Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor (4 page)

“So he wasn’t impressed with son’s generosity?”

“He thought Dominic was a complete waster. Spent money when he had it, spent even more when he didn’t.”

“And what do you think?”

“Ah, Mr Detective you won’t catch me out like that,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I was Victor’s carer. He knew how I felt about them.”

“So you did have an opinion then?” said Jack, sipping his coffee.

Hope smiled at that.

Yes, he definitely liked her.

“Let me show you round,” she said, ignoring his question. “Come on — we’ll do the grand tour. Bring your coffee — it’ll be cold by the time we get back here.”

The kitchen was at the side of the house, at one end of a long, cold corridor. Jack followed as Hope worked what sounded like an estate agent’s spiel, opening and closing doors. Jack was immediately aware of the acrid smell of burnt wood and plastic that hung in the corridor.

“Downstairs bathroom. Note the original Victorian plumbing. Cellar with a lovely rich smell of damp. Laundry room — not used for twenty years, watch out for moths, spiders and who knows what else. And the library, which is where the fire started …”

Hope opened the door — but went no further, and Jack could see — and smell — why. The room was lined with charred, blackened bookshelves. The walls and curtains had all burned away. The floor was scattered with sodden debris, piles of blackened books and damaged furniture. The air was even worse here and caught in the back of his throat.

“Over there — that’s the socket where they think the wiring caught,” said Hope.

Jack could see where the firemen had axed their way into the wall, ripping out the skirting boards to access the source of the fire.

“Did Victor ever use this room?” said Jack.

“Not that I can remember. Used to stay in his little sitting room down the hallway. He would ask me to get a book for him sometimes — he never came in here himself.”

“So why would that socket suddenly start a fire?”

“Exactly, Inspector: why indeed?”

Jack gave the room a final scan. On an ornate trunk by the window, sat a large bronze elephant statue, with incongruous arms looping from its body. It was familiar — Indian — was it a god? And now as he looked more carefully he could see other Indian artefacts in the burned wreckage — lacquered cabinets, pewter pots, faded group photos in blackened frames.

“What’s with all the Indian stuff?” he said.

“House is full of it,” she said, shrugging slightly. “Victor lived out there when he was younger.”

“During the Second World War?”

“Slightly later, I think. But he never talked about it. Well, not to me, anyway.”

Hope closed the blackened door and nodded towards the hallway.

“The tour continues …”

Jack followed her down the stone-floored corridor and into the main hallway. Although the smell of smoke was still strong, there wasn’t as much damage.

“So the fire wasn’t so bad down here?” he said.

“Fire brigade got here pretty quickly, I think,” said Hope. “It’s the smoke that’s the killer. Streamed straight to the attic … like a chimney, trapping Victor.”

“If he had been down here … he’d still be alive.”

“Yes. There was quite a lot of water from the hoses, and smoke marks on the walls — but it’s only the library that really got damaged.”

“So this is pretty much how it was after the fire?”

“There was a right mess everywhere. But I mopped up, and cleaned all the surfaces I could — just to get rid of the smell, really.”

Jack looked around. Things were not adding up here. Then:

“Where was Victor when the fire broke out?” said Jack.

“Up in his bedroom I reckon,” said Hope, heading to the staircase. “His bed was slept in. And he’d had his biscuits — I always leave him a couple.”

“Usual routine, huh?”

“Exactly. You see the lift is still up at the top?”

“Maybe he felt it was safer to stay upstairs?”

“He may have been frail, but he wasn’t stupid,” said Hope, shaking her head. “He knew not to go upstairs in a fire.”

She nodded and headed to the next floor.

Jack followed her to the staircase. Rails for an electric stair lift ran all along one side. As he and Hope walked up to the first floor, the smell of smoke permeated.

Hope paused at the top and pointed down the landing.

“Victor’s bedroom and bathroom are just there.”

She pointed the other way, down a long dark corridor, its walls covered in oak panelling.

“Those are the other bedrooms. All closed and locked up.”

“Not used at all? No guests? No family to stay?”

“Not one — at least, not in the three years I’ve been looking after him.”

“So where are the stairs to the top floor? If he went up, not down …”

“I thought you’d never ask …” said Hope, drawing a key from her pocket.

