The hysteria and wailing brought Jocelyn and Nicholas back into the room, with more cups of tea. Once that had settled things down a bit, the gathered writers and Sophia divided into four camps: those who thought the avenging knights had killed Graham (Starla and Imogen), those who believed the trick-or-treaters had done it, either accidentally or on purpose (Jocelyn, Laura, Robin), those who were just trying to calm everyone down (Tabby and Sophia), and those who believed Cullen had done it (Nicholas).
‘You found him, didn’t you?’ he pointed his finger in Cullen’s direction. The latter had gone and perched on the arm of the Chesterfield, next to where the Laura chick was. His bulk looked dangerously heavy for the patched leather sofa.
‘You could have easily stuck the finger in Graham’s hand.’ Nicholas’s voice was heavy with icy provocation. ‘Then you come back now and tell everyone it’s gone from the knight’s tomb. I bet it was your idea to go in there, wasn’t it?’
Cullen twitched and started picking at something on his eyebrow but it was Laura who spoke. ‘No Nicholas – it was my idea to go and check the church. I wanted to go there. I was hoping to find some …’ she paused and shook her head ‘… peace. This is my fault.’ She gave way to a sob.
So this was interesting. ‘Why is it your fault, Laura?’ I asked.
‘Because I drew their attention to the discovery of the knights’ tombs. Both recent and of old. It occurred to me that Nesbit might have been inspired by this real-life event.’ She put her hand across her brow and rubbed it. Her hair was highlighted with ash blonde, and she looked quite trendy for her age, which I put around the late forties. Nice red lipstick, which I approved of, was brought out by a little accent poppy brooch on her black cardigan. She had a short stretchy skirt on and leggings. Her boots were great – a dark leather with buckles at the sides, which made her look rather swashbuckling, despite the teary eyes. ‘And it was I who insisted everyone read Nesbit’s terrifying story. Graham included. I wanted him to take part. I don’t like the separation between staff and writers.’ She shrugged. ‘Was a signed-up member of The Socialist Workers Party when I was at University.’
‘Where was that?’ Sam asked, absently.
‘Leeds,’ she said. ‘Long time ago.’
Sam smiled, ‘Not that long I’m sure.’ I didn’t like that smile. It was a bit too familiar. ‘Did you know about his heart condition too?’
Laura’s eyes grew wide and her head trembled. ‘Well … we talked and I … I … what are you suggesting?’
Sophia stood up and went to Laura. ‘Laura dear, it doesn’t matter.’ She spun round and glared at Sam. ‘Staff Medical records are confidential.’
‘Yes, I’m sure, they are,’ I said. Data protection was a hot subject right now. But, I thought, it was possible that one of those assembled did know about the caretaker’s heart condition and had, indeed, used that to their advantage. Sophia had only just arrived though, so she was out of the frame.
‘The irony is,’ Laura continued and clutched her arm. ‘I’ve had a few scares in that department myself.’ She looked at Sophia. ‘It’s all been embarrassingly public – I fainted on stage at Hay. Mortifying. Though, I have to say, being tuned in to the condition and symptoms as I feel I am now, I really didn’t perceive signs of heart trouble in Graham at all.’
So that was her line, and she was sticking to it.
Imogen shook her head. ‘The silent killer.’ And everyone looked at her. ‘Heart disease,’ she explained. Tabby didn’t look convinced.
‘And you, you,’ Nicholas was back on his feet again, pointing his thin little digit back at Cullen. ‘You said you could get into the mind of a killer. That you “could really understand the impulse to kill”. I think those were your words weren’t they?’
Cullen grinned. ‘I cannot lie. I believe I am gifted in that area.’ A slow grin spread onto his cheeks.
Both myself and Tabby shuddered. There was something a little demented in Cullen’s eyes. Laura took his hand, ‘For heaven’s sake Nicholas, Cullen is in possession of a fantastic imagination. That doesn’t mean he will act on it. I have written two books from the perspective of a killer and I am most certainly not one.’
‘So you say,’ said Sam to a chorus of shocked gasps.
Casting doubt upon the moral stature of their leader hadn’t endeared him to the group. My colleague, however, remained unfazed and stood up. ‘I’m not pointing the finger, so to speak, but we’d like to speak to everyone individually.’
Robin’s face was a study in contempt. ‘Ay am not speaking to you! Ay said my piece to the police.’ And he crossed his arms and turned away.
Starla shook her turquoise head. ‘No way, no way.’
It was starting to look like we might have a mutiny on our hands but then Tabby stood up. ‘I’ll do it.’
And rather surprisingly, the big hulk man agreed. ‘Me too.’
‘Great,’ said Sam.
Nicholas made a huffing noise and muttered something like ‘Amateurs, ridiculous.’
