Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  The Hawkins siblings had grown up with their parents in a remote valley in Cumbria, so although the topography may have been different, I knew what Kathleen meant. It was the isolation they loved. Easy to see where Nick and his sister had acquired this need to be far away from people.

  We returned to silence. I longed for a load of ramblers to burst in or Alfie to tap at the door. Anything to break up the somnambulant atmosphere before my head dropped to the table and I began to snore. I lifted my mug to find it empty.

  “More tea?” I asked.

  —

  Thank God she declined. I rang Peg to book a room, but when I gave Kathleen’s name I heard a significant pause, and so I filled in quickly with “And let me ring you back directly about that other business—about the farmers—shall I?” I hoped Peg would hear the subtext, I’ll explain later.

  “Well, Kathleen, I’ll look in on you. Please let me know if you need anything.” I thrust one of my cards in her hand and prayed she wouldn’t use it.

  As she stood at the door, she looked round the TIC. “You’ve made a life for yourself here, Julia. I hope it’s to your liking.”

  —

  I began work with a vengeance. Yes, my life bloody well was to my liking, thank you very much. As if I needed to prove my worth, I completed the meeting agenda and the rest of my tasks all before lunch—and that despite the guide leader from the local Brownie troop appearing unannounced to talk about earning nature badges. I rang Bianca to explain why I’d ended our call so abruptly. Bee asked, “She didn’t hear me, did she?” After that, I rang Peg, who whispered, “Yes, she’s gone up. She’s very quiet.”

  Late morning, I found my fingers dancing lightly above the keyboard as if waiting for permission. I granted it—typing in Dad’s website on the pretense of checking that Michael continued to do as he said he would, and maintain it. It was one thin thread of connection that remained between us. I had taken a look the day before—allowing myself this indulgence every twenty-four hours didn’t seem excessive. New articles and videos posted, schedule updated, and interesting bits of bird trivia stuck round the page had all refreshed. I had a picture in my mind of Michael huddled in the dark in his tiny Haverhill flat, computer screen setting his face aglow as he tapped away at the keyboard. I longed to be there with him.

  At lunch, I locked up and nipped down to the corner.

  Akash always dressed the part of grocer with panache, wearing a bib apron over his coordinated shirt and tie—a lovely rose shade, gorgeous with his dark skin and hair, which was threaded with silver. When I walked in, he glanced up from restocking the dairy shelves and I could swear did a double take.

  “Julia,” he said, eyebrows raised, “everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, but gave my clothes a quick check to make sure I hadn’t missed a button on my blouse. “And how are you? Any news from Vesta?”

  “Only a text from one of her stops—it’s a long journey, she won’t arrive in Christchurch until five o’clock tomorrow morning, British time.” He took the empty milk crate to the back of the shop and came out wiping his hands on his apron. “I saw a woman at the TIC this morning just at nine, but she didn’t go in.”

  “Yes, right.” Where to begin here—and step carefully. Akash needn’t know about my double life, because Vesta might hear of it, and there was no need to make her feel guilty from halfway round the world. I went about my shopping—sandwich, tea, milk, biscuits. I wondered if Alfie liked custard creams. “That was Nick’s sister, Kathleen. She’s come from Nova Scotia. And I was running a wee bit late.”

  I deposited my shopping on the counter and made a show of searching my little coin purse for money so that I wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

  “You can always give me a ring if you’re held up somewhere,” Akash said, dropping my coins into the till. “Remember, I have a spare key to the center—it’s right here behind the counter. I could open up for you.”

  “Oh, Akash, how lovely,” I said, full of gratitude. “But you can’t leave the shop—you don’t have McKiddie to cover for you any longer.”

  “True,” Akash said. “And I’ve no one properly suited to replace him yet.” He scanned walls, shelves, and displays in the shop. “In truth, I need someone that can do more than fill in. I feel I’m getting a bit stale with my displays—the whole place needs…well, I’m not sure what. Still, if you are caught again, I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on both places for a short time.”

