Cherringham--The Last Puzzle (7 page)

And somehow it seems
right
.

For now it was time to leave.

And as he made his way downstairs, plans, possibilities, strategies started taking shape.

The game … was indeed afoot.

Sarah was late into the office next morning. Chloe hadn’t got home until way after midnight and they’d exchanged some heated words over breakfast about respecting ‘house rules’.

Then in the chaos Daniel had forgotten his lunch box so she’d had to drive up to the school and drop it off for him.

Grace brought her a coffee while she took her coat off and waited for her desktop to boot up.

“Oh — Mr. Standish left a message,” she said. “Wants you to give him a call.”

“Oh right,” said Sarah. “I wonder if he’s checking up on me? I was supposed to phone Patrick Andrews first thing but this morning’s been a nightmare.”

She looked over at the whiteboard, filled with writing — and a crossword grid which looked almost complete.

“Wow — Grace! You’ve nearly done them all!”

“Just three left — I’m totally stumped though.”

“Oh come on — that’s amazing! And I’m sure between us we can get the last ones.”

“Long as that doesn’t disqualify me from the free meal …”

“I think Jack will let you off,” said Sarah laughing.

Grace dug out the papers and handed them over. Sarah took her mobile from her handbag and dialled Patrick Andrews. He answered immediately.

“Mr. Andrews? It’s Sarah Edwards.”

“What took you so long?” he said.

So much for pleasantries,
thought Sarah.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant to call you earlier—”

“I hope you’re taking your duties seriously.”

“Of course.”

“Hmm. Well. We’ll see.”

In the silence, Sarah could hear music and the babble of children’s voices.

Where was he? A school?

She bit her tongue and put on the voice she reserved for the most difficult clients.

“Perhaps we could meet, Mr. Andrews? And you could let me know what progress you’ve been making? I mean — to fulfil my ‘duties’.”

She rolled her eyes at Grace.

“Yes, all right. Let’s get it over and done with. I’m in the library.”

And with that he abruptly ended the call.

Sarah turned to Grace. “Afraid you’ll have to pour that coffee away. I’ve got to go out again. In fact — I’ve been
ordered
…”

“Hmm — unlike you to obey orders,” said Grace.

Sarah smiled. “You’re right,” she said. “But in this case I rather feel it would be disrespectful to the deceased if I didn’t obey. Or at least — disrespectful to Tony.”

She put on her coat again and headed out of the office.

*

Cherringham Library occupied the ground floor of the Village Hall, just across the street from Sarah’s office.

As she climbed the steps she could see that the lobby was filled with buggies — and then remembered: Thursday mornings was pre-school playtime in the library.

Years ago, back in London, she’d done exactly this herself — first with Chloe, then Daniel — looking forward to catching up with the other mums while the kids played on the floor and listened to stories.

Chloe was such a little sweetheart …
thought Sarah, suddenly wanting to make amends for that argument over the breakfast table.

I need to keep that balance,
she thought.

She entered the library, smiling at the bustle and chaos. She looked around: there must have been twenty toddlers all in a circle, most of them spellbound as one of the library assistants read from a picture book.

In a far corner, mums, dads, and carers drank coffee and chatted.

The rest of the library looked empty — but in the reference section, she saw Patrick Andrews at a table, his head in his hands, ears covered.

She walked over.

In front of him she saw stacks of books and newspaper cuttings files. She pulled out a chair opposite and sat.

He looked up.

“God. Bloody kids,” he said.

“Thursday morning story club,” said Sarah. “It’s a Cherringham institution.”

“What nonsense. Libraries are for study. Peace and quiet. Not silly, squealing children.”

Sarah waited. This wasn’t an argument she wanted to get involved in.

“So, how’s the puzzle going?”

“He did this on purpose, you know. Quentin
knew
I’d have to use the library to research his damned clues. Knew it would be like this. Typical, bloody typical.”

“I’m not sure your brother could have planned his own death to hit a timetable, Mr. Andrews—”

“Pah! You don’t know Quentin. He could bring down a government on the far side of the world just by clicking his fingers. Always with his secrets … like moves on a chess board.”

