A Death in C Minor Read online

  "Look, we're on the same wave length here," he assured his partner. "We agree that whoever killed Chandler may have secreted his car somewhere not far from the manor house, and walked through the adjacent field to the back of the house. Chandler obviously let his assailant in, probably through the rear entrance. His guest murdered his host, then left undetected, escaping in the dark with only the full moon that night to light the way, then got back in the car and drove off."

  "How do you know there was a full moon?"

  "I checked with the Greenwich lab."

  For the first time during the meeting, Elizabeth laughed. "Brilliant, Mick. Now the question is, who killed Chandler? And what was the motive?"

  He shrugged. "The entire population of Kenwick is suspect, as far as I'm concerned. As for motive, we're talking about a wealthy, isolated, and aloof bloke about whom little was known, and yet Adam Marr did some business with him and, for all we know, so did others in the village. Whether the business was legit or not is open to question."

  "Ah, yes! Now we come to Adam Marr, the richest toff in the county."

  "Whose considerable wealth and social status could insulate him from a murder charge, or so he might think."

  "But what would Marr possibly want from Chandler? Illicit sex? Illegal drugs? White slavery? Weapons of mass destruction?"

  Mick heaved a frustrated sigh, then took a sip of coffee.

  "Frankly, I don't know. Having said that, I have a gut feeling that something is rotten in the pristine, bucolic village of Kenwick."

  "Well, things never are what they seem," she said, pointing to Kenwick Hall, Marr's estate. "It's about a thirty-minute walk from here to Chandler's home."

  "Which still isn't that far -- about two miles or so. But, as much as I suspect Marr, I do have to keep an open mind about this case."

  "You sure do," Elizabeth agreed. "Would someone as cool and confident as Adam Marr commit a brutal crime of passion."

  "If he were sufficiently motivated, sure."

  "Are you certain you don't have it in for Marr because he's a toff? Goodness knows, Mick, you're down on the foxhunting crowd."

  "No! I believe something big was at stake, and it turned sour," he insisted. "Someone had to pay the piper, and that someone was Peter Chandler."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't know. I can't quite picture an aristocrat like Adam Marr tripping through the horse and cow poop in the dead of night."

  Chuckling at that, Mick took Chandler's police file that had been lying on the table and spread out its contents -- a photo of Peter Chandler and his vital statistics on an attached sheet of paper:

  Name: Peter Elliott Chandler

  Age: 49

  Height: 6'2"

  Weight: Approx. 15 stone (210 pounds)

  Hair: Salt and Pepper (black & grey), with receding hairline.

  Eyes: Dark brown

  Distinguishing Characteristics: Thick black eyebrows, small scar above right eye.

  Marital Status: Unknown.

  Profession: Importer/Exporter

  "What makes this case so frustrating is that everyone in the village professed to know nothing about Chandler," Mick said. "According to the case file, even Adam Marr denied knowing anything about Chandler's background, though he didn't deny doing business with him. Hell, Interpol hasn't even been able to come up with any family members or relatives of the victim."

  "He did seem to come out of nowhere," Elizabeth agreed. "Maybe he was a mole."

  "Perhaps. But you'd think that if Chandler had been a mole, MI6 would have eventually come up with a make on him."

  Mick held the victim's photo aloft, studying it.

  "Then again…" he began.

  "What?"

  "Perhaps… perhaps there was no Peter Chandler. Chandler could have assumed a false identity, Elizabeth."

  "If that's the case, then he did a damn good job of kicking over the traces of his past. Still, there's always the original theory that he was a dealer done in by the Columbian drug cartel."

  "I never bought that theory," Mick said, putting the file back together. "Lest we forget, this case is further complicated by the crime scene having been compromised by the workmen who had been restoring the interior of Chandler's home."

  "Oh, God! Don't get me started."

  The two lapsed into a sullen silence, broken only by Elizabeth absently tapping her felt-tipped pen on the table. Meanwhile, Mick finished the last of his coffee and set the cup on the table, well away from Elizabeth's handiwork.

  "Sergeant, it's time for us to pay a visit to the charming Village of Kenwick."

