Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 151, Nos. 1 & 2. Whole Nos. 916 & 917, January/February 2018

His fingers were already running around the lid of the sleek four-foot-long piece of packaging, pulling off the quantities of sticky tape I’d sealed it with. While he worked, he chatted. “What were you doing at Studley, Ellie? Haven’t I warned you about those country-house sales? Sky-high prices! Even hard-nosed dealers like me get carried away by the ambience — the battlements, the oak panelling, the velvet voice of the fancy-pants auctioneer, the posh scented candles. You, of all people, ought to know how it works! It’s a setup! It’s all staged to soften up the punters and give them delusions of an overstuffed wallet!”

“It’s a job! I’m doing restoration and remodelling work for the new owners. I was surprised not to see you there, Tom.” I spoke hesitantly.

“Not my scene... participating in the public dismantling of a piece of local history. Ugh!” He gave an elegant shudder. “Besides, I made other, rather more discreet, arrangements before ever a hammer was raised. What exactly were you up to?”

“I was having a snoop around, trying to get a feeling for the old house before my clients impress their personality on it.”

“These new owners? Anyone we know?”

“Only from the scandal sheets. It’s the Benson couple — the he-and-she financial wizards.”

“High fliers in the City who find time to make a million and a new baby every year? Those Bensons?”

“Yes. And she

has the gall to write articles on how to do it for the benefit of the rest of us clueless idiots... you know — ‘First assemble your team of nannies...’ This is their latest project: The Country Estate. I suppose all their friends have one. The angle is to be that Eloise has given it to Jasper as a Christmas present. Eloise made it clear that the first shots should show a sort of seasonal cleansing — dry rot and cobwebs being swept away, crumbling pieces of ancient furniture being carried out...”

“By pink-cheeked old duffers in aprons to the bonfire in the apple orchard?”

“You’ve got it! Eloise cleared a ten-minute window in her schedule to brief me, recommend a few nifty camera angles, and dictate a para or two of copy she’s preparing for the Country Houses Trust magazine.”

“Ouch!” said Tom with sympathy. “Not a meeting of minds, I gather?”

Tom was ambivalent about rich people. He loved them for the fleeting moments they were in his shop seductively holding platinum cards between manicured fingers; he spoke their language, understood their needs; he sometimes revealed to them needs they didn’t know they had; he made the men laugh and the women sigh. But he despised them in theory. I wasn’t surprised to hear his mocking tone: “One of those

jobs!” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if I can sell some of their old furniture back to them? Naw! Not their style, if I read them right. They’ll be after their Venetian chandeliers, the Hall of Mirrors, the Jacuzzis, the indoor swimming pool, the pony paddocks...”

I shuddered. “They haven’t asked for a Hall of Mirrors yet.”

“I’m surprised they’re not using a smart London architect.”

“Eloise has adopted Suffolk. She’s learning to like beams. She discovered on one of those ancestry sites that her great-grandmother came from Mendlesett. So she made an offer for the nearest great house that came up for sale. Along with en-suite architect. Me. Hideous scene, I know. Still, they’re intending to keep a good number of the county’s craftsmen employed and that can’t be bad. I’m getting paid and that’s not bad either! And I’m sneakily pleased to say I’ve done my bit already! A tiny, peevish gesture on behalf of the old house! I’ve rescued one precious item from the bonfire,” I said as the last bit of Sellotape came off.

Hands raised above the box lid like a priest’s over a coffin top, Tom made a dramatic pause. “Ah! My Howard Carter moment,” he said, spinning it out. “You know — ‘What do you see, Carter?... Wonderful things, your lordship...’ And here I am, being invited to unpack a miniature casket!”

“Prepare yourself, Tom! You’re closer than you think! The occupant of the box is very beautiful but — as you’ll see — very dead. How are your pathologist’s skills? Better than mine, I hope. I found it all rather puzzling... and disturbing, I have to say.”

He gave me an old-fashioned look. “Hang on a tick.” He went to the door, locked it, and turned the sign around to announce that the shop was now closed.

My sense of drama always gets the better of me. I began to peel back the layer of white tissue paper from the top to reveal the occupant. A hank of blond hair emerged, followed by a sweet face with sorrowful eyes, a face that seemed startled by its surroundings.