Cherringham--Murder by Moonlight Read online

  And all was completely quiet on the lane.

  3. Three Weeks Later

  A knock, and Jack waited at the door of Sarah’s house, his breath billowing clouds in the cold night air.

  He thought of other years, far away, on this special day — the memories all rushing at him now. Since Katherine died he and his daughter Emily had made sure they always got together at Thanksgiving. But this year she’d told him they’d have to make do with Skype — she was locked into a tough schedule at San Francisco General …

  Of course, here in the village of Cherringham, it was just another Thursday.

  The door opened and Chloe appeared, wearing jeans, a multi-coloured roll-neck and a big grin. She looked every part Sarah’s daughter.

  The blue eyes — a dead giveaway.

  “Well, hello,” he said.

  “Hi!” Chloe said. ”We’re all waiting for you!”

  That kind of made it sound like a birthday, Jack thought.

  Just supposed to be a drop-in for dinner. Bring a bottle of wine. Get to know Sarah’s kids a bit …

  Chloe held the door open and Jack walked in, the smells hitting him full-on.

  Smells from a different country, a different world.

  And as he entered the little dining room, he quickly saw the source of those mouth-watering aromas.

  A massive turkey sat in the centre of the table. Around it, like satellites, were platters of stuffing, mac and cheese, green beans, and a tray of …

  “Corn bread?” he said to Sarah, who stood beaming at one end of the table as if she was a magician who had just performed the impossible.

  “You bet,” she said.

  “Really? I’ve looked in every store around here for a corn bread mix — with no luck.”

  “It wasn’t a mix,” said Daniel bobbing excitedly behind a chair. “Mum used a real recipe and I helped her.”

  Jack shook his head, suddenly starving and also touched by the gesture.

  Thanksgiving in Cherringham!

  He pulled back a chair and sat down, smiling at Sarah, then to Daniel, Chloe …

  Then he said: “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  Jack held up a half-eaten piece of corn bread.

  This is like feeding a kid, Sarah thought. Her American friend had an appetite like Daniel’s — another bottomless pit for a stomach.

  “This is maybe the best corn bread I ever had. And the turkey? Fantastic. But I really have to stop eating.”

  Sarah took a sip of the cabernet that Jack brought. This Thanksgiving surprise had been worth it — even if the kitchen looked like a food bomb had gone off.

  “You’re not telling me you got this at the supermarket,” she said, raising her glass to him.

  “You’re right,” said Jack. “One of my specials. I keep ’em tucked away.”

  “You can come for dinner every night.”

  “Brilliant! Would you really, Mr Brennan?” Daniel said.

  She watched Jack turn to her son. He was good with the kids, including them in the conversation, taking care that they were involved. And they had so many questions … about American kids, the way they dressed — was it like they showed on TV? The sports they played.

  And New York! A place both kids really wanted to visit soon.

  “Great city,” Jack had said simply. “You two will love it.” Then a nod to Sarah. “So will your mum.”

  “Mr Brennan …”

  “Yes, Daniel?” Jack said now, leaning back in his chair.

  “Did you ever, I mean …when you were a detective, ever, like, catch a serial killer?”

  “Daniel,” Sarah said. “I don’t …”

  But that had made Jack laugh. “Catch … a serial killer? Can’t say that I did exactly that, though I did help on one case where a team from the FBI — you know about the FBI?”

  “Yeah, of course, everyone knows about the FBI.”

  Sarah caught Jack’s amused eye, suspecting they were sharing the same thought — how amazing the reach of American culture could be.

  “I helped do some of the interrogations and crime scene work.”

  “And did they catch him?”

  “Oh, yeah. They have him locked up forever.”

  Then Chloe chimed in. “But you must have caught lots of just plain old murderers, right?”

  Jack turned to Chloe. Sarah worried that this was starting to feel like a school project or an interview.

  But Jack took the question with a serious nod. “Not as many as you might think, Chloe. New York’s a pretty safe place these days.”

  It was getting near time to clean up and the last bit of the surprise.

  Sarah had done her homework on Thanksgivings.

  “Coffee, tea?”

  “Well, since I’m in England, I think tea is called for, yes?”

  And Sarah went out to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  With the tea on the table, Sarah brought out the last surprise.

  “Pumpkin pie,” she said.

  She was never one for a lot of cooking — never saw the fun in it. If it was quick and healthy, that’s all that mattered, but today had been different. She’d relished the chance to make this for the man who had become such a good friend.

  “I knew I smelled it!” Jack said.

  Daniel trailed behind her. “And vanilla ice-cream.”

  For a second, Sarah thought she saw a cloud pass over Jack’s face and she felt bad: this was all supposed to be fun, recreating the classic American holiday meal.

  But it must also remind Jack of so many Thanksgivings, stretching back to when he was a kid, then a husband, and then a father. So many turkeys and that parade they do right up Seventh Avenue.

  His eyes seemed to drift away.

  Next to her, Chloe coughed, a harsh rasping cough.

  “You okay love?” she asked, putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  Chloe swallowed, her eyes watering, and whispered:

  “I’m fine, Mum, don’t fuss.”

