Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  “Let’s not worry about that now—we’ll postpone the decision on the grant. Just as well, as the applications hadn’t been assembled yet. I believe there are five, but I’m not entirely sure about that—or who they’re from. I didn’t want to take a look until they were all ready to be reviewed.”

  “Michael, I’m so sorry about this. And I really don’t see why you have to go away. Apart from distracting those journos, I mean.”

  He studied the pieces of paper as they were pulled in and pushed out of the printer. Without looking at me, he said, “You need…I want to give you the space you need.”

  Space for what? But I didn’t reply. He reached for me, and I threw my arms round his neck and clung to him.

  “Look now,” he said, his lips against my temple, “I’ll head out first, go to the cottage, and collect my things. You wait here a bit—with any luck, they’ll follow me to the village and away again. And remember”—he leaned back and gazed at me, his eyes a midnight blue—“the police will find out who killed Nick.”

  —

  The police—I had a thing or two to say to them.

  Michael had given me a quick kiss before he left, and we had seen him walk out and speak to the group of leeches, after which they trailed after him. I stayed in Cambridge for thirty minutes more, helping to wash up.

  “You should wait a bit longer,” Dad said. “Stay the night, why don’t you?”

  “No, I’m fine. I need to do a bit of shopping before I go home. Don’t worry. It looks as if Michael’s taken care of them. Right, well, I’ll let you know how filming goes on Wednesday morning.”

  At their front gate I turned, waved the all clear, and hurried to my car. I drove straight to the police station in Sudbury—well, not straight, as the two main routes would take me through either the village or near Haverhill, and I certainly didn’t want to see Michael, his Fiat packed with his belongings, either leaving the cottage or pulling up to his old flat.

  —

  It had gone six o’clock as I approached the Sudbury station. It had been a mucky drive, the rain keeping me company the entire way. I hesitated before I entered the car park, but I saw no one waiting on the pavement. They wouldn’t dare harass a citizen on police property, would they? And no one would shout insults and insinuations at an officer who could toss them in the nick. I sat in my car, gathering my nerve to go in.

  Then, through the rain cascading down the windshield, I saw a familiar figure walk out the door of the station. Yes! Detective Sergeant Natty Glossop—the soft touch of the Callow-Glossop investigative team. Buoyed by my good luck, I popped out and called out to him.

  “Ms. Lanchester?” he asked, glancing past me.

  “I’m alone, Sergeant. I stopped back by to have a word with you.”

  “You’ve no coat—you’d better come in,” Glossop said, reaching for the door.

  “No, really, this is fine,” I said, huddling under the narrow overhang. I’d take the rain over going inside the station and running into DI Callow, she who played her cards close to her chest. I wanted information and, in the past, DS Glossop had very kindly provided it. “Sergeant, the press—reporters and photographers from those awful online websites—are harassing us and harassing Michael. They seem to know details about what happened to Nick. Did you tell them?”

  Glossop took a step back and straightened his shoulders. “Our team would never leak information on an investigation.”

  “But then, how do those people know so much?”

  The DS took a deep breath. His eyes darted to his wristwatch, reminding me of the time of day and how many people actually wanted to go home.

  “This is a bad time,” I said.

  “Not a problem, Ms. Lanchester.” Glossop shook his head. “It’s only that, well, my mum, you see. On her own now, and I usually stop there for my tea in the evening.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Sergeant,” I stuttered. “Please, go on.” How lovely he had someone waiting for him.

  “I will not leave with you believing anyone in the constabulary could—”

  “But the thing is,” I cut in, “we’ve got a pack of journalists—if you can call them that—following us around and asking some pretty awful questions. Surely you’ve seen the stuff they’re putting online.”

  Glossop frowned and shook his head. “I won’t look at that rubbish, and you shouldn’t, either. See how it’s upset you—you must pay no attention to them, Ms. Lanchester.”

  Easy for him to say. “But the thing is, they must’ve got an idea somewhere about your…accusation that Michael and Nick met.”

