Cherringham--Last Train to London (11 page)

Chasing him.

“Let me,” she said.

Jack paused a second. Then nodded.

And now Sarah took the lead, walking slightly ahead of Jack, down to the other end of the platform, slowly, deliberately, looking for the first sign of a reaction from the person waiting there.

Then – he moved. Away from the window. Then another step away.

“He’s going to run,” Jack said quietly.

And it certainly looked that way, as the figure turned, sweatshirt hood up, now looking at the far end of the platform as if for a way out.

The only way to escape would be across the tracks.

Sarah ran and then, as loud as she could, she shouted: “Please wait!”

The figure hesitated, turning to her.

“We just want to understand. We
know
what you did.” Then louder: “We know who Rica Popescu was.”

Would that be enough to make him stop? After all his hiding, his plans, his apparent murder of the puppeteer?’

Then, while walking briskly, she said: “We know what kind of man he was.”

The man didn’t move. Instead, he stayed at the end of the platform, and waited.

And for what seemed like an eternity, Sarah, with Jack trailing, closed the distance between them.

Under his hood, the man’s eyes darted back and forth, from Sarah to Jack. Young, thin … he probably could still decide to dash and easily outrun them.

“You police?” he said.

“No,” said Sarah. “Not police. We just want to talk to you.”

Sarah thought that Jack – the interrogator, the guy who actually did such things – would take over now.

But he didn’t. With a nod from him, this chat was hers.

“We know the truth about Otto Brendl. Can you tell us … why you came here … why did you do what you did?”

Those eyes, dark, haunted.

Then the man cleared his throat.

“My name is Cezar Dumitru. Twenty years ago, that man and his
vultures
arrested my father. I was a boy. My father – he was a writer, a historian, a scholar! And Popescu tortured him as though he was scum … simply because my father loved history, because he told the
truth
.”

The young man was shaking.

It’s as if it happened yesterday for him,
Sarah thought.

She nodded slowly. Understanding …

The young man continued. “They brought his body to the house. I never saw it. But my mother’s sobbing told me all I needed to know. And then, after weeks of her cries, her grief, the accusing looks from neighbours … she jumped into the Dâmbovița river one night. No one could stop her. No one could rescue her. I was alone. Popescu had destroyed my family and my life.”

“You were the orphan,” Jack said.

Part of this story that Popescu stole to create Otto Brendl.

The man nodded.

“I swore I would track down the killers, and kill them. But Rica Popescu had vanished. It took so long to find the trail, to track him here.”

Suddenly, in the distance, a light appeared. The train taking a curve, just a mile away.

The last train to London.

“Why did you stay, Cezar?” said Sarah. “Why didn’t you run?”

The young man leaned forward and in the yellow light from the platform lamp she could see his face, drawn, tired.

“I couldn’t leave the evidence,” he said. “The special poison. I needed to know it was over.”

“So you stole the puppets from the cottage,” said Jack.

“No,” said Cezar. “Somebody else took the puppets. But not the one I wanted.”

“So you came to my boat.”

Cezar shrugged.

“Now,” he said, “you will call the police, arrest me, yes? But I don’t care. He is dead, that is all.”

The train horn sounded briefly. Cezar had been so close to getting away. Just minutes. Now, they had to … what? Call Alan? Have him arrested?

It all seems wrong,
thought Sarah.

Which is when Jack took a step closer, holding something in his hand.

“Here, Cezar. The evidence of who Otto Brendl really was. The monster that you eliminated.”

The man took the passports, the Securitate ID.

“Do with them what you wish. No one here needs to know.”

“No police?” he said, seeming not to believe them.

“Otto Brendl was a harmless puppeteer who had a heart attack.”

“You won’t … arrest me?”

“For delivering justice?”

Jack shook his head. And this all seemed so right to Sarah.

Cezar looked down at the only evidence of the real Otto Brendl, now in his hands.

The train pulled into the station, slowing, the sudden quiet of the three of them now matched to the shrieks of the train’s brakes, then loud squeals as it stopped, followed by the quick
whoosh
of doors opening.

“You have a train to catch, Cezar.”

The man nodded, looked to each of them, then smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Stay safe,” Sarah said.

Then the man in the hoodie turned and climbed onto the train.

And she stood there with Jack, waiting, both of them wanting to see it pull away, the killer getting away.

With the secret and story of Otto Brendl over.

Or as Sarah was about to learn, almost over …

Mrs Harper stood up as soon as Sarah and Jack entered her office. Sarah could see that she looked worried, the apprehension so clear in her eyes.

