Cherringham--Cliffhanger

by Matthew Costello

  Jack stepped closer, also forcing a smile that — from the woman’s response — was the equivalent of throwing a bowling ball down a bottomless well.

  “Ms Braithwaite—”

  Will had already informed him that using her first name would be ill-advised.

  “We also had — on Will’s behalf — a few questions. About your accident?”

  “I have already spoken — in detail — to the local police. Not that my little fall warrants their involvement in any way. So, if there’s anything further you need to know, you two can ask them.”

  And at that, her hand on the door moved a bit, in the direction of closing the door and the conversation.

  “I’m sure Alan Rivers would tell us. We, um, have helped him in the past.”

  Jack took a gamble that Braithwaite might know of his and Sarah’s activities in the village.

  Just a hunch.

  “But there were a few things we still hoped to clear up? It would be very helpful if you could give us just a few minutes?”

  The woman’s face seemed to show she was debating whether to continue to close the door, or to reluctantly let them in.

  “All right. A few,” she said flatly, finally opening the door. “I need to rest. Took quite a knock. But then, you two have eyes, hmm? You can see that.”

  And despite the hostility, the door opened and they entered the cottage.

  *

  Once inside, standing in her tiny sitting room, Jack noticed that it was in perfect order.

  But also perhaps… generic?

  Looked more like a rental place. No personal photos. A few books. Serviceable furniture.

  He guessed that a mote of dust didn’t stand a chance in this pristine environment.

  Even Braithwaite, arm in a sling, the bandage on her head, face with scratches, and a bruise by her throat now visible — remained standing.

  “Such a pretty cottage,” said Sarah. “Love what you’ve done to the garden.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jack guessed that Sarah felt the place as sterile as he did — but she hid it well.

  “Quite out of the way though,” she continued. “I imagine in winter—”

  “Your questions?” said Braithwaite.

  “Yes,” said Jack. “So Will tells us that you fell.”

  “I slipped. Wet rocks. Mud. So, yes, a silly fall. Just careless.”

  Somehow the word “careless” didn’t seem to fit this woman at all.

  “And a tree broke your fall?”

  “Apparently. Though it happened so quickly, I don’t remember that at all. Just landing. Bloody fractured arm. As I said, a silly accident.”

  She was certainly emphasising that it was simply a careless tumble.

  Maybe too much, thought Jack.

  He was about to challenge her when Sarah — probably phrasing it more diplomatically — took the lead.

  “Um, on today’s hike, someone spoke to Will.”

  The woman remained still. Listening.

  “And she said that she thought she saw someone else on that cliff. Someone behind you.”

  Again, silence.

  Sarah waited just a beat.

  Then: “Is that possible?”

  No waiting this time.

  “No. I have told you. I slipped. Fell. End of what is decidedly a non-story.”

  Jack kept watching her as she spoke. Something about her defiance, her protest as to what happened.

  Strong. Too strong.

  He wasn’t at all sure what it meant. Only he had that very early feeling — that it meant something.

  Sarah seemed unfazed by Braithwaite’s response. “So, there’s no chance at all that someone, maybe one of the other hikers, was up there with you, and you were simply not aware that—?”

  Even faster now.

  “None at all.” And faster still, “I really don’t understand the point of these questions, Ms Edwards. What are you suggesting?”

  Jack jumped in: “I’m sorry, Ms Braithwaite. See, here’s the thing. An accident like this, with no witnesses, well, Will Goodchild is obviously very concerned that he might in some way be deemed to be at fault.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You know how it is. Small local company. He’d hate for his reputation to be damaged, or even—”

  “I can assure you I am not the litigious kind, Mr Brennan. There will be no detrimental publicity for Mr Goodchild’s tour company. On that you have my word.”

  “That’s very reassuring,” said Sarah. “We’ll pass on to Will what you have said.”

