Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  I shook my head. “The thing is, Peg, I’ve had no contact with Nick for five years—really, we weren’t in each other’s lives at all. It was over long ago. Michael had never met him. And yet, all it takes is for the police to get some anonymous call”—I caught myself before I began spilling too much—“for them to start in on us. And they say they have a witness who saw Michael turning into the drive to the Hall on Friday afternoon.” I nodded toward the door, where, outside and across the road, stood the brick pillars marking the entrance to the drive. “He’s being set up. What kind of a person would say that?”

  Peg’s face went white. “I said it.”

  Chapter 8

  “A pint here, please, Peg.”

  Peg moved over to pull the customer a pint, but kept glancing back at me, her ashen face now flushed scarlet. I stared at the bar, listening in my mind to her words again: “I said it.”

  The witness to Michael turning down the drive to Hoggin Hall, toward the summerhouse where Nick had been murdered, wasn’t some anonymous nutter or the murderer himself trying to pin it on Michael. It was Peg Phipps who, with her husband, Fred, ran the Stoat and Hare. A friend. I rubbed my face, but couldn’t rub out the frown I felt drawing up the skin on my forehead.

  “They came round,” Peg said, appearing in front of me. “The police. I spoke to a detective sergeant”—Natty Glossop—“he was here with a young thing in uniform and with red curls.” PC Moira Flynn. My unwanted knowledge of the Sudbury constabulary continued to grow.

  “It was Saturday afternoon,” Peg continued, “and we had seen police vehicles going down the drive. I was afraid something had happened to His Lordship. Then, after a while, here they came, talking to everyone in the pub. ‘Where were you yesterday between one o’clock and five o’clock?’ Where was I?”—Peg clicked her tongue—“Where am I ever but here?”

  “I don’t think they meant anything by it,” I said, reluctantly defending the police.

  Peg nodded. “They kept it up, though—asking the same thing in different ways. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’ ‘Did you notice any comings and goings?’ until I remembered walking outside to collect empty glasses and seeing Michael in his green Fiat turn into the drive to the Hall.”

  “Peg?” Fred stuck his head out the kitchen door, his chef’s skullcap snug over his short blond hair. “I can’t lay my hands on…oh, hello, Julia, evening. You all right?”

  “Evening, Fred. Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I’ll be right in, love,” Peg said to her husband. Fred disappeared.

  “But Michael only turned round and came straight out again,” I said. “He forgot we weren’t driving to Dunwich together until he got here, and then he had to find a place to turn round, reverse his journey.”

  “Yes, but you see, it isn’t as if I’ve my eyes on that drive every minute of the day. I could only tell them I saw him go in, not come out again, because I came straight back indoors. The place was heaving on Friday afternoon. I could barely keep my head on straight.”

  I thought back and remembered driving by as I left the village and seeing the crowd of people on the pavement, the children playing. “Did you have a wedding?” I asked.

  “No, funeral reception.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “But they all looked so happy.”

  “Funerals can be grand occasions—when it’s for one of the older folk. This fellow now was ninety-two. He’d moved away from the village a few years ago, into a care facility in Bury Saint Edmunds, but he was buried here and he’d loads of family and friends that came from all over. It’s such a lovely time to gather and tell stories over a drink or two. It’s a reunion of sorts.”

  “But weddings are happy occasions, too. Right?”

  “You’d think,” Peg said, wiping the bar with a towel. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked into the kitchen during a wedding reception and found the bride collapsed in a corner crying her eyes out.”

  “Lovely—makes one want to leap at marriage.”

  Peg smiled. “Not that we can’t get a few strange ones in for a funeral, too. Gwen had to turf some wild thing out of the kitchen on Friday afternoon.”

  “Gwen?”

  “Gwen Gunn, our new cleaner. She does a bit of prep in the kitchen before she leaves for the day.”

  “Is that Tennyson’s mum?”

  “You’ve met the girl, then, have you?”

  “And her rook. How many jobs does her mum have?”

