“Er, but what are you down here for?”
“There’s been a incident at the museum involving the Satterthwaite Desk. Do you remember? Dad’s desk. I’m here to arrange for the repairs and show my face. Do the necessaries.” Charlotte sounded positively chipper. “I know we haven’t always been the best of friends but,” she remembered Carl Prendergast’s words, “can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
She paused. When there was no response from Don, she pressed on. “Let’s just talk. Meet me at the lookout point at Orgueil Castle. Would three o’clock work for you?”
There was a very long silence as Don seemed to weigh up the dangers of meeting his estranged, unpleasant, and potentially very powerful stepsister. “Alright. Three o’clock,” he replied.
“Great. See you then. Byeee.”
The meeting with Don arranged, Charlotte turned her attention to her other business in Gorey. Hopping once more into a cab, she called and arranged to meet Adam Harris-Watts at the museum. Charlotte kept the meeting deliberately brief.
“I want to confirm that the Hughes estate will fund the repairs to the desk,” she told the still-shaken curator. This was no small sum.
“That’s so terribly kind of you. The museum would have been hard pressed—” Adam Harris-Watts spoke deferentially. An insurance claim for the full amount would have brought an unsustainable spike in the small museum’s monthly premiums.
“Is there anything else?”
“Well, Nobby’s – Mr. Norris’ family – have set up a foundation in his name. It will provide soccer coaching for talented local youngsters. Nobby, Mr. Norris, was a big soccer fan. Perhaps…?”
‘Yes, of course.” Charlotte pulled out her checkbook.
“You know,” Harris-Watts said as he showed Charlotte out, back through the museum’s grand entrance, “things like this aren’t supposed to happen in museums. Only in The Da Vinci Code or something like that. Did you know your father visited the museum once? And I was the one who suggested to him that… Well, that our museum would be an appropriate display space for the desk. If I hadn’t been so insistent, none of this would ever have…” Harris-Watts hung his head.
Charlotte took his arm and gave him her most sympathetic look. “Mr. Harris-Watts, Adam, this isn’t your fault. It’s just terribly unfortunate. We’ve always been tremendously happy to know that the desk is situated here, in a place representative of its history. You’ve done a fine job with it.” The curator nodded his appreciation although he didn’t take his eyes off the floor.
Charlotte continued, “I wonder, did you ever find anything in the desk? I heard Satterthwaite was famous for installing secret drawers. It was a childhood game of ours to look for one, but we were never successful.” She was fishing. Sir Thomas would no more allow his children to play with his desk than he would sit them on his knee to read them a book.
“You’re right about Satterthwaite.” Adam Harris-Watts was on surer ground now. He spoke confidently. “But we think he only designed a piece with a compartment for every ten or so he made. At least that we know of. He never let on whether one of his designs contained a hidden drawer or not. It was his little joke. And he only made three desks in his entire career. That’s why this one is so valuable. I don’t believe either of the others has a compartment. Not one that’s been discovered, anyway. Certainly, I examined your father’s desk many times but never found one.”
“Hmm. So what do the police think about it all?”
Harris-Watts popped a tiny mint into his mouth, orange this time. “They’re as baffled as we are but they’re working on it,” he said as he ground his jaws. “They seem to think it might have been just a plain old break-in. Nothing to do with the desk. They’re not even sure if Nobby’s death was connected at all. Either way, it’s terrible.”
“Yes, quite,” Charlotte tilted her head sympathetically. “Do they have any idea who it might have been? Nothing on camera?” She looked up at the small grey device mounted discreetly above the entrance to the museum.
The curator shook his head. “Our old camera system is so awful that there are only a couple of blurry frames. The police did say that it must have been a heavyset man who broke in, though.”
It was hardly a description that narrowed down the field, but it also fit one person in particular. “Well, I’m sure we both wish them success in their investigations. There’s really no need to hold yourself responsible,” she told him again. “You’re no more to blame than Satterthwaite himself or my father for that matter. What’s going to happen now?”
