Loved From The Grave Page 6

  "Maybe George ran into some bad types when he was in London," Peter suggested.

  "I don't think he would have been moving in those social circles, but it can't be ruled out. Let's move on. This morning the forensics team determined Troy was ambushed in his cellar. The scenario went something like this. The lights went out, he went down to check the fuses, and he was clobbered in front of the electric panel box. Somehow he managed to fight them off and get up the cellar stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room. There was a second struggle, but it appears he made it to the stairs when the killer, or killers, caught up to him. There was a struggle, and I believe that's when this was lost," he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing two plastic evidence bags laying them on his desk. "There are signs his body was then moved into position. The sounds Mrs. Hammond heard were either from the fight, or the perps trying to give the impression he was falling."

  "That's horrible," Mary murmured, cringing as she said the word. "We have to find these people. Do you think there's more than one?"

  "Impossible to say at this point. See what you can find out about these," he said lifting up the evidence bags. "One contains a small gold bar. It's a miniature version of what you'd find on a cufflink. It must have broken off the decorative piece that's in the second. Unfortunately the pieces are too small to pull a print, but the emblem on the—what would you call that?"

  "Sir, excuse me," Mary said, staring at the tiny items, "but it didn't break the way you think."

  "Explain."

  "The bar, it's not what you'd find on a cufflink. That's part of a shawl pin, or possibly an antique tie pin. What broke off was the stick that slides into it. This," she said, picking up the second bag, "is the decorative end, and the piece that came off it would look like a thick sewing needle."

  "Mary! Good work!"

  "I'm a vintage jewelry nut, sir."

  "I'm very glad you are. Can you tell me which it is? A shawl pin or a tie pin?"

  "Leave it with me, sir. I'll try and have an answer for you by the end of the day, if not I'll have something tomorrow for sure. I belong to several online vintage jewelry clubs. If it is antique or vintage, and I think it is, it shouldn't be difficult to find some information."

  "Excellent. Peter, dig into Sylvie's gallery, specifically the financial side of things, and her brother's finances too, but keep it low profile. It's a powerful family. If they are involved we don't need them alerted. Do the same with Ned and George."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Anything else to report?"

  "What about the vicar's wife and the housekeeper?" Peter asked. "Do you want me to look at them?"

  "I can't see Maude or Emily clubbing a six-foot, two-inch, physically fit man like Troy Hammond, but you're right. Everyone's a suspect until they're not. Do a cursory look-see, but make the Hammond's, Ned and George your priority."

  As Mary and Peter left his office, Jonathan leaned back in his chair to ponder. He'd almost told them about the secret room, but the less people who knew, the better. The village would be alive with gossip when it became known Troy Hammond had been murdered. He didn't need to stoke the fire with talk of a hidden room filled with treasure. Satisfied he'd made the right decision, he picked up his desk phone. He had some old friends to call.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Standing inside the secret room, April was glad she had the torch. With the cellar wall back in place, it was significantly darker than it had been the day before when the lamps had filled the space with their bright glow. She was about to step into the darker areas when a loud rustling sound from the brush outside made her spin around. As she did, the beam from the torch flashed across the wall next to the door.

  She caught her breath. A light switch!

  "You've got to be kidding me," she muttered, marching across to it. As she flicked it up, the entire room was instantly bathed in light. "Amazing! Troy, did you do that? Did you rustle those leaves so I'd turn around and see it?" To her delight a fresh breeze moved through the trees, then died away. "I don't know how you're doing this, but I'm so grateful. Why didn't you just turn them on yourself? I suppose you must not be able to."

  Switching off the torch, she laid it on the ground and moved towards the furniture. Reaching the piece with the claw feet, she crouched down, picked up the cloth at the hem, slowly lifted it up, and gently laid it over the flat, dusty surface. She repeated the motion until the large sheet was folded with the dust locked inside, then rolled it up and placed it on the floor.

  "Aren't you magnificent," she murmured, staring at the flame mahogany writing desk.

  A sound from the opposite side of the room caught her attention. Spying a small, china vase rolling on its side, she hurried across the room to stop it falling. It was on top of a crate, and she had to lean over several cloth covered paintings to reach it. Wondering why it had tipped over, she set it back on its base, and was turning to walk back to the desk when she heard it tip over again.

  "Troy! Of course! Why didn't I realize? What are you trying to tell me?" she exclaimed, once again leaning over the paintings to set it upright. "I wish you could talk!"

  Then it hit her. The paintings.

  Crouching down, doing her best not to disturb the dust, she slowly lifted the cloth covering the first one. The picture looked vaguely familiar, but there was nothing about it that caught her eye. Moving it aside, she uncovered the next with the same result, but as she raised the cloth from the third, she let out a gasp.

  It was Man at Peace, the painting that had fallen off the wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jonathan had just finished speaking with one of his London contacts when his mobile phone rang. It was April. Though he was busy making notes, he knew she only rang if it was important.

  "Hello, April."

  "Jonathan, you won't believe this. One of the paintings hanging in the foyer is here."

  "Here? Where is here?"

