“Crawled out from under a rock.”
“And so where are all the good ones—why don’t they write something to counteract this trash? The piece Dad did on oystercatchers in Morecambe Bay—everyone loved it.”
“Well, that’s Michael’s remit, isn’t it? He’ll put out a load of lovely articles and drown these hacks out.”
“I’d say he’s already on it—but he’s got the television schedule and the foundation as well. It’s such a terrible time for this to…” I caught myself. “It’s terrible for it to happen at all.”
“God, Nick—this is bizarre.”
We settled into a moment of silence. The kettle switched off, and I poured up my mug of tea. A thought had formed during the night—I needed for it to see the light of day to know if it had any weight or if it arose from the guilt of the living.
“If I had answered his email, if I had gone to meet him, perhaps he wouldn’t’ve been killed.”
“No, Jools, don’t say that. What if you had gone to meet him—what then? You could’ve been there when this…this person killed him. And you could be dead now, too.” Bianca’s voice shook, and I heard her sniff.
“All these journos”—I nodded at the screaming headlines on my laptop screen—“they’re trying to make out Michael had something to do with it.”
“What do they think—that Nick came to win you back and Michael tried to stop him? Ha! That’s a load of bollocks, and if they had known Nick, they would know that.”
—
I checked the street from the cottage lookout window, saw no one loitering, and so slipped out and dashed down the pavement toward my car.
“Ms. Lanchester?”
Only one voice, and it sounded respectful, and so I made the mistake of turning. The little weasel with the cameras and the waistcoat made up of pockets had ducked out from between the wool shop, Three Bags Full, and Dresses by Dot.
“Ms. Lanchester, may I have a word?”
Don’t react, Julia. Don’t engage.
I bit back my reply and hurried off, getting to my car and pulling away before I checked the side mirror. He hadn’t followed—perhaps he had been assigned to that spot of pavement. Good, stand right there, don’t move. A sharp shower began, and with grim delight I saw he had no hat. I switched on the wipers.
Chapter 6
The journey to Cambridge didn’t take long, only forty minutes, but I added another thirty minutes by dropping by the marquee hire business to confirm details for the farmers’ market: the number of stalls we had and the size of the tents needed. In my head, I ticked that box—one of a myriad of tasks that would keep me busy throughout the week. I felt grateful for the work; I would need the distraction. Many details remained to be sorted for the market, final stall assignments, rubbish removal. And I had more to do beyond the market: the Saturday mini-coach tours that came out from Colchester and stopped at the TIC for a brief introduction to the estate and to collect their lunches from Akash. And the guided walk—we had joined the official Suffolk Walking Festival by organizing a birding event on the grounds of Hoggin Hall. It wasn’t until Friday—five days away. Would the police make us change the venue? Perhaps I could let Vesta deal with that one.
Michael had recommended that I avoid parking in front of Dad’s house, and so I did as he suggested, finding a place two streets over and setting out on foot. When I turned the final corner, I saw them—the reporters—strung along the pavement in front of the house. Even the little weasel had made it in time for my arrival. I hesitated for a moment and then marched on with purpose, my head held high.
“Julia! Did you know Michael was going to meet your ex?”
“Don’t you want everyone to know the truth? Give us your side!”
“Michael was jealous and lashed out—is that what happened?”
“Did Nick have your picture on him, Julia? Did he still love you?”
With every step and every question, my muscles tightened. The rabble followed me up the front walk, and by the time I reached the door, I vibrated with fury.
“Was it a sex game gone wrong, Julia?”
It was the woman, that last one, and like Vesuvius, I erupted.
“You stupid cow!” I shrieked, swinging wildly, trying to knock the muffed recorder out of her hand. “What do you know about anything?”
The others—cowards—leapt away. I would’ve gone for her, but behind me, the door opened. Michael grabbed me by the arms and pulled me in. He slammed the door shut, but not before I saw the smirk on her face.
Dad threw the latch and Beryl pulled the blinds. Michael lessened his tight grip as I tried to catch my breath.
