Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Piers smiled. “We must both rise to the occasion then, Chief Inspector. I shall make sure and stay with them tonight. To keep them safe, of course.”

  Johns might have punched Cousins if it hadn’t been for his sergeant’s timely arrival with a request to come talk with the medical examiner. He didn’t like the smug toff.

  The two men exchanged looks of restrained tension and then, like two dogs who didn’t want to be the first to walk away, they both turned their shoulders at angles and moved off in different directions, Johns to watch a man be zipped into a black bag and Cousins to tea at Flower Pot Cottage.

  IT WAS SIX P.M. AND Johns was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well in two days and lack of sleep was wearing him down. Phoning Constable Waters, he told her he was going home and that she should not disturb him unless aliens landed in Marsden-Lacey. She promised to let the others know and wished him a quiet evening free of Klingons.

  Turning in through the gate to his home, he pulled up to the front door, turned off the car’s motor and slumped into his seat. Looking back over the last few days, it seemed as if some kind of cosmic tap had been turned and all Hell had broken loose.

  As he pondered the current barrage of murder and mayhem, he couldn’t help coming back to the notion that it had all begun with that devilish redhead’s assault on poor Sam Berry in the High Street. That woman was the definition of difficult.

  He hoped she could hold her own with Toffy Cousins. With a smile on his lips imagining the havoc that woman could wreak, he thought maybe he should have warned Cousins instead of threatening him earlier. Johns smiled and watched the moon emerge from a cloud in the black nighttime sky. He thought to himself finally, that she was actually rather exciting. Then, shaking his head free of redheads and crime, he got out of the car.

  The Johns family had always been civil servants of one kind or another. They started out as bailiffs in the Hundred Courts in the seventeenth century but as times changed, they transitioned into the professions of police work and military service.

  The family house had been lived in for over two hundred and thirty years and had been a working farm up until sixty years ago. Johns’ grandfather came back from World War II a Lieutenant Colonel and chose to stay in the military instead of working the farm. From that point on, the family leased out their land but continued living in the old house.

  The front door to the stone farmhouse was unlocked and the light was on down the low-ceilinged hall. He heard the radio playing Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” while he walked towards the back of the house.

  Coming into the expansive, newly-renovated kitchen/living room, Johns saw the familiar form of his mother ensconced in the ratty winged-back chair near the always warm Aga stove.

  “Hi, Mum. You shouldn’t wait up this late.” He lifted the lid on a steaming pot of beef stew and breathed in the tantalizing smell.

  “Oh come now, Merriam, you’d better get a bowl and have a bite to eat. Besides, I’ve got something interesting to tell you.”

  Polly Johns was an extremely good-looking widow of sixty-five. Her beautiful snow-white hair was cut in a fashionable short style and with a flair for dressing herself in simple, elegant clothes, she was truly a fine figure of a woman.

  Making homemade beer which she brewed in a converted section of the old family barn was her passion. Over the last ten years, Polly had made such a profit off her brewing skills that she had renovated the old house, giving it a second lease on life.

  Johns filled his bowl with steaming hot stew and cut off a good-sized piece of his mother’s homemade potato bread. Opening one of her own pale ales, Polly poured it into a chilled pottery mug and set it before her son.

  For a few minutes all he did was eat, quietly savoring each bite. Mother and son sat together in peaceful silence while Polly watched with contentment as Johns ate what she had made especially for him.

  Johns broke the spell of domestic bliss. “Better tell me the hot gossip from Harriet’s, Mum. Let me guess. The crew at Harriet’s shop and the Traveller’s Inn have a raving maniac running loose on our streets and they are about to have my badge recalled.”

  Johns’ mother was never so pleased as when her detective inspector son was clueless and completely off the mark in his assumptions. It tickled her Irish sense of humor.

  “No, dear. Quite the opposite. You know how much they love you. It was only yesterday that Mrs. White, your first grade teacher, stopped me in the market and told me how proud she was of you. Even if you struggled with mathematics she said, you had always been such a brilliant boy and dedicated to your school work.”

