Read Cherringham--The Last Puzzle Online
Authors: Neil Richards
Cherringham--The Last Puzzle
- Cover
- Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
- The Authors
- Main Characters
- The Last Puzzle
- Copyright
- 1. Checkmate
- 2. The Heirs … Apparently
- 3. A Most Puzzling Will
- 4. Questions at the Pig
- 5. Let the Games Begin
- 6. Find the Lady
- 7. Seeking Doom
- 8. Lights On
- 9. Brotherly Love
- 10. Tea and Cake
- 11. Lies and More Lies
- 12. The Fatal Truth
- 13. Changing Rules
- 14. The Last Clue
- 15. Before Dawn
- 16. 11:23 a.m.
- 17. A View from the Hill
- Next episode
“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.
Matthew Costello
(US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including
Vacation
(2011),
Home
(2014) and
Beneath Still Waters
(1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed
The 7th Guest
,
Doom 3
,
Rage
and
Pirates of the Caribbean
.
Neil Richards
has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 20 video games including
The Da Vinci Code
and
Starship Titanic
, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90’s and the two have written many hours of TV together.
Cherringham
is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
Jack Brennan
is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a year ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.
Sarah Edwards
is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Two years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …
Matthew Costello
Neil Richards
CHERRINGHAM
A COSY CRIME SERIES
The Last Puzzle
BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Victoria Pepe
Project management: Lori Herber
Cover illustration: © shutterstock/Buslik/Mykhaylo Palinchak/Claire McAdams/fotoVoyager
Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer
E-book production: Urban
SatzKonzept
, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7325-0848-8
Brrr …
thought Michael Edwards as he stepped out of his BMW estate and started up the steps to his good friend Quentin Andrews’ elegant townhouse — one of five that made up Cherringham Crescent.
The house, with its classic entrance flanked by two white columns, seemed more suited to an exclusive street in Holland Park than the quiet village of Cherringham.
But for those who were well-to-do and didn’t want to live in the sprawling countryside, amid the rolling hills and meandering Thames, the houses on the Crescent were a perfect alternative.
And Michael
loved
the place.
When he came for his weekly chess game with Quentin, played over a carefully selected single malt, it always made him feel that he had — in fact — been transported back to London.
As much as he loved the village, part of him missed the pulse and excitement of that great city.
That famous Samuel Johnson quote … so apt:
when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.
Now, after having had a quick dinner with his wife, he knocked on the door, and then rang the bell.
He knew that Quentin enjoyed these weekly gatherings as much as he did.
It wasn’t just about the chess — though they’d had some epic battles on the sixty-four squares.
No, it was the conversation. Michael loved discussing politics, foreign policy, and world affairs with his friend. Though Quentin obviously had some governmental background — which he never seemed interested in revealing — and Michael himself had lived a life in the services, they tended to discuss things on, well, a loftier scale.
The emergence of the new African economies. The challenge of maintaining a military in a dire economy. America and its role in the world was always a favourite topic. Had the great superpower lost its way, would it be able to find it again?
That — and the game, and the single malts made for a rich evening indeed.
But now, standing at the door, so decidedly chilly — there was still no answer from within.
He rang the bell again, hearing it chime inside the Georgian house. Then, gloves on, Michael gave some hard raps to the door.
His breath made clouds billow from him as if he needed reminders of how cold this late February evening was.
“Come
on
, Quentin,” he said to no one. “Open the bloody door.”
Still — nothing.
Michael looked away. Should he dig out his phone, give the man a call? Had he dozed off after his own quiet dinner?
Quickly — and clumsily with his frozen fingers — Michael slid out his mobile, a device that apparently did everything but make tea.
Most of its features were wasted on Michael, who remembered the days when a phone was just a phone.
He had to slip off a glove to access the ‘contact’ list, search for the name and press ‘call’.
Then — up to his ear, to listen, ready to chide his friend for leaving him out here, at the entrance, freezing his—
But it just rang, and rang … and, after seven rings, went to answerphone.
Michael didn’t leave a message.
No, because, after the doorbell ringing and the knocks — and now a call — to have only silence, he was suddenly worried about his old friend.
He grabbed the doorknob, expecting the door to be locked but with some surprise, he felt it open.
That’s odd,
thought Michael.
And he walked in out of the cold.
*
As soon as he was across the entrance, shutting the door quickly behind him, he called out loudly, “Quentin. Where the heck are you? Lost your hearing, man?”
Michael took off his camel-coloured overcoat, and draped it on an elegant chair in the entrance hallway, topped it with his calfskin gloves.
“Quentin?” he said again.
Though the place was silent, lights were on.
And while Michael didn’t have an idea where Quentin was, or what may have happened, he now felt even more worried and confused.
He looked left, to the sitting room where the vintage chess set sat on its own claw-footed table, with two comfortable wingback chairs on either side for the combatants.
All ready for the evening.
The room though was empty.
He started for the stairs, again calling out his friend’s name …
“
Quentin?
”
He headed up the staircase that gently curved as it neared the first floor, passing Quentin’s small gallery of military paintings. Trafalgar, Waterloo, an impressionistic painting of the trenches and a bunch of ill-fated boys about to go over the top to face rattling machine guns.
Michael took the steps slowly, his hand on the polished wooden bannister, slow step after slow step.
He felt a dryness in his mouth, his heart racing no matter how slowly he took those steps towards the landing of the upper floor.
Three bedrooms up here … he knew from a tour Quentin had once delivered, his friend laughing at the very idea that he’d ever have a guest to stay in those extra rooms.
Apart from their weekly meeting, Quentin seemed a solitary individual, and happily so …
Michael said his name again, even though by now it seemed pointless.
He walked to the left, traversing the rich carpet runner with its plush pile, a genuine Persian that ran from one end of the landing to the other.
Until he reached the master bedroom — the door open, a light within.
A slight pause — before Michael continued.
*
He walked in.
And for a second he took in what he saw and tried to interpret it in the best way possible.
There was Quentin, in a classic silk smoking jacket, belt tight, but otherwise dressed as if going out for dinner.
He was sitting in an armchair that faced his tall armoire and a large table with fresh-cut flowers in front of the frosted-over windows that looked down on Cherringham Crescent.
His friend.
Leaning back in the chair, head back, legs splayed out.
For a moment relief flooded through Michael.
He’s sleeping. That’s all. Old fellow, let a snooze get the better of him.
But almost immediately Michael recognised that his thought was borne of hope; desperate, foolish.
“Oh dear,” he said to the empty room.
He walked over to the chair, to his reclining friend and saw Quentin’s wide-open eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Quentin Andrews was dead.
Michael knew that Quentin wasn’t young any more, and had battled a number of illnesses of the type that seemed to rear their heads as one passed out of middle age into some other stranger and scarier land.
There had been heart issues. A hip operation a few years back. Quentin wasn’t one for talking much about such ailments, but he hadn’t fought going to the local doctor and even beyond to get the help he needed.
No — Quentin Andrews loved his life, and would do every sensible thing to see it continue as long as possible.
Now — that life was over.
Michael stood there, hardly noticing that he was shaking as he studied the scene.
To be so alone with someone who — quite clearly — had died not too long ago. A few hours maybe?
Then Michael looked across to the great chest of drawers, unadorned by the usual photos and memorabilia.