“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m sure I’ll be fine here,” I said breezily. “Really, Linus, what happened has nothing to do with me. And look—we’ve got a busy high street right outside the door. If I need anything, Akash is at the corner, and you are only moments away.”
Next, I unraveled the schedules I had so successfully woven together and began to reweave. After that, it was on to Rupert’s business—I attacked his summer schedule with a vengeance, hoping to clear off the emails that had come in since Friday. Dad loved to visit events around the country, insisting he stay in touch with his public, which offered him the best opportunities to teach about nature. Michael had suggested I leave the detail work off, but the organizers of everything from the Brixham Pirate Festival to the Green Man festival in Wales had questions about timing and crowds and which birds would they see that day and would Rupert be driving his old green Range Rover—as much a character of the television program as he was.
Although the morning had begun wet, the afternoon turned out fine. Following the usual cause and effect, when the sun began to shine, visitors appeared from nowhere to interrupt my work with a constant stream of questions about footpaths, Boadicea, and did Queen Victoria ever visit the current earl’s great-grandfather. I caught myself wishing they’d all just go away so that I could get some work done—followed by giving myself a mental slap. These people were my work.
As the first visitors had come in and I rose to greet them, I’d removed my name tag and tossed it in the biscuit tin. Who knew how many eyes had seen those horrible headlines, and I didn’t want my identity to prompt them to ask questions unrelated to tourist activities on the estate. I smiled and welcomed each one, then gave a short overview of the estate, using the map on the wall. By the time I’d finished my mini-lecture, a crowd had gathered in the TIC.
None of them gave me a second glance, but instead concentrated on the map. Good—perhaps they didn’t look at the online tabloid press. The proper newspapers had printed a small account of Nick’s death without implying any scandal—“Sudbury police are investigating a suspicious death on the Fotheringill estate…” That sort of thing.
At lunch, I nipped down to the corner for a sandwich to find old McKiddie minding the shop. McKiddie had run the shop before Akash and these days filled in for him occasionally. A tiny bubble of hope lifted my spirits as it occurred to me Akash might fill in at the TIC the occasional morning or afternoon, because McKiddie could fill in for him. Akash knew a great deal about the estate. He had been my right-hand man in organizing the open afternoons at the Hall, which practically ran themselves now, he had trained the docents so well. I hadn’t even noticed the tightening in my chest until that moment when I saw McKiddie and the tightness eased, just a bit.
“It’s awfully good of you to help Akash out like this,” I said as I paid for my tuna and sweet corn, plus—remembering our stores were low—a package each of malted milk, chocolate digestives, and shortbread fingers. “I know he appreciates it.”
“I’ve not minded,” McKiddie said. “But I’ve given my notice, so to speak—today is the end of the likes of me in Smeaton. I’m moving in with my daughter in Shropshire, you see. So it’s farewell to the Fotheringill estate for old McKiddie.”
He dropped my coins in the till along with my heart at the news. “How lovely for you,” I managed in a thick voice.
—
I ate my lunch as I prepared to ring the production staff of A Bird in the Hand to let them know I’d be on the set the next morning. Michael had suggested I’d need to contact Basil only and he’d pass the word along, but I knew better—my news would go in one of Basil’s ears and out the other before it had time to alight anywhere. Still, I did start with him, out of courtesy, and was surprised into silence at a female voice answering. It took me a second to think of what to say.
“Is…is this Basil’s phone?”
“Yeah,” the voice said. “Hang on. Baz—it’s Julia.”
“Be right there.” I heard a voice in the distance.
I reflected on the familiar tone this woman took with both Basil and me. Who was she? I stopped myself just short of being miffed. Was it really my job to know? Filling in, Julia. You’re doing Michael’s job here, not your own. But perhaps this woman was a new crewmember—shouldn’t I go over staff changes with Michael?
I already had an ongoing debate in my head about our “no contact” order. Would those journos really care if we sent each other a text, or spoke on the phone? But the next minute, I would imagine the journos hacking into our private accounts, followed by screaming headlines: COUPLE CONTINUE TO PLOT—ARE THEY GETTING AWAY WITH MURDER? Right, no contact it is.