  "Sorry, I'm totally flustered. I'm in the room behind the cellar."

  "Let me make sure I heard you right. There's a painting in the foyer, and you've found a duplicate in the hidden room."

  "Yes! How weird is that?"

  "I've had a few theories running around my head, but art fraud wasn't one of them."

  "Art fraud?"

  "Obviously one of them isn't genuine, and I'm betting it's the one in the foyer. Why hide a fake, unless…?"

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless it was made to sell. I don't think Foster's collection is catalogued anywhere. It's possible no-one knows what's in it."

  "You know, when Ben looked at the one in the foyer, I had the strangest feeling."

  "What sort of feeling, and why was he looking at it?"

  "It fell off the wall and he was helping me put it back up. His mother has prints of it in her gift shop, and he said it always made him smile, but it was the way he was smiling, as if he had a secret."

  "What's the name of the painting?"

  "Man at Peace."

  "I doubt he'd know anything. It's hard not to read into things in situations like this. Thinking it through," he said slowly, making a note of the name, "if the paintings were stashed years ago, and Foster bragged to Troy about having the best insurance but not paying for it, then the genuine articles must be in that room, and the reproductions in the house. The room was his insurance. It's brilliant when you think about it, but he must have been worried about them being stolen to go to all that trouble."

  "And since that padlock on the door seems to be recent, obviously someone knows about it."

  "We have no way of knowing how much was originally in there. It's entirely possible you and Troy have already been robbed, and probably before you even arrived. I was thinking about writing a book detailing some of the crazy crimes that have crossed my path, and this would be at the top of the list."

  "I just had a thought," she murmured. "Man at Peace hangs on the wall directly above where Troy was lying. He said, not real. Thos
e were his last words. Do you think he meant the painting? Jonathan, I just felt a chill."

  "I think I just did as well. April, that's the key. The answer to all this lies in the forgeries. He was on to something, and he was trying to tell you."

  "When do you think you'll be back?"

  "I have some things to finish up here, then I need to run home to pack an overnight bag. Probably a couple of hours," then pausing he added, "Are you still okay with me staying there."

  "I'm not going anywhere, and I'll feel a whole lot safer with you in the house. I even checked the guest room to make sure it was ready."

  "Then I'll see you later. If anything else happens, let me know."

  "What should I do about this painting?"

  "Cover it back up for the moment. We'll talk about all this when I get there."

  "Okay. Bye."

  "Bye."

  Ending the call, she studied the painting carefully, and locking the image in her mind, she lowered the cover back down and decided to leave. The air was dank and dusty, and she could feel scratchiness at the back of her throat. Ambling across to the door, she switched off the light and closed it behind her. As she started walking back to the house she thought about Jonathan spending the night. It suddenly hit her. He'd be there more than just one night. She wouldn't be safe in the house alone until the culprits were caught.

  "I'm feeling weird about this," she murmured as she walked across the lawn, and glancing over at the daffodils by the wishing well she paused her step. "What do you think, Troy? Is it okay?"

  There was no gentle breeze, or gust of wind, or anything else to provide and answer, but as she entered the house and moved down the hall, she came to a sudden stop.

  The door to the guest room was open.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  A short time later the locksmith arrived. April asked for a deadbolt on the front and back doors, the cellar door, and a sliding bolt on the top of the French Doors in the conservatory. She also asked him to install a fresh plate and padlock on the door around the side of the house, saying it was a temporary storage room. The locksmith was an older, friendly chap, and when he'd finished his work and handed her the keys, she could see the genuine warmth in his eyes.

  "You take care now, Mrs. Hammond, and don't you worry. Those are strong locks and the wood is tough, not like the flimsy material they use on doors nowadays."

  "Even the storage room?" she asked. "We're only keeping some things in there for a short time, but I still want the items to be safe."

  "I found an area that wasn't too bad, but if you want it secure over a period of time you'll need to replace that door."

  "Thank you so much, Mr. Nelson," she said gratefully. "How much do I owe you?"

  "The wife takes care of that side of things. You'll get the bill in the mail. I'm not much good with numbers."

  As he drove away in his small van, she put the kettle on and texted Ben an invitation to stop by for a cup of tea. She hadn't seen him since he'd arrived, and she was sure he'd be grateful for the traditional afternoon cuppa. She was also hoping he might know some of the history of Hammond Hall, both spooky tales and scandals. When she saw him striding across the lawn towards the kitchen, she opened the door and welcomed him in.

  "Now that's a good lock, Mrs. Hammond," he declared, studying it as he entered. "I saw Ed Nelson's van. He's been in this village for donkey's years."

  "Hasn't everyone?"

  "You could say that."

  "Please, sit down."

  "This is very kind, thank you."

  "Tell me, Ben," she began as she poured the tea, "was your mother born here?"

  "She was. Not my father though. They met when she was visiting London."

  "How romantic."

  "I suppose it must have been, but I can't really think about stuff like that."

  "No, I suppose not. Have you heard many stories about this house, or Foster Hammond?"

  "More than I can count."

  "Why is that?" she asked, gladdened by the news.

  "My gran and my mother."

