Cherringham - Episode 34-36 E-Book

Matthew Costello

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

Seitenzahl: 439

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

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 34 - 36.

THE SECRET OF BRIMLEY MANOR

Brimley Manor, home to an eccentric museum of oddities from its owner's lifetime of exotic travels also holds dark secrets. When a suspicious fire breaks out, the biggest question is ... was it just an accident?

TOO MANY LIES

When Cherringham's Council debates selling the historic village hall for development as a luxury restaurant and hotel, all of Cherringham is up in arms! But when the leader of the protestors is attacked after a raucous meeting and death threats are made, Jack and Sarah are asked to investigate ...

MURDER UNDER THE SUN

As the day of Grace's wedding approaches, it seems nothing can get in the way of the happy Cherringham event. But just days before, her father Len is suddenly arrested on suspicion of murder - a murder committed 30 years ago, and a thousand miles away. Can Jack and Sarah unearth the truth in time for him to walk his daughter down the aisle?

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, the successful crime fiction series Cherringham, and - most recently - the historical series Mydworth Mysteries.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

The authors

Main Characters

Title

Copyright

The Secret of Brimley Manor

Too Many Lies

Murder under the Sun

Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. The series is published in English, German and Finnish.

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.

Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.

Main Characters

Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective. 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. A few 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 34—36

Digital original edition

Copyright © 2021 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

Edited by: Eleanor Abraham

Project management: Kathrin Kummer

Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer

Cover illustration: © shutterstock: Shoot 24 | applevinci | naKornCreate

eBook production: Jilzov Digital Publishing, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7517-0236-2

Matthew CostelloNeil Richards

CHERRINGHAM

A COSY CRIME SERIES

The Secret of Brimley Manor

1. The Night Shift

Charlie Barrow got up from the simple wooden chair inside the small stone room — once an old coal cellar, he imagined.

Now, though, it was a place to pass the hours between his nightly walks through Brimley Manor. The room, dank and humid in summer, like it was now, but damp and chilly in the autumn and winter. Even with a portable heater it was almost unbearable in January or February.

Unbearable, that is, if Charlie hadn’t had his own little supply of personal anti-freeze.

Not too much, he knew.

Just a little nip, here and there.

Harder for Clifford, the gardener-cum-daytime-custodian, a considerably older fellow who, with kids often mucking about in the property, probably couldn’t hide away in here and have a dram of Famous Grouse now and then.

No, this night shift suited Charlie.

And the fact that he had to be up all night?

Not a problem at all. He could sleep while the wife was up, freed from her incessant chatter and the endless chores she was always discovering — or more likely, creating — for him in their little cottage on the other side of Cherringham.

The cottage — not much of a place but, like this job, perfect for him.

Charlie grabbed his torch, a large silver item packed with four hefty batteries. Tight in his hand, it looked more like a lethal truncheon. The light cast a bright, strong beam.

He slipped his small silver flask into his pocket, always aware of how many sips he had taken.

Needed to make it last till dawn.

Have that last blissful drop as the sun came up.

That is, if it wasn’t overcast. The weather was so mixed up lately that sometimes there was no sun to be seen while Charlie waited for Clifford to appear. The old fella, bleary-eyed from just waking up, paper cup of coffee in his hand as Charlie tipped an invisible hat and sailed off to his cottage.

Bit of a hike away, on the edge of Cherringham.

But again, that also suited Charlie just fine.

Leaving the car there, meant the wife could go off and busy herself with an errand of some sort.

Plants! That was her latest thing.

As if the bloody cottage wasn’t totally surrounded with all that God deemed fit to grow in this lovely corner of the world.

Never enough for my Edna, he thought.

Charlie quickly slipped his phone into his pocket. No walkie-talkie needed here since, well, the old Brimley manor house was his purview alone.

“My purview …” he said, liking the sound of the word. The meaning — he guessed — would stump anyone from the current dimwit generation with their Facebooking, and Twitter-this, Insta-that.

“Bollocks, all of it,” he said aloud.

He enjoyed the company and comfort provided by his own words.

And then — all ready — he marched up the three stone steps, from the small pseudo guardhouse and out into the humid night air.

Charlie certainly didn’t hurry as he made his way through what had been — back in the manor house’s prime — some sort of a sunken garden.

Now, it was just another neglected and overgrown spot. These days, more pressing areas received the attention of the overworked Clifford and that young lad that helped him. Those two — barely able to keep the grounds from looking like a dump.

And he had to marvel — imagine! — this place, managed by the mighty Conservation Trust!

“Managed,” he said, his voice low, muttering. “If this is bloody managing, no wonder the whole country’s going to hell in a handcart!”

More steps.

Handcart. Now, just what is that? Charlie thought. Some kind of wheelbarrow?

More steps rose up from the sunken flat area of weeds and dead flowers to the gravel path that led to the manor house.

It was dark, save for a few lights outside that barely outlined the hulking shape of the big house and the other outbuildings.

No impressive “sound and light” show taking place herenightly, he thought. Not like some of the Trust’s properties in the area.

Oh no. Brimley Manor? Way down the spending list — for years.

As he reached the top of the steps, he turned and looked left to the small farmhouse, part of the estate, just a couple of minutes’ walk down the roadway that led from the east end of the building. That house, probably no larger than Charlie’s own modest cottage.

But where — apparently — the lone surviving heir of the Brimley “fortunes” lived.

The Honourable Peregrine Brimley.

Honourable? That was a bit of a moot point.