  As I stepped out of the shop and turned my head to catch the April sun, a blast of screeches broke out ahead of me, just in front of the TIC. I saw Alfie diving at a cluster of people who fled down the pavement and dashed off into the narrow spaces between shops. Alfie tilted a wing and soared away.

  I stormed up the high street. I may have seen only their backsides, but I knew who they were—those journos, the jackals. I held up when I reached the center—they’d disappeared, and pursuit would be pointless. I stood outside the TIC for a moment, breathing hard and daring them to return, but I saw only Lottie from Three Bags Full step out of her shop and look round. She waved when she saw me, and I could see a hopeful look on her face, as if she thought we might have a chat. I didn’t believe I could muster the energy to explain yet again that I had no idea why my ex-husband had come to the village. I waved back and beat a retreat into the TIC.

  —

  Throughout the afternoon, I remained on high alert, checking the street outside the TIC, flinching each time the bell above the door jingled, and thankful for a steady stream of visitors who kept me well occupied. Near four o’clock, I glanced out the window, thinking I’d see Tennyson and Alfie coming along to tea. Instead, I saw that they’d regrouped—the hydra—all five of them loitering across the road and down a bit. The big one, the twins, kitten woman, and the little weasel, all accounted for.

  My jaw clenched and I ground my teeth. Enough of this. I dug in my bag, edged up to the front window, and slowly lifted my phone just high enough to get them in sight. My fingers shook as I snapped, but when I checked the photo, I saw that my phone had steadied my hand. Trembling, I typed, “They’re back,” and sent the text to Michael. I longed to add, “It didn’t work, please come home. I miss you,” but held myself in check. As much as I wanted to plead, I would not guilt him into returning to me.

  I turned my back on them and next time I looked, they had disappeared. Traffic had picked up—perhaps the queue of cars didn’t suit the journos. Instead, I was met with the sight of Tennyson. I opened the door and Alfie appeared from behind her, flying straight past me to my mackintosh with something large in his beak. I made a mental note to clean out its pockets before it overflowed with gifts.

  Tennyson dropped her schoolbag at the counter. “I stayed after in the library today to watch a video on the ecology of wood warblers,” she explained. “There’s been a rapid decline in their populations, and the RSPB is studying the problem. I thought I should keep up on the latest results.”

  Not what I remembered doing with my after-school hours, but there you are.

  “I enjoyed meeting your mum,” I said to her as we sat over our mugs of tea and the open packet of custard creams. Alfie had placed his biscuit in the seat of a chair and was in the process of reducing it to a pile of crumbs.

  “Mum says she’d like to have you to tea sometime—you could come to our flat.”

  “Do you live here in the village?”

  Tennyson nodded. “Dot said we should live with her, but Mum didn’t think it was a good idea with Alfie and all,” Tennyson said. “So we’re in a place above the garden shop. Loads of room, and Derry, in the shop, didn’t mind a bit.”

  Derry ran The Holly and the Ivy, the garden and gift shop. As far as I knew, the rooms above her shop, although fitted with kitchen and bath decades ago, had been used only for storage. But the place must provide Tennyson and Gwen with what they needed—room for a rook and an ironing board—at the right price.

 
“Would you like to see how good Alfie’s memory is? We’ve an excerise we could show you.”

  “I would love to see that,” I said, switching on the kettle.

  “Right,” Tennyson said. “We’ll need five objects.”

  —

  Tennyson and I collected and lined up five random objects on the table—the key to my cottage, a spoon from the sink, a purple crocheted beret left on the coatrack by Willow, a pencil from the counter, and a tiny ceramic figurine of a red squirrel that sat in the front window. The girl pointed to the objects one at a time, following each indication with a bite of shortbread for the bird. Alfie watched carefully and snatched up his treats. After that, Tennyson distracted the rook while I swept the objects into a large basket and mixed them with an assortment of paraphernalia, including an unopened packet of tea, one of Tennyson’s shoes, a pair of gloves, and a butterfly-print scarf. I set the basket on the floor under the computer desk. Tennyson then tapped the table and said, “All right, Alfie. Get to work.”