  “We made no such accusation,” Glossop said. “But we must follow every lead. I’m sure you remember that.”

  “How can you even rely on an anonymous tip about Nick being there, and Michael turning down the drive?”

  “No, now.” Glossop held up an instructional index finger. “The anonymous tip about the body and the witness to Mr. Sedgwick turning into the drive are two separate items here.”

  It took me a moment to process this. An anonymous tip is a highly suspicious thing, but a witness is another matter.

  “Someone saw Michael? Who?”

  “At this time, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “No!” I shouted, causing both of us to flinch. Calm down—Natty Glossop is an ally. “I don’t intend for Michael to be railroaded for something he didn’t do on two bits of flimsy—well, not even evidence. Hearsay!”

  “Ms. Lanchester—” the sergeant began in an injured tone.

  He hesitated as a uniformed young woman burst out of the door and walked between us, calling over her shoulder, “Evening, Natty.”

  “Evening, Moira,” he answered, then glanced at me, straightened his already straight shoulders, and called out, “that is, PC Flynn.”

  PC Flynn pulled off her bowler hat and gave him a toss of her red curls in reply.

  “Sergeant,” I said. Natty tore his eyes away from the PC. “The witness, the anonymous tip.”

  “Yes,” Glossop said, “what of this anonymous tip?” He seemed to have forgotten his mum and PC Flynn, and stood with eyebrows raised.

  He wanted me to take notice of something. Think, Julia. “Anonymous,” I said, feeling out the word. “Anonymous. Ah! Why anonymous? What was this person afraid of?”

  Glossop nodded, as if I had answered an exam question correctly. “Tips can be anonymous for a variety of reasons. Could be the person was where he or she shouldn’t’ve been and is embarrassed about that. Could be the old ‘I don’t want to get involved’ excuse.”

  “Could be it’s the murderer giving you the tip,” I said.

  “Or someone close to.”

  “So couldn’t you make a statement or something to say that the police do not believe Michael is involved in any way with Nick’s death?”

  “Although it appears unlikely that Mr. Sedgwick is involved, we must remain open to anything.”

  Unlikely. Glossop spoke the word as if he held it out at arm’s length, afraid to get too close.

  “And this is why we want to talk with Mr. Sedgwick further—perhaps you’ll tell him we’d like to see him.”

  In that moment, I saw my cottage waiting for me—empty and cold. I shivered. The DS must’ve read it on my face, for he hurried on. “Although perhaps it would be better if I rang him first.”

  “He’s moved out.” I might as well come out with it—after all, Glossop was the police and so surely he’d discover it. “Only temporarily, until you find Nick’s killer. They’re after him, these journos, and he wanted to take the spotlight off Rupert. And me,” I added in a tiny voice.

  “That’s admirable of him,” Glossop said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and trying not to look at his watch.

  “Off with you, Sergeant,” I said. “You’ve a home to go to—and someone waiting for you.”

  Chapter 7

  I drove back to the village and parked my car in its lockup behind Nuala’s Tea Room. When I
walked out onto the high street, I peered in the window, just in case Nuala had remained after hours washing down tables or something and I could spend some of my empty evening with her. But no, Nuala closed at five o’clock, and it was seven now. I contemplated my next move, but my feet made the decision before my brain, and I turned not left—toward my cottage—but right. Up the rest of the high street and across the bridge over the brook. Straight toward the drive that led to Hoggin Hall.

  I could hear the rookery even over the busy road traffic—a riotous noise as the birds began to settle for the night. I thought of Alfie and wondered if he was now safe at home with Tennyson and her mum. Had that been Alfie harassing the journos outside my cottage?

  I stopped at the brick pillars that marked the entrance to the Hall and looked down the drive, which led straight back before eventually curving to the right. A mix of horse chestnuts, rowan, and beech trees lined the way, with scrubby hawthorn filling in, and yellow cowslips blooming in the grass. The rowan had already leafed out, its clusters of tiny white flowers attracting a steady stream of bees, but other trees—the beeches and oaks—wait until spring is well and truly under way to show their new foliage. Their leaves had only just begun to unfurl, turning the wood into a shimmer of fluorescent green that glowed in the last of the sun that peeked out from beneath the clouds. Along the way to the Hall, an overgrown path took off to the left, leading down an incline before climbing up a hillock, where sat the summerhouse.

