Bree clambered over the boxes in the attic. She knew the big chest was full of family papers and memorabilia because she remembered glancing through it briefly when the farm had been up for sale. In fact it was in the chest that she had found the album containing the photograph of her great grandmother which had ignited her ambition to open the kennels.

During the week following her father’s funeral, Bree had busied herself with the task of going through the belongings her family had collected through the generations. She knew it would be a long, laborious task, but it was an essential element in finalising her father’s estate. Whilst rummaging through an old chest in the attic the initial idea of how she could keep the farm presented itself, although until that moment Bree had not even realised she had been entertaining the idea.

Browsing some old photo albums she came across a dusty snap of her great grandmother lying on the front lawn, a mass of black Labrador puppies clambering over her. The photographer had either known his art very well or else had been particularly lucky to capture such a timeless moment. The woman looked so happy and content, obviously overjoyed with the exuberance of the puppies, it was impossible not to be infected by her mirth. Bree laughed and thought how wonderful it must be to raise a brood of happy healthy pups, especially on a farm. Obviously Lady was out of the question, not only was she spayed, but she was far too old for a first litter. A new dog however…



She had bolted downstairs, stoked the log fire in the den to a manageable roar, put on a pot of coffee and spent the rest of the day trawling through web pages fleshing out her idea. Bree had vacationed enough summers in Yorkshire to know the Brits were just as crazy about animals as were her fellow Americans. Here in the countryside, however, she could exploit the huge potential of her six hundred acres of prime grazing land and rent it to horse owners. With numerous barns and three ready built stable blocks already on the farm, some renovation work and a lick of paint she could actually make a living, although maybe not enough to keep a farm of this size running. With a little more thought and planning, plus a very intense telephone conversation with her then partner, Max Shultz, Bree had swung her plans into action.

She had actually been meaning to come back up to the attic to retrieve the photograph so she could have it framed and hung in the kennel block. After all, if she hadn’t found that shot she may still have been a detective working in New York right now. She hadn’t come up to the attic for that purpose alone, however. She wanted to see if her family had any information on the Slaughter Pond body that she had been unable to uncover to date.

Bree reached over and pushed aside a polythene suit bag containing a beautiful fur coat which hung on the rail next to some others. A cloud of dust billowed up and caught in her throat. Bree took a few seconds to glance through the rest of the contents of the rail, momentarily distracted from her original mission. Along with the brown fur coat she had already seen, there was another of jet black fur and a long white overcoat of lambs wool. Bree unzipped the bag and reached her hand in to feel the quality of the garment, admiring its simplistic cut and classic style. Wondering if it would fit, she draped the coat over her arm and scanned the rest of the rail. There were four evening dresses, some astonishingly elaborate for a farmer’s wife, and one bright red sequined mini dress. She thought the coats must have belonged to her grandmother as she knew her mother would never wear a fur. The other garments puzzled Bree, however, as she could not imagine who they had belonged to. The style would have been considered gaudy and out of place in the Yorkshire countryside, and she knew they were not to her mother’s taste. She pushed them all aside for the moment and realised she would have to dedicate some serious time to sorting out and dusting the entire attic. The air was becoming decidedly oppressive and the dust spores were tickling the back of her throat. Just one more job to add to the growing list, she thought.

Bree nudged aside a few more boxes with her foot, some of which had come from New York and, as yet, remained unpacked. They contained family memories and mementos but, as so often happens after a house move, she had not yet got round to sorting through them. She realised, in fact, that she had a whole box of collectable trinkets up here which she had managed to do without quite nicely. She doubted she would ever actually unpack these ornaments now as she had much more interesting things to do with her time than dust silly knickknacks. She did, however, make a mental note to dig out Bobby’s Citation as she had found the perfect place to hang it.

Continuing on with her search of the attic, Bree finally came across the chest at the far wall. “Typical,” she murmured, then in a louder voice directed towards the staircase where Nic was waiting, “I’ve found it.” She began pushing aside the cardboard boxes littering the attic floor making a passageway through which to drag the chest. Looping her hand around the leather handle she gave it a tug, but the chest would only move a few inches.