“The desk went for repair as soon as your father’s estate so graciously offered to cover the costs. The speed with which the repairs are effected can make a big difference to their success in these cases.” Harris-Watts smiled at Charlotte obsequiously. “Fortunately we have the ideal person on the island. Felipe Barrios. Your father’s desk is in expert hands. Barrios has been a fine furniture maker for nearly forty years. He will know exactly what to do.”
Charlotte gave the downcast curator an awkward hug. She was relieved to leave the company of this fragile, fawning man. Once she’d shrugged him off, she set off with purpose to the Castle for what was her main business of the day.
“Marcus?” Graham said, clicking the button on his desk phone, “What’s new?”
“I’m calling about Mr. Norris, the guard at the museum. I’ve got a cause of death for you.”
Graham took a deep, deliberate breath. “Let me have it, Marcus.”
“Massive heart attack. Clear as day. Untreated, he wouldn’t have been long for this world, even without the shock of the situation he was in.”
After blinking several times, Graham began re-visualizing the scene. “Could he have been saved?”
“Anything is possible, but it’s doubtful. His arteries were shocking.”
“So he just keeled over? The intruder didn’t push him or hit him with anything?”
“No signs of struggle, no DNA. Nothing to connect him with an attacker at all,” Marcus replied. “For all we know, he could have died before the burglary took place.”
“So it might be just a big coincidence?”
“Except I didn’t think you believed in coincidences,” the pathologist said.
Graham chewed his lip. “Thanks, Marcus. We’ll add it to the mix.”
“Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Graham sighed and put his phone down. He looked at the CCTV footage in front of him. Roach was right. It was practically useless. He’d spent the last thirty minutes scouring the two frames that contained the security guard’s last recorded moments. His eyes bored into the images in front of him, willing some clue to make itself apparent.
“Tea, guv?” Janice poked her head around the door. She didn’t like to make him tea. It was a bit like offering cheap plonk to a sommelier. She doubted her tea would stand up to his scrutiny, but she didn’t feel she could leave him out if she was boiling the kettle.
“Hmm? Oh, no thanks.” Graham sat back and blew out his cheeks. “Here, come and take a look at these. Can you see anything useful in them?”
Janice walked over to stand behind him. She leaned over his shoulder, looking intently at the screen in front as Graham flicked back and forth between the two frames.
“There… And there,” Janice said.
“What? What is it you’re seeing—?” Graham peered at the screen, his chin jutting out as he concentrated.
Janice pointed at the first frame. “That shadow there. You can just see it, v-e-r-y faintly. Nobby turns toward it. And look, his hand holding the flashlight is raised just a smidge… There was definitely someone there, sir. And Nobby was alive when they were.”
Graham squinted, seeing the scene in front of him anew. Now that Janice had pointed it out, he could see what was perfectly obvious. He turned his head slowly to look at his sergeant, who was grinning cheerfully. “Thank you, Harding. You’ve been very helpful,” he said slowly.
“My pleasure,
sir. Sure you don’t want any tea?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DON WAS SITTING in a small coffee shop finishing his second cup while reading through yet another webpage on his laptop. The call from Charlotte had come as a harsh, unwelcome surprise, but the longer he dwelled on it, the thought of meeting her became less worrying. This would be a strange and probably quite difficult reunion, but it might prove useful if he played his cards right.
Don rubbed his eyes. He’d been doing more research into his “project,” as he’d begun to call it. His latest efforts were starting to bear fruit, and his three piles of documents had grown considerably. Using his ancient laptop and the coffee shop’s frustratingly slow Internet connection, he had pieced together what he knew and had begun searching for relevant terms.
Don had concluded that there was only one convincing answer as to the identity of Sir Thomas’ friend – the man with whom he was pictured in the photo his mother had mentioned but whose friendship he had kept secret. Based on the clues his mother had given him, Don had come to believe that the man was none other than the president of San Marcos, the despised and reviled General Augusto Fuente.