  “Well, let’s see now,” Peg said as she looked up at the ceiling. “She’s here, and does a bit of cleaning at Dot’s, and takes in ironing. But she’s always looking for more hours. They’ve had a rough time of it, apparently. Dad died when Tennyson was a baby, and the two lived with Gwen’s mum, just eking by. Then the gran up and died. She was an old friend of Dot’s, and that’s how they landed here. They’ve debt, and Gwen’s determined to see it through.”

  “Sounds like a lonely life for Tennyson—no wonder her best friend is a rook.”

  —

  It took all my energy just to step inside my cottage knowing what waited for me—nothing. Once in, I leaned back against the door and my eyes searched the sitting room and kitchen for some sign of Michael’s existence. But he traveled light—beyond his clothes he had brought little with him from his flat in Haverhill, and so had had little to pack up.

  Upstairs, I noted glumly that he’d cleared out the two drawers I’d relinquished and emptied his side of the wardrobe. No, wait—my heart leapt. Here was the old stretched-out T-shirt he slept in. A giveaway from his family’s PR business, the logo and name—HMS, Ltd.—were almost illegible it had been washed so often. He’d left it in a heap on the bed. I undressed and took up the T-shirt, burying my face in it before pulling it over my head. It came mid-thigh on me. I hugged myself and retired.

  I’d read somewhere that one’s bed should be used only for sleeping or sex. As I knew I’d be getting little of one and none of the other, I took my laptop to bed with me, propped myself up against a mass of pillows, and googled “Avian Institute of Learning.”

  No salacious headlines popped up—the scum news sites apparently had no use for Nick’s work, his lifelong love of tracking vagrant birds. The AIL did have a website, but it offered nothing in the way of personal information about its staff (numbered, as far as I could tell, three, although no names appeared, as if they were a clandestine organization like MI5). Were the other two as antisocial as Nick, I wondered, preferring to spend their lives apart from the real world? The “About,” “Our Work,” and “Species List” pages were filled with copious amounts of data about birds, climate, seasons, ocean temperature, drift, and volcanoes. “Contact Us” included only an email address, but it wasn’t the one Nick had used to email me.

  —

  I awoke to darkness. My laptop—sleeping better than I—lay open beside me. One tap of the space bar and I saw the time: just gone four-thirty. I closed my eyes, but my lids were spring-loaded and popped open again, so I gave up, showered, and ate a piece of toast. After only a brief glance at the work of those jackals (RUPERT LANCHESTER—HIS DAUGHTER’S AGONY—DID SHE PLOT WITH BOYFRIEND IN EX-HUSBAND’S DEATH?), I headed to the TIC down an empty high street, not even Alfie for company.

  Just as well I was at it so early—if I wanted to work two separate jobs, I would need every moment before and after the TIC opening hours. Even with Vesta adding to her work schedule and Willow’s support, it would be a miracle. Perhaps Willow could take the next farmers’ market meeting. No, that wouldn’t work—although I’d come to rely on her a great deal the past few months, I wouldn’t want to throw her to those wolves. Willow. What was it I should remember about Willow?

  Just before nine o’clock, I’d almost got there—knitting together my two schedules all the way through the weekend. Marshy End film segment tomorrow morning—perhaps we could get two or even three segments for the program—plus, a second one Friday morning, and one on Monday out at the
coast, at Minsmere. I shoved that to the back of my mind. Thursday lunch, I’d arranged to meet with a tourist manager from Lavenham, a village off the estate. Perhaps I could put that off for a week or so. Oh yes, and Saturday we had a mini-coach tour, and I usually gave a brief overview to the estate. But this visit, they’d be viewing an archaeological excavation next to the abbey ruins—something about an Iron Age fort—that the University of East Anglia was carrying out. Did I need to be on-site? Surely not, and Akash, who provided the boxed lunches, could also provide an introduction—must check on that.

  Really, if I could’ve added just three more hours to each day—in order to get any sleep at all—I believe this would work, as long as DI Callow and DS Glossop got busy and found the person who killed Nick before I keeled over from exhaustion. What a bother.

  Vesta and Willow appeared before me, dripping. Behind them and out the window, I could see a sharp shower beating rain against the TIC window. I hadn’t heard Vesta’s key in the lock or the bell, because I had switched the kettle on. We really needed a new one—this thing made so much noise we often had difficulty talking while it hissed, popped, and wheezed.

