Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

All week, Lando had been itching for a murder.

“Not that I want anyone to die,” he told one of his fellow detectives at McLaren, who’d glanced up skeptically at Lando’s initial pronouncement but otherwise gave little reaction. “It’s just that I’m so bored. A good old-fashioned murder case would shake things up around here, don’t you think?”

“Makes sense,” said Oscar, which Lando supposed was the best he could hope for. It was generous of his coworker, anyway, not to mention what happened the last time Lando had been trusted with a murder case.

But Lando was determined not to think about that. In a valiant effort to distract from his thoughts, he absently shuffled papers on his desk, then tried to see how far he could tip back in his chair without falling.

It was awfully dull around Woking without a case to solve. Well, Lando supposed others at the detective agency were still working—analyzing forensics, developing machinery, cataloguing evidence, what have you—but he was a private investigator, which meant his job was to investigate. Real crimes, not petty thefts and vandalism. There’d been that exciting jewelry heist in Hungary, but Oscar’s skillset was clearly favored for that one, with its paper trails and missing assets and counterfeited banknotes. Lando was perfectly competent with numbers and documents, but he’d been missing a real puzzle—the puzzle of people, their various inner workings and psychologies.

Not that solving those particular problems had gone all that well for him in the past. But again: he wasn’t thinking about it.

“I bet France has got tons of murders to be dealing with,” he said, more to gauge Oscar’s reaction than anything else. Every detective agency worth its salt had courted Oscar’s services nearly as soon as he’d left school—apparently he was some sort of teenage genius wunderkind, or something—and as far as Lando had heard, Oscar was on track to sign with a French outfit before shocking the PI world with his move to Woking. Now that McLaren had cocked up its first few cases of the year, however—not entirely Lando’s fault, mind you, but not entirely not his fault, either—Lando wondered how his coworker felt about his debut as a full-time detective clearly not going as planned.

Oscar tilted his head, considering, before looking back down at the document he was examining. “They are known to be a bit execution-happy, yes.”

“What are you even reading? Have they got you assigned to some case I don’t know about?”

At this, Oscar finally looked up. Lando was pleased to see he’d managed to make his coworker—well, if not smile, at least look mildly amused. Lando would take being “mildly amusing” over what many of the newspapers were calling him nowadays. “It’s a ballistics report. Thought it might be handy to learn about how guns work, seeing as that is my job.”

“We don’t have a job, mate. There’s no job to be had, because no one in this town is getting bloody murdered—ow!” Lando tipped back too far in his chair and crashed ingloriously to the floor, just as a new figure stepped into the office.

“Are you all right?” a woman asked, peering down at him in concern. She was rather pretty, from an objective standpoint. Coiffed dark hair, powdered face, the air of a woman who took great pride in her attention to detail. She held out a gloved hand to Lando, who took it gratefully and settled himself back into his seat.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said with a sheepish smile. “What can I do for you?”

The woman was dressed in all black, he noticed. As he watched, she took the seat across from him and inhaled slowly, steeling her composure.

“My name is Mary Herd,” she said. “A few days ago, my father was murdered. I’d like your help in finding the killer.”

Sir Robert “Robin” Herd had, according to his daughter, begun his career at the Royal Aircraft Establishment as a design engineer before shifting his attention to his customer car manufacturing business at the Concorde Group. At the time of his death, he was one of the wealthiest men in Oxford. In his free time—this was when Lando had to force himself to pay attention, his mind already running through the long list of possible suspects who would want to kill off a rich man—he resided at his country manor, Cosworth House, where he hosted frequent dinners and rounds of golf.

“So how’d he die?” Lando asked, before realizing it probably wasn’t the most sensitive thing to say to a woman whose father had just passed away.

To Mary Herd’s credit, she took the interruption in stride. “A few weeks ago, he invited some people around to Cosworth House for what he said would be an ‘important announcement,’” she said. “I was in Australia at the time—I’d spent the last several months traveling, you see—so I wrote back asking if it really was urgent, to which he responded that it was.”

“What day did he ask you to come?” asked Oscar.

“Last Tuesday, which would have been…yes, the twenty-first, I think. Twenty-first of April.”

Lando clapped his hands together. “Where in Australia?”

Mary Herd blinked. “Sorry?”

“Where in Australia were you traveling?”

“Well—all over, really, but when I received Dad’s letter I was in Melbourne.”

Lando grinned. “That’s where Piastri’s from! Isn’t it, Piastri?”

“Yes. Lovely city,” intoned Oscar.

“Look at that. What a small world. Sorry, continue.”

Mary Herd cleared her throat delicately. “As I was saying. We all came to Cosworth House last Tuesday, and had dinner and cocktails. My father saved his announcement for the very end of the night.”

“Who’s this ‘we all’?”

“Myself. My brother, Alan, and his wife Caroline. That young dancer, Jackie Stone. And my father’s business partner Paul Williams—he showed up uninvited halfway through dinner. Or at least, I think it was uninvited. It’s not like dear old Paul had anything to do with the announcement.”

“What was the announcement?”

“Father had asked Jackie Stone to marry him, and the girl said yes.” Mary’s tone was controlled, but there was a sour twist to her lips as she spoke.

“Big fan?” asked Lando, leaning back in his chair.

“Of Jackie?” Mary sniffed in amusement. “I don’t think I’m her target audience, to be frank. She’s only a year older than I am, and two years younger than Alan.”

“And your mother?”

“Died seven years ago. Tumor.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

Mary shrugged. “It’s a long time for a man to be a widower, I know. I didn’t hold the engagement against him. It all just came as a bit of a shock.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Oscar, who sounded for all the world as if he’d never been shocked in his life. “So the six of you are at dinner. Your father makes the announcement that he’s engaged to Jackie. What happens next?”

Mary drew her brows together. “If I recall correctly, my father escorted Paul from the table first to iron out some urgent business matter. They went into Dad’s study together and were in there for about half an hour. Once they’d finished, Paul was making to find a hotel nearby—it was late enough that the trains had stopped running by that point—and of course my father insisted that he was being silly and should stay at Cosworth House for the night. They were old school friends, you see. Studied together at St. Peter’s College.

“Then my father pulled Alan into the study. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, either, but there were some raised voices. I’m not saying this to point fingers, mind you—Alan’s a bit rough on the outside, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“But he and your father had…disagreements?” asked Oscar.

“Sometimes, yes.” The two detectives waited, but Mary did not elaborate any further.

“All right,” said Lando, relenting. “And your dad must’ve spoken to you then, at some point?”

“Yes. I think he wanted to speak to all of us individually, to gauge our reactions to the situation. I told him exactly what I’d told you, which was that I held nothing against him but it did come as a shock. Nothing in our conversation concerned me, until the very end.

“I asked him how he’d been doing these past few months. The post can be unreliable when you’re abroad as often as I am, you know. He said he was doing well—a few concerns with the business, but that was nothing for me to worry about, and all in all he was fine. Better than fine, actually. Said he’d met Jackie about a year ago in Bristol and she’d brought so much joy into his life. I’d made some sort of joke, was he really that desperate for joy, that sort of thing—a bit nasty in hindsight, but we were like that with each other, Dad and me. And that was when he sobered up and told me about the letters.”

Mary’s voice dropped in pitch. “Apparently he’d been receiving these letters for—months, ever since he’d started seriously courting Jackie. These disturbing messages made from cut-up newspaper headlines, things like ‘I’m watching you’ or the names of his personal staff—uninspired, really, but disturbing all the same. He told me he’d wanted to laugh it off as a joke at first, but he was starting to become worried, and I told him—I told him—” For the first time since she’d stepped foot in the office, Mary’s composure began to slip. She closed her eyes and took a deep, controlled inhale. “I told him to go to bed, and we’d figure it out in the morning.”