  I turned into the drive with no thought. Each step took me away from the noise of the road traffic and into a gloomy dusk with a heavy silence where no birds sang and the only sound was the echoing crunch of chipped rock under my shoes.

  Halfway down, I paused and looked to my left. The path was overgrown no longer. The ground had been trampled, the brambles pushed back and beaten down by police boots; I could smell the damp earth and crushed leaves on the cool air. And through the tangle of leaves and stems, I imagined I could see the blue-and-white police tape wrapped round the building. I took several deep, even breaths, my mind seeking something normal to settle on. We should’ve started on the summerhouse before this, I thought, grabbing for the lifesaver of everyday business. Refurb—repair the cracked steps up to the door, replace crumbled bricks. There was a fireplace inside, I believed—a summerhouse it may be, but even so, this was England, and July evenings could carry a nip to them. Windows on all sides of the octagonal building must’ve given a grand view of the estate before the wood grew up.

  I heard the crack of a twig off to my right. I whipped my head round and squinted to where the wood opened up into grass and a ditch ran that emptied into the brook. I saw movement, and my heart pounded in my chest until I recognized a low brown figure with a black tail. A stoat with some small furry creature hanging limply from its mouth. I turned and ran.

  You’re such a coward, Julia Lanchester. But my admonition didn’t stop my full retreat—I dashed across the road at the first break in traffic to the Stoat and Hare at the bottom of Church Lane. I paused for a moment under the swinging pub sign to catch my breath, glancing up at the fanciful depiction of the eponymous animals—both wearing waistcoats and sitting together over pints of ale, the hare’s long legs crossed, the stoat’s sinuous body draped over the chair. All things being equal, I preferred this fellow to the real thing.

  —

  My entrance into the pub hit the pause button on all conversation and activity. Two groups of locals stood stock-still holding their pints—their only movement when they cut their eyes at me, then dropped their gazes to the floor. I stopped just inside and for one second wanted to step back out again, but instead I swallowed hard, put my chin in the air, and made my way through the crowd, nodding greetings to anyone who would actually make eye contact. I saw none of the jackals from the press—my one consolation and the only thing that kept my feet moving.

  “Julia, how lovely.” Peg came out from behind the bar and met me halfway, as if I needed an escort. “We haven’t seen you in a week or two—I’m so glad you’ve stopped.” She glanced round the room, still silent. “Would you like to sit in the dining room; it’s quiet in there on a Monday, you know, you’ll have your pick of tables.”

  “No, Peg, thanks. I’d like to take a seat at the bar, if that’s all right.”

  “It’s more than all right—you can keep me company.” She stripped the band off her ponytail and scraped her hair back before securing it again.

  I chose a spot at the curved end where I could see the room, climbed up on a stool, and hung my bag on the hook beneath the bar.

  Peg’s eyes flashed toward the door, and I knew I had to say something.

  “Michael…we…that is…” I should’ve planned this better. Peg’s crestfallen look didn’t help. “Business,” I blurted out. “He’ll be away on business for a bit—not long, really, but as I’m on my own this evening, I couldn’t think of a better place to eat.”

  “Well, then,” Peg said with such an expansive smile that I could tell she didn’t believe a word of it. “Would you like to see a menu?”

  We both laughed—I’d eaten at the Stoat and Hare once a week for the past year. Apart from the nightly specials, I could’ve recited the entire menu without a single prompt.

  “I tell you what I’d like,” I said. “One of Fred’s massive beef burgers—on a brioche bun. And chips. A pile of hot, salty chips.”

