Cherringham - Episode 16-18 E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Lübbe
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Cherringham: Crime Series Compilations
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 396

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Jack's a retired ex-cop from New York, seeking the simple life in Cherringham. Sarah's a Web designer who's moved back to the village find herself. But their lives are anything but quiet as the two team up to solve Cherringham's criminal mysteries.

This compilation contains episodes 16 - 18:

THE LAST PUZZLE
When amiable old village eccentric Quentin Andrews dies, the good folk of Cherringham are astonished at the crowd that turns up to his funeral. But even more astonished are the beneficiaries of his will: Quentin has left a veritable fortune to whomever is the first who can solve an intricate 'Cherringham crossword.' That puzzle is only the first of many that Jack and Sarah will uncover as they follow the treasure hunt for clues and learn the truth about who Quentin Andrews really was. And the biggest mystery of them all ... was he - in fact - murdered?

FINAL CUT
When a big movie production comes to Cherringham, complete with lords, ladies, and flashing swords, the whole village is abuzz with excitement. But when a series of dangerous accidents threatens the life of the young lead, Zoe Harding, Sarah and Jack get involved. Are these really accidents? Or could they be something more sinister - even deadly? Who is trying to destroy the career of the beautiful young star - and why?

THE VANISHING TOURIST
When an American tourist goes missing in Cherringham, the local police don't see reason for concern - people often wander away from such tours. But when that tourist's sister shows up from New York, desperately looking for answers, Jack and Sarah become convinced there's more to the disappearance than meets the eye. Soon, they are entangled in a mystery with a secret history of betrayal, sacrifice, dishonour ... and death.

Cherringham is a serial novel à la Charles Dickens, with a new mystery thriller released each month. Set in the sleepy English village of Cherringham, the detective series brings together an unlikely sleuthing duo: English web designer Sarah and American ex-cop Jack. Thrilling and deadly - but with a spot of tea - it's like Rosamunde Pilcher meets Inspector Barnaby. Each of the self-contained episodes is a quick read for the morning commute, while waiting for the doctor, or when curling up with a hot cuppa.

Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid 90's, creating content and working on projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and - most recently - the successful crime fiction series Cherringham. Now into its second season of 12 novellas, Cherringham is popular around the world and has been adapted as a series of audiobooks in Germany.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

The authors

Main Characters

A Cosy Crime Series Compilation

Copyright

The Last Puzzle

Final Cut

The Vanishing Tourist

Next Compilation — Episodes 19—21

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.

The authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.

Main Characters

Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife two years ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.

Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Three years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIESCOMPILATION

Episode 16—18

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2016 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

Edited by Sean Sinico

Project editor: Lori Herber, Kathrin Kummer

Cover illustration © shutterstock: Buslik | Bastian Kienitz | Steve Heap

Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-2127-2

www.bastei-entertainment.com

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

The Last Puzzle

1. Checkmate

Brrr … thought Michael Edwards as he stepped out of his BMW estate and started up the steps to his good friend Quentin Andrews’ elegant townhouse — one of five that made up Cherringham Crescent.

The house, with its classic entrance flanked by two white columns, seemed more suited to an exclusive street in Holland Park than the quiet village of Cherringham.

But for those who were well-to-do and didn’t want to live in the sprawling countryside, amid the rolling hills and meandering Thames, the houses on the Crescent were a perfect alternative.

And Michael loved the place.

When he came for his weekly chess game with Quentin, played over a carefully selected single malt, it always made him feel that he had — in fact — been transported back to London.

As much as he loved the village, part of him missed the pulse and excitement of that great city.

That famous Samuel Johnson quote … so apt: when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.

Now, after having had a quick dinner with his wife, he knocked on the door, and then rang the bell.

He knew that Quentin enjoyed these weekly gatherings as much as he did.

It wasn’t just about the chess — though they’d had some epic battles on the sixty-four squares.

No, it was the conversation. Michael loved discussing politics, foreign policy, and world affairs with his friend. Though Quentin obviously had some governmental background — which he never seemed interested in revealing — and Michael himself had lived a life in the services, they tended to discuss things on, well, a loftier scale.

The emergence of the new African economies. The challenge of maintaining a military in a dire economy. America and its role in the world was always a favourite topic. Had the great superpower lost its way, would it be able to find it again?

That — and the game, and the single malts made for a rich evening indeed.

But now, standing at the door, so decidedly chilly — there was still no answer from within.

He rang the bell again, hearing it chime inside the Georgian house. Then, gloves on, Michael gave some hard raps to the door.

His breath made clouds billow from him as if he needed reminders of how cold this late February evening was.

“Come on, Quentin,” he said to no one. “Open the bloody door.”

Still — nothing.

Michael looked away. Should he dig out his phone, give the man a call? Had he dozed off after his own quiet dinner?

Quickly — and clumsily with his frozen fingers — Michael slid out his mobile, a device that apparently did everything but make tea.

Most of its features were wasted on Michael, who remembered the days when a phone was just a phone.

He had to slip off a glove to access the ‘contact’ list, search for the name and press ‘call’.

Then — up to his ear, to listen, ready to chide his friend for leaving him out here, at the entrance, freezing his—

But it just rang, and rang … and, after seven rings, went to answerphone.