Jack watched as she walked a few paces to a small door set back in the panelling, turned the key and pushed the door open to reveal a narrow flight of stairs.

“These go up to the attic.”

“Locked staircase, huh? What’s the point of that?”

“Beats me. I always thought it just went to the old servants’ quarters — and they didn’t want a staircase to spoil the effect of the panelling … so just this door.”

“It’s pretty steep,” said Jack, peering up into the darkness above. “I mean, for someone who uses an electric chair.”

“Exactly,” said Hope. “Put yourself in Victor’s shoes. He smells smoke, comes out onto the landing here — and instead of going down on the stair lift …”

“He unlocks this door and climbs a steep flight of stairs,” said Jack. “But — dunno — maybe in the night, in the dark, in smoke, people make bad choices.”

Hope shook her head. “Victor
always
knew what he was doing.”

“Trust me,” she flicked on the electric light to the stairs, “If Victor Hamblyn came up here — he had a very good reason.”

Jack followed Hope up the narrow staircase. A door at the top opened into a big attic room in the eaves, lit by a tiny leaded skylight. Jack stooped under the low roof and looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The place was full of dust and cobwebs — but apart from that, it was completely empty.

That did make him pause.

And for the first time Jack began to feel that maybe there really was a mystery about this old man’s death. Did he go upstairs to escape the smoke? Or for another reason?

He turned — to see Hope standing in the doorway behind him, expression now serious.

“Where was his body found?” he said.

“Lying there, apparently,” she answered. “In the middle of the floor.”

Jack nodded. Carefully he scanned the whole room. Dust everywhere. Scuffs and marks on the floor where medics, firemen had obviously been. Thick clouds of cobwebs hung in every corner. The walls were bare, the window rusted shut.

Nothing here.

It didn’t make sense.

“Well, now you got me,” he said, turning to face her. “You say he wouldn’t allow anyone to come up here?”

“No. And he kept the key. The only key — as far as I know. It was in the door downstairs, so I took it when I came in to clean up.”

“Maybe he found what he was looking for?”

“The police returned his pyjamas and dressing gown. He had nothing in the pockets.”

Jack frowned.

“Maybe …“

From within the house below came a low animal groan and the sound of glass smashing. Hope turned to him.

“What was that?” she whispered.

Jack put a finger to his lips.

“Who else has a key to this place?” said Jack quietly.

“No one, as far as I know,” said Hope. “Victor refused to have other keys made.”

“Okay. Stay behind me — let’s go see …”

Jack tiptoed down the attic stairs, wincing when the dry wood gave even his careful steps a tell-tale creak.

When he got to the bottom, he stopped and listened carefully to the noises of the house. From the ground floor came the sound of objects being moved, voices, swearing …

He went down the main stairs but then stopped: the disturbance was in Victor’s sitting room. Jack gestured to Hope to stay where she was, then as quietly as he could, he approached the door.

There were two ways of doing this — the slow way or the quick way. He’d always been a fan of the quick way.

Guessing the door wasn’t locked, Jack grabbed the door handle, pushing it hard and bursting into the room. The light was on — and facing him, Jack saw a long-haired man in an old vest and jeans, holding a bottle and surrounded by piles of clothes and books and boxes. The man spun around, shouted and swung the bottle wildly at Jack.

Jack easily sidestepped the swing and hit the intruder hard with his shoulder, knocking him straight over, then expertly flipped him and instinctively reached behind his back for his cuffs and felt just thin air …

… because his NYPD cuffs hadn’t been strapped to his belt for at least five years.

In this case it didn’t matter. The guy had given up —
lucky for me
, thought Jack — and now stammered a drunken protest.

“Let me go! I haven’t done anything, you can’t arrest me!”

“Terry!” came Hope’s voice from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

“You know this guy?” said Jack over his shoulder.

“It’s Terry Hamblyn,” said Hope. “Victor’s son.”

And Jack released his grip.

***

“You hurt my arm,” said Terry, sullenly. “I should sue you.”

Jack stared at Terry, the youngest of the Hamblyn siblings, as he sat in Victor’s battered armchair and clutched the mug of coffee which Hope had made as a peace offering.