“And then…?” Lando gestured for her to continue.

Mary merely shrugged. “What else is there to tell? In the morning, he was dead.”

“Has there been an autopsy?” Oscar asked.

“Not yet. The body’s been taken to the morgue. No obvious signs of violence, but it was a murder. I’m sure of it.”

“Because of the letters,” Lando supplied.

“Exactly.”

“Did he tell you where he kept them? If he kept them at all?”

“Can’t say. He kept all his correspondence locked up in his writing desk, but he might have burned them all. Who’d want to keep that sort of thing lying around?” She shuddered.

“All right. Thank you for coming to us, Miss Herd,” Oscar began, but Lando interrupted.

“I assume the will had been read?” he said.

Mary blinked, then shook her head. “The funeral was just yesterday. The reading of the will is in two days. A bit old-fashioned, to have a public reading of the will, but Dad was traditional like that.”

“Could we come?” asked Lando.

“Oh! I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it. Yes, of course, if that would be helpful to you. I’ll be there, as will Alan and his wife. My dad’s old business partners, including Paul. And Jackie,” said Mary, almost as an afterthought.

“Wonderful. Send us the time and address. Oh, and if you don’t mind, why come to us? Why not the police?” Why not any other detective agency in England, Lando wanted to ask, but he wasn’t that insecure. Yet.

Mary’s lips twitched in amusement. “Why does anyone come to a private investigator? The police have certain limitations. They’ll be involved soon enough, I’m sure, but—well, I prize efficiency. I’m similar to my father in that way. And I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this, but my father was a huge fan of yours, back in the day.”

“Of me?” Lando asked, surprised.

Mary nearly laughed, which Lando was determined not to let bruise his ego. “Of McLaren. A bit before your time, I’m afraid. But Senna, Prost—my father followed all their cases. He always said they were the greatest detectives of their age.”

“Right,” said Lando, trying and failing to hide his embarrassment. “We won’t let him down, I promise. Or you.”

There was a bit of a fuss over paperwork and payment, but eventually Mary Herd was ushered out the door with promises to send over the details of the will reading. Once she had gone, Lando let out a long, exaggerated exhale and dropped back into his seat. The door Mary had left through was still swinging slightly on its hinges, letting in a draft from outside. Lando pulled his oversized winter coat tighter around himself, then glanced over at his colleague. Oscar was wearing a loose short-sleeved polo.

“Looks like you got your wish,” Oscar remarked, pulling the door all the way shut.

Lando tapped his foot incessantly against the ground. There were so many things going through his mind—the excitement of a new case, the details of the mystery, the niggling ever-present self-doubt—that he could hardly get his thoughts in order. He glanced at his wristwatch, then at Oscar.

“Let’s get lunch,” he declared.

“What happened last year?” Oscar asked, gesturing with a piece of shrimp speared onto his fork.

“Can you get that away from me, please?”

Oscar shrugged and swallowed the shrimp whole, but not without a glimmer in his eye that made it clear he found Lando amusing.

Lando sighed. “You’ve read the papers, haven’t you, mate? You know what happened last year.”

It had been all over England. Lando wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the news had reached the Continent. A grisly murder, some duchess strangled in the middle of the night with her own pearls. The sort of case that made national headlines. It had fallen into Lando’s lap back when McLaren was still cruising off the pedigree of its golden age—the second-most successful detective agency in England’s history was nothing to scoff at, even if the agency’s heyday had been over two decades ago. “Make us proud,” Zak had told him with a wide paternal grin, and Lando had planned on it.

In criminal court, Lando had testified as an expert witness. He’d gotten the duchess’s commoner husband sentenced to life in prison for murder, and her sister was let off by the court scot-free. A month later, that Dutch detective Verstappen swept in with new evidence proving the husband’s innocence and the sister’s unquestionable guilt. Only by that point the sister had already gone off to South Africa and could no longer be reached, due to some complication with the extradition laws. In the end, they never achieved justice for the poor duchess, and McLaren’s reputation sank in the public’s estimation. All thanks to Lando.

It was lucky Oscar had signed onto McLaren weeks before the entire debacle had taken place, Lando thought; otherwise it was likely they wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. Oscar would be nursing a baguette at some chic cafe by the Seine investigating les crimes passionels, or whatever it was the French got up to.

“I know the facts of the case,” Oscar said. “I want to hear what happened from you.”

Lando ran his hands down his face. “What’s there even to say? Our evidence examination was faulty. We put our best analysts and machinery on the case, and they all said the blood on the glove was the husband’s, and it wasn’t. Verstappen proved it wasn’t.”

That should have been the end of the story. It would be easy to blame a malfunctioning piece of equipment, a simple blunder made by the McLaren technicians—but the worst part was how he, Lando, had handled it all. “It was one of those cases where everyone had an opinion, you know? Journalists would ring and ask how the case of the strangled duchess was going. And there was a certain point where everyone, everyone in England who followed the case, believed it was the husband. Because it’s always the husband, right? I thought I was ready for that kind of pressure, but it turns out I wasn’t. I listened to what everyone else was saying, and I forgot to trust my own instincts. That’s all there was to it.”

He glanced over at Oscar, expecting to see some sort of disapproval on his face, but his colleague only shrugged and wiped the edges of his mouth with his napkin. “That was your first murder case, wasn’t it?” he said. “And the most high-profile? Besides the case of the MP’s kidnapped terrier, but I don’t think that one made headlines until after you’d solved it.”

“Yeah,” said Lando with a slow blink. “How’d you remember?”

Oscar was suddenly very focused on tracing the rim of his water glass. His downturned gaze couldn’t hide the pink at the tips of his ears. “I follow the crime pages,” he said vaguely. “My point is, who you were then is a long way from who you could be. Maybe even from who you are now.”

Lando’s face split into a grin. “That’s quite poetic, Pastry. I like that.” He delighted in the way Oscar’s nose scrunched at the nickname. “Enough about me. What’s your deal?”

Oscar raised a skeptical eyebrow. “My deal?”

“Yeah, you know, the whole thing with Alpine. That made headlines in the crime pages, too. Heard Otmar tried to sue.”

Oscar’s expression went carefully blank. “They made an announcement without my knowledge, and it was up to me to correct the misinformation, that’s all. Otmar can say whatever he likes, but I acted perfectly within the bounds of my contract.”

“Sure, sure. But you’ve got quite the CV for a young detective. Why McLaren?” Lando glanced out the window of the restaurant where they were having lunch. Outside was the same miserable drizzle that graced Woking for three quarters of the year. “It can’t have been the weather.”

“No, it wasn’t the weather. If that was it, I’d have stayed in Australia,” added Oscar. He considered the question for a moment, then met Lando’s gaze with an earnestness that made it hard for Lando to catch his breath. “I wanted to come to McLaren because I wanted to be with the best.”

Lando swallowed. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said. He’d meant it as a joke, his lips quirked into a facsimile of a smirk, but it came out more sincerely than he’d intended.

Oscar gave him a strange look. “It hasn’t disappointed so far.”

Lando took a hasty sip of water. He needed to clear his mind. What had they been talking about again? Murder. They were here to talk about murder.

“So, this will reading in two days,” he said lightly, folding his arms over his chest. “What do you make of it?”

“It depends on the details, of course, but I’ve started coming up with a plan.”

“Good. So have I.” Lando leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table, accidentally knocking the pitcher of cream in his haste. The pitcher likely would have tipped over had it not been for Oscar’s calmly placed hand on the lid, almost as if he had anticipated Lando’s movements. “Let’s compare.”

