Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor (9 page)

“But why?”

“It’s what you do when you want to hide a payment,” said Jack.

Next he produced a bundle of faded letters, held together with a tattered ribbon. He handed it to her, and nodded. Slowly she undid the ribbon, scared that the letters might almost turn to dust.

“There must be a hundred …”

“One hundred and eighty five, to be precise,” said Jack.

She tried to make out the writing — but it wasn’t in English, or even in a European language. But though she couldn’t read the careful script — she didn’t have to ask what was in the letters. She had seen papers bound together like this before.

These were love letters.

From a different time. A different place.

“I did a bit of research when I got back to the boat last night,” said Jack. “I think they’re written in Hindi.”

“I didn’t know you could get online, Jack.”

“Research — you know like in the old days? With books?” he said. “Those things I have on shelves in my office?”

“Ah, so that’s what they are,” said Sarah. “So what do the letters say?”

“This is where you come in,” he said. “Or rather your dad’s friend …”

“Praveer?”

“That’s the one,” said Jack. “We need these translated. Or at least the gist of them. You think he’d be up for that?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Sarah. “I can get his address from Dad.”

“And there’s one more thing,” said Jack, reaching into his bag and placing on the table some small spools of film. “What do you make of these?”

Sarah picked one up carefully, taking care not to touch the film.

“It’s 8mm,” she said. “We used to play around with this stuff at art college.”

“Pretty old, huh?”

“Definitely. This is what people used before they had Super-8. So certainly pre-sixties.”

“You think you can project it somehow?”

“Oh, I can do better than that,” said Sarah. “They’ve got a photography lab up at the school and they do transfers of stuff like this.”

“How quickly can you get it done?”

“If I call in a favour — tomorrow, maybe?” said Sarah. “But why the rush?”

“Well here’s the thing,” said Jack. “Hope called me this morning to say the solicitor is reading Victor’s will tomorrow — and her presence has been requested. She’d like us to join her. And I’ve got a gut feeling we need to solve this little mystery before Victor’s miserable kids divide the spoils.”

Sarah looked at him — he was back in full-on hard-cop mode.

“Maybe we should talk to the police?”

He shrugged.

“About what?”

And Sarah realized. They hadn’t solved anything. They hadn’t even uncovered a crime. All they’d done was reveal a more and more complicated series of mysteries. And a family that seemed to hate itself.

“No matter how much we’ve found,” said Jack. “We still don’t know a great deal.”

Sarah tried to sum up where they’d got to.

“So what do we know? Victor died because he was trying to get to his secret room. But we don’t know why he had it hidden and what the significance of what you found in there is. Someone was outside the house when he died — but we still don’t know who.”

She looked at Jack for confirmation that she was on track here, not missing anything …

“The fire started because of faulty wiring — but in a room he never used. Victor’s kids can’t wait to inherit and they each think they’re going to be the only ones. Oh, and someone’s all set to knock the Manor down and make a fortune. But we don’t know who. Maybe all three of them!”

“See what I mean?” said Jack. “It’s a list of suspicions — but nothing we can prove.”

“You’re right,” she said.

“And yet …” said Jack, “As the man said — if it smells of fish …”

“It
is
fish. And this smells of fish all right,” said Sarah. “Question is — what kind of fish?”

Jack laughed. “Enough fish already!”

She laughed too.

“Time I got to the office,” she said. “I want to get Grace onto those plans — see if we can identify our mystery property developer.”

“Good,” said Jack. “I’m going to hang on to the statements. But you’d better take the rest — see what you can find out.”

And placing the film and the letters with the necklace back in the box, he handed it to her.

“I’ve got to do some running round this morning,” he said. “Then I was thinking I’d drop in on young Terry after lunch.”

“Want me to come?”

“By all means,” said Jack. “Though it might not be pretty.”

“On second thought — maybe I’ll spend a bit of time researching Partition,” said Sarah.

“Good call,” said Jack, picking up the bill. “Couple of quid tip okay you think?”

Sarah shook her head in mock despair.

“Far too much,” she said. “I wish you’d been around when I was waitressing.”