  “Sarah, you have outdone yourself,” said Jack loudly, clearly speaking to take the unwelcome attention away from Chloe. He paused for a moment. “This has been perfect.”

  And then they all tucked into the pie.

  The kids had helped with the clearing, and then started the noisy process of scraping dishes and filling the dishwasher. Every now and then Sarah could hear Chloe coughing as she and Daniel joked together.

  “That time of year huh?” said Jack.

  “Ever since she was little she’s always been coming down with coughs and colds,” said Sarah.

  Sarah had moved down to Jack’s end of the table, both of them armed with a second cup of tea.

  Jack took a sip, and with her move she guessed that Jack knew she had something to say.

  “Great Thanksgiving,” Jack said. “One of the best.”

  Sarah smiled. “My mum and dad wanted to come, but it’s their meeting at the Village Art Society.”

  “Plenty of leftovers.”

  She could sense Jack waiting. The clatter from the kitchen was matched with the voices of Daniel and Chloe taking turns trying to be commander of the massive clean-up.

  “My mum did have something she wanted me to ask you.”

  Another sip by Jack, then a nod. “Yes?”

  “She and dad both belong to the Rotary, and — you see — each year the Rotary runs a special night when all the Christmas lights in Cherringham are turned on. The shops, the big tree, the lampposts in the square.”

  “Nice.”

  “And some of them sing,” Sarah smiled. “Or attempt to. Christmas carols. ’Holly and the Ivy’, that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Another hesitation.

  “Last month, they lost one of their singers, anaphylactic shock. Maybe you …”

  “Yes, I read about that. She had an empty EpiPen. Sad story.”

  “They had a few people drop out too.”

  “Unders
tandable.”

  “And also — one of their big voices, someone who could actually sing … well, he and his partner bought a time share on the Costa Brava. Gone for the winter.”

  Jack nodded. Did he see where this was going?

  “Mum and dad usually join in — but they’re just too busy this year. So, anyway, with numbers down, and mum knowing that you had a voice …”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

  “She wondered …”

  And Jack’s grin bloomed. “If I’d join the loyal Rotarians for their night of holiday songs?”

  “Exactly.”

  Not for the first time Sarah thought how much she liked this man, a hard-boiled NYC detective who turned out to not be so hard-boiled at all.

  “Well …” he stroked his chin. “I’m not terribly busy, and things have been quiet for us on the crime solving front recently.”

  Was Jack disappointed by that? Had he started to really enjoy their amateur investigating?

  Then he looked right at her.

  “And as long as they know I really am not much of a singer …”

  “Brilliant!” Sarah said, and gave him a quick hug. “Thank you. Mum will be thrilled. And you’ll find the Rotary group, um …”

  “Interesting?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Next rehearsal is Saturday morning. Upstairs in the Village Hall. Ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Mum!” Chloe’s voice rang out from the kitchen. ”Daniel’s doing it wrong.”

  “I best get into the battlefield.” Sarah stood up. “Before Chloe loses it …”

  “Kid brothers can be a pain,” he said. “I should know, I was one myself. Want a hand?”

  She was about to remind him of his guest status, when she nodded. Maybe the clean-up too was part of the tradition.

  “Sure. Safety in numbers!”

  And she led the way into the kitchen to survey the state of the mayhem.

  4. Here We Come A-Wassailing

  Jack knew better than to drive into Cherringham on a Saturday morning. The market took up most of the free parking in the square and even the pub car parks filled up early. As for the little high street — it was transformed from its usual mid-week lethargy.

  He navigated the crowded pavement, grabbed a quick coffee to go from Huffington’s and headed across to the big Victorian village hall, which dominated the square.

  Most of the ground floor was taken up with the library which, after a year in the village, Jack knew pretty well. But up the wooden stairs, ah, thought Jack, this way leads to the very beating heart of Cherringham itself — the not-so-secret core … the real village hall.

  If you lived in Cherringham — if you were a real member of the village — unlike me so far, thought Jack — then this hall would be as familiar as home.

  From cradle almost to grave, the hall punctuated the lives of the locals. The amateur dramatic society, the kids’ playgroup, the Pilates classes, the choral society, the table-top sales, badminton club, the Historical Society … The list was endless, it seemed.

  Jack laughed to himself: he wasn’t a member of a single one of them. Truth was — he wasn’t much of a joiner of things, and he’d only ever been in the hall a couple of times. Once to watch the locals destroy “A Streetcar Named Desire” — and once to watch Sarah’s mum sing the “Messiah”.

  But now here he was … joining in. Becoming a member.

  If Katherine could see me now, he thought to himself, as he took the stairs two at a time.

  “Sign here.”

  Jack signed.

  “And here.”

  Jack signed again.

  “And here.”

  Jack signed for the last time and, trying hard to keep a straight face, handed the silver pen back to Roger Reed. In exchange, the director of the choir handed Jack his music.

  “Welcome to the Cherringham Rotary Christmas Choir, Mr Brennan. Please remember that it is your responsibility to look after these song sheets — which are numbered — and that any missing copies will be charged for …”

  “Bloody hell, Roger, is that really the way you welcome new people?” said a big blustery voice behind Jack. “No wonder the banks are in trouble.”