  Johns raised his eyebrows and shook his head in a gesture of bemusement. “So that’s the news? Mrs. White remembers my academic challenges?”

  “Merriam, be patient and let me tell you.” She refilled his bowl with stew and gave him a flick on the back of his head. “Do you remember how Angus Ruskin had that wife for two years and then she disappeared? Everyone thought Angus sent her away to the sanitarium because she was always walking around the village at night with only her nightdress on and a pair of wellies. We were completely wrong. Actually, she had moved to Oxton to get away from Angus who was quite difficult to live with after he had been drinking all night at the pub. That’s why she was often outside, poor thing. He would toss her out into the street. Good for her, for leaving the villain.”

  She paused in her story to see if he was still listening. “Does that town sound familiar to you?”

  “Town? Uh, Oxton you mean? Yes, that’s where Devry said he went to visit his stepmother. Why would you know anything at all about the Oxton connection?” Johns asked with a refreshed alertness in his voice.

  “Well, you see that’s it. You will never guess who walked into Harriet’s today and I might say looked fit and put together?”

  “Angus Ruskin’s wife? I hope she has a name.”

  Polly, with a gleam in her eye like a mongoose who has cornered her prey, hesitated in order to build up the tension and expectation of her audience.

  “Mum, get to it. You know this kind of thing makes me crazy. What was Ruskin’s wife doing in town?”

  “Marsha is her name and she came to town because she brought Devry’s stepmother to see him.”

  “Yesterday?” Johns couldn’t believe the timing of Devry’s stepmother’s visit.

  “Thought you would like to know. I’m off to bed but if you would like to know one more thing, I will need a kiss on the cheek before I tell you.”

  Johns sighed resignedly at the motherly blackmail but knew better than to begrudge her winnings. She was likely to pull his ear, or worse—stop cooking for a fortnight.

  Polly proffered a cheek to her son who tenderly gave her a gentle kiss.

  “Martha Ruskin and the woman checked out of The Traveller’s Inn this morning according to Neil who manages the desk,” Polly said and then patted her son’s bristly head. “Well, good night, Merriam. I love you. Sleep well.”

  Johns watched his mother climb the back stairs and heard her door shut. Putting his bowl in the sink and turning off the lights, he followed her up the stairs and to his own room. Rest was all he could think of now but tomorrow he would be making a much needed visit to Oxton.

  THE TOWN OF MARSDEN-LACEY closed its shutters, locked its doors and took comfort in the simple pleasures of bed and silence. Piers told the girls he would sleep on the couch at Flower Pot to give them peace of mind.

  Johns snored contentedly after another pint of his mother’s pale ale and the girls, Helen and Martha, slept so deeply that Helen didn’t even notice she had a cat curled up next to her head.

  Not all the inhabitants slept peacefully though. Some feared for their lives, some fretted about their loved ones and one in particular plotted murder. As for this last person it must be added that they did it for love, but then many horrors have been credited to the power of love.

  Chapter 31

  SATISFIED HIS APPEARANCE WOULD EQUAL or b
etter Cary Grant’s jewel thief character in “To Catch a Thief,” Perigrine smiled at his sleek, black-garbed silhouette in the mirror. He knew it was best to always dress for the situation and who better to emulate than a successful cat thief and one who was dastardly good-looking and debonair like himself.

  With the ensemble in place, it was time to put on the knapsack. Unfortunately for Perigrine, the backpack was bright yellow, but it fit well to his back and was the only thing he could find to carry the manuscript successfully. He did a few hops around the room first on two legs and then on each foot to make sure the pack wouldn’t slosh around too much.

  Many years ago, Perigrine and Alistair had done a job in Austria and had decided to learn to ski while they were there. They found to their surprise they were excellent skiers so they invested in all the equipment necessary to ski well and look good while doing so. They’d since given up the skis but a yellow and black, knitted face mask was thrashed out from under some old sweaters in the basement. The mask would cover his face in case anyone should see him en route to the Constabulary.