So I said, ‘And we’ll be noting those who don’t cooperate.’
Sam tapped Sophia on the shoulder. ‘Is there a room available?’
‘Well, er, I’m not sure …’
Then Tabby piped up. ‘They’re here at the request of MI5. Do you really want to be obstructing a government office?’
I thought she sent me a very brief wink.
Sophia’s hands picked at a frayed thread on her cardigan. ‘Well, I suppose when you put it like that,’ she said. ‘There’s Graham’s office.’
‘It would be great if we could settle in there, then,’ said Sam. ‘So we can get to the bottom of all this.’
As he spoke, there was a creak at the door, and a slim woman appeared in the doorway. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,’ she said.
‘Ah, Margot,’ cried Aunt Tabby. ‘You look better now, dear. Come and sit down.’
She was the same age as Tabby but seemed younger on account of a more stylish dress sense: a silk pashmina wrap was draped loosely over her cashmere jumper. She wore shapely bootcut indigo jeans. Tortoiseshell glasses complemented her caramel-coloured bob, which was sleek, glossy and straight. But there was a sense of frailty about her. As she crossed the room I noticed she had a slight limp and as she bent down to sit she winced. Aware of my gaze she explained, ‘Arthritis.’
Tabby leant over, once Margot had levered herself into the chair, tapped her knee and said, ‘These people are Rosie and Sam from the Witch Museum. They’re going to sort out what’s been going on.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. In her hand she held a tissue which she dabbed at her left eye. ‘So terribly sad. Poor Graham.’
Sophia finished her tea and stood up. ‘I suppose I should start on dinner. There’s quite a few of us. Any volunteers?’
Jocelyn raised her hand. ‘I’ll come.’
She was so helpful.
Maybe too helpful.
Perhaps there was something seething and nasty underneath all that superficial niceness.
We should approach everyone with an open mind. Like Sam said, no one was above suspicion.
There was a guzzling sound in a nearby pipe. I looked around to see where it had come from but couldn’t work it out. This place was old.
Nicholas tore his scowl away from Cullen. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’
‘Yes, and me,’ said Starla. ‘I make a mean quinoa salad.’
‘Uh,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope it’s got gluten in it?’
I was with Nicholas on that and thought quinoa barely counted as food.
Sophia got to her feet. ‘Great, thank you. I’ll show these fellows the study and then meet you in the kitchen in five.’
At which point Sam clapped his hands. ‘Right. Let’s do it then,’ he said.
I put our mugs on the wooden table and followed him out the door.
We tick-tacked across the marble floor and turned left at the entrance porch, past a door clearly indicating a cloakroom and unisex WC. I could see up ahead the entrance into what looked like a large kitchen, dining area and conservatory, but we didn’t make it that far: Sophia turned right into a room that was considerably smaller than the last one we had sat in.
Graham’s office contained a large impressive desk with a laptop and several folders. I went over to the window and peered into the gardens. How nice to have such a lot of land, I thought and looked up and down, noticing that this office and the WC next door appeared to be the single storey extension that had been built onto the main section of the house. Whoever had designed the add-on had done a good job of blending it in to the rest of the house.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Sophia instructed.
Someone behind her coughed. The manager spun round startled and said, ‘Oh hi,’ then moved to one side and out into the corridor and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. A small solitary figure lingered in the doorway.
‘Well, you probably should start with me,’ it said, and stepped into the light. Margot flicked her hair. ‘I’m happy to fill in the blanks.’
It was unusual to have someone volunteer for inquisition although it did make sense: Margot had missed out on the earlier bout of hysteria and finger-pointing that the writers had entered into with such vigour.
I looked at Sam who shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
Margot selected a small chaise underneath the window. She wriggled about for a bit then tucked a cushion under her back, slipped her shoes off and brought her feet up.
I immediately felt like I should act like a shrink and was about to ask her what seemed to be the problem, when I remembered that we were investigating a sudden death which had upset this patient, I mean resident, quite a lot. It was therefore only right that gravity be the order of the day. Consequently, I made my mouth look neutral by forcing the ends down and bowed my head.
Sam did another shrug then took the swivel chair behind the desk. This left the leather tub chair positioned between the chaise and desk, and a hardwood stool that was also a step ladder, doubtless used to reach the tops of the very high shelves lining three of the walls. A leaded window dominated the fourth. Beside it hung a painting, oils I think, from the choppy surface. It showed Ratchette Hall at its peak, centuries ago. It was much bigger then. Part of it was clearly Tudor, though I wasn’t sure that section still stood. Unless there was another wing tucked away round the back somewhere.