  The girl and I leaned against the sink and watched. The rook hopped up to the back of a chair and paced, muttering to himself and looking at the empty table. Then he cast his gaze wider, stopping when he eyed the basket. Down to the floor he went, stuck his head in, and rummaged round. One by one he found what he sought and lined each item up on the table. When he’d reclaimed all five, I could see that he’d switched the order—setting the squirrel before the beret. Alfie took roll, touching his beak to the table in front of each object, but gave a squawk when he saw his mistake, and corrected himself. He shook out his feathers.

  “Well remembered, Alfie,” I said.

  Tennyson offered the rook a shortbread finger as reward. Alfie accepted it, but placed it on the table and set to returning each object to its proper place.

  On his way back from returning the squirrel figurine to the front window, he swept by the wall of leaflets and maps, picked one out, and came back, dropping it on the table and eyeing me. I glanced down at his choice—Birds of Hoggin Hall.

  “Well, we’d best be on our way,” Tennyson said, slinging her schoolbag across her shoulder. She hesitated at the door. “Mum says Alfie and I shouldn’t take up too much of your time.”

  “Not a bit of it,” I said, tearing myself away from Alfie’s leaflet. “I look forward to your visits—be sure to tell your mum that. You and Alfie are always welcome here.”

  A smile spread across Tennyson’s face. “Well, that’s good news, because you see, I met Ms. Darke at the tea room this morning on my way to school. I introduced Alfie and told her we knew you, and Ms. Darke said that if I stopped there tomorrow afternoon, she’d have two wedges of chocolate cake I could bring to tea.”

  “Perfect,” I said as I saw them out. Pitiful, I thought, that a wedge of chocolate cake for tomorrow’s teatime could very well be the high point of my week.

  I stood with my back to the door and my eyes on the leaflet Alfie had left for me. Not possible that he picked Birds of Hoggin Hall out of a wall of leaflets because it had been the one he’d found near the summerhouse. Not possible.

  I heard a jingle. Drat, gone five o’clock and I hadn’t locked the door.

  “Hello, welcome to Smeaton-under—”

  I choked on the greeting when I saw who it was. Just inside the door, with two cameras round his neck, his wispy hair awry, and his faced flushed, stood the little weasel.

  Chapter 13

  “Get out!” I shouted as I advanced on him. “Get out this instant!”

  His hands flew up in front of his face. “Wait, no, please, Ms. Lanchester,” he stuttered.

  “Out! Do you hear me?” I towered over him and shrieked in his face as he backed up and bumped into the door, which rattled and jingled.

  “I only want to—”

  “I’m ringing the police. You’ll pay for this harassment!”

  “All right, yes, it’s just I thought you should—”

  I pulled the door open and shoved him out. He stumbled backward and out onto the pavement, landing against my Fiat. Across the road, Alfie marched back and forth along the gutter, turning his head to eye the situation.

  As the little weasel scurried down the pavement, I looked over at the rook—a silent witness.

  “You’re neglecting your duties,” I said to him.

  Alfie shook out his feathers and returned to sentry.

  I stepped back in, threw the lock on the door, and stood trembling. After a few moments, Alfie casually beat his wings, rose, and flew off. I swept up the rook’s crumbs from the chair and washed out mugs before sitting down in front of the computer to consider my evening. I would work at home. I needed to outline the filmed segments for Dad—he refused to work from a script, but I would hit the highlights for him so that he would know what to talk about. He excelled at off-the-cuff introductions and spontaneous narrations, although we’d still need to do some editing. Yes, that’s my evening sorted.

  When my phone rang and I saw the caller, I pounced.

  “Hi,” I said, out of breath as if I’d just come in from a 10K run.

  “I’m sorry, Julia, I am,” Michael said, his voice full of irritation. “I just saw your message. I thought they’d leave off by now.”