  Donning the ski mask, he took stock of himself again in the mirror and did a few more hops to make sure of his spryness for the night’s adventure. The yellow and black mask with his entirely black body and the yellow backpack made Perigrine look like a stretched-out skinny bee. The hopping gave the impression the bee was having difficulty with its takeoff.

  Finally, he checked the rubber soles of his shoes by taking a run at the opposite side of the room to see if they had grip. They had grip. He did a nice landing into a heap of Comstock’s never-used dog beds.

  Pleased to see he still had the flexibility of body and quickness of mind to be agile and quick-witted in tight situations, he picked up the manuscript, giving it one more look. He loved the thrill of the heist. This time though, he was on the side of the law which gave a certain honor and righteousness to his night’s endeavors.

  Perigrine was taking on the dangerous task of returning what Alistair had lifted. If he was caught, he would probably be put back in jail. This in itself was a horrifying thought, but it would be the loss of faith from his new village friends that would be the hardest thing for him to accept. He and Alistair had made a new life here and the people of Marsden-Lacey had become like an adopted family.

  So the pressure was on: save Ally from being arrested while not being arrested and humiliated himself. He put the manuscript in the knapsack and did one more set of hops.

  Alistair, for his part, was sleeping comfortably in the other room with Comstock tucked into his arm. He had absolutely no idea what P. was up to. Perigrine thought it best to keep it that way for now. Only Comstock lifted his head and blinked his small black eyes when P. peeked in on them. The dog gave a great yawn and let his head fall back on Alistair’s arm.

  It was shortly after midnight when Perigrine gingerly let himself out the back door of their house. Since the pub closed early during the week, most everyone should be at home. He put on his leather driving gloves and thanked God it wasn’t raining as he slipped around to the side of the Constabulary.

  Only the front reception room lights were on, meaning the two constables on the night shift, Michael and Thomas, were tending the desk. They kept the police radio always going during the night and its droning would cover the sound of Perigrine’s entry.

  Thomas and Michael were currently into watching a fishing show about big-game fishermen. They spent their evenings glued to the computer discussing different techniques for catching fish. So, his only real difficulty was finding an open window and, of course, not being caught. He intended to put the manuscript back in Johns’ office. It would be safe there.

  Fortunately for Perigrine, he was familiar with every aspect of the station. For instance, he knew a surveillance system was recently installed thanks to Donna telling him earlier. He must be careful to avoid being detected by any cameras.

  Crawling along between the building and the shrubbery, he gently tugged on each window at ground level. None were open. Since Alistair’s robbery, the place was on lockdown. Looking for help from above, he saw to his relief a window on the second floor was ajar. All he needed was a ladder and that was easy to attend to because the Constabulary had one laying against the outdoor sheds.

  A single camera covered this side of the building. It was quickly dealt with by coming up behind it and putting a bag over it. Then with the nerves of a true cat burglar, Perigrine found the ladder and affixed it against the Constabulary directly under the window of choice. He nimbly started to climb but halfway up, his ascent was arrested by a light illuminating the room directly above him. The sounds of two male voices came wafting out through the window.

  “Mike, you aren’t keeping your wrist locked. Even if you bring it back to a ten o’clock position, you always keep your wrist firm,” Thomas was saying.

  Perigrine continued his climb and with remarkable composure lifted his head above the window’s sill to steal a look inside. There was Thomas and Michael practicing their fly rod casts in the exercise room.

  “They could be there for hours,” P. thought, so he descended back to the ground and decided to take the Police Station by storm: through the front door.

  He worked his way around to the front of the building, careful to avoid camera angles and for at least fifteen minutes watched the reception area. There were two cameras covering the front but no movement of any kind inside the building.

