Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  Oh, to be lying in a field of cow parsley next to Michael. We would watch the sparrows dash out of the tall grass and flit about, catching insects on the wing. I could almost hear the drone of the bees and feel Michael’s lips, soft and warm on mine. My knees went quite weak as I imagined he…

  Jingle-jingle-jingle!

  My eyes flew open, but for a moment, I wondered if I was still dreaming.

  Kathleen, Nick’s sister, dressed in either the same or quite similar shapeless layers of drab colors, looked even paler than before, with her eyebrows so furrowed that they collided in the middle and rose to a peak. Her downturned mouth quivered as she clutched a black Grecian-style urn with two curlicue handles and a gold motif that included a row of women in togas holding baskets of grapes over their heads and standing on one foot as if caught midstep dancing a conga line around the middle. On the lid, a winged figure with a beard struck a poetic pose.

  “They made a mistake,” she whispered.

  My eyes flew from the urn to Kathleen’s face and back to the urn.

  “You mean—that isn’t…?”

  “Oh, not with the remains,” she said. “Those are Nick, but the crematorium…” She looked down at the ornate object as if she had hold of an alien. “I asked for a plain ceramic urn, no decoration. That’s what would be appropriate. They got it wrong.”

  I’ll say. I stifled a giggle and blushed with shame.

  “Kathleen, come round here.” I led her to our back table, filled the kettle, and switched it on. Kathleen took a chair, still clasping the urn handles, and so I pried the vase from her—made of metal, I discovered, and rather thin metal at that, but all told, rather hefty. It clunked when I set it on one of the few available surfaces in the TIC, next to the computer. There you are, Nick.

  “I couldn’t take him back to my room at the hotel,” Kathleen said, shaking her head. “Not like that—it didn’t seem right. But I couldn’t leave him at the crematorium, either, could I? They have ordered the proper container and said when it arrives, I could return and they would…change it out.” She shifted her chair slightly, so that the urn wasn’t in her line of sight.

  “Well, then, it’ll all be settled,” I said, pouring up our tea and setting out shortbread fingers. “I’m so sorry I haven’t checked to see how you are doing.”

  “I brought work along with me, and the room is quite adequate. Thank you for arranging it. I do need to leave each morning for the cleaner, but I walk up to the church, and have had a pleasant chat with the vicar. The food in the restaurant is suitable.”

  Adequate. Pleasant. Suitable. Never let it be said that a Hawkins was overly effusive.

  We drank our tea. The dust motes drifted.

  “I hope you’ve had a chance to look round the village,” I said.

  “Yes, I have.” Kathleen took a bite of shortbread.

  “Have the police been in touch?” I asked. “Have they told you anything?” The chances were slim to none that Kathleen knew more than I did, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “I’m told the police continue their lines of enquiry.”

  Right.

  “Julia”—Kathleen’s glance hit and ricocheted off the urn—“I have a small predicament this afternoon.”

  “Is there something I can do? What do you need?”

  “I’ve arranged a lunch meeting with a man in Chelmsford as part of my research into the history of ship-boiler gaskets. But you see, I don’t feel as if I can leave it”—her head bobbed toward the urn—“in my hotel room alone. And naturally, it isn’t as if I can take it along with me.”

  Was I now a minder for my ex-husband’s ashes? Would this be my punishment, to stare at a tarted-up Grecian urn the rest of the day and dwell on its contents?

  “I tell you what,” I said, accepting my sentence, “why don’t you leave it here with me? You can come and collect it on your way back through the village. How’s that?”

  A bit of color brought life to Kathleen’s face. “Yes, thank you for offering. It’s kind of you.”

  —

  She couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and I couldn’t settle on what to do with Nick. I didn’t think he should stay next to the computer—I just might accidentally elbow him onto the floor, and although I knew that remains were well-packaged within the final decorative container, I didn’t want to push my luck. I tried everywhere, next to the sink, on top of our small fridge, in the loo. I set the urn on the table and went out to the front to get the visitor’s view—no, much too prominent. He’d just have to put up with the floor. But before I could get there, the door jingled, and the cavalcade of visitors continued.

