Chapter 14
on foot, about to turn from Holt Road into the lane that runs behind Serpentine Crescent.
Rupert messaged me this morning that he’d drive me here, and drop me in Wentworth Street where Helena said to park my car. Now he’s found a space close to where we parked on Friday night. And he’ll be sitting on a bench just outside the iron fence that runs around the central park. If I can stand near a bay window of Number 24 while I’m inside talking to Helena, he’ll be able to see me.
Neither of us expects me to be in any danger otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But on the way he suggested leaving the door to the lane unlatched if possible. And we devised a signal I can make if I’m in trouble. I’ll put my arms up and remove my peaked cap, an action that should be visible across the single-lane street.
The cap is part of the outfit I’ve chosen to disguise myself a little. It came as a freebie with an online purchase and it’s not what I usually wear. It also covers my blonde hair. My old tracksuit has an oversized top that hides my shape and a pair of embarrassingly baggy ‘trackie-dackies’ I usually wear at home.
When I reach the back door of Number 24, I knock. Nothing happens. I try the handle and the door opens. Stepping inside, I find myself in a kind of mudroom with a rubber mat for boots and hooks on the wall for coats. A door with a window opens into a hallway and at the end three stairs go up to the living room, level with Serpentine Crescent.
I stand at the end of the hall, not sure what to do. Because this is obviously a secret meeting, I don’t want to call out. I don’t want to go further into the building either. But after a couple of minutes that’s what I decide to do.
Moving slowly along the hall and up the stairs, I enter the large sitting room that looks onto the Crescent through the enormous bay windows. A huge central chandelier is dangling crystals, and the room is furnished with opulently framed mirrors and French antiques. My burner phone buzzes.
Can’t make it. Sorry. Leave through back door and lock it.
What!
A wave of chagrin washes over the tension I’ve been holding in. I’ve invested so much time in what this woman’s sent me, spent hours trying to piece together the puzzle she’s set. And I get here to find the whole escapade is a no-show.
I ring Rupert on my usual phone.
“What a let-down,” he says.
“Yeah. And that’s polite. And now because she isn’t here, I’m trespassing. I’ll leave the way I came in. The door was unlocked. I’ll latch it and pull it closed. You’d better pick me up in the street where we started. I can’t imagine anyone is watching the building but I’ll meet you there.”
It’s when I’m walking back along the hall, that I notice a sliver of light shining through a crack in the wall panelling. It wasn’t visible from the other direction. I know a little about secret doors after investigating them for my last book. When I open it slightly and press my eye to the crack, I’m looking past another partially open door into another room. A mudroom at the back of what must be Helena’s house. On this side of her kitchen? The siblings installed secret connecting doors between their properties. Has Helena left that way and forgotten to close them properly behind her?
Why couldn’t she keep our appointment?
After reaching the back door and opening it ready to close it behind me, I step into the lane and come face to face with someone I know. Ben Baker. Newly promoted from police constable to detective constable. It’s too late to avoid him.
“Tiggy Jones,” he says. “I almost didn’t recognise you.” He eyes my cap and shapeless attire.
He’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Not on duty but I’m still in trouble.
“Hello Ben.” I think fast. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”
“My parents live just along here in the Crescent.”
Just my luck. “A nice day for a family lunch.”
“And a working bee. My brother and I have been clipping back vines in their backyard. And this is my nephew, Robbie. He’s been helping too.”
The child standing beside him looks about six.
“Hi Robbie.” Time to keep the conversation about them. “What games can you play in this back lane? It looks like a good place for handball.”
“And football.” He kicks a pebble with his foot. “And cricket. But it’s too cold for cricket.”
“I just saw you come out of this house,” Ben says, getting to the subject I’m avoiding. “I know it’s mostly vacant. Do you mind telling me what you were doing in there?”
Yes, I would mind. “Not burgling it,” I blurt.
As Ben frowns, a voice behind me says, “Ben, I didn’t know you lived around here.”
Rupert. I breathe out.
