Thomas Crockley’s face, white and frozen in a choking expression, was propped up by one of his arms. Around his mouth was a pool of blood that Jon had stepped in. Crockley’s left hand was outstretched, palm closed around a long, thin glass vial – like a test tube. It was empty.
A theory was already forming in Jon’s mind. He wished the theories would stop.
He checked on the young Prince. Martin was frozen, standing in the small connective corridor between the pantry and the wine cellar. He was silently panting words. Jon didn’t know what he was saying.
‘Prince Martin, you should leave.’
Martin shook his head forcefully. ‘Is he . . . Is he . . . Is he . . . ?’ Is he dead?
Jon would have given anything at that point to shake his head with the conviction that the Prince had just displayed, but instead he nodded. ‘Yes. He’s dead, Martin. I’m so sorry.’
Martin held back tears.
‘If you won’t leave, can you stay here while I search the bo . . . while I look at what happened here?’
Martin said nothing, but an unspoken confirmation passed between them.
Jon turned back and let the tragedy in. Another dead body. Another soul to put on his conscience. Thomas Crockley – the man no one seemed to like, but everybody put up with anyway. Jon had to confess that he did not particularly like him either, but he would not have wished this upon him.
He examined the room now there was light in it, and the shock of the main attraction had settled in. The floor was a mess – some wine bottles had been dislodged from the rack Crockley’s back was rested against, and they had rolled across the stone floor and were teetering there. He counted five wine bottles in all, and among them was something else. Smaller things – still glass. More vials – about twenty of them strewn all over. It was a miracle he hadn’t stepped on one in the dark. He stooped down and picked one up. It was three-quarters full of some kind of colourless liquid and had a small cork in the top. All of the vials on the floor were the same.
He took a step back and inspected the floor again. The wine bottles had come from the rack, that was certain, but where had the vials come from? He glanced around to see the answer almost immediately. To the left of Crockley’s body, in an antique drinks cabinet, a bottom cupboard sat open. A vial was wedged there, making it so it couldn’t shut.
Jon went to the cupboard and opened it, having to shine his torch inside, as he was blocking the light from the bulb hanging in the centre of the room. The cupboard was empty. Jon was about to look elsewhere when he saw that the back of the cupboard seemed odd. It almost seemed slightly misplaced. There was a seam at the back and Jon didn’t exactly know how to comprehend it at first. But then it came to him – it was a false back! In their haste, someone had not returned it to its original position.
Jon reached in and pushed the false back aside to reveal a secret compartment. He shone the torch inside, and the light was reflected back to him from dozens upon dozens of jam jars full of the same colourless liquid from the vials. The missing jam jars from the kitchen, Jon barely had to time think as he noticed that, rather garishly, whoever was responsible for these jars had stuck labels on each and every one with a skull and crossbones emblazoned on them.
He took out one of the jam jars and held it up to the air. The liquid sloshed around inside. These were the jam jars that had held the King’s favourite jam. Now it was clear what they held – the person responsible had made sure of that. He regarded the small and almost comical skull and crossbones watching him with hollow eyes.
Poison.
The vials were full of poison. A single serving of death.
And Thomas Crockley had an empty one in his hand.
Crockley. He put the jam jar down on the cabinet that had housed it and stooped over the body of Thomas Crockley. Although all signs pointed to him dying the same way as the King, there was something infinitely more violent to how Thomas Crockley had died. Bleeding from the mouth. Face almost more pained. Crockley had gotten a more concentrated dose, it seemed.
Jon knew that he should search the body, and with one tentative look towards Martin (who was doing everything not to look), he inched closer. He searched Crockley’s pockets, sad that he still had to quell his suspicions. But then suspicions were rife here. If this was what it appeared to be, Thomas Crockley had killed himself with the same poison he’d used to kill the King.
There was nothing in any of his pockets except his wallet. Why he thought he needed his wallet for Christmas Day in Balmoral was anyone’s guess, but it fit Crockley so well to have it close by. Jon opened it and saw that he was carrying his cards, no cash and not much else. Except . . .
One card drew Jon’s interest. A white matte card that shone in the dull light. Jon took it out. It was a business card embossed with gold lettering. George Tippin, Sunwing Production House, Researcher. It had this Tippin’s phone number on the reverse. Jon thought back to what Crockley had said – this Tippin had put the business card on the bar and said Crockley didn’t even have to say anything, he just had to take it.
Crockley said he’d ripped it up. Yet here it was.
He’d taken it. He was the leak to the production company.
The King had known. Motive.
Jon stood back, thankful to be away from him. Crockley was the killer, and as he saw the noose tightening, he had killed himself. After one last long smoke.
It was perfect, clean.
Jon slipped George Tippin’s business card into his pocket.
It was almost too clean.
Crockley’s eyes were open, eternally staring ahead of him, with that horrifying look on his face. If he had ingested the poison willingly, would he look like that? He’d already seen what a weaker dose of the stuff had done to the King, he had to know that it was going to be so much worse for him. But then maybe it was just so painful that he couldn’t help but look like that. But not even to shut his eyes?
One final thing interested Jon. The blood was surrounding Crockley’s head, just as though he had thrown it all up after swallowing the vial. So then why was there no blood on his lips?
Jon could not investigate further – there was no time and he couldn’t disturb the body, especially with Martin present. A new fork in the timeline presented itself in his mind. He knew he was right.
He hurried over to the young Prince, careful to block the view of Crockley. As he spoke, he guided Martin out of the pantry by almost forcing him to backstep as he advanced. ‘Prince Martin, I need you to do something for me.’
The boy’s eyes showed no recognition, but Jon knew he was listening.
‘This may be difficult, but I need you to gather your family and bring them all to the drawing room. If it is easier, don’t mention my name. Tell them that Miss Darcy wants to see them.’ They were outside in the corridor now.
Martin said nothing.
‘Prince Martin, can you do that for me?’
Again nothing.
‘Prince Martin?’
Martin snapped out of it. ‘I’m sorry . . . um . . . Yes, I can do that. But why do you need everyone back there?’
Jon laid a supportive hand on Martin’s shoulder. The boy was shaking. ‘Because no one else is getting hurt. It is time to end this.’
‘We don’t have the folder. How can we end this?’
‘Because we don’t need the folder anymore. I think your father just led us to the real murderer.’