Almost the definition of a “savage dictator,” Fuente had been a young and ambitious army officer when he and his cohort of disaffected right-wing militarists overthrew the democratic government in the early 1970s. The results were terrible but predictable. The new junta took control of the media, employed heavy-handed secret police tactics, and were responsible for a depressing litany of “disappearances.” Some fifteen percent of the population fled, among them anyone with money or an education. All of this left Fuente subject to sanctions and isolated by the UN. In response, Fuente courted black marketers, smugglers, and those with flexible morals. It was just possible, Don thought, that Sir Thomas Hughes had been among the General’s new friends.
The idea made Don laugh at first. It sounded like something out of a spy novel. But he double-checked, and it was the only theory that fit all of the available facts. Fuente was an international pariah, and nobody in their right mind would have boasted of their close friendship with him. However, the General was also rich, something of a playboy, and certainly the kind of man to court wealthy foreign guests by inviting them onboard his yacht. The Gypsy Princess, Don was amazed to find, was still owned by the “First Family” of San Marcos. It had even been recently photographed in an exclusive marina, only a stone’s throw from the presidential palace.
As Don thought this through, he became convinced his theory was correct. He reasoned that, though he could not guess what it might reveal, the content of the letter he was searching for could be a huge embarrassment to his stepsister should it become known. As the time of their meeting approached, Don began to imagine what the letter might say. Perhaps it would reveal humiliating secrets or past indiscretions. Worse still – or better still, depending on one’s point of view – it might even reveal past crimes. Any of these would be enough to derail Charlotte’s bid to become a Member of Parliament.
Don sighed. While she had never bullied him or his mother outright, neither had Charlotte ever stuck up for them against her father who had. The father-daughter bond had been fast. At times, he’d come upon them whispering together, stopping abruptly when he came in the room. He’d always suspected they were plotting against him. Or his mother.
Don found his rain jacket and prepared to set off toward the castle, wondering what the outcome of this rather clandestine meeting might be. Charlotte was now a public figure. Reputation was everything to her. But his, and certainly his mother’s honor needed defending.
He looked at his watch. It was 2:50 PM. He was going to be late. He quickly shuffled his papers together, shoved his laptop in his bag, and hurried to the door. He pulled it open and rushed through it, immediately slamming hard into the solid wall of uniform that stood on the other side. Don’s papers flew like confetti into the air.
“Careful there, mate,” Barnwell said. It was time for his regular afternoon croissant, and he was very much looking forward to it.
“Sorry, sorry,” Don said, frantically dropping to the floor to pick up the splayed papers.
“Here, let me help you, sir,” Barnwell offered.
“No need, no need,” Don replied, shoving the papers haphazardly into the buff folder he was carrying.
“Okay, then,” Barnwell said, standing up and squinting curiously at the harried man. He watched bemused as Don scurried up the street to his car. “It’s amazing the effect I have on people,” he murmured. He looked down at his feet and noticed under one of the outdoor tables, between the legs of two chairs, was propped a loose sheet of paper. Barnwell bent down and picked it from the floor. He cast a glance at the sheet in front of him.
“One decaf almond milk latte and a chocolate croissant!” yelled the woman behind the café counter so loudly that she could be heard through the café’s glass door. She held a lidded cup and paper bag aloft.
Barnwell opened the door, rolling the paper up and sticking it in his back pocket. “Ah, thanks Ethel. You’re a love. Just what I need.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SIR THOMAS HAD been a National Trust member for fifty years, and Charlotte had run around the gardens and ballrooms of more stately homes and elegant, preserved townhouses than she could count. But this imposing medieval fortress was in a different class entirely. It was a manmade mountain, solid and huge and resolutely immobile, commanding the coastline as if defying anyone to trespass on its shores. As she paid her entrance fee and walked through the inner courtyards, Charlotte noted that its massive blocks of worn stone could have been hewed and placed there by giants. It was a place of fairy stories, of roaring ogres and witches on broomsticks, intrigue captured in every crevice.