  “There you are, now,” Vesta said, as if I’d been playing at a game of hide-and-seek. “Akash rang to say that the light went on here ages ago.”

  “Yes, well,” I said lightly, “you know what they say…” No rest for the wicked. “The early bird—that’s what they say. And I’ve accomplished so much, you won’t believe it.” I stood, stretched, and heard my back pop.

  “Oh, Julia, you are truly dedicated to your work, aren’t you? Isn’t the estate incredibly lucky to have you.” Willow held a pink bakery box in one hand and in the other a suitcase. At that moment, I remembered what I had forgotten. Willow was leaving.

  “All packed, are you?” I said with such fake cheerfulness that I was certain Vesta would cotton on. I turned away from her to open the tea tin. “It was so good of you to stop in before you and Cecil left.”

  The details came flooding into my mind. Cecil had got on with an estate at the very northern tip of Northumberland—it would be a six-month internship, preparing him to come home and run his own family’s estate. Cecil had asked Willow to accompany him, and she had secured a training teacher’s position at a school nearby.

  The couple had met the previous autumn, when Cecil had moved back to his family home. It seemed an unlikely pairing—Cecil had gone to the best schools and appeared to be looking down his nose at people even when he wasn’t, and Willow, she of the batik-print skirts and layers of crocheted tops, was possessed of a free and artistic spirit. And yet, they delighted in each other.

  We were all happy for them, and now that I’d remembered those details, I knew Vesta and I could manage quite well. In my mind, I began to pick apart my carefully woven schedule in order to stitch together a different pattern.

  Vesta shed her coat and Willow removed the clear poncho she had draped over a vintage floral silk kimono. Peeking from the kimono opening, I could see her crocheted waistcoat.

  “Cecil’s taking a last look at accounts with His Lord—Linus,” Willow said, her face glowing pink at the use of the earl’s Christian name, although he had been the one to insist.

  “I certainly hope that’s for us,” I said, nodding at the bakery box. A savory aroma escaped from it, which made me quite faint, and I wasn’t sure how long Willow would wave it around before revealing its contents.

  She held up the box like a prize. “Cheese-and-bacon scones—I’d asked Nuala if she might possibly have them ready early today, for our little farewell tea.” Willow’s eyes cut to Vesta, who shook her head a millimeter.

  I looked from Willow to Vesta and back to Willow. I knew what they wanted to say, but neither spoke. When the kettle switched off, we all jumped.

  “See here now,” I said as I filled the teapot, hoping I could avoid the entire subject of a murder in the summerhouse. “We’ll miss you, of course, Willow, but the time will fly.”

  “Julia…” Willow began.

  “Willow,” Vesta said.

  Oh God, here it was—I’d have to tell them what I knew, what the police said, how I had no idea why Nick was here. I’d have to tell them that I’d taken over Michael’s post and would need to rely on—well, on Vesta alone, as it turned out.

  “Debra is pregnant!” Willow exclaimed.

  I squinted my eyes at her, unable to comprehend the words.

  “Isn’t that the most wonderfully fabulous news?” she asked. “Vesta’s over the moon, aren’t you, Vesta?”

  Vesta threw Willow a frown, mitigated by a broad smile. And the penny dropped—Debra was pregnant.

  “Vesta!” I gave her a big hug. “How fantastic!”

  This was indeed wonderfully fabulous news. Vesta’s only child, Debra, was married and lived in New Zealand, just outside of Christchurch. In the year I’d known Vesta, I’d learned that Debra had had two early miscarriages, but retained hope that she could carry a baby full term.

  “How far along is she?” I asked Vesta, who had reached into her pocket for a tissue.

  “Eight months,” Willow said. “And on bed rest. But everything looks good.”

  “Eight months?” I frowned. “You didn’t tell me.”

  Willow opened her mouth, but Vesta cut in. “I found out only this weekend—they didn’t want me to get my hopes up, you see.”

