Cherringham--Mystery at the Manor (5 page)

She’d left Grace in charge of the office at nine and by ten she was drinking coffee in the Ashmolean. Two wonderful hours of gallery viewing later she was trying on shoes in a little designer store off Walton Street, followed by lunch in her favourite fish restaurant then another coffee in the bustling little covered market just up from Carfax.

All in all it felt like being on holiday. Until now.

The clinical atmosphere of a corporate tax advisors would be enough to dampen even her son Daniel’s sense of fun.

She looked around the discreetly designed wood panelled room, with its marble floor and matt steel trim. The plaque behind reception listed all the partners who worked in the company — and Susan Hamblyn’s name was almost at the top of the list.

On the walls were large photos of commercial property developments around the world: so this was what Victor’s prim daughter did — raise finances for slick hotels.

A light flickered on the immaculate receptionist’s desk phone. The ice maiden picked it up, murmured an answer then put the phone down. She gave Sarah a tight-lipped smile.

“Ms Hamblyn will see you now. Third floor. Someone will meet you.”

Sarah gathered up her shopping bags and, suddenly feeling like a real country bumpkin, made her way to the lift.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs Edwards, but I’ve had to reshuffle my meetings this afternoon and I can only give you fifteen minutes.”

Sarah sat in the informal sofa area of Susan Hamblyn’s office and felt anything but informal.

“ I’m sure fifteen minutes will be ample.”

The accountant shrugged. “My apologies.”

Sarah knew an apology when it wasn’t one. Susan Hamblyn hadn’t wanted to meet a web designer from Cherringham, but Sarah had insisted on the phone that she had some important and personal matters to discuss related to her father.

That had obviously been enough to pique the woman’s interest and get this brief meeting.

Right now she was wishing that she’d taken Jack’s suggestion and met the brother not the sister — but when they’d tossed a coin, this was the interview she’d got so she’d stuck with the rules.

Susan folded her arms, her perfectly cut business suit not moving a centimetre out of shape.

“You said you had important information about my father’s death. I’d like to know what that information is — and why you have it.”

Sarah refused to be intimidated.

Back in London I used to deal with people like this all the time, she thought — and I still can …

“Of course,” she said, smiling generously. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me — I realize what a busy woman you must be.”

Another curt nod. “Go on.”

“I’ve been approached by somebody — whose name I cannot reveal — who is very concerned that the recent fire at Mogdon Manor may have been started deliberately. And that your father’s death may not be accidental.”

“I see.”

Sarah let the words hang in the air a moment. Then:

“I thought I should meet with you and get your opinion.”

“And what right do you have to go around investigating rumours about people you have neither met nor know?”

“I’m simply trying to help a friend,” said Sarah.

“I see. In the same way you helped your friend who drowned in the river?”

Sarah made herself stay calm.

“No,” she said. “That was different. That was my friend who was killed.”

“Really?”

“But my colleague and I, who are looking at this, think it is possible that the police may be mistaken in regarding this as an accident. And if that’s the case, I’m surprised you wouldn’t be interested in hearing more.”

Sarah watched Susan consider this. She took a glass of water from the table, sipped, and put it back down.

Taking time to think…

“I assume this ‘friend’ you mention, is Dominic, yes?”

“Sorry — I really can’t say who it is.”

This, Sarah thought, is
fun
.

“You know he’s just using you, don’t you? Taking advantage of your naiveté to slander me and increase his chances of getting the whole estate — all at the same time.”

“I have not said who I am helping here, Ms Hamblyn.”

“Well, you can’t be working for Terry. That drunken little shit couldn’t hire someone to cut his hair let alone finesse an inheritance.”

Sarah remained silent.

“So it must be someone else in the village,” Ms Hamblyn continued. “God, I hate Cherringham sometimes. People interfering, not minding their own business. No wonder I work here in Oxford, is it?”

“I know the feeling,” said Sarah, trying hard to bring the other woman onside. “It was … circumstance … took me there from London.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now — you got dumped, didn’t you? High-flyer gets left with the kids?”