Not that Charlie had ever seen him.

That cottage must have been, he thought, part of the deal for letting the Conservation Trust take over the manor house and run it as — what? — a museum?

Some place of historical value?

Charlie shook his head at the thought — it was hardly either one of those.

Another glance down the roadway, to the small farmhouse. A few warm yellow lights on. That house attached to some fields, a vegetable patch, couple of pigs, a chicken coop.

Not much of a farm to speak of, but apparently the Brimley heir was able to get by, selling whatever he grew to the local shops and restaurants.

Charlie, having seen about every inch of the manor house, often wondered just what kind of nutter was Peregrine Brimley?

Was said offspring — grandchild or whatever — as off his rocker as the original Brimley?

Well, as long as Charlie’s duties were confined to night time, he doubted he’d ever get the chance to find out.

Charlie turned his attention back to the house looming above him in the darkness, the walls thick with ancient ivy.

Up ahead, a flight of broad stone stairs. The stone, a traditional Cotswolds yellow, like the manor house itself.

Leading to massive wooden doors, as if ready to permit entry to amazing visitors from important places — the great and the mighty.

But why on earth would they ever visit this place?

“A mad house.” That’s how Charlie described it to his mates when he met them at the Ploughman’s on his one night off a week. “Stuff in there,” he’d say, “well, you just wouldn’t believe it.”

And his friends, couple of pints in, all said they should come visit, on the one day a month that it was actually open to visitors!

Fat chance of that happening.

Charlie paused at the top of the stairs and fished out a plastic card, his key that opened those great doors. A small concession to modernity that the cash-strapped Trust seemed to have been able to afford.

Things were mighty tight these days.

Never more so than inside here, Charlie thought.

The door popped open.

Up to his right was one of the few CCTV cameras recording whoever was about to enter.

Every 24 hours, the recording erased. No high-tech security system or monitoring taking place here.

Just a handful of cameras.

To protect all its treasures. Ha!

And then — knowing that as close as the air was out here, inside, was going to be even worse — he entered Brimley Manor.

2. Something in the Air

Once inside, Charlie knew that he’d better look dutiful, as he shut the door behind him tight, and slipped on the light of his massive torch.

No house lights on — those were the rules. Dodgy wiring at night too much of a risk, he guessed.

Look sharp now! he thought. You’re being recorded,

He knew that above him sat another CCTV camera designed to catch anyone upon entering. But now it was seeing only Charlie, off to begin his nightly rounds.

Three times a night, same drill.

Why three times? Wouldn’t one check in the dead of night suffice?

Still, they were paying for his services, so why complain?

Not that it was such a princely sum. The funds allotted to his salary were at the same measly level as the other facilities in the house.

Like the cheap and scarce cameras.

Only four of them in the whole place. Though that fella from the Conservation Trust, Mr Jessop, had said “next year, expect the full Monty!” Cameras — linked to a security service — in each room. Maybe even motion sensors, inside and out.

All of which would most likely make Charlie’s services he imagined, redundant.

Torch light on, Charlie took a breath. The rule was always to begin on the first floor, and work his way down, following the same trail.

Through the rooms filled with Brimley’s weirdness.

And Charlie had to admit, not a night went by during that slow walk through what was dubbed “the collection” that didn’t unsettle him.

You’d have to be made of stone, he thought, not to get a little rattled.

All that old and strange junk in every room?

And that funny feeling he sometimes got that he was being … well … watched.

Impossible, he knew. Come six o’clock, all the daytime staff cleared off home, sharpish: that new girl doing the research, Clifford the gardener, the young lad helping him …

And anyway — you needed one of these fancy plastic keys to get in these days and they were like gold dust. So no way could there be anybody actually in the house at night.

Although …

Couple of times these last few months he could swear he’d seen a figure just out of the corner of his eye, disappearing down the corridor.

Or a shape — moving — reflected in one of the glass cabinets.

And once he thought he heard footsteps. Even a low voice, muttering, barely audible.

Not that he’d told anyone, mind. Only Edna.

And she’d had a good laugh about it. Tried to spook him for a week after — popping up behind him and saying “boo!”

Not worth the bother, reporting that to the Trust either. They’d only think he’d lost his marbles and get someone else for the night shift.

Maybe I have lost it? he thought, laughing to himself. I’d be the last to know, wouldn’t I?

He reached the broad staircase, the deep maroon rug only looking red where his torchlight hit it. The rest, murky black, the hand rail barely visible.

He started up, when something hit his nostrils.

Charlie was used to the various smells to be found in the old place, depending on whatever bizarre room you happened to find yourself in.

The smells of age. Of decay. Of cloth material growing sere, crumbly. Yellowed paper racing towards disintegration.

The glue of some exhibits discoloured, cracking.

Even rooms with mostly wood and metal, like the vintage bicycle room, even those smelled of age and strangeness.

But this …

He stopped.

Another sniff, deeper now.

No doubt what it was.

Smoke!

He inhaled deep again, and confirmed that it was definitely a smoky smell, coming from upstairs, but still faint here.

Right here, bottom of the stairs, barely could smell it.

But he pointed his torch up.

And while that light caught the paintings of who-knows-who and who-knows-what lining the staircase — and with one final grisly figure in a huge painting glaring down from the top — he could see, hanging ghostlike in the dark at the top of the stairs, the thinnest whisper of smoke.

Charlie, well past his prime, well past any days where speed could be summoned, did his best, hand grasping at the nearby banner, to race up the creaky stairs.

