Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  Now to business. My call to Tess went to voicemail, as did the one to Sergeant Glossop. Third call’s the charm—PC Moira Flynn answered.

  I sat at our work table in the dim light and told her what I’d discovered about Olive Carboys—seen at the Stoat and Hare and most probably the source of the anonymous tip phoned into the police on that Saturday. “Can you tell DI Callow all this for me?” I asked. “I’m positive she’s the one. Almost positive. Where is she, anyway—the inspector, that is? I would really like to speak with her.”

  “And she would like to speak with you, Ms. Lanchester. I believe DI Callow wants to explain to you the latest developments.”

  “Why—what’s happened?” I took a hopeful stab. “Terry and Sam—she’s found them?”

  “Mr. Fisk and Mr. Redman, yes, the two persons of interest DI Callow had wanted to question. They have been located.”

  Have been located? That didn’t sound good. “Are they…what?”

  “They were in a car that failed to negotiate a turn on the road just outside of Foxearth. Speed may have been a factor.”

  Road-traffic accident. “They’re dead?” I whispered.

  “No, God no, I’m sorry—you mustn’t think that. Crap, I really need to get better at this,” Moira muttered. “In hospital—taken up to Bury Saint Edmunds. I don’t have any further details. Oh wait—unconscious.”

  They hadn’t tried to escape—they had been on their way to the Sudbury police station. But why in such a hurry?

  “Ms. Lanchester? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The inspector said to hold tight and she’d ring you as soon as she possibly could. Hold tight, she said.”

  Yes, hold tight. I knew what that meant—don’t go chasing after the suspects when they are in hospital.

  “But I can tell you this,” Moira said. “I’ve been trying to learn where Mr. Hawkins had stayed locally—his lodgings.”

  Nick staying somewhere—this had not occurred to me, but of course he had to find lodgings. Had I thought he’d made a day trip all the way from St. Kilda to Smeaton and planned to head straight back after taking care of business?

  “Well, I found it,” Moira said, triumph in her voice. “He was in a B&B run by a Mrs. Banks over near West Wickham. Out in the country—not much round there.”

  Of course Nick would find the most isolated B&B possible.

  “He booked for three nights,” Moira continued, “but didn’t return after the second one, according to Mrs. Banks. That would’ve been the Friday that he didn’t return, of course. Left his kit—although she says there’s not much of it. I’m just going over now to talk with her. But she did tell me this—Mr. Hawkins had a woman visitor while he was here.”

  —

  The puzzle kept rearranging itself in my mind—one second, pieces fit together a particular way, and the next, they didn’t. Who visited Nick? Had he contacted the online journalists himself, in hopes of exposing Terry and Sam’s deceit, and kitten woman had paid him a visit? No, that made no sense. What would those online rags care about a foundation grant to track vagrant birds? They were much more interested in sex, lies, and murder.

  I crawled under our tiny desk area to retrieve the grant applications that I’d stashed below. I would do as I was told and wait for Callow to ring—she would be pleased to learn I wasn’t chasing after Olive Carboys the kitten woman. No, I’d leave that to the police. Meantime, I’d pore over the documents one more time in hopes of finding that one tiny piece of evidence that might be the key. I dropped to my hands and knees under the desk and I rummaged in the recycling box, giving a thought to Terry and Sam lying in hospital and hoping they would be all right—and then wondering why I wished that.

  The door of the TIC rattled, and the bell jingled a faint response. I started, bumping my head on the desk, but I stayed put, listening hard for another sound but hearing only my heart pounding.

  Don’t be an idiot, Julia, only tourists unable to read the “Closed” sign. Shove off, you ramblers, and let me sort this out. I remained under the desk awhile longer, well out of sight of any visitors, just to be sure they’d moved along.

  It remained quiet, and so I climbed up off the floor. I would make myself a cup of tea, I thought, and ring Michael to tell him these latest developments. But first, I nipped into the loo.

  I had only just turned on the tap to wash my hands, when a crash sent me almost through the roof. I heard glass tinkling to the floor and a heavy thud.

  I turned to stone, too shocked to move as my mind rushed to imagine a reason for the noise. A car had crashed into the window of the TIC. A large rock had been thrown from a speeding lorry. Boys kicking a football. I had an urge to run out and, at the same time, block the door of the loo and hide. As these desires battled it out, I heard the sound of glass crunching underfoot, and a choked voice sobbed, “Look what she’s done to you. Come on now—come with me.”

  I didn’t breathe. In the tiny slit between door and wall, I saw a figure moving past. I heard more crunching, then silence. I waited until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I slid open the door an inch and peered out.