“Something like that,” said Sarah levelly, refusing to be angered.

“Bad luck.”

“No — bad choice of husband,” said Sarah.

“Ha!” said Ms Hamblyn. “Is there ever a good choice of husband? God!”

Sarah couldn’t help but laugh. And Susan Hamblyn laughed with her. Sarah hoped that the shared laughter might transform her.

So Susan Hamblyn had been unlucky in love? Maybe that’s what had made her so tough, so brittle, so unforgiving on the surface.

Sarah decided to try another tack.

“Please don’t think I’m interfering, Ms Hamblyn. The person who asked me to get involved in this was truly fond of your father and would hate to think his death was deliberate. But anything you can tell me that might help us put an end to such thoughts would be welcome.”

Susan Hamblyn hesitated as if weighing up the pluses and minuses, like columns of numbers. She took a breath.

“All right. But to be honest, there’s very little I can tell you. I put a lot of time into looking after my father. I run his accounts, look after the paperwork — I got him a carer — HopeMrs Brown. If there was foul play — then it certainly wasn’t from me. To be honest, I expect when the will is read that I shall be the single beneficiary: I know that my father appreciated my loyalty and hard work.”

“And what about your brothers?”

“By all means speak to them. Terry’s a total loser, as you saw at the funeral. You were there, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I recognized you. Anyway, Terry — he used to go round to the Manor and get dad drunk then pinch anything he could find and sell it.”

“Steal from his own father?”

“All the time. Nice, hmm? That was until Dad eventually wised up and took his key and told him to stay away.”

“What about Dominic?”

“That fool? The woman he married has him wrapped round her little finger. Vanessa Coole. I ask you — can that be her real name? Awful woman. A real viper. Now there — if you’re looking for an arsonist — she is somebody I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw her. She got Dominic to install one of their ridiculous kitchens — all but forced me to pay for it out of Dad’s accounts on the basis the old one was a fire hazard. Dad hated it. Anyway, I know for a fact they think they’ll inherit. Idiots.”

“Why idiots?”

“You’ve seen the place, haven’t you? It’s falling down. It’ll cost a small fortune to repair. More than the place is worth. And that’s why I can assure you nobody set fire to Mogdon Manor on purpose Ms Edwards: it wasn’t even worth burning.”

“I see.”

Sarah watched as the other woman sat back and checked her watch. This interview was nearly over.

“Just one more question, Ms Hamblyn. A rather difficult one, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“Apparently your father was found at the top of the house in the attic room. A locked room nobody ever visited. I wonder if you have any idea what he might have been doing there?”

Sarah wasn’t prepared for the effect her question had on the other woman. She watched as Susan Hamblyn seemed almost to deflate, to sink into the deep leather of the sofa.

“No. That’s something I don’t understand. He’d have to climb the stairs. How could he? We put the stair lift in because he could hardly manage the main stairs, let alone …”

“So, why do you think he went up there?”

“I’ve no idea. That room was … For some reason it was very important to him. Growing up, after mother died, we sometimes saw him disappear up those stairs for hours. Lock the door behind him. Not come out till late.”

“But you never went in yourself?”

“Oh no. Not allowed. Pain of death, he used to say — and I used to think he meant it.”

“So what do you think he did up there?”

Susan Hamblyn stared into the distance — as if she was staring straight into the past, thought Sarah.

“We never knew. Though one day — when I was just a girl — I listened outside the door on the landing … And I heard … I swear … singing. He was singing to himself. Very quietly. Such a sad song.”

“What was the song — do you remember?”

“Well, that was the really odd thing. He always said that the only other language he could speak was French. But this song — it was in a language I’d never heard. And he knew every word …”

Standing outside the country-chic double frontage of Coole Designs, Jack suddenly regretted not swapping assignments with Sarah. A trip to Oxford, lunch in one of those ancient pubs, maybe even take in a movie …

Instead here he was in the rain, contemplating what line he was going to take in an investigation which — on the surface — was based on little more than a body being found in the wrong place.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to make the decision — it was made for him.

