Page 88 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
I gave him a look.
He smirked. “We’re off to see Lance Frith now.”
Apparently Phil reckoned he was on a roll. Maybe he was hoping Lance would take one look at us, say It’s a fair cop, and hand over that flippin’ necklace?
I dunno what I expected from Lance Frith’s place. Probably some ultramodern new age hippy eco-house half covered in turf that looked like it belonged in Teletubbyland.
Turned out he lived in your genuine olde thatched cottage, in one of the villages around St. Leonards. It even had a suitably rustic name: The Rowans. As I followed Phil up the garden path, a black cat darted out from under the tarpaulin covering a car parked at the side of the cottage. Was old Lance taking the piss?
“Why’s he not working?” I asked. It was just after noon on a weekday. If it hadn’t been for the whole attempted-murder inconvenience, I’d have been working.
“Works from home. Told you his and Amelia’s business wasn’t exactly heavy with assets.”
I hoped he didn’t work in his pyjamas. They were probably covered in mystic sigils.
Not that I’d know a sigil if it jumped up and bit me on the bum, mind.
Phil rapped on the front door. After a wait that was definitely on the long side, given the size of the house—still, maybe Lance had been on the loo, or changing out of those magical jim-jams—the door opened.
Lance looked a bit flushed, but at least he was fully dressed. “Phil. Tom. So delightful to see you again.” He was in all black again—maybe it helped him bond with the cat—but this time it was leggings, which if you ask me are just wrong on blokes, and a loose T-shirt. And sunglasses.
Maybe he had something wrong with his eyes? Say, the sort of thing that might make you botch a strangling job in the dark?
I mean, if that hadn’t been Alex, obviously. Or Vi. Speaking of who . . . As Lance ushered us in, I looked around for signs of a female visitor—high heels by the front door, handbag on the hall table, lipstick smears on Lance’s neck, that sort of thing.
Nothing. Was that a whiff of scent in the air? Yep, and it was coming from Lance.
Actually it wasn’t bad. I wondered if Phil would like some for Christmas.
Not what we were here for, though. I listened—and nearly jumped out of my skin when Lance grasped me by the arm. “Tom, what a terrible experience for you. I’m surprised to see you up and about so soon. How are you?”
“Uh, I’m good,” I rasped.
Lance winced. “Let me make you some lemon tea with honey. Please, come through.”
The kitchen here clearly doubled as the dining room—the large, antique wooden table was all set up with hessian placemats. In the middle was one of those crystal things—geodes?—that’s like a rock football on the outside and all geometrical lumps of gemstone on the inside. Well, half of one, at any rate—not much point having a whole one, seeing as how until you break it open and see what’s inside, you might as well just have a pet rock. This one was amethyst, which I knew because it was one of the stripes on the rainbow pendulum Cherry had got me. I took off my sunglasses and had a proper look. It was well pretty.
Added to which, it’d probably make a good weapon against intruders—brain someone with that and they wouldn’t be getting up in a hurry.
If I saw Lance’s hand straying in that direction, I decided, I was legging it and taking Phil with me. I looked up and saw Lance staring at me, his mouth slightly open.
I flashed him a smile. “The eyes?” I croaked. “It’s a whatsit.”
“Subconjunctival haemorrhage,” Phil helped me out with. “From strangulation.”
Lance swallowed. “I’ll put that kettle on,” he said, and turned away.
It struck me, looking around at the rustic units and general lack of mod cons—he even had an Aga, for Christ’s sake—that this was a weird sort of home for someone who’d been married to Amelia. Had she lived here with him before they’d split? Arlo’s home seemed much more her style.
Was this place some kind of reaction to the breakup?
I was a bit dismayed to realise his lemon tea wasn’t just your usual PG Tips with a slice of lemon instead of milk. It was your actual lemon herbal tea. Thank God he was adding honey so it’d taste of something besides boiled grass.
Then I remembered rule #1 of dealing with people mixed up in a murder: you don’t eat or drink anything they offer you. Hah. Saved. Although when Lance put the tea in front of me, the aroma rising up from the mug was pretty darn tempting. Sod it. I wished I’d paid more attention to the box the tea bags came in. I contented myself with breathing in the sweet, tart, lemony steam.
Then I remembered some gases can kill you and shoved the mug further away from me.
Lance sat down with his own mug, and Phil cleared his throat. “Can I ask where you were on Wednesday night? From around 5 p.m. onwards?”