Sam coughed uneasily and sent me a ‘What do we do now?’ glance. I was becoming aware that possibly we should have worked out our plan of action before we got here. Everything had happened pretty quickly though. And to be honest we just hadn’t thought it through. But here we were at the request of Monty who had asked us to come over and ‘dig’. To find out about the other residents, see if anyone had a motive to stiff this Graham bloke, and investigate the possibility that dead marble carvings might be able to spring into life.
So, I thought, be logical – start at the beginning. Let the digging commence.
Sam was still looking clueless, so I asked him to get his pen out. ‘Do you mind taking notes while I question Margot?’
He sent me a slip of a smile. It had relief sewn into it.
My background in Benefit Fraud meant that I’d done this sort of work before. Once I’d fixed my mind on an outcome it was fairly easy for me to structure questions so that subjects dribbled out information. Often without an awareness that they were doing so.
There was, however, something about Margot that sang ‘organised’ to me. Maybe it was the careful colour coordination of her outfit, the way the shades complemented her hair. The statement pashmina, that was undoubtedly expensive, the understated skirt. The crisp cut of her clothes that suited her willowy frame and were just tight enough in all the right places to show off her small but perfectly formed curves. That look would have taken years to perfect. It was impressive. I hope I looked like that whenever I got to, er, whatever age she was. Would it be impolite to ask? Yes probably.
The notion of Margot’s competent management persisted and informed my first question which turned out to be, ‘So when did you book this course, Margot?’ Which was a surprise even to myself, though on reflection a good choice.
Her pencilled eyebrows soared. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Oh, months ago,’ she drawled. There were hints of Finishing School or Ladies Academies woven into it. Maybe she’d been a thesp in a former life. Whatever – her voice, as Gatsby might have noted, was ‘full of money’.
‘When?’ I asked. I was sure she’d know.
‘May, I think. When the catalogue for the autumn and winter courses came out.’
I looked at Sam who noted it. ‘And what attracted you to the course?’
She nodded. She had expected this one. ‘Oh Ratchette Hall looked like a wonderful place. Elegant. Historic. Situated in picturesque grounds. So inspiring. And obviously the chance to get away from mundane everyday life … to write. What joy.’ She found her handkerchief and dabbed once more at an invisible tear. An unconscious tick of distress. ‘At least,’ she paused, ‘I imagined it would be joyful.’
Sam nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, no one could have known …’ he watched her face. I registered gratitude for his words in it. I think he did too.
‘So,’ he continued, brightening his features. ‘What’s your book about? Indeed, is there a work in progress at all?’
That was another good question. I hadn’t thought about that. Though it was plausible that the stories they were working on might tell us a bit about the character of those writing them. Smart old Sam. He elicited a good answer too.
Margot glanced out the window. I followed her gaze and realised that the office took in the view of the side of the house and gardens. The gravel drive wound up and round the wall to a double garage at the rear. Beyond that the garden spread out, complete, I think with flower beds and lawns, though it was properly dark now. The dew had whipped up into twists of mist that currently hung over wet silvery grass. A thick jagged line of denser blackness suggested that the property was surrounded, or perhaps was cut out of, a copse. As far as I could see anyway. Things might be clearer tomorrow. See, I was already guessing that we would have to return. I couldn’t see us getting through all the writers tonight, and judging from the sounds coming out of the kitchen, dinner wasn’t going to be long. I considered the quinoa and sighed at the same time that Margot did. Though her exhalation was deeper felt than mine, with the touch of a moan entwined.
Her eyes came off the view, such as it was, and swivelled back to us. ‘My story? Yes. It’s about a lost child,’ she said and picked up the amber pendant hanging from her neck.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sam start.
Personally, I thought that subject matter was quite common. A lot of crime writers pushed the boundaries these days. You had to be original, I guess. Sometimes that meant shocking people. And none of it, I thought, was any worse than what went on in the real world. Sam should know that, what with the Witch Museum and history and all that malarkey. I mean, you should see some of the stuff we had going on just a few centuries ago. The things people did to each other in the name of God or holiness or just to please themselves. There was a whole wall of Inquisitional torture devices which were enough to make visitors’ eyes water and young men walk with a wince for at least five minutes after they’d passed them by.
‘Lost kids?’ I asked for clarity. ‘As in dead?’
‘Singular. And no not necessarily dead,’ said Margot. She let go of the pendant and clasped her hands together then hooked them over her good knee. The gesture was a little coquettish and I wondered briefly how she had looked when she was younger. Charming, I’m sure.
‘Abducted?’ I ventured.
Sam flinched again. I couldn’t work out why. Was I being indelicate?
Margot didn’t notice Sam’s reaction, which was a relief: we should keep her on side so the information flowed. I watched her smile thinly and brush her hair off her shoulders. ‘It’s an intense situation,’ she said. ‘Interesting. Brings out extremes. Changes people. Permanently. Don’t you think?’
