Emery Lane met them at the door, prim in a pressed brown suit, and told them they were lucky to find them at work on a Saturday morning.
“Mr. Selkirk is on the phone with an important client and has an appointment this afternoon,” he said.
“We’ll wait,” MacAdams assured him. “This is DCI Fleet, Emery. And actually, we came to speak to both of you.”
In fact, MacAdams knew all about the day’s schedule, thanks to Green, and had hoped to get Emery alone. He seemed the easier nut to crack. Emery’s pencil mustache gave a slight twitch as he led the detectives to the front office and offered each a chair.
“Tea?”
“Please,” Fleet said stiffly; MacAdams declined and shrugged off his rumpled mackintosh.
“Emery, you told us that Sid Randles became a retainer to the estate three years ago. What was the exact date?”
“I never assent to any details without looking at the files. The habit of a good legal assistant, I assure you. I’ll just pull it up, shall I?”
MacAdams smiled. Not because it set people at ease. On the contrary, Green assured him that a smiling MacAdams was highly unnerving, which alone had encouraged the practice.
“Thank you. While you do that, I’d like to verify a few things. Before the contract, Sid had only been doing the occasional odd job, paid hourly. Is that right?”
“I could look for receipts—”
“I think MacAdams would be happy with a general assent,” Fleet suggested. It was well timed and had the benefit of both surprising and unnerving Emery. His face hadn’t changed, but now his gaze drifted between the two detectives.
“Then, yes,” Emery said, “But Mr. Selkirk can confirm.”
“And after the contract?” MacAdams asked.
“Sid Randles managed the cottage on his own.”
“You have no documentation for how much he made from these arrangements?” MacAdams asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd? What if the rental were incredibly successful? Wouldn’t that matter to the estate?”
Emery wet his lips.
“I will have to inquire from Mr. Selkirk,” he said. In the next room, the leather chair creaked and MacAdams heard Rupert putting the receiver down rather louder than necessary. The man himself appeared a moment later, bearing a look of mild but genial surprise.
“Detective Chief Inspector MacAdams,” he said smoothly. “How can I help?”
There was no way he hadn’t heard the conversation.
“Rupert Selkirk, this is DCI Fleet, formerly of New Scotland Yard,” MacAdams said, and much as he hated to admit it, the mention of the Metropolitan Police had just gained them useful footing.
“Goodness,” Rupert said, nodded appreciatively to Fleet.
“We’re following up on Sergeant Green’s report. You see, I would like to know how much Sid made from his cottage rentals. I would also like to see receipts of how much you paid Randles as a retainer prior to that arrangement.”
“Of course,” Rupert agreed. “Could you step into my office?”
Rupert’s office was larger than Emery’s, and rather nice: polished wood, rich furnishings. But it felt oddly blank, somehow. Rupert motioned them to a brace of leather armchairs as he unlocked a cabinet.
“Aiden Jones rented the cottage in the eighties and nineties—that would be Ms. Jones’ maternal uncle. His health became poor, however, and he was unable to keep it up. He died four years ago. Rather than taking on the estate herself, his sister, the elder Ms. Jones, made the law firm a retainer.”
“Is that unusual?” MacAdams asked.
“It is, indeed. But we negotiated to hold the property for her daughter.”
“And you were paid for this service?”
“As I say, we were on retainer by the elder Ms. Jones. So, yes. But the estate had been going fallow. The extensive grounds left to go wild, the house in some disrepair.” Rupert held up a folder in one hand. “These are the rental records from Aiden Jones.”
MacAdams extended his hand and didn’t lower it until Rupert surrendered the file. He scanned until he found the entries. There weren’t many, less than a dozen or so a year.
“Not exactly lucrative, then, I see.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Rupert settled into his chair. “After his passing, I didn’t attempt to rent it myself. It seemed hardly worth the trouble.”
“It didn’t seem worth your time,” Fleet repeated, “as the estate solicitor.”
“In point of fact, Detective, I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of time. The Jones siblings had an unusual relationship to the property. Aiden had seemed highly interested in its history, but not its management. His sister in America had no investment at all. I could not see the point of managing a property on behalf of those who cared so little about it.”
“I’m sorry, the estate’s history? Explain?” MacAdams asked. Rupert lowered his head slightly, giving MacAdams a somewhat conspiratorial glance.
“No, family history. The estate has plenty of documentation through the nineteenth century—the gardens, at least, were famous in their time. And of course, it’s been abandoned a long while. Aiden had some interest in how the Jones side of the family connected to the Ardemores.”
“And how does it?” MacAdams asked. Rupert compressed his lips.
“Only just. No progeny meant no baronetcy, but the land parcel passed to more distant family members—of which Jo Jones is the last.”
