Cherringham--Murder by Moonlight Read online

  “So what’s on your mind?” he said quietly.

  Beth looked around the hall, as if checking who else was in earshot. She nudged her chair a little closer to him.

  “Everybody is saying that Kirsty’s death was just a tragic accident,” she said. “But not me. I think she was killed deliberately. I think — I think she was murdered.”

  Jack kept his face expressionless and stared at her. Without a doubt, she believed what she was saying.

  “Okay,” he said. “And who do you think murdered her?”

  “Well — someone in the choir of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

  People and their suspicions, he thought.

  Jack sat back and looked around at the little groups of locals, all chattering away with their cups of tea and coffee, their cookies and chocolate brownies. They couldn’t look more innocent.

  He knew Cherringham enough by now to know there were always secrets, dark ones at that, which could linger under its charming harmless exterior. But could this choir — so peacefully assembled here in the village hall — be harbouring a murderer?

  It seemed very unlikely.

  He turned back to Beth, who sat, serious, her empty cup and saucer on her lap.

  “So who’s your prime suspect then?”

  Beth hesitated. Then: “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “You might be. And you might not. But I’m always prepared to listen.”

  Beth stood up.

  “Bring your cup — we wash our own up here. Then — meet me outside — and I’ll tell you what I think happened. And who did it.”

  So Jack drained his coffee, finished his flapjack and headed over to the little kitchen in the corner of the hall.

  Another murder in Cherringham. Who would have thought it?

  5. A Walk in the Country

  Jack pulled his coat tight against the cold wind and listened carefully to Beth Travers as she told the story of Kirsty Kimball’s last hours.

  They’d met up as planned at the bottom of the village and Beth had led him down the hill to the corner by the Ploughman where the tree-lined lane led away through fields towards Kirsty’s cottage.

  The lane was no more than half a mile long.

  According to Beth, it had once been the driveway to a grand house up on the far hill which now had been turned into several very smart apartments. One of which was occupied by none other than Simon Rochester, the suave alpha male bass in the choir.

  “Now, it’s mostly used by people going to the farm cottages up there,” said Beth, picking her way carefully around the potholes. Jack followed her, then came alongside as the lane reached a slight incline and the surface improved.

  “Which is where Kirsty lived?” said Jack.

  Beth nodded.

  “On her own?”

  “As long as I’ve known her, yes. She came to Cherringham about five years ago from abroad. No family to speak of.”

  “What about a partner — was there anyone?”

  “Nobody serious — or none that she told me about. She always had someone on the go, so to speak, but she didn’t really want to settle down.”

  “And you knew her pretty well, Beth?”

  “Better than anyone in the village I’d say. She was fun — up for anything. When she started The Knick Knack, I helped her out with some of the buying, and I’d cover for her before she had help behind the till. We became friends. Good friends.”

  “So you knew all about her allergy?”

  “God, yes. But then everybody did. It wasn’t a secret. It was life-threatening, so very important.”

  “And that’s why you think somebody laced the food with peanut on purpose?”

  “Obviously. Had to be. We all knew she had a problem with it. Everybody who brought cakes made damned sure there wasn’t a trace of peanut in them.”

  “Therefore, if there was peanut — it was deliberate.”

  “Exactly. And therefore it was murder.”

  Jack smiled to himself at Beth’s logic.

  Does everyone love playing sleuth?

  “But what if it was just an accident? Somebody used the wrong cake mix, kept the flour by the peanuts. It can happen. Does, all the time.”

  “Yes it can happen but I know it didn’t. I can just — feel it. I mean, there’s the whole thing about the EpiPen.”

  Beth had explained how police had found the used pen in Kirsty’s hand — but no trace of the drug in her body.

  “But, Beth — the police explanation makes sense. She panicked — and discharged the pen against the ground.”

  “Ridiculous. Honestly, the police here just make it up as they go along. Kirsty wasn’t an idiot. And anyway, they found bruising on her leg just where she’d obviously tried to jab it.”

  Maybe not so much an amateur detective, Jack thought.

  “So maybe she did that after she’d hit the ground with it. Maybe she put a used one in her bag by mistake.”

  “Even if she did — what about her spare? She always, always had a spare.”

  “And the police didn’t find that?”

  “No.”

  Beth stopped.

  “Anyway. This is where she died. Right here.”

  Beth pointed to the side of the road where footprints and tyre tracks now marked the verge.

  Jack crouched down — the habitual pose of the detective, he thought wryly, wanting somehow to get closer to the victim, now long-gone.

  He looked down the long lane, the trees on each side swaying in the wind, the last leaves of autumn gusting into piles in the low hedge. What must it have been like down here in the dark night, knowing you were dying, just yards away from safety at either end of the lane? He shivered.

  Then he noticed a flash of colour in the grass. He reached in and found a single red rose, freshly picked, unblemished lying on the verge.

  “Yours?” he said gently to Beth, standing up.

  “No,” she said. Her face showed her confusion. “It wasn’t here yesterday. I was down here, I would have seen it.”

  “Looks like you’re not the only one grieving for her, Beth,” said Jack, reaching down to place it back on the grass.

