Read Chapter 30: The Handyman's Return

The knock came at the cottage door in the particular rhythm James used when he wanted to announce himself without startling her. Martha set down the ledger—she’d been rereading the confession for the fifth time, searching for the name that wasn’t there—and crossed the worn flagstones.

James stood on the step with a man behind him. The man was thinner than the photograph in the newspaper had suggested, hollow-cheeked, with the grey pallor of someone who’d spent weeks indoors. Mick Tolliver. The missing handyman. Alive.

“Found him at his aunt’s place in Stow,” James said quietly. “He saw the news about the fete. Decided it was time to stop running.”

Mick’s eyes darted past her into the cottage, checking the corners. “Is it true? What Barbara said? That the Haywards—” He swallowed. “That they killed Gerald?”

“That’s what the confession suggests,” Martha said carefully. She stepped aside. “Come in. Quickly.”

Mick moved like a man who had forgotten how to occupy space comfortably. He chose the chair farthest from the window, hands clasped between his knees. The veins on his forearms stood out like rope.

James closed the door and leaned against it. Martha took the chair opposite Mick, the ledger still in her lap.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. “The whole story. From the beginning.”

Mick stared at the floor for a long moment. “I was doing odd jobs for them for about a year before it happened. Mostly property maintenance—they own a lot of land around here. But one week, Mrs. Hayward asked me to help with something different. A tenant’s cottage down near the Croft boundary. She wanted me to clear out the outbuildings.”

“What did you find?”

“The deed.” Mick’s voice dropped. “It was tucked behind a loose beam in the barn loft, wrapped in oilcloth. I didn’t know what it was at first, but I’d heard the rumours—everyone had. That the Croft family had been cheated out of their land generations back. That the Haywards had made it disappear.” He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “I read it. The original grant. I’m not a stupid man. I knew what I was holding.”

“What did you do?”

“I took it to Gerald Hayward. He was the one in the family who seemed decent. I thought maybe he didn’t know what his mother had done. I thought—” He broke off, pressing his fingers to his temple. “He told me to wait while he spoke to her. Said he’d sort it out, that there was no need for anyone to get hurt. I believed him.”

“And then?”

“Three days later, they found Gerald dead at the bottom of the stairs at the mansion. The coroner said it was a fall, but I knew.” Mick’s voice hardened. “I’d been there the night before. I’d heard them arguing—Gerald and his mother—about the deed. He was threatening to take it to the police. To the papers. She said she’d bury him before she let him bury the family.”

The silence in the cottage was absolute. Outside, a blackbird sang in the hedgerow, oblivious.

“Did she kill him herself?” Martha asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see it happen. But I saw the way she looked when she came out of the house the next morning. Calm. Settled. Like a woman who’d solved a problem.” Mick shook his head. “And then they came for me. Two men, a day after the funeral. I was at my flat, packing. They told me I could disappear quietly or they’d make me disappear loudly. I chose quiet.”

“You’ve been with your aunt since then?”

“She’s the only family I’ve got left. I’ve been hiding in her spare room, afraid to go outside.” His jaw tightened. “But when I saw Barbara on the news, recanting what she’d said all those years ago, I knew you were for real. And I knew it was time.”

Martha set the ledger aside and leaned forward. “Mick, the confession I found in the crypt—it detailed the Haywards’ crimes, but it stopped short of naming the person who actually killed Gerald. I believe that’s why the family is so desperate to silence Daniel Croft. He saw something. Someone. Do you know what he witnessed?”

Mick’s brow furrowed. “Croft? The old man who ran the stables?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what he saw that night, but I know he was at the mansion that evening.” Mick’s eyes widened with the memory. “I saw him leaving as I was arriving. He looked shaken—paler than I’d ever seen him. He didn’t see me. He got in his truck and drove off like the devil was on his heels.”

“Why was he there?”

“He’d been seeing one of the estate staff, I think. A woman who worked in the kitchen. I don’t remember her name. But I remember wondering what he was doing at the mansion at that hour.” Mick paused. “The next day, after Gerald was found, the kitchen woman was gone too. Fired, I assumed. Never saw her again.”