  The rest of the morning passed, and I had only just sent a family on its way loaded with stories about the Viking invasion when a fellow walked up to the counter offering to give a free talk on his new book about Suffolk Druid settlements. One of them was located on the Fotheringill estate and druids could be a big draw. At once I envisioned a solstice celebration. I wanted to ask the author if he might be available, but the TIC phone rang and I saw that it was the president of the local Women’s Institute and I had to answer. The chapter would have a tea tent at the farmers’ market—in four days’ time—and it had come upon them suddenly that they needed the stall space just next door for tables and chairs.

  “I did offer you that spot to begin with, Maevis, don’t you remember? But you declined it, and Solly’s Sausages took it up. Hang on a moment, can you?” I said to Maevis, and then whispered to the Druid author, “I’ll be in touch about the details, thanks!”—and waved as he left, before returning to the WI. “I tell you what I can do, I’ll let you have a space directly opposite your stall. Surely people can carry their tea and cake a few feet.” Maevis then started trying to wrangle two spaces instead of one just as the bell went off again—but not a visitor this time.

  “Lord Fotheringill,” I said, “what a lovely surprise.”

  Linus nodded at the phone, a sign for me to continue. He balanced a large pink bakery box in one hand, while he slipped his bicycle clip into the pocket of his jacket and looked round the TIC admiringly, his gaze snagging on the urn. Crap, I’d forgot about Nick.

  “I must run, Maevis,” I said into the phone. “One extra space is all I can promise—let’s see how it works out after the first week or two. Bye now.” I set the phone down as Linus set the bakery box on the counter.

  “I say, Julia, you’ve worked miracles with this little space, you truly have,” Linus said. “And such enticing information for our visitors.” He idly picked a map out of a wall pocket and then put it back again.

  It had been two days since the knife in my cottage door, and although Linus had sent emissaries to check on my well-being, I suspected he needed to see for himself. Right—I’d play the game that this was only a casual visit.

  “We try our best—Vesta, Willow, and I. What brings you into the village this morning, time for our weekly meeting?” A small joke. We’d begun my tenure as TIC manager with a regular sit-down, but after Linus had seen I could handle my responsibilities and as his time had been consumed with other duties, we’d let that go by the wayside.

  And so he gave up the pretense, and leaned forward, giving me a close look. “How are you, Julia?”

  “Fine,” I said, “I’m fine.” Although if I had to say that many more times, I thought my head would explode. “Really fine.” He looked concerned but not alarmed, and so I didn’t think he’d heard about my smashed car window. And why should he hear? Vandals at a distant roadside service—it had nothing to do with the Fotheringill estate. “It’s good of you to stop in. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Linus smiled again, a smile that appeared full force and then faded a bit. He tugged at the hem of his jacket. He was nervous, and that made me nervous. He took a deep breath. “I’ve come to ask you…I’ve come to tell you that it’s my decision that you are to leave the TIC.”

  Chapter 19

  “Leave the
TIC? You’re letting me go? Making me redundant? Why?”

  Linus blushed. “No, Julia, that isn’t what I meant. I meant that I want you to take the afternoon off.”

  This modified request was no less shocking to me. “Off? But, Linus, I can’t do that.”

  “This is all getting to be too much, and I can’t stand to see what it’s doing to you.”

  I put my hands behind my back, afraid he’d seen the scratches, although I knew they were just as evident on my neck. But also, I’d braved the mirror that morning and knew those pesky dark circles under my eyes remained. I had smiled at my reflection, hoping that would vanquish them, but that seemed only to accentuate the sadness in my eyes. I didn’t know how to make that go away.

  “It’s only temporary,” I said. “And I’d so much rather stay busy.”

  He took a deep breath. “Still, I want you to take the afternoon off and go to Cambridge…Spend the evening with Rupert and Beryl. They’re expecting you.”