Michael didn’t leave a message.

No, because, after the doorbell ringing and the knocks — and now a call — to have only silence, he was suddenly worried about his old friend.

He grabbed the doorknob, expecting the door to be locked but with some surprise, he felt it open.

That’s odd, thought Michael.

And he walked in out of the cold.

*

As soon as he was across the entrance, shutting the door quickly behind him, he called out loudly, “Quentin. Where the heck are you? Lost your hearing, man?”

Michael took off his camel-coloured overcoat, and draped it on an elegant chair in the entrance hallway, topped it with his calfskin gloves.

“Quentin?” he said again.

Though the place was silent, lights were on.

And while Michael didn’t have an idea where Quentin was, or what may have happened, he now felt even more worried and confused.

He looked left, to the sitting room where the vintage chess set sat on its own claw-footed table, with two comfortable wingback chairs on either side for the combatants.

All ready for the evening.

The room though was empty.

He started for the stairs, again calling out his friend’s name …

“Quentin?”

He headed up the staircase that gently curved as it neared the first floor, passing Quentin’s small gallery of military paintings. Trafalgar, Waterloo, an impressionistic painting of the trenches and a bunch of ill-fated boys about to go over the top to face rattling machine guns.

Michael took the steps slowly, his hand on the polished wooden bannister, slow step after slow step.

He felt a dryness in his mouth, his heart racing no matter how slowly he took those steps towards the landing of the upper floor.

Three bedrooms up here … he knew from a tour Quentin had once delivered, his friend laughing at the very idea that he’d ever have a guest to stay in those extra rooms.

Apart from their weekly meeting, Quentin seemed a solitary individual, and happily so …

Michael said his name again, even though by now it seemed pointless.

He walked to the left, traversing the rich carpet runner with its plush pile, a genuine Persian that ran from one end of the landing to the other.

Until he reached the master bedroom — the door open, a light within.

A slight pause — before Michael continued.

*

He walked in.

And for a second he took in what he saw and tried to interpret it in the best way possible.

There was Quentin, in a classic silk smoking jacket, belt tight, but otherwise dressed as if going out for dinner.

He was sitting in an armchair that faced his tall armoire and a large table with fresh-cut flowers in front of the frosted-over windows that looked down on Cherringham Crescent.

His friend.

Leaning back in the chair, head back, legs splayed out.

For a moment relief flooded through Michael. He’s sleeping. That’s all. Old fellow, let a snooze get the better of him.

But almost immediately Michael recognised that his thought was borne of hope; desperate, foolish.

“Oh dear,” he said to the empty room.

He walked over to the chair, to his reclining friend and saw Quentin’s wide-open eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Quentin Andrews was dead.

Michael knew that Quentin wasn’t young any more, and had battled a number of illnesses of the type that seemed to rear their heads as one passed out of middle age into some other stranger and scarier land.

There had been heart issues. A hip operation a few years back. Quentin wasn’t one for talking much about such ailments, but he hadn’t fought going to the local doctor and even beyond to get the help he needed.

No — Quentin Andrews loved his life, and would do every sensible thing to see it continue as long as possible.

Now — that life was over.

Michael stood there, hardly noticing that he was shaking as he studied the scene.

To be so alone with someone who — quite clearly — had died not too long ago. A few hours maybe?

Then Michael looked across to the great chest of drawers, unadorned by the usual photos and memorabilia.

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 …

2. The Heirs … Apparently

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 …”

3. A Most Puzzling Will

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.

“They are contained inside this envelope …” Tony said, again picking up his letter opener and wielding it like a miniature rapier.

He slid it into one end of the envelope. A dramatic swish with the blade.

And Tony pulled out copies of the puzzle. A small note attached as well, Sarah could see.

Tony held that up and read it.

“Herein: one copy of said puzzle for each of my potential heirs, and duplicates for Mr. Standish and his designated observers.”

The solicitor fanned out the puzzles, their clues hidden in the folded sheets.

The four heirs all took a step forward.

Tony now stood up and as if firing the gun for the race of a lifetime, handed them each a puzzle.

And in an almost comical blur, Sarah watched the two men and Emma Carter bolt from the office, nearly barrelling into her and Jack, as they scrambled out of the door.

Only Tricia Guard remained, folding her sheet carefully and placing it in her handbag, before following the others out of the room.

Forty-eight hours, thought Sarah.

Ten million pounds.

And when they had finally all departed in near cartoon fashion, she had to laugh aloud.

4. Questions at the Pig

Lunch on me, Tony said.

Jack looked around at what had to be his favourite restaurant in Cherringham, or even the whole Cotswolds … the wonderful Spotted Pig.

And for lunch which Jack had never done the place was packed. Co-owner Julie racing around, taking orders, and bringing them to her husband Sam whose passion for locally sourced, sustainable foods was only matched by his desire to absolutely knock diners socks off with the taste.

Jack turned back to Tony. No need to do that.

None at all, Michael Edwards agreed.

But Tony insisted, and even ordered a lavish bottle of wine, again not a midday practice for Jack.

That crowd of heirs … Sarah said, taking a sip of the pricey Châteauneuf-duPape, was absolutely mad, Tony.