  And now there was another bit added to the mystery.

  “Aren’t you going to keep it?” said Beth. “You should. It’s evidence. There are probably finger prints on it. You should use a hankie, you know.”

  Jack smiled. “Not exactly on duty here, Beth.”

  But he shrugged and put the flower in his coat pocket.

  CSI’s got a lot to answer for …

  He looked out across the empty ploughed fields, the soil black and stony.

  “Back at the village hall you said you knew who killed her,” he said seriously. “You going to tell me?”

  The direct question seemed to stop Beth for a moment. Then a breath …

  “That bitch Martha Bernard.”

  For a moment Jack thought he’d misheard the name. Though he certainly hadn’t misheard the hatred in the way Beth uttered it.

  “Martha?” he said as calmly as he could. “You mean the sweet old lady who plays the piano?”

  “Hmph. Sweet old lady, my arse. Martha Bernard’s the wicked witch of Cherringham and everybody knows it. She killed Kirsty — and I bet it’s not the first time she’s killed either. I for one am very careful not to get on her bad side!”

  Jack thought that it sounded absurd.

  But he also knew that in crime, it’s often the craziest idea that turns out to be correct.

  And, like it or not, simply by joining the small Rotary choir, he was — as they say — back in the game.

  6. It’s Not What You Know

  “Come on, Daniel! Stay wide! You’re getting dragged in, make space lad, remember? Space!”

  Sarah watched as Daniel reacted crisply to the coach’s shouts and tracked obediently to the sideline.

  He was having one of those games where everything seemed to go wrong — missing the ball, missing tackles, a
nd finally, missing an open goal.

  On a day like this, though — who wouldn’t have a terrible game? Only a couple of other parents had turned up to support the Cherringham team. In the summer, thought Sarah — on those long hazy June afternoons when cricket was the sport of the season — there’d be twenty or more buzzing around the pavilion watching, making the teas, offering a bit of coaching in the nets.

  But right now in darkest November, with the football pitch thick with mud and a bitter northerly threatening snow it seemed the other kids’ mums and dads always had urgent appointments.

  Never her.

  “Come on Cherringham!!” she shouted, bashing her gloved hands together. “You can do it!”

  “You think they can?” said a voice next to her. She turned, no mistaking Jack’s accent.

  And there he stood in his big puffa winter jacket, woolly hat, gloves like he was Alaska-bound.

  “Never give up, never surrender,” she said. “Isn’t that what they say in the film?”

  “Not sure I caught that one.”

  “One advantage of having kids — you get to see a lot of movies.”

  “They not doing so well?” said Jack, pulling his had further down over his ears.

  “Three goals down already.”

  “Ouch. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Too right, Jack. And there’s almost another hour to play. I think if we keep it down to single figures it’ll be an achievement.”

  The ball flew toward them. Jack caught it instinctively and threw it to Daniel who came over, panting, to take the throw.

  “Get stuck in, kid, you’re doing good,” said Jack, and Daniel managed a weary grin at him before taking the throw and heading back into the game.

  “Glad you could make it, Jack — he loves it when you come up and watch.”

  “Happy to — though I can’t say it was ever my game. I was more of a hockey fiend.”

  “Really?” said Sarah, teasing. “We’ve got a hockey pitch in the village, you could join the veterans!”

  “Veterans? Oh, you mean hockey on grass.” He smiled. “And I prefer my hockey on ice …”

  “Like your martinis?”

  “Ha, very good. And anyway — I’m not so sure about all this joining in. It’s got its downsides …”

  “So I gather. Seems like wherever you go Jack, there’s a mystery never far behind.”

  “Yeah, well — like I said on the phone — this one may be a total fantasy.”

  “So has the case of the killer biscuit crumbled already?”

  Jack grinned. “It was pretty half-baked to start with.”

  “Okay — truce — enough cookie jokes,” said Sarah, laughing. “Seriously though — you don’t want to know what I found out last night?”

  “Okay,” said Jack. “I think you’d tell me anyway.”

  “Right. Let’s wait till half-time. You’ll enjoy it more then — over tea and a slice of cake.”

  “Very appropriate.”

  Sarah turned back to the pitch as a ragged cheer went up from the little group of Cherringham supporters.

  “Hey! We scored!”

  “An assist from Daniel too — that the right word?” said Jack.

  “Sounds good to me. And anyway — what do I know about football?”

  And just then the half-time whistle blew.

  Sarah waited till the last of the players and supporters had gone back for the second half before she joined Jack, sitting next to the big brown teapot and tray of biscuits.

  The little pavilion was barely a degree warmer than outside, and she pulled her scarf tight as she sat.

  “Okay,” said Jack, sipping his tea. “Let’s hear it.”

  “So, girls’ night out last night, bit of a rare event these days. We were down at the Ploughman …”

  “Damn sight cheaper than the Angel!”

  “Exactly! And some of the gang know how to drink all right … But anyway. I’d been thinking about what you’d said about the EpiPen on the phone. Something just didn’t make sense.”