  “Right you are,” Peg said, reaching over and squeezing my arm. “That’s the spirit. And a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, lovely,” I said, but with less conviction. Michael was the one who knew a great deal about wine, and he always ordered for us. I knew next to nothing. “Red. You choose for me, why don’t you?”

  I smiled at the crowd, but everyone seemed to be looking the other way, and so I took out my phone and went through the snapshots I’d taken at Southwold with Michael. Peg worked nonstop, serving pints and meals, but she kept glancing over my way. My burger arrived just in time, rescuing me before I tumbled into a morose pit of self-pity. I’d just taken an enormous first bite when one of the local farmers came up to the bar. Peg was on the other side of the room, delivering plates of fish and chips. The farmer rocked on his heels for a moment and then turned to me.

  “Evening, Julia.”

  “Eh-ng, Ohng,” I replied.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, his eyes darting from bottle to bottle behind the bar. I heard him take a deep breath. “So will we see Michael at the market setup?”

  The food in my mouth turned to sawdust.

  “And what do you mean by that, Tom?” Peg shot the question at him as she returned.

  “I—” He looked back at his friends, and they looked elsewhere.

  “I don’t expect you and your mates to come into this pub and hound my customers,” Peg said as she jabbed a finger on the bar.

  Tom sputtered, throwing another futile look to his group. “No, it’s only that—”

  I put down my burger. I couldn’t chew. I couldn’t swallow. I grabbed for my napkin.

  Peg’s finger drew an arc around the room and I froze, napkin midair. “All of you, listen to me,” she said. “I want you to remember what this village was like before we had a tourist manager, before Julia arrived. We could barely get anyone from off the estate to stop. Who would you be selling your cheese to, Tom, if it weren’t for Julia, I’d like to know—those expensive hay-wrapped parcels of Suffolk blue? Derry, who would buy your little potted herb gardens and rose-hip wreaths if visitors didn’t come out on the weekends from London? And you, Ben, you and your Apiary Arts—that honey’s flying off the shelves of Akash’s shop only because Julia here got you a mention in The Guardian. She goes above and beyond, and you all know that Michael, despite having his own work, helps out anytime he can. And how do you lot respond? By believing a load of codswallop you read online?”

  The silence in the room throbbed so that my eardrums hurt. I’d never seen this fierce side of Peg before. If I had further trouble w
ith the asparagus farmers, perhaps I’d get her to sort them out for me.

  Tom’s face could’ve passed for a boiled lobster. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Peg.”

  Peg huffed. “Too right, you didn’t.” She scanned the crowd. “We need to show our support where it counts. I’m saying this right now: Fred and I will not look at those rubbish websites—no scanning, no surfing, no nothing. And I expect the rest of you to do the decent thing and stay away from them, too. Now”—she laid her hands flat on the bar—“what’ll it be for everyone, same again?”

  A dozen pairs of hands dived into trouser pockets as the crowd shuffled up to the bar and ordered. The food in my mouth tasted like food again, and I chewed with relish as I gave Peg a quick smile.

  “Honestly, Julia.” Tom still stood next to me. “I don’t believe any of that crap. I wouldn’t even look at it, except someone showed me. You know?”

  Someone showed you, and you looked. But I swallowed and said, “It’s all right, Tom,” with as great a magnanimity as I could muster. “And of course Michael will be there to help set up. He wouldn’t miss it.”

  I was left to finish my meal in peace. Eventually Peg caught up with the drinks orders and came back to me.

  “Of course they would all know,” I said. “You’ve seen it, too, haven’t you?”

  Peg leaned over the bar, dropping her voice. “They may have seen it, but they only needed to be reminded of the truth. Everyone thinks too much of you and Michael to really believe any of that rubbish. Here now, let me get you another glass of wine.”

  When she returned, I said, “My compliments to the chef. I particularly like this aioli sauce for the chips. Fred deserves a mention in Suffolk Magazine, I’d say.”

  “This can’t be easy for you,” Peg said. I had to face it—this would be the number-one topic of conversation until it was over. “Do you think…well, had your ex come back because he wanted to start up again with you?”