“Hiya, Julia.”
“Hello, Basil. Listen, I’m ringing to let you know that I’ll be producer for the next…oh, fortnight or so. Something’s come up, and Michael…”
“No worries,” Basil said. “We got wind of it. Look, I’m…er, I’m sorry about all that business. You all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll ring the rest of the team.”
“No need, I’ll tell them.”
“Well, I’ll see you in the morning, then. Six o’clock—you remember that, don’t you?”
“Righto.”
No, I was not fine, and Basil’s cavalier attitude toward work made me even less so. I could see it now—I’d be ringing him from Marshy End tomorrow well after six, asking where the camera guy was, the truck with the audio feed, the nest cams at the riverside. I couldn’t trust him, and so I would ring each of the crew myself. I finished my sandwich, made myself a mug of tea, and started in.
But they did know—every one of them, from camera guy to sound tech had already received a text from Basil. I should’ve been relieved at this—one fewer thing to worry about. But in the previous twenty-four hours, I’d discovered that when a vacant space opened up in my brain, even for a moment, I slid sideways into dwelling on my current situation, and wondering—with a nauseating mix of guilt and resentment—how a brief, unemotional marriage years ago could still be affecting me. There’s something to be said for a double workload.
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound broke into my thoughts and I glanced round on the floor, thinking I’d knocked a pencil off the table. Nothing.
Tap, tap, tap.
I realized it came from the front, but no one had come into the TIC, and I knew I hadn’t left the door locked.
Tap, tap, tap.
I followed the sound to the front and looked out the window, but saw no one on the pavement. I looked left, and my eyes dropped to the ground.
Tap, tap, tap. Alfie pecked at the glass door. And so I opened it.
“On your own today, are you, Alfie?” I asked as the rook picked up a small object near his feet and sauntered in. Tennyson came hurrying in behind him.
Alfie continued past me to the back as Tennyson leaned against the doorjamb, out of breath.
“He was so excited when I told him we’d stop and see you that he took off ahead of me. Hello, Julia.”
“Good afternoon, Tennyson. You’re just in time for tea.”
I stepped round the counter to the back, closing the lid on my laptop in case Alfie tried to check his email.
Chapter 9
“Alfie has exceptional face recognition,” Tennyson said as she rinsed out our tea mugs, sounding as if she were giving a conference report. “And a good memory for events. He’s a collector, of course. Most corvids are. In our flat, he hides things in one of Gran’s old shoes that we brought along with us. I keep a list of the items. Data are important in species studies.”
At that moment, Alfie had his head stuck in the pocket of my mackintosh, and I made a mental note to check later what treasures he’d left me.
“You’re a citizen scientist, that’s what you are,” I said to Tennyson.
I was rewarded with an enormous toothy smile that made me smile in return.
Just five o’clock as Tennyson gathered her sc
hoolbag and I said, “I’m going your way, why don’t I walk with you and Alfie?”
“Oh yes,” the girl replied. “Are you going as far as the Stoat and Hare? You could meet Mum.”
I’d like to say that had been my goal in suggesting it—to meet Gwen and introduce myself, so that she wouldn’t have to worry about her daughter spending an hour in the late afternoon with a stranger. But there was another reason I felt myself pulled up the high street—what lay in the wood across the road from the pub. The summerhouse, like a siren’s call, drew me to it.
Pulling on my mackintosh, I had a thought for changing shoes. No, I wouldn’t switch to my trainers—wasn’t really a good look with a pencil skirt and cardy—and so I kept on my heels. I left behind my bag and computer, because I knew I’d be back. I’d promised a preliminary report of the summer supper to both Health and Safety and Highways England—we closed off the high street for the event—and I had promised it for tomorrow. There was my evening sorted.
Tennyson and I walked up the road in a light shower, while Alfie flew ahead, waited, and then lagged behind before catching us up again. We waved to Dot in her dress shop. I pointed out where Sugar for My Honey would soon open, and Tennyson said she hoped that the shop would carry rhubarb-and-custard candy, an old-fashioned boiled sweet that her grandmother had loved. Just near Nuala’s Tea Room, a small street took off to the right. Tennyson pointed out Sox in Box—the village launderette and post office.
