by K. C. Wells
Mike’s hand was at his back. “It’s called progress, I suppose.”
Now Jonathon understood the comments from the meeting. “So Brian Calder applied for planning permission for these, and it was approved. I can see why a lot of people would wonder how he managed that. Now he’s going to build more houses, and it looks like his plans have been rubber-stamped. Again.”
“Where?”
Jonathon turned to face Mike. “At the end of Mill Lane, apparently.”
Mike’s mouth fell open. “How the fu—hell did he get that approved? Mill Lane is one of the oldest parts of the village. That water mill dates back to before the Domesday Book. And he wants to build these… boxes there? Over my dead body.”
Jonathon had to smile. “Look at you. I can see you standing up at the public meeting and giving someone a piece of your mind.”
“Too right, you can!” Mike’s eyes flared.
Jonathon took hold of his hand. “And I’ll be standing next to you,” he said quietly. “At least now I know what’s at stake.” What still puzzled him was why planning permission had been granted in the first place.
It made no sense.
AS THEY entered the pub, Mike’s phone buzzed.
“You take care of that—I’ll make coffee,” Jonathon told him before heading for the kitchen. He quickly set up the coffee machine, then noticed a white box in the middle of the table. “Mike?” he yelled. “What’s in the box?”
“What box?” Mike came into the kitchen and halted at the table. “Oh.” He lifted the lid, peered inside, and grinned. “Aw. She’s a sweetheart.” He flipped it open to reveal two slices of apple pie. Attached to the lid was a yellow Post-it.
I baked. And yes, it is edible. LOL. Enjoy. Sue.
Jonathon grabbed two side plates from the cupboard. “Apple pie for elevenses. Excellent.”
“Elevenses? Are we hobbits now?” Mike sat at the table.
Jonathon laughed. “Never mind the hobbits—my grandfather used to talk about having elevenses. A cup of tea or coffee, plus a snack.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Perfect timing too.” Carefully, he placed the slices onto the plates, then went to pour the coffee. “What was the text?”
“That was Melinda,” Mike said, between mouthfuls of pie.
“Good Lord. Does she want you to join the council now?” Jonathon put the mugs on the table, then joined Mike.
Mike laughed. “Nope. Not that I’d say yes if she did. I have enough to do, thank you very much. She wanted to let me know that we have an appointment at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning at the Cedars.”
Jonathon beamed. “Lily’s agreed to meet us.” At last. Now maybe they could crack that code. He pulled a plate to him and forked off a piece of the pie, relishing the tartness of the apple combined with the sweet pastry.
“Needs cream,” Mike commented. “But damn, she can bake. So, what are you going to be doing while I’m working my fingers to the bones this afternoon?”
Jonathon leveled an incredulous gaze at him. “Pulling pints hardly constitutes manual labor. And you know what I’m doing. I’m going to check out this leather treatment.”
“Where will you start?”
Jonathon had already given that question some consideration. “Eddie Prowse. He’s the guy who valets the Jag, as well as the rest of Dominic’s cars. He might have some idea who would use this stuff.”
Mike grinned. “Here’s a thought. If he uses it on your Jag, does that mean both of you are suspects?”
Jonathon rolled his eyes. “He might be—I have an alibi.” He smiled sweetly. “You. Now stop coming out with inane comments and eat your pie.”
“What pie?” Mike’s plate looked pristine.
Jonathon snickered. “I’d better eat mine quickly, before you decide you’ve not had enough.”
Possession might be nine-tenths, but Mike was sneaky—and fast.
JONATHON LOCKED the Jag and walked along the drive to where Eddie was wiping down a Mercedes, with a deep toolbox at his side from which he took fresh rags.
He glanced up as Jonathon approached. “Hey. Don’t tell me the old girl needs some TLC. She ’ad plenty less than two weeks ago.” He narrowed his gaze. “You bin drivin’ ’er through all them muddy country lanes? I keep tellin’ ya—she’s for lookin’ at, not drivin’.”
