by Holly Bell
Amanda wanted Trelawney’s attention elsewhere so she could use her wand. She was going to need it. The grand piano was suspended above her on the very edges of the iron frame, on a couple of splintered joists. She had to support it by magic. Amanda took the pencil out of her trench coat pocket.
‘Herda hevan,’ she intoned, softly.
She looked down. Under fallen masonry and floorboards were three steamer trunks, each with a number on it, presumably a room number. Mrs Frank had been an organised woman.
All three were locked. Which room had the man stayed in? There was no way to know, and it was too late to ask Frank. Having only seen the cellar in the dark in 1940, and now amongst the chaos, was disorientating. She would just have to try the first trunk and hope she got lucky.
Amanda knelt before the most accessible of the three. It was a proper lock. With skeleton keys or lockpicks she could have got it undone. That was part of furniture restoration work. But she had neither tool, and the storm was closing in.
‘Agertyn,’ she pronounced. The lock popped. Amanda had to fight the detritus on top of the lid to get it open just enough to reach in and feel around. The contents were just clothes and shoes. She got her hand out, and released the lid and its burden with relief. But she felt something above dislodge. The place was a pile of Jackstraws, each rock and stick of wood precariously balanced.
There came a low bang above. The storm was upon them, and the very ground was taking up its vibrations. Amanda grabbed her wand with both hands, pointing it upwards:
‘Herda hevan, herda hevan.’
She needed stronger magic to shore up the ceiling and walls. Now Trelawney was calling to her, blast him.
‘You all right?’ came his anxious voice.
‘Yes, yes I’m fine! Just go back and keep watch!’
The ceiling shuffled and lowered as Amanda’s concentration wavered. She went to the second chest. Keeping the force of her intent on supporting what hung perilously above, she whispered, ‘Agertyn’. Click. Lift. Search. Again she disturbed the debris for nothing.
Thunder rolled. Rubble, dust and wood were falling. She ducked.
‘Herda hevan,’ she repeated.
Trelawney, seeing the ground shift, wriggled his hands under the piano frame, taking as much weight as he could, and willed the ceiling to stay up just long enough to get her out of there.
Amanda’s voice floated up to him. What was she saying? Herder heaven? Strange how it resonated. It began to echo is his head, repeating as his arms and back strained to keep the iron frame from tumbling down into the cellar and onto Amanda.
He heard things falling in the cavity below and called to her.
‘I’m fine!’ Amanda shouted. ‘Just give me another minute!’
Chest three. It had to be in here …. Yes! Under blankets, there was a suitcase and papers. Eureka! She’d have to get the chest open properly. She forced back the lid, and all that leaned on it.
‘Herda hevan,’ she insistently chanted at the failing structure over her head.
Quickly, Amanda took out her phone and recorded the open chest showing the room number. Yes! Files and papers. She quickly opened one folder at random, then another and there it was: notes on the Mosquito, schematics and a codebook. Amanda opened the suitcase to reveal a radio transmitter, headphones and a morse code key. She hid her wand, gathered up the papers and climbed, slipping and turning her ankles on the rubble ramp.
‘Here!’ she shouted urgently.
Trelawney dropped Amanda’s hat, reached in and took the bundle.
‘Come out!’ he urged her.
‘I have to get the radio.’
‘There’s no time, the whole thing is going to go!’ he told her.
She slid back down, magically holding the mess above her head together through every ounce of sheer force of will now.
‘Herda hevan, herda hevan, herda hevan,’ Amanda chanted.
Wheezing even inside her mask, she grabbed the radio and ran for the ramp as the cavity began to collapse, the furthest end of the piano swinging down. Trelawney took the suitcase in one hand and tossed it aside. In one swift move, he grabbed her arms, and jerked her out of the hole as the piano collapsed down. Flailing strings whipped out and caught her shoe, threatening to pull her in. He reached, knocked the shoe off her foot, wrapped his arms around her, and rolled them both clear.
