“Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure? I know you need to protect the place, but this is bigger now; whatever secrets you have I can try to keep, but people are dead, Merlyn, and it may not be over. Walton and Pendrith are both missing, and I don’t know why.”
“And you think Braxton Hall has something to do with it?”
“I have no idea. I’m just trying to find connections between everyone and everything. Braxton Hall may be that connection.”
“I don’t know everyone who goes there, Hugo. How could I? And I know this is important, more important than anything.” She shrugged. “I’ll help as best I can, but I don’t know the answer to your question. All I can say is, I’ve never seen them there.”
“Does the guy who runs it keep records?”
“His name is Nicholas Braxton. And yes. Actually, he asked me to work for him once, as kind of hostess-cum-secretary. I declined because I didn’t want to leave London. Plus he’s a little creepy. Anyway, he showed me the office, and I know he keeps records because whenever you first go there you have to give your real name and show some sort of identification, which he copies and locks away. He also makes everyone sign confidentiality agreements and a legal waiver.”
“A waiver?”
“All BDSM dungeons do it, in case someone plays too rough and gets hurt. Also, he uses people’s initials to identify them at the door and for stuff like place settings and room reservations. I’m guessing he has the master list in a safe somewhere, and I’m also guessing he won’t willingly hand it over.”
“That’s a safe bet,” Hugo said.
“Search warrant?” she suggested.
“I think under English law they’re easy to get if you have someone in custody. We don’t. In fact, we don’t even know who we’re looking for, and no judge or magistrate would give us a search warrant to poke around someone’s house on the off chance we’ll find something.”
“Especially if a judge or a magistrate is a guest at Braxton Hall,” Merlyn said.
“Precisely. Is that the case?”
“I’m not telling,” she said with a smile. “Anyway, why not ask Upton about the warrant?”
“Because I don’t want him to know. I’m pretty certain we wouldn’t get one, which means we need to poke around some other way. And I don’t know how it works here, but in the States, any evidence obtained by law enforcement without a warrant, like we’re talking about doing, is not admissible in trial.”
“If you say so. I don’t know anything about that stuff.”
“I’m just thinking aloud.” He smiled. “And I’m getting ahead of myself. The point is, we’re not law enforcement, so if we happen to find anything at Braxton Hall, it can be evidence in court.”
“And you think that if Upton knows we’re about to go poking around …”
“Exactly,” said Hugo. “If he knows, we become law enforcement in the eyes of the law, and the evidence gets excluded.”
“It works that way?”
“In England? I have no idea. But it does in the United States, and our system is based on yours, so better to play it safe.”
“OK then,” she said. “But how do you expect to get into Braxton Hall?”
“That’s where I need your help.”
“To break in? You expect me to break you in? No chance, mate. Not happening.” She shook her head emphatically. Then she turned to face him. “Unless …”
“Unless what?” A smile had spread across her face and mischief danced in her eyes. “What are you thinking?” Hugo asked, suddenly wary.
“Once a month, on a Friday night,” she said, “there’s a party.”
“A party?”
“Not the kind you’re used to.”
“You’re proposing taking me to some kind of …” He didn’t even know what to call it. “This Friday? Wait, that’s …”
“Yep,” she said. “Tonight. Got any assless chaps?”
“Great,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I can see this is going to be an experience.”
“You’re doing it for king and country. Or whatever the American version is. And yes, it certainly is going to be an experience.”
“This doesn’t sound like the best idea, so let’s see if we can think of something else,” he said. “In the meantime, I need to walk over to the crime scene. Stay here if you want.”
“No, it’s OK, I’ll come. But what if we touch something we shouldn’t?”
“You mean contaminate evidence?” He smiled. “Good thinking, but they’ve processed the scene by now. Or should have. We can touch what we want.”
“Which ain’t much,” she muttered.
They left the protection of the church and headed for the blue-and-white tape that was still strung among the gravestones, and for some reason, the combination made Hugo think of dental floss. He led the way between the markers and stopped at the tape to check on Merlyn. She nodded that she was OK, and they ducked beneath the blue-and-white cordon and took three steps forward, Hugo’s eyes sweeping over the earth. He walked in a zigzag route in what he suspected would be a fruitless search. But thoroughness was a habit, a lesson learned after small clues had been missed at crime scenes years ago, thousands of miles away, embarrassment forged into a routine of painstaking care. Once he’d finished scouring the place for physical clues, he could settle in to absorb the feel of the place, let it speak to him in its own weird way. His own weird way, maybe.
“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Merlyn spoke in an almost-whisper, standing on the spot where Harper’s body had lain.
“What is?”
“That a man can die here, just hours ago, and there be no sign other than a few strands of police tape. If you didn’t know it had happened …” she shrugged, “you’d never know, would you?”
Hugo didn’t answer, instead putting a hand on her shoulder. She was right, there was nothing here, no clue, no sign, not even a feeling. The only thing he could do was walk, so he pointed to the old wall and walked toward it. They ducked back under the tape, crossing out of the crime scene, and Hugo started his clue hunt all over again, expanding it to the entire graveyard.
They’d walked less than twenty yards when he stopped. Ahead, the ground had been disturbed, leaves and sticks piled on the grass in a rectangular shape. About the size of a human grave. Hugo looked around him, senses on high alert, but the place was silent. He held out a hand, silently telling Merlyn to stay put. He briefly considered calling Upton to get his crime-scene team here, but maybe it was nothing. He moved closer and saw that the leaves and other debris had been scattered over a green tarpaulin that had, in turn, been pegged to the ground. He knelt by a corner of the tarp and tugged at the metal peg, which slid easily from the wet earth. He lifted the canopy six inches, and the gentle smell of wet soil rose up to greet him.
If there’s something dead in here, he thought, it’s not been dead long.
He raised the tarp higher and peered into a coffin-sized hole, two feet deep. He was no expert on grave digging, but this didn’t look like it had been professionally cut. Roots and twigs poked out from its steep sides, which were jagged and uneven, and the bottom was rounded, not flat, as if earth from the sides had tumbled in and been trampled down. He lowered the covering and stood, looking around. No shovel. No other graves within ten feet, either, just an ancient oak tree standing guard over it, a heavy bough as thick as his waist extending into the graveyard, and no more than eight feet above his head. Shelter? Hugo wondered.
“It’s OK, no one inside,” he told Merlyn, and he saw her shoulders sag with relief.
She moved a little closer, eyes on the tarp. “What is it?”
“Looks like the beginnings of a grave,” he said. “Pretty fresh but not finished, I’d guess. On the other hand, could be a hole dug by kids to bury pirate treasure.”