Jonathon laughed. “And where’s the fun in that? No, the Jag’s fine.”
Eddie gave the Merc one last polish. “Class. Real class.” He put down the rag and turned to Jonathon. “When you called an’ said you needed to talk, I assumed it was the car. Whass’ up?”
Jonathon took the Post-it from his wallet, where he’d written the brand of leather treatment. “Do you use this?” He handed it to Eddie.
He peered at it closely. “Sure. I tend to use it on the more high-end cars, or the older ones that need to keep their looks. Everyone else gets the bog-standard version.”
“How many cars do you treat with this in Merrychurch? And more importantly, when did you last treat them?”
Eddie grinned. “Oh God. You’re at it again, ain’tcha? Tryin’ a bit of the old Poirot, are we? Or is Father Brown more your speed?” He reached into the back pocket of his overalls and pulled out a village shop diary. “Okay. Let’s see. You after cars that ’ave been done recently? ’Ow recent are we talkin’?”
“The weekend of the bonfire party, possibly. Maybe just before.” It couldn’t be much earlier than that for there still to be residue.
Eddie flipped over the pages. “Then we’re talkin’ four cars—an’ that includes your Jag.”
“When did you valet the car?” Jonathon had lost all track of time.
“The morning after the party. I came up special, ’cause of all the soot an’ shit that was flyin’ about.” He gave a wry smile. “You didn’t even notice me up at the ’all? An’ you call yourself a detective.” He tut-tutted. “That gardener of yours even gave me some coffee from ’is flask. Nice ol’ bloke.”
Well, there was Eddie’s alibi, if he’d even needed one. “Who do the other cars belong to?”
“That MP fella, for one. Drives a Range Rover. Niiice. He don’t drive it much, only when he’s down ’ere. But it always needs a good clean ’cause he takes that dog of ’is everywhere. Bloody paw prints.” Eddie glanced at the page. “I did ’is car on Saturday afternoon. Then there’s the mayor. He’s got a lovely BMW. Beautiful car. I worked on that… late Saturday afternoon. Yeah, that’s right. They all came to your party, but the wife drove in her Ford Focus.”
“And the last car?”
Eddie sighed. “Cream of the crop. A lovely Rolls. It’s the one the mayor uses for all his official visits. Gorgeous paint job. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“But who owns that?”
Eddie laughed. “He does. The mayor. I thought it was owned by the village council, but nah. That’s what ’appens when you work your way up through the ranks of a company. If you make it to the top, you get to buy the company.”
“And when did you valet the Rolls?”
Eddie checked the diary. “Early Sunday. Yours and the Rolls were the only jobs I did that day.” He closed the slim book and replaced it in his pocket. “That it, then? You worked out which of ’em did it?”
“Hardly,” Jonathon said, laughing. “Thanks for your help, Eddie.” He held out his hand, and Eddie shook it. “And the next time you’re up at the manor, I’ll make sure to say something.”
“You do that.” Eddie started packing up his toolbox.
Jonathon walked listlessly down the drive. So that’s two people who might have come into contact with that treatment. And both of them happened to be Merrychurch’s most influential citizens.
Very helpful indeed.
“Hey. Wait a sec!”
Jonathon turned at Eddie’s shout. “Yes?”
“I just thought of somethin’. Doris has started stockin’ that leather stuff in the shop. I saw it there recently. So there could be l
oads more people who use it in the village.”
“Really?” Visiting the shop to check had been on his list of things to do. At least Eddie had saved him a trip.
Eddie regarded him with wide eyes. “I know. There’s me, offerin’ a mobile valetin’ service, providin’ five-star treatment an’ only the best products—an’ now every Tom, Dick, or Harry can get their ’ands on ’em.” He huffed. “Bleedin’ liberty.”
Jonathon resumed his walk to the Jag. Now that Eddie had confirmed the ease of availability of the leather treatment, it seemed as though they were no better off.
