Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  Terry Fisk and Sam Redman made no mention of Nick Hawkins—why?

  Did Nick know of these plans to move the AIL from the Outer Hebrides to Kent?

  Had Nick tried to put a stop to it by coming to tell me or Michael?

  When Terry and Sam got wind of it, did they put a stop to Nick for good?

  If Nick had wanted to blow the whistle on his AIL pals, why didn’t he just ring Rupert?

  When I met them the next evening at The Eagle pub in Cambridge, would I be SaraJane or Julia?

  Chapter 16

  When at last I emerged onto the pavement, Moira hopped out of the patrol car. She waited while I taped a sign on the door of the TIC—apologizing profusely that the center would not open until eleven o’clock on Friday—and then escorted me up the high street as the car crept along behind us. The PC took a quick look round the inside of my cottage and showed me the security bar on the French doors.

  “Good night,” I said to her, waving at the car before closing the door and sliding the chain. “All safe now,” I called.

  I made myself a half mug of cocoa with the last of the milk, washed out a blouse and two pairs of tights, and left them hanging in the kitchen to dry.

  —

  Sleep came in tiny doses. I awoke at every noise, imagined or not, and spent my waking moments wishing I’d brought the AIL grant application home with me—instead, I’d stashed it under our desk at the TIC. At last, I arose with the blackbird and went downstairs. I peered out the front window to see a strip of red light along the horizon in the east. The beginning of the day, and plenty of time to iron my blouse and set out my uniform for a quick change between the tour and the TIC’s late opening. I had switched the kettle on before I remembered I had no milk, and so switched it off again, after which I struggled to get the security bar off the French doors so that I could get into the back garden and refill the feeders. After that, I checked my watch—my excess time had vanished.

  The walk to the Hall took twenty minutes, but I made it in fifteen, hoping I’d have enough energy left for a two-hour stroll and talk. I could’ve driven, but whereas my feet took me to a path that led around the back side of the Hall, my car would’ve taken me down the drive and past the trail that led to the summerhouse. I’d no desire to return there. I had a triple layer of clothes on—always a bit chilly first thing in the morning in mid-April. We had a clear sky and the air smelled clean. I pulled in a deep breath as I came out of the wood at the bottom of the garden and saw the walkers had already begun to gather.

  Behind us, a hedgerow held the promise of chaffinches and robins—returning whitethroats if we were lucky. Impossible to schedule the birds to appear, but I would fill the time with talk about habitat, and we’d enjoy the sun. I’d count it lucky if we heard a green woodpecker. God, I was dying for a cup of tea.

  I chatted with each arrival, smiling and ticking their names off my list, until, just after eight, it was time to start.

  “Hello, good morning,” I said to the group. “I’m Julia Lanchester. Welcome to the Fotheringill estate and the grounds of Hoggin Hall. Lord Fotheringill makes a special effort to encourage our native wildlife here on the estate, and I hope you’ll enjoy our walking tour today. Please let me know if you have any questions as we go along. Just shout them out.”

  “Will we be taking a tour of the entire grounds round the Hall—or is part of it off-limits?”

  I froze, and a thick silence fell on the group. Here it was—the one thing I’d hoped to avoid. But I wouldn’t let them draw me in. I would take the high road.

  “We’ve lots to see this morning, and I certainly hope to cover as much—”

  My words faltered when a commotion at the back drew everyone’s attention. Had the journos shown up? I plunged my hand into my pocket to call the police when I saw a hat—wide-brimmed, beaten-up leather—and the person wearing it.

  “It’s Rupert!” exclaimed an older woman, sweeping the knit cap off her frizzy gray hair and waving it round as if a royal procession was passing by.

  “Good morning,” Dad called, smiling broadly. “Welcome, good morning.” He shook each person’s hand as they all drew forward. “Glorious weather, isn’t it? Will we see a yellowhammer today—what do you think? How are you? Lovely to see you here.”

  And so he made his way to me and I could only watch, as taken in by the magic as the next person. Although I couldn’t keep the smile from my face as he walked up to me, I had to point out “You’re meant to be talking to Radio Norfolk right now.”