Cosworth House was an estate of rolling green hills and paved cobblestones leading to a terraced house of peach marble. Lando peered with undisguised interest at the golf links beyond the house on the hill. A black wrought-iron gate carved with the late owner’s initials guarded the property, but opened easily with a turn of the key Mary had lent them. A stiff breeze blew past them as they crossed the front drive, and Lando pulled his cap further down over his curls.

For once, Oscar’s choice of outfit nearly matched his own, minus the cap. Mary had advised them to dress as solicitors on the basis that no one would question their presence at the will reading, nor would anyone wish to initiate conversation with them. Lando had to appreciate the simple ingenuity of the disguise when a stern, matronly woman opened the door to Cosworth House and let them over the threshold as soon as they introduced themselves as solicitors from Lee, Lee & Buckley.

“A bit early for the will reading, aren’t you?” the woman remarked as they made their way into the entrance hall. The interior of Cosworth House was surprisingly modern, richly dressed with dark blue and orange accents. Lando made a face at himself in one of the polished silver mirrors lining the hall.

“We’re just here to make sure everything runs smoothly,” said Oscar in that collected way of his. The woman’s expression immediately relaxed into one of professional trust.

“On that note,” said Lando casually, “would you mind running us through what exactly happened here last Tuesday?”

The woman blinked, clearly startled. “Excuse me?”

“Your name might be helpful, for starters,” offered Oscar.

“Ellen. I’ve been with the late Mr. Herd for over nine years now,” she said.

“Would you mind showing us to the drawing room, Ellen? Might be a bit more comfortable chatting there,” Lando said.

Ellen looked between the two of them. “You’d like a chat…with me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“But…last Tuesday, that was the day…surely there’s no investigation necessary? The body’s still being examined, and I can’t think of any reason to suspect…anything,” said Ellen.

“All the same, we like to be thorough.”

Ellen dutifully showed them to the drawing room, which was done up in the same bright blue and orange, complemented by some colorfully patterned art pieces on the wall. It was quite a cheerfully decorated home, all things considered. Shame the owner was no longer around to ask for interior design tips.

“Miss Jackie had been staying with Mr. Herd for several days leading up to last Tuesday,” Ellen began, taking a seat across from them. “She had been in an excitable state all day, constantly rearranging the floral arrangements at the table, that sort of thing. I believe Miss Mary was the first guest to arrive, sometime around five-thirty that evening. About twenty minutes later, Mr. Alan and his wife Caroline drove up. They were a bit cold and aloof to everyone that day, but that was nothing unusual for them. Miss Caroline asked to speak to Mr. Herd alone, and they were in Mr. Herd’s study for quite some time. The five of them sat down to dinner at about six-fifteen.

“At six-thirty, halfway through the appetizers, Paul Williams appeared at the door. He was Mr. Herd’s primary business partner at the Concorde Group, and we were used to seeing him at all hours of the day, so we thought nothing of it at the time. Mr. Herd invited him to join them all for dinner, and after desserts—around seven-thirty—he announced his engagement to Miss Jackie.”

“What did you serve for dinner?” asked Lando, at the same time Oscar said, “‘At the time’?”

Lando snapped his fingers in Oscar’s direction. “Good on you, Osco,” he said. “That was going to be my next question.”

Ellen looked between them, no doubt wondering exactly what kind of solicitors they were. “There was roast ham, and mashed peas, and potatoes with gravy, if I can recall,” she said slowly. “I’m not in charge of the kitchen, but I can put you in touch with the cook if you’d like.”

“That’d be great. In the meantime, do you remember who ate what? And what they drank as well.”

“Everyone had a bit of everything at the table, I think. Miss Caroline was picking at her food the entire time—I don’t recall her eating much of anything. Mr. Williams had quite a lot of ham. The women all had a glass of sherry, Mr. Williams preferred whiskey, and Mr. Alan took a glass of port.”

“And the late Mr. Herd?”

“He didn’t drink anything at dinner. He usually won’t have anything but water during the day, and a cup of tea just before bed.”

“Does he like to make his own tea?”

Ellen regarded the question with some amusement. “Of course not. The kitchen makes the tea, and I’ll have it sent up to his room at ten o’clock sharp every night. It’s been that way for years.”

Lando sat up straight. “So during that time—in between when the kitchen prepares the tea and when it’s sent up to Mr. Herd’s room—whose hands does the cup normally pass through?”

“Why, just the kitchen maid’s and mine,” said Ellen, looking shocked. “Sometimes I’ll leave the tray in the hall outside Mr. Herd’s room to cool if the tea is too hot, but—surely you’re not implying—“

“We’re just doing our job,” Lando said smoothly, though he could tell that excuse was quickly running out of steam. “Is that what happened last Tuesday? You left the tea outside his room unattended?”

“Y-yes.”

“And during that time, anyone in the house could have—hypothetically—tampered with the tea.”

“I—I suppose so, hypothetically, yes. But you have to understand—the only people in the house at that point were some of Mr. Herd’s most devoted friends and servants. The cook, Beth; the kitchen maid, Jane; myself; and of course the five guests, all of whom have known Mr. Herd for years.”

“But not Jackie, is that correct?” said Lando.

Ellen blinked. “No…no, I suppose not. They’ve only known each other for a year at most…. But they were utterly dedicated to each other. I can’t imagine—“ The thought was apparently too upsetting to utter out loud, because Ellen abruptly broke off.

“You mentioned earlier that you didn’t think anything of Paul Williams’s arrival, ‘at the time,’” said Oscar, seamlessly switching topics. “Did that change over the course of the evening?”

“Not over the course of the evening, no,” said Ellen. “Only…well, circumstances being what they are, and with Mr. Herd’s passing the next morning…it does make one wonder…” She reddened, as if admitting to something she shouldn’t have.

Lando couldn’t suppress his grin. So the dutiful woman did have her suspicions after all. “Was there anything about Mr. Williams’s, uh…” He gestured generally toward himself.

“Demeanor,” Oscar supplied.

“Yes, that. Anything that seemed off that night?”

Ellen stiffened. “He spoke to Mr. Herd in his study alone right after dinner, but so did all of the other guests, I believe. It’s only that…for months, you see, the two of them had been involved in some kind of dispute over the business. They co-own quite a successful car manufacturer. I can’t tell you anything more than that, I’m afraid.”

Lando asked, “Did you notice anything during the night? Noises or something?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Only of course when I rang Mr. Herd the next morning for breakfast he was—unresponsive.”

“You were the one who discovered the body then?”

Ellen flushed. “Yes. I admit, it gave me a bit of a shock—I dropped my breakfast tray, and everyone in the house came running. Miss Mary called for the doctor, who confirmed that Mr. Herd was—was dead.”

“And everyone’s reactions?”

“They were mostly shocked, I should think. Complete silence from everybody. Well, except for Miss Jackie.”

Lando met Oscar’s gaze. “What did Jackie do?”

“She—well, she was quite beside herself. Threw herself over the body sobbing. But she was a woman in grief—what do you expect? That’s all I can say.”

Sensing they had overstayed their welcome, the two detectives thanked the woman warmly and rose to take their leave.

The will reading began not long after. The first to arrive was Mary Herd, who gave them a meaningful nod before taking a seat near the fireplace. Next was a rather corpulent gentleman with a thick gray beard and an assured way of moving through the world, as if he expected everything to bend in his favor. He was accompanied by an indistinct group of middle-aged men in black suits—Paul Williams and his entourage of business partners, no doubt. After him came a man with a pinched expression and a thin, stretched-out sort of face, arm-in-arm with a short woman with wispy blonde hair and a blank, forgettable countenance.

The solicitors at the front of the room kept checking the time as eleven o’clock inched closer and closer. Finally, three minutes after the will reading was scheduled to start, a tall dark-haired woman swept into the room and collapsed into the nearest armchair. She had a powerful magnetic energy about her; even her slightest movement attracted attention. Everyone else in the room was dressed in muted shades of black, gray, and beige; only she wore a gown of vibrant red chiffon, complete with a wide-brimmed red silk hat that she swept elegantly aside as she sat.

