Chapter 21
burner phone makes me jump. It’s a photograph of a sign.
The Case is Altered
At first I think it’s from Helena. She’s been completely silent since she pulled out of our meeting at Number 24. Nothing since her brother was murdered there either. I might have sent her my condolences but after being mistaken for the murderer when Helena could have spoken up about my reasons for being there and leaving, I’ve even wondered if she pointed the police at me.
The sign in the photo looks like a pub.
Then I remember I gave Charlie Marsh this number – like a weakling – instead of saying I couldn’t meet him for a drink. But it’s all very well to be confident about saying that now. Out there, standing between him and a lonely bog on Dartmoor, the burner phone number felt like a life-safer.
And now if Helena does message me, I may not be sure who it’s from.
If this is his invitation for a drink, it’s pretty crass. It seems that I completely misjudged his ‘charm’.
The Case is Altered
Or is Charlie making a joke based on my potted plot and this is not a real pub at all? A quick search brings this up:
Weirdly, a few pubs share this mysterious name. ‘The Case is Altered’ turns out to be the title of a play from 1609 written by Ben Jonson. The link between the play and the name of the pubs has never been established.
‘Weirdly’ is right. Several pubs give differing local reasons for their pub having this name. One description suggests the phrase has become ‘proverbial’ – and was borrowed by Ben Jonson for his play – after 16th century lawyer Edmund Plowden used it to refer to the effect of new evidence on a court case he was dealing with.
There’s a pub with that name in Exmouth. But I won’t be meeting Charlie there or at any pub. I get back to my book.
“Tiggy, Tiggy, Tom-Tom got the art materials and now he’s sent me a letter!”
He takes a thick plastic sleeve from his backpack and opens the work of art on the table.
We’re looking at a series of finely crafted hieroglyphics, each created inside a square box. Inside each box there are lines, straight and curved, and dots, small and large. Each one is different, but all the boxes are the same size and the patterns inside are tiny and intricate.
“What amazing work,” I say. “Especially after he struggled with writing words. They’re like little square buttons, each with a different pattern. It’s a huge talent. Has he given you any idea what they mean?”
“No. But this is what he wants to show me about himself and I’ll keep looking at it. And I’m going to try drawing something about me to send back.”
A call from Rupert interrupts my writing. My first thought is a problem with the build.
“Tiggy, something’s come up. It will take me away from the project but the fee might be worth it.”
He’s had a call from some old clients needing help. They’re in the process of buying a chateau in France and the estate agent managing the purchase has left them in the lurch. By getting murdered.
Ambrose Loxton.
“They found out about his death by accident. They’d left messages on his phone and the office in Dijon wasn’t answering their calls. Then they saw a small announcement in the Echo and the police confirmed it.”
“It must be shocking for his staff in France but someone should be calling their clients and dealing with any matters in progress. Why did these people call you?”
“I handled a previous property sale for them here. And they know I speak French. They thought I might be able to find out what’s happening and possibly take over as their agent. I’ve heard Ambrose was a bit of a one-man-show with only his wife on the staff in Dijon. And she must be too grief-stricken to handle things right now.”
His wife. I hadn’t thought he might be married with his fly-in-fly-out life. Is she the mother of Electra and Alex? And now her husband’s been murdered? That poor woman. And if she isn’t able to step up, she might be about to lose her business.
“Would you have to go to France?”
We’re both thinking about the interruption to the boathouse build.
“I don’t know. But these clients have spent a couple of years finding the perfect property and they’re desperate not to lose it. They’ve offered me a very attractive fee.”
He mentions a large figure. Rupert would inject it straight into our joint development fund, saving us thousands in interest from extending the loan.
“Right now I’m ringing colleagues to see if anyone has a contact number for Ambrose’s widow.”
“What about Helena?” I say.
We both stop.
“I mean I’d send a message on her usual phone, explaining what’s happened and asking for her sister-in-law’s number.”
“I don’t really like it,” he says, “but it will be quicker than my phone around. Once I’ve contacted Ambrose’s widow, I’ll know how to proceed.”
We hang up and I message Helena, including my condolences as well as the request.
Her reply is quick.
I don’t have her number.
Really? How very odd. She hasn’t even said her sister-in-law’s name.
Before I call Rupert back I do a quick search of Electra’s bio to see if her mother’s name is listed. Nothing. I’m tempted to open an account with a genealogy site but that would be dangerous for rabbit holes.
I ring Anita Blaine. She knows everybody’s history.
“Make it quick, Tiggy.”
“Who’s Electra Loxton’s mother?”
“I forget her name. Died of cancer.”
That throws me. “You’ve heard about Ambrose Loxton.”
“Murdered in his part-time house.”
I explain about his clients left in limbo with a purchase in France pending. “Rupert Chester needs to contact his … widow.”
She’s silent for a whole minute. “I only know the rumours. After Alex died, Ambrose moved his office to France. At the same time his young office assistant here … disappeared.”
I don’t think she means kidnapped.
“I’m trying to remember her name,” she says. “But that won’t help you find her number.”
“You think they stayed together?”
“Good point. She was his third wife. If they ever married. He could have traded her in on a newer model over there.”
Three? Anita can hear my mind working.
“His second wife was Alex’s mother. After forensics proved it was Alex in that grave, she stayed in Australia and left Electra motherless. Family over there. Then I heard she was washed into the sea in Sydney and drowned. Helena more or less adopted Electra.”
So many tragedies in one family.
“I don’t want to bother Helena,” I say to avoid an awkward question. “Can you think who else might know how to get in touch with Ambrose’s widow?”
“Helena was pretty thick with a barrister for a while. You could try him. They worked on a lot of cases together. Awesome clearance rate as soon as Helena was called in. An unforgettable name that I can’t remember.” She laughs. “I’ll know it when I hear it.”
“Tremayne Templeton,” I say.
Tremayne Templeton’s personal assistant listens to my story. “It’s a very irregular request,” she says. “If he has this widow’s contact details, I doubt he’ll be willing to share them.”
“I know. But please ask him anyway. Or see if he can be interrupted and I’ll explain. It’s quite urgent.”
Tremayne picks up. “So soon, Ms Jones. This might become a relationship.”
“Thank you for taking my call. I’ll be brief.”
He listens to my explanation.
“You’re right to think I might be able to help. Ambrose has been a friend for many years and I’ve only just heard the shocking news. A burglary gone wrong, I fear. I told him leaving the house empty according to a regular schedule was asking for a break-in. Burglars notice these things.”
I don’t mention that I was the only ‘burglar’, leaving a helpful trail of fingerprints. The thought of how those smears of blood came to be so close to where I’d touched the wall doesn’t bear thinking about.
“His wife is also his business partner,” Tremayne continues. “I don’t think it hurts to tell you her first name. Clemence.”
A French name. Have I heard it before? Sounds like she’s not his former office manager but wife number four.
“I’ll need to email you her last name. It’s not Loxton. And I’ll try to contact her before I pass on her details.”
“Thank you. I’ll send you Rupert Chester’s info to forward to her. He’s very reputable and just wants to make sure these clients of Ambrose don’t lose their chateau.”
He laughs. “Oh, they’re all chateaux once the estate agents get hold of them. A quote from Ambrose, rest his soul. I’ll be in touch toot sweet.”