  “I put them off until Monday and promised an autographed bird box.” His jovial demeanor faded as he scanned my face. He put his hand to my cheek, and said, “My dear daughter, you cannot do this alone.”

  My nerves were so shot that tears filled my eyes and overflowed within a second. I turned my head away, and Rupert spread his arms to the crowd.

  “Well, I hope we’ve given you a pleasant surprise. You’re probably already aware of what my daughter Julia Lanchester does here on the Fotheringill estate. You’ve heard about the big plans for the second annual Smeaton’s Summer Supper—try saying that three times. Did any of you attend last year? Tables down the high street, the top chefs in the county, the best wines—and the earl sends all the proceeds off for renovations on the pensioners’ cottages.”

  “I’ll take two tickets,” someone called from the back to general laughter.

  “Steady on,” Rupert replied. “Tickets on sale…” He looked at me.

  “June first,” I said, hoping that would be true.

  “So, now, although Julia is well able to lead this outing herself, I begged her to let me step in. That is, if you’ll have me?”

  There was a round of cheers and clapping, followed by a woman saying, “But, Julia, you’ll come along, too?”

  More clapping, and I waved them quiet.

  “You know, I believe I’ll leave you in Rupert’s hands this morning, if that’s all right. But, mind that you don’t let him have first go at the baps when you’ve finished with the walk, or there’ll be no breakfast left for the rest of you.”

  They chuckled and began speaking to one another and popping the lens covers off their binoculars. Rupert hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

  “I’m all right,” I said quietly. “It’s only that I haven’t had my tea.” I threw my arms round him, and he gave me a kiss on the cheek. I heard applause. “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered.

  —

  I blew my nose and fluffed my hair before I tapped on the kitchen door at the Hall. Sheila looked out the window, smiled, and nodded toward the door.

  “Now why ever would you need to ask permission to come into this kitchen?” she asked as I walked in. But one swift glance and she took my arm. “Here now, you sit down.”

  “Why is everyone treating me as if I’m an invalid—I’m not ill, I’m fine.” Still, I did as I was told. Sheila set a mug of tea in front of me.

  “Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?”

  My hand went up to my bob. “I need a haircut,” I suggested.

  “You’re exhausted,” Shelia countered. “You look as if you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  “I had no milk this morning,” I insisted. “I only need a cup of tea. And maybe a slice of toast?”

  And a plate of scrambled eggs, followed by a second cup of tea. The morning had taken a turn for the better—rescued by my dad, a good breakfast and, after all that, I still had plenty of time to stop at my cottage, change clothes, and get to the TIC in time to open. I was a renewed woman.

  —

  The first round of visitors had been sent on their way—walking out to the abbey ruins, followed by a stop at the cider orchard where Adam Bugg opened on one Friday afternoon a month. I wrote up notes from the summer supper meeting, finishing just as the bell jingled and Dad walked in.

  “Look now,” he said, holding up a paper bag, “Nuala wouldn’t let me leave without sending these rock buns a
long. How about a cup of tea?”

  “Fantastic.” I took him round to the back, and positioned him at the table with his back to the window, and just in time, too, as the PC foot patrol strolled past. I wouldn’t want him asking what they were doing in the village. Rupert leaned back in the chair with his legs stretched out. His relaxed manner told me Linus had remained silent about the knife incident, and I didn’t see any point in setting Dad off on a worry jag.

  “How was the tour?”

  “I’d say it was worth the price of a ticket,” he said. “We spotted a firecrest—I believe they’re nesting in that ancient apple tree toward the brook. I took Thorne out after the breakfast so he could see.”

  “I had wanted to show Michael a firecrest at Minsmere.” I set our mugs of tea down and slid into a chair as my spirits sagged. “He’s in Exeter. Did you know he’s working for Miles again?”

  “Jools, he isn’t gone for good.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s only just realized what an unfeeling person I am—barely showing emotion at Nick’s death. Doesn’t speak well of me, does it?” I broke off a hunk of rock bun and tossed it in my mouth, ashamed at my exhibition of self-pity.