I thought that ‘interesting’ was not necessarily the word I’d use if that scenario ever unfolded in my life, and was about to answer neutrally when Margot poked her long manicured finger at the pair of us. ‘Do you have children?’
Oh bloody hell, I thought, here we go again. Just because we were a man and woman hanging out together it didn’t mean we were an item. Why were people so narrow? I mean this was a work situation. Plenty of men and women worked together.
Although it was entirely possible that Sam and I gave out a vibe. It had been clear, for quite a while, that we had chemistry. We just weren’t sure what to do with it. It could be explosive. We didn’t want to blow anything up and were reluctant to, well, talk about it. And because we hadn’t talked about it over the summer months, when I had had other things on my mind which needed my attention, the whole thing had become ‘unspoken’. We had consequently fallen into a routine full of stalemate and potential embarrassment, neither of us willing to make the first move. It had become the elephant in the room, on a broomstick, that followed us around wherever we went. We’d sort it though, I was sure. We just hadn’t found the right time yet.
I shook my head hurriedly to dispel Margot’s assumption. ‘No. Our relationship’s not like that. More complicated.’
Margot careered on anyway. She wasn’t really interested in us, you could tell. She was more absorbed by her plot and keen to tell us about it, so we could go ‘Oohhh ahhh – amazing.’
‘Well,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘if you don’t have children then you can’t possibly understand the power of that situation.’ There was a whining strain to her voice, a kind of indignant condescension that I hadn’t noticed before. ‘It’s only when you have children that you realise your vulnerability.’
Hmm, I thought, well if you make your target audience parents who’ve lost children then you’re not going to be on to a bestseller, dear. But I didn’t say anything.
Though Sam did.
‘Actually,’ he cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, ‘I disagree.’ Which kind of surprised me. ‘You don’t need to be a parent to appreciate what it’s like to lose a child. If you ever have the misfortune to be involved with such a tragedy, no matter the relationship, it wouldn’t leave you.’
That sounded like it had come from personal experience and whilst I would have liked to have pursued it, I thought we might get derailed down a ‘plot line’ tangent. Plus I couldn’t really see where it was getting us in terms of the recent death.
Margot began saying something about legacy, which I interrupted with, ‘What did you think of Graham?’ Time to bring things back on target.
She stopped. For a moment I thought she was going to have a go at me, because a big nasty crease appeared in her forehead, but then she just smiled and looked pleasant again, readjusted the hem of her skirt in a straight line across her knee, and cocked her head to one side. ‘Oh of course. Sorry. Graham. Yes, well he was perfectly nice. I can’t see that anyone would have a reason to scare him like that. I’m convinced it is just an unfortunate case of Halloween tricks gone wrong. So sad. He seemed lovely. But after that big build-up of Laura’s we were all a little nervous. That’s why everyone drank so much yesterday, I think. Tension. I almost felt like we were waiting for something to happen. Do you ever get that feeling?’
I did actually, but I thought it wise not to distract her.
She was ploughing on anyway. ‘You could understand why the incident, when it happened, whatever it was, might have tipped Graham over the edge. What with the heart condition. Such a silly tragic accident,’ she finished with real sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You make a fair point. Nerves, stress. Not good for some medical conditions. Did you know Graham prior to the course?’
‘Not at all,’ she said, eyes widening with indignation. ‘I’ve never been here before, have I? Why would I know him?’ She began moving her arms around in a most aerated manner. ‘I mean, he was an administrator. I don’t mix with those kinds of people in my everyday life.’
Sam leant forward and put his arms on the desk. ‘What kind of people do you mean, Margot?’
She straightened her back and fluttered a hand to her neck. ‘Literary types.’
I wasn’t sure if she actually meant that or had accidentally revealed her attitude to us ‘below-stairs’ types.
‘That’s why I’m here, of course.’ She smiled with guile. ‘I didn’t know him.’ Then her voice rose. ‘Really, I didn’t!’
Sam softened. ‘We’re not accusing you, Margot. We’re ascertaining a foundation of facts.’ He glanced at me.
I nodded. Even if he’d just made it up, I’d buy it.
But the statement seemed to upset Margot further. ‘It was an accident! The police think so too.’ Her face dropped further and she let out a half sob. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come here, asking all these rude questions. You shouldn’t be upsetting people like this.’ The tissue popped up against her cheek again.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Sam. ‘Thank you, Margot. Sorry, you can understand why we are having to ask these questions.’
She got herself under control again. ‘I suppose so. Yes. Well, look – it’s perfectly simple – I had the whisky and then retired.’ Then she cackled. ‘You see I am retired! And not as young as I used to be. I can’t drink like I used to either. Oh you should have seen me in my heyday. I could have given you the runaround.’ She winked at Sam.
Two red dots flushed on his cheeks.
I smiled at her. ‘I quite believe it. But, last night, you didn’t hear anything after bedtime?’
