by Fiona Grace
Lacey sat up straight, now completely awake. “You mean like sabotage?”
“I wouldn’t want to jump to any conclusions,” Gabe said, sounding distinctly like he was about to jump to a conclusion. “But yeah.”
After the call, Lacey pondered it further, and remembered the way Oxana had bid just one pound more. She’d thought she was being petty at the time, putting in a jab just before bowing out, but now she wondered if there’d been more to it. A hustle. Could she have gotten someone else to cut the connection?
Whatever had happened, Lacey wanted to get to the bottom of it. She had a full-blown mystery on her hands, and she hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet!
She spent her morning shower pondering the so-called glitch. Then she spent her morning coffee pondering it. By the time she was ready to take Chester on his beach walk, she’d made a decision. If Oxana had done something untoward to win the sculpture, then she’d have to get the police involved, and it would nullify the sale. So before she accused anyone of anything, she’d like to know if Hugh Buckingham would still be willing to match his original bid. Which meant apologizing…
She shuddered at the thought. Hugh had been a particularly unpleasant individual to deal with. Not to mention he seemed super sick and a dose of summer flu was the last thing Lacey needed right now. But she didn’t want to miss out doubly. If the sculpture wasn’t sold now, she’d have to wait a whole year before the horsey crowd rolled into town again.
She reached Gina’s back door and knocked.
Her neighbor answered, already suited and booted and ready to go. Boudica bounded out, clearly excited for her morning walkies. They headed down the cliffs together and on to the beach.
It was a beautiful morning, and the beach was packed with horsey people.
“I had an interesting call this morning,” Lacey told Gina. “From Gabe.”
“You meant to say he actually strung a sentence together?” Gina quipped.
“He did.” She cast her mind back to the groggy early morning call. “He was quite animated, actually. Apparently Hugh might’ve had a point. The internet was cut during the Isidore Bonheur sale.”
“Really?” Gina exclaimed. “Deliberately?”
“There’s no way of knowing,” Lacey said. “But my hunch is that Oxana had a hand in it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I need to see if Hugh still wants to buy the statue. I’m going to see if I can talk to him, face to face.”
“Is that sensible?” Gina asked. “Hugh was like a powder keg ready to explode. Don’t be the spark.”
It was a good point. Maybe Lacey was meddling more than she ought to.
But when they reached the store and Lacey unlocked it, the place remained empty. Hugh’s angry diatribe had driven off the customers.
Lacey rifled through her records, finding Hugh’s contact details from the list of virtual attendees.
“Tolleton Green?” she said aloud, immediately recognizing the name of the town. It was the posh one just north of Wilfordshire, the one where Suzy was from. Where Gabe was from as well, since he was her neighbor.
She was surprised to see Hugh lived so close by. His sickness had prevented him from attending the auction in person. If he’d been there, Lacey wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. It seemed so unfair for him to miss out on the sale because of a technical glitch.
She made up her mind.
“Chester,” she said. “Let’s go and see Hugh.”
Gina rolled her eyes, clearly unhappy with the decision Lacey had made, but she ignored her, jumped in her car, and maneuvered her way out of the busy streets of Wilfordshire.
Tolleton Green was a quaint place, where there were more fields than houses, the houses looked like castles, and all the front lawns were as big as parks. Everything seemed perfectly maintained, from the tidy hedges to the immaculately maintained flowerpots, and the neat, sweeping driveways that each had several expensive-looking cars parked along them.
As she passed trees teeming with sparrows and thrushes, Lacey wondered whether she was doing the right thing or not. If Hugh was still willing to match his original bid, how would she then go about getting the statue back off Oxana? The businesswoman didn’t seem like the sort who’d willingly hand it back, and she certainly didn’t seem like she’d give up without a fight. Was Lacey stoking the flames by giving Hugh an inch?
“We’re looking for Hyacinth House,” Lacey told Chester, because of course none of the houses had street numbers.