  “Good. Now, if you two will excuse me. I’ve been told to get bed rest, though whatever that will do is beyond me. If you please…”

  With her uninjured arm and hand, she gestured to the door.

  And as Jack nodded, he had to admit: not much more they could do here.

  “Thank you, Ms Braithwaite,” he said.

  “Yes,” Sarah added.

  And they both turned and walked to the door. In the hallway, Jack saw a small keypad on the wall.

  Security system.

  Pretty state of the art too, he thought.

  He paused, nodded to Braithwaite’s arm in a sling: “I guess you’re going to be off work for a few days?”

  But she ignored his comment. Instead: “Mind the fence there when you turn. I’ve only just had it painted.”

  The woman remained standing, on guard, as they opened the door, unescorted, and walked out.

  6. Post Mortem

  “Well, well, well,” Jack said.

  Sarah sat there, car windows open, feeling the warm breeze — even with the evening close. The sun cut through the nearby trees, dappling her car in bright yellow splotches. An idyllic setting. But certainly remote.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I mean what was that?”

  But then Jack reached over, touched her wrist.

  As if signalling her to pause.

  And just as Sarah was about to ask what was up, he pointed to his ear.

  And then she heard it.

  A car engine. Not far away. The throaty rumble as it started up. They both sat in silence, still outside the hidden cottage.

  Sarah thought: Braithwaite has to be in there, waiting, watching.

  Probably wondering what we’re doing.

  The roar then became the smallest of rumbles, then nothing.

  “A car. Small truck, maybe,” Jack said. “But no other houses down this lane, hmm?”

  “No. Maybe somebody lost? Took a wrong turn?”

  She saw in Jack’s eyes that he questioned that benevolent hypothesis.

  So she added: “Or someone watching this place? Maybe… watching us?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Okay to start?” Sarah asked, pointing to the keys in in the ignition.

  “Yeah. I’m sure our hesitation has been noticed.”

  “Must remember not to drive into the fence,” she said, smiling.

  “You do that.”

  As she backed up, the Rav-4 engine seemed more subdued than the sound they had just heard.

  A three—point turn had them headed down the rocky dirt road, about to torture her vehicle’s shock absorbers once more.

  “Interesting, hmm? Someone watching this place. Us. Maybe both. Maybe neither. So—”

  She hit a particularly large crater and it made Jack bounce in his seat.

  “What do you make of that?” he said. “The accident victim?”

  And Sarah laughed at that.

  “She seemed pretty tightly wound to me. I mean — okay — she fell, ended up in hospital. Embarrassed perhaps? Maybe. I don’t know. But she definitely didn’t want to talk to us.”

  “That was clear.”

  “There was something else, too.” She turned to Jack, even as she gripped her steering wheel tightly with two hands.

  “I had the feeling with all her talk of a ’silly fall’ that she was hiding something. But what?”

  “Well, if Frau Bruc
kner did see someone up there, on the cliff behind her, could be that’s the thing being hid, yes?”

  “But why?”

  Now Jack laughed.

  “Exactly. Why hide the fact that someone pushed you off a cliff, and tell the police that you just slipped? ’Fraid, that does not make any sense.”

  “You’re right,” Sarah said. “But that’s not the only thing. The whole cottage just didn’t make sense.”

  “Hmm? Go on.”

  “Well, I can’t quite put my finger on it. But it’s like — well — she doesn’t really live there.”

  “Like a short-term rental, hmm?”

  “Exactly. No pictures. Photos. Letters. No little bits and pieces, holiday mementoes — you know the kind of thing?”

  “You saw it too.”

  “But she gave that address as her home.”

  “Maybe she just moved in?” said Jack.

  “Possible. I mean — I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in the village. But another thing — that Range Rover? Sure, she needs something tough for the lane. But that? I would never have matched that car with her.”

  “Okay. So, maybe she doesn’t live alone. We’ve just been assuming that.”

  “You think?” said Sarah. “Some big burly farmer out there tending the family flock?”