‘No. Nothing. I was out for the count.’ She sat back and smoothed her skirt down again. ‘I did have a count once. Oh he was adorable. Quite a demon between the sheets.’ She winked at Sam again, who was still burning from her previous innuendo. ‘Strong, dark, allegedly Russian, though could have made the whole thing up. But we do so like our strong dark men, don’t we?’ she said to me.
I, for one, was not going to blush. I refused to look at Sam and asked Margot, ‘Oh yes? Was Graham strong and dark?’
‘Oh my goodness no. He was well into middle-age and clearly not as sturdy as he thought.’
Good point.
‘But you are quite the strong man, aren’t you Mr Stone?’ Margot’s eyes glinted lasciviously. ‘I can see your arms. Do you work out?’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Sam said and snapped the notebook shut. ‘I think we’ve got enough information now. Thank you, Margot. We’ll let you know if we have more questions.’
She made a pouty face. ‘Oh, I don’t mind you probing me,’ she said and batted her lashes.
Sam was trying hard not to squirm. I had to put the poor bloke out of his misery so got up and opened the door. ‘You’ve been a great help, thank you. We do have other people we need to speak to though.’
‘Fine.’ She sighed, swivelled her feet to the floor and then limped out of the room, trying to conceal a very un-sexy grimace as her weight transferred onto her right leg.
When the door closed, Sam pushed his chair back. It was on wheels and glided quickly till he hit a filing cabinet behind him, which halted his trajectory. ‘Good lord!’ he said. ‘She’s a character.’ Then he laughed.
‘I thought you enjoyed a bit of a flirt with the oldies. I remember what you were like with Auntie Babs.’
He chuckled again and stretched in the chair then lifted his feet onto the desk. Rather naughtily in my opinion. You should treat other people’s furniture as you expected them to treat yours after all. I told him to take his feet off, which annoyed him, but he did oblige. It was unusual for him to do such a thing in the first place.
‘Still,’ I said, ‘I know she’s disabled, frail and old. But she could be as likely as any of the others to have given Graham the scare of his life. If she wanted to.’
‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘Come on. She just doesn’t look like a murderer, does she?’
I folded my arms and said, ‘Hah! And what exactly does a murderer look like then?’ At which point the door flew open and Cullen lumbered in.
With remarkable synchronicity we released exclamations of surprise. To my dismay I felt a blush heating the tips of my ears. For out of all of the residents, Cullen was the one who really did actually quite seriously look like a serial killer.
Sam might have thought so too because he began faffing around with his notebook and coughing. His hand fisted and covered his mouth like he was stifling a huge guffaw.
I stood up, greeted the newcomer, aware of a line of sweat bobbling my top lip, and invited him to sit down. Which he did, though he didn’t go for the chaise that Margot had vacated but the small tub chair, further back, which he immediately dwarfed. I had a mental image of him standing up and taking the seat with him and tried not to laugh. It made the whole murderer thing a bit lighter.
I couldn’t quite pinpoint why Cullen fitted the ‘deranged killer’ type so much. He just had that vibe. And a mono-brow. My nan, on my mum’s side, always told me never to trust a man with eyebrows that met. Though she also had a lot of other weird sayings, a large quantity of which were racist, sexist, homophobic, respectful of the ‘ruling class’, linguistically incomprehensible or sing-songingly extracted from lost music hall performances with no discernible context. Or sense.
Even so, parking my dear nan’s warning for a moment, it still had to be said, there was something about Cullen that really did set your teeth on edge. He had these incredibly large but stony eyes that jerked around the place and gave the impression of constant misdirected anger. Like, if he looked at you, you were meant to feel guilty or, er, frightened. And he was well fit, as in gym-fit, hard-muscled and pumped. He could definitely snap a neck with those hands.
All of this was topped off by a sizzling intensity, which meant he came across like the ripped love child of Charles Manson and Henry Rollins.
‘You want to know how I can get inside the mind of a killer?’ was his opening line.
‘No,’ I squeaked, swallowed, then forced myself to speak at a lower pitch. ‘That’s not necessary thanks.’ I couldn’t help myself – I pushed my chair an inch away from him. Though it was minute, a barely noticeable movement. What I really wanted to do was kick it over, grab my jacket and run out of Ratchette Hall screaming ‘Get me away from that psycho.’
It’s a good job I have such pronounced impulse control.
Cullen shifted his buttocks around in the tub chair. ‘I’ve always known I was special,’ he said, eyes glittering. There was a slight North Eastern twang to his voice. Newcastle maybe. ‘Ever since I was young,’ he went on.
Oh god, I thought, confessions? Already? Okay, well, it might wrap things up quickly. Take it away, Igor.