MacAdams weighed these admissions. It raised more questions than it answered, particularly about Jo’s family, but also—
“All right. No one cared about the estate. Then why bother with an estate manager? Why not let it go to ruin?”
Rupert made a deprecating noise and shook his head. “Sid was not an estate manager. If he called himself that, it was a very grand gesture. We needed the grounds looked after in the most basic way. Keep the lawns short, clear the drains. Occasional upkeep. I just wanted to keep the cottage reasonable until—until such time that the family took possession.”
“And you wanted Sid Randles cheap,” MacAdams summarized. Rupert smiled and laced his fingers.
“Sid Randles offered himself cheaply. He agreed to take over renting the cottage in place of a salary. As you can see from Aiden’s records, it didn’t promise much, certainly not anything of real worth to the estate”—which means, thought MacAdams, he definitely overheard his line of questioning with Emery—“so the arrangement suited us both. I explained this to your sergeant yesterday.”
“My detective sergeant,” MacAdams corrected. Beside him, Fleet uncrossed his legs and leaned slightly forward—the bending of a ruler.
“Am I to understand that upon Ms. Jones’ arrival, this arrangement with Sid was rendered void? Once she took over the property, it would become her decision, yes?” he asked.
“Yes, but I didn’t know her intentions before her arrival,” Rupert said—and maybe there was the slightest shift in tone? “As a matter of fact, she only phoned last week to say she was coming, and I notified Sid the day of her visit. It was a surprise to us all.”
MacAdams frowned. “The point, Mr. Selkirk, is that Sid did not have an arrangement with Jo Jones. Only with you.”
“Not with me—with the estate.”
MacAdams held up a copy of the agreement with Sid, which Green had taken the day before.
“The thing is, estates don’t sign documents. And I don’t see Jo’s name on this. It’s your name. And—well. And Emery’s name, too. As a witness.”
Emery Lane looked deeply uncomfortable. MacAdams pressed on.
“As of this week, Sid was losing the cottage—and that meant no more retainer, no more renting the cottage, no more money. Am I following?”
“That is correct,” Rupert agreed.
“And then you fired Sid on Jo’s behalf.”
“She suggested he may have stolen something, and made it clear his services were not wanted. So yes, then I fired him for her.”
MacAdams heard the whisper of Fleet’s trousers as he placed both feet on the floor. Hopefully that meant he’d followed MacAdams’ line of reasoning. He closed his notebook to make the point:
“Ah. But there was no need to fire Sid at all. You just told me Ms. Jones’ plans for the cottage rendered Sid’s contract void. Or am I missing a legal loophole somewhere?”
That got an animated response from Emery, whose eyes averted nervously to Rupert. The solicitor was still completely at ease.
“I had assumed that a new contract would be drawn up, Detective. The grounds still need basic maintenance and Sid Randles was the obvious choice. Perhaps it’s best to say I preemptively relieved Sid of his duties before a new contract could go into effect.”
“Was Mr. Randles upset?” Fleet asked. Flatly so. Usefully disengaged.
“Naturally.”
“Because of all the income he was making,” MacAdams said. Rupert took the bait.
“As I have already explained, the income would be minimal,” he said. MacAdams nodded appreciatively. He had been saving his best card. Now seemed the time to play it.
“Minimal. So you consider five thousand dollars a month minimal?”
For the first time, Rupert started.
“I’m sorry?”
“Technically, Sid was depositing upwards of seven thousand, all cash.” MacAdams watched carefully; Rupert’s eyebrows migrated to center, the muscle under his brow ridge folded and flaccid by turns.
“Impossible.”
“I assure you it’s plain in black-and-white. The five thousand, as a single amount, appeared in his account monthly. Every year. Beginning in March of his agreement with you over the cottage. Curious, isn’t it?”
“But—I didn’t know this!” Rupert gasped and looked toward Emery, who hovered at the door. “I don’t know what Sid Randles was up to, but it had nothing to do with our agreement over the holiday let. It can’t have.”
“Oh, I am inclined to agree,” MacAdams said, and now that Rupert was good and ruffled, he opted for the natural first question—“Mr. Selkirk, where were you on Wednesday night between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.?”
“Here.” The answer was immediate and a bit unexpected.
“In your office?” he asked, and Rupert nodded.
“Yes. One of my clients decided to rewrite her will, and she wanted it Thursday morning to show her remaining family members in Uxton. We were both here, Emery and I, until nearly two in the morning.”
He’d just given himself and Emery an alibi. And of course, that would be very convenient. MacAdams waved the folder Rupert had given him.
“We will follow up. And I’ll just be keeping these if you don’t mind. I would also like you to send your financial information over to the station. It will save us the trouble of demanding them from your bank. Fleet?”
“Nothing further,” the man said, bowing with absurd civility as MacAdams tugged on his hat.
“Ruffled, I think,” he said when they reached the car. “Though, they seemed honestly surprised by the money Sid was pulling in.”
