had the confirmation he needed. Property worth a lot, house nada. But he asked a last question anyway.
“So the place itself, worth nothing?”
But Cecil raised a hand.
“Hang on. As is, probably not. It is need of massive repairs. But the potential? Someone had it surveyed recently for possible flats. As I said — lot of potential!”
Jack stopped.
“Surveyed? Who did that?”
Cecil froze, then recoiled to the back of his seat.
He paused as if aware that what was going on here was more than chit-chat about the local real estate scene.
“I’m afraid … I could not tell you that. Confidential. I was just …”
Jack leaned forward to close the distance.
“You mean, Cecil … that someone had the property surveyed, plans drawn up all in secret? It must be a secret since you’re not telling me.”
At that Cecil Cauldwell of Cauldwell & Co. stood up.
“I think it’s time you left Mr Brennan.” He rolled his eyes. “If that’s even your name.”
“Oh it is.” Jack grinned. “You can check.”
He started for the door out.
“Hope you don’t mind if I pass that information along, do you. Maybe the police? All so interesting.”
Cecil stood silent, frozen.
And as Jack walked back to his car, again he thought … NYC, Cherringham, everyone, everywhere with their secrets.
Jack sat in his car, the engine rumbling. He’d call Sarah later, after her dinner with the kids.
Now, time for the barge, a medium-rare steak and a martini.
Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor Page 5