“They’re evil—all of them,” I whispered.
“I don’t know how they can live with themselves,” Beryl said. She helped me out of my coat as if I were a child. “Listen now, I’ve pea-and-ham soup. When you’re ready.”
“Are you all right?” Michael asked, kissing my cheek. I nodded. I noticed the three of them exchanging glances. We were crowded in the small entry, but no one moved.
“I tell you what,” Dad said a bit too heartily, “why don’t we have our lunch and then we can sit down for a chat.” I cut my eyes at him. He smiled, but didn’t look directly at me. He’d always been terrible at deception—Mum could never tell him where she’d hidden our Christmas gifts, Bianca’s and mine—for fear we would read it on his face. And so I knew that something was up.
“Why don’t we have a chat first,” I replied. “It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”
Beryl’s gaze darted among us. Rupert looked at Michael.
“Yes,” Michael said. “Now’s a good time.”
He led me to the floral sofa and we sat. Dad and Beryl each took an armchair. No one spoke.
When I couldn’t take it any longer, the questions burst forth. “Right, out with it. Have you heard something else from the police? Have they caught the person? Did Linus ring—am I fired? Is he closing the TIC?”
“No, no, of course not,” Dad said.
“Well, then, what? Just say it.”
“Julia,” Dad began, “this is a dreadful thing that’s happened, and I’m so sorry that you’ve been caught up in it.” I noted two things here: first, he sounded as if he were introducing a lecture on the decline in the sparrow population, and second, he used my real name. “We don’t know how long it will take the police to discover who did this. We hope it’s only a day or two, but it could be longer. The longer it takes, the more difficult it will be for us to get on with things, the way those people are hanging on.” He nodded out toward the front gate. “And,” he added, “they seem to be focusing a great deal of their attention on Michael.”
“Yes,” I said, seizing on this, “and why is that? An anonymous caller who saw Michael turn into the drive and just happened upon Nick’s body on Saturday? You can’t tell me this was a rambler.” I snapped my fingers. “Friday was an open afternoon. We’ll check with Akash—no, not Akash, he and Vesta were away on Friday—Willow! She ran the opening on Friday afternoon. She might’ve seen something—I’ll have a word with her.”
“You will do no such thing,” Rupert said. “That’s for the police to see to.”
I opened my mouth to tell my father that I bloody well would do such a thing, but Michael cut in. “What we need at this moment is to take the spotlight off Rupert,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “And you.”
“And you,” I said.
“If we divert their attention long enough and give them nothing,” Michael said, “they’ll lose interest. These aren’t the mainstream press, these are low-class scandal sheets looking to make up the news if the truth doesn’t suit their purposes.”
“Horrible people,” Beryl contributed.
“As Michael says,” Dad continued, “we need to shift the attention away from you, the program, and all our events. Remember, the foundation is looking to award its first grant to a worthy project—we can’t taint that. Michael has come up with
an idea.”
I looked at Michael hopefully. He’s quite good at ideas; he sees the big picture and can come up with really fabulous concepts. The Rupert Lanchester Foundation was his idea, a way to reward companies that support good causes and give money to individuals and groups who need it. I excel—I don’t mind saying—at the day-to-day problems. It’s as we tell people: Michael’s the what and who, I’m the when and how.
Michael hesitated for a moment, as if bracing himself. “I’m stepping away until this is all settled,” he said.
“Stepping away from what?”
“I won’t be Rupert’s personal assistant. I won’t work on the television program, set his schedule, arrange lectures and appearances. We’ll put a hold on the foundation grant—postpone the decision. I’ll post an official statement on the website that I no longer have anything to do with Rupert Lanchester, the foundation, or A Bird in the Hand. This way, if the media want to speculate on my involvement in a murder, it’ll be me they focus on, and they’ll leave the rest of you alone.”
All eyes were on me as I tried to sort this out. “You mean that you’ll work behind the scenes?”
