Cherringham--The Last Puzzle (2 page)

A man’s treasures and secrets safely hidden deep inside.

But on top, just a few feet away, was a plastic vial.

Michael walked over to it; picked up the prescription medicine.

The instructions:
In response to chest pain, take one pill immediately with water.

Michael looked at the container half-filled with the oblong pills.

Was that it then? A heart attack, like the one Michael himself had had a few years back, but this time, had there not been enough warning, not enough damn time to get to the pills that could avert disaster?

Avert death.

Michael walked back to his friend’s body.

He’d have to call someone. The police! Of course. And his wife. Yes he needed the sound of another human voice. Standing here, he felt so alone.

Maybe call Sarah as well. To hear the questions and concerns … and the voices of his dear family.

His phone was downstairs in his coat pocket. He’d have to leave his friend alone to get it.

But first, before he did that, he leaned down. His fingers splayed, outstretched, as he touched his friend’s eyelids and gently — as if pulling down the shades on a life — lowered them.

As Michael thought …
Rest in peace, old friend, rest in peace …

Sarah saw her assistant Grace go to the rear window of their office.

“Wow — that Quentin Andrews must have been
somebody
. Look at all those people.”

Sarah joined Grace at the window and watched the entrance to the church.

And indeed — it
was
something.

A crowd of people lined up at the large doors, big cars dropping off more mourners while drivers then drove off, presumably to search for spaces in the already jammed-up village centre.

“That’s odd,” she said.

Grace turned to her. “What?”

“I mean … Dad knew Mr. Andrews, he was his friend … but he always said he was a bit of a loner. Practically a recluse. So — who are all that lot?”

Grace looked back at the spectacle outside. “Doesn’t look to me like the funeral of a loner. Who was he?”

And to that, Sarah didn’t have an answer. Her father — who would be at the funeral — had only mentioned that his friend had worked in government decades ago, then in the City where he’d apparently amassed enough money for his well-appointed Cherringham home.

What Sarah was looking at below seemed more like a funeral for royalty or a movie star.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Hmm?” Grace said, turning.

“Doesn’t fit the man my father described. And somehow — I’m involved.”

“You? But you didn’t know him at all, did you?”

She turned to Grace. “Not even casually. But Tony Standish sent over a letter asking me to attend the reading of the will — straight after the service.”

Grace tilted her head. “You think — that somehow you’re mentioned in it?”

Sarah laughed. “I doubt it. For someone I didn’t even know?”

Grace turned back to the window. “People can do odd things as they get older, hmm? Who knows why? Either way — it should be interesting …”

Right
, thought Sarah.
Interesting to be sure.

As an old friend — someone who believed he was the deceased’s
only
friend — her father Michael would be there, though he too didn’t have a clue as to why Sarah had been asked to attend.

At that moment, with a few people still trying to get in the church, the massive bells of St. James began tolling slowly.

And having seen all those people, Sarah could hardly wait to attend the reading in Tony’s office.

There was something about this — Quentin Andrews, his funeral, the guests and the mysterious will — that had become very intriguing.

*

Sarah dashed across the High Street to Tony Standish’s office; a last-minute urgent call had her quickly checking new layouts for a nearby village’s website redesign.

Now, a few minutes after she should have arrived, she raced into the solicitor’s office, with a wave to Tony’s quiet and efficient secretary who looked like everyone’s idea of the perfect grandma …

She flew into the conference room, breathless, a quick apology for being late.

To see: Tony standing at his desk, a warm smile on his face. Such a good friend — and ally. Then, her father in a chair to Tony’s right, dressed in a black suit. And beyond him, a small knot of people in mourning — faces she didn’t recognise.

She made a mental note to have a quiet chat with her dad … about the friend he’d lost.

Reminding herself again how fleeting life and time is.

It all goes
so
fast.

She always thought her dad … and her mum … would be here forever.

But she also knew that just wasn’t true.

“Sarah — we haven’t begun yet. Just started the introductions. Your father here led us off.”

Then, as Sarah slipped off her coat, she turned left to the coat rack … to see someone sitting towards the back.

In a suit.

With a familiar smile.

Then — a nod to Sarah.

Jack!

What was he doing here? She hadn’t told him about her mysterious invitation to this event … but apparently he had been summoned as well.

Curiouser and curiouser …

They’d have to talk about that.

Jack gestured to a chair a few feet from his, not part of the circle of people gathered tightly around Tony’s desk.

As if the two of them were onlookers at this event.

She sat down, giving her friend a quick, if confused, smile.

Then back to those in attendance for the reading of the will.

*

First up, a woman in a grey suit, late thirties, wearing a sombre grey hat that wouldn’t have been out of place in a musty wardrobe in
Downton Abbey
.

“Emma Carter,” she said quietly, “Mr. Andrews’s personal carer.”

She nodded at the group, and as if her words weren’t enough …

“I was his nurse, cook … everything …”

Then to the man sitting on her left. Somewhat older than Sarah’s own father she guessed — but still someone who radiated strength and power, from his crisp pinstripe double-breasted suit, to his dark eyes that made contact with everyone else in the room as he spoke.

“James Carlisle. Quent and I, er … served together … back in the day.”

There was a pause, as if the whole room expected further explanation — but none was forthcoming. Sarah watched Carlisle as he now leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

Sarah turned to Jack and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, thinking …
interesting.

Served together? What did that mean? Army?

Her father had never mentioned a Forces connection. And James Carlisle must have been considerably younger than Quentin …

“Patrick?” Tony said, when the next man didn’t immediately start. A look at him and she guessed that despite being dressed appropriately in a suit, the man had clearly taken advantage of another tradition, and fortified himself with a drink or two in advance of the funeral.

