Death in an English Garden: Book Six in the Murder on Location series

by Sara Rosett

  The chair was empty. I turned on the flashlight and aimed the phone at the ground around the chair and the base of the tree. The glowing screen showed nothing but the smooth grain of the chair’s wood and springy tufts of grass. I turned in a circle, scanning the garden. No sign of Gil…or anyone.

  Slink trotted to the gate. I opened it, stepped onto the hard-packed path, and pointed the light up and down the path. It was deserted. I went to the wall that ran along Annette’s garden and swept the light over it, seeing only glossy leaves and furled flower buds in sparsely planted beds. She’d installed a little shed at the back corner of the garden, but the new padlock, still securely in place, glinted as I aimed the light at it. I stepped away from the wall and saw a light coming down the path toward me from the direction of the village.

  A powerful flashlight, it cut through the night, sweeping from side to side along the path. The reflective vest and the distinctive outline of the hat were unmistakable. I hurried forward.

  “Constable Albertson,” I called. The beam of light flashed full in my face, blinding me. I held up a hand, and the light moved down to illuminate the path.

  “Can I help you?”

  I blinked away the spots and focused on the man’s face. I didn’t recognize the voice. “Oh, I thought you were Constable Albertson.”

  “Constable Carnay here. Constable Albertson’s off tonight. Who are you?”

  “I’m Kate Sharp. I live in the cottage back there. There was…um…” I stopped, at a loss. How could I say there had been a man—I’d thought he was dead—in my back garden, and now he was gone? This constable had found me in my pajamas poking around the path late at night. He probably already thought I was a tad crazy.

  He asked, “Is there a problem? We had a report—” He turned sharply at the jingle of Slink’s collar as she trotted up.

  “Slink! There you are. Thank goodness,” I ad-libbed. To the constable, I said, “The gate must not have latched, and she got out. I was…looking for her.” Slink had her liquid eyes fixed on me during my little speech. She tucked her hind legs under and sat on her haunches, the very picture of a well-trained dog. “So sorry. Come on, Slink, let’s go home.”

  Slink sprang up and trotted ahead of me docilely through the open gate. Constable Carney focused the light on the gate then swept it around my garden. My breathing was fast as my gaze followed the beam, but everything was just as I’d seen it a few minutes before, only much clearer in the brighter light.

  “We had a report of a disturbance. Did you hear anything?” he asked as I stepped in and closed the gate.

  “Ah—no.”

  He looked back the way he’d come and used the beam of the flashlight to pick out the gates on this side of the path as he counted under his breath until he got to my gate. “Yes, at this cottage. Any problems?” He lifted the light and moved it over the garden, slower this time.

  “No. Just a lost dog—temporarily lost, that is. All good now.”

  “Anyone inside your cottage?”

  “Only me. Good night, Constable.”

  I hurried away from the gate, my flip-flops making slapping sounds against the soles of my feet as I crossed to the door. Slink was already sitting in the light of the doorway. She reversed out of my way, and I closed the door, locked it, then leaned against it.

  “A report,” I whispered. A report that drew the police to my back garden at the exact moment that Gil, his dead—or unconscious?—body was also there. I ran a shaky hand over my forehead. Cottage Lane was a quiet street and there was no disturbance tonight to draw the police, but someone had made sure the police were here. Someone wanted Gil found in my backyard.

  I pushed away from the door and hurriedly checked rooms and closets—I had left the back door open and thought Gil might have slipped inside—but the cottage was empty. Upstairs, I went to the window in the bedroom. I left the light off and cracked the shutters.

  The constable moved up and down the entire length of the path, his light tracing carefully over every garden. He looped around and checked the front of each cottage, too. Once he’d left, I pushed the shutters closed and sat in the dark a moment.

  I was confused about lots of things, but I was pretty sure of one thing—wherever Gil was now, he certainly wasn’t anywhere around Cottage Lane. I changed into a lightweight taupe sweater, a pair of jeans, and my boat shoes. A visit to the inn was in order.