*

Charlie nearly tripped at the top, somehow missing that one last step, fumbling with the giant torch.

He stopped, scanning left, right, looking for the tell-tale trail of smoke, peering into the darkness, trying to work out where the smoke was coming from.

Again, doing exactly what he had been instructed to.

So important, he had been told, in any emergency — pipes bursting, fire, electrical problem, anything — to determine exactly where it was happening, to guide the fire team there so they wouldn’t waste their time.

Losing valuable minutes.

In fact, what Charlie really felt like doing was turning around, getting the hell out of the old place, and then alerting the fire brigade.

Let them handle it!

But now he saw wisps of the smoke to the left, in the corridor — and Charlie moved in that direction cautiously …

Passing through — as he knew he would — his least favourite room, the one filled with dolls.

Hundreds of glass and plastic eyes looking at him.

“The stuff of bloody nightmares,” he had told Edna.

Now they seemed to be waiting for him again, dead eyes all expectant as he resolutely moved through the room to a narrow chamber.

On either side of this tight hallway, built into the wall, glass cases.

Filled with thimbles!

At least, that’s what Charlie thought they were.

But in this hallway, still only the faint smell of the smoke.

Which damn room was it coming from? Could be anywhere, all these rooms such funny shapes, a right old patchwork, a proper maze.

To the next room, opening up to see a dozen chunky dress mannequins, all wearing Japanese armour from centuries ago.

Samurai, he imagined.

Breastplates. Curved, ornate swords nearly as large as the figures, strange helmets that looked far less functional than their European counterparts (with a Brimley room devoted to that medieval armour all the way on the other side of the manor house).

Slower now.

He could feel the smoke at the back of his throat.

With his free hand, he dug out his phone, to have it at the ready.

More steps, such cautious steps now, as the smoke thickened.

Until he reached another narrow hallway that led into the next room.

The music room.

Least that’s what he called it …

Filled with instruments of every kind.

Old, ancient instruments, kind of thing Charlie was sure nobody played these days.

And then in the corner of the room he saw the forked flickers of a flame.

He backed away, fast as he could, bumping into a suit of Samurai armour, sending the wobbly swordsman falling down with a loud clang, making even more noise as it bumped into another full suit of armour, that smashed backwards into a glass display case, the noise suddenly deafening in the still-quiet manor house.

Charlie had the phone out, screen glowing, even as he took more clumsy steps back, to the hallway out.

Hitting the number that was at the top of his screen.

One ring, two rings.

Then a voice — calm. Almost too calm!

“Emergency, which service do you require?”

“Fire!” Charlie yelled, as if sharing the bad news. “We got a fire.”

“Putting you through …”

“Bloody hell!” said Charlie. “Can’t you—?”

“Fire service,” came a new voice. “What’s your location, caller?”

“Brimley Manor, Cherringham. Fire! There’s a fire. A bloody fire! Upstairs! First floor,” he said, hurrying on. “I can see it now! Room to the left, past the room with Japanese armour. Smoke spreading.”’

The voice finally cut him off.

“On our way,” the voice simply said. Then, as if stating the obvious, “Sir, please leave the house now and get as far away as you can, the engine will be with you shortly.”

And with the alert sounded, Charlie turned his backward crawl into a stumbling bolt, racing back past the perhaps now-doomed dolls, to the stairs.

Take care here … don’t want a nasty trip … tumble down. House going up in flames! That would be bad …

So, the steps, one at a time, hand on the bannister as if locked on.

To the door.

Always so wedged into the frame, needing a real hard yank to open.

Remembering now, even in his panicked dash, to press his key card against the plastic square with the small illuminated red dot near the doorknob.

Quick thought: What if electricity in the house is damaged, and the door doesn’t open?

What then?

But he heard a click, saw the small red dot turn green and, with as strong a tug as he could, pulled open the door.

The night air had never tasted so good.

And always one to follow good advice, he hurried down the stone steps, across the gravel driveway, and even kept going past his small stone guard house to the side.

Getting as much distance between himself and the fire as he could imagine.

Not looking back.

And as he kept on moving away for just a few more moments, he heard the siren.

The fire brigade on its way.

He’d be safe.

That was good!

But Brimley Manor?

Who knew?

And save for the measly job and the money it offered him … who the hell really cared?

3. Anton Jessop of the Conservation Trust

Jack had found parking not far from Huffington’s. With the peak tourist season passed, fall in the air, it became a tad easier to find a free space in Cherringham’s Market Square.

And with his “new” 1962 MGA — still not a large car though certainly roomier than his old Sprite — he could easily fit in tight spots.

The sleek, racing-green MGA, on an open straight road, a Roman road? Pretty amazing to push its 1600cc engine, and see just how speedy it could be.

Jack guessed it would perform real well in a road rally — not an activity that he had yet indulged in.

But with this beauty? Maybe someday …

Might be something fun to try.

And as he entered Huffington’s — getting, as always, bright smiles from the staff, none of them ever quite used to the novelty of an American in Cherringham, it seemed — he spotted Sarah sitting at what he thought of as their “usual table”.

Near the back, away from the bustle, and when not lunch time, tea time, or morning rush, always a quiet spot to chat.

About Cherringham and crime.

She was sitting with a man who, she had told Jack, wanted rather urgently to meet them. Apparently, the elderly gentleman in the dark suit wanted to discuss “a matter of utmost urgency and discretion”.

And Jack had responded “You know me, Sarah, I’m a sucker for such ‘matters’.”

