2. A Real Mystery

Jack slid the bacon and fried eggs out of the pan onto his plate, then topped the lot with a toasted bagel and headed out of the little galley of the Grey Goose and up the steps onto the sunlit deck.

Bit of a splurge for the arteries. Eggs, bacon.

But once a week wouldn’t hurt.

“C’mon Riley,” he said to his Springer.

But Riley didn’t need telling, when there was the chance of a bit of that bacon to be had, and the dog bounded after him.

Although still early, the sun was already hot, and in his bare feet Jack could feel the warmth in the wooden deck. He put the plate down on his shiny new garden table, next to the butter and jam and hoisted the deck’s sunshade.

Then, a gentle press of the cafetiere, and he poured his coffee into a big French cup he’d picked up when he’d toured Normandy last week in his little sports car.

Seventy years later, and looking at the beaches, the lines of crosses …

Knowing that it wasn’t just the gusty wind in his face that made him tear up.

He could see Riley sitting patiently now to one side of the table.

Jack took a sip of coffee and relished the view.

Up and downstream the other barges and boats were all decked out — like the Goose — in red, white and blue flags. The Cherringham Regatta colours.

His own NYPD pennant from back home flew proudly from the top of the little flagpole at the stern.

And in the far distance, on the other side of the bridge, he could just see the tops of the marquees, where most of the Regatta events would take place.

A long straight stretch of river with solid banks and open access lay on the far side of that bridge — perfect for the racing and the festivities to come at the weekend. Better than this meandering section upriver where the barges were moored nose to tail.

He took a mouthful of egg then opened the Cherringham Times — the most old-fashioned newspaper he’d ever read outside a museum — and started to search for the Regatta schedule.

This is the life, Jack Brennan, he thought.

For a moment he had a pang of wishing there was someone to share this moment with …

Not just someone. His Katherine.

But he had got good at pushing those thoughts away, and he took another forkful of bacon and eggs and did his best to think of something else.

A weekend on the river, sunshine forecast for five days, no chores, no worries.

The only hard work he had was to figure out which events he’d watch, where he’d have lunch, and which bar he’d head to in the evenings.

Does it get any better?

From his experience last year, he’d figured where the different crowds hung out. Old money tended to party in the grand houses downstream whose wide lawns reached down to the Thames — or aboard the floating ‘gin palaces’ which moored up below them.

The real boaties, though, headed up to the Angel where — last year — rumour had it they’d drunk the place dry. No easy feat that!

Meanwhile, folks lower down the social scale (and Jack happily placed himself there) congregated up at the Ploughman’s or in the beer tent by the bridge.

Suited him just fine.

Jack finished his plate and laid it on the floor next to Riley for its ‘pre-wash’ before going in the dishwasher.

Then he leaned back with his coffee and the newspaper to plan the upcoming weekend.

And that was as far as he got.

A bicycle bell sounded loudly from the path down river.

He looked up — a woman was cycling fast, and unsteadily, up the path towards him.

As he watched, she waved and sounded the bell at the same time, then swerved towards the river, nearly fell in, righted herself — barely — and kept coming.

Then Jack recognised her as she got closer. The grey hair, the ancient glasses, the neatly buttoned cardigan over a floral blouse, the twill skirt, and brown stockings.

Classic.

There was no doubt.

Had to be one of the Buckland sisters. Either Jen or Joan. He couldn’t be sure which because they were identical twins. Who dressed identically.

The only way he’d ever been able to tell Jen from Joan was that Joan smiled more.

Or was that Jen?

In their mid-sixties, the two ladies owned and operated the toll-booth on Cherringham Bridge (which by his amateur accounting made them millionaires for sure).

Most everyone he knew in the village found them cold, introverted, suspicious and anti-social.

Jack, on the other hand — by virtue of being an ex-New York cop — was treated as their special friend.

They were forever plying him with tea and cake and tales of Cherringham “in the old days, Jack, the best days,” while grilling him about NYC’s murderous streets.

Which he futilely tried to explain weren’t quite so murderous anymore …

Because Jen and Joan (and Jack still didn’t know which one was hurtling towards him now) were crime mavens. Their little toll-booth was packed floor to ceiling with crime novels: from hard-core American to English mystery classics to chilly Scandinavian noir.

And soon after Jack’s arrival, they’d helped him and Sarah solve a particularly nasty crime when a woman drowned in the weir right by the bridge.

Jen and Joan were crime addicts.

Armchair experts.

And to Jack, funny as hell …

“Jack!”

Jack watched as the cyclist slid to a halt by the gangplank to the Grey Goose, wheels locked, dust rising in the still air.

“Morning,” said Jack. “And what a fine morning it is. Care for a coffee?”

He watched as his visitor frowned.

“No time for coffee, Jack. There’s work to be done!”

Definitely the mean one, he thought, taking a bagel and spreading it with jam.

“Work?” he said. “Come on Jen, you know me — I’m on permanent vacation.”

“It’s Joan,” said the woman curtly. “And as they say in Houston — we’ve got a problem.”

Jack pondered the notion that they had said that in Houston: “Sorry — Joan. But see here — it’s a beautiful day, I’m having breakfast, and then Riley and me are heading out for our little morning stroll. This had better be important.”

“Oh, it is, Jack. It’s very important.”

Jack chewed on the bagel, trying to make it last and knowing that he wasn’t going to win against the Buckland sisters.

“Well, go on then, you’re dying to tell me.”

“Dying? How very appropriate! Dying! You see, Jack, there’s been a murder.”

“Oh really?”

“Indeed. A murder on this very river. On our own doorstep no less!”

Jack stared at Joan Buckland. She seemed deadly serious.

He popped the last of the bagel into his mouth and wiped his hands on a piece of kitchen towel. Then he got up.

“Mind if I bring Riley?”

“Not at all, we shall probably need him.”

Jack decided not to tell Joan that Riley’s one and only skill was hunting rabbits.

“Give me five minutes to lock up. I’ll be right with you.”

“Quick as you can now, Jack, you know how a crime scene deteriorates so.”

“Oh, I surely do,” he said, grinning while loading the tray and heading down below.

Faster than my lazy breakfast in the sunshine, he thought.

*

When Jack reached Cherringham Bridge he tied Riley up to the fence.

“The crime scene,” said Joan, pointing to a large white cruiser which was wedged incongruously in the shallows against one of the low arches of the bridge.

“I guess …” said Jack. “You going to tell me what happened?”

He watched Joan take out a small notebook from her handbag and leaf through the pages.

“At approximately oh seven hundred hours, my sister and I arrived at the Buckland toll-booth, situated on the Eastern approach to Cherringham Bridge—”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Jack. “No need for the detailed notes Joan, just tell it in your own words.”

“Ah, right. Well, we turned up at work this morning and there was already quite a crowd waiting on the bridge. So we had a look. The boat must have come free from its moorings in the night, drifted down river, and then swung across into the shallows — right there — and got stuck.”

“So what’s the big deal? Boat gets loose. This must happen often enough.”

“Of course. Normally there wouldn’t be a problem. Chaps from the Environment Agency turned up with the police and everyone agreed the boat needed sorting out and towing away.”

“And …?”

“Well, that seemed to be that. Police thought it was vandals — you know how kids cut the mooring ropes, especially around this time of year …”

“Sure — Riley and me have been putting on extra patrols before we go to bed.”

“Anyway—”

“Joan? What’s going on?” came a loud female voice from up on the bridge.

Jack looked up. Jen Buckland was leaning over the parapet, looking down.

“Stop wasting...