Amanda was coughing helplessly but waved her hand along the lane. The papers were strewn about it. Trelawney ran, catching them in the light of his torch and collecting them. He hastened back to her side.
‘Come on, let’s get you away from this dust.’
Chapter 45
The Backroom Boys Report
Tucking the documents under one arm, Trelawney fairly carried Amanda to her car and sat her down, sideways, on the edge of the driver’s seat.
‘I’ll get the suitcase,’ said Trelawney, and went back into the dust-filled gloom.
The storm, having done its worst with the ruins, banged its way on over Madley Wood. Amanda used her inhaler and had a second look at the files, while she waited. She began to wonder what Trelawney was doing, when he reappeared. He put the radio onto the Astra’s back seat, and handed Amanda her hat.
‘Thank you.’
Unexpectedly, he knelt beside her. He was holding her shoe, actually her grandmother’s vintage heel, scuffed and crushed but still in one piece.
‘You rescued my shoe?’ she marvelled.
‘Once your foot wasn’t in it, it was easy to get it free. I fished it up with a long piece of batten and unwound it.’
He fitted it onto her foot and did up the lace.
‘There,’ said Trelawney with satisfaction. ‘But it’s going to need some polish.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled in amazement. ‘You didn’t have to do that, you know.’
‘All part of the service. I’m afraid your nylons are laddered beyond rescue, however.’
‘I’m sure Granny wi— would understand.’
‘Well, I hope our efforts were worth it, Miss Cadabra.’
‘Look at the papers,’ she urged him, handing over a bundle. He flicked through them.
‘Yes, well, if the person who secreted these documents was in unlawful possession of them, then this certainly looks like evidence of espionage.’
‘Open the suitcase. Put it on the bonnet.’
He lifted it onto the front of the car, and flicked the catches. ‘Hmm, what have we here,’ he remarked with interest. ‘All right. I see. Let’s get you home and then work out how to deliver this. Can you get yourself over the gearstick into the passenger seat?’
‘Yes, but are you allowed to drive this car?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘I’m insured to drive any car.’
‘What about yours?’
‘I’m insured to drive that too,’ he replied humorously, holding out his hand for the keys.
Her laugh turned into a cough. She dug them out of her coat and passed them to him.
‘I mean, what about leaving your car here,’ said Amanda. ‘Aren’t you going to need it?’
‘I’ll come back for it while you get cleaned up and put the kettle on.’
‘Don’t you think we should hand this in straight away?’ Amanda asked, looking back at the papers and suitcase, as he drove along the lane.
‘Firstly, the person in charge is likely not going to be in until morning, and I think it should be handed to the person in charge. And, secondly, we are not going to hand this in, you are.’
‘Don’t you want —?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Trelawney interrupted firmly. ‘I was acting unofficially, as your assistant, and if you can keep my name out of it altogether, then I would infinitely prefer it.’
‘Oh. All right,’ she agreed.
Amanda’s phone rang.
‘Hello, Amanda, it’s the Backroom Boys reporting in,’ said Gwendolen Armstrong-Witworth. ‘We�
�ve been speaking to our dear friend who runs the museum, and has kindly opened it up for us, especially. The pub register was salvaged from the wreckage long ago and is one of their exhibits. There was only one guest on the night of the bombing, staying in room number three. He gave his name as James Smith.’
‘Thank you, Gwendolen. I am going to send you a photo, and I’d like you to tell me if he reminds you of anyone you saw in Little Madley.’
‘All right, dear. I’ll hold on.’
Amanda searched for the name on Facebook and finally found him on LinkedIn. It looked like a pretty recent photo, too. She pressed ‘send’.
‘Well …,’ came Miss Armstrong-Witworth’s hesitant tones, ‘it was a long time ago … and this man looks older … but, yes … When I was with Violet in The Apple Cart. Any stranger would stand out. With petrol rationing you got far fewer sightseers, you understand. And he was quite impressive this man. Yes.’
‘I think the man staying in the pub was this man’s father,’ Amanda explained.