  Chapter 25

  THE RECEPTION AREA OF THE inn was empty when I arrived, but a few dinner guests were lingering over their coffee and dessert in the dining room. Doug wasn’t in the reception area, but Tara, in a white chef’s smock, was chatting with a group at a table. I caught her eye. She came across the room to me.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said.

  “It’s fine. We’re winding down. Nothing to do now but wash the dishes.”

  “Still, I don’t want to put you behind. Is Doug around?”

  “No, he’s at the farmhouse. The telly is out, and the guests must have a working telly. What can I help you with?”

  “Can you ring Gil Brayden’s room for me?”

  “Sure.” She tilted her head to the side, giving me an inquisitive look. “Although, he doesn’t seem your type,” she said with a hint of a smile.

  “Far from it,” I said with an answering grin. “Not my type at all.”

  She nodded her head. “Thought so. Course, not many can compete with your Alex.”

  “He’s not my Alex.” I felt a flush creep up my face.

  “Oh, I think he is.”

  I cleared my throat. “This is…something else.”

  She went behind the counter and picked up the handset. “Ah, I see. Work related.” She punched a few buttons and handed over the phone. “Has Mr. Brayden been giving you problems? I can have Doug speak to him.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I paused and listened to the phone ring. “He did try to get on the set earlier, but this is about something else.” I handed the phone back to her. “He’s not answering.”

  I looked out one of the windows to the parking area. “I think that’s his car there, the white one.” I’d seen the car on the way inside and expected him to answer the phone in his room. “I suppose he might have walked into Nether Woodsmoor…”

  Tara said, “I can let him know you want to speak to him when he gets in.”

  “It’s more than that. I’m worried about him,” I said, thinking it would be better not to go into the whole incident in my back garden. “I wanted to make sure he was okay. I think he might have been…hurt.”

  She checked the row of keys behind the counter. “His key is gone.” She frowned. “But guests often forget to turn in their key when they leave.” She tapped her fingers on the counter as she stared at the keys a moment more, then she looked up at the clock on the wall. “You must be quite concerned—it’s nearly eleven.”

  “I am.”

  “Right then. We better check.”

  She unlocked a drawer, withdrew a set of keys, and headed for the stairs. She didn’t tell me to wait, so I climbed the stairs and followed her along the low-ceiling passage. She paused to unlock a closet and pick up two fluffy towels. “Our excuse,” she said, then continued on to Room Four where she tapped on the door. “Mr. Brayden?”

  Tara tapped again. “Mr. Brayden?” she said in a louder voice. “I have your fresh towels.” After a moment, she transferred the towels to the crook of her arm and pulled out the keys. She opened the door an inch, then pushed it wide and flicked on the light. “He’s not here.”

  I joined her at the doorway. “And I thought Alex was messy.”

  She let out a gusty sigh. “The maids weren’t exaggerating.”

  It reminded me of Arabella’s room, except Gil had a lot less clothing to leave lying on the floor and furniture. He still had managed to cover every flat surface and most of the floor with clothes, empty soft drink cans, Styrofoam takeaway containers, crumpled gum wrappers, carrier bags, and used towels.
r />   Tara stepped carefully across the floor, gathering used towels as she went.

  I followed her inside and picked up one of the gum wrappers. It smelled of banana and had the diagonal print across the paper that I’d seen before. The spurt of anger that I’d felt when I realized someone wanted Gil found in my yard had fizzled and transformed to worry. As I looked around the room, the anxious feeling that had been dogging me since I found the note intensified.

  “Did you see him today?” I asked Tara. She pushed open the door to the adjoining bath. I could see an uncapped tube of toothpaste by the sink and a disposable razor resting in a dried blob of shaving cream. She paused with a bundle of towels in her arms. “You know, I saw him tonight, now that I think about it. About eight, I think. I had to go out back and call in one of the waiters who was late coming in from his break. I noticed Mr. Brayden because he was on the path that goes through the fields. Do you know the one I mean?”