  Sarah looked around, the clouds thickening. Maybe rain on the way.

  “So I got talking to my friend Val who works at the surgery. You know the receptionist?”

  Jack nodded.

  “She hands out the prescriptions every day — knows everything that’s going on down there. Not that she’s supposed to tell a soul, mind you — but you know, couple of drinks, bit of gossip, sometimes she says more than she should. And she’s no fool.”

  “So what did she say?” Sarah could see she had Jack’s interest piqued.

  “First — Kirsty Kimball was obsessed by having her pens with her at all times. In fact, she persuaded one of the doctors to give her a couple of extra prescriptions so she could have them all round the house — as well as two in her bag. They come in packs of two, apparently.”

  “Okay. So nothing new there. We know she had her pen with her.”

  “But where did the other one go? She told her friends that she always carried two, remember. Anyway, that’s not all. Val said that the police took the pen to the chemists so they could check it was the one they’d dispensed. It was. But apparently the case they found on the ground with it came from a different batch. They’re numbered!”

  “Now that … is interesting. Maybe she switched them round at home?”

  “Val said the case was from a batch that had never been prescribed by the surgery.”

  “So she bought some more pens on holiday somewhere, got them mixed up.”

  “But there’s another thing. After the police had left, the doctors were talking about what had happened. And they couldn’t figure it out. There were marks on Kirsty’s thigh — bruises — where she’d hit the pen hard to discharge it. But the pen they found hadn’t been discharged at all.”

  “So it was faulty — she kept hitting it but it just didn’t work?”

  “Apparently there was nothing wrong with it. The police think that she must have been so distressed that she was holding it the wrong way round. But Val said to me that Kirsty would never have got that wrong. You practise that move, over and over. They even used Kirsty in classes and workshops. In fact — I popped over to see Val this morning on the way here — and she gave me one of the dummy pens they use.”

  Sarah was enjoying this.

  Like some kind of star prosecutor, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the dummy EpiPen and laid it on the table.

  Jack picked it up. He scrutinised it carefully, then popped the cap and opened it.

  She could see him thinking it through, stage by stage.

  “Don’t worry — it’s not loaded officer.”

  “I’m glad. Incidentally — if it was, and I used it — what would happen to me?”

  “According to Val — if you’re fit and healthy, nothing. If you’ve got a dodgy heart — it could kill you.”

  She watched as he gripped the pen and jabbed it against his thigh, then examined the mechanism again.

  “This thing about the batches, different prescriptions …” he said slowly. “Is it possible the cops think Kirsty herself took one pen out of one container, and swapped it with another?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jack shook his head. “Why would she do that? And look — it even says if you open it you should use it or dispose of it.”

  “So you agree — right? It doesn’t make sense?”

  A nod. “No. It doesn’t.”

  From out on the field there was another cheer. Sarah went to the door and looked across at the match.

  “We got another goal. And I do believe Daniel scored it. Damn.”

  “Tough call. You going to lie and say you saw it?”

  “If I knew I’d get away with it — yes. But Daniel sees through me, no problem. He’ll be upset.”

  “So — here’s what you do, Sarah. You blame it on me.”

  “How?”

  “You tell him we’re on another case — and we have a mystery to so
lve, maybe a murder. He’ll love that stuff.”

  Sarah felt a familiar thrill as he said those words.

  She and Jack were back in business.

  7. Questions for the Choir

  Jack’s arrival at the draughty room atop the Village Hall was greeted with less fanfare for his second rehearsal. People chatted to one another, giving Jack a smile and a quick wave.

  None of them had a single clue that he now suspected that maybe one of their members had been killed just a few weeks ago, and that it wasn’t an accident.

  Only Beth gave him what seemed like a knowing look, as if they were co-conspirators. Having planted the seed of suspicion in Jack’s mind, she probably now wanted to see what he would do with it.

  He saw Martha Bernard at the piano, trusty cane by her side, leafing through the music for the rehearsal, titling her head up, finding the best angle for her eyeglasses.

  She was alone. Maybe this would be a good time to ask a few questions.

  But then a loud clap sounded.

  Roger Reed, the eager scoutmaster of the group, raised his hands high over his head, and with the thunderclap of his two palms, summoned the choir to their places.

  The chats broke off, people sorting themselves into their vocal grouping.

  Jack went and stood next to Beth.

  “Hello,” he said.

  He saw Beth look to the side where the upright piano sat, Martha squinting at the sheet music.

  “Are you …?” Beth started.

  Jack nodded. “Yes. I’ll talk to her later. Post … wassailing.”

  Beth nodded, grim, determined. Maybe also someone else not to curry as an enemy, Jack thought.

  “Good,” she said.

  Jack was about to add … glad you approve.

  But thought better of it.

  Roger Reed announced: “Choir, are we all ready? Good then, let’s tackle “Good King Wenceslas” — and this time, can we try to stay together? I need hardly remind you there’s only three more rehearsals and then it’s the real thing!”

  There was a little melodramatic muttering from the back, Martha played a few chords, and rehearsal in the chilly hall began.

  More chatty groups formed over snacks when the rehearsal ended.