‘You see,’ he went on leaning forwards, those eyes shiny and darting about the place in short sharp moves. ‘You have to be clever to be a killer. If you want to get away with it. And I’m clever.’ He raised his forefinger to his cropped bonce and tapped it. ‘Mind’s always working, always thinking things through. Always looking at people and thinking, “Oh yeah, it could be you.”’
I nodded uncertainly. This bloke was wired. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had a very clear view of his eyes, which were undilated, I might have wondered about Class A consumption. Though some people just rolled like that. Overactive thyroid gland possibly. Not enough to exempt you from work. Mostly.
Sam sat forwards and put his notepad on the desktop with a thud. ‘Right, sorry Cullen, do you mind if we wind back? What’s your full name?’
‘Sutcliffe,’ he said and cast his eyes at me.
‘You’re joking.’ My voice broke on the consonants.
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ He leant forwards and shone his eyes on me.
Was that indignation in his words?
My face stiffened but I refused to blush again and girded my loins so I could hold his gaze. ‘Not really,’ I said.
The eyes widened. A wicked smile flashed across his face. Bloody hell, he had been playing with me.
Or did he just enjoy the reaction he got? Which made him what – possibly an attention-seeker? With an impish sense of mischief? But nothing more. Not really.
And a name doth not a murderer make.
If a murderer was indeed what we were looking for. At the moment I still wasn’t sure that last night’s shenanigans were anything more than a pile-up of coincidences. Albeit with a seriously tragic ending.
Sam pulled Cullen’s attention off me, by thanking him and repeating the unfortunate surname.
‘I can see what you are doing here.’ Cullen began nodding. ‘Establishing the facts. I’ve already got them though, you know. Oh yes. Fact one: there are eight of us here with two staff. Originally. Prior to the murder. Fact Two: one of them, Graham, is dead. Killed.’ He was speaking quickly, bits of spit dropping out of his mouth as he emphasised particular words, namely: murder, dead, killed. ‘Fact Three: he’s replaced in the plot by Sophia. Fact Four: that brings the number back to ten. That’s a magic number in crime. Not too many, not too few. The reader can cope with that. The reader has coped. Agatha Christie – And Then There Were None. Great book. I like to think of it as an early slasher format. You two have swung things out of kilter a bit, but we shall see, shan’t we? There’s a precedent: Courteney Cox and David Arquette in Scream, for instance.’
‘Uh huh,’ I said.
Cullen exercised his fingers in a jerky mechanical fashion as he spoke. It was rather disconcerting, so I focused on his face. But that was also rather disconcerting so I reached for the notepad.
‘Of course, there was meant to be one other.’
‘Was there?’ said Sam. ‘Who?’
Cullen leant forwards. ‘The other tutor: Chris Devlin.’ He sat back and waited for a reaction to the name.
‘Who’s he?’ Sam asked, predictably.
The name was vaguely familiar.
‘Chris Devlin?’ he said with disbelief. ‘He’s only one of the best-selling writers in the world! Action, crime, military, terrorism, thrillers, that sort of thing. Epic.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, my inner eye settling on an image of a middle-aged man in a leather jacket, with aviator shades posing on a bottle-green vintage jag. Yes, he’d been in a magazine I’d glanced at lately while sitting in my Auntie Bab’s hair salon. If my memory served me right he wrote about blokes with guns, running around chasing blokes with guns and getting shot by other blokes with guns or trying to shoot them. Or blow them up. Or something like that.
Cullen was nodding furiously. ‘Bloody great writer. Astonishing. He’s the reason why I signed up. Was meant to be delivering the course with Laura, but he had a problem – sickness. Couldn’t make his flight. Can’t remember.’
‘Where’s he coming from?’ Sam asked.
‘The States,’ Cullen said. ‘I think he lives in California now. I was really looking forward to hearing what he had to say. Don’t know if he’ll make it. We haven’t been told. But I have a character that I think he would go wild for. A soldier with sociopathic tendencies.’ He smiled at me. Slowly. ‘He beheads bad guys.’
A shiver coursed down my spine. ‘Nice,’ I spluttered.
‘So there would have been eleven people here?’ Sam went on. ‘But without Chris Devlin it meant there were ten.’
‘Yes.’ Cullen nodded again. ‘And then there were nine.’
I wondered if there was anything in it, and said, ‘Thanks Cullen. I’ll minute this info,’ and let my hair fall over my face so I didn’t have to look at him for a moment.
Presumably bolstered by my approval/recording of his relevance, Cullen raised his voice. ‘Then also minute this, Miss Strange––’
‘Rosie,’ I told him, still looking at the notepad on my knees.
‘Yes, minute this, Rosie: ten strangers are summoned to Ratchette Hall, where they are forced to read a dark tale of––’
‘Summoned?’ I asked and looked up.