“Oh dear,” said Jackie Stone in a husky voice. Her tone was light, but the puffiness around her eyes made it clear she’d been crying only moments before. “Am I late?”

Mary Herd glanced pointedly at the grandfather clock in the corner and frowned. Alan Herd’s thin face somehow deepened in displeasure. The solicitors, on the other hand—the real solicitors of Lee, Lee & Buckley—waved the obvious tension aside and started the will reading with characteristic professionalism.

“‘To my dedicated house staff, Beth Cahill, Jane Wickham, and Ellen Smith, I leave legacies of two thousand pounds each,’” the will began. “‘To my old friend, Paul John Williams, I leave my entire stake in the Concorde Group, equivalent to fifty-one percent of the company.’” The bearded gentleman leaned over and started whispering urgently to one of his companions. “‘To my daughter, Mary Elizabeth Herd, I leave half of all my financial fortunes and assets. And the rest, including my estate at Cosworth House, I leave to my eldest son Alan Robert Herd.’”

A still silence settled over the room. “Is that it?” Mary finally asked. The solicitors nodded.

“It’s the most recent version of the will?” said Jackie quietly.

“Yes. It was created nearly three years ago; there have been no updates since then.” The solicitors began to pile the papers back into the briefcase. “It will take a few weeks to pay off the estate tax and settle the accounts. In the meantime, if you have any questions—“

“It’s not true!” Jackie burst out, leaping up from her seat. “There must be another will hidden somewhere. He wouldn’t leave me like this; I’m his fiancée!”

Alan raised his hand. “I have a question,” he said to the solicitors in a reedy voice. “As the new owner of Cosworth House, how long is it until I can kick her out of my house?”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Williams disapprovingly. “Your father wouldn’t approve of you speaking like this, young man.”

Alan barked out a cruel laugh. “Father didn’t like anything I did. But in the end I still got his money, didn’t I?”

“Don’t speak of him that way,” said Mary coldly.

Alan rounded on his sister. “Don’t go acting all superior. If you were so much closer to dear Papa, why did he leave Cosworth House to me?”

Lando exchanged glances with Oscar. In unison, they moved toward the door and exited the drawing room with matching sighs of relief. Through the wall they could hear voices growing steadily in volume.

The door swung open after them, and a red-clad woman nearly crashed into Lando on her way out. “Excuse me,” Jackie Stone said hurriedly to both of them before rushing up the stairs.

Lando stared after her, then shook himself. His mind was abuzz with the events of the past hour. To settle his thoughts, he looked directly into Oscar’s calm, steadying expression. His coworker cleaned up well, Lando noticed, surveying Oscar’s solicitor disguise. Although the tie was a disaster.

“To the kitchen,” Oscar said. He placed his fingertips on the small of Lando’s back, just for a second, and motioned for him to lead the way.

The cook confirmed Ellen’s remarks about each guest’s food and drink preferences. When Lando asked if she could recall anyone going near Mr. Herd’s teacup, both she and the kitchen maid shook their heads. “You can take it if you’d like, but if it’s prints you’re looking for, I’m afraid they’ve been washed off already,” said Beth apologetically.

Lando assured her it wasn’t necessary. Just as he and Oscar made to exit the kitchen, a small mass of gray fur darted beneath their feet. Lando shrieked and jumped back, grabbing onto Oscar’s shoulder. “What is that?” he cried.

“So sorry,” said Jane, reaching for the nearest broomstick. “It’s the rats. They’re always worse in the spring.”

“How do you keep them away from the rest of the house?”

“We usually use strychnine to get rid of them. Jane, be a dear and fetch the bottle of strychnine from the top left cabinet, will you?”

Lando was nearly too busy cowering behind Oscar to register the conversation, but that word brought him back to reality. Strychnine. His mind ran through the chemical properties automatically even as the scene continued around him.

“Top left, you said?” Jane called.

Colorless pesticide—

“Yes, that’s right. Clearly labeled, you can’t miss it.”

Highly toxic alkaloid—

“But—that can’t be.”

Poison.

“What?” Beth peered at where Jane was rummaging through the cabinet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not here.”

“But that’s impossible. We used some just last…Sunday, I think it was.”

“You check,” said Jane stubbornly. “I’m telling you, it’s not here.”

Lando and Oscar went to Jane’s side and peeked into the top left cabinet. There were several scattered bottles, mostly cleaning compounds, but the strychnine was nowhere to be found.

A strange humming sound began to ring in Lando’s ears, the same hum he always heard when a case was starting to thrill him. It had been a long time since he’d last heard it. He couldn’t help the excited grin he shot up at Oscar, who gave him a soft, devastating smile in response.

To the staff, Lando’s reaction might have been perplexing. A man had, in all likelihood, just been murdered, and now they’d found the probable murder weapon missing. But after all, why did fighter pilots wage battles thousands of feet in the air? Why did racecar drivers yearn for the unforgiving, high-speed streets of Monaco? Why did Lando relish in the puzzle of a good case? It was danger; it was excitement; it was all the insignificant clutter of the world pared down to a knife’s edge.

They thanked the kitchen staff with promises to do their best to track down the missing bottle of strychnine, then reemerged into the main hall. As they headed for the entrance, Oscar paused in front of a carved mahogany door to their right. “Hang on,” he said. “Mary told us this was her father’s study.”

Lando caught on immediately. “The letters?” he said.

“Maybe. Or anything else that could help us.”

“But Mary said the writing desk was locked.”

“Ah. Well.” Oscar drew two thin silver pins from his pocket with a sheepish expression. “I might have a solution.”

Lando stared at his colleague with a mixture of shock and admiration. “You’re full of surprises, Pastry. Who would’ve guessed?”

Oscar gave a surprised laugh. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and when he smiled like that—openly, without self-consciousness—Lando could glimpse the slight unevenness of his two front teeth. It gave him a heady rush to see Oscar laugh that way, even if it was just at some lame nickname—like finding a crucial piece of evidence that unlocked the entire case for him.

Oscar’s fingers had just barely brushed against the brass doorknob when a voice from behind them exclaimed: “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Lando whirled around. Alan Herd was striding angrily down the hall, followed by his wife. “You solicitors were supposed to clear the estate half an hour ago,” he continued, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Actually, we were just leaving,” said Lando. He felt Oscar draw reluctantly away from the door behind him.

Alan shook his head, glaring at the floor. “Damned solicitors,” he muttered.

As they passed, Lando chanced a glance at Caroline Herd. She was dressed entirely in gray and seemed to be trying to position herself as meekly as possible—head down, shoulders drawn. But when Lando brushed past her to get to the door, he could swear she lifted her gaze to send him a cold, calculating look, and he had to suppress his shudder on the way out.

“Well, it’s murder all right,” said Inspector Dennington, taking a puff of his cigar.

Inspector Dennington was the cheery, bespectacled officer who served as McLaren’s official point of contact with the local police. An aspiring cricketer in his younger years, he was typically athletic and jovial, always slapping shoulders and greeting staff when he stopped by the MTC. Today, however, his expression was grim as he sat across from Lando and Oscar in their shared office.

“The toxin report,” he continued, pulling out an official-looking document with a complicated array of chemical names and numbers. Inspector Dennington handed the sheet to Lando, who immediately passed it on to Oscar. “Barring all the formal medical terminology, it’s been determined that Mr. Robert Herd died from respiratory failure as a result of strychnine poisoning.”

Oscar frowned at the report in his hands. “This says he only took a grain or two of strychnine at most,” he said. “Is it possible for him to have ingested that amount accidentally?”