Okay, not as helpful as I thought.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thursday, November 16
MIKE HAD driven past the Cedars Retirement Home on many occasions, but this was the first time he’d visited it. The house was a Tudor-style construction with exposed beams and cream-colored plaster, and all the window frames were a light brown hue. Gardens surrounded it, and to the side of the house were french doors that led to a lawn where chairs had been set up to take advantage of the sun or shade. Not that anyone was out there, but Mike imagined it would be very pleasant when the weather allowed. Huge old trees cast long shadows over the grass, which would be welcome in the summer months, and the house had a peaceful ambiance.
“It’s a beautiful place to live,” Jonathon commented as Mike drove up to the gravel parking space at the front.
“Depends what it’s like on the inside.” Mike gazed at the windows, where faces could be seen. “Even a mink-lined prison is still a prison if you’re stuck in there.” His only experience with care homes had not been good. His granddad had ended up in one in North London, and while it had looked pleasant from the outside, the reality of living there had been entirely different.
“Let’s wait and see.” Jonathon patted his knee.
Mike switched off the engine, they got out, and he locked the 4x4. Inside the house, the hallway had a high ceiling, and thick dark blue carpet lay everywhere. Music played unobtrusively. Behind a desk sat a middle-aged woman in a dark blue dress suit so similar to the carpet that she was almost camouflaged. Mike wondered if it was intentional.
She greeted them with a smile. “Good morning, and welcome to the Cedars. How can I help you?”
“We have an appointment with one of your residents.” Mike returned her smile. “Lily Rossiter.”
The woman gave a nod of recognition. “I’ll take you to her. She’s expecting you.” She came out from behind the desk and gestured toward the rear of the property. “She’s in our sunroom.” They followed her and entered a large room that looked out over the gardens. Several couches and chairs filled the light, airy space, and she led them to a high-backed chair near the window. On it sat a small elderly woman, gazing through the window, lost in thought, her white hair pulled back into a bun, wisps of it escaping and framing her head in a sort of halo. She wore a pink blouse, cream slacks, and a long cream cardigan, on which was attached a gold brooch. A pair of glasses rested on her lap, with her fingers curled around them. Beside her was a small table, barely visible beneath a stack of books.
As they approached, she turned her head carefully, and just like that, her air of introspection vanished. She smiled broadly at them. “Good morning. You must be Jonathon and Mike. Melinda has described you so well that I know who is who. Please forgive me if I don’t stand to greet you. My legs are not what they used to be.” She held out a wrinkled hand. “I’m Lily Rossiter. I don’t get many visitors these days, except for Melinda, of course. Such a lovely woman.”
Jonathon shook her hand, and then Mike did. The woman from reception indicated a small couch nearby, and between them, Mike and Jonathon shifted it closer to Lily’s chair. Then the receptionist left them alone, after promising to provide them with tea.
“It’s good of you to see us.” Mike settled back on the couch, with Jonathon beside him.
“Nonsense. You’re here for my totally selfish reasons. As soon as Melinda told me about you, I knew I had to get you here.” Lily smiled. “My days are spent in reading and contemplation, so the chance to do a little code breaking? Heaven.”
“It sounds like it was a fascinating life,” Jonathon admitted.
Lily laughed. “Dear boy, Bletchley Park was merely the start. I was simply a cypher clerk there. After the war was when things got really… interesting.” She gazed out the window. “One of these days, I should seriously consider writing my memoirs—not that I’d be allowed to, in all probability. Some of the events concerned have been sealed. I’ll be long gone by the time they see the light of day.”
Mike stared at her. “You worked in intelligence?”
She turned her head to face him, her eyes bright. “I couldn’t possibly comment.” They all laughed. “Seriously, though, I’ve had a wonderfully varied life, Mike. I’ve met so many fascinating people. Of course, I seem to have outlasted most of them.” Lily looked up, then placed her glasses in their case. “Ah. Tea.”
Once the tray had been left with them and Mike had poured out three cups, Lily relaxed into her chair. “Now. Tell me all about this code.”