  "How interesting. Would you mind telling me some of them?"

  "Scandals or…?"

  "Scandals, ghosts, whatever. What was Foster famous for?"

  "My gran used to call him Jack the Ripper of Hearts. He broke hers, and from what she told me, many others in the village as well. But my mother claims there were two women in his life he genuinely cared about. My gran, and another woman named Margaret."

  "Is your gran still alive? I'd love to speak with her."

  "No. She passed away a few years ago, but she was always ready to talk about Foster. Sometimes she said not very nice things, and other times all she wanted to do was sing his praises. But I think he was like that. A Jekyll and Hyde type of person."

  "Was he raised at Hammond Hall? I know the Hammonds have always lived in London, but I also know he was a bit of an outcast."

  "He arrived at the start of the second world war. The family sent him here to keep him away from the bombing. Somehow they were able to prevent him from being called up for the National Service. The claim was some kind of medical issue, but if there was anything wrong with him, it didn't stop him from taking advantage of his situation. With the girls, I mean. Actually, besides having his way with them, the war is the other thing he's famous for."

  "I don't understand. If he didn't fight, then…?"

  "The crazy old man he lived with, some distant uncle or cousin or something, had Foster believing the Germans were going to take over England. They had the whole village in a panic," he declared, then pausing, he asked, "Mrs. Hammond, have you ever searched this house for secret passages?"

  "I haven't. Should I?"

  "If you like stuff like that. Rumor has it that Foster had a room stocked up with food and water and a bed so he could hide when the Nazis arrived. You should go on a hunt."

  "Fascinating. Troy never mentioned anything like that. Thanks, Ben."

  "If you want to hear more you should visit my mother. Drop into the gift shop. She'll tell you anything you want to know, and then some!"

  "I might just do that. Did you find any problems along the fence? Was the prickly bush still intact?"

  "It's so thick it would be a tough job for someone to mess with it. Thanks for the tea and biscuits, Mrs. Hammond," he said gratefully as he rose to his feet. "Time to make myself visible again. I expect the detective will be here soon. I don't want him to see me loitering."

  "I'll make sure he knows you were on patrol all afternoon."

  "Thanks very much."

  "Bye, Ben."

  She walked him to the kitchen door, and as he headed towards the front of the house, she returned to the table and poured herself a second cup of tea. The secret room and all its treasures was no longer a mystery. Foster Hammond's relative, or perhaps the young Foster himself, had been so worried about the Germans pillaging his property he'd had forgeries made and hidden the valuable originals. But if Ben knew the house had secret rooms, everyone in the village probably did too.

  "This is impossible. Anyone could have been snooping and found that side door. Every resident here is a suspect. I want to tell Jonathan about this right now," but as she reached for her phone, a text message from him appeared on the screen.

  Five minutes away. Meet me in the backyard.

  She responded that she'd be waiting, and pleased she'd be able to give him the news in person, she cleared away the table, picked up a set of the new keys and stepped outside.

  The weather was cooling down. She almost went back inside to grab a jacket, but the sound of his car pulling into the driveway stopped her. Glancing at the sky she could see dark clouds moving in, but hearing the creak of the gate she looked across the lawn. What she saw widened her eyes, and sent her lips curling into a delighted smile. Jonathan was walking towards her with a black and white fluffy dog at his side. Before she had a chance to speak, the mutt bounded across the lawn to meet her.

  "Who's t
his?" she exclaimed, crouching down to make a fuss of the excited canine.

  "Terrence. I was going to check with you first, but I was hoping it would be a surprise. One you'd get a kick out of."

  "It's wonderful," she beamed. "Who does he belong to?"

  "He's homeless. His owner is a friend of mine, but when he moved to London Terrence had to stay behind. He's been living with me. He's a great watch dog, but I feel bad for him. I'm gone all day. If you're open to having him around I think he'd be better than an alarm system."

  "I'd love him to stay here. He can chase away the rabbits."

  "He'll love that. Chasing small furry creatures is his favorite thing to do. Why don't you two get acquainted while I go back to the car and get his food and my bag?"

  "Perfect. Here's a set of keys," she said, reaching into her pocket and handing them over. "The two brass ones are for the front door. The guest room is past the stairs, turn right, third door on the left. It's next to the library. If you can't sleep there's a slew of books in there. Some of them are first editions."

  "Past the stairs, turn right, third door on the left. Got it. What's the big news?"

  "I'll tell you after you're settled. It will start a long conversation."

  "Then yes, you should wait."

  "I'll make us something to eat and bring it into the front living room. We can be very civilized and have a drink before dinner."

  "Sounds like a plan. See you in there."

  As he strode away, she turned her attention back to the lovable dog who had been trying to lick her to death.

  "You are so adorable. Troy would have loved you. What am I saying? He's here," she whispered "but it's our secret. If Jonathan knows I'm having conversations with my dear departed husband he'll think I've lost my marbles, and we can't have that."

  Terrence suddenly darted his head towards the thicket, then took off, sprinting across the yard.

  "What is it boy?" she asked, running after him, but before she reached him she had her answer.