“Hold on a minute,” said Nic from the staircase, “I’ll give you a hand with that.” He took Bree’s place at the front of the chest and Bree moved around to the back to push. Between them they moved the dead weight across the floor and, with a bit of stopping and starting, not to mention some delicate manoeuvring, they managed to get the chest all the way down to the ground floor. By the time they did, however, they were both out of breath and Bree had a slight pain in her lower back from bending over to push. The chest was guided slowly into its final resting place under the window in the lounge and they both collapsed in exhaustion on the leather sofa.

“I don’t think we’ll be taking that back upstairs anytime soon,” said Bree, nodding towards the chest. “I actually think it looks quite good where it is.”

“What are you gonna do with all the stuff that’s in it?” asked Nic, “Surely you’re not gonna keep a bunch of papers from a hundred years ago.”

Bree looked at Nic in astonishment. “I’m amazed at you,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be the history buff? Why on earth would I want to destroy old records, especially family ones? That’s our history in that chest!”

“I know, I know. That’s the cardinal sin for a historian. I was just thinking, though, that if you changed your mind it was hard enough getting the stupid thing downstairs without having to try to get it back up there again.”

Bree swiped a cushion off the sofa and batted Nic’s face with it lightly. “Typical,” she laughed.

“Actually, I am going to sort though it and anything not important is heading for the trash. I’ll organise the rest and file it into boxes so you can carry it all upstairs with no problems at all.”

“Which I can easily carry upstairs?”

“Yeah, that’s what you get for being a smartass. Besides, it’ll be good for your muscles.” Bree got up from the sofa and went over to the chest. She unbuckled the stiff leather straps used as fastenings and lifted the lid back, revealing the jumble of papers and photographs, with little hints of trinkets gleaming underneath. “You never know,” she said turning to Nic, “there could be treasure in here somewhere.”

“Yeah? Well good luck finding it.” He turned towards the kitchen, “How about a cup of coffee to help you on your way?”

While Nic busied himself in the kitchen, Bree began her task by removing the top layer of documents from the chest. The banging and shuffling downstairs had dislodged many of the items and some of the photographs had slipped out of the album. Bree gathered them up to look at later and began making little piles on the floor. She was searching the chest for something in particular, after all, and it was no use getting distracted with a jaunt down memory lane.

Bree had not fully appreciated the enormity of the task when she had begun it, but realisation dawned on her when, after an hour, Nic had gone out to meet Natalie and she was still only a third of the way down. The problem was that she actually had to skim read the newspapers to see what was important and if it held anything she was looking for. Up until now the only newspapers articles she had found were to do with local agricultural shows which mentioned prizes her grandfather had won for his livestock, or the first prize her grandmother had taken for her Dundee cake in the village fete in 1956. Rather than keep the whole newspaper, however, Bree clipped out the relevant articles, putting them to one side and she had managed to collect a fair sized pile of rubbish for recycling.

Lifting out yet another large photograph album, realising her family were a bunch of shutterbugs, Bree discovered a square wooden box underneath. She put the album with the others she had piled up and carefully lifted the box out. When she tried to open the lid, however, she discovered it was locked. Bree examined the small keyhole at the front of the box and leapt up, almost running into the kitchen. She returned to the lounge with a slim paring knife and began prying the lid open. The box, roughly the size of a boot box, was remarkably heavy, its contents a tantalising puzzle. Bree knelt down on the floor and began working the knife back and forth carefully, trying not to damage the box too much as she had no idea of its value. Beginning to wonder if the lock would ever give way, Bree heard a small click inside the box and smiled with satisfaction. She placed the knife down on the floor beside her and lifted the lid, revealing the contents to be a number of soft leather bound books. Bree removed the top one and, to her surprise, discovered it was a diary written in mother’s hand. Looking at the date she realised it was written the year before they returned to America. Thinking the other books must be her mother’s journals for other years, Bree opened the next one but was surprised to see it was written in an entirely different hand, although clearly still that of a woman. Flipping back to the first page, she discovered it was her grandmother’s diary.

