Cherringham--The Secret of Combe Castle (6 page)

Funny, she thought, how he came to life at times like this. So quiet, living on the river … but when he had his teeth into a mystery it seemed like play to him.

And then another thought …

Me, as well.

And they finished their beers and left the still bustling Ploughman’s, plans for the next day in place.

The following morning, after a brisk walk with Riley, Jack drove back to Combe Castle.

Only this time, just as he entered the road that led down to the ramshackle castle, he took a sharp left, towards the Dower House — the small cottage just visible on a distant hill.

After the brusque encounter with Rufus the day before, Jack didn’t know what to expect from the disenfranchised brother.

Can’t be a happy camper,
Jack thought.

The narrow road went straight past a small wooded area where Jack saw someone leaning against a tree. The man was looking out in the direction of the just-risen sun, holding something.

As Jack cruised closer, the man turned and Jack recognised a rather over-sized bong in his hand. From the description Sarah had given him, Jack guessed the person holding the bong was the ever-stoned heir to Combe Castle, Odysseus.

Odysseus seemed to reel back a bit, startled by Jack’s arrival, then the stoner actually waved with the bong.

Jack brought a hand to his forehead, acknowledging the smoky salute.

What a son,
Jack thought.

Starting the day in a purple haze.

Then, the roadway cut right, and Jack turned onto a gravel driveway that led to the small cottage.

And he noticed a big difference right away.

The brown gravel stone of the driveway was the perfect size: the Sprite didn’t kick up any jagged chunks as it slowed to the front of the cottage.

Then there was the cottage itself. Painted a pale yellow, with rich brown trim, the Dower House looked great. A white picket fence surrounded a small garden and the cottage, gleaming, slats looking freshly painted.

Meticulous.

To complete the idyllic picture Jack saw a tendril of smoke streaming from the chimney.

As much of a mess castle Combe was, this small place looked immaculate.

Jack prepared himself to be surprised.

He pulled in front of the low fence, got out, undid a latch, and followed a stone path — again in perfect condition — to the front door.

A ram’s head knocker shone on the door. No doorbell visible, so Jack pulled on the ram’s horns and knocked twice.

In just a moment — almost as if he’d been expected — the door to the cottage opened.

And there was Oswald’s doppelganger, his face grim, set.

No happy greeting here from ‘Baby.’

And Jack had to wonder whether the ostracised brother would even talk to him …

*

“Rufus — Jack Brennan. I was hoping we might chat?”

Rufus said nothing, standing at the door to his small home as if guarding it from invaders.

“About the castle, your brother—”

“That lot!” Rufus shook his head.

“There’s been some trouble there. Thought it would be good to see what you think.”

“What I think, hmm?” Rufus looked away. Then back to Jack. “I think that they’re a pair of damned idiots. Can’t maintain that place, can’t take care of it, let the property go to hell. That enough for you?”

Jack smiled at the quickly delivered tirade.

No love lost here.

“Well, actually, you see, there’s been vandalism, threats. Maybe you might help?”

That seemed to slow Rufus. Did he know about it? Could he even be responsible?

But then again, Jack guessed communication between the brothers was minimal.

“Really? Place gone to ruin — literally — and now vandalism?” Rufus laughed. “What’s left to vandalise? Those stupid rubber dummies of his? Have you seen the bloody ‘mop tops’ he has there? Some of those ‘Beatles’ don’t even have shoes!”

At this, Rufus laughed, and Jack had to as well. That was indeed some exhibit.

“Think we might chat? Could be nothing. Or — who knows.”

“Okay, Jack. You seem like a straight shooter, least that’s what I hear from around the village. So if it’s a chat you want; a chat you will get.”

And finally Rufus moved away from his position blocking the entrance and let Jack into the diminutive cottage.

*

Inside, the cottage was as perfectly maintained as the exterior. A beautiful plush Persian carpet over a polished wood floor. Pair of leather straight-backed chairs each matched with its own brass reading floor lamp. Deep mahogany end tables nicely polished.