“Not likely. Strychnine is rarely used domestically, and when it is, it’s clearly labeled. Besides, given the circumstances, I’m afraid all signs point to deliberate poisoning. Time of death is just after midnight, which means the time of ingestion was probably thirty minutes to an hour before that.”

“In that case, you could get a warrant, couldn’t you?” asked Lando.

“Well, yes, but…a warrant for what, exactly?”

“Strych-nine, of course,” Lando said, pronouncing the word slowly in case he got it wrong. “What else?”

“We have reason to believe the strychnine used was from Mr. Herd’s own household,” Oscar explained. “There was a bottle of strychnine in the kitchen that the staff used to get rid of rats. It was normally kept in the top left cabinet, but today the staff found it missing.”

“I see,” said the inspector. “Yes, a search could be arranged. We’ve got our list of main suspects—as do you two, I’m sure.”

After a few more pleasantries, Inspector Dennington rose to take his leave. Once he’d gone, Lando turned to Oscar and said, “You know what I’m feeling right now?”

“No?”

“Tea.”

“What?”

“I want a cup of tea. It helps me think.”

Oscar glanced in the direction of the door. “There’s a kitchen in here somewhere, isn’t there? Or we could head to a parlor. I reckon some places are still open at this hour.”

That was how they ended up in a frilly tea parlor with soft pink fleur-de-lis wallpaper and tea that was, in Lando’s honest estimation, not very good. There simply wasn’t enough milk. Oscar, he noticed, was drinking his watery tea without complaint.

“What do they drink down in Australia, anyway?” he mused, nibbling suspiciously at a biscuit off Oscar’s tray. It was fine, if a little crumbly. Lando set it back down on Oscar’s side of the table.

“Hmm?”

“For that matter, what do they drink in France? Is it like, champagne with every meal?” Lando noticed the strange look on Oscar’s face, like he was biting down a smile. “What? Is there something in my teeth? You did your training in France as a junior detective, didn’t you?”

“Norris,” said Oscar, and it gave Lando a giddy thrill to hear his name spoken like that, slow and luxuriant in Oscar’s rich accent. “You know Alpine is actually based in Enstone, right? Not France.”

Lando blinked. “No? They’re French. Everyone there speaks French.”

“I barely speak French.”

“Yeah, and you were barely there. In France.”

“No, I trained in Enstone. Alpine did have a research and development team in Viry-Châtillon, but I was only there once.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Lando stubbornly. “How can they be French and not be based in France?”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” said Oscar with a small laugh. “But to answer your question, no, I did not have champagne with every meal. Not in Enstone or Australia.”

“Shame. But still, this tea’s shit.”

“How so?”

“There’s just not enough milk. And it’s not the right temperature. The tea I make in the MTC kitchen is never quite right, either. Usually I make my own tea at home before coming to work, but if I’m on some really difficult case it just helps to have a snack and like, a hot drink. Except I never have the right ones around when I’m at the office.”

“What do you like to drink, then?”

Lando launched into a long-winded explanation of the exact right type of tea to get him in the headspace for solving cases. “And don’t even get me started on snacks,” he said, before proceeding to do just that, explaining to Oscar that any snack worth eating must contain a sizeable portion of chocolate, and he didn’t trust anything the more avant-garde confectioners were coming up with these days.

“But anyway,” Lando said abruptly as his train of thought changed tracks, “what are your thoughts on the case so far?”

To his credit, Oscar seemed unfazed by the rapid change in subject. “I thought it might be helpful to create a timeline of events,” said Oscar. He drew a pen from his pocket and smoothed out one of the napkins on the table. “First, Robin Herd meets Jackie Stone in Bristol a year ago. We know Mary embarks on her travels abroad in the next few months. At some point, Mr. Herd starts courting Jackie and begins receiving anonymous threatening letters. He and Paul Williams get involved in some kind of business dispute, although we don’t know the exact timing or nature of the disagreement. That’s what happened in the months leading up to last Tuesday.

“On Tuesday, we have the staff’s confirmation that Mary arrived at five-thirty, followed by Alan and his wife twenty minutes later. Jackie had already been living in the house for several days up to that point. It’s likely that before the dinner, the children knew of their father’s involvement with Jackie but not of his intentions to marry her. Before dinner, according to Ellen, Alan’s wife Caroline requested to speak to her father-in-law alone in his study. They return and sit down to dinner. Halfway through the meal, Paul Williams appears abruptly at the door. It’s unclear whether he’s invited or not—the staff seem to find his arrival unexpected, at any rate—but Mr. Herd welcomes his business partner to join them.

“At seven-thirty, Mr. Herd announces his engagement to Jackie. After, he pulls aside Mr. Williams, presumably to discuss business matters. Then he speaks with each of his children individually. Sometime between then and ten o’clock, the kitchen prepares Mr. Herd’s nightly cup of tea. Ellen comes to fetch the tea, finds the tea too hot, and leaves the tray outside of Mr. Herd’s room to cool for an indeterminate amount of time. In that time, any one of the people in the house could have found the strychnine in the kitchen and poured a few grains into Mr. Herd’s tea. Ellen comes back, serves the tea. Mr. Herd finishes consuming it at around eleven to eleven-thirty, and dies at midnight.”

“Is it possible that the murderer came from outside the house?” asked Lando, peering at the rough timeline Oscar had sketched on the napkin.

“It’s possible, but that person would have to have knowledge of Mr. Herd’s nightly routine, as well as the location of the strychnine bottle in the kitchen cabinet,” said Oscar. “We can’t rule it out, but all signs point to the killer being someone in the house.”

“Right, so our list of suspects…”

“The members of staff, for one. Ellen’s been with Mr. Herd for nine years, Beth even longer, making both unlikely possibilities—why wait that long to kill your employer if you’re only after the money in his will? Jane is a possibility, especially since she had unrestricted access both to Mr. Herd’s tea and the bottle of strychnine.”

“You know what I think?” Lando interrupted, propping his chin up on his elbows. Oscar nodded patiently and leaned in closer. “It’s all down to the letters. Why would Jane have any reason to send Mr. Herd threatening letters for months leading up to his death? It makes no sense. I think we have to answer a few important questions before we can even start solving this case.”

“Which are?”

“One. Who sent the letters, and why? As far as timing is concerned, they either have to do with Jackie or with the mysterious business dispute between Mr. Herd and Mr. Williams. Or something completely unrelated, but the point is, someone was planning to do harm to Mr. Herd months before his actual death. Their goal was to scare Mr. Herd, but to what end?

“Two. What did Caroline want to speak to Mr. Herd about before dinner? Ellen mentioned that Caroline was picking at her food all night. Was that normal behavior for her, or was something on her mind—and if so, what?” Lando recalled the cold look on Caroline’s face back at Cosworth House when they’d been discovered outside Mr. Herd’s study. She’d been so silent throughout the will reading, even as everyone else in the room sniped and shouted at each other. Even now, the memory of her expression sent a shiver down Lando’s spine.

“Three,” he said, returning himself to the present. “What was Mr. Williams doing at the dinner? Was he invited or not? If he was, why would Mr. Herd ask him to a family affair—to the announcement of his engagement to Jackie Stone? And if he wasn’t invited, why was he there?”

Oscar finished writing something on the napkin and set down his pen. “That’s all well and good. Ironically, Jackie might be the only person we can comfortably rule out, at least based on the motive of gain. She was the only one who received nothing in Mr. Herd’s will.”

“Sure, but she seemed surprised by the fact that she wasn’t included. If she thought she was in the will, maybe she’d still be desperate enough to try to kill him for his money.”

“Maybe,” said Oscar, considering. “You’d have to be pretty desperate to commit murder based purely on guesswork, but who knows? I don’t know how much there’s left to do now without questioning the parties involved.”