A quick scan of the other books revealed them all to belong to her grandmother. A thought crossed her mind wondering why her mother had only chosen to write this one journal. Bree had never found anything else like it in her mother’s possessions back home when she died, and it seemed she had only kept this one log during her time here in England. Perhaps she will say why she wrote it, Bree thought as she continued to look through the books. She flipped open the front covers looking for the year on each title page and began putting them in chronological order, packing them all back into the box again to read later. Apart from her mother’s there were eleven journals, some covering more than one year. Scanning through them so quickly, Bree was taken by surprise when she turned to the title page of one and read the year 1960. Oh my God, she thought, maybe my grandmother wrote about the discovery at Slaughter Pond.

Although Bree was excited and wanted to read the journal immediately, she realised she could miss something else important if she did not continue with her search of the chest. Working methodically through a problem or situation was part of a detective’s job after all, and Bree knew that many cases had been solved by doing just that. Kneeling before the chest once again, Bree began delving into the contents hoping to find another scrap of information, although surmised she had probably found the only item of interest to the case.

Her initial thought was confirmed when, two hours later, Bree reached the bottom of the chest without finding any newspaper articles or other relevant snippet. She did, however, come across her grandfather’s entire log regarding the breeding, mating and sale of his dogs and also a small box containing more items belonging to her mother, or rather to herself when she was a baby. Bree had laughed when she looked through the contents and found two sets of matching newborn outfits. Wondering why on earth her mother would want two sets of identical clothing, Bree refolded the garments and placed them back in the box together with two locks of her hair, twined together to form a pair of curls, a cute little brush with its handle shaped like Snoopy, and a little book entitled ‘Baby Memories’ which, upon a cursory glance, detailed such information as when her first tooth appeared and when she had taken her first step. Bree also found a small jewellers’ box lined with blue velvet and containing a gold locket and chain. Engraved on the locket were the initials ‘BL’. Surmising the initials stood for her name, Brianna Louise, Bree flipped open the locket and, sure enough, discovered two little photographs of herself as a newborn baby. In one photograph her face was screwed up as though she had been crying, but in the other she was fast asleep, a peaceful expression on her face. That’s just like Mom, she thought, wanting to have photos of me being naughty and nice. In fact, so strong had been the divisions in Bree’s personality when she was a child, that she invented an imaginary friend for herself and named it Louise. Louise was like her naughty side, however, and Bree would personify her mischievous nature by putting the blame squarely on Louise’s shoulders if she ever got into trouble.

Bree ran her finger across the initials and wondered at what age she had grown out of her imaginary friend. Thinking back she realised that she had never really said goodbye to that little voice inside her, she just learned to recognise it as her own thoughts and the voice had matured into that of a grown woman. Putting the locket back in its box, Bree decided not to pack it away with the other baby things, but kept it to one side to be put with her own jewellery upstairs.

Finally, Bree repacked the chest putting the items back in organised piles, all except for the breeding logs, photograph albums and the journals. She propped the snap of her grandmother and the puppies against the carriage clock on the mantle piece but took the rest through to the dining room and put them on the bookcase next to all her own albums. She had just returned to the lounge when the telephone began ringing.

“Well hello pretty lady,” purred the familiar male voice, “you still enjoying life as the Duchess of the Manor?”

“I am not a Duchess, Max,” she laughed, “and this farm could hardly be called a Manor.”

“Yeah well your place is huge and you’ll always be a Duchess to me,” he replied, his voice softening. “How the hell are you anyway, Partner?”

“Great, thanks. How about you, and to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve been missing you, is all and Carol was wondering if you were gonna come home for a vacation ‘cause she’s missing you too.” Max’s wife, Carol, was almost as close to Bree as her old partner was. “She’s fully prepared to kick Ryan out of his bed at a moments notice if you say you’ll come for a visit.”

“That’s sweet, Max, and tell her I would if I could, but things are just so hectic round here. My kennels get their first paying guests in two weeks, I’ve a stable full of horses and Mike’s got a million things going on with the farm. Besides, Nic’s won’t be on vacation until July.”