  "It's time for you to go back, Mick. You assigned me clean-up on some of these other case files. Remember?"

  "Oh…okay, I'll go it alone. It'll have to be later in the week, though. I've got my own damn paperwork to finish before I can leave my desk," he kvetched.

  "Hey, you could ride your motorcycle up to Essex! Make an excursion of it."

  "Ride my BMW 1100 Sport in this weather?"

  "The sun will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there'll be sun," she sang thinly.

  Mick held both hands up. "I surrender! Just stop the caterwauling." He pulled out a small leather-bound secretary from his shirt pocket. "Now what was the name of that nice couple who let me stay with them when I was up there before?" He thumbed through the dog-eared pages. "Ah, here they are: Penny and Clif Stanhope."

  "The Stanhopes, right. Their house was called…The Brambles?"

  "The Briars," he corrected her. "I think I'll drop in on them and see if they'll put me up for a couple of nights again. That way, I won't have to go all the way into Walden Marsh for a room," he added, referring to the town nearest the village.

  "Lock up your women, citizens of Kenwick! Mick Chandra is on the way," Elizabeth announced.

  Although his partner had managed to embarrass him, Mick attempted to appear cool, appraising his partner as she systematically folded the newsprint.

  "As usual, excellent work, Sergeant. Where would I be without you?"

  She smiled indulgently. "In prison, probably."

  Chapter 3

  The sign above the entrance to the Rose and Crown read:

  Wellies Not Permitted Inside Pub

  As Troy and Gwen led Jess inside, her nostrils were assaulted with a co-mingling of odors -- cigarette smoke, stale beer and ale, fried food, mold, and what smelled suspiciously like horse or cow manure.

  This Thursday evening, Kenwick's only pub was packed with people eating, chatting, drinking bitters, and watching football on the telly above the bar. As the three eeled their way to a large table located near the front windows of the pub, Jess couldn't help but notice that the locals all stared at her. For this unconventionally beautiful woman, it was a typical reaction. With her abundant honey-blond hair carelessly pulled back into a French twist, her wide, dark green eyes, alabaster complexion, naturally full lips that needed no collagen enhancement, and her nose with a bump on the bridge (which she hated), all packaged into her petite, curvy figure, Jess couldn't be mistaken for a stuck-up ice maiden. Instead, her's was an accessible beauty, the type that made people want to get to know her -- a beauty that compelled strangers to come up to Jess on the street asking for directions they didn't really need, simply to find an excuse to talk to her.

  Before her defection to England, she had been one of America's most celebrated young concert pianists. Yet, Jess had never played the snooty diva. On the contrary, she was both earthy and down to earth with a wicked, irreverent wit, throaty laugh, sensual grace, and a kick-off-your-shoes-and-let's-have-a-martini attitude toward life. The fire within her burnt low but steady, and warmed even the coldest of rooms, never singeing those who came near it.

  "Everyone, this is Jessica Beaumont, who's visiting from America," Gwen announced. "She's staying at Clif and Penny Stanhope's place while he's at Harvard."

  While Troy scrambled to get chairs for the three of them, Gwen introduced Jess to the so-called fish and chips gang. Although she wouldn't remember everyone's name that evening, Jess would come to know many of these same people over the next several months in ways she could not possibly predict.

  "Emory and Courtney Walton," Gwen said. The couple nodded at Jess. "Emory is a professor of classics at Cambridge University and is counting the days until his retirement."

  Everyone at the table chuckled at the remark except Emory Walton, who wore a stern, professorial expression, as if he were mentally translating Gwen's words into ancient Greek. After sharing the gang's laugh, his wife lapsed back into a tense, non-committal silence.

  Next were Graham and Deborah Carlisle. Graham was introduced as a retired London-based businessman, although Jess couldn't make out through the crowd noise what sort of business he had been in. Like the other couples in the group, the Carlisles were middle-aged and past their prime in terms of whatever physical attractiveness they might have enjoyed in earlier times.

  Jules and Emma Miller. Jules worked for the Ministry of Transport and, like many Kenwick transplants, commuted to his job in London. Dark and heavy set, he stood out in stark contrast to his thin, blond wife.