“Neither did Tiggy. My parents’ terrace house backs onto this lane.” He points over his shoulder.
“Nice part of town,” Rupert says. “This house on the corner is for sale. Except it doesn’t have the Serpentine Crescent address.”
“I know. And I bumped into Tiggy coming out just now.” Ben’s tone is meaningful.
“We found this door unlocked,” Rupert says. “I’ve been round to check the front. It’s secure. I’ve rung the agent, Tiggy. Left a message. Very odd. You didn’t find a key on the inside, I suppose.”
Sometimes I love the way Rupert’s mind works. The fastest fibber in the business.
“No,” I say. “But I only had a quick look on the hooks inside the door. Should we check if it’s been burgled, Ben?”
He won’t want to do that.
“Unlikely,” Ben says. “Ambrose Loxton comes and goes back and forth to France. He probably just forgot to lock it when he left last night.”
His movements are known by his neighbours.
“That’s where Alex Loxton lived!” cries Robbie. Then he starts a schoolyard chant:
“Al-ex Lox-ton
Al-ex Lox-ton
Wan-dered off
Wan-dered off
And a were-wolf chewed him UP!
Chewed him UP!
Grrrr!”
He bares his fangs and claws and starts again.
“Al-ex Lox-ton
Al-ex Lox-ton –”
“Thanks Robbie,” Ben says. “You know that isn’t true, don’t you? Alex died but werewolves are imaginary. They don’t eat children, OK?”
“OK.” Robbie looks crestfallen. Nothing like a bit of gore to make a childhood chant worth performing.
Ben’s looking at me again. He’s thought of something. “I know you’re renovating the boathouse, Tiggy, so you aren’t in the market to buy this house. You wouldn’t be thinking of using the abduction of poor Alex Loxton as the plot for one of your mysteries, would you? Doing a bit of ‘ground-truthing’ at the scene?”
Ben knows me too well but I’m relieved. I can tell the truth. “My new book has nothing to do with child abduction. Death by Deception is inspired by the death of Molly Crane at Merton Mire decades ago.”
But Ben knows about Molly too. “The death of Molly Crane is famous around here. Because it was Dr Helena Loxton’s first case. That’s Helena Loxton, the forensic scientist, also the sister of Ambrose Loxton and the aunt of Alex Loxton. And at this moment we are standing behind her house.”
“Really? I’ve read about her work for my research for Molly, of course. She’s quite a star. Is this where she lives?”
“I just said so,” Ben says.
“I think we should see if we can lock this door before we go,” Rupert says. “The agent may not pick up my message till tomorrow.”
“Which agent is that, Rupert?”
Ben’s trying to trick him but Rupert rattles off a name as he locks the door.
“Robbie and I will walk you to your car,” Ben says.
We wait until we’re half a kilometre down the road before we burst into guffaws of laughter. It’s the perfect antidote for the fury I’m feeling about Helena and her games.
“I think DC Ben Baker’s in love with you, Tiggy,” Rupert says.
“Don’t tell Anita Blaine. It will be all over Topsham before I’ve got time to join the nunnery.”
“He certainly finds you fascinating. A challenge might be a good word. And he seems to bump into you more often than by chance.”
“And now that I’m totally obsessed with the death of Alex Loxton, I won’t be able to fictionalise it in Death by Deception. Not without looking like I lied to him.”
“Obsessed because of Helena?”
“Because there’s a story behind the abduction and murder of three-year-old Alex. Even the kids think so.”
“There must be but Helena warned you off using any cases that might be linked to her.”
“And then sent me a whole file of examples of her knack for case-cracking, with three fingers pointing towards her nephew.”
“I wonder why she didn’t turn up today, after all her efforts to lure you there.”
I tell him about the secret door.
“She was there in Number 24, waiting for you,” he says. “Then just as you arrived, she left in such a hurry, she didn’t close the connecting door. Because she wanted you to see it? Or because escaping was more important than secrecy?”
Two questions we can’t answer.