A glance into the kitchen — more of a nook than a full room — showed small-sized stainless steel appliances and a black marble countertop.

Rufus kept this place perfectly.

So much for genetics,
Jack thought.

“Cup of tea, Jack?”

“No thanks, had a coffee on my boat. I’m good.”

Rufus nodded. “You like living on one of those river barges?”

Interesting, Jack thought. Out of the gate, asking me a question.

“Suits me fine. Always lived near the water, fished a lot. Kind of a dream I had … coming here. My wife and I …”

There …
Jack thought.

Though he had gotten better at not letting his thoughts drift to Katherine — to their great plans that suddenly ended with her diagnosis, her quick decline — he wasn’t immune to getting caught by his memories of her.

Probably never would be.

Suddenly, talking to Rufus and his wacky brother didn’t seem that important.

Jack took a breath. Rufus didn’t follow up with another question, and Jack sensed that this FitzHenry was somewhat astute, aware that he had hit a nerve.

Instead, Rufus directed the conversation back to its purpose.

“So threats, vandalism …?”

Jack, glad of the distraction, described the notes, and then the blood and signs in the Executioner’s room.

Rufus nodded.

“Could be kids. Type of thing they do.”

“That’s what the police think,” Jack said. “But me … I’m not so sure. Tell me — you get along with your brother all right?”

Now Rufus’s head nearly did a 360 as if he couldn’t believe that Jack had asked such a question.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Detective. You’re not implying that I could have—”

Jack quickly smiled and put up a hand.

“No, not at all.”

Though that was exactly what Jack wanted to imply. Always good to see how someone reacted to an accusation.

“Damn good to hear that because you see …”

And now Rufus leaned forward, arms on his legs, hands clenched together.

Guy is wired a tad tight,
Jack thought.

“I think this
primogeniture
thing is a load of bullshit. Don’t know what my father was thinking. That daft brother of mine gets to run the place into the ground, becoming penniless and a laughing stock at the same time.”

He unclenched a hand and pointed right at Jack, delivering a lesson.

“You see, if I had been given the place, I’d have turned it into a true historical site. There’s real history connected to that castle! And I could have set up a small organic farm using the grounds. Perhaps lease out some of the land for a dairy operation.”

Rufus leaned back, pleased with himself.

“It would have been something to be proud of …”

Jack nodded. Having seen how Rufus FitzHenry kept this small cottage, he had no doubt that Combe Castle would have been vastly different if Rufus had been left the ancestral property.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Jack said. “But — as it is — it has always been Oswald’s.”

“Bloody traditions …” Rufus said.

Now Jack leaned forward, as if asking something just between the two of them.

“Why do you think anyone would do this? Your brother have any enemies?”

“Enemies? Just about anyone they owe money to! They’ve done wonders associating the FitzHenry name with the non-payment of bills.”

“Yes. But making threats? Paint … pig blood all over that exhibit?”

Rufus nodded. “I don’t know. I mean, I know estate agents have been interested in the property, probably wanting to sell off bits for development. Course Oswald with his ‘royal’ dreams wouldn’t hear of that. And then there’s Pelham …”

“Hmm?”

“Arthur Pelham. Has the adjacent farm. You know the story of the duel, right? The one that led to great-grandfather Basil being shot. Pelham’s a descendant of the man who duelled. Bad blood still there, I imagine. Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind expanding his own operation. Quite the ambitious farmer …”

“And you? No ‘bad blood’? With Pelham?”

“Good Lord no. Over a drunken duel that took place more than a hundred years ago? As to his opinion of Oswald and that Castle of Mediocrities, I couldn’t agree more. We’d all be better if Oswald moved on, just—”

And then Rufus seemed to catch himself.

“As I said … Oswald and his shrew of a wife don’t have too many fans in the village.”

“I hear you.”

And Jack also heard that — despite his protestations — he had to add Rufus to that list.

A disgruntled brother who clearly thought he should have had the property, who knew he could do a better job with it.