At that she had laughed.

Now as he made his way over, a third chair awaiting him, Sarah spotted him, waved, and Jack joined them.

*

The man rose from the table, nodded and shook Jack’s hand.

“Mr Brennan—”

“Jack, please.”

Funny, how he always thought how “Mr Brennan” never sounded quite right.

Mr Brennan? That was his dad — tough old guy, hard working.

But Jack, to all those who worked with him, both above and below in the ranks of the NYPD, was always “Jack”.

And he liked that just fine …

“I was just explaining to your colleague here that — oh my name, by the way, Anton Jessop — I’m on the Board of the Conservation Trust.”

Jack nodded as the man produced two business cards.

Jack looked at it. Conservation Trust. Having visited many of the historical sites in the area, he knew that the Trust was responsible for maintaining and running most of them.

Then Janey, a waitress who never seemed to let Jack’s visits go unnoticed, was at his shoulder.

“Sorry, Jack. Get you something? Your usual?”

Jack’s usual — these days at least — tea, no milk. A scone, if any were still to be had, with a pat or two of butter. His New York City regimen of endless cups of joe … gone. Pleasantly so, he observed.

And the bakery items here? About as close to paradise as one could get.

“Great, Janey.”

The grey-haired woman beamed again, then turned.

Jack nodded at Sarah, who was enjoying her own tea and a scone.

It had been a while since they had done any ‘work’ together. They’d had a few dinners over the past month, catching up on her kids, and news of her assistant Grace’s wedding plans (and boy, was that date looming close).

“Yes, um, so there has been an unfortunate incident at one of our local properties, Brimley Manor. Perhaps you’ve visited it? Driven past it, maybe?”

Not only had Jack not visited it, but the name rang no bell.

Guess, he thought, there are always things to be discovered, even in a small village in the Cotswolds.

“Can’t say I have.”

Sarah jumped in. “It’s not terribly far from here, Jack — tucked away off the Hook Norton road. And not really open to the public. Isn’t that right, Mr Jessop?”

Jessop nodded. “’Fraid so, with the budget cuts and all, and the place in need of work, a lot of work … we have actually been opening to the public only one day a month.”

Once a month? Jack thought. Why even bother?

“We do our best — of course — to maintain the place, and its collection. The grounds, as well.”

“Collection?” Jack said, as his tea arrived, accompanied by an absolutely beautiful looking scone, with two pats of butter on the plate.

“Yes, the collection of Mr Horatio Brimley. Eccentric old chap. Travelled the world in the 1920s and gathered a rather eclectic array of items.”

Jack turned to Sarah. “You’ve been there Sarah?”

“Can’t say I have. Like I said, I knew of its existence. Assumed it would eventually open full time. Like the rest of the Trust’s sites.”

“Of course, that was … is the plan.”

Jack noticed that Jessop still hadn’t responded to his query about the collection within the manor house. Collection of what?

Some secret there, Jack wondered?

“And the incident?” Jack said, picking up a dainty butter knife, splitting open the scone, and then smearing butter inside.

While Jessop answered, he took a bite.

Heaven indeed …

“A fire, I’m afraid. Destroyed one room completely, and did some major damage to an adjoining space. Fortunately, our night watchman had already begun his rounds, alerted the emergency services. Still, as I said, one room, absolutely destroyed. Everything in it.”

“Which was?”

“Musical instruments. From all over the world. Some dating back hundreds of years.”

“How awful,” said Sarah. “I imagine they were valuable?”

“The actual instruments? Hmm, surprisingly not. Luckily, we have had someone going through all the items during the last few months. Cataloguing them, you see. All very interesting, to be sure. But real cash value?” Jessop shook his head. “Not really. Curios, copies, oddments. Still, there is a loss — it will all add up. Damage to the room, the house itself. The sprinklers in the second room made a mess of things there. When the fire hoses went on, that water went down to the ground floor — another room’s ‘treasures’ ruined, I’m afraid.”

Jack nodded.

Interesting and all, he thought. But why did this Jessop, on behalf of the Trust, contact me and Sarah?

He caught Sarah look at him.

Probably wondering the same thing.

He took another bite of his oh-so-delicious scone. And, as if passing a football, Sarah did the smallest of nods, and turned back to Jessop.

*

Sarah could guess that Jack was — well — as confused as she was.

Fire. Caused some damage. Significant loss.

But why us? she thought.

Jessop paused — perhaps sensing that question.

“The insurance company, of course, has initiated an investigation. Until that’s completed, we will get no payment. Any restoration work delayed. But everyone on the Board unanimously felt that we should have our own people, if you like, look into the incident. If the insurance company discovers something or not, it’s best we know exactly what happened. How it happened.”

Sarah nodded again: “Was there anything suspicious about it?”

“Suspicious? Ah, well that’s not for me to say. But I’m doubtful. Brimley Manor is an old place, just about being maintained. God, one can only imagine what the electrical system was like.”

“You mentioned sprinklers damaging a second room,” Jack said, “but not where the fire started?”

A nod from Jessop.

“The sprinklers are original to the house, going back fifty years or so. Not exactly state of the art, I’m afraid. And not in every room. It was felt that if an accidental tripping of a sprinkler happened, the entire contents of the room could be destroyed. So the music room — all the aged wood of the instruments — well, it simply did not have one.”

“Giving the fire an opportunity — however it was started — to take hold?”

At that, Sarah watched as Jack turned to her. The quickest of looks.