‘Oh … wait, dear … Cynthia wants to see … ah … of course. I see now. That’s what Violet was trying to tell me: not that the man “was muttering”, but that she recognised he came from Upper Muttring!’’
‘And that,’ came Miss de Havillande’s voice, ‘is the same place his son said he comes from!’
‘Oh, poor young man,’ said Miss Armstrong-Witworth compassionately, ‘his parents must have told him. What a thing to live with, knowing that his father was a traitor.’
‘No wonder they could afford that house,’ said Cynthia. ‘Everyone was surprised. Even though it was neither large nor ostentatious.’
‘No indeed,’ chimed in Miss Armstrong-Witworth, ‘spies are not usually well-paid.’
‘Although,’ continued Cynthia, ‘the word was that he’d had an inheritance. Well, that’s easy enough to check. I can see if there were any deaths in the family around that time, and I’d bet my last farthing that there weren’t!’
Amanda was confused. ‘But the man who spied is dead. His son isn’t accountable under the law. Why would it be so dreadful, in this day and age?’
‘If he’s lived with the secret since he was a child,’ Gwendolen replied sorrowfully, ‘it would have magnified in his mind into something colossal, mark my words. His father must have felt that what was buried beneath The Apple Cart was a time bomb. I wonder what could have driven a respectable engineer to become a seller of secrets.’
‘Well, I’ve got the documents relating to those very secrets,’ announced Amanda. ‘They were in the cellar, in the old steamer trunk that was allotted to that room.’
‘Have you, dear?’ marvelled Cynthia. ‘Well done!’
‘I did have help,’ admitted Amanda.
‘From your young man?’ asked Gwendolen.
‘He’s not my —The inspector was kind enough to lend me his aid, but he doesn’t want his name to be involved.’
‘Understood,’ said Gwendolen.
Trelawney was parking the car in Amanda’s driveway. ‘I’ll call you later,’ she said to Gwendolen. ‘Thank you both very much indeed.’
Amanda and the inspector disembarked, he locked her car and handed her the keys.
‘I won't be long,’ he said, and headed off on foot up Orchard Row.
Chapter 46
Hogarth Chimes In
Amanda found Tempest on the mat, de-dusting his coat.
‘Thank you for your help, Tempest,’ she said, letting them into the cottage. ‘I’d give you a big cuddle, but I’d get you all dusty again, and I know just how you’d feel about that!’
Tempest hurriedly put some distance between them to underscore her point. She put the kettle on then headed for the bathroom. By the time Trelawney was back, she was clean and changed.
Amanda poured the tea, brought in the tray and set it on the coffee table. She sat down on the sofa beside the inspector, opened her laptop, and pulled up the LinkedIn photo she had sent to Miss Armstrong-Witworth.
‘I think this is the son of the man who was staying at the Lost Madley pub. Miss Armstrong-Witworth can place his father at the village of Lost Madley around the time of the bombing. There was only one person, according to the pub register, staying there, in Room 3, and as this photo that I took shows, the radio and papers were in the trunk that corresponded to that room.’
‘Not watertight, but go on,’ responded Trelawney.
Amanda set her laptop aside. ‘You got the text from Uncle Mike? I updated him while you got your car.’
‘Who?’
‘Chief Inspector Hogarth.’
‘Uncle Mike? What do you mean Uncle Mike? Since when have you been calling him Uncle Mike?’ asked Trelawney, horrified.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, but we haven’t had any time, I gave him a lift to the airport.’
‘From Cornwall?’
‘No, from Paddington,’ Amanda returned placidly.
‘Why, for goodness sake?’
‘Because I wanted to talk to him.’
Trelawney stared at her in bewilderment.
Amanda continued, ‘He was very kind to me when I was little, you know. I’d forgotten all about that but Gra … gradually I remembered.’
‘Really?’ he asked curiously.
‘Yes, he used to bring little clothes for my teddy bears,’ replied Amanda, happily.
‘He did, did he?’
