Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor (8 page)

“Good. Say half-ten?”

“Right.”

Then Jack was quiet for a moment and Sarah, beginning to understand how Jack worked, guessed there was something he wasn’t saying.

“And tonight, Jack, just some telly, a walk for Brady?”

He cleared his throat.

“Well, I had an idea. If Terry was rummaging around the place looking for something, something of value, then maybe I should try to find it first.”

“Going to call Hope? To let you in again?”

“No. If I do find something, and if we want to use it, then best she knows nothing about it. Make sense?”

“Yes. Okay, I can meet you there, but not till …”

“Um, I think … no again. Just let me noodle around, on my own. If I do get spotted, you won’t have to run down to the police station with me, yes?”

“Okay. But be careful.”

Sarah just realized she echoed the words her mother said.

“Always. But there is one thing you can do. This evening, or maybe in the morning.”

“Go on.”

Standing by her front door, Sarah again realized how much she enjoyed all this. It was, amid the quiet of her business and village life,
exciting
.

Funny how things work out,
she thought.

“Maybe you can make a few calls, see if you can find out what firm did the plans, and who booked them.”

“Tough one that.” Then she had an idea. “Wait, I could use Grace in the office. She’s in touch with quite a lot of the companies, checking on their web and printing needs. And any architectural firm will have their own P.A.s. A little friendly chit-chat, and maybe she could find out who did the plans …”

“And who commissioned them? Great.”

Again, that sound, and Sarah thought that Jack was probably near the manor house, sitting in his sports car, lights and engine, off.

Waiting for night, about to go in.

And that too … was exciting.

Then: “See you in the morning Sarah. Half-ten,” he said.

But his ‘half-ten’ didn’t sound quite right.

“Ten thirty it is,” she said laughing. “Good hunting.”

“You bet.”

And then, the called ended, and Sarah went back to the kitchen and the clean-up.

Though she would much rather have been walking alongside Jack, in the dark, straight into Mogdon Manor.

All Jack had to do to get the back door of the manor open was put a little weight against it, and the ancient latch popped free of the frame.

He had a flashlight in his back pocket but as he entered what seemed to be a storeroom that led into the kitchen, he kept it off.

Better to let his eyes adjust, and use the flashlight only when he had to.

Never know who might be taking a walk, spot the light … or the place might even be on the cops’ local rounds.

He could still smell the fire, the sodden stench from the hoses that had sprayed the library, ruining the carpet, furniture, and hundreds of volumes of books.

The man’s entire life of reading, turned into soggy mush.

And Jack guessed that … all that motivated him to do this. Decades of being a detective, and he hated it when someone’s life was taken from them, a near personal thing with him.

It always felt good to see a suspect finally found guilty.

At least the dead had that bit of peace.

Though Jack guessed, it was more about his own peace, the way he wanted the world to be. Crimes solved, people punished.

He shook that thought off — never one to indulge self-reflection for long — and he started for the main staircase.

He walked up. The hallway was so black, just the faint light from the two windows at either end of the long corridor. His eyes had adjusted, but still he took very small steps, taking care not to stumble into a chair or lamp positioned to blockade his passage. At one end of the hallway was Victor’s bedroom.

Breathing low, moving as silently as he could, he reached the door and slowly turned the handle. The door creaked as it opened.

Inside, the room was stuffy, the smell overpowering … old, and familiar. It took him back to the room of his aged father all those years ago. Those weekly ferry rides to Staten Island, the dread of seeing his dad so alone, grumbling, not coping. Dying.

He flicked on the flashlight, fingers wrapped around the lens to mask the beam.

He scanned the room: old heavy furniture, a big iron bed, stripped bare, an old armchair, bookshelves. On the floor more books, and against one wall, some old shelves, most empty, a few with dusty and cobwebbed ceramic pieces.

He even saw an Indian statue, a deity with several arms, hands extended, sitting cross-legged.

But though the statue was missing one of its eight arms, old Victor still hadn’t thrown it away, preferring to keep it here in his bedroom.

Jack flicked off the light. Nothing here.

Back into the hallway, he shut the door carefully behind him, trying to make do without the flashlight.

Finally he reached the locked entrance to the attic room.

Only one key,
Hope said.

He pulled out a thin bit of rigid wire.

Never stopped me before.

And Jack started working the keyhole, back and forth until he heard a click, a bolt slipping back and if welcoming him the door slowly slid open.

He took a breath.

He didn’t get spooked too easily, not with everything he had seen.

But this dark, empty manor house, and the narrow staircase …

Some company right now,
he thought,
would be good.

***

In the attic room again he had no choice but to turn on the small flashlight, wrapping his hand around the lit end to make the beam as narrow as possible.

The place was a puzzle. No boxes. No old furniture. Completely empty. Which in itself was strange, in a house this old and lived-in.

He looked around one more time, letting the light slowly scan the room.

And he noticed something. The room seemed smaller than it should be, based on what this upper floor looked like from outside, and even from the dimensions of the floor below it.

It wasn’t uncommon for an attic to narrow; but — somehow the size here seemed off.

Which meant …

He let the light play along the angled wood of the roof, the walls, looking for … something.

And then he saw an outline on a wall to the right. To the casual eye, it might look like the grain of the wood, or where one wooden slat joined another. But as Jack went closer, he saw that wasn’t the case.

He pressed against it, tapped. A hollow sound answered him back.

And then he realized … the attic contained a
hidden
room.

Amazing,
he thought.

But with no door knob, no key, how to get into this hidey-hole?

He started tracing the mystery door’s outline with his light.

Jack was beginning to think that he was stumped.

There may be a room on the other side of the wall but he was dammed if he knew how to get the flush door without a knob to open.

But he was always a big fan of trial and error.