  With nerves of steel, Perigrine worked his way along the side of the building using the different voluminous bushes for cover. He barely secreted himself in a massive hydrangea bush before an alarm began to ring right above his head. Perigrine’s heart jumped into his throat and his entire frame went rigid. The Cat was as still as a statue.

  He heard Michael yelling something. Thomas’ feet thundered down the wooden stairs inside. Somehow Perigrine’s body acted on its own volition. He leaped back along the way he had come and once under the complete shield of darkness, ran blindly towards the back of the building. Lights sprang up in the yard and Perigrine plastered himself against a dark section of wall with his chest heaving from exertion and excitement. He looked around wildly. It was then he saw a young man dart towards the bike path across the street.

  Perigrine wasn’t sure what was going on but he could hear voices coming his way. The only route open to him was into the yard where the police vehicles were parked. He could hear men shouting and the alarm was louder than ever, so P. did the only thing he could do: he ran for one of the squad cars praying it would be unlocked. Unfortunately for P., the gods were bored and decided to have some fun with him.

  The first door he fiddled with was the back door to a police vehicle. It opened. Jumping into the backseat, he pulled the door closed, finding himself in a cage used to transport prisoners. Perigrine quickly recalled that neither of the back doors could be opened except from the outside. He tried the doors to no avail. Locked in like a cat in a cage, Perigrine would have kicked himself but he didn’t have the room.

  Squashed on the back floorboard of the squad car, he wanted to thrash Alistair and never watch another Cary Grant film for the rest of his life. He heard Michael’s and Thomas’ voices getting closer and then it was too late to do anything but sit quietly in the floorboard and pray.

  “WHO’S ESCAPED?” JOHNS MUMBLED HALF-asleep into the phone. “Sam? Sam Berry? Yes, I’ll be there. Give me twenty minutes. Wait. I think it would be better if you came and got me. Had some to drink before bed. Be here in ten.”

  The young constable, Michael, who had been practicing his fly rod casting, hurriedly ran out to the car park and jumped into the first vehicle he came to. It was the first one Perigrine had come to as well. Michael was on his way to pick up the Chief.

  The car raced down the back lanes of Marsden-Lacey with its lights flashing but no sirens. Perigrine was crunched down in the floorboard. The car came to an abrupt stop outside DCI Johns’ house. Michael ran up to the door while P. tried frantic
ally to work the door latch. No good.

  Johns and Michael both returned to the car and jumped in. Perigrine remained crouched behind the front seat. The car sped away into the night.

  The ride only lasted another five minutes. With an abrupt stop, both policemen jumped out of the car and banged on a door yelling “Sam!”

  The door opened and after some brief conversation, the door slammed shut and the night went quiet.

  Perigrine peeked over the front seat and saw there was no one in sight. Everyone was inside the house. He tried to squeeze through the tiny enclosure between the front and back seat. It took some doing, but he managed to work himself like a piece of dough through the opening and onto the front seat.

  Once through the opening, he lay flat on the front seat and pushed open the passenger door. Sliding from the seat, he knelt down on the ground using the door as a screen. Taking off the knapsack, he opened it and laid the manuscript on the front seat, wiping it one last time to remove any prints. It hadn’t been the plan to return the manuscript in this way, but without a doubt, Johns would have it back and be no more the wiser regarding who stole it.

  Perigrine waited and watched before taking a deep breath and sprinting towards the dark grove of trees to the side of the road. He hid himself behind a tree.

  Soon Johns, Michael, and another young man came out of the house. Johns had the man by the back of his collar making him walk on his tiptoes.

  Letting him drop, Johns began to chastise him. “Sam, you’ve got to quit breaking out of jail especially late at night.”

  “She’s gonna marry another man, Chief. I will not stand for it,” Sam said more at an upper story window than to Johns.

  “Well, if you would quit running around mugging women and breaking out of jail, she might look on you more favorably,” Johns said. “I’m done with you, Sam. You’re going HM Prison Wetherby.”