  “They want Vesta to go out,” Willow continued as she opened the pink box and distributed the scones. “Be there for the birth. After all, she isn’t just a granny, she’s a home health-care nurse. Retired.”

  “It’s a lovely idea,” Vesta said, retrieving the milk from the fridge, as we settled at the table. “But the timing isn’t best, actually—and they don’t really need me. I’m not sure I should go.”

  “You will go,” I said.

  Vesta fretted over her scone. “It’s a difficult time for you now, Julia—I shouldn’t abandon you.”

  Her kindness stung my eyes. Vesta, always willing to fill in the ragged edges of my erratic life, always with a kind and understanding word that made me see my problems in a new light, offered to forgo the chance of a lifetime because of Nick’s death. Well, I’d be damned if I would breathe a word about doubling my workload—I would stay awake for a week rather than have her miss her first and possibly only grandchild’s appearance into the world.

  “There is absolutely no reason for you to stay,” I said. “I’ve got everything well in hand here. In fact, you’d better leave as soon as possible. This baby could come early. Go home now, pack. Wait, let’s find flights for you.”

  “Akash sorted all that out for her,” Willow said, smiling to reveal that little gap between her front teeth. “She flies out this evening. He’s waiting for the word to hit the ‘buy’ button, and he’ll drive her to Heathrow.”

  “Shall I stand out on the pavement and send up a rocket to signal him?” I asked. Instead, Vesta sent a text to him at the corner shop. We continued our tea in high spirits, Vesta describing how Debra and her husband had given her all their air miles to lessen the cost of what had to be an enormously expensive journey. I listened and reacted, but mostly stayed busy with my scone. I could feel Vesta’s gaze on me, but I worried that if I looked up to give her a reassuring nod, she’d see the whole story in my eyes.

  —

  “What will you do if you need any time off?” Vesta asked as we stood at the door with Willow.

  “I’ll ask Thorne to fill in for me,” I said. “Tourists would love to walk in the TIC and be greeted by the butler, don’t you think?”

  We had a good chuckle at the thought of Thorne, always in his dark suit that set off his cotton-ball head of hair, standing behind the counter. When Cecil pulled up to the curb, Willow walked out, but turned back abruptly, her face solemn. “Julia, will you be all right?”

  “Of course I will. Be sure to let me know how you’re both doing.”

  I stood at the window and watched as Cecil got out
of his car and helped Willow with her bag.

  Cecil’s car disappeared round the bend, and I turned back to work to find Vesta in my face.

  “What about Michael?”

  “It’s fine, really,” I said, edging past her to escape. “Not to worry.”

  “And the two of you?”

  I walked over to the counter and pretended to straighten the tray of key rings Alfie had sorted. “We’re fine, too. Everything’s fine.”

  At that moment, I was saved from further questioning by three of the archaeology students. I breathed a sigh of relief. I gave Vesta a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “Now, go be a granny.”

  —

  Once alone, I first rang Linus. As my employer, he needed to know the truth—or at least part of it. I told him Vesta’s story, and about Michael’s temporary sabbatical, but kept back the part about me now working two jobs. I needn’t burden him with my problems, not with his own schedule so busy. Last year, the estate’s financial situation had improved enough for Linus to hire an agent to oversee all the working farms and businesses. Sadly, that didn’t last long for reasons I tried not to dwell on. Linus had decided not to fill the post, but rather do the work himself until Cecil could take over the management.

  “It’s wonderful news about Vesta’s daughter,” Linus said. “But now with Willow off, too, how will you manage?”

  “You know I love a work challenge,” I said. “And it’ll be good to stay busy.”

  “Julia, I’d rather you not be alone there in the TIC until the police catch the person who did this to Mr. Hawkins. They’ve been here, of course—the police—and questioned all of us and asked for descriptions of the visitors to the Hall that day, but I don’t think we were of much help. See here, as Michael has taken time off from his work with Rupert, why don’t you ask him to keep you company during the day?”

  What a lovely idea—impossible, but lovely. The suggestion told me that Dad had not revealed to Linus that Michael had taken time off from me, too, and I wasn’t about to venture down that road. No need to cause worry when I could take it all on myself.