He leant forwards. My body felt a jab of adrenaline as those shark-grey eyes fixed on me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Actually no. Not specifically. Okay. Minute this then: ten strangers converge on Ratchette Hall, a dark gothic mansion in the wilds of the countryside––’
‘Edwardian,’ I corrected. ‘Not gothic.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his forehead raked with irritation. ‘Minute this – ten writers in the wilds of the desolate––’
‘We’re less than five miles from Chelmsford.’ I nodded, to reassure him. ‘And that’s a city now, so you’re not far from civilisation, Cullen, don’t panic.’
His head popped up, the mouth turned down. ‘I am not panicking. I’m trying to set the scene. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Once assembled, those gathered in the, er, mansion, are then forced to read a tale of––’
I opened my mouth to interject but he got in before me, ‘All right, all right. We read a short story that was on the syllabus.’ He rolled his eyes and settled them on Sam and shook his head. ‘No imagination over there, is there?’ he said.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ my colleague replied. His mouth kinked to the side.
‘Point is, the short story,’ Cullen darted me a glance, ‘and there is no getting away from this, point is that story strangely foreshadows the events of the evening that were to unfold. Almost as if it had been predestined.’ He put his hands together. ‘That means premeditated,’ and having successfully made his point, he sat back into the tub chair.
His last word hung in the air between the three of us. It was key here, after all. Was it a series of coincidences or had this death somehow been organised with the intention to kill? Presumably this is what Monty wanted us to think about too.
I could see Sam nodding. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Who was responsible for planning the lessons, Cullen? Is it a set course?’
The young man licked his lips. ‘It’s Laura,’ he said. ‘And no, the course was bespoke. She planned it all herself.’
‘I see,’ I said, remembering the tutor’s words in the sitting room where she had expressed her guilt. ‘Yes, we should speak to her.’
‘Most definitely,’ Sam agreed.
Cullen seemed very satisfied with this and began to detach himself from the tub chair.
‘Hang on,’ I said to him. ‘What happened last night? Where were you?’
He eased himself back into the leather and didn’t seem at all put out by this line of questioning. ‘We were together. All of us. For most of the night. Well, the evening. Had dinner, retired to the sitting room. There had been quite a bit of trick-or-treating activity earlier, around five o’clock and until dinner, but it seemed to peter out by the time we started talking around the fire.’
‘Was Graham there, when that was going on?’
‘In the sitting room?’ He thought about the question. ‘No. He excused himself and went into the study, here, to do paperwork. At least that’s what he told us, if I remember rightly. But then he must have been telling the truth because Jocelyn fetched him later – the oldies had dozed off. Myself, Jocelyn and Graham helped them upstairs to their rooms. Then, I’m not sure. I was getting tired and went to bed. I think the rest of them cleared out too after that. Wanted an early night. A lot of alcohol was consumed.’
‘By you?’
‘By everyone,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have as much as some. Though I did have a nightcap. Like I said we all conked out after that.’
I nodded. ‘And went to bed? Separately?’
He frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘So you didn’t hear anything?’ Sam added. ‘No knocking? No sounds?’
He shook his head. ‘My room is on the second floor. The place is old but well insulated. I didn’t hear anything last night.’ He finished with a nod. ‘I woke up at about six and went to get some mineral water from the kitchen. I don’t trust the tap water round here. And that’s when I found Mr Peacock.’
‘Where was he?’
‘At the bottom of the stairs. I thought he’d fallen first of all. But when I reached him I could see his face. It was …’ he took a breath and made his squeaky voice deeper, ‘a mask of fear. He looked frozen: he’d been terrified when he died. And he was gripping something in his hand. I saw it when I checked his pulse – it was a finger made of stone.’
‘It is odd,’ I conceded.
‘And what did you do?’ Sam asked.
‘I went straight to the phone and called the police. Then I woke up Laura and told her what had happened. It wasn’t long after that the police turned up.’
I glanced at Sam, who shrugged as if he’d got nothing else to ask.
‘Well, thank you,’ I said to Cullen. ‘Most informative.’
‘Can I go?’ he said.
Sam nodded.
The young man unplugged himself from the tub chair and stood up. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘My money’s on Miss Scarlet with the lead piping in the drawing room.’ Then he started cackling maniacally.
Sam and I looked at each other, as Cullen’s cackle became a hollow guffaw. He drew breath, clutched hold of the door and spluttered out a spindly wheeze. At which point Sophia arrived to slap him on the back.
‘Dear god,’ she said, ‘are you choking?’
‘No,’ he said, trying to catch his breath. ‘Sometimes I surprise myself with my wit.’ Then he straightened up and abruptly stopped laughing.
‘Well,’ said Sophia backing away from him ever so slightly; the move was as minute as mine had been earlier and very subtle, but I knew where she was coming from. ‘If you’d like to go into the kitchen,’ she said and gestured to the left. ‘Dinner will be ready soon.’