And yet, standing on its slightly windy battlements up top, dressed in a shabby raincoat and faded jeans, an old, crumpled backpack hanging off his shoulder, was Don English.
“Bracing, isn’t it?” she said as she emerged onto the broad walkway that encircled the castle.
He turned to see her approach, his face curiously impassive. “Looks like we’ve got the same taste in springtime holiday destinations,” he said flatly.
As Charlotte had hoped, the battlements were quiet. They’d be able to talk without being disturbed. “It’s been a while, Don. How are you?”
He stared out over the sea, which was a shifting, blue-white carpet on this March afternoon. “Mum’s gone,” he said simply.
“I’m so sorry, Don.”
“That’s what people say, isn’t it?” Don remarked. “They say they’re sorry.”
Charlotte could see the weight of the emotional burden Don carried. It was there in his posture, in the way he dressed, in the tone of his voice. The sadness. The resentment. She searched for an appropriate response. “I hope there wasn’t suffering.”
Don chuckled humorlessly before drawing a breath, the air hissing between his crooked, yellow teeth, “You know damn well that she suffered. Too much, and for too many years.” Don turned to look at her.
Charlotte put a hand, very carefully, on the upper arm of Don’s jacket. “They’re gone. My father, your mother. Now it’s just us. Let’s at least try to be friends for a little while.”
Don gathered himself and wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket. “Yeah… So, how’s the campaign going?”
Charlotte blinked for a moment. “It’s going well, I suppose. Still two months to go, but my campaign manager thinks we’re on the right track.”
“You know,” Don said, glancing at his feet, “I saw a billboard with your face on it yesterday. Made me wonder what it would look like on TV, in Parliament’s chambers.”
Charlotte smiled, though she doubted this was the warm endorsement it seemed to be. “I hope we’ll find out soon.”
“It’s a safe seat,” Don pointed out. “A great way to get yourself shoehorned into the House of Commons.”
Charlotte was as aware of her background as anyo
ne. The daughter of a rich businessman, carefully selected by the party for her connections as well as her acumen, she would be open to allegations of cronyism and dodgy dealing, almost from the outset. “There’s always someone,” she told him, rather frostily, “who won’t like what I do. But I want to serve the people of my constituency.”
Don produced a wry grin. “I hardly think so,” he finally managed. “I know you too well. And I know the family you come from.”
Charlotte sighed and pushed hair out of her eyes. “Why are you here, Don? On Jersey?”
He regarded her coolly for a second. “I’m taking a break,” he said. “Getting away from it all.”
“Really? Right when the museum is broken into and Dad’s desk is damaged? Something of a coincidence isn’t it?” Charlotte waited for his reaction to this verbal grenade.
Don remained silent, his jaw bunching rhythmically.
Charlotte came closer, their shoulders almost touching as they looked out to sea. She angled her face so he had to look at her. She looked deep into his eyes and spoke slowly. “Did you have anything to do with that, Don? The break-in?” she asked.
“Of course not.” Don closed his eyes, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched. He pulsed with a burst of fury. “You’ve misjudged me, my whole life. My whole life.” he said, his tone laced with accusation.
“Alright, Don, alright,” Charlotte said, backing off. She didn’t know him as a violent man, but he was strong and powerful, and clearly harbored a grudge. “You’re upset. Don, look,” she said, moving forward again and placing her hand gently, tentatively, on his forearm, “you’ll feel better if you tell someone what happened. Why don’t you tell me?”
Don turned away again, flexing his arm to dislodge her hand. “What are you talking about?”
“On Sunday night. Tell me. I don’t want to believe you could hurt anyone, Don. Certainly not over something like this.”
The Case of the Missing Letter Page 8