“Guess we’ll just have to wait until August to see you I guess ‘cause our flights ain’t ‘til then.”

Bree squealed in delight, almost dropping the telephone in her excitement. “You mean you’re all coming? Here? In August? What date?”

“We fly out from JFK on the fifth, but the change in time zones means we get to London on the fourth, or the sixth, or hell even the fifth for all I know. Carol’s got it all worked out and she’s putting it in an email for you, I just wanted to tell you personally.”

“Oh, Max, I’m so glad you’re coming. I miss you all so much.”

“Hey, you’re not having second thoughts, are you? I thought you loved it there.”

“Of course I love it,” she smiled, imagining a look of concern crossing his handsome features. “I just wish you were all a bit closer, that’s all. You and Carol are the only family I have left.”

“Yeah, Duchess, I know. We miss you too.”

Bree swallowed down the lump that was forming in her throat and attempted to lighten the mood, “So, what’s been happening in the Big Apple since we last spoke?”

Max told Bree all about the usual politics in the department, asked her opinion on a case he was currently working on and brought her up to date on the educational achievements of his two boys, Ryan and Josh.

“What about you?” he asked, “Anything been happening in your life other than getting the businesses up and running? Is there a man on the scene yet?”

“Unfortunately the only men I get to see round here are either in the fifties or early twenties. Somehow I don’t think Nic would be too pleased if I introduced one of the young farm hands as his mother’s latest squeeze, even if I do enjoy the view when they strip off their t-shirts in the sun.”

“I bet Nic’s the only young guy around there who doesn’t think you should have a bit of fun,” he laughed. “You’re like Cameron Diaz, you get even hotter every year.” Max’s fantasies about the blonde actress were well known to the guys at the precinct as well as his extremely tolerant wife. “But really, Bree, there must be some social scene even way out there in the sticks? Didn’t you say the city was only about twenty miles away?”

“It is, but I don’t go there very often. There’s hardly any reason to go other than shopping. The rest of the time I’m working.”

“Well it’s about time you did something just for you. Get out there, girl,” Bree heard him sigh the usual ‘big brother’ sigh he used when he was lecturing her about something. “I thought you were moving over there so you would have a decent quality of life, not replace one form of workholism for another.”

“I do have a decent quality of life, it’s just busy at the moment. Besides,” she retorted, “I haven’t done a stitch of work on the businesses today. I’ve been doing a bit of historical research if you must know.”

“Historical research!” exclaimed Max incredulously, “I don’t believe a word of it! If I know you there’s some sort of mystery involved. Come on, ‘fess up.”

Bree smiled again. Even three and a half thousand miles away Max could still tell when she was hiding something. She began with the story Mike had told her about the body and finished with her plan to read her grandmother’s journal.

“Have you tried to get hold of the Police file yet?”

“No. That’s my next step. I just need to figure out who I should talk to and try to sweeten them up a bit. I don’t suppose it’ll be easy to get access to the files now that I’m just a civilian.”

“Well maybe I can help you out there,” mused Max. Bree imagined him rubbing his finger down the right side of his nose, the way he always did when he was thinking about something. “If I make a few calls from here, I may be able to talk to someone cop to cop and get you in that way. How about it, Duchess? Can you hold off for a few days?”

Bree agreed readily, wondering why she had not considered asking for Max’s help herself. “I’ve got loads to do in the meantime anyway,” she added. “Apart from reading the journal I guess I had better do a bit of real work round the farm too.”

They talked for a few minutes more, neither of them wanting to end the conversation, but Max finally signed off with the promise that he would look into the matter at his very first opportunity. Bree hung up the telephone reluctantly, suddenly overwhelmed by how home sick she had actually been and realising that she had grabbed onto the mystery of the unidentified body so readily because she was missing the excitement and satisfaction of a good chase. Somehow, solving the daily crossword puzzle in the local newspaper just didn’t have the same thrill as tracking down a vicious killer.

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