She drove to a crawl, peering at all the signs at the bottom of the driveways. Charingworth House. Paeonies. And then…
“There! Hyacinth House.”
Lacey turned onto the long paved driveway and approached the house, where there was a cream Rolls Royce parked outside.
Lacey parked (not too close, just in case), and went up to the front door with Chester by her side. She rang the bell and listened to its chime echoing on the other side. She couldn’t hear anyone inside.
Just then, Chester started whining and scratching at the door.
“Hey, boy, stop that,” Lacey said. “What’s the matter?”
But he kept on whining.
Lacey hadn’t seen him behave like that before. He seemed so fraught, Lacey decided to try the handle, just to test whether it was locked or not. She heard the latch click open as she pressed on it.
She hadn’t been planning on barging into Hugh’s home but Chester was giving her the heebie-jeebies, so she did.
She gave the door a push, feeling heavy resistance from the other side. She pushed a little harder and heard something moving. Whatever was behind the door had been shifted slightly. Now that the door was open a crack, Chester’s barks became more insistent and frantic. Lacey shoved with all her weight and the resistance on the other side gave. Something large, dark, and heavy slumped to the side.
Lacey screeched as she realized she was looking at Hugh Buckingham, slumped sideways on the floor. He was dead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fighting her instinct to run, Lacey crouched down beside the slumped figure. She felt compelled to double-check whether Hugh really was dead. What if he’d just passed out? He’d obviously been extremely unwell when she’d last seen him in her store.
She pressed her trembling fingers to Hugh’s neck, hoping to find even the smallest flutter of a pulse. But there was nothing there. Hugh Buckingham’s skin was cold to the touch. He was dead.
“Chester! Get back!” Lacey exclaimed, overcome with shock and panic that she had, once again, stumbled upon a dead body.
As she hurried out the open front door, her hand went to her cell phone, and she called a number she wished she didn’t have in her regularly dialed tab: the Wilfordshire Police. There was no point dialing the emergency 999; may as well go directly to the source.
“You’re going to want to send someone down to Hyacinth House in Tolleton Green,” she said, when the call connected. “A man has passed away.”
“Is he conscious?” asked the officer on reception, a female with a slightly nasally voice that Lacey had met on occasion. Jacqui was her name, if Lacey recalled correctly.
“No.”
“Breathing?”
“No,” Lacey repeated. “He’s passed. I’m sure of it.”
“Do you know how to do CPR?”
Lacey knew these were standard questions in this situation, but she also knew in Hugh’s case it would be entirely pointless; he was quite clearly long dead. The last thing she wanted to do was get her DNA all over him. She still had no idea what had happened to cause his demise.
“I’m pretty sure it’s too late for that,” Lacey said.
Jacqui paused. She was probably making a record of this. That the caller had refused to administer CPR. If something untoward had happened to cause Hugh’s death, then her refusal would be a big red mark against her name. The second, in fact, because the first was of course the fact she was the first to discover the body
. Hopefully there’d be an innocent explanation for Hugh’s death, that it was natural causes, and this would all blow over quickly. But Lacey also knew that life never seemed to go smoothly for her, and it would be just her bad luck that it wasn’t.
“What’s your relation to the deceased?” Jacqui asked.
Lacey paused. Jacqui was veering off script. Clearly, she already thought there may be more going on here.
Lacey chose her words carefully. “I know him in a professional capacity.”
“You work together?”
“I’m an auctioneer. He was a customer.”
A beat of silence passed. Then the nasally officer asked, “Lacey? Is that you?”
Lacey’s shoulders slumped. Being identified on first-name terms by the local police station wasn’t exactly something to be proud of.
“Yes,” she said stiffly.
“Okay, stay where you are,” Jacqui replied. “I’ve passed the information on to the emergency services in Tolleton Bay. But between you and me, DOAs always go to the bottom of the list. It might be a little while before anyone reaches you. Can you stay until the officers get there?”