And it was almost as if she could see the gears in his mind clicking, connecting.

Questions leading to suspicions. Suspicions leading to theories.

Jack’s scone had disappeared. But Sarah could see that her detective partner — sitting across from the representative of the Trust — was engaged.

“So, um,” Jack said slowly, “why contact us, specifically?”

Jessop took a breath, almost as if the answer to that simply must be obvious.

“We — some members of the Trust and I — well, we’ve asked around, as to who might help us. Including my good friend in the village, the solicitor Tony Standish.”

“Know him well,” Jack said.

Jessop paused and nodded at that, waiting a moment before continuing. “Yes, well, quite consistently from everyone, I must tell you, even from the local constabulary — your two names kept popping up.”

Another breath.

“We can pay your usual fee, of course, to investigate the fire. Interview all the staff, the night watchman … just to be absolutely sure we are not missing anything.”

Jessop squinted as if afraid of the answer.

“Think you might consider taking it on?”

Jack grinned, then a look to Sarah as she answered …

*

“Usual fee? I’m afraid that Jack and I, well our usual fee is usually zero.”

“Oh,” Jessop said, a bit disappointed at that.

She hurried to explain. “What we do, we do gratis, Mr Jessop. If we feel we can help someone who needs help. And I’m sure you can find a professional who investigates such things.”

But Jessop shook his head. “I’m afraid with all your recommendations, and being local, the Trust would be most disappointed.”

Then Sarah had an idea.

She looked at Jack. “I don’t know. Things are pretty quiet in the office; the holiday madness over for another summer. Think you might be interested?”

And she knew the answer to that one.

Those gears, clicking away? He was already interested.

A nod. “Sure.”

She turned back to Jessop. “As to our fee, how about whatever you would be paying, you donate to a worthy cause of our choice?”

“Splendid. All and sundry will be most pleased to hear this news.”

Then Jessop produced a manila envelope.

“The papers in there have everything you will need: all the people who work at the property, contact numbers for the Trust, my personal contact details. I shall definitely need you to keep me posted. Oh, and I have alerted everyone on that list that we will — in addition to the number crunchers from the insurance company — have some people looking into the incident.”

Sarah reached out and pulled the envelope close.

The title in block letters on the folder itself was interesting.

Brimley Manor Investigation

“And I shall warn them all that they will be contacted by you two.”

And at that, Jessop stood up, as if his good fortune might dissipate if he lingered.

“I’ll do that right now.”

And he stuck his hand out to Jack, then to her. A quick shake, a smile; and the funny little man from the Trust, so precise in his words, sailed to the exit, and out of Huffington’s.

Sarah looked at Jack.

“Well — shall we?”

And equally bemused, Jack grinned back as Sarah undid the clasp of the envelope and opened it to see just who they might be talking to over the next few days.

4. A Not-So-Guided Tour

Sarah leaned back in the passenger seat of Jack’s new car, enjoying the wind in her hair, this warm September afternoon.

“You still miss the Sprite?” she said, looking at Jack, shades on, his body filling the tan leather seat of the sports car.

“Hmm. Sure. Had a lot of fun in that car — didn’t we?”

“That we did,” said Sarah. Thinking back to some hair-raising chases, night-long surveillances, careful tailing …

“But you know — this car — heck, it’s built for a guy like me,” said Jack. “Comfy, too. Sitting here — could be in one of those armchairs, what do they call them, all electric …?”

“It’ll come to me.”

“And boy … put my foot down? Like this?” Sarah heard the engine snarl as Jack kicked up a gear and hit the pedal — the car shot forward along the empty road. “And I can’t see anybody in these parts catching us.”

“Hmm, yes. Speed limits? Cops? Remember?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Well, just saying, you could give anyone a run for their money.”

He slowed down.

Looking ahead, she saw a battered old signpost to Brimley village.

“There you go. Think this could be our turn.”

Jack slowed some more — and they turned off the main road, down a narrow country lane, stone walls soon pressing tightly in on either side.

“I meant to ask you what you made of Mr Jessop yesterday?” she said.

“Hmm.”

“You had that expression …”

He grinned at that. “Go on.”

“The ‘something not quite right here’ look.”

Jack laughed. “True fact. Guess I was trying to figure out why he needs us. Kinda overkill, hmm? What with the insurance people giving it a close look.”

“I know. But I looked up Brimley Manor online last night. Dug around. The Trust has big plans for the house. Part of a new national policy. Multi-million investment.”

“Ah. So — maybe wanting to make sure there’s no bad apples lurking in the barrel?”

“Exactly. Or maybe Mr Jessop’s just — pardon my French — covering his ass?”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Jack, smiling.

Minutes later, they drove through a tiny hamlet — Brimley village perhaps? — and Sarah checked the map on her phone.

Hardly a village at all.

“Should be just a couple of hundred yards,” she said, peering ahead.

Round another blind bend, and there was Brimley Manor.

On a hill, just a hundred yards ahead, surrounded by a huddle of barns and buildings, the elegant ivy-covered building rose above them. Its soft Cotswolds stone caught the late sun, and there was a run of five or six windows on the top floor below tall chimneys and triangular eaves.

A “Conservation Trust” sign on the side of the road pointed to an almost-empty visitors’ car park where Jack swung the car round and parked facing the house, next to an old beaten-up Golf.