  "And last, but certainly not least, Tony and Consuela Neville," Gwen said, completing the introductions.

  "Please call me Connie," said the stunning 40-something woman, reaching up to shake Jess' hand. Tony Neville, a stocky man with a flushed complexion, greeted Jess with a nod.

  "Tony trades in precious metals in The City," Troy explained, motioning Jess and Gwen to sit in the chairs he had cadged from other tables.

  "I see," Jess said. "So, how's business?

  Pulling a face, Tony shrugged. "Win some, lose some."

  The three new arrivals settled into their chairs at the crow
ded table.

  "I like the sign above the entrance," Jess said for openers, raising her voice above the din.

  "Do you know what wellies are?" Connie asked.

  "Yes. Penny left a pair for me. Those tall rubber boots you wear out in the pasture, right?"

  Connie nodded. "And because they're used in the pasture, the publican doesn't want them worn inside the pub, for obvious reasons."

  "Well, judging from the odor in here, I'd say someone has been cheating," Jess said, attempting to break the ice.

  It worked. Everyone around the table laughed appreciatively -- everyone, that is, except Emory Walton, who maintained the same dyspeptic demeanor. Jess had to restrain herself from elbowing him in the ribs and saying, "Lighten up!"

  "I'm taking drink orders," Jules said jovially, standing and squeezing his bulk around the table. "So what will it be?"

  "A pint of bitters each for me and me mate," Troy said.

  Jess hesitated, really wanting a stiff martini but thinking the better of it among strangers.

  "Dry white wine -- Pino Grigio, if they have it," she said, playing it safe.

  Giving the thumbs-up sign, Jules pushed his way to the bar to place their orders.

  "How are you enjoying your stay in England?" asked Courtney Walton. Jess had been waiting for that predictable question.

  "Very much, thank you," she answered without elaborating.

  The dour professor's wife clearly wasn't satisfied. "What motivated you to come here? I mean, a single woman, alone in the Essex countryside, with no friends or family nearby seems a bit…well… adventurous, to say the least."

  "Adventure is my middle name," Jess shot back at her inquisitor.

  "Oh, really?"

  Jess nodded energetically.

  "And have you adjusted to our quaint climate?"

  "Quaint is not exactly the word I would choose to describe your weather this time of year. Crappy is more like it."

  In her peripheral vision, Jess caught Gwen biting her lower lip against the impulse to laugh. Obviously, the nosey Courtney Walton was a known quantity to her neighbor. From the next table, a cloud of blue-gray cigarette smoke wafted over to Jess, prompting her to fantasize about killing this annoying bitch and selling her pelt for a pack of Dunhills. Fortunately, Jules came to rescue, tenuously clutching three drinks in two hands, slopping bitters on the front of his sweater in the process.

  "Two bitters and a Pino Grigio," he announced, setting the drinks in front of them.

  "Thanks, mate," Troy said. "Next round is on me."

  Connie Neville raised her glass. "Let's drink to our new American friend, Jess. May she find what she's looking for in our peaceful little village of Kenwick."

  "Hear, hear," the others followed suit.

  Taking the first sip of the dry Italian wine, Jess wondered if Connie's toast harbored hidden meaning. Aware that neither Troy nor Gwen would gossip about her much less betray her recent past to anyone, she dismissed her concerns to enjoy the moment. Mentally drifting off from the group as they nattered among themselves, Jess surveyed the pub crowd.

  Her eyes settled on a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman standing at the bar. Decked out in a khaki commando sweater with a black ascot at his neck and a tam 'o shanter jauntily perched upon his head, he leaned heavily upon a silver-headed cane. To Jess, he appeared positively anachronistic, like one of those 'veddy' British, 'veddy' proper actors who portrayed stiff-upper-lip heroes in old war movies

  She nudged Gwen, unmindful that her friend was engaged in conversation with the Carlisles.

  "Who's that gentleman at the bar?"

  Gwen turned her head. "Which one?"

  "The elderly man with the cane."

  "Oh, him. That's the Colonel."

  "Tell me more."