So he began pressing against the nearly invisible outline, listening to what those hard presses did.

And when his hands got to the top, and he pressed hard, he heard something. Some movement or slippage.

And it looked as if a bit of the hidden door bowed out, mere millimetres, but it was
something
.

Could there be latches all around it?

Now he did the same thing, on either side, pressing hard, hearing more sounds, the door popping out a few more millimetres with every push.

Until, kneeling down in the dark attic, he pressed at the very bottom, and the door opened.

Giving up its secrets.

And he stood up, and pulled it wide open.

The room was small, not much larger than a walk-in closet and there were no windows so he could use his flashlight without worry.

And what he saw made him stop.

A small table, covered by rich red material with gold stitching that glistened under his light. On top of it was yet another elephant god but this one was holding something right in its broad lap, as if guarding it, protecting it.

It was a faded black-and-white photograph of a woman. Dark eyes, long dark hair, dressed in a traditional sari. Her smile was radiant; she was an astounding beauty.

What is this?
Jack thought.

A shrine to a lost love?

But then why so secret? Why not keep it downstairs?

The he noticed something on a small shelf suspended on a wall to the right of the table.

An ornate wooden chest with a metal latch, but no lock.

Feeling almost as if he was violating a tomb but compelled to see, Jack tucked his light under an armpit, and picked up the box, opening the lid.

And for a moment he stared, before placing it on the table and rifling through its contents.

Victor Hamblyn’s secrets. All
here
.

Behind him all of a sudden, he saw a light hit the attic behind him.

He shut the lid, and quickly turned off his flashlight.

He picked up the chest and walked out to the attic room taking care to shut the hidden room’s door behind him.

To the window, staying back in the shadows to see some of Cherringham’s finest, outside their police car, aiming massive torches up to the attic, and all around the house.

Jack had to move fast.

***

Moving as quickly as he could with no light, his eyes less effective after using the flashlight, Jack ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on the tattered carpet, then around to the back of the house.

He heard fumbling at the front door, and he picked up his speed, feeling like a kid robbing a neighbour. He raced to the big kitchen, bumping into the wooden kitchen table hard, suppressing an ‘ouch’ before finally reaching the back door.

The police hadn’t made their way around to the back yet and with the scant light of the stars better than the total darkness inside, Jack raced unseen through the overgrown grounds of Victor’s estate, making his way to where he hoped his car remained hidden.

And if he didn’t get caught,
if
the police didn’t take the chest from him and lock him up, he knew he would be up most of the night, looking through the contents of the wooden chest …

Trying to understand.

“One macchiato long with extra shot.”

Sarah waited patiently as the Huffington’s waitress in her trim little outfit, placed Jack’s steaming coffee on the pine table in front of him, without spilling a drop.

He looks tired
, she thought.
How late was he at Mogdon Manor?

“And one large Americano, with skinny hot milk on the side.”

Sarah smiled her thanks. The girl bobbed politely and left them, in their little table by the window.

“When I was a kid, this place only served instant coffee,” said Sarah. “Times change — thank God.”

“True. Though the waitress looks like she should be in
Downton Abbey
.”

“The Huffington’s uniform — a girl must wear it with pride, and I should know.”

“More secrets of your teenage past, huh?” said Jack, his eyes twinkling.

“They fired me after a week — couldn’t resist eating the cakes.”

“I know the feeling,” said Jack.

Sarah stirred her macchiato.

“So why the change of plan?” she said. “I’ve not even been into the office yet.”

Jack sipped his coffee. He might look tired but she could see that he was enjoying this moment, she knew him well enough by now to know.

He lifted up his old sports bag onto his lap and slowly unzipped it.

“I had an interesting night. Not entirely legal, but hey I’m one of the good guys so I figure the rules in Olde England are probably flexible.”

“Are you about to implicate me in some kind of crime, Mr Brennan?”

“You bet.”

“Good. I’d hate to be left out.”

“Left out?” said Jack. “You’re the key to its success.”

And she listened as he told her all about what had happened at the Manor: the attic, the secret room and his unorthodox journey home via a ditch at the back of the property.

“You’re lucky the police didn’t catch you,” she said.

“I might be slower than I used to be — but we cops all work from the same training manual, so I was one step ahead all the way home.”

“A long night then?”

“Trouble is — when I hit the sack I was too tired to sleep.”

Though the banter was fun, Sarah couldn’t wait any longer.

“So Jack — what have you got?” she said, smiling.

“I thought you’d never ask …”

Like a magician he reached into the bag and placed the first item onto the table between them. It was a large wooden box inlaid with ivory figures.

“It’s beautiful,” said Sarah, picking it up. “Is it Indian?”

She opened it. The inside was red velvet.

“Got to be,” said Jack. “Some kind of jewellery box I guess. And it did have jewellery in it.”

She saw him take a look around the cafe which was fast filling up.

He leaned in confidentially, carefully drew out a necklace from the bag and held it out. She took it gently from his hands: it was made of beaten gold with black beads threaded onto it. Where it caught the light it glowed.

“It’s exquisite,” she said, her voice hushed. “Do you think this is what Terry was after?”

“It’s certainly valuable — if it’s real gold and I’m sure it is,” said Jack. “But this is the stuff that’s really interesting.”

Sarah felt the thrill of real discovery, of unlocking secrets, of finding truths — and here in Huffington’s, of all places …

She watched as Jack now took out a wad of bank statements held together with an old bulldog clip, and handed them to her. She wiped the dust off and flicked through them.

“Weird,” she said. “It’s the same transaction over and over again.”

“It’s a holding account,” said Jack. “Two hundred in each month — from Victor’s main account I suspect — and two hundred out. Stops about five years ago — and goes back at least thirty.”