“The Rangemeister 5,” said a woman’s voice next to him. “You’re not the only one who’s stood out here admiring it. Wanting it — am I right?”

Jack turned. The woman who’d addressed him was standing close — slightly closer than the situation required. Medium height, brunette, heavily made-up, tanned and with collagen-pumped lips. And the very slightest of hints that she’d had a glass of wine with her lunch …

“Well, to be honest, it’s not really for me …”

The woman squealed with delight.

“You’re American!”

“I am.”

“I
love
Americans!”

“Well … Isn’t it my lucky day?”

“Then — you’re right. Far too flashy. I imagine you’re more a Shaker style, wood-burning kind of man — am I right?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever thought about myself in terms of ovens, but now that you mention it …”

She slid her arm though his without invitation.

“Come in out of this rain and let’s get ourselves a
cawfee
brewing on the stove!”

Jack forced himself to smile at her Americanese, though inside he felt just dread at the thought of where this meeting would go.

The woman opened the door to the store and ushered him inside.

“I’m Vanessa Coole by the way.”

“Ah. Coole as in Coole Solutions?”

“The very same!”

“And there I was thinking it was Coole like in Shoppe — you know, with the ‘e’ on the end like in the Goode Olde Days?”

“Oh, that’s perfect!” said Vanessa, clapping her hands.” You
are
clever! How wonderfully funny!”

“Isn’t it just?” said Jack, keeping a straight face.

“Now you wait here and I’ll get the coffee going,” said Vanessa, heading to a small kitchen at the back of the showroom.

Jack scanned the shop.

One side was all gleaming cookers and ranges — high-end stuff. He turned over a price list — even the cheapest appliance was in the low thousands. Cherringham might have its poorer areas, like any village, but there was clearly no shortage of locals who were prepared to pay the price of his car for a cooker.

He walked over to the other half of the shop.

Same expensive look and price tags — but this was all marble and granite and glass worktops, and staggeringly pricey wood floors. At a desk in the corner sat a well-built, casually dressed man, leaning back, his hands behind his head, watching.

“Can’t beat wood, eh?”

“For certain things, it’s unbeatable,” said Jack, nodding to him.

The man got up, came over and gently touched Jack on the upper arm.

“Dominic Hamblyn. My wife looking after you okay?” he said.

“Oh yes,” said Jack. “I think she’s even making me a coffee.”

“You’re honoured,” said Dominic, laughing. “She never makes me one!”

Jack forced a laugh too.

“So what are you after?” said Dominic, stepping back like a salesman in an Istanbul carpet shop. “Oak? Maple? Hi-tech — or maybe organic? We’re not the cheapest in the Cotswolds and we never will be. But we’ll always be the absolute best.”

“I’m sure you are, Mr Hamblyn,” said Jack carefully. “But in truth, I’m not after a new floor — beautiful as your floors are.”

“He’s after a wood-burner, darling, I’m sure of it,” said Vanessa, joining them and to Jack’s eyes making rather too obvious a show of an affectionate arm around her husband’s waist.

“I’m afraid you’re both wrong,” said Jack, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to sustain this jolly banter any longer.

He noticed both Dominic and Vanessa cool noticeably and wondered what it was they both clearly feared: the tax man? Creditors? The police, even?

For as soon as Jack revealed that he wasn’t a customer, they’d both gone instantly into defensive body language. Vanessa withdrew her arm from her husband’s waist; Dominic stepped back and folded his arms. They were clearly waiting for him to explain.

“I’m looking at circumstances around the death of your father, Mr Hamblyn, and I’d like to ask you some questions if I may.”

“Who the hell are you?” he said, staring at him coldly.

“My name’s Jack Brennan. I’m helping someone who knew Victor Hamblyn and asked me to clarify one or two irregularities around what happened.”

“Irregularities?” said Vanessa. “What the hell does that mean?”

The banter was definitely gone.

Jack knew he was going to have to manage these two very carefully.

“I realize this is unexpected …”

“Too bloody right it is!” said Dominic.

“I would have made an appointment, but to be honest I was passing and felt we could just chat informally …”