“Mum says they need someone two afternoons a week to take in washing orders, and so she’s applied.”
We arrived to a quiet pub, and I followed Tennyson straight through to the kitchen.
“Hi, Mum,” she said, dropping her bag on a chair in the corner next to a small desk where Fred and Peg did their menus and accounts.
At the sink, a slim, angular woman up to her elbows in suds looked over her shoulder. One moment her face looked a mass of worry—drawn, lined, dark circles under her eyes—but in the next second, when her gaze fell on her daughter, she broke into such a smile there was room for nothing else.
“There’s my girl. How was school?”
“Fine.” Tennyson hanging her coat on a peg. “Teacher let me stay in at lunch today, and I wrote up my observations of Alfie’s nighttime grooming habits.”
I noticed her mother’s smile falter for only a second. “That sounds lovely, Ten—will you read it to me this evening?”
“I will.” The appearance of the big smile. “Mum, this is Julia.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Julia—I’m Gwen. I’d shake your hand”—she lifted her arms and suds rolled off and plopped back into the sink—“but I don’t suppose you need a bath right now.”
“Lovely to meet you, Gwen,” I said. “No worries—I’m a bit damp myself.”
“I hope my girl and Alfie haven’t been taking too much of your time these afternoons.”
It had been only two afternoons, but at Gwen’s words, I could see that this might easily become a daily event. Could I tell Tennyson I was too busy for her to stop at the TIC for a visit? I subtracted one precious hour of sleep from my schedule and added it to “tea with girl and bird.”
“Certainly not, we have a lovely time.”
Gwen grabbed a towel, dried her arms, and then ran the back of a damp hand across her forehead. She dislodged a tiny clip from her chestnut hair—same shade as her daughter’s. She caught it before it hit the floor and stuck it back in—one of about a dozen that kept her short, straight-as-a-rail, layered haircut at bay.
“Don’t worry about telling the two of them they need to be on their way. Look now, you,” she said to Tennyson, giving her a kiss and a hug, “Peg wants us to have our tea here today. Fred has offered egg and chips. What do you say?”
“Will Fred do chips for Alfie, too?”
“He will,” Fred answered as he pushed in the door. “All right there, Julia?”
“I am, Fred, and you?”
“Grand, now that I see this one’s here.” He nodded at Tennyson. “Did you wow them at school today?”
“I did my best,” Tennyson said with a grin.
“Your Alfie’s out there complaining about something.” Fred jerked a thumb behind him, in the direction of the yard between the pub and storage shed. I could hear a faint caw.
“He likes you, Fred—he thinks your chips are smashing.”
“Ah, I see it now”—Fred wagged a finger at her gently—“buttering me up, are you? But first, I’ve chicken to prepare for the menu tonight. Gwen, I still can’t lay my hands on those shears. Any sign of them?”
“I’ve not seen them, Fred, sorry. Right, you,” she said to her daughter, “better get to your homework.”
“Thanks for tea, Julia,” Tennyson said as she settled at the desk. “I’d say Alfie will see you home.”
“Right. Bye now.”
Gwen followed me out through the pub and to the door. I raised my chin at Peg at the bar, serving the late-afternoon customers.
“Really,” Gwen said as we stepped out on the pavement. “It’s so kind of you to take time for Tennyson, but I don’t want her to be a bother. It’s just that we’re new here, and she hasn’t made any friends at school yet.”
“She’s a lovely girl, and I quite enjoy her company,” I said. “And she’s smart—already with university plans.”
“Oh God,” Gwen said, laughing despite her furrowed brow, “and here I am having trouble paying for her school uniform.”
My mind ran at top speed. Scholarships—hadn’t the Rupert Lanchester Foundation been created for just such a purpose? Grants to institutions were all well and good, but how about helping a promising student whose passion matched the goals of Rupert’s organization?
“Look, Julia, it’s a terrible thing that happened.”
Gwen’s words brought me up short, and I didn’t reply.