  I went to the desk where a tangle of charging cords sat by a closed laptop and a couple of camera bags. “The one that circles around the village and crosses Grove Road?”

  “Yes, that’s it. It was rather odd to see him walking out so late in the day. Most guests, if they’re going out, walk into the village along the main road.”

  I knew that path circled around Nether Woodsmoor and eventually merged with the footpath that ran behind Cottage Lane. “No one was with him?” The larger camera bag was open, and I looked inside. It was a duffle-type bag with separate padded sections. “Nice,” I murmured. Gil might look scruffy and unkept, but he had a top-of-the-line camera along with several expensive lenses.

  “No. In fact, he’s kept mostly to himself while he’s been here, which I think is a bit odd. He works for the newspapers. I expected him to pester both Doug and me with questions, but he never asked us about the village or any of the other guests.” She picked up a padded book that listed the inn’s amenities, which had fallen to the floor, and put it on the nightstand. “The only person I saw him talking to was Mr. Lund.”

  I looked up from the camera bag. “Really?”

  “He bought Mr. Lund several drinks the other night—can’t remember when it was, exactly—but they had a long conversation about investments.”

  “Investments?” I asked, surprised. It wasn’t the topic I would have expected those two men to discuss.

  “Well, I suppose that was it. I heard snippets—liquidity, assets, and security. Mr. Brayden probably wanted some investment tips since that’s Mr. Lund’s specialty.”

  “Investments are his specialty?”

  “He’s an advisor…financial things—stocks, bonds.”

  “I had no idea.” I’d never thought about what Stevie Lund did for a living. I’d assumed he worked for his father in the “family business.” I made a mental note to search for Stevie Lund’s name online and see what came up.

  I let the flap of the camera bag fall back into place, then peeked into the smaller bag next to it and froze. A very nice Canon took up most of the space, but a gold charm bracelet with tiny diamonds sparkled against the black nylon interior.

  Chapter 26

  “WE HAVE TO CALL THE police.” I angled the bag so that the charms of the bracelet dangled separately. A gold key was the largest charm and was the easiest to distinguish, but the little Cartier purse and the diamond-encrusted sandal were there, too.

  “What?” Tara turned back from the door to the hall. “Why?”

  “This bracelet belonged to Arabella. I recognize some of the charms. She wore it all the time.”

  “Then what is it doing in here? In Mr. Brayden’s bag?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured as I took out my phone. Tara frowned at me. “We have to report it,” I whispered as the operator answered.

  Once I’d explained what we’d found, the emergency operator repeated, “Jewelry that belonged to a victim?” in a doubtful tone.

  “Yes. It could be important,” I said, thinking of Torrie’s questions about the bracelet.

  “Your location?”

  “The Old Woodsmoor Inn.” Tara’s frown deepened into a look of disapproval. “Inspector Quimby will want to know about it,” I added, still speaking into the phone.

  “I’ll relay the message,” he said with a note of finality.

  “Wait—you’re not going to send someone to pick it up now?”

  “That will be up to the Inspector. I’ll relay the message,” he repeated.

  I hung up. “I don’t know when they’ll be here. Sounds as if it may be tomorrow. You’d better take that down with you. Do you have somewhere you can lock it up?”

  “We have a safe for guests’ valuables.”

  “That’s where this needs to go. No—here, use one of those towels to pick up the strap,” I said.

  “You think…it had something to do with that woman’s death?” Now instead of irritated, Tara looked worried.

  “It’s connected to it…somehow.”

  I waited at the inn for a while in case a constable or sergeant showed up to take charge of the bracelet and wanted to ask me questions, but after about twenty minutes, I could see that Tara was ready to begin shutting down for the night. I also realized it would look very strange if the constable who had been on the path behind the cottages showed up and found me fully dressed and poking around the inn’s rooms with Tara.

  She locked the whole camera bag in the safe and promised to call me if someone came for it. On my way through the parking area, I stopped and looked in the white Ford Fiesta. It was locked up tight, and the inside was spotlessly clean. Could it really belong to Gil? Then I saw a pair of heavy-duty work boots on the back seat beside a light-colored scarf.