  “It isn’t your fault. But it hasn’t worked, has it? You wanted to draw them away, yet here they are.”

  “They can’t find me, that’s why. I’m away in Exeter doing a bit of work for Miles.”

  My heart dropped through the floor—my suspicion had been confirmed. He’d returned to the family PR business, which his brother ran. Michael hadn’t taken a step or two away from me, he’d moved home.

  “That’s…lovely.”

  “How are you doing?” he asked. “Ah, that’s a stupid question to ask, I know, but…you know what I mean. Are you all right?”

  God, where’s an old tissue when you need one? I had no pockets in my uniform, and so I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

  “Fantastic—everything’s ticking along with no problems at all.” Should I have said something about Nick?

  “The journos—they aren’t trespassing, are they? Coming in the TIC to bother you?”

  “It would hardly be trespassing—we’re open to the public.” The little weasel had ventured into my domain, but no need to mention that.

  “Any word from the police?”

  For a moment, I was transported to the summerhouse—the smell of the wood in spring, Alfie finding a TIC leaflet soaked in blood.

  “Nothing. I don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “Julia—”

  “You were right about Basil,” I said brightly, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut one second longer to hear what Michael was about to say. “He’s doing quite well. And I’ve met SaraJane.”

  The silence between us grew heavy.

  “It’s too much for you,” Michael said.

  Well, then, come home. “No, really, I’m quite able to keep up.”

  “I’ll be finished here by late Sunday,” he replied. I imagined I heard longing in his voice—an unspoken desire to be together again. I’ve always had a vivid imagination.

  —

  I gathered up my things and slung my bag over my shoulder. When I stepped out of the TIC and locked the door, the traffic had started to let up. It made it quite easy to hear, above the engine noise, the voices calling to me from down the pavement.

  “Julia, what did Michael do with the knife?”

  “Did he give it to you? Did he hide it?”

  “Will you give it up to the police, Julia? Will you give Michael up?”

  Stunned, I could do nothing but stare at them, until they hurried toward me. I dug for my key and leapt into my car, pulling away just as the kitten woman held her muff-covered recorder out toward my window.

  I tore off and made straight for Sudbury and the police station. No one, I said to myself, shaking violently as I shifted gears, no one has a right to treat another person that way. Callow, Glossop—somebody must put a sto
p to it. Had they been at Michael in the same way? Is that why he’d left—deserting me for good, as far as I could tell.

  Making a wide turn into the car park and narrowly missing a black Volvo, I slammed on the brake, lurching forward with the momentum. I took a moment to compose myself before walking into the lobby of the station and asking for Detective Inspector Callow.

  “Please tell her it’s Julia Lanchester,” I said, meek and mild and in no way in anyone’s face. I would save that for when it mattered.

  Three minutes later, Callow emerged. She caught me pacing between desk and door, a journey of seven steps.

  “Ms. Lanchester?” she asked.

  “Do you know what they’re saying?” I hissed at her from across the room. “Do you know what they have the nerve to ask?”

  Callow cut her eyes at the desk sergeant as she crossed the room in three strides.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “The problem is when I walk out of my place of business I’m met with those journos shouting at me, saying ‘What did Michael do with the knife?’ ”

  She caught me by the elbow. “Shall we go back to an interview room so that we can talk about this?”

  “I won’t,” I complained loudly, pulling my elbow away. “I won’t go back there and look as if I’m guilty of something. You tell me what you’re going to do about this leak you have in the police department. Those leeches aren’t supposed to know about a—knife,” I whispered.

  “Yes, yes, all right,” Callow said, quiet but intense. “Can we talk about this elsewhere? Why don’t we go back to your village?”

  “No,” I said, hearing a whinging tone in my voice and hating it. “Villagers look at me out of the corners of their eyes and talk behind my back. They think I don’t notice, but I do.” I straightened myself up. “Can’t we act like normal people and go out for a coffee? There’s that place on Gainsborough Street—it’s quite close.”