“Actually, we think there are two separate codes,” Jonathon informed her. “One for numbers and another for letters.”
“And how far have you got?”
“We’ve kind of cracked the letter code,” Mike said hesitantly.
Lily arched her almost nonexistent eyebrows. “What does ‘kind of’ mean? Either you’ve decrypted it or you haven’t.”
“We matched up the code with amounts deposited in her account, after comparing one month’s entries.” Jonathon pulled his notebook from his pocket.
Lily sighed. “Then you haven’t decrypted it, not fully. Show me what you have.”
Jonathon opened the notebook and handed it over. On one page he’d written all the numbers, and above them the letters they knew so far.
R J O W
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Lily perused the two lines. “And this is based on…”
“Five different codes, with various combinations of letters. For example, where she’d written WRR, that day there was a payment for £500, and so on.”
She held the notebook in both hands. “What you have here is a basic substitution cypher. You substitute numbers for a fixed set of letters. Obviously it’s not the entire alphabet—you only need so many letters. This could be a word, a phrase, the first letter of each word in a line of poetry, Biblical text, a song….” Lily studied the page again. “If I could say something here? Zero can be zero—it can also be ten.” She took a pen from the nearby table. “If I may?”
“Oh, please.” Jonathon flashed Mike a grin. This was clearly fun.
Lily crossed out the zero and added it to the end of the line. “Now, let’s write out those letters again.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
J O W R
She gazed at it in satisfaction. “That’s better. That RJ was bothering me. I think we’re looking for a word, and no words begin with RJ. Moreover, a lot of words end in R. What are the most common letters before an R?”
Mike thought for a moment. “E? A? It’s got to be a vowel at least.”
“I agree.” Lily gave the letters her full attention for a moment, and Mike found he was holding his breath. Lily tilted her head to one side. “Was she a whiskey drinker, perhaps?”
Jonathon blinked. “Yes. Whiskey and champagne. There were bottles of each at the cottage.”
“And did she drink a particular brand?”
“Yes. Johnnie Walker Black Label.”
Lily smiled before handing the notebook back to Jonathon. She sat back in her chair and finished her tea, her eyes focused on them, as though she was waiting for something.
Jonathon stared at the sheet, with Mike peering over his shoulder. Then Mike grinned.
“Got it.” He was about to ask Jonathon for a pen, but Lily held one out to him. Mike scribbled in letters below the numbers.
1 2 3 4 5 6
7 8 9 0
J O H N W A L K E R
Lily’s smile spoke of approval. “It had to be something she was familiar with. Maybe something she saw every day. Now… let’s look at the second cypher.”
“You’re thinking she’ll have used the same method? Substituting a letter for a number?” Jonathon opened the notebook to the next page, where he’d noted the numbers.
Lily nodded. “Of course, the easiest substitution is A equals one, B equals two and so forth.”
“It can’t be that,” Jonathon argued. “One of the figures is thirty-one.”
Lily beamed at him. “We’ll make a cypher clerk out of you yet, my boy.”
Jonathon’s flush was adorable. “Then how do we decrypt it?”
“That’s simple. Somewhere in her cottage is a key. As I said before, it could be lines from a song, a text from the Bible…. The most important thing to remember is that it will contain all the letters of the alphabet.”
“How would a text work?”
“The first figure in the code would be the number of lines down, the second would be the number of letters across. What did your figures look like?” When Jonathon showed her the page, she frowned. “No. You’re not looking for a large text. Maybe something a lot simpler.” She flashed Mike a smile. “Would you pour me another cup of tea, please? I find tea helps me think.”
Mike obliged, then handed her the cup.
“Now, on a different matter…. She wasn’t demanding all her victims pay her the same amount. That points to one of three factors. One, how awful their secret was. Two, their social standing. And three, their ability to pay. Did any of the amounts change at all?”
Mike thought quickly. “One person was paying £250, but that was increased to £500. There could be more examples, but we didn’t get a lot of time to look before the DI showed up and kicked us out.”