“Really? I hadn’t realised he was so powerful.”

“Powerful? Absolutely. Corrupt too. Even immoral.”

No love lost here,
she thought.

In the far corner of the library the children started to sing together.

She watched Andrews turn and shake his head.

“Oh, for God’s sake …”

Then he picked up one of the books, pushed back his chair, and stood.

“Come on,” he said. ”I have to get out of this infant hellhole!”

He turned on his heels and headed for the door.

Sarah got up and followed him.

*

When she reached the lobby there was no sign of Andrews. She stepped out onto the street — and spotted him on the opposite pavement, just outside the door to her own office, squinting, peering up at the roof of the Village Hall.

Sarah crossed the road and joined him.

“God. I should have known,” said Andrews. “We did this on a treasure hunt when we were children. I’d completely forgotten about it. Course I was only a toddler. Quent was ten years older.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews — I don’t really—”

He took hold of her arm and pointed to the clock tower of the Village Hall.

“Eight letters. Bramwell! His sword cuts time in half! It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Is it one of the clues?” said Sarah.

“Well, of course it’s one of the bloody clues! Don’t they teach you anything?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m totally lost.”

She watched him peer at her, almost piteously.

“See that hour hand on the clock there? It was constructed in 1805 from the broken sword of Sir Richard Bramwell. Eight letters.”

“Ah, I see. His sword cuts time in half. Yes — Bramwell.”

“Of course, the clue’s only half of it. Bramwell murdered his younger brother. So it’s a little ‘dig’– do you see — from Quent. To me. He’s saying — I wanted to kill you, Patrick.”

“Really? Or perhaps he was saying — you wanted to kill me?” said Sarah.

She watched Andrews carefully for any sign, for a tell …

“Who didn’t?” he said. “Not exactly the most beloved man in the universe!”

Sarah hadn’t expected that.

“What do you mean?” she said. “From the numbers at the funeral, I imagined he was very popular.”

Andrews snorted.

“To his legion of puzzle solvers perhaps … Let’s go and get a drink.”

“I’d rather have a coffee.”

“Coffee? Don’t be ridiculous. The Angel’s just about to open.”

Once again, Sarah watched Andrews turn and walk away from her. Crossing the road, he narrowly missed a bicycle, forcing it to swerve, then disappeared through the main door of the Angel.

Sarah knew she had to get back to work — but this conversation couldn’t wait.

*

Sarah sipped her coffee and watched Andrews raise a pint of lager to his lips.

“That’s better,” he said, finally putting down the glass. He looked around the empty pub. “Fire could do with lighting. Cheap sods. No wonder this place is always so bloody empty in the mornings.”

So this is how Patrick Andrews spends his days,
thought Sarah.
Railing at the universe. How very sad.

“You said there might have been people who wanted to kill your brother?”

“Apart from me? Oh yes.”

“You going to tell me who?”

“Hmm, well. For starters — most of the countries of the Middle East, South Africa, Pakistan, India, China … rather a long list!”

“Please, Mr. Andrews — I was being serious.”

“So am I. You do know what my brother did, don’t you?”

“He worked for the government.”

“Ha! Right! He was a bloody spy! He supported dictators. He subverted the democratic process. He protected the establishment. Those bastards in Westminster.”

“And you didn’t agree with him?”

“I hate everything he stood for.”

“Then why is he leaving you this money?”

“You mean if I crack this damn puzzle first? Oh, I doubt it will be coming my way. The whole thing’s bound to be fixed. I imagine that bitch Tricia will get it all, no doubt.”

What a charming fellow,
she thought.

“You two … have history as well?”

Sarah watched him sink back in his chair and fold his arms. He stared at her.

“Hang on. You don’t know about her, do you?” he said.

“I know she was your brother’s lover—”

“Oh, that viper Tricia was a lot more than his lover. He
ran
her.”

It took a few seconds for Sarah to understand what Andrews had said.

“You mean — she was a spy too?”