“Delightful.” Lando looked out the window and gasped. “Oh, it’s sunset! How beautiful!” He turned back to find Oscar gazing at him with that same disorienting smile from before. It made Lando feel slightly off-kilter. “Look,” Lando said, leaning in conspiratorially and taking glee in Oscar’s mirroring his movements, “I promised Max—Fewtrell—I’d pay him a visit tonight, so as much as I’d love to stay and scheme…”

“Go,” said Oscar. “I’ll scheme in my own time. See you tomorrow morning?”

“See you!” Lando called back in a singsong voice, and then he was out the door, watery tea and crumbly biscuits long forgotten.

If Cosworth House was an eclectic, modern estate, Blackwood Hall—Mr. Williams’s private home—was an homage to classical tradition. Lando counted at least six imposing white pillars fanning the front entrance, with gleaming French double doors leading into a high-ceilinged entrance hall complete with marbled granite and a glittering crystal chandelier. Mr. Williams’s butler showed them into the drawing room, where Paul Williams himself greeted them not long after.

“The police phoned not long after the will reading yesterday,” he said, serving them each a cup of tea, which Lando subtly left untouched. He was not bothered so much by the possibility of poison as that of the wrong ratio of milk to tea. “Miserable stuff, it is. Poor old Robin! Ah, but he’d be glad to have you two on the case. Huge McLaren fan, he was, back in the day—used to talk my ear off even though I never was one for following crime cases! I’m happy to assist, gentlemen, in any way I can.”

He talked in the easy, confident manner of an experienced businessman, as if they were settling a deal over cigars instead of discussing a murder.

Lando leaned forward to trace the pattern on the tea table in front of them. “Do you know there’s a detective agency with your exact same name? Williams?” he said without looking up.

Mr. Williams said, ever-politely, “Really? I did not.”

“Yeah, they’re one of the oldest in England. Used to be really good, but now they’re…” Lando glanced over at Oscar, realizing too late that it would probably be unwise to say the word shit in front of one of their suspects. They were professionals, after all.

“Not so good,” Oscar supplied, rescuing him with a sage nod.

Mr. Williams sat himself across from the two detectives and folded his hands in his lap. His smile was small, indulgent. Lando got the feeling they were just another item on his agenda for the day: Meet with clients. Assess market options. Get questioned for business partner’s murder. Brunch.

“So, what can I do for you today?” asked Mr. Williams.

“To start off, would you describe your relationship with the late Mr. Herd to us, please?” Oscar said.

“Certainly. We were in school together at St. Peter’s College. He studied physics and engineering, I studied mathematics. He was always more brilliant than I was, but we shared the same interest in cars and machinery. He wasn’t a bad cricketer, either,” said Mr. Williams as an afterthought. Oscar’s eyebrows lifted in interest. “After university we went our separate ways—he was with the RAE, you know, working on some supersonic aircraft project. I joined my father in hedge fund management, but in my spare time I still loved going down to the garage.

“Robin got in touch with me a few years down the line when he got the idea for the Concorde Group. It was essentially an engine manufacturer, but he needed someone to handle the business side of things and I happily volunteered. That was…oh, twelve years ago now. The business took off, we gradually brought in more partners and shareholders, and—well, here we are.” Mr. Williams gestured at the ornate drawing room around them as if to say, Look what I built.

“How’s the business doing now?” Lando asked.

“We’re up three percent today in the London Stock Exchange. My secretary just showed me the figures this morning. You have to understand, the Concorde Group was Robin’s brainchild. He would’ve wanted it to outlast him; he never would want his death to mean the death of the company. He’d be happy to know that something like this hasn’t affected our performance.” Mr. Williams paused, as if realizing that he’d said something insensitive. “By which I mean, it’s a tragedy it had to happen this way, of course,” he added graciously.

“Of course,” Oscar said, voice dry. “Everything was going well with the business, it sounds like? Leading up to last week?”

Mr. Williams’s smile stretched in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Naturally,” he said.

Lando decided to switch tactics. “What kind of man was Robin Herd?” he asked. “You were friends for many years. You probably knew things even his own family didn’t know about him.”

Mr. Williams’s expression warmed; this time, his eyes lit up in a jovial manner. “Well, I don’t know about that!” he said with a laugh. “What happens at school stays at school, you know. Oh, but Robin was never wild like that, not really. He was brilliant, like I mentioned—graduated with a double first from Oxford, and went on to do great work with computational fluid dynamics. He was dedicated, too. Knew how to have fun, but once he’d met his wife—his first wife, that is, Lorraine—he hardly looked at another woman! And in business deals there was no one better to have on your side. He was brutal, decisive, efficient—really the perfect managing partner, so long as you two agreed.” Mr. Williams’s eyes narrowed, but only for a moment before he regained his amiable composure.

“So him getting engaged to young Jackie—was that a surprise?”

“Hmm. The engagement itself, I wasn’t surprised by. Lorraine had passed away a long time ago, you see, and in the past year or so Robin was telling me he was ready to put himself out there again. I never married myself—too devoted to my business, I always say! But Robin… I suspect that while he was comfortable being alone, at heart he was one of those family types, you know. That’s what made Jackie’s age the biggest surprise to me. He told me of their involvement about two months ago, and when I heard he was going out with a dancer in her twenties—my jaw dropped, I’ll tell you that! Didn’t know the old man had it in him. Then again, when you have enough money—“ Mr. Williams coughed indelicately.

“So that’s it,” pressed Lando. “You think Jackie was after Mr. Herd’s money.”

“Well, in cases like these, one always suspects, don’t they? She wasn’t even half his age. Though in the end, it didn’t work out too well for her, did it?”

“Speaking of the will,” Oscar said, “did you know Mr. Herd was planning to leave you his share of the company?”

Mr. Williams turned his teacup in his saucer, considering. “We’d never discussed it explicitly beforehand, of course. But I did have my suspicions. In the beginning, the Concorde Group was just me and him, so it would’ve only been fair… But as I said, I didn’t know, not until the will was read.”

“Fifty-one percent,” Lando mused. “I’m guessing you owned somewhere around—thirty? Forty?”

“Forty,” Mr. Williams confirmed. “The other shares are owned by various stakeholders, but the vast majority are—were—mine and his.”

“And now ninety-one percent is yours.” Oscar leveled Mr. Williams with a flat gaze.

Mr. Williams shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well. As I said, I certainly wasn’t aware he was planning to leave me all of it. Particularly not with…er…recent developments.”

Lando straightened. “What recent developments?”

Mr. Williams sighed. “I suppose it’s no use keeping it from you now. Your people will find it once they go through the Concorde Group’s records, anyway. It’s nothing important, just that…well, funny enough, Robin was planning on selling his shares of the Concorde Group right before he died.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. “To whom?” Oscar asked.

“Ah, just various potential investors, here and there,” said Mr. Williams vaguely. “Robin was always a big fan of ‘the newer the better,’ that sort of philosophy. Anyway, that’s what I wanted to discuss with him the night of…the night of the dinner.”

“You disapproved of these new investors?” asked Lando.

Mr. Williams looked up sharply. “I wouldn’t say that, no. I just couldn’t see why we couldn’t keep the company between us. It’s not like it was a matter of money, for Robin. Part of me suspected that—well, once he’d found Jackie, he wanted to settle down once and for all. It would’ve been a shame, losing him at the head of the company, that’s all. And I suppose that’s gone and happened anyway.”

“When did Mr. Herd first bring up that he wanted to sell his share of the company?”

“This must have been…several months ago now, I’d say. Afraid I can’t give you an exact date.”

“And all this time, you’ve been trying to talk him out of it?” asked Lando.

Mr. Williams frowned. “Now hang on a minute. I never tried to convince him to act one way or another. I just wanted him to do what was best for the company, see.”