Had to be frustrating.

But could it lead to threats?
  Jack stood up.

“I’d best be going.”

“Not much help, I know. And, um, sorry if I sounded off a bit too much. Damned fool does get my goat.”

“I’m sure.”

Jack thought:
Rufus suddenly aware that he had, perhaps against his better judgement, been too forthright.

And that’s a good thing.

Stir things up … and see what happens.

Because — something always happens.

Jack turned to the door.

“I’ll let you know what we find out … if anything.”

Rufus nodded. “Good. I mean, I don’t respect my brother. But still and all — don’t want any harm to come to him.”

“Right,” Jack said smiling.

And as he walked to the door, and out to his Sprite, he had to wonder what Sarah was learning.

And to hope that she was getting somewhere.

Because despite having his concerns about Rufus, really Jack felt he was getting just nowhere.

Sarah checked her watch. Nearly one o’clock.

From her position in the window of the Cotswold Gift Shop she had a perfect view of Cauldwells estate agent across the street.

“You sure I can’t help you?” said the woman at the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” said Sarah over her shoulder, remembering to inspect the display case of jewellery. Shopping for jewellery — that was her cover. “Present for my daughter. So hard to find something that’s just right.”

Especially here,
she thought.
Chloe wouldn’t be seen dead in a Cherringham gift shop, let alone buy earrings from one!

Sarah turned and smiled. But she knew she couldn’t stand here for much longer.

And then through the shop window, she saw Cecil Cauldwell leave his office and head off for his regular two-hour lunch at the Angel.

Sarah had already phoned ahead to find out if Anjii was going to be available. She was hoping that — face to face — she might be able to get the identity of the mysterious potential purchaser of Combe Castle.

But she didn’t want to bump into Cecil — who would guess immediately that she was up to something.

She and Cecil went back a long way and had crossed paths on more than one case.

Not that he was a crook. He just sailed close to the wind if there was any profit to be had.

So Sarah had taken up this observation post in the little shop across the street to be absolutely certain he wouldn’t be around to spoil her game.

And game it certainly was.

Usually it was Jack who did the play acting.

Today it was going to be her …

*

Sarah pushed open the door to Cauldwells full of confidence.

Dressing for the occasion always helped. These days she had just one business suit in her wardrobe, but on the rare occasions she put it on she felt like the boss of a blue-chip company: it was an Agnes B jacket and skirt she’d bought for a thousand pounds way back in her London days.

And that kind of style never went out of fashion.

She looked around the office. All the desks empty — apart from one where a sleek looking woman in her thirties sat at a laptop.

Sarah recognised her from her online searches this morning.

Anjii Laker
. One tough cookie if all the hype about this London estate agent was to be believed …

Sarah had watched a couple of videos of her in action at conferences.

Her renowned
‘Close the Escape Routes to Close the Deal’
was a lesson in the dark arts of selling.

She’d joined Cauldwells Notting Hill office two years ago and increased turnover by a third, Sarah had read. Now she was in the Cherringham office — her mission, according to the press release Sarah had downloaded — to ‘seek out premium Cotswolds opportunities and add value to their transactional potential.’

Sarah coughed: Anjii saw her, got up and walked over.

Sarah saw her making a rapid assessment.

Jacket, blouse, shoes — checking I tick all the right boxes,
thought Sarah.
Little does she know when I’m out of here I’m heading home to make beans on toast for lunch …

“Ms. Axelhoff?”

“Ms. Laker?” said Sarah.

Anjii offered Sarah her hand and she shook it.

“Please call me Sarah,” she said.

“Likewise — Anjii, please.”

One thing Sarah had learned from Jack — if you’re going to use a cover, stick to your real first name because you won’t forget it …

“Shall we sit? Can I get you a coffee?” said Anjii.

“Nothing to drink, thanks.”

Sarah followed her to a pair of leather sofas with rugs and bookcases — clearly an area designed to put clients at ease when discussing handing over large amounts of cash.