“Bravo! Your light bulbs do eventually go on, hmm? And she was another nasty piece of work too.”

“But why leave her the money? I thought he dumped her?”

“The way I heard it — he was
told
to dump her. Bit of a security risk apparently. There was some … trouble. Don’t know what. Very hush-hush. Never got to the bottom of it. So Quent pulled down the shutters — and she was out.”

“And — in terms of the will — you think he still had a soft spot for her?”

Andrews didn’t answer. She saw he had an empty glass.

“You want another?”

“Kind of you,” he said. “Time for a Jameson’s I think.”

She got up to get the drink.

“Large one, might as well, while you’re there,” he said, smiling at her. “In for a penny …”

When Sarah got to the bar, she took her mobile from her handbag and called Grace.

She had two meetings with prospective clients later in the morning — but she knew Grace could cover for her.

Patrick Andrews might not be the nicest company — but she felt he still had plenty of dirt to dish on the other puzzlers.

And suddenly Jack’s notion that her father’s genteel chess partner had been murdered was beginning to sound all too credible …

Jack slowed as he walked past the Angel.

With its low ceilings and Tudor windows the place was always dark inside even on the sunniest days. But he could just make out Sarah at a table in the corner, deep in conversation with Andrews.

She’d texted him to say the brother was talking — and right now he was happy to leave her to it.

He walked farther up the High Street to where it broadened into a car park. Here, for centuries, there’d been a weekly livestock market. These days, the space was filled with lines of cars.

But not all the historic connections had gone. In one corner, under an old and spreading oak — Jack saw the village stocks.

And next to them, in a drab raincoat, he saw Emma Carter, standing, staring into the distance.

“Emma,” he said, as he approached.

“Oh — Mr. Brennan …”

“Jack, please.”

He watched her nod and brush her hair out of her face.

“Interesting place to meet,” he said, gesturing to the stocks.

“It’s one of the clues,” she said. “I think.”

Jack looked down at the ancient device: two slabs of gnarled wood held together with a hinge of iron. And in the slabs two round holes. With the hinge locked shut, the victim’s arms would be pinioned.

“Depending on the crime,” said Jack, “the perpetrator could be in there for days at a time — so I’m told.”

“Horrible thing,” said Emma. “Having to stand there … people throwing vegetables at you.”

“Or worse,” said Jack.

“Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

This is going to be like pulling teeth,
thought Jack. “So what exactly do you think is the clue?”

He watched her pull out a tattered piece of paper from her handbag, then put her glasses on.

“
‘Bad time to get into stocks.’
” she read, slowly, then took her glasses off. “I thought the answer might be written on the stocks. But there’s nothing there. So maybe it means — flowers? You know — stocks?”

“Wish I could help,” said Jack. “But I’m useless at these things so even if I could help — I wouldn’t
be
much help, if you know what I mean!”

“Hmm, yes. I think so.” She paused. “Perhaps it means shares — you know? Like stocks and shares.”

“Maybe. It sure is a tricky one,” Jack said. “How are you doing with the other clues?”

“I’ve only got two,” she said with a sigh. “It’s a shame isn’t it? All that money. I had thought that maybe Mr. Andrews would leave me a little bit, you know? A thousand or something? As a thank you. It does happen sometimes. It’s not a lot of money, is it? Not to him, but it would be to me.”

She looked away, and Jack had to think about her partner, the bullish Marty.

Would that money mean a shot at freedom for her?

“But you see — this competition’s a bit silly really, I don’t know why I’m doing it. Fact, I think maybe I’ll stop. I should be trying to get another job, get on with my life … not running around fooling myself I could get rich.”

Jack watched her. Trying to picture her with the big, blustering figure of Marty, her supposed ‘boyfriend’. Could she have done something that led to Quentin Andrews death?

It was hard to imagine.

But then Jack had seen violent men — and abused women — act in dark partnerships before now.

“Did you like him?” he said.

“Mr. Andrews?” said Emma. “Oh yes, he was lovely. Most of the time. And so polite.”

“How long did you work for him?”

“Ooh, I don’t know. Three years? Four?”