“You believe them?” Fleet asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like a subtle accusation. “Solicitors make their living by being difficult to read.”
“The same is true of detectives. But I agree that he’s suspicious. Too slick in his replies.”
“He had an answer for everything.”
“Rehearsed, you might say,” MacAdams agreed. “Five thousand pounds a month is a great deal of cash, but Rupert probably has it to give. If we’re talking blackmail, that is. A lot, but not enough to break him.”
Fleet’s features had gone rather tight...or tighter.
“This has continued for three years. You don’t think a breaking point might be in sight? Could you part with so much?”
Fleet’s point, annoying as it was, had some weight. For the average person, even a Scotland Yard detective, that sort of expenditure would bleed out before long. MacAdams didn’t feel like admitting it, though. He started the engine.
“There are holes in the blackmail theory, anyway. If Sid was milking Rupert for that five grand, why didn’t at least one of them attempt to hide it? Sid didn’t bother to falsify receipts or even a guest book. One look at his bank account and it’s obvious he was up to something illegal. Anyway, Rupert just seems too smart to be caught up by someone like Sid.”
Fleet’s impassive face nevertheless carried the essence of a frown. “Are you suggesting Sid could only blackmail someone of substandard intelligence?”
“I’m not trying to insult the victim. But yes. Sid was a small-town type. For all his schemes, he wasn’t an outright felon.” Fleet’s eyes narrowed.
“Jo Jones begs to differ,” he reminded him. And of course, he had a point—but Sid had method to his hucksterism. He only took what he thought the world owed him. Granted, Sid assumed the world owed him a lot...
“All right. He might blackmail someone, but the man was hardly a criminal mastermind,” MacAdams explained. “This kind of thing is way over his ken.” Beside him, Fleet stared resolutely out the rain-streaked window.
“A man can be smart enough to blackmail and too foolish to hide it well,” he said. “You might consider this—Rupert hoped Sid would get caught.”
“Maybe,” MacAdams muttered. “But according to Gridley, the money still went somewhere else in smaller amounts. Maybe he owed money somewhere—gambling syndicate? Something. The murderer could be at either end of the transaction.”
“Killed by the mastermind and not the blackmailer, you mean?” Fleet asked archly. MacAdams shrugged.
“It makes more sense than being killed over a missing painting, at least.”
Fleet cleared his throat.
“I have been meaning to ask about that.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me Jo Jones has convinced you—” MacAdams began, but Fleet shook his head.
“I’ve yet to interview her. But you released the cottage back to her care surprisingly quickly.”
Oh, MacAdams thought. “Look, Fleet. I can appreciate your skills. But it’s not your case—and I won’t have you questioning everything my team does. The cottage had nothing in it of value, not drugs, not answers, not the bloody, blessed painting.”
Beside him, Fleet turned like a slow-winding spring.
“Let me ask you a question, Detective. If you can answer it, I’ll take my leave. I’ll get on the very next train back to York. Is that fair?”
MacAdams had steeled himself for a fight; he hadn’t expected that.
“All right,” he agreed.
“Where are Sid’s keys?” Fleet asked.
Dammit, MacAdams thought. He was just at the solicitors’ and forgot to ask for them. He fumbled out his phone and rang Rupert’s office line from his mobile; meanwhile, Fleet kept talking.
“Sid Randles was caretaker to the cottage and estate. He was supposed to turn in his keys to Rupert, but I’ve not seen them. Have you? You searched his person, went through his clothes, and Green had uniforms all over his flat—”
MacAdams did his best to ignore the running commentary.
“Emery? Yes, it’s DCI MacAdams—”
Beside him, Fleet droned on. “In the evidence bag at your office, there are car keys and a flat key. But nothing for the cottage or the estate. And yet, the door had been relocked after the murder. It seems to me the first order of business would have been to secure the keys. And that waiting until you were reminded—again—after failing to procure them—”
Emery’s voice came back, tinny on the line.
“—is the pinnacle of sloppy policework, representing either extraordinary overconfidence or a stunning ignorance of protocol.”
MacAdams put down his phone. The emotion traveling his synapses at that moment felt a lot like self-disgust, tempered with the horror of having to admit it to Fleet.
“Rupert Selkirk does not have the keys,” he said thickly.
Fleet merely adjusted his coat and brushed lint from his trousers with sure and steady fingers.
“And thus, you have perhaps prematurely released the cottage,” he said.
MacAdams didn’t trust himself to answer.
The world had become a much better place, in Jo’s estimation, since the advent of texting. Quicker than email, more immediate results, and most importantly—no need to make a phone call. She preferred, generally, to be the call-er not the call-ee; the sound of a telephone put her right through the roof, for one thing. A vibration was certainly an improvement, but it still resulted in the persistent zzz-zzz-zzz-zzz as opposed to the polite ping of text.