And she headed out to the office.

“In you go, Riley, I’ll be back soon.”

Jack shooed his Springer Spaniel down into the saloon of the barge, closed the shutters and clicked the padlock.

He climbed down into his little dinghy, powered up the outboard, untied and pushed off from the side of his beloved Grey Goose.

The water was flat calm as he headed downstream, but he could feel a chill in the air and he drew his windcheater collar tight.

Past the weir and under Cherringham Bridge — and five minutes later, there was his destination on the far riverbank: Iron Wharf.

The year before when he’d been looking to buy a boat in the area, he’d been a regular visitor to the old boatyard, scanning the ‘for sale’ notices, chatting to the locals for information or leads to his dream boat.

Now, as he tied up on the visitors mooring and clambered up the side of the jetty onto the hard, he realized how at home he felt on the river. In those days he’d been a complete beginner — now it felt the most natural thing in the world to go visiting by boat.

He looked around: the yard was full of old sheds, piles of timber, and boats in all states propped up with great wooden beams. Grass and weeds grew over stacks of rubbish and old iron.

Somewhere in here, Terry Hamblyn had chosen to live.

He didn’t have to look hard to see where. In a corner of the boatyard stood a ramshackle old trailer, with smoke pumping out of a chimney on the top and heavy metal pumping from an open window.

Bit of a come down from the old manor,
thought Jack.

Parked up next to the trailer was a rusty old pick-up — and a smart yellow four-by-four with the words ‘Monster Madness!!!’ stencilled on the side. Jack recognised the brand — they had a big arena the other side of Swindon and advertised ‘truck mayhem’ aggressively on television.

As he approached, Jack saw the trailer door open and two figures emerge, laughing: one was Terry and the other was a big, balding guy in a leather jacket. Jack hung back and watched as the two did a bit of blokey back-slapping, then shook hands.

The bald guy climbed into the four-by-four, spun it round and with a honk on the horn roared off across the boatyard, kicking gravel behind.

Jack waited till Terry had gone back into the trailer, and then sauntered over. The back of the pick-up was full of rubbish — bits of boat, sacking, a small space heater. Jack examined the heater. The cable was blackened.

Interesting …

A refuse bin overflowing with rubbish sacks, cans and bottles sat by the back door. More out of habit than anything else, Jack peered into the bin and did a double take: some of the wine bottles were old, he was sure. Very old …

He pulled out an empty wine bottle and examined the label. Château Mouton Rothschild 1928.

Jeez — could that be for real?

He sniffed the contents. It was.

My God. That one bottle alone is worth a couple of months’ pay …

Jack fished deeper into the bin. There were more bottles of a similar vintage beneath — obviously just thrown into the bin when they were finished, to rest among old curry cartons and cheap cans of lager.

Jack took out a paper handkerchief and wiped his hands, then tossed it into the bin and approached the door of the trailer. Terry Hamblyn had some questions to answer.

“Like I said. Me and dad were best mates,” said Terry. “He gave me that wine for Christmas. Because he loved me.”

“You know how much that stuff’s worth?”

“Sure. Gotta be at least ten quid a bottle. It’s real French.”

Jack watched Terry, unsure whether to feel pity, anger or simply disgust. They were seated facing each other across Terry’s table in the back of the trailer. A thin layer of grease, old food and possibly engine oil coated the surface and Jack was trying hard not to touch anything.

“And you still say you weren’t there on the night he died?”

“I was here asleep. Bit of a home boy, me.”

Jack looked round the filthy trailer, piled high with unwashed plates, alcohol, magazines and discarded clothes.

“I can see that, Terry. And I really don’t want to get you into trouble …”

“I haven’t done anything, so you can’t.”

“But you know, if the police did find out you were there when Victor died, then things might very quickly get … difficult … for you — you know what I mean?”

Jack smiled at Terry and was rewarded with a dopey smile back.

“Sure. Appreciate you dropping round to tell me that.”

He got up — and Jack saw his cue to leave.