  “I won’t have this.” Dad wagged a finger at me. “I won’t have you thinking this of yourself.”

  Yes, stop with the wallowing, Julia. I grabbed the sugar bowl and held it out with a smile. “I do sound ridiculous, don’t I? Here you are—let’s enjoy our tea.”

  I saw emotions fly over his face like clouds in a sturdy wind—his brows furrowed, his mouth set in a hard line, his eyes shone, and at the end, a clearing. He slapped his hand on the table. “That’s it. Right. Will do.” He plopped three spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and stirred violently.

  “Now,” he said, “what are we going to do about you trying to carry out your own work plus everyone else’s?”

  “It’s fine now—only this one little problem. And it’s good for me to stay busy.”

  He took a long drink of his tea and nodded. “We’re going to sort this out.”

  I couldn’t see that there was anything to sort out and thought it best to head into safer waters. “I’ve met a girl who has a rook for a best friend,” I said.

  I caught the keen look in his dark eyes. “Has she got him trained?”

  “I’m not sure which one of them does the training,” I said, and told him the story of Tennyson and Alfie.

  “Remarkable, really,” he said. “We’ll work up a segment on the two of them, shall we? A girl and her rook—I look forward to meeting them.”

  “Why don’t you pop back round tomorrow afternoon? I’ll ask Tennyson’s mum if that would suit—Saturday afternoon, no school. You could get to know them. Bring Beryl. We could go for a drink at the Stoat and Hare after I finish.” I regretted the offer the moment I’d extended it—what would I say when he saw the gouge in my cottage door?

  “Tomorrow. No, that might not work out. How about one afternoon next week?”

  We agreed on it, and finished our tea. At the door on his way out, Dad encountered a covey of pensioners from the estate who’d got wind of his whereabouts. I gave him a stack of Birds of Hoggin Hall leaflets to autograph, and he sent them on their way happy.

  —

  I lunched on the cold chicken Sheila had left me the day before while reviewing Basil’s film—which he got to me incredibly quickly—and sorting out the rubbish removal plan for the farmers’ market. Alfie and Tennyson came and went and it was four-thirty before I had thirty minutes on my hands—plenty of time to work myself up over my impending meeting in Cambridge with Terry Fisk and Sam Redman of AIL. Really, what had I got myself into? I should just ring the police right now. I got hold of myself in time—I should be able to contribute to this investigation. No need to let the police in on this until after I’d faced Nick’s coworkers and they’d answered a few questions. Then Tess could have at them.

  —

  On the drive to Cambridge, I struggled with how to begin. Who would I be? As Julia Lanchester, they may know me as Nick’s ex-wife and keep their traps shut. I barked a laugh that echoed round my car. I doubt Nick had divulged much personal information to his coworkers—I found it more likely they’d know me as Rupert’s daughter rather than Nick’s ex. But I’d been SaraJane on the phone to them, and part of me wanted to continue that. After all, with SaraJane, a stranger, they might feel freer to talk about the grant, their hopes and aspirations, and why they’d squeezed out their partner. They might let slip some vital detail that would break open the entire case. I turned into the stacked car park at the center of town and began winding my way up, looking for an empty bay, and thought, yes, SaraJane.

  The Eagle, a rambling, frenetic pub near King’s College, had two bars and several rooms all filled with both tourists and students at almost any time of the day. Now, just gone six o’clock, the garden was brimming with smokers. I skirted the bulk of them and walked through a few rooms, scanning the crowd and wondering what sort of fellows I was looking for. I made my way to the RAF bar, searched the room, and saw them at a table against the far wall.

  What gave them away? I’m not sure I could say, except perhaps that they oozed unease. I watched for a moment, halfway hidden behind drinkers crowding up to the bar. They sat unspeaking, staring into empty pint glasses on the table in front of them. They looked about Nick’s age—fortyish—one, barrel-chested, with a full face and coppery hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other, thin, caramel-colored skin with his tight curly hair sheared, and thick black glasses. He had a pinched expression. He leaned over and spoke to the first fellow, who nodded. They checked their watches and looked round the room. At that moment, the crowd in front of me parted and my TIC uniform—which I’d had not a moment to change from—must’ve caught their eye.