  “But, Linus, it’s not possible. Saturday afternoon—we’re far too busy. Remember, I’ve no one to replace me.”

  “Yes, you do—I’ll fill in.”

  “You?”

  “You need a rest. I’m suggesting this as a friend, but I’m perfectly willing to force the issue if need be. I am your employer, after all.” He set a hard look on his face.

  I tried to muster all the courage I could to refuse, but at his words a wave of longing swept over me to go to my family home, drink a cup of tea in my mum’s back garden, take a nap in my old bedroom. But I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.

  “I…”

  “After all,” he said, his face softening, “if I can’t talk about the Fotheringill estate, who can?”

  “But…”

  “And you’re to take that with you.” He nodded to the pink bakery box, although he hadn’t needed to draw my attention to it—I’d caught the scent of chocolate the moment he walked in. “Nuala insisted.”

  I took a peek. “But an entire cake?” I asked. “For only three of us?” Not that I couldn’t take care of a fair amount of the layered beauty myself.

  “We don’t argue with the baker,” Linus said. “Now, off with you.”

  “All right, I give in. But I’ll be here to open tomorrow afternoon.” I dashed behind the counter to get my bag, afraid if I waited, my common sense would take over, but I came face-to-face with the Grecian urn. “Oh dear. Linus, there’s just one little thing.” I briefed him on the situation. “And so, Kathleen will stop back by later and collect it. Is that all right? I’ll set it over here.” I took hold of the handles and moved Nick to the floor on the other side of the fridge.

  As I opened the door to make my escape, I remembered something else.

  “And also, you might have a rook visit this afternoon. He’s Alfie, and a girl named Tennyson will be with him. But Alfie may arrive first and peck at the door. Go ahead and let him in, it’ll be fine. They’re lovely, the pair of them—and don’t worry, Tennyson comes equipped with her own bottle of Dettol, so she’ll see to any…you know. Oh, and Alfie likes shortbread fingers.”

  Linus raised his eyebrows, but no further explanations were possible as I was met at the door by a family of five wearing short trousers and hiking boots with rucksacks slung over their shoulders. I gave Linus an enquiring look—he nodded, and so off I went, cake box cradled in my arms.

  Out on the pavement, another problem, more severe than Nick’s ashes or a rook in the TIC, stopped me in my tracks. I had no car. Now what? A taxi to Cambridge would cost a bob or two, and the bus would take forever. Think, Julia. Should I ask Linus for yet another favor? But no—a solution was at hand. Instead of turning left toward my cottage, I took off right, across the road and to the corner.

  Akash stood at the counter of his shop, chatting with two women while he packed a basket with cold chicken, salad, rhubarb tart, and a bottle of wine. He rang them up, and they walked away smiling.

  “Good afternoon, Julia,” Akash said.

  Next to the counter, a stack of wicker baskets rose from the floor, topped with a notice that read: “Your picnic sorted! Choose a main, salad, pudding—buy the basket and you’ll get a free bottle of wine today and another on your next visit!”

  “What a fantastic marketing idea,” I said.

  “You know, I’ve had these baskets for a year,” Akash replied, “in the back there, near the sandwiches. I’ve sold one in all that time. Gwen suggested I move them up by the counter and put them on offer, and I’ve sold six of them in one morning.”

  “That’s Gwen, Tennyson’s mum?”

  “She’s the one. She’s got an eye for display. Do you think she’d be interested in giving me a few hours a week, helping me spruce the place up?”

  “I’d say she’d be delighted.” If she could find any more hours in the day. “Say now, Akash, I’m in a bit of a pickle at the moment. My little Fiat is having some repairs done, and I need to get to Cambridge.”

  I’d borrowed Vesta’s car on two previous occasions, so I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. Akash, keeper of the keys, produced the one for the red Citroen from a drawer below the counter.

  “Parked in front of the cottage, as usual. She’ll be happy it’s being driven.”