  “Hmm, put it like that — does seem kinda unlikely,” said Jack, smiling.

  “I know. No. I’d bet anything she’s living alone.”

  “Still — that cottage and the car are ringing some funny bells.”

  “Right. And talking of funny, Jack…”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s the victim here — but it feels like — I dunno — like we’re now investigating her.”

  “Yep, I had that same feeling.”

  “Somehow—” She took a sharp turn to guide the car away from another hole.

  Thank God the main road was just ahead.

  “—we have a knack for making these things that do not make any sense at all—”

  “Fit together? Usually. But, you know, we’re due to fail at that. Not every ball of thread can be unravelled.”

  “But, oh the fun of trying, hmm?”

  “God, yes,” said Jack, smiling. “So — we have the other hikers to interview. Get their stories. Maybe another chat with Will and—”

  “A full agenda that’s for sure. But — here’s the thing — there’s only a few more days of hikes.”

  “So — not much of a window before they all head home.”

  “Exactly,” said Sarah.

  “I’m also thinking we should take a look at Clevedon Crag. I mean, was there even any room up there for another person?”

  “Hmm. So, the hikers next. We go to the Bell first? And then—”

  Jack looked away.

  “Um — might I suggest a slightly different plan?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I go to the Bell. All Americans, even all New Yorkers, I think. Might feel at ease with me.”

  “Unless you tell them you’re an ex-homicide detective.”

  “I will try to omit that bit of history.”

  “Oh — wait a second.” Sarah hit the main road, a smooth bit of welcome flat surface. She stopped, making sure no other vehicles were passing. Deserted out here, but still. She took the turn. “So that means I face the Buckland sisters? Alone?”

  That produced a hearty laugh.

  “Well, in truth, you are there to speak to their guests.”

  “Right, as if Joan and Jen Buckland won’t hover close once they know there’s a mystery to be solved!”

  Still grinning, Jack said, “They are very knowledgeable.”

  “Okay,” she said, laughing. “Sure. Makes sense, you to the Bell, me braving the Bucklands. And I have to confess — I’ve always wanted to see inside their house.”

  “There you go. Think of it as a field trip. Meanwhile, I may have to brace myself being with four New Yorkers from dunno, Queens? The Bronx?”

  “Or Brooklyn? You can talk about sport or something.”

  He laughed. “Or something.”

  For a few moments all was quiet as she drove. Then Jack turned to her.

  “One more thing? Ms Braithwaite? Maybe see what you can find out about her through your online wizardry.”

  “I’d planned on doing that. And the others too.”

  “Good.”

  And then she drove, Jack quiet now. Both of them — she knew — thinking; mentally preparing for the conversations to come. The questions.

  And maybe — just maybe — the revelations.

  7. Five New Yorkers in Cherringham

  Jack walked into the Bell Hotel — door propped open to let the amazing spring air in; the lobby catching the rich, deep gold of the soon-setting sun.

  He guessed he’d find the Americans staying here, hanging out in the hotel’s bar in the back.

  But there was no guessing needed, as he heard a booming, laughing voice, clearly someone from across the pond.

  And by way of the “R” subway too, Jack imagined.

  The registration desk was empty, and he walked straight through.

  Here, the cosy bar was dark and empty, save for four people sitting by the windows, a number of glasses on the table.

  He looked over to the bar itself, spotting Patrick, the young guy who usually manned the front desk.

  Jack guessed this group here had him working the spigots and wine bottle steadily.

  Jack smiled at Patrick, and then walked over to the large wooden oval table, taking in the four people there as he did.

  A man in a black short-sleeved shirt, open at the collar, showing a hint of gold around his neck. More gold glistened from his wrist. Face florid, still wearing the smile from whatever he had said that made himself — at least — laugh.

  And close to him, what would appear to be his wife, from the looks of things. Blonde hair — whether of the store-bought variety or not — and, Jack had to admit, on first glance sexy.