‘Yes, anyway, I explained to him that I needed some help and … he helped me.’
‘Hold on ….’ Trelawney checked his phone. There were a couple of unread messages. One from Hogarth:
Have given AC a bit of help, got her a pass to the CS. Be her knight in shining armour if you can, she might be onto something. Off to sis, back soon. Keep in touch M
Thomas was appeased. He supposed he had saved her, in knightly fashion.
Next message:
Dr was drugged
Trelawney looked up from the screen. ‘Yes, I understand now. So … it was murder then.’
‘Yes, he was drugged so he could be left in situ when the centrifuge exploded. That’s what I think,’ opined Amanda.
‘But how did he get past the security man, er —‘
‘Bill.’
‘Yes.’
Their phones dinged in unison. Two heads looked down at their devices.
Crossley refuses to say where he was at time of death. Gibbs was home confirmed by daughter, Streeter in pub
‘Crossley!’ Amanda exclaimed. ‘Yes, he was the one would have sorted out Dr Sidiqi’s lab, ordered the equipment!’
Their phone once again proclaimed the arrival of a message.
‘What!’ cried Amanda. ‘Bill MacNair has confessed?’ She stood up, knocking the table and sloshing the tea perilously in their mugs. ‘I don’t believe it. That makes a complete nonsense of my theory.’
‘There could be a link between MacNair and traitor,’ said Trelawney, consolingly.
‘Surely not an Upper Muttring One,’ objected Amanda. ‘Bill comes from Scotland. Dammit.’ Amanda collapsed onto the sofa. She was reaching for her mug, when their phones dinged again. They looked down.
to falling asleep at reception that night after having accepted a drink with the boss
Amanda jumped up again.
‘We’re back in business!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Trelawney, ‘MacNair could easily have been drugged too.
Ding!
Testing him now
‘Well, Miss Cadabra, I doubt that we can do or know any more until morning, when you can deliver the evidence to the incident room.’
‘You’re not going, are you? Not when it’s all getting so exciting,’ protested Amanda.
‘I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening. I know I have. And I would very much like to get cleaned up.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, of course. You’re right, Inspector. But do have your tea.’
‘Yes.
Yes, thank you I will.’ He took a sip. ‘If you would like to call me and let me know of any progress. By the way, do you know how your “Uncle Mike” comes to be in the know, and getting minute-to-minute updates as we speak, as well as getting you a pass to the crime scene?’
‘He’s friends with the chief inspector in charge of the case.’
‘Of course he is,’ grinned Trelawney.
Amanda looked at him earnestly. ‘Inspector, I want to thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.’
‘You’re welcome, Miss Cadabra. I hesitate to say “any time”, you understand.’
Amanda laughed. ‘I do.’
‘But I hope you’ll ask me anyway. Knowing that I may say no.’
‘Yes, and I’m sorry again that I put you in an awkward position when I asked for your help before.’
‘That’s quite alright.’
Ding!
‘See! I told you it wasn’t over yet!’ exclaimed Amanda inaccurately. ‘Wow, he’s been stopped at Dover! With Dr Schofield!’ Amanda looked at Trelawney with round eyes. ‘Who would have thought?’
‘Who is Dr Schofield?’
‘She was the first doctor I saw at the Centre. Remember I told you? She was horrible and totally out of her comfort zone, and she used to commute all the way from Dover. Charlotte Streeter told me; She’s the acupuncturist. Schofield, she got the job over Toby who was way more suited to it because …’
‘Of course,’ said the inspector. ‘He needed as many people in place working at the Centre that he had some kind of control over. He knew what was down there, from the very beginning …’
The doorbell rang. Amanda looked at Trelawney. ‘Who on earth could that be?’
Chapter 47
An Unexpected Visitor
‘Do you want me to get it?’ Trelawney offered.
‘No, it’s OK. I should answer it. This is my house, after all.’
Cautiously, Amanda opened the door. There, on the mat, stood Detective Sergeant Baker.