  Jack turned to the small group of waiting singers as the owner of the voice marched across, hand out to shake Jack’s.

  “Ignore our blessed bank manager, Mr Brennan — he still thinks he’s in the office and we’re all his lackeys. Pete Bull — bass, pleased to meet you!”

  Jack shook Pete’s big hand — rough, callused, the hand of someone who definitely didn’t work in an office.

  “That’s a trifle unfair, Pete,” said Roger. “I do have a duty of care …”

  “Oh let it be, Roger — for God’s sake!” said a female voice from the back of the choir and Jack sensed Roger retreating already.

  “Nice to meet you too, Pete. And please — I’m Jack, okay?”

  “Sure, and welcome to the Rotary choir!” said Pete.

  There was a hubbub of “welcomes” and “nice to meet yous” and Jack turned, realizing he was now the centre of attention, perhaps an oddity as the choir circled him, all eyes curiously turned on the newcomer.

  “Tenor or bass, old chap?” said another voice, but this one so much smoother.

  A tall figure, charming in a handmade tweed jacket and designer jeans stepped forward and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Well — I’m guessing — tenor,” said Jack, uncomfortable with the hand but not reacting.

  “Splendid! You’re just what we need! I’m Simon Rochester by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Simon.”

  “We desperately need reinforcements, morale amongst the troops has been a bit low recently …”

  “You can ignore him as well, Jack,” said a lively young woman in her thirties stepping forward and leading him to one side. “He joined the Territorials last year and ever since you’d think he was an old campaigner …”

  “Singing in this choir next to you lot I bloody well do feel like an old campaigner, Beth!” said Simon, roaring with laughter at his own joke.

  “Less of the ’old’, Simon or I’ll hit you with my stick,” came another creaky yet strong voice amid general laughter.

  The echoey sound of some brisk scales on an upright piano cut across the general larky atmosphere and Jack realized that — without him noticing — the choir had separated into its parts — soprano, alto, tenor and bass — and he was now firmly entrenched in the tenors.

  So far, Roger Reed did seem to have his troops organized.

  He counted five other tenors — just enough to hide behind, he thought gratefully.

  “Now, we have very little time left before the big night so be prepared for extra rehearsals,” said the director.

  Roger Reed had stepped forward next to the piano, which was being attacked by a grey haired woman with sharp features who looked like she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Her cane rested on the edge of her piano bench.

  “Now, Martha’s going to run us through some exercises first.” said Roger. “Just enough to put paid to those extra pints down the Ploughman last night, eh Peter?”

  In the general laughter, Jack found himself laughing too, suddenly remembering the camaraderie of choirs in his youth.

  There’s something simple and good in all this, he thought.

  “We’re going to tackle the Rutter Wexford Carol,” continued Roger. “So I hope you’re all ’on form’ this morning!”

  Jack felt a gentle nudge on his arm. Next to him — surprisingly — was Beth.

  “You sing tenor?” said Jack.

  “Have to,” she said. “Bit of a shortage of suitable men.”

  “You don’t say,” said Jack.

  She leaned in a little closer.

  “Don’t worry if you’re out of practice sight-reading — just follow my finger and we’ll get through the score together.”

  �
��Sight-reading’s the least of my problems,” whispered Jack. “It’s twenty years since I last sang so — who knows. I could be a soprano by now.”

  “Eyes front please everybody, how many times do I have to ask you!” called Roger. “Now Martha, give me a ’G’ please and let’s blow away those cobwebs!”

  Jack took a deep breath and sang his first scale in twenty years …

  Jack stirred his instant coffee and took in the moment. The rehearsal was over. All around him the choir bubbled with conversation as they tucked in to plates of cookies and cakes.

  Maybe I do spend a little too much time on my own, he thought. This is all right. And hey, I wasn’t so bad either …

  “Penny for them,” said Beth, taking the plastic chair next to him. “You planning your escape?”

  “No,” said Jack laughing and taking a bite of flapjack. “On the contrary.”

  “I for one will be pleased if you decide to stick with us,” said Beth. “We need new faces.”

  “You think I passed muster?”

  “Definitely. Sinatra himself hasn’t a patch on you Jack.”

  “Well, with that — how could I refuse?” said Jack. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to wearing a costume though. I hear they’re a little … quaint?”

  “Don’t worry about that. This year we’re not doing the full wassailing gear.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Yeah. People said — you know, after Kirsty — it didn’t feel right to overdo things.”

  “Kirsty. Right. That’s the lady who had the allergic reaction, huh?”

  Jack could tell that Beth was controlling her emotions.

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about this …”

  “No, no. Actually I do want to talk about it,” said Beth, suddenly upright and turning to him. “I want to talk about it very much.”

  Jack wasn’t prepared for the strong reaction. But it was something he’d seen many times before around an unexpected death. Powerful feelings that the arrival of a stranger — in his case a cop — could suddenly unleash.

  Guilt, anger, suspicion.

  He looked at Beth carefully and put his cake down.