  "His name is Sir Brian Foley. He's reputed to have been the unsung mastermind for the retreat from Dunkirk during World War Two. Troy says Foley's a walking font of local history as well, but most people around here think he's just an old windbag who's past his shelf date.

  "I think he looks fascinating."

  "Good Lord, Jess, Sir Brian is as ancient as Moses! He's eighty-eight years old: much too old for you."

  "That's not what I meant!" Jess protested, not taking her eyes off the man. She rose from the table.

  "I think I'll toodle on up to the bar and introduce myself to the Colonel."

  "Wait! What kind of fish do you want? We have to order," Gwen called after her.

  "Surprise me."

  "Glenfiddich, neat," she could hear the Colonel giving his order. "And don't give me one of those bloody anemic English shots. Give me an American portion!"

  Jess liked him already. Squeezing in next to Foley at the bar, she noisily plunked down her wine glass.

  "Double Beefeaters, on the rocks with a twist," she said, throwing caution to the wind. "And please don't be stingy with the ice. I'm American."

  Sir Brian jerked his head in her direction and was greeted with Jess' disarming smile. She extended her hand to the elderly gentleman.

  "Jessica Beaumont. I'm visiting from America."

  "Charmed, Miss…?"

  "Beaumont."

  Locking his slate-blue eyes with hers, Foley shook her hand. For an instant, Jess wished she were either several decades older or that he was four to five decades younger.

  "Allow me to buy your drink for you."

  "Thank you, I will."

  The publican placed their drinks in front of them.

  "Would you join me at my table?" he asked.

  Jess jerked her head in the direction of the gang. "I'd love to, but I'm with friends."

  "Those people over there? Hell, they won't mind. They'll just sit around jabbering about their investments and business ventures. They won't even know you're gone."

  She mustered her charming throaty laugh. "Actually, I'm their guest this evening. Perhaps another time."

  "By all means, it's a date. And I never forget a date with a beautiful woman." With a trembling hand, he raised the scotch to his lips. "Ah, pure nectar," he sighed, savoring the golden-brown liquid.

  Foley fixed his steely eyes on her again. "Where are you staying, Miss Beaumont?"

  "I'm renting the Stanhope's cottage while Clif is on faculty exchange."

  "Right, The Briars. Well, we must have dinner soon," he said, tipping his drink to her. "At my house. I'll phone you."

  Shoving off from the bar, the Colonel walked unsteadily to a corner table where a severe-looking matronly woman was waiting. Jess thought she appeared much too coarse and common to be the wife of such an elegant man and reckoned she might be some sort of caretaker.

  "Well, don't you look full of yourself," Gwen said when Jess returned to the table.

  "He's going to have me over for dinner."

  "That's a coup! He must have taken a shine to you. What did…?"

  Gwen was cut short by Connie Neville, who excitedly announced to the group, "Listen up, fellow fish and chippers. I'm having a party tomorrow night at our house in Jess' honor. Eight o'clock sharp. Bring a hearty appetite and thirst. We should all give our American guest a proper welcome."

  "Oh, Connie, you…"

  "Nope. No protest, Jess. I insist."

  "Well…thanks. That's very kind of you."

  The conversation was terminated by the publican and a pretty young server, who approached the table bearing large trays groaning with plates of fried fish and bowls of chips.

  "For our American guest, our finest Dover sole," he announced, placing a whole fried fish in front of Jess.

  "This, too," said the young woman, handing her a small, elegant box of fine English chocolates.

  Suddenly, Jess choked up. After all the bad things that had happened to her in America -- the divorce, the death of her son, her suicide attempt, her defection -- the kindness and generosity of these strangers touched her deeply.

  "That's lovely," she barely managed.

  The food was magnificent. As everyone dug in, Jules engaged Jess in conversation about the local doings in Kenwick.

  "Another thing you might want to participate in is our Footpath Club," he went on.

  Stuffing her mouth with the best sole she had ever consumed, Jess mumbled, "What's that?"

  "We meet up at the old church every Sunday afternoon to hike the local footpaths," he explained. "There are miles and miles of paths around here. You could hike every day in this area and still not hit every path that's available."