He licked his lips. “Patrick Andrews, esquire, lone brother … lone
survivor
,” he emphasised, “of my deceased brother, Quentin.”

Sounds like he’s had more than a couple,
Sarah thought.

And then as he shuffled in his seat, she saw his shoes — scuffed, tattered.

Quentin’s brother looked to be on his uppers.

One last person in the circle yet to speak.

Another woman who sat neatly with her legs together, long dark coat, purse on her lap, hands locked on.

Tony gave her a nod.

“Tricia Guard,” she said quietly.

Then nothing more.

Tony seemed to wait for a moment as if the attractive middle-aged woman might add something.

But when that didn’t happen …

“And you will note that there are two observers in the room, Mr. Jack Brennan, Ms. Sarah Edwards. While not named in the will, instructions were left that I select appropriate party, or parties, to be observers to both this event … and the carrying out of the terms of the will. And I have selected them.”

On cue, the potential heirs all turned and took in Sarah and Jack as if they were a museum display.

Then back to Tony, who dramatically cleared his throat and took a seat at his massive desk.

He picked up two envelopes.

“The instructions from Mr. Andrews are quite specific. I am to open this envelope
first
.”

Tony took a slender, silver letter opener and slid it into an opening in the flap.

You could hear a pin drop
, Sarah thought.

Then, with the opening made, Tony pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

He unfolded it and glanced at the document for a moment.

Then — briefly raising his eyes to the attending crowd — he said:

“Very well. I shall begin the reading of the last will and testament of Quentin Andrews …”

Sarah turned and looked at Jack, both of them waiting to discover why they had been summoned.

Tony read the opening paragraphs of the will quickly; every now and then looking up to the potential heirs, who probably wished he’d jump straight to the division of the spoils.

“Now to the terms of the will. Firstly,” he read, “to my good friend Michael Edwards. Michael told me many times he had no wish to inherit anything from anyone, including me. I am sure that he was referring to cash money. In which case, I shall ignore his request—”

Tony smiled, and looked right at Sarah’s father …

“I bequeath to Michael the vintage Napoleonic chess set on which we fought many a battle. In addition, the complete contents of my wine cellar would surely find a welcome home with him and his lovely wife. Lastly, my first edition of Gibbon’s
The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
could surely find no better protector than Michael.”

Tony stopped, and lowered the paper.

“Michael, do you agree to accept Mr. Andrews’ last wishes in this regard?”

Sarah watched her father nod, turning to the others, and then shooting a glance at Sarah. “Yes. These items I will — indeed — accept and cherish.”

“Good. Continuing then to the heart of the will …”

So very quiet, Sarah thought. People sitting patiently listening … bated breaths all around.

“For the remainder of my estate, all other possessions and my financial assets, I have made the following arrangements.”

“Financial assets,” Quentin’s brother Patrick said with a snort. “Ill-gotten gains more like.”

Tony ignored the interruption.

“My entire estate — to be overseen by Tony Standish, Esquire, will go to one of the four people named here and in attendance. Or — it will go to the charity of my choice, Seafarers UK, for all the good work they have done and continue to do for sailors everywhere.”

“Excuse me,” the carer, Ms. Carter said, “What does that mean?”

Tony put a hand up, begging patience.

Jack leaned over and touched Sarah’s arm. When she looked at him, he rolled his eyes, a grin on his face.

Signalling:
something is up here …

“I have created a …”

Was that a small smile now creeping onto Tony’s face?

“… a crossword puzzle …”

“What the h—”James Carlisle said. “A crossword?”

All the heirs leaned forward.

“The answers to the various clues are all to be found, here, in this very village that I have loved so much. Each one of the designated
potential
heirs will have forty-eight hours to solve and complete the crossword. Upon completion of the last clue, the puzzle is to be delivered — by hand — directly to my executor.”

Tony cleared his throat.

This is amazing
, Sarah thought.

“That would be me. I will,” Tony added, “be available to you, night and day until this, um, competition, has ended. I have your mobile numbers; you have mine.”

Then, continuing to read …

“Mr. Standish will secretly note when each solution is delivered. And exactly forty-eight hours from now, this group will reconvene to learn which, if any, of the four completed the puzzle first and won the prize of my estate. If no one solves the puzzle, the entire amount will go to the charity I have named above.”

“This is ridiculous,” Tricia Guard said. “I’ve come all the way from London for this … nonsense. And for what?”

“Likely not much anyway,” Carlisle said. “I imagine old Quentin got by. Bit of a pension. And that’s just about it.”

But then Tony lowered the document.

“I’ve also been authorised to tell you that the financial element of Quentin Andrews’ estate, aside from the property in Cherringham Crescent, furnishings, the land, and so on … has a current value — pending market fluctuations — of over ten million pounds …”

The words hung in the air as if a dirigible had just crashed into the office, its silvery skin pressing against each and every one’s gob-smacked face.

Ten million pounds,
Sarah thought.

A fortune! To be decided by a race to complete a crossword puzzle?

Unbelievable …

Tony lowered the single sheet of the will.

“As mentioned,” he said, “I’ve been authorised to designate observers to this, um, contest. They will be Ms. Edwards and Mr. Brennan. They will intermittently monitor your progress, to assure that you all, well, play fair. There are some rules attached which specify that you must
not
collaborate, and then conspire to split the spoils.”

“Bloody hell, was he crazy? God. That brother of mine. Always was a slippery bastard …”

“And as said,” Tony continued, “we convene here in exactly two days, at eleven …”

Tony looked at his watch.

“Eleven twenty-three a.m. precisely, for the results.”

Patrick Andrews stood up.

“So, how about the damn puzzle so we can get on with it?”

Like horses at a starting gate, the other three members of the quartet stood up as well.