  I unlocked the MG and drove home, with what seemed like a million more questions running around in my mind. The drive only took a few minutes. The streets of the village were deserted and quiet, except for a few pockets of activity around the pub and a couple of other establishments that stayed open late. As I turned onto Cottage Lane, I was glad to see the parking slot in front of Alex’s cottage was still open. The later it got in the day, the harder it was to find parking on the street.

  I shifted into reverse and carefully eased the MG into the space then shut off the engine and sat in the car for a moment, listening to the clicks and pings of the engine. It was nearly midnight, and light glowed from only a few windows along the lane—one of them, mine. I felt tired, drained, and confused.

  Had Gil killed Arabella and kept the bracelet? I couldn’t think of a good reason he’d take the bracelet and then leave it in his belongings. Maybe he found it? But if that was the case, why was it hidden in one of his camera bags? He must have recognized it. Arabella wore it all the time. He would have seen it in the photos he took of her. Why had he kept it instead of calling the police? Was he afraid of what the police would assume if he turned in the bracelet, like I had been with the note? Had someone planted the bracelet like the note had been planted in my bag?

  I couldn’t figure out any of those questions, so I climbed out of the car and turned for my cottage, but then remembered that Alex would be back tomorrow. The production had rented a large van for the trip to Chawton, but it would be returned tomorrow, and he might need the keys to his car. I wasn’t sure if he had his set with him or not. He could have left them in the cottage. He let me borrow the car whenever I needed to, but I didn’t feel right keeping the keys with me, especially since he was arriving back tomorrow.

  I slipped through his gate, unlocked the door, and automatically flipped on the hall light as I tossed the keys in the little bowl on the table near the door. The layout of Alex’s cottage was similar to mine. The front door opened into a long hallway that stretched between the door and the kitchen at the back of the cottage, and I was already swinging around to leave by the time my brain processed what I’d seen—a man standing motionless at the far end of the hall in the kitchen doorway.

  Chapter 27

  IT WAS GIL. HE LOOKED so differe
nt that it took me a moment to recognize him, but despite the washed-out, ashy complexion, it was Gil. The cocky charm he’d displayed when he tried to slip into Parkview had vanished. Now he radiated tension. He looks as if he’s been ill or in a horrible accident. The thought flashed through my mind while we both stood frozen in place.

  He took two steps forward and collapsed in a pile on the floor. I gripped the door with one hand, poised to run out of it if he stirred, but he didn’t move. “Gil?”

  He groaned, shifted, and made an effort to stand, but only managed to lift himself slightly, then he clutched the kitchen doorframe and leaned his head against it. His face was even whiter than a moment ago, except for a large red welt on his temple. Part of me wanted to run out the door and call the police—Arabella’s missing jewelry was in his camera bag, after all—but he looked so awful that I couldn’t leave.

  I left the front door open and inched toward him. “Are you okay?”

  He swallowed thickly and began to shake his head, but checked his movement. “No,” he said after a moment. “This room—the whole world, in fact, has a tendency to spin at the most inconvenient times. Or just go completely black.”

  “You better put your head down between your knees.” He wasn’t faking. He looked like he was about to pass out.

  I could see into the kitchen where a bundle of dissolving ice cubes were melting in the folds of a kitchen towel. The upper portion of the back door had a window in it, and a pane was broken out of it. It would be easy to reach inside and unlock the deadbolt and the night latch.

  He folded over at the waist and said in a muffled voice, “But then you might be able to bean me on the head, too. Unfortunately, since I can’t seem to stand, I’ll just have to trust you’ll be nicer than Torrie.”

  “Torrie caused that bump on your head?” I stepped around Gil and went into the kitchen to search Alex’s tiny freezer for more ice cubes. The refrigerator was more modern than the one in my cottage. It had squared off corners instead of rounded ones and a slightly bigger freezer. I pulled out the last tray of ice cubes and cracked it over the sink.