  I slapped a smile on my face and raised my hand in acknowledgment as I worked my way to them, stepping round tables. I told myself to breathe, to relax. I clutched my bag with both hands to stop them from shaking.

  The men remained seated when I arrived at the table, looking at me with raised eyebrows—but without recognition.

  “SaraJane?” asked the one with the ponytail.

  “No,” I said, “I’m not SaraJane. I’m Julia Lanchester.”

  Chapter 17

  Terry Fisk and Sam Redman leapt off the bench, knocking into the table and sending their glasses dancing across the surface. A sense of calm, controlled power flowed through me—I reached out and stopped the glasses just before they tumbled to the floor.

  “Oh lovely, are you getting the drinks? Thanks, I’ll have a pint of the bitter.”

  “Yeah, right.” “Yes, of course.” “Let me.” “No, I will.” They fairly fell over each other to get out from behind the table, avoid me, and rush to the bar.

  “Don’t forget these,” I said, holding out their empties.

  I took one of their seats so that I could continue to watch them. They kept trying for casual glances over their shoulders—they must’ve hated having me stare at their backs. I saw the barman approach them, smile, and say, “Don’t you two have homes to go to?” The men smiled in return and collected the drinks.

  They made their way back, the one with the glasses carrying my pint as the cream head overflowed and ran across his fingers before he set it on the table. I don’t really drink beer, but I feared that if I’d ordered a glass of wine, it would be gone in two gulps, and then where would I be? At a disadvantage. I could make a pint of bitter last forever.

  “Well, now,” I said after a sip. I put my hands in my lap and looked at the men pleasantly. “Which one of you is which?”

  “Oh, sorry—I’m Terry Fisk,” the one with the ponytail said.

  “Sam Redman.” The fellow with the glasses put his hand out for me to shake.

  “Lovely to meet you, Terry and Sam.” And after that, I shut my mouth. I also clenched my teeth, because what I really wanted to do was to shout questions at them. No, I’d do this interview the p
roper way. The police way.

  They each took a long drink of their beer—first Terry, then Sam. Sam must’ve swallowed wrong, because he coughed. That seemed to spur Terry to action.

  “This is a bad thing,” he said to his beer, “what happened to Nick.”

  I logged my observations—he didn’t begin with “We’re here to talk about the grant application and what do you have to do with that process, Julia Lanchester?” And his offering—akin to “I’m sorry for your loss”—made me believe he did indeed know that Nick and I had been married. And perhaps most important, they knew that I knew that there was a connection between Nick and AIL.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Last summer,” Sam said and took another drink.

  “Last summer?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief from my voice.

  Terry nodded. “Sam and I go up to St. Kilda only two months in the summer—it’s difficult enough to arrange that much time away.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I live in Southampton,” Terry said. “Sam’s in Birmingham.”

  “And so, you’re staying locally…where?”

  “With a mate from uni.”

  “Do you work at nature reserves or something?”

  Sam shook his head. “Microbiology lab,” he mumbled, “for a food company in Malvern.”

  “Quality control for chocolate-covered pineapple bites, that’s Sam’s speciality.” Terry smirked and Sam drank.

  “And you?” I asked Terry.

  Sam’s turn to smirk. “Terry’s your man for urine analysis, aren’t you, Ter? Grand work, that—and he’s on nights.” Terry’s face flushed.

  “Neither of you is an ornithologist?”

  “We are,” Terry said loud enough for the foursome at the table next to us to glance over. “But we bloody well don’t have to live in the middle of nowhere to prove it.”

  “And so, you saved the ornithology for your summer holidays in the Outer Hebrides?” I asked. “Was it only a lark to you? Not like Nick—he stayed up there year-round. He devoted his life to birds.” I could attest to that.