“Of course,” Lacey replied, though in the back of her mind she was wondering how much of Jacqui’s request was due to suspicion. The female officer had seen Lacey in the Wilfordshire police station often enough, after all, and depending on whether she was closer to Beth Lewis or Karl Turner probably determined how much prejudice she harbored against the outsider who always found herself in sticky situations.
“Do you know if the premises are secure?” Jacqui continued. “Any sign of an intruder? Broken doors, windows, that sort of thing?”
Lacey stepped back from the welcome mat on the porch and gazed across the front of the house. Everything looked perfectly fine from the outside. “Nothing I can see,” she told her.
“And can you confirm to me you don’t have any weapons on you?”
“Me?” Lacey asked, surprised. She knew it was part of the script Jacqui had to follow to keep everyone safe, but it still felt like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
There was a pause. “And your dog?”
“Chester. Yes. He’s here.”
“Might want to put him on a leash.”
“My dog isn’t a weapon,” Lacey replied, tersely.
“The Tolleton police don’t know that,” Jacqui said simply. “I’m just making sure everyone is safe and the situation doesn’t escalate.”
“Fine,” Lacey replied.
She reached into her coat pocket for the leash. But it was empty. Chester’s leash was no longer there.
Lacey’s heart dropped as she looked through the open front door of Hyacinth House. The leash was lying on the marbled floor. It must have fallen from her pocket in her haste to get out.
In her ear, Jacqui was still talking, explaining how she was going to pass the case information on to Superintendent Turner, but Lacey was only half listening now. She was busy wondering if she should risk heading back into the house to retrieve Chester’s leash, or if it would be worse for her just to leave it there. If Superintendent Turner arrived before the Tolleton Green police did and saw the leash, would it give him ammunition against her, and set him once again down the wrong path of suspicion?
“Are you still there, Lacey?” came Jacqui’s voice.
“Yes,” Lacey replied, her eyes fixed firmly on the leash. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“I said I was right about Superintendent Turner wanting to take a look at the scene. He’s on his way to you now.”
The call ended and Lacey’s mind was made up. She’d have to reenter Hyacinth House to fetch the leash.
She stashed her phone in her pocket and steeled herself. Entering the house of a dead man was a terrible idea, not just because of accidentally shedding DNA over the scene, but also psychologically. It had taken her a long time to overcome the shock of Iris Archer’s killing, and longer still to get the image of Buck out of her mind. She still thought about Wilfordshire’s mayor lying face down on the drawing room floor of the Lodge, and Desmond’s unseeing eyes as she turned him in his armchair to face her. The last thing she really wanted to do was add another shudder-inducing memory to the vault.
But somehow, she found her resolve and stepped inside.
Chester, who usually followed her everywhere, stayed out on the porch, watching through the open door. Even her dog knew this was a terrible idea.
Striding toward the leash, Lacey became suddenly aware of just how cold Hugh Buckingham’s house was. It felt like someone had the AC set all the way up to “igloo.”
She grabbed the leash and turned back, her gaze immediately drawn to the deceased man.
Noting Hugh’s position by the door, half slumped against a potted plant, Lacey couldn’t help her curiosity. How had he died? There was no sign of foul play. No obvious injuries. No bruises, scrapes, or blows. No signs of a struggle. It was as if Hugh Buckingham had simply keeled over and died.
She wondered whether he’d been on his way in, or on his way out when it happened. He was dressed in his night robe, which in a normal circumstance Lacey would assume meant he was heading out rather than in—to fetch a paper or answer the door, for example—but considering he’d appeared at her auction in the same attire meant all bets were off. If he’d been heading out, it might be because he was trying to escape something. Or someone. But that was all just wild speculation. Whether he was coming in or going out, either way he’d died right there by his front door, in the curiously frigid hallway of his multimillion-pound mansion.
