Free Cherringham--The Last Puzzle by Neil Richards Page A

turned to him.
    “Wait a second. What did you just say?”
    Now Jack’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out what was going on in his partner’s head.
    “I said … that he feels the attack, tries to get up — but …”
    “Right,” Sarah said. “Okay. Hear me out. First, we know a bit about who this Quentin was. The tricky details of his crossword puzzles. And look around — the way he kept this place. Immaculate. Add to that his reputation as someone who could easily create global havoc for foreign governments …”
    “Yes — and — your point?”
    “So — first question: do you buy that somehow he’d just accidentally left the pills feet away?”
    Jack didn’t answer.
    Which — for Sarah — was answer enough.
    “Then, that other thing you just said.”
    “Got to admit, Sarah. You’re losing me.”
    “You said … ‘feels an attack coming on, tries to get up’.”
    “That I did.”
    “What if …”
    She took a step closer to Jack so they both stood in front of the chair, the last place where Quentin had been alive.
    “What if he tried to get up — and someone stopped him.”
    And with those words, she saw Jack turn from the chair, to the table across the room, rubbing his chin — a habit that always revealed he was suddenly deep in detective mode.
    Before he finally turned back to her.
    “You mean … he tries to get to his pills … and …”
    She nodded, excited to see Jack pick up the thread of her idea.
    Jack continued: “And maybe someone stops Quentin … right there next to him … and he can’t get to them?”
    “He was an old man, Jack. Frail. It wouldn’t have taken much,” she said.
    “And he was alone — Emma had gone for the day …” Jack said.
    “Wait a second, Jack. Isn’t that just a little bit too convenient? He has his attack precisely in the time between Emma leaving, and my dad coming to visit?”
    Jack said nothing.
    Which spoke volumes.
    “I think,” she said slowly, “that we’re missing something here. Emma out of the house, Quentin tries to get his pills. Stopped … by someone.” She took a breath. “I think you might be right, Jack. This could be murder.”
    Now she scrunched up her face. Maybe it was a bit much.
    “Crazy idea?”
    Jack hesitated a moment … and then shook his head.
    “Not at all. In fact, it would be the perfect way to have Quentin die and make it look like a fatal mistake. With the difference between life and death the few feet between the chair … and that table.”
    “Looking so much like an accident when …” and now Sarah felt chilled. “It was anything but.”
    And Jack’s smile faded as well.
    Because if she was right, they both stood in the middle of a crime scene, He had been convinced that something was wrong with this — and now so was she.
    There were suddenly so many questions … starting with who would do it, and why.
    But Jack had another, darker concern.
    “Trouble is, Sarah — I think you may be right. It all fits. But—”
    “The trouble?”
    “Not one bit of evidence.”
    And as if in a plummeting lift, Sarah realised that Jack — the pro that he was — was completely right. No evidence. Just a theory that seemed to fit what had happened; fit the players, and their anger at Quentin.
    But absolutely no evidence.
    “Tell you what, Sarah. The clock is ticking. How about we fix some tea, sit down, think things through?”
    “Here? Now that I think the old man was murdered, in that chair, I’m not sure I—”
    “In the kitchen then. Maybe his spirit will help us, hmm?”
    “Okay. Tea it is.”
    And with a last look at Quentin Andrews’ bedroom, Jack led the way downstairs.
    *
    The kitchen matched the rich details of the home. A dark stone countertop for food preparation, a massive refrigerator and a good-sized Aga.
    No expense had been spared.
    But did anyone ever cook here? she wondered.
    Metal stools with intricate, wrought-iron backs circled an island with a thick