Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

There it was. The truth he had kept in his mind but had not
wanted to say out loud. It was said in the same manner as a child, blurting out
his thoughts and then wondering at the audibility of his statement.

“Oh?”
was all Johns said in return. He scrutinized Piers
’
face and
waited for more.

“I mean that I came by out of concern. I needed to know what
Carstons had on him.”

Johns cocked his head and regarded the affluent,
well-dressed man. Then as abruptly as he entered, he walked back out.

PIERS STOOD STILL. HE HEARD people coming and going in the
house, and other vehicles
’
tires crunching to a stop outside the
cottage. He wondered if he should leave the room. It was beginning to make him
feel claustrophobic and nauseous.

Johns bustled back into the room and addressed Piers. “Need
you to come outside Mr. Cousins, if you would. We need to get our forensic team
in here and I need to find a quiet place for us to talk. I
’
m
sure you have some things you would like to get off your chest.”

“Yes. Thank you,”
Piers said like a man waking from a dream. But then he asked with force,
“May I make a phone call?”

“Sure. Come find me in the front hall when you
’
re
finished and we can start.”

Johns turned and began talking with the forensic team
’
s leader.

Piers walked free of the tight bedroom. He could actually
feel something tugging, clinging and pulling on his spirit as if it wasn
’
t ready for him to leave yet. As he walked towards the open
door leading to the outside world humming with life, he could feel the band
stretching to its breaking point. It snapped, releasing him as he stepped out
through the front door of the cottage and into the summer sunlight.

He took a deep breath and as he let it out, he could hear
birds singing and bees humming in the flowering shrubs. The air smelled of rain
and, needing to talk to someone kind, he dialed Helen
’
s
number.

Chapter 28

CONSTABLE WATERS HAD BEEN LEFT in charge of the
constabulary while the rest of the team was either on lunch or working the
situation at Potter Cottage. Her morning had been spent dealing with the young
man, Sam Berry, who had mugged Martha Littleword in the market place.

He’d been complaining non-stop to use his phone. His aunt
and guardian, Harriet Berry, the owner of the best tea shop in Marsden-Lacey,
had received his only allowed call from the police station and promptly hung up
on him. Sam had run out of sympathetic women for the time being.

In the reception area, Donna was preparing the duty roster
while at the same time updating her Facebook page. An “arumph”
sound and a shadow
on her left hand side startled her. Looking up, she saw Perigrine Clarke
smiling like a Cheshire cat while humbly proffering a delicious-looking tea
cake across the reception desk.

“
Hi, Perigrine,
”
she said warmly with a big smile. “What
is this lovely piece of confection?”

Perigrine leaned in over the reception desk with the
familiar air of a conspiratorial suburban housewife trading savory secrets with
the next-door neighbor and said, “Donna, I
’
ve had one of
my
feelings
today. It
’
s
driving me crazy. Do you have time for tea? It
’
s one of
Harriet
’
s cakes.”

While Perigrine and Alistair were “
guests
”
at the
constabulary, Donna had spent a great deal of time discussing with P. his
special ability to sense things or guess the future. They had built a nice
friendship. On P.
’
s part he could warn Donna when one of
the boys might be doing something they shouldn
’
t or if her
mother-in-law was about to call to announce a visit. Donna reciprocated by
convincing Johns that P. and Alistair should have more freedom about the
constabulary or maybe a day-out pass to visit their favorite haunts.

“Well, you had better tell me all about it, Perigrine. Best
to get it off your chest. Please say it isn
’
t about one of
the children.”

“Oh no. Not the boys, dear.”
He made a waving motion of his hand like he was shooing away a nasty
thought.

Then in a theatrical manner meant to elicit a modicum amount
of sympathy, he put his right hand up and drummed his fingers above his ear
while shaking his hand lightly enough to convince anyone watching that he was a
tiny bit distraught.

Donna wasn
’
t taken in by the
performance, but she did love P. for making the effort to give her a taste of
his dramatic abilities, so she applied a mask of deep concern and asked what he
thought the
feeling
meant.

“I know something has been brought in here that is extremely
valuable. I sensed it yesterday and it
’
s in danger. It
traveled a long way and it has been lost for a long time. I can feel it in my
bones, dear. It
’
s talking to me and I know it
’
s beyond special. Is there any way I can see it?”
Perigrine
begged.

The look on Donna
’
s face would have
been “Liked”
by
at least ten of her closest friends because rarely did she look so completely
shocked. Her mouth slack-jawed and her eyes wide with disbelief, she mentally
processed whether Perigrine was trying to get information or if he was actually
on the up and up. Donna wasn
’
t the type to be at a loss
for words, but Perigrine
’
s timing was unbelievable. Was it
possible he actually knew something?

“
Perigrine,
”
she began in the pedantic, firm tone
of an exasperated schoolmarm, “you better tell me what you know because you
could be in a terrible amount of trouble walking in here and making a statement
like that right now.”