“I mean that it’s for the best that we carry through on what we say: I will leave my post.” A second’s pause. “And I’ll move out of the cottage.”
He took my hand, and I took it back as a pricking sensation danced up my arm.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
Dad’s voice was quiet. “That isn’t what he said, Jools.”
My voice was not quiet. “It is what he said. You’re breaking up with me—and quitting your post—all because of”—I waved my hand toward the front window—“because of them?”
“Because Nick is dead, and someone’s dropped enough of a hint to hope these journos will stitch me up for it,” Michael said, his eyes sharp like sapphires. “And while they’re at it, they’ll try to find a way to make their allegations stick to you, too, and I will not allow that to happen.”
“He’s drawing them away, Jools. It’s a good idea—we’ve got to at least try to see if it will work.”
I sniffed but didn’t speak. It was a terrible idea, and I would not capitulate. It was only that I needed time to figure out how it wouldn’t work and come up with a better plan.
Beryl stood up and brushed off her apron. “Let’s go eat our lunch.”
Dad followed Beryl, and they began to make noise in the kitchen with dishes and cutlery. I got as far as the foot of the stairs before Michael caught me. He ran a finger down my hand and caressed my palm.
“Let me do this for you. Please.”
His words brought tears to my eyes. He wouldn’t offer to sacrifice himself if he knew what a coldhearted person I was—unable to even grieve for Nick. Alive, I never thought about my ex-husband, and now dead, I resented his intrusion into my life.
“But we can still be in touch, email, phone.”
“They’re devious, Julia. They can hack email accounts and phone records—you’ve only to look at the headlines every day to see that. The point is to distance yourself from me.”
“But doesn’t that just serve their purpose—it makes you look guilty?”
“Let them turn all their attention on me, I don’t care. It can’t last forever.”
Of course, it was just possible that Michael could see what a shallow person I was. Perhaps this was his way of stepping back—one step, two steps, until eventually we were apart all the time. And it would last forever.
I looked at the floor. “Yeah, all right.”
—
We ate lunch at the kitchen table in silence. Beryl’s pea-and-ham soup was quite good, as always, but I couldn’t give it my full attention as I’d had an idea and needed to work it through before I presented it. I felt their eyes on me—one at a time, and briefly, as if they needed to keep track of my whereabouts, because I just might fly into a sudden rage and run out the door screaming like a madwoman. I kept my counsel until, as I chased a last bit of carrot round my bowl, I made what I hoped sounded like a casual observation.
“You’ll have a terrible time finding a replacement for Michael,” I said to Dad. “You bring someone on board now, you’ll spend all your time training him. You’ve far too many things going on.”
“I won’t look for anyone,” Dad said. “We’ll take a short break from filming, and I’ll cancel all appearances until this is finished.” I could tell he was feeling his way through this, and I also knew he hated to pull back from the work he loved. He’d paused in his work when Mum had died, but when he had resumed, it had made everyone feel better. Of course, six months later when he’d married Beryl, there’d been a longer pause, because I had reacted badly and quit as his assistant, departing in short order for new territory on the Fotheringill estate. That’s when he’d hired Michael—the best thing that had happened in a long time to Rupertand to me, too.
“At least I’ll have time to write those books Michael has promised the publisher,” Dad continued with an encouraging smile. “There now, that’s my time sorted.”
“That’s ridiculous—how will this help? Michael Sedgwick disappears, and Rupert Lanchester closes up shop? That’ll look worse.”
Dad frowned. I held my breath.
“I’ll make Basil my PA.” He offered this with a lack of conviction.
“Basil Blandy?” I exclaimed. “You must be joking. I can see it now, you’ll be scheduled for a lecture in Cumbria, and he’ll send you off to Cornwall by mistake.” I’d worked with Basil when I was Dad’s assistant. He was a young fellow—well, younger than I, probably in his late twenties—and was only a techie on the set, not known for his quickness or his efficiency. But he possessed a pleasant, unruffled demeanor, and Dad liked him. I considered him fairly useless.