Off lumbered Cullen. Sophia’s shoulders dropped and she entered the study.
‘Well, goodness me. What an interesting chap,’ she said bringing her hands together and wringing them very hard. ‘Will you be wanting to see anyone else just now?’
I nodded. ‘We should really do everyone, but I’m not sure there will be enough time tonight.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Of course you are welcome to stay for dinner?’
I thought about Starla’s globular quinoa and mentally beamed the word ‘no’ into Sam’s brain.
‘Shall we?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got something in the slow cooker at home,’ I told Sophia, and stepped in front of his nodding form. ‘Sorry. But I think we’ll have to come back tomorrow. After breakfast. Depending on how we go, I guess we might have to stay for lunch?’
She nodded, relieved, I think. ‘Did you come to any conclusions?’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘But we’ve only just got going.’
‘Yes.’ Leaning against the wall, she bit her lip. ‘I suppose so.’
I thought of all the other people we had to talk to and felt a pang of weariness. Maybe there was another way to get through them. And then it occurred to me that possibly, actually, we didn’t need to talk to all of them: according to Cullen they were all together until they went to bed. And despite what our fidgety interviewee thought about an element of premeditation, there was no solid evidence that pointed in that direction. It was all circumstance and coincidence.
Rain began to patter against the window.
Sophia sighed loud and long. ‘If only it had rained last night.’ And we all nodded. We knew what she meant – there would have been fewer trick-or-treaters. Maybe Graham would still be alive.
Out the window something caught my eye. A flash of whiteness skittering along the treeline. At first I wondered if it was a light. But then realised it was too dull. It was in fact a form, slightly rounded or oval and at head height, I reckoned. Maybe a barn owl or the like. I got up from the stool – my buttocks were sore – and took a couple of paces towards the window.
‘Is there someone out there?’ My breath steamed the pane over.
Sophia joined me. ‘No, I think everyone’s here?’ But I think she might have glimpsed something too – there was a question in her statement.
I rubbed the glass and peered through it.
Sam had come over now and was leaning against the frame. ‘One of the trick-or-treaters come back to visit the scene of the crime?’ he mused.
Neither of us answered. The form flickered then became indistinct so that it looked like there was only blackness out there. And trees.
‘Yes,’ I said and turned to Sophia. ‘Do we know who they are? These trick-or-treaters? The ones who allegedly scared Graham?’
Sophia shook her head. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. No one’s told us anything. I’m not even sure they’re looking.’ Then she shivered as if she was in a draught and wrapped her arms around her.
‘But the finger,’ Sam muttered, then stopped.
I bent round to him. ‘We should speak to the police tomorrow. See if they’re doing anything about it. And maybe go into the village to find out if anyone knows about the trick-or-treaters? People usually have an idea about mischief-makers.’
He nodded. ‘Good plan.’
I turned back to Sophia. ‘Well, we’ll be off.’
‘Yes,’ she said, continuing to hug herself tightly. She wasn’t looking at me, her gaze was still fastened onto the copse in the distance. ‘You know those woods over there?’ she said at length. ‘They’re called Witch Wood. You don’t think that’s got anything to do with it do you?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, not getting the reference.
‘Witches,’ she said and swallowed. ‘There’s a rumour that they work in the woods and celebrate their sabbats out there.’ Then she shuddered again. Visibly.
I darted a glance at Sam and waited for him to kickstart one of his ‘Witches were scapegoated and bullied and probably identified as Christians’ speeches. But he didn’t. He took a long hard look at Sophia and returned his gaze to the woods.
Then he sighed. ‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow.’
It signalled the end of the conversation.
We said our goodbyes and left Ratchette Hall.
It was lit up against the night sky. On the ground floor every window was glowing. A couple of lights shone in bedrooms on the first floor, but none at the top. We heard the clatter of something hard and metallic crash against a tiled floor at the rear of the building where I guessed the kitchen must be.
Someone laughed. A woman.
The air had cooled significantly.
My eyes hadn’t adjusted to night vision yet and I couldn’t see anything other than the silhouette of trees in the distance beyond the car. This close to the house, the sky appeared tea-brown, slivers of the Milky Way sliding in to lighten the tinge.
In the distance an owl hooted.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t tackle that Sophia on her witch-prejudice,’ I said to Sam.
He waited for me to unlock the car and said, ‘I’m not as predictable as you think I am.’
I tried to make out his face in the darkness but could only see his jawline. Chiselled and as handsome as a statue. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘There are occasions when you’re not predictable at all.’
Something rustled in the darkness of the trees. As the doors clicked open I turned to them.
We both froze as the unmistakable howl of a wolf echoed out across the grounds.