Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
THEO
It was strange how effortlessly I’d gone from desiring autonomy and solitude to craving the company of a beautiful, quiet Scot and her sharp wit.
Unfortunately, as much as she’d forgiven me, Sarah had put some boundaries in place for now.
That meant she turned down (several times) my request that she stay at Ardnoch Castle with me.
Instead, she’d decided to remain at the farmhouse.
I attempted not to take it too personally, knowing she deserved space from me after what I did.
Yet, I was afraid to give her too much of it.
I’d wanted to make love to her after she’d forgiven me, but she asked if we could wait until she felt safe with me again. Knowing she didn’t feel safe with me was like a knife to the gut.
What had this little mouse done to me?
No one who knew me would believe anyone could have such power over Theo Cavendish, let alone a shy country housekeeper. Little did they know she was so much bloody more than that.
Since Sarah wouldn’t stay at Ardnoch and I hadn’t been invited to stay at the farmhouse, I convinced her to meet in the village every day.
We both wrote separately in the morning (and I missed writing with her, asking her advice on a scene, or returning the favor for her) and then spent the afternoon together.
Sometimes our sessions were interrupted by work calls I had to take, but at least it was something.
Though I swear it felt like I hadn’t touched her in a million years.
It had been three days since I’d followed her here. I’d brought the Christmas presents she’d left behind, which won me some brownie points. But I still felt a distance between us. A disconnect. And it was painful.
I wanted to take things slow for her, but I also had to remind her about why we were so good together.
If it had been only physical attraction, both of us would’ve grown bored by now, so it wasn’t just about that.
But physical connection was important. Today I had it in mind that I’d steal a kiss and see how it went from there.
The club was busy at this time of year, and I was a last-minute booking, which meant I was lucky to secure a room at the castle and not be ousted to one of the estate’s lodges.
However, my room was smaller than I was used to, and it didn’t have a sea view, which was unfortunate.
Closing the door behind me as I left for the day, I nodded to a few members in the corridor on my way downstairs but made no attempt to stop and chat. I was on a mission.
Walking along the balcony above the great hall, I peered down to see guests seated near the impressive fireplace. The carpeted hallway led to the landing where three stained glass windows spilled light into the gigantic space.
The great hall was exactly what you’d expect of a Scottish castle with expensive Aubusson carpets, classic lavish furnishings, and tremendous double doors that led outside.
Two chesterfield sofas faced one another at the big stone fireplace, which was currently lit.
Guests who were not familiar to me sipped coffee and read on their phones.
A footman dressed in a traditional black tailcoat and white gloves waited off to the side. I gestured to him as I took the last few steps down into the great hall. The young man strode smartly across the room to meet me.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He bowed his head.
“Good afternoon. I’d like my rental car brought around. Cavendish is the name.”
“Of course, Mr. Cavendish. I will see to that immediately.”
“Thank you.”
Clicking of heels in the distance drew my gaze toward the entrances that led to other reception rooms in the castle. Sure enough, a familiar, tall, and very beautiful woman appeared through the arched entrance that led to her office.
Aria Howard. Ardnoch’s hospitality manager and my old friend’s fiancée.
North had tried calling me three times since Jared showed up at the cottage, but I wasn’t ready to talk to him.
Aria was a voluptuous, long-legged beauty who managed the estate with such efficiency and calm, she made the job look easy when it must be anything but.
Her father was legendary film director Wesley Howard, and she’d grown up in Malibu.
A far cry from the council estate her fiancé North had grown up in as a foster child in Scotland.
I’d admired North when I’d learned his story.
He’d pulled himself up from shit and turned himself into an award-winning actor.
He was a good man.
I hadn’t expected the arsehole to think so little of me as to betray Sarah and me to her cousin like I was … like I was a monster who’d kidnapped and defiled an innocent princess. Now that I knew that was what he thought of me, I didn’t have time for him.
Or his fiancée.
Aria wore a neutral expression as she came to a stop. In her heels, she was the same height as me. “Mr. Cavendish, two officers from Scotland Yard are here to see you,” she told me in hushed tones. “They’re in my office waiting.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Had my brother not ordered his watchdogs off my back? “Wonderful,” I muttered and gestured for her to lead the way.
Instead, she fell into step beside me. “North has been trying to reach you.”
“Has he? What an utter waste of his precious time.”
She stiffened. “He’s worried about you. Though goodness knows why.”
I cut her a bland look. “Yes, I, too, am rather at a loss as to why.”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You don’t deserve him as a friend.”
I raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk curling my lips. “You and I must have very different understandings of the definition of the word friend, Ms. Howard.”
Confusion flickered over her face for a second before she wiped it clean and pushed open her office door. I followed her inside.
“I’ll leave you in private,” she said, stepping back and closing the door behind her, leaving me in a room with a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked to be in his early fifties.
His belly strained slightly against his white shirt, but beyond that, he looked like he could squash me between his large, bear-paw hands.
The woman at his side was dressed similarly in a suit and winter coat, but while she was tall, she was younger and fit-looking.
Her brown hair was pulled back in an efficient ponytail, and she wore little makeup.
“Look, let’s save us all some time. I’m alive and well and there is no reason, other than insanity, for my brother to file a missing person’s report.”
The police officers shared a look before the man stepped forward, holding out a hand.
“DCI Rick English, Mr. Cavendish. This is DI Jane Hatlock. We’re with the Major Investigations Unit at Scotland Yard.
We’re not here because of your brother or a missing person’s report.
We’ve been trying to contact you regarding the Hangman murders. ”
Dread instantly settled like a pit in my stomach.
“Are you aware of the murders, Mr. Cavendish?”
I nodded, feeling a little out of my body. “Yes. Yes, I’ve seen it on the news. I … I … I did note that the murders share the same name from my television show.” There was a question in my statement.
DCI English nodded solemnly. “Mr. Cavendish, I’m sorry to relay this, but it’s become very clear in our investigations that our perpetrator is copying the murders from King’s Valley.”
I shook my head, not wanting to believe it. “How … I mean … how?”
DI Hatlock said, “There have been four murders so far. Our first victim, Jennifer Parsons. Blond, twenty-four, murdered in December in Bracknell Forest. Second victim, Angela Wright, blond, aged twenty-seven, murdered in June in Slough.”
Horror began to fill me with dawning realization.
“Polish primary teacher Ewa Kowalski, age twenty-six, killed in October—”
“In Maidenhead,” I answered numbly.
“Yes.”
Dread sank heavily in my gut. “And the fourth murder was a victim called Rachel, age twenty-three, in High Wycombe.”
The police officers nodded. DI Hatlock continued, “Each victim went missing forty-eight hours before their bodies were discovered. They suffered stab wounds to the heart and had the words I’m sorry carved in their torsos.
Each victim was then hung in a location where their bodies were likely to be found quickly. ”
The killer was copying King’s Valley to a tee.
The show had Valley in the title because the murders took place in towns within the Thames Valley area.
Each victim shared the same name, age, month of death, and wounds as the victims on the show.
My character Charlie King found his mother hanging when he was seven years old, and she’d left a note with just the two words “I’m sorry.
” Charlie’s victims all looked like his mother, and the idea was that he stabbed them in the heart because his mum had broken his heart as a boy.
He was acting out her punishment on other women.
“Someone on our team was a fan of the show and started to put the pieces together when our third victim, Ewa, was murdered,” DCI English relayed.
“You should know members of the public have started piecing it together online. We’ve tried to shut it down, but we have our hands full, and it might not be long before the media picks it up. ”
“Right. Of course they would,” I murmured stupidly. The room was spinning a bit. Stumbling backward, I leaned against the wall.
“Are you all right, Mr. Cavendish?” DCI Hatlock asked.
What did she think? “I’ve just found out the greatest writing achievement of my career has been used as inspiration to murder innocent women.”
“We don’t believe you are in danger, Mr. Cavendish, though we must ask if you or any of your cast or crew have received disturbing or threatening messages?” She probed.
“I haven’t. I don’t know about anyone else.”
“We’ll need a list of everyone who worked on the show.”
“Of course.” Renewed horror cut through me. “You don’t think the perpetrator worked on the show?”
“We can’t rule anything out.”
“Are you here for my help beyond that? There are three more murders on the show. My character, Charlie King, murders a woman named Helen. It was his mother’s name. And then he murders his father and stepmother.”
DCI English nodded. “We know. We have a team analyzing the show and the murders. We just need the cast and crew list from you, Mr. Cavendish. And we wanted to make you aware of the situation personally so you can be on alert. We must caution again, however, that the reason we did not want this information released to the public was for public safety, but it’s likely the tabloids will speculate. ”
It was a warning.
For my safety.
People might blame me.
Or more likely, the actors on the show.
Like North.
Fuck.
I might not be on speaking terms with North, but he’d been through enough this year.
“You have my utmost discretion in this matter,” I promised. “Do you have an email? I’ll get that list to you by the end of day.”