“Please,” she said. “Sit – if you can find somewhere. Got a year’s worth of paperwork to sort before term’s over for me I’m afraid!”

They sat down while the woman looked around as if she had forgotten where she placed her chair, her office desktop still a sea of papers searching for land.

“I have to tell you again how much I appreciate you looking into … things.”

“It was nothing,” Jack said. Then quickly, as if he knew the woman’s fears. “Good thing is, we found nothing.”

A look at Sarah.

“Really?” Mrs Harper said, practically exhaling the word in relief.

“Nothing at all,” Sarah added, she and Jack having planned what they would say. “Of course, Mr Brendl wasn’t the best record keeper but it seemed he just lived a quiet life.”

Now Mrs Harper beamed.

“That is
so
good to hear. Then the school has nothing to fear.”

Jack nodded. “There will be no revelations coming from Otto’s cottage.”

Interesting parsing of words,
Sarah noted.

There might be a risk of something popping up about Brendl’s real past. But with his documents gone with his killer, probably to be destroyed, and with Cezar certainly not wanting anyone to know, the secret of Rica Popescu would be safe.

And best of all – Mrs Harper could continue running the school in her disorganised but warm and supportive way. And the children would never have to deal with the real nature of the death which had taken place on that warm Saturday end-of-term morning.

Good all around.

“Oh,” Jack said, reaching up to his shirt pocket, “We have something for you.”

He handed Mrs Harper a cheque.

“What?” Mrs Harper said, looking up. “This … this is immense. What is this?”

“That’s from Max Krause, one of …” Jack glanced again at Sarah.

He's so good at pulling this off.

“… Otto’s compatriots, if you will. Does puppet shows. I guess he was so struck by Otto’s loss, that, well, he just wanted to do something.”

Do something.

Especially after Jack confronted him with the fact that he knew Krause had stolen the puppets. And that a police search of FunLand might not be helpful for business. A shot in the dark there – but it worked.

As he told Krause, the truth would do no one any good, while a big fat cheque from Krause to the school? Well that would do a lot of good.

“I can’t believe it,” Mrs Harper said.

“And the best part,” Sarah added, “is that Mr Krause has offered to do the annual Punch and Judy show,
gratis
.”

“A traditional show,” Jack said. “Same as the ones you’ve always had here. Truncheons and all!”

That made Mrs Harper laugh. It had been the last part of Jack’s deal with Krause, one the man quickly agreed to.

Far better than going to jail.

“You two,” Mrs Harper said, stuck for words. “The school – and I – we owe you a massive debt.”

Jack stood up. “I bet it’s all the kids who pass through these halls, and their parents, who owe you a debt, Mrs Harper.”

Sarah stood up as well. Mrs Harper still held the cheque as if the amazing item might vanish in her hands.

“Well,” she said, “See you both, I hope, at the Autumn Fair!”

And then they left the office, and Sarah could not help but feel that they had done something really good just then.

Except —

She stopped when she reached her car …

“You know, Jack, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You always seemed like a ‘by the book’ person to me. And this, all of this, well, certainly doesn’t seem like it was by the book at all.”

Jack smiled. Not offended by the question.

Of course.

“Well, you see, there are a lot of books. And let’s say this one had to have a different ending than most.”

“Justice was done?”

“The way I see it? Yes. But I will admit … this has been a tough one. It didn’t make sense for a long time, and then —”

“It did.”

“Exactly. And without any more innocent people being hurt.”

She opened her car door.

“You want a lift?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s a nice day. I’ll walk back down to the boat.”

She hesitated a minute. She realised that each time they finished one of their cases, it was almost as if she didn’t want to let it go.

At least – that’s what she thought this slightly lost feeling was.

So …

“Jack, it’s bolognese night. Homemade pasta too. Care to join the family?”

Big grin from Jack. “You had me at ‘bolognese’. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“Perfect,” he said. “And now that Costco is open again, I’ll pick up one of their special reds on the way round.”

Then she smiled back and watched as he turned and walked away out of the school car park, heading back to the Grey Goose.

Yes, this case is over, Sarah thought, but she knew: there’d be others.

Up on the hill above Cherringham sits Mabbs Farm. It’s a place with a dark history going back to the 17th century - a time when locals lived in fear of the devil and witches were burnt at the stake. Legend has it that the farm - and all who live there - are cursed with misfortune. But is it really just a curse when this year's crops fail, the livestock sicken and deadly fires break out? Or is there a hidden reason behind the dangerous events? Neither Jack nor Sarah believe in the supernatural - and soon they uncover very human suspects.

Cherringham - A Cosy Crime Series
The Curse of Mabbs Farm
by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

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