  Another man to the side, wearing a golf shirt, the Ralph Lauren polo figure visible. Cradling a half-finished pint in his hands. Other side of the oval table, a chunky woman who sat as if she was the nanny for them all. Face set.

  No smiles there.

  Jack kept walking.

  “Do I hear American?” Jack said.

  And the man in the black shirt — who Jack guessed, based on Will’s quick description, was Danny — said, “Hell ya. You too? Have a seat and join us!”

  Jack smiled and liberated a chair from a nearby table.

  Then Danny continued. “That New York I hear in your voice?”

  Everyone’s eyes were on him. Including, Jack couldn’t help note, the blonde close to Danny.

  Jack smiled.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Danny sent a hand flying to the sky. “Barkeep, come find out what our fellow citizen here will be drinking?”

  Jack paused. He didn’t usually drink in the day. But he sensed Danny was not a man used to having his offers of largesse and booze turned down.

  “Kind of you,” he said. Then, as Patrick came over to take the order: “Just a half of bitter, thanks, Patrick.”

  “Jack Brennan, by the way,” said Jack, pulling up a chair and joining the group.

  Danny nodded, still computing things.

  “Danny Klein,” he said, handing Jack a card from a slick silver case. “Klein Associates.”

  Jack took in the card. “Manhattan real estate, hmm? Quite a line to be in.”

  “Oh yes,” said Danny, putting his arm around the shoulder of the man to one side. “Me and my best pal and partner here set up twenty years ago.”

  “Steve Arnold,” said the other man, voicing his name like it was an unfortunate burden.

  One fun guy there, thought Jack, taking a sip of the beer that Patrick had brought to the table.

  “Couldn’t have picked a better time to get into real estate,” said Danny. “We hit the boom — ka-boo
m! And then the bust. But now, boom time again!”

  “How about that?” said Jack.

  “Born lucky, me!” said Danny, winking at the blonde woman next to him. “Though Steve here,” Danny gestured to the other man, “couldn’t take the pace. Escaped to Florida for the condo life.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” said Jack, turning to Steve.

  “The only nice work is no work,” said Steve.

  Though it sounded like a joke, Jack saw that Steve wasn’t smiling.

  And he caught a look passing between the two one-time partners.

  Hmm, thought Jack. Steve’s departure — partnership — ending? Some other story going down here, might be worth digging into.

  Now — an awkward silence.

  Then the others introduced themselves. Melissa Arnold first — the blonde was not Danny’s wife, as it turned out. Her gaze was still locked on Jack. And Danny’s wife Julie — looking glum, her face in a steady grimace — forcing her name through tightly pursed lips.

  Introductions done, Jack added.

  “So yeah, NYC — actually ex-police.”

  Definitely leaving the detective part out for now.

  “Really?” Danny said, continuing as toastmaster for the quartet. “To New York’s Finest! None better or braver.”

  Jack nodded, taking the compliment and raising his glass back to Danny.

  Finally, Steve, just to Jack’s left, spoke. “You on vacation Jack?”

  “No, um, Steve, right?”

  He name-checked even though he knew who it was. Best to appear that he wasn’t tracking every detail of this little chat.

  Which he most decidedly was.

  “I live here. Have for a good number of years.”

  “What? You live in this sleepy place? A guy from the Big Apple? Cannot be true!”

  Danny wore a big grin, and looked around at the others as if what he said contained an immense pearl of wisdom.

  “’Fraid so. Got a boat. My dog. And you know… tell you a secret…” Jack leaned forward, “I love it here.”

  Then Melissa, whose gaze seemed to have never left him spoke, “And you don’t miss the big city?”

  “I get back from time to time. Miss the pizza, for sure.” A laugh from Danny at the ubiquitous pizza reference. “And the buildings, the excitement. Oh, and the people. All those millions crammed together, somehow making it all work.”