Martha felt the pieces sliding into place with the satisfying click of a well-crafted narrative turn. Daniel Croft had been in the house that night. He’d seen something—or someone—that the Haywards needed to bury. And his disappearance had never been voluntary.

“Mick,” she said slowly, “the woman in the kitchen. Can you remember anything else about her? Her name, where she went?”

He shook his head. “I only heard her called ‘Jean’ a few times. She kept to herself. I think she might have been from Wales originally.” He hesitated. “There was one thing. She wore a locket—silver, with an engraving on the back. A bird, I think. I only noticed it because she was always touching it.”

Martha’s breath caught. She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out the locket she’d found months ago in her aunt’s belongings—the one that had made no sense at the time because it hadn’t matched anything in Celia’s history.

She held it out to him. “Like this?”

Mick took it, turning it over in his palm. His face went pale. “That’s it. That’s the same one.” He looked up at her, confusion replacing recognition. “Where did you get this?”

“It was my aunt’s.” Martha’s voice was barely a whisper. “Celia Pemberton. My aunt worked at the Hayward estate.”

The room tilted. Celia had been in that house. She had known Daniel Croft. She had been there the night Gerald Hayward died—and she had died years later, under circumstances that had never been fully explained. Martha had believed her aunt’s death was connected to the Haywards’ knowledge of her investigation. But now she saw the truth was far stranger.

Her aunt hadn’t been an innocent caught in the crossfire. Celia had been a witness. She had carried the secret of what she’d seen for years, and then she had made the fatal mistake of preparing to tell it.

“Your aunt,” Mick said slowly. “Celia Pemberton. The woman who used to come and catalogue the estate’s old books.” He shut his eyes. “Of course. Of course she was there. She was the one who told Gerald about the deed in the first place.”

Martha’s heart slammed against her ribs. “What?”

“She found it before I did. During her cataloguing work. She showed it to Gerald, told him it needed to be addressed. And when Gerald confronted his mother—” Mick’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I thought if you were investigating, you knew all of it.”

Martha sat very still. She had been chasing the Haywards’ crimes. But her aunt had been at the centre of them from the beginning. Celia hadn’t stumbled into danger—she’d seen too much and tried to do the right thing.

And then she’d been silenced.

Martha’s fingers tightened around the locket. The engraved bird on the back was a swan, she now realized. The symbol of the Croft estate. Her aunt had kept it as a reminder of what she knew—or perhaps as a promise.

“Mick,” she said, her voice steadier now, “do you know where Daniel Croft was taken?”

“No,” he said. “But I know who arranged it.” He looked at her with haunted eyes. “The man who came to collect me. He mentioned a name—a specialist. Someone they bring in when things need to ‘go away.’ I never caught his full name. But he had a scar on his hand. Burns, I think. And he drove a black Range Rover with Guernsey plates.”

James pushed off the door. “Guernsey. That’s the same company that holds the development rights to Croft land.”

Martha rose, her mind racing. The Guernsey connection wasn’t a separate thread. It was the same one. The Haywards had been methodical—they’d buried evidence, silenced witnesses, and hidden behind corporate structures designed to obscure ownership.

But now they had a name. And a face. And for the first time, Martha had a clear path to finding Daniel Croft before Saturday’s meeting—and before the Haywards made their evidence disappear for good.

She looked at James. “We need to move him. Somewhere the Haywards’ specialist won’t find him.”

“The colonel’s cottage,” James said. “We can’t risk it. It’s too exposed.”

“Then we need another safe house.” Martha turned to Mick. “Can your aunt take a few more days of hiding?”

The handyman nodded slowly. “She’s been asking why I don’t just tell the police everything. She’d be relieved to know someone’s finally listening.”

Martha reached for her coat. “Then let’s not waste time. We’ve got less than forty-eight hours to find Daniel Croft before the Haywards finish what they started.”