Lacey scanned the hallways, looking to see if anything struck her as unusual. Nothing was in disarray at all. In fact, the whole place was pristinely clean.
There was nothing amiss, so Lacey turned to leave. But as she did, her focus was drawn to the large succulent plant Hugh was leaning into, his arm half-cocked against the rim of the heavy terracotta pot. His position reminded her a little of the drunk horsey folk weaving around the high street arm in arm, almost as if he’d been using the potted plant to hold himself up. Or pull himself up?
Lacey’s focus was drawn then to the window panel behind the succulent. There was a window on either side of the door, a matching potted succulent placed in front of each, set up to be identical mirror images. But something was immediately different, like some kind of Spot the Difference puzzle. Condensation had formed on the windows, and above the top of the succulent beside the right-hand window, a smudge on the glass had emerged. A smudge that looked to have been very deliberately made by a finger. Tom had taught her the trick, by leaving a finger-drawn heart on her bathroom mirror so she’d see it once she stepped out of her steamy morning shower. The same thing had happened here. Someone’s fingertip had marked the window with an X. And Lacey was quite certain that someone was Hugh.
The mark was just within reach of his right hand, if he’d drawn it across his body and reached up to where his left ear had now slumped, but where before would have been the space above his shoulder. There was no other explanation for how the mark could’ve gotten there, since that part of the window would usually be obstructed by the plant. But what did it mean? Was it just made in Hugh’s last desperate, flailing attempt to stand, or was he leaving a message?
Lacey stepped closer to get a better look. Right beside the first X, there was another, slightly smaller and less well defined, but unmistakably there.
XX? What could it mean? Lacey’s mind began ticking over.
Extra-large? X-rated? Initials?
Just then, Chester barked. Lacey glanced up and saw through the windows the police cruiser coming up the driveway.
She hurried out of the house in the nick of time and clipped on Chester’s leash.
Lacey watched the cruiser taking its time to proceed up the long driveway, her anxiety increasing with each slow rotation of its tires on the gravel.
Finally, it ground to a halt and the stocky figure of Superintendent Turner emerged from the passeng
er side of the vehicle. DCI Lewis exited from the driver’s side, her dark blonde hair pulled back into a ballerina-style bun. She gave Lacey a warm nod, in complete contrast to her male partner, who merely glowered.
“Lacey,” Superintendent Turner said, dryly. “What a surprise.”
Lacey immediately bristled. “Detectives.”
“Tell me what happened here?” Superintendent Turner asked, pointing at the front door, which was standing ajar and letting out a steady stream of arctic air.
“I found him dead,” Lacey said. “I think he was slumped against the door, but slid to the side when I pushed it open.”
“You knew him personally?” Superintendent Turner asked, as he crouched down and peered through the gap in the door.
“He was a customer,” Lacey said. “I was here to discuss an auction issue.”
From his crouched position, Superintendent Turner looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you usually walk straight into your customers’ homes without waiting for them to answer the door?”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” Lacey said tersely.
Chester, picking up on the growing tension, began to growl. Superintendent Turner’s eyes slid over to the dog.
“I remember now. It’s Lassie who finds the bodies.”
He sounded suspicious, but since he hadn’t asked a direct question, Lacey said nothing.
Superintendent Turner switched his attention to DCI Lewis. “He’s dressed in his bathrobe,” he commented. The woman began to take notes. “And the heating is down low.” He sniffed. “Olbas oil. So he was sick. Possibly more sick than he realized. Died of the flu.”
Lacey wasn’t so sure the man’s death was natural once the circumstances surrounding it were factored in: a verbal altercation the day before his death (a very public, heated one); being in competition for an expensive antique and missing out because of a technical glitch and one single pound. Then there was the strange mark on the window. Maybe one X would have been easier to dismiss as nothing. But two? Two distinct marks? Lacey didn’t think so. It seemed too much to her like Hugh’s last desperate bid to communicate something.