The worst part of phoning, however, was knowing when to speak and when to pause. No visual cues, just the sound of your voice bumping into someone else’s and having to apologize a lot. In consequence, she’d delayed the roofer call, and the longer she waited the more impossible the task felt. And so, when the cottage was finally released to her, she attacked it with delight, relief, and all the energy of hyperfocused procrastination.
That was six hours ago. Six hours, plus twenty trash bags, three trips to town, two jugs of bleach, and a ruined pair of jeans. Jo sat on the kitchen floor with her legs spread out in front of her. She’d pitched almost everything, especially the horrible sofa, which took some deconstruction before she could get it out the front door. Then, of course, there was re-construction. Bringing in linens and cutlery, rugs and lamps, and dishes, too. Other people’s dishes had an ick factor she couldn’t quite get over. Besides, the old ones had murder on them.
She’d allowed herself a break. Or rather, her body went on strike. She was a gross mess and not inclined to get up. So of course, that’s when company arrived.
“Hello, Ms. Jones?” floated in through the open front door. She recognized MacAdams’ voice. She could only see his hat over the midkitchen counter. A fedora or something like it, and from the way it turned side to side, he evidently hadn’t noticed her.
“Floor, over here,” Jo said, holding up one hand to wave.
MacAdams leaned over the island.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ve been very busy.”
MacAdams’ head disappeared again as he appraised the state of the cottage.
“You did all this since this morning...”
“Most of it.” Jo grunted and climbed to her feet. “Some of it before.”
“Before? Wait—Jo, were you in this cottage after the murder?”
“You said I couldn’t move in, not that I couldn’t come back.” This was technically true.
“You contaminated the crime scene!”
“No I didn’t! Your constable wouldn’t let me in.” This was technically false.
MacAdams removed his hat to run fingers through shaggy hair.
“Thank God for small favors,” he muttered. “I came with a question about the case. Did you happen to take Sid’s estate keys from him? I—we—want to make sure they are accounted for.”
“Why? So the killer doesn’t come back and sneak in?” Jo asked, and MacAdams half choked.
“No!” He frowned. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s covered.” Jo pointed to the door. “New dead bolt and three internal lock and chains. I installed them this morning. Seemed a smart thing to do. I’m a big-city girl.”
“I see,” he said, though he very clearly did not. “Back to the point, please, I need to know if you have Sid’s keys?”
“Nope. Couldn’t get it rekeyed so I changed the whole mechanism. Shame, though. They were brand-new locks.” Jo swigged water from a coffee mug.
“New locks. I remember.” MacAdams leaned on his forearms. For some reason, the man always looked tired. Or maybe like he’d just lost a fight. When he next spoke, it was mainly to himself. “What would be the point of that, Sid—what were you doing?”
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked, watching him carefully.
“I...am half afraid to ask,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. Jo didn’t care. She had a theory.
“When I think about Sid, I think of three things,” she said. “His snaggled tooth, the way foxes hide their food, and Jane Eyre.”
MacAdams’ left eyebrow was on the move toward his hairline.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Sid makes me think of Reynard the Fox, being too clever for his own good. Lots of stories about him—his uncle, the wolf, tried to catch him but he often gets away to do more mischief. Then, in Jane Eyre, Bertha Mason is a secret wife locked in the attic.” Jo knew she was giving points A and D; the trick was explaining the B and C in the middle. “I think Sid liked hiding things, maybe secret things. I’m not sure why the painting was locked up at the house, or why a key to that bedroom wasn’t included in the set Rupert gave me, but maybe the whole estate was Sid’s private fox cache.”
An expression was making its way across MacAdams’ stiff features, one facial muscle at a time. Even his eyebrows were operating at different registers.
“You didn’t have a key to the locked room?”
“No. And Rupert didn’t have a key to the cottage. I got the extra set from Sid the first day.” She waited to see if he was catching on, and it was clear the same thought ran through their minds: people put new locks on things when they are hiding something.
“Well? What do you think?” Jo asked. It was a hope misplaced. The spark of interest had vanished and the more surly look returned.
“I think we released the cottage prematurely,” MacAdams said, though part of him was still processing this information from Jo. “Until we find out who—”
“Oh no you don’t! You can’t kick me out of here again!” Jo insisted.
“Look, I can get CID to comp your room at the Red Lion.” After a moment’s silent hesitation, he added, “We can consider it a polite request.”
“Meaning I can refuse?” Jo asked. He sighed heavily.
“If you do, it will no longer be a polite request, and that will require paperwork.”
Jo considered him a moment. Was he giving her the opportunity to at least be around during the day? Was this a concession? Making up for being a jerk before?
“For how long?” she asked.
“Give me till after Sid’s funeral,” he said.