“Sure. Go ahead,” said Jack. “But mind — when we get to court I’ll be asking just how you got access to your father’s house and why you were tearing the place apart.”

“It’s my house, isn’t it?” said Terry. “I can do what I want.”

Jack leaned against the fireplace and watched Terry carefully. He was up to no good — but what exactly? The guy had clearly spent many years boozing — probably drugs too — and now he flickered between irrational and incoherent.

“I’m not sure that it is your house, least not yet. There’s a little matter of a will,” said Jack.

“Course it is! He was my dad!”

“With respect, Terry,” said Hope, who sat in the chair opposite, “Your father not only took your keys away months ago, he told me never to let you in if he wasn’t here himself.”

“That’s rubbish,” said Terry sneering. “Dad and I were best mates. He was going to leave the whole place to me. No question.”

“Really? Doesn’t mean you can just break in and take stuff, Terry,” said Jack. “You see, I’m sure there’s a whole process that has to be followed. And what about your brother and sister?”

“Those bastards? He
hated
them.”

“From what I hear, they did at least help out with the place,” said Jack.

“Bollocks. They were just getting their fingers in the pie.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Obvious, isn’t it?” said Terry. “Dominic — he was doing up the kitchen how that bitch of a wife of his wanted it so they could move in when the old man popped his clogs.”

“And what about your sister?”

“Smarmy Susan? She had Dad’s accounts all sorted so she knew exactly what he was worth. She had big plans.”

“But you get the house, huh?” said Jack.

Terry grinned.

“Yeah, that’ll teach them.”

“So — bear with me, I’m a little confused — if you’re going to get the house, why come round here searching for stuff?”

Terry’s bloodshot eyes went wide.

“What do you mean, searching? I just came round to have a bit of a kip. Then you turn up and wake me. I wasn’t searching for anything.”

Jack gestured to the mess of the room. The drawers had been roughly pulled out of every cupboard and their contents tipped out in piles.

“Well, you certainly weren’t tidying the place up, Terry,” said Jack patiently. “What exactly were you looking for?”

“Nothing! Family stuff, that’s all. Private stuff!”

“And you weren’t round here the night of the fire?” continued Jack. “You weren’t outside, watching?”

“No way! That wasn’t me! I had nothing to do with it!”

“Oh,” said Jack. “So — you think the fire was started deliberately?”

Jack could see confusion clouding Terry’s mind.

“No! Yes. I don’t know.”

Jack watched as Terry slowly decided that it was time to leave. He pulled himself up unsteadily from the chair.

“Anyway, you can’t keep me here. I know my rights!”

Jack caught Hope’s eye and held back a smile.

“I’m sure you do, Terry,” he said. “We’re just having a chat, aren’t we?”

“Not anymore we’re not,” said Terry, picking up a battered leather coat from the floor and headed to the door. He pulled it open and turned dramatically.

“I loved my dad. And he loved me,” he said, swaying slightly. “And if you think someone killed him — it’s my bastard brother and sister you should be talking to.” Terry sniffed as if suddenly righteous, and then: “And what are you’s two doing here?”

Hope’s voice was level, steady: “Your father gave me a key. Said to use it anytime.”

Terry gave another snort of the air and with that, he was gone. Jack turned to Hope, who sat, arms folded, watching the door.

“Know what?” he said. “If Victor was murdered — then it’s you who should be prime suspect.”

“Oh really?” said Hope, not following. “Why?”

“Because nobody could put up with this family for three years and not want to frame them.”

Hope smiled. “It’s a fair cop.” She looked around at the mess. “Then we’d better lock up and go before you arrest me. And don’t forget — I’ve now seen you in action.”

Jack laughed.

“Please, don’t tell anybody,” he said. “I’m well out of practice.”

“Looked pretty slick to me.”

And Jack thought — heck, maybe there is life in this old dog yet.

Sarah sat in the busy reception area of Davies Associates and looked out through the window and down onto the High Street.

Although Oxford was just half an hour on the train from Cherringham, she very rarely visited — and especially not since weekends had filled up so much with activities for the children. But this morning’s outing had reminded her how much she loved the city.