“So what would’ve happened to the company if Mr. Herd had sold his shares?”

“Well, you know how these young investors are about things. Always trying to make changes, go in different directions. We built our manufacturing side, our executive team, and our business model all from the ground up, and none of that needed to change. Now the board—the board of the company wouldn’t be too pleased with that, would they?” Mr. Williams gave them a flinty smile that reminded Lando of an apex predator.

“The board, or you?” Lando muttered under his breath.

“What was that, young man?”

“Nothing,” Oscar jumped in. “It’s our understanding that you arrived at the house at six-thirty last Tuesday, is that correct? Halfway through dinner?”

“That is correct, yes. I’d received word…well, it was a matter of urgency that I saw Robin that night, and so I did. We live quite close, you know.”

“You were invited by Mr. Herd that night?”

“Not…not explicitly invited, no. But I was always welcome to drop by. We were old friends, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I see. And why was it such a matter of urgency?”

Mr. Williams coughed again. “Perhaps I misspoke. I just wanted to make the case for the company one last time, that’s all. And once I heard of Robin’s engagement I felt I understood what this whole business was about. He wanted to kick his feet up in retirement and live with his beautiful young wife! And why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he have gotten that life?” Mr. Williams swallowed heavily, and he looked away. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“That’s why we’re trying to find who’s responsible,” said Lando. “Someone took that life away from him. The more you can tell us, the closer we’ll get to finding that person.”

Mr. Williams nodded. “Yes, of course. Always glad to assist, gentlemen.”

“No one at the table was acting strangely that night? How close were you with the family?”

“Fairly close, I reckon. I got Mary and Alan Christmas presents every year when they were young. They seemed shocked at the engagement, but of course an announcement like that is shocking.”

“And Caroline? Mrs. Herd? Alan’s wife?” Lando prompted impatiently when Mr. Williams showed no sign of recognition.

“Oh! Mrs. Herd! I didn’t really notice, to be honest. She’s the kind of person who blends in.”

“What time did you go up to bed that night, if I may ask?” asked Oscar.

“Around ten o’clock, I think. Robin had already retired by that point. So had most of the party, if I remember correctly. Only Jackie was still up, playing something on the gramophone. I remember I could hear it while I was going up the stairs.”

“How do you take your tea, Mr. Williams?” Lando asked.

“My tea?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well—I do prefer a good loose-leaf tea, none of this packaged stuff they’re selling nowadays.”

“Did you and Mr. Herd often take tea together?”

“Not often, no. He only drank water during the day, and preferred to take his tea at night. Why?”

Lando sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you talk about with Mr. Herd in his study after dinner?”

Mr. Williams spluttered, clearly unused to being ignored. “I—well, I’m sure I don’t remember now,” he said.

“You’re sure,” said Lando doubtfully.

Mr. Williams’s eyes shifted from Lando to Oscar and back again. “What is this? I’m giving you the truth to the best of my recollection. What kind of detectives are you, anyway?”

“Tell me. Did you know of Mr. Herd receiving any threatening letters in the months leading up to his death? Around the time he began speaking with new investors, perhaps.”

Mr. Williams’s face reddened in outrage. “Absolutely not. What are you trying to suggest? That I’d do something like that? I deal in the honest world of business, gentlemen, not threats and blackmail. I haven’t heard of any such letters.”

He remained obstinate on that fact, even after much prodding on Lando’s part. Eventually, he grew too belligerent to be of any help, and the two detectives hastily showed themselves out.

“Quite a temper, that one,” Lando remarked as they piled into his car. It was the pride and joy of his life, a mint Lamborghini Miura P400S: revolutionary mid-engine design, arancio leather interior, purring V12 engine. Max Fewtrell once teased Lando for his, in Max’s words, “disturbingly intimate relationship” with his car. Lando thought Max didn’t fully appreciate the sexually confusing feelings a really nice car could arouse.

“Yes,” conceded Oscar, “but a killer’s temperament?”

Lando grinned as he fired up the engine. “That remains to be seen.”

Mr. and Mrs. Alan Herd had made quick work of Cosworth House. Only a few days after the estate had been bequeathed to them, Lando noticed that curtains had been drawn over much of the artwork, and a piano moved into the drawing room.

“Caroline loves to play,” Alan said as he ushered them in. Caroline was at his side, her expression placid as ever. Alan flicked the frames of one of the wall paintings dismissively and scowled. “And Father never let me touch any of the artwork. Joke’s on him now, isn’t it?” He flapped a hand at Ellen, who quickly brought over the serving tray. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” His lips twisted into a sardonic smile.

Lando chose to ignore Alan’s hostility and said, “So you’ve heard of us then?”

“McLaren? Oh, sure. Father wouldn’t shut up about you, back in the old days. Dedicated the entire bleeding color scheme of the house to you. Blue and orange—what a dreadful combination! But Mary was the one he always ended up sharing his detective stories with. I suppose they find it all interesting, the tales of motive, opportunity, evidence, what have you. The competition between agencies is mildly interesting, I’ll give you that, but from what I’ve heard that man Verstappen is practically sweeping the Continent off its feet at the moment. What’s he up to now, anyway?” Alan took a sip of port at the end of his spiel and offered a glass to his wife, who declined.

Lando stiffened at the mention of the Dutch detective. “I believe he’s in Monaco on paternity leave,” he said tightly. “But it’s not as if there’s no competition. We’re certainly trying to put up a fight.”

“Hmm,” said Alan, clearly unimpressed. “Monaco. I’ve never been to Monaco.” He snapped his focus back to Lando and squinted at him. The movement reminded Lando uncannily of a beetle. “Don’t you get stiff sitting like that?”

Lando looked down. His legs were twisted together in some inexplicable formation and propped up on the table in front of him. He made a show of stretching out his spine before relaxing back into his previous hunch. “I’m quite comfortable, actually,” he quipped. Beside him, he heard Oscar let out a soft chuckle.

“Now listen,” said Alan, “I have nothing to say that’ll help you. I haven’t the slightest clue who killed Father. So while I appreciate your calling, I can’t see how this visit will be of any use to you.”

“You’re not upset?” Lando observed.

“What, that Father’s dead? It was bound to happen sometime or other. I can’t say there’s much love lost between us,” Alan said. Beside him, Caroline gave a minute shake of her head, nearly imperceptible. Lando turned to address her for the first time.

“And what about you? Was there any love lost between you and Mr. Herd?”

Caroline’s mouth opened in surprise. “Oh, I…he was always Alan’s father, you know,” she said.

Lando waved a hand in frustration. “We know that. But how was the relationship between you two?”

Caroline exchanged an unreadable glance with Alan, then answered, “He always wished to act as a father to me. That’s what he told me.”

“Father adored you,” Alan said dismissively. “Personally, I think he had a habit of spoiling women.”

Caroline blinked and said nothing.

“Would you mind running through what happened the night of Mr. Herd’s death? Your own account and observations, please,” Oscar said.

“What’s there to say? We got there. Dinner was served. Old Paul Williams showed up at some point, no idea what he was doing there. Father announced he was marrying that dancer—you should’ve seen the look on Mary’s face! He asked me what I thought about the marriage, and I told him honestly that I thought she was after his money. Still think that, in fact, although it’s some karmic justice that Father hadn’t yet updated his will. We went up to bed just before ten o’clock, I’d say. I read a book in my room before falling asleep. Can’t tell you what Caroline was doing,” Alan added, and all the traces of bitterness in his voice were concentrated on those last few words.

“Don’t be like that, dear,” said Caroline tiredly. “I did some embroidery by the fire before going to bed. That’s all.”

“And before dinner, you spoke to Mr. Herd alone, didn’t you?” Lando asked Caroline.