“He’s already produced segments for the program,” Michael said. “He’s more capable than you think. With me out of the way, he’ll shine.”
When pigs flew, I thought, but Michael out of the way reminded me of my more immediate loss. “Where will you go?”
“My old flat in Haverhill is vacant—I rang a bit ago. I’ll go back there.”
I was sure that Nick had not arranged to have himself murdered on the Fotheringill estate, but I couldn’t help blaming him. My life was falling apart, and its downfall had been orchestrated by a man I hadn’t laid eyes on in five years. A jolt of anger shot through me, followed quickly by a wave of guilt.
—
Although the blinds on the front window were drawn, we each peered through a tiny opening as we passed by, taking our mugs of tea into the sitting room. They were still there—minus the big one, I thought. Now the twin jackets stood to one side, smoking. kitten woman with her half-cropped and half-wedged auburn hair lingered nearby, and several feet away from her, the little weasel. They were all one to me—one miserable, monstrous entity.
I set my tea on the table, inhaled deeply, and said, “Right, Dad, well, you cannot cancel any of your engagements, articles, or the filming for the program—it just won’t do. I’ll step in and take over my old post as your assistant. As a temporary replacement, until Michael returns.”
Dad sputtered.
“You already work full-time,” Michael reminded me. “More than full-time—same as me.”
“Pfft,” I said. “It was only last week that was truly too much, because I had all those organizational meetings—everything’s ticking along fine now. Every day at the TIC I have buckets of free time when no one comes in. Vesta will be more than willing to add a few hours to her schedule when I need to nip out for anything. And Willow—we’ve got Willow, remember.” Did we? There was something about Willow I should remember, but at that moment, couldn’t quite chase it down.
“No,” Dad said, shaking his head. “No.” He exhaled in a huff, but I could see a sense of relief on his face. “Well, at least we couldn’t keep up the filming.”
I was nearly in. “Nonsense—it’s spring, we’ve more and more daylight, and so I’
m well able to attend early-morning or evening shoots and still work at the TIC between. Just no filming too far away—we’ll make sure we stay at Marshy End or Lackford or, at the most, Minsmere, not John o’Groat’s.”
I meant it as a joke, but my chin trembled thinking of the weekend Michael and I weren’t allowed to finish and our talk of a holiday far away. I pressed my lips together.
“It would take up so much of your time,” Dad complained, but in a weak sort of way. I knew I had won. He probably thought it would be a good excuse to keep an eye on me. I, on the other hand, thought it might be a good excuse to stay in touch with Michael, regardless of his intent to stay away.
—
We started to work. Dad drafted a brief statement about Michael’s stepping away because of his concern for Rupert and the Lanchester family during this difficult time—this would be posted on the website but not sent out as a news release. No need to call attention to the move. Michael had been a hard sell for my idea of filling in, and had relented only when I’d begged. “I have to do my part,” I had said. “I have to.”
Michael insisted we sort through Rupert’s entire schedule for the upcoming fortnight. “Not that long, surely?” I asked, but Michael said, “To be on the safe side.”
“What about Dad’s website?”
“I can keep that up,” Michael replied. “Remote work—they won’t know I have my hands on it.”
At least he’d still have his hands on something—just not me.
Michael emailed me everything, but I also wanted it on paper, and so we stood quietly while the printer whirred and hummed and chugged. I noticed that I’d have an early filming at Marshy End on Wednesday—I’d need to leave the village by four o’clock that morning to get up there and back to the TIC. But Vesta could open, so I wouldn’t be under too strict a time constraint.
“Will you see Nick’s sister when she arrives?”
Lost in arranging my new single life, Michael’s question startled me. “I certainly hope not,” I said, and then heard my own words. “It’s just that, I only ever met her once—they weren’t close. Nick wasn’t terribly close to anyone.” I lifted my eyes and saw Michael shift his gaze away from me. I drew in a ragged breath. “What about the foundation?” I asked, turning away to wipe my nose on my sleeve.
Every Trick in the Rook Page 5