From this angle, Sarah saw Brimley Manor as its well-heeled visitors must have done hundreds of years ago: a grand residence enclosed in a formal walled garden. Its expansive front lawns were criss-crossed with gravel paths and dominated by a beautifully carved cherub fountain — said cherub pointing a pint-sized bow and arrow up to the sky.

To one side of the house, she saw more lawns, looking more in need of a mow, and a long glass hothouse, even from here, clearly filled with lush, green vegetation.

Inside, she could just see the dark shape of someone probably tending to the plants.

“Quite the place,” said Jack, turning the engine off.

Silence, now. Just the lowing of distant cows. The house and gardens so sheltered in this fold of valleys.

No wonder I’ve never been before, thought Sarah. With no sign on the main road, you’d never even know it was here.

Sarah followed Jack as he climbed out of the car.

“We’re closed,” came a voice from behind them.

Sarah turned, to see a white-haired man in a shabby tweed jacket and overalls emerge through a side gate, and stand, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Sarah looked at Jack, who raised his eyebrows.

“Such a warm greeting,” he said, and together they walked towards the man. “Guess the case starts here.”

*

Jack smiled and held out his hand.

“Jack Brennan,” he said. “And this is Sarah Edwards.”

Still wiping with the cloth, the man ignored Jack’s hand and just nodded.

“Charlie Barrow.”

“Mr Barrow — the night watchman, yes?” said Sarah.

A slight nod in response.

“I hope Mr Jessop told you we were coming,” she continued.

“He did,” said the man. “’Cause that’s why I’m here an hour before my shift is supposed to start, isn’t it? Otherwise, I wouldn’t even be here, right?”

The friendliness continues, Jack thought.

Then the watchman turned and walked ahead of them across the lawn towards the house.

Jack looked at Sarah and shrugged, then followed.

*

When they reached the front door, the man put a card against a reader and the lock popped open.

Jack took in the CCTV camera above the door, almost hidden in the thick ivy that swathed the house like a blanket.

Could be useful, he thought. If they kept the tapes.

“CCTV. Pretty good security then?” he said.

“Nah — it’s all show,” said Charlie, pushing open the door. “Done on the cheap, if you ask me.”

Even on the doorstep, Jack could smell the bitter smoky residue of the fire, so familiar from investigations back in NYC.

This fire — no victims.

But memories returned to him of other fires where he’d seen terrible sights. Some of his toughest days on the job.

They followed Charlie into a dark and stifling hallway and waited while he turned on the light switches.

Two ancient wall lamps flickered into dim life and Jack looked around: the room had low ceilings and wood-panelled walls, every inch covered with paintings, framed photos or maps.

Jack saw that everything was covered with a film of smoke and dust: it also seemed the debris and disturbance from the event had yet to be cleared away. Books, carpets, paintings, curtains and water-stained furniture had been piled up like garbage — smelly, sodden messes.

“Imagine … you’ll be wanting to see where it happened,” said Charlie, heading for a broad staircase that led upstairs.

“Yes. Thank you,” said Sarah.

“We’ll also need to talk to you,” said Jack.

Charlie stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned around.

Not pleased.

“Mr Jessop didn’t say anything about that,” said Charlie.

“Won’t take long,” said Sarah.

“Better not,” said Charlie. “I still got my shift, you know? Fire or no fire.”

“We will be fast. Mind if we call you Charlie?” asked Jack.

“If you have to,” said Charlie climbing the stairs.

Half way up, he paused and turned again:

“Well do come on, if you’re coming. I ain’t got all day. As you know.”

Jack darted a quick smile at Sarah — then together they climbed the stairs of Brimley Manor.

*

“Here’s where it started. Right here.”

Charlie Barrow stood in the centre of the music room, the place still rank from the fire damage, doused with water.

Sarah stepped into the room, Jack right behind her. She could see that the panelling had turned totally black in spots and, towards the back, one wall bore the signs of something being smashed into it, perhaps a fire axe, the exposed unburnt wood and shards sharply contrasting with the burnt surface.

And the air?

Barely breathable. Sarah had to force herself to take shallow breaths, or she’d gag.

But the room itself … save for all that damage … empty.

“So, all the musical instruments?” she said.

Charlie nodded, then turned to her.

Jack meanwhile seemed to be walking the perimeter of the room, bending down now and then, crouching in spots, rubbing his fingers along the wood.

“Well, I wasn’t here, when they came. I mean the insurance people. Clifford — he’s the gardener but he takes a turn on duty during the day when the house is open — he just said they came up. The instruments all in pieces, some burnt into blackened twigs. Couldn’t even tell they were bloody instruments.”

Jack got up from his crouch, wiping his blackened fingers on his jeans.

“They took all that away?”

The night guard nodded. “I suppose to look for any signs how the damn thing started.”

“No word on that?” Sarah asked.

“Not to my knowledge, but then,” Charlie laughed, “why would they tell me?”

She looked at Jack. At the empty, burnt-out room.

The room nearby — filled with what was now a jumble of bizarre armoured suits from Japan, had some spots of fire damage, but most of it looked all right, save for the fact everything had been thoroughly doused by a sprinkler.

Though the tumbled-down suits or armour still looked like a confused army of fierce swordsmen who decided to stumble into each other.

Eerie.

But definitely not as eerie as the doll room. In fact, Sarah wasn’t relishing the idea of walking through that place again.

I mean, she thought, who goes around the world collecting weird dolls? Then arranges them like they’re in the stands at Wembley watching the big match?

Jack walked over. So far, he’d been quiet, letting Sarah ask questions of the night watchman: where he’d first smelled the wisps of smoke, exactly what he did then …

Nothing suspicious at all.