“Any time you need a bit of help in the future — I’ll be sure to remember how you came down here to help me,” said Terry seriously. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine, know what I mean?”

Jack headed for the door and climbed down the little steps out of the trailer. He could sense Terry standing behind him and turned quickly.

“How’s the deal coming along with Monster Trucks?”

Terry didn’t stop to blink.

“Pretty good,” he said. “Soon as the land’s mine we’re going to sign the contracts and then …”

Jack could almost see the synapses in Terry’s brain connecting.

“And then?”

“Oh, shit,” said Terry.

“Thanks for the chat, Terry. See you tomorrow at the reading of the will.”

“Eh? What? How come — what’s that got to do with you?”

Jack smiled, turned on his heels and walked across the yard to his little boat, feeling that maybe one of these little mysteries was falling into place.

Sarah was supposed to be putting the finishing touches to the Highlands brochure, cropping a wind-turbine out of a near-perfect vista of heather and mountains, but Grace’s phone conversation at the other end of the office was just too interesting …

She got up, went to the little kitchen, poured herself a coffee and went over and sat on the corner of Grace’s desk.

Grace winked at her and carried on talking into the phone.

“Anyway, I’m going to have to go or the boss’ll be back. Saturday? Sure. Me and some of the girls are heading into Oxford. You kidding? It’ll be a late one. And I don’t mean jim-jams!”

Sarah smiled — nothing changed. Twenty years ago her Saturday nights usually involved having some fun in Oxford — but in those days you had to be back on the last train or else.

But did she want to be Grace’s age again?
No thanks!

“Oh, and Kelly — don’t forget, use my private email will you or I’ll get into trouble. Sure. Sure — you’re a sweetheart, see you Saturday!”

Sarah watched as Grace put the phone down — then rubbed her hands in glee.

“God, I love this Sarah! This is
tons
more fun than doing brochures. Let’s be a detective agency!”

Sarah laughed.

“The day I can see a way to make money out of it — you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’d do it for free!”

“I’m sure you would. But you tell me the moment you feel I’m taking advantage. You will, won’t you?”

“Sure, Sarah,” said Grace. “I’m kidding really — but I’ve had fun this morning.”

“So what have you got for me?”

Grace gestured to Sarah to take a seat next to her and she pulled up the notes she’d been making on screen.

“Well, first off you’d be surprised how the old Personal Assistant code of honour works — most people were happy to let me have bits of info as long as they knew it was for a good cause.”

“I should be worried by that,” said Sarah.

“Don’t be — you’re one of the good guys.”

“God knows what digital information laws you just broke …”

“I think you mean ‘we’, don’t you?”

And as Grace laughed, Sarah just had to join in.

“So, starting at the top. The plans for Mogdon Manor which your American heard about were drawn up by Phillips and Co, Chartered Surveyors exactly three months ago.”

“Hmm. Local, huh …?”

“And Phillips and Co were instructed by the architects — Dream Designs — about a month before that. And the client who instructed Dream Designs was … hmm, now where did I put that name …”

“Don’t do this to me, Grace!”

Grace laughed.

“Ah, here we are,” she said. “Susan Hamblyn, Davies Associates, Oxford.”

Sarah sat back in her seat.

“Well, isn’t that interesting?”

She looked at Grace — but Grace wasn’t finished.

“Now that’s not the only interesting thing I found,” she said, conspiratorially. “When I asked my pal at Phillips about the plans they were working on for Mogdon, guess what she said?”

“Go on — surprise me …”

“She said — ‘which ones?’ — because we’ve got two. And guess who instructed them about the others?”

Sarah didn’t have to think.

“Vanessa Coole, at Coole Solutions?”

Grace played mock disappointment.

“How did you know that?”

“Let’s just say I’m beginning to get used to the way the Hamblyn family operates …”

“Anyway, they’re going to email the plans before they close today,” said Grace. “I told them I’d deleted them by mistake and they didn’t even ask why I had them in the first place.”

Sarah stood up, and noticed for the first time it was beginning to get dark outside.

“Grace, you’ve done an amazing job. When they come through, print them out for me and leave them on the desk, could you?”