With an honest look of confusion, Perigrine stopped the
theatrics and straightened his tie. Her reaction was completely the opposite of
what he had hoped for. “What do you mean? Is something amiss?”

Poorer choice of words had rarely been used than the last
three of P.
’
s choosing. Donna got up and came around the
reception desk and grabbed the astonished six foot, tweed-wearing dandy and
dragged him back to the interview room.

Initially, Perigrine put up no resistance and only when he
found himself sitting in a metal chair across the desk from Donna did he raise
his eyebrows in an effort to regain his composure. He smiled weakly. “Donna?
Did I say something wrong?”

“You better come clean, Perigrine. What do you think this
something is that is lost? And don
’
t play games with me.
This is serious,”
she
said.

P. looked down at the tea cake he had managed to hang on to
while he was being dragged back to the break room for questioning. His mind
went back to the scene of Johns walking across the car park with the envelope.
With his eyes shut, he searched the impression for what secrets it held. That
envelope radiated such a powerful energy to Perigrine that he simply tingled
all over. His eyes snapped open and he locked on to Donna
’
s
searching gaze.

“Donna,”
he said with an honest simplicity, “I saw an envelope in Chief Johns
’
hands while he walked across the car park. Something in it is terribly
priceless. I wanted to get my hands on it and probably for all the wrong
reasons which is always a sign it must be fabulously valuable. Has something
happened surrounding it?”

Donna knew when he was sincere. “
Perigrine, I
can
’
t discuss anything with you but if you have a
connection with this item, will you please be forthcoming and give us any
information you might have?”
She leaned into the table they shared.

“My dear Donna, what happened? Is it not here anymore?”
he asked,
horrified, mimicking her movement toward the center of the table.

“Oh, P., it went missing this morning about eleven. Don
’
t breathe a word of this to anyone. We have someone on video
climbing out of one of the windows. He
’
ll be caught but it
might take some time.”

On hearing the word “he,”
to Perigrine
’
s credit, he
managed not to express on his face what his mind was flashing in large neon
letters. Instead he looked down into his upturned palms and then back into
Donna
’
s face. As if she were his confessor, he took a deep
sigh and made a clean breast of it.

“Donna, as God is my witness, I did lust after whatever it
was Johns had in that envelope. But I didn
’
t take it. I
didn
’
t. Let me try and help find it. Okay? If I had taken
it, you can bet I wouldn
’
t be here. I
’
d
be half way to a shady London dealer.”

Donna considered his
face. What he said
was true about the dealer. If he had it, he wouldn
’
t be
showing up with a cake and a tale about his feelings. She gave him the benefit
of the doubt.

“Okay. That
’
s true, P. Keep it quiet
what I told you and let me know what you find out.”

PERIGRINE LEFT THE TEA CAKE behind to bring succor to the
over-worked constables and to make a small atonement for almost being enticed
again down the path of perdition. He left through the front entrance and made a
good show of walking towards the High Street but once out of sight of the
station, he made a quick detour down Peddlers Alley and back toward the Garden
Centre and home.

Grateful no one was in the shop, he made a beeline to the
back. There in the corner of the office sat Alistair, calmly brushing their
contented schnauzer, Comstock, whose tail wagged a friendly hello at Perigrine
’
s arrival.

Giving Alistair enough time to realize his entrance, Perigrine
leaned up against the bookshelves and watched as a finished and fluffed
Comstock shook himself all over and trotted off towards the garden and a likely
dirt bath.

Only then did he ask softly, “Ally, my dear, where the Hell
is it?”

“Why under the dog
’
s bed of course,
Perry. Where else would it be?”
Alistair smiled while pouring himself and Perigrine a brandy. “Thought
it would make you a nice present. You do work so hard.”

Accepting the brandy, Perigrine swirled it around in the
tumbler. “Thank you for the thought, but unless you want to rekindle your
relationship with the prison board, we
’
d better get it
back somehow. They
’
ve got someone on video. Won
’
t take long to put their noses to the ground and find you.”

“Oh. What a shame. I had such high hopes for it. How about
we drop it into the mail slot and call it a day?”
Alistair grinned like an imp then sipped his brandy.

Shaking his head with an affectionate smile, Perigrine
Clarke considered his options. The desire for the book had left him but he was
still curious to see it. Lifting the dog
’
s bed, he saw an
unexciting plastic bag with what appeared to be a bunch of papers inside.
Knowing a bit about how to handle delicate works on paper, he gingerly opened
the sleeve and peeked inside. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and
the smell of “old”
wafted
up to his nostrils.

With great reverence he read the first few lines. There was
no doubt in Perigrine
’
s mind who had written those words.
It now became a question of national identity and if P. was anything, he was a
proud defender of all things British.

Like most good ideas that come from somewhere out of the
blue or maybe in this case from providence, P. then had an epiphany and
probably saved Alistair from another incarceration and the book from another
century of obscurity.