“So, the night of the fire,” said Jack, “you were on your own in the house?”

“That’s right. Everyone who works here in the day, they pack up at five. Six latest.”

“And you came up those stairs, just like we did?”

Sarah watched Charlie nod, his eyes narrowing as if he felt under suspicion.

“You saw flames, right?” said Jack.

“Smoke first. Smelled it, too. But then, yeah. The fire. Scared the hell out of me.”

You remember where, exactly?”

“God. I told the insurance people already. Why you—?”

Sarah saw Jack step forward, rest a gentle hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Appreciate your help with this, Charlie. We’re just, um, trying to get the full picture.”

“Hmm. Right. Well,” said Charlie, walking over to the corner where the panelled wall had been smashed open, “the fire was over here in the corner. That’s where it started. Course, then I got the hell out of here.”

Jack nodded and followed him.

Then he leaned down and pulled at some of the tattered wood.

Sarah saw loops of old electric wiring spill free from behind the blackened panel, the cladding burnt away, just bare copper.

“You think that maybe the wiring might have caused the fire, Charlie?” said Sarah.

“Me? How would I know? I’m no bloody electrical expert.”

“Just thinking, you must have some idea.”

Charlie shrugged: “Electrics in this house are always on the blink. Fuses going. Whole circuits failing.”

“So then — there’ve been incidents in the past?” said Jack.

“Dunno. Might have been. Far as I know, nobody writes that stuff down. But you can see for yourself. Wiring’s rotten through and through. Bloody ancient!”

“Risky place to work then, right?” said Jack.

“Tell me about it.”

Sarah watched Jack walk away from the corner, as if done thinking about the fire. But then he stopped, and again turned to Charlie: “There any other way into this room?”

“Eh? What does it look like? You got eyes — there’s the door. That’s it.”

“Just checking, Charlie. Hard to tell — what, with these panels burnt — if there might have been a door to another room.”

“Nope. Only one way in — we came through it.”

“Okay. So if — just for the sake of argument — if someone had set the fire, you would have seen them?”

“And heard them,” said Charlie. “This place — take a deep breath and the floor creaks.”

Sarah watched Jack walking the room slowly again, still taking in every detail. Charlie watching him.

“Your shift — you stay in the house all night long?”

“Ha! As if. Do my three rounds, then back to base.”

“Base?”

“Cellar, tucked away at the side of the house. Got my gear there, kettle and whatnot.”

“Can we see that?”

“What the hell—? Um, well. If you must.”

“Charlie, ever get security problems?” said Sarah. “Break-ins? Burglaries?”

“Not that I’ve seen. Kids from the village couple of times, mucking about. Trying to break windows. Nothing serious. Local cop gets out here quick enough if I call.”

“No incidents recently?” said Jack.

Sarah saw Charlie pause. Then: “No.”

“No change to the staff? Nobody left in a huff?”

“Nope. Well, we did get a new lad started with Clifford couple of months back.”

“Clifford — he’s the gardener, right?” said Jack.

“What I said.”

“And the lad?”

“Ben Davis, his name. From London. Black, he is.”

Sarah caught Jack’s eye as they both took in Charlie’s words: the night watchman, she guessed, was from an age when the man’s colour would have been a talking point.

“But no other changes recently?” she said.

“Same old, same old,” said Charlie with a shrug. “We try and keep the place standing — that’s all. While the Trust does bugger all to help.”

“The other side of the house, the rooms across the hallway … more of the same?” said Jack.

“Ha,” Charlie said. “If by the ‘same’ you mean filled with a lot of old junk and who-knows-what, then yes. Can show you what’s over there if you like, though the fire didn’t come close—”

Jack shot a look at Sarah.

Always fun, she thought, wondering what’s going on inside Jack’s head.

If there was one thing he always did, at least when they were questioning someone, it was keep all those cards nice and close.

“Perhaps later. But now, Charlie, I wonder if there’s a place we could sit and chat a bit more? Only a few questions …”

At this, Charlie seemed to stiffen a bit. Folded his arms as if that question presented some kind of danger.

“Um, I s’pose so. I mean, all I know about is what they pay me to do here. All alone at night, so not sure what else—”

Jack smiled. Again, another technique of his, she well knew, the way he could disarm someone.

That smile projecting the idea … not to worry. Just have a few questions.

That’s all …

She doubted that Jack thought Charlie was in any way suspect.

But then, he always said — and she had learned by now that the old phrase was true — no one is above suspicion.

He waited for Charlie’s answer.

“How about your cellar?” said Sarah.

She saw a flicker of alarm on Charlie’s face.

“Cellar? Hmm. Be a bit cold down there,” he said. “Tell you what — let’s try the kitchen. Can be a mess but it’s got a table and a few chairs. Some nights, I even make myself a quick cup a tea. We could do that.”

“Perfect,” said Jack.

And then — his smile still in place — he turned to Sarah.

That was another thing …

Jack could seem so attuned to what Sarah was feeling, maybe even thinking.

“Sorry, Sarah — we’ll have to run the gauntlet of those dolls’ eyes.”

Sarah grinned back. “I’m just glad we’re not doing this at night.”

And then, as Charlie started to lead the way out, having heard that exchange, he said: “Got to tell you. That room there? Those dolls? It’s one place in this whole house that — night in, night out — I just never got used to. The willies, that’s what it gives me.”