“Sorry, it’s only that—Peg told me he was your ex.” She shrugged as if apologizing. “I suppose it can be difficult. Unless maybe he thought you two…”
“We’d hadn’t been in contact for years,” I explained for what seemed like the millionth time. “It truly was over. Nick would never have wanted to start up again.”
But Gwen had been working during the afternoon in question—she might hold some vital piece of evidence. “You were here on Friday, weren’t you? You don’t remember seeing anything unusual?”
Gwen scrunched her face and shook her head. “No, sorry, I was stuck in the kitchen most of the time. It was a fair crowd here, too, and they were everywhere. I went out to collect glasses and had to step over a few old fellows sitting at the bottom of the stairs singing ‘We’ll Meet Again’—and when I came back, it was to find a woman in the kitchen. Said she couldn’t find the loo. She’d a bit of a wild look to her.” Gwen waved her hands round her head. “Big hair. It looked as if she’d been crying, poor dear. Mind you, I did listen for clanking when she ran out—in case she’d had a mind to lift the soup spoons.”
—
Gwen asked for my mobile number. I gave it willingly—I understood that mums needed to keep track of their daughters—and she responded with hers before she returned to work. Alfie made his presence known by flapping in and landing on the roof of a car nearby. He turned his head to look at me—probably wondering if I’d brought a handful of chips out. I stood on the pavement watching the traffic on the road, busy now in the late afternoon. I should go back to the TIC. I’d work to do—a great deal of it. And an early morning tomorrow. For a full minute, I stared across at the brick pillars that marked the drive to Hoggin Hall before at last walking across the wide verge to the road edge. Waiting for a break in traffic, I stuck my hands in the pockets of my mackintosh, and encountered—what? I pulled out half a shortbread finger and a small twig with a bit of moss stuck to it. I dropped the treasures back into my pocket and looked up to see Alfie, who had a much easier crossing than I, soar over my head. He landed on a low branch of an oak next to the drive, and waited.
I stood once again at the precipice, the toes of my shoes on the recently beaten path to the summerhouse, my heels in the gravel on the drive. Alfie had followed me, but now, as I hesitated, he went ahead—sailing off between branches. I gazed down at the track and its thick layer of leaves. The beech trees held on to last year’s dried foliage through the winter, waiting until spring to drop them as the new growth emerged, and so in the last week or two, the wood had been provided with its own fresh blanket of mulch. I stepped off, my heels punching through the leaves and sinking into the soft earth. I should’ve worn my trainers, I thought. Now I’ll have a devil of a time cleaning these, and I’ll have to wear my older pair tomorrow. Thus, keeping my mind on mundane matters, I approached the place where Nick had been murdered.
The path bottomed out, then rose. I climbed the hillock, picking my way over low branches and vines, my heart pounding, my face hot and, at the same time, cold with sweat, as if a five-minute walk could take it out of me. The summerhouse appeared, wrapped up like a birthday present with the blue-and-white police tape. I stopped at the bottom of the steps, reached out my hand to touch the white stone cap that sat atop the newel, but then jerked my hand away. Fingerprints.
The wood—quiet but for a distant birdcall of chiffchaff, chiffchaff and the rumbling of traffic—had reclaimed its own. Brambles snaked up the cracked steps of the summerhouse, and ivy crept in and out of the broken windows. The bricks had held firm—no crumbling masonry as I had expected—and the shape of the domed roof and octagonal building could be made out easily. The door had either come off or had been pushed open, and I could see indoors—still and silent. At that moment, a light breeze set the surrounding trees atremble and created a shimmering green pattern inside on the walls and floor, as if the place had come alive just for me.
The tape stretched across the steps, barring my way. Nick had been inside the summerhouse, and I was determined to see for myself. The least I could do, right? I touched the tape, thinking to duck under it, but my movement set off a deafening screech as Alfie flew past—so close I felt the wind from his flapping wings. I stumbled sideways and grabbed hold of the newel—fingerprints be damned. He made a beeline through the trees, and I heard a thrashing in the thicket. I watched as he deftly avoided branches while he banked to the left and was lost from view.
Every Trick in the Rook Page 8