  I collected the car—only two streets away—and drove it back to my Pipit Cottage. I sat low in the driver’s seat as I crept up the high street, searching for any signs of the jackals. I found none, although I did meet the PC foot patrol when I parked and dashed in my front door. That reminded me I was indeed being watched—but in a safe way—and so as I changed clothes, I rang DI Callow.

  “Hello, it’s Julia Lanchester. I’m taking the afternoon off work—well, I’ve been told to take the afternoon off—it was Linus’s request. I’m going to Cambridge this afternoon, to my Dad’s. Dad and Beryl’s. And I wanted you to know, in case the foot patrol reported me missing or something, because I won’t be missing, I’ll be safe.” I paused as I pulled on my trousers. “It’s all right if I go, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s all right, Julia.” Tess sounded not cold and unfeeling, but a wee bit exasperated. “You are not—as you reminded me—under house arrest. But thank you for telling me. Will you text me when you arrive? Also, I wanted to let you know police were unable to locate Mr. Hawkins’s laptop at his digs on the island. He must’ve brought it with him. Either the person who murdered him has it or it’s been left wherever he had been staying.”

  This held promise. “Terry Fisk and Sam Redman might know. What about them—did you find them?”

  “Yes, I spoke to both of them by phone. They had no suggestions for us, but offered up a list of fellow students from their time at uni. And, just to let you know, they left Cambridge soon after talking with you.”

  “They escaped?” I stood clutching my socks to my chest. This was my fault—I’d let two murderers go. Why didn’t Callow sound angrier with me?

  “They had returned to their homes—Fisk to Southampton, Redman to Birmingham. They had no need of escape. They’ve given me their alibis for last Friday—they were both at work—and we are in the process of verifying them.”

  Disappointment surged through me. They were the ones who murdered Nick, I was sure of it. After all, they had the motive. Just because they didn’t have the opportunity? I didn’t want to believe them innocent—and so I didn’t.

  “Aren’t you even going to take them into the station for questioning?” My voice sounded reedy even in my own ears, like a little girl not getting her way.

  “I see no need for it. We know how to get in touch with them.”

  “But they’ve been in Cambridge at least since just after Nick’s murder—they could’ve put the knife in my door.”

  “The blood on the knife was a match for Mr. Hawkins, remember. And they were not here when that happened.”

  “And so, you believe what they told you.”

  “If and until we find evidence to the contrary.”

  —
<
br />   I drove to Cambridge under bright sunshine, although inside the car I was enveloped in a cloud of annoyance. If Terry Fisk and Sam Redman had killed Nick because he had objected to their taking over AIL, they’d’ve been locked up and this whole business would be finished. Crap, there I go again. I meant, Nick’s killers could be apprehended and punished as they should be and the rest of us could get on with our lives. That didn’t sound much better. And how far would nabbing the murderer go to fixing what’s wrong with me? No, even that resolution wouldn’t change me from the soulless human being that I was.

  And, they hadn’t even been in the area the afternoon Nick was killed—so they told police. And they departed Cambridge after I met them on Friday evening. But there was something I didn’t like about that. Terry and Sam had told the police they’d given up and gone home. They would give up after camping out at The Eagle for a week? And after telling me they were in it for the long haul? That didn’t sound right.

  I exercised caution as I drove past the house in Cambridge, expecting to see the jackals loitering across the road, but not a journo in sight there, either. They’d left off me, Michael was in Exeter, and they weren’t bothering Rupert. Had they given up, just as Michael said they would?

  It took a moment before I could get out of the car. I breathed deeply, expelling all the worry, anger, and angst as I calmed myself. I wanted to present a positive front to Dad and Beryl; they must be quite worried to make arrangements behind my back with Linus. I needed them to know that I was doing just fine—not true, but perhaps if I said it first, they wouldn’t ask—and that both the TIC’s and Rupert’s schedules were under control. I may not be under control, but appearance, in this case, needed to be everything. Sort yourself out, Julia. Put on a happy face.