And with that bit of a confession, Charlie headed out of the burnt-out room, through the other rooms to the stairway down.

Where a cup of tea and — with luck — some useful answers awaited.

5. Meeting the Staff

Jack followed Charlie down the dark corridors, Sarah just behind. There seemed to be no logic to the layout of the ground floor: some rooms were enormous, some tiny, some had no exterior windows, some were connected by narrow corridors, others just opened one after the other.

Crazy place. Did someone actually design it like this?

But all the rooms were stuffed with what — to Jack’s eyes — was a totally chaotic collection of objects and art. Model ships, bicycles, glass bottles, statues, children’s prams, models of early flying machines, cameras, clothes, one room completely filled with divers’ helmets …

As they took one tight corner into another corridor, he caught Sarah’s eye — she shrugged and grinned.

She’s finding it as weird as I am, he thought. So it’s not just me being a Connecticut Yankee.

Heading down one corridor, they passed a line of portraits. Jack could see a likeness running through all of them: thick, wiry hair; eyes fierce and uncompromising.

An aggressively weird stare …

“These all Brimley’s, hmm?” he said.

“Scary-looking bunch, aren’t they?” said Charlie, not stopping.

“There a Brimley still alive?”

“Oh yes. Peregrine Brimley,” said Charlie. “The grandson.”

“He doesn’t live here anymore?” asked Sarah.

“Used to — when he was a kid. So I’m told.”

“And now?”

“Got a farm real close, just across the valley. Think that used to be part of the property. Before they started slicing off pieces of land, selling it. Keeps himself to himself. Funny bugger apparently.”

“You don’t know him?” said Jack.

“I ain’t never seen ’im,” said Charlie. “Least not knowingly.”

Jack was about to ask more — when they reached a closed door.

“Kitchen’s just here,” said Charlie.

From the other side, Jack could just hear low voices.

Not raised, not loud, but there was clearly an argument going on — the voices barely a whisper, hissing fast.

“The staff, I reckon,” said Charlie, pausing only for a second before opening the door wide.

Jack saw straight into the kitchen. Across from a farmhouse table, a young woman in T-shirt and jeans stood leaning against an old stove, arms flapping mid-gesture but now frozen as she looked up to the door.

Right in front of her, close, just inches away, his back to Jack and the door, stood a tall young man who turned as the door opened, his face agitated, but now showing surprise.

“Who the—?” said the man; the woman simultaneously adding “Can’t you bloody knock when you—?”

“All right, Sophie? Ben?” said Charlie. “You making tea? Just us — looking for a place to chat. About the fire.”

Jack stood with Sarah at the door as the two young people took in the fact they had witnesses to their argument.

“Hope we didn’t interrupt anything?” said Jack, smiling. “Jack Brennan.”

“Sarah Edwards,” said Sarah, giving a little wave.

“What? A chat?” said the guy, frowning. Then he seemed to soften. “Oh right, yeah, you two — you’re the guys from the Trust, huh? Come poking your noses in?”

So this is Ben, thought Jack. The accent — South London, he guessed.

“Not exactly from the Trust,” said Sarah. “We’re local, but Mr Jessop asked us to check in, make sure the investigation into the fire was running ok.”

Jack watched Ben walk around the table towards them.

“Check up on us, you mean?” he said, his face serious.

“No, no,” said Jack, still smiling. “Though, yes, we’d like to chat with you at some point, Ben.” He turned to the woman: “And you too, Sophie, if that’s okay?”

“I suppose so,” said the woman, looking nervously at Ben, then back at Jack. “When?”

Behind him, Jack sensed Sarah stepping forward.

“We’re here so … how about right now?” she said.

Before Sophie could answer, Jack saw Ben flick a quick look at her, then he turned full-on to Sarah, his stance almost aggressive.

“Sorry. I can’t hang about here talking,” said Ben, “I got stuff to finish in the hothouse. Fact, that’s where I’m heading now.”

“That’s okay, Ben,” said Jack. “I can come with you. Sarah?”

“Sure,” she said.

“What about me then?” said Charlie. “All done? I thought you wanted to talk to me too? I can’t wait, you know. Gotta come back here tonight. Need my bloody rest!”

Jack put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder again: “Totally understand, Charlie, we really do. Why don’t you head off and we catch up with you … maybe tomorrow? I mean, if need be.”

“Hmm. Well. S’pose so,” said Charlie. “I’m done then?”

Spoken like a man just given a reprieve.

“You’re done.”

Jack watched him shuffle off through the door, then he turned to Ben.

“Saw the hothouse when we arrived,” he said. “How about we chat on the way?”

And as Sarah stepped forward to pull out a couple of chairs, Jack could see that he and Sarah had succeeded in forcing the issue.

The guy though — definitely not happy.

“All right,” said Ben. Then he moved to the door: “But this had better be quick. I don’t get bloody overtime you know.”

Everyone so pleasant on the Brimley staff, Jack thought. What was that all about?

“Catch you later,” said Jack to Sarah.

Then he followed Ben out of the kitchen.

*

Sarah smiled at Sophie. Early 20s, dark hair, dark eyes.

She wondered: what had she and the gardener’s assistant been discussing — more pointedly, arguing about?

“Really appreciate you taking the time to chat with us, you know,” she said. “Especially at the end of your working day.”

“No problem,” said Sophie, looking more at ease now she was on her own.

“And um, sorry if we interrupted anything. Barging in …”

“What do you mean? Oh — that …”

Sarah waited, nodded.