She visibly started. “How did you—” Then her expression smoothed over. “I mean, yes, I did. There were a few…unpaid bills. I asked Robin if he would be able to take care of them.”

“And what did Mr. Herd say?”

Caroline’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes, of course.” She blinked rapidly, then looked back down at the floor.

“He can be quite generous, as long as I’m not the one asking,” Alan sniffed.

Lando directed his next question at Alan. “How do you like to take your tea?”

“Tea? Nasty stuff, that. Always preferred coffee or a good full-bodied port. Father was fanatical about it, though; took a cup every night before bed, if I recall.”

“And you?” This time to Caroline.

“I don’t much care for it,” she said.

Lando leaned back and shuffled his legs into a new configuration, crossed in front of him on the sofa. “What do you two know about any letters Mr. Herd received in the months leading up to his death?”

The effect was immediate. Alan’s face contorted, though not in rage—there was something almost shameful in the way he ducked his head and looked out the window. Caroline’s usually immovable expression slipped, and she stared at them with lips parted, cheeks flushed.

“What letters?” she finally asked with forced calm. Lando noted the way her hands twitched in her lap.

“Threats made to Mr. Herd, detailing for example the names of his staff, to demonstrate that someone was watching him,” said Oscar.

Caroline’s shoulders dropped. “We don’t know of any letters,” she said. Though she spoke quietly, her tone was firm.

Lando was watching Alan, who hadn’t looked away from the window. “Don’t you?”

Alan tore his gaze away and fixed his eyes on Lando. “No, we don’t,” he said, his words clipped. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have affairs to attend to—“

Lando stood abruptly and went to the window. There, he could get a clear view of his own car, parked on the drive leading up to Cosworth House. An idea whispered at the back of his mind… “Do you like cars, Alan?”

He pictured the man spluttering at the informal address behind him. Eventually, Alan responded, “Well, I’m—fond, yes, but I don’t see how—“

“Let’s go for a drive,” Lando said. Then he clarified: “I’m driving.”

“And what does this have to do with the investigation, exactly?” Alan demanded, but Lando could see he was tempted. It wasn’t every day one got to sit in the passenger seat of a Lamborghini Miura, after all. Unless one were Oscar Piastri, but Oscar was Oscar, and he was always properly appreciative of Lando’s driving skills, so Lando was never too miffed about driving him around to interrogate suspects.

“Nothing.” Lando shrugged. “I just thought you might like to go for a drive. It’s not one of your father’s cars, though, so if you’d rather not…”

“No,” said Alan in a rush. “I mean, yes. I would rather, that is.”

“It’s a two-seater,” Lando told Caroline apologetically.

She shook her head and muffled a delicate yawn. “I was never into cars. You boys have fun; I have to telephone Westeringham.”

Lando met Oscar’s gaze. “You’ll be all right, Osc?” he said, hoping Oscar could catch his meaning.

“All right,” said Oscar. “I can clean up here.”

“Nonsense, Ellen will take care of that,” Alan said. His face showed little suspicion.

“We won’t be long,” Lando promised, then turned to Alan. “Ready?”

Alan’s entire demeanor changed the instant he slid into Lando’s car. His face became open, childlike, as he ran a reverent hand over the smooth orange leather. “How does a detective come to own a car like this? Are they paying you that much?” he demanded, but even his words had lost much of their bite.

“The pay is comfortable,” Lando deflected. And it was, although he was certain Oscar didn’t own a car like this. But what of it? Some people with rich fathers spent their family’s money on drugs and mistresses; Lando preferred to spend his on cars and golf. Lando’s gaze slid over to Alan as he started the ignition, and he felt another stubborn bolt of self-righteousness: some people with rich fathers killed them.

Not that Alan had necessarily killed his father. But Lando couldn’t rule anything out.

As they pulled away from Cosworth House, Lando shifted gears and accelerated the car around the winding roads leading up to the hill. Even at full throttle, the sound of the engine was but a slow rumble; he could make out the whistling gusts of wind outside and the crunching gravel under the tyres. Lando balanced the brakes around each curve and came out of the corners at full speed. It was a delight to drive like this, and a delight to drive like this here, with endless English countryside unfurling beyond the windows and the promise of spring lingering in the air. He took to the country roads like a racetrack, and only realized he was laughing when he heard Alan let out a startled gasp beside him.

“Not what you were expecting?” he asked Alan as they drove back up to Cosworth House.

“Exactly what I was expecting,” said Alan breathlessly, and the look on his face made Lando dissolve into laughter all over again. “That was incredible. Have you ever considered entering Monaco?”

“What, as a driver? I’ve actually got a place there for the holidays, but I’m never home for the Grand Prix, unfortunately.” They got out of the car and began to make their way back into the house.

“If this detective gig doesn’t work out, you know where to go,” said Alan. Then he apparently seemed to remember why Lando was at his house, and his lips pursed once more in displeasure.

As they entered the house, Lando called, “We’re back, Piastri.”

Oscar emerged from the drawing room, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’d never left. “Ready to go?” he asked Lando.

“Hang on.” Lando turned back to Alan. “You’ve got a golf course at the back of the house, is that right?”

“Yes. It’s where Father used to close all his business deals. Always said I was too young to join them, but never seemed to have a problem when Mary asked to watch,” Alan said sourly.

“Do you play?” asked Lando.

“Not very well. I’m afraid I won’t disclose my handicap to you.”

“If you ever want to improve,” said Lando, “you know where to find me.”

The two detectives left Cosworth House not long after. In the car, Oscar hissed, “Did you really just invite yourself to play golf with a murder suspect?” He looked more amused than annoyed, which Lando took as a win.

“Have you seen the golf course here? It’s mint. Besides, I just drove him around in a premium sports car for fifteen minutes; I think I deserve to play at least a few holes. Besides besides,” Lando added, “he might not be the murderer.”

“Right. Are you going to decide that based off his golf handicap?”

“No—although the fact that he wouldn’t tell me is suspicious. I’m basing it off my instincts. Which, for the record, have not decided yet one way or another. Ah, on that note, any luck with the study?”

“I was able to break into Mr. Herd’s writing desk,” Oscar said.

“Good man!”

“But I wasn’t able to find the letters. At least, not the threats he’d been receiving for the past few months.”

“That’s too bad. He probably burned them after all.”

“Yeah. But while I didn’t find the letters, I did find this.” Oscar slid an unsealed envelope across the dashboard. The loopy scrawled handwriting was unfamiliar to Lando, but he could just barely make out the return address: some estate in Reveshire, property of one Miss Victoria Davis. The envelope was addressed to Mr. Herd.

“Read it out loud to me,” urged Lando, who was still driving.

“‘My dear,’” Oscar began. Lando couldn’t help it: his colleague’s dry delivery of what was shaping up to be quite a steamy letter sent him into wheezy giggles. Oscar shot him an exasperated but fond glance, then continued: “‘My dear, the house feels so empty without you. Can you believe I’ll be off to America in just a few short weeks? The time I have with you is never long enough. No matter how far apart we are, my heart will always long for you. Please write me as soon as you can—you know how your letters brighten my day. Forever yours, Vickie.’”

“Romantic,” said Lando offhandedly. “Wish someone would write me a letter like that.”

Oscar bent forward and laughed, which Lando appreciated, particularly since he didn’t think he’d said anything all that funny. “All right, but you know what this means, don’t you?” asked Oscar.

“It means that once upon a time, a woman was in love with Mr. Herd, and for some reason he kept her letters.”

“Yeah, but look here. The letter is dated from six months ago, which would’ve been the time Mr. Herd was seeing Jackie. Which means…”

Lando nearly swerved the car off the road, just barely managing to recover in time. “Which means Jackie officially has a motive for murder,” he finished.