  The front window remained intact, but broken glass lay strewn across the floor. The door had been hit—I saw a brick on the floor against the far wall. A cold, damp gust of wind blew in the doorway while outside on this sleepy, gray Monday afternoon, the street was empty, everyone still at work or at school or in front of the telly. A single car passed without pause. I took one step into the room and surveyed the scene, my arms wrapped round my chest, hoping to stop the trembling. Apart from the door and the mess, it looked as if nothing had been touched, nothing stolen. The computer, printer, my mobile on the back table, my bag under the desk—everything accounted for.

  No, wait. One thing gone: the Grecian urn.

  Chapter 28

  In a wild moment, I imagined that Kathleen had come to collect Nick’s ashes and, finding the TIC locked, bashed in the door and made a run for it. I blamed the state of my nerves for the giggles this triggered, giggles I couldn’t control until my phone rang, causing me to shout and jump back. But it was Michael ringing—I could see his name on the screen. I thought my mind played tricks on me, because as I reached for the phone, I could hear him shouting.

  “Julia? Julia!”

  He ran into the TIC holding his phone to his ear until he saw me and I flew into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” He stroked my hair. “What’s all this? I was just ringing when I got close enough to see the door broken in.” My phone continued to ring, and at last he ended the call and the place was quiet enough for us to hear a loose piece of glass fall from the doorframe with a tiny, tinkling crash.

  I opened my mouth. “I…” I stopped and tried to sort out where to begin. “I…I came back here because I was worried about Kathleen. She’s being harassed, it’s just awful. That journo Olive Carboys let Kathleen believe she was the vicar. But Gwen has figured out that it was her…Olive…she’d seen in the kitchen of the pub the Friday afternoon during the funeral reception—Alfie’s been trying to tell me that with the hair—and I think she’s somehow running away from trouble and washed up here in our village and found Nick’s body. She’s the anonymous caller to the police, I’m sure of it. But why? Just to get her headlines? I tried to ring Tess, but they’re busy with Terry and Sam, who’ve been in a car crash and are in hospital. And now this.”

  Michael held fast, rubbing his hands on my arms. He frowned. Had I sounded that incoherent?

  “You weren’t at the cottage,” he said, “so I thought you must be here. I could see something wrong with the door as I approached. Do you know who did it? What did they take?”

  “I know who did it because I was here when it happened.”

  “You what?”

  “In the loo—she didn’t see me. I don’t think she knew I was here.”

  “She?”

  “Olive—kitten woman,” I practically shouted. “That’s what
I’ve been trying to tell you. She threw a brick through the door and came in.”

  “You saw her?”

  “I saw a flash of reddish-brown hair”—I gave my mackintosh a sideways glance—“and I heard her say, ‘Here you are.’ She must’ve been talking to the urn.” I shivered at the thought.

  “Why in God’s name would she break in here?”

  “To steal Nick’s ashes. Can you imagine the next headlines?”

  “Right,” he said. “Police.”

  I glanced out the window. “The foot patrol should be by soon.”

  Michael didn’t wait—he made a phone call, but I heard it go straight to Tess’s voicemail. He hit “end” and shook his head. “Why would she do this?”

  “Because she’s mad,” I said hotly. My fury burned just below the surface. “How dare this Olive deceive a grieving family member and harass the rest of us. How is she allowed to get away with it—how could a sane person even want to do what she does? She’s mental, that’s what she is. She’s barmy. Barking. She’s off her nut. She’s daft.” I whirled round to pace and vent, but the TIC didn’t afford pacing room. Instead, I came face-to-face with my mackintosh on its peg and saw, stuck to the outside of a pocket, a long, reddish-brown hair.

  I was forever pulling a long, dark strand out of my food, Sam Redman had said. I whirled round to Michael.

  “She’s Daft Doris.”

  —

  The sudden knowledge made me weak, and I grabbed at Michael as I sank into a chair. He didn’t speak, but pulled the other chair directly in front of me and sat, searching my face for the answer to the unasked question: Had I gone round the bend myself? No wonder—I hadn’t told him that part of my conversation at The Eagle. I forced my muscles to relax, and I inhaled and exhaled slowly. I must sound sane.

  “Terry and Sam—they said Nick had a girlfriend on St. Kilda, someone who worked in the food services. They called her Daft Doris and said she was his ‘shadow’ and described her as wild-looking with a massive amount of reddish-brown hair. And Alfie found that hair”—I gave a nod to my mackintosh—“in the shed behind the pub. He put some of it in my pocket and brought out the rest when I stopped to see Gwen earlier.”

  Michael reached over, pulled a pocket open, and peered inside. “Alfie was trying to tell you that Olive had cut her hair and thrown it out at the pub?”

  Right, just a bit batty.

  “Rooks are smart,” I said, looking at the table and remembering Alfie dropping the key to my cottage in my bag. “And they have a great memory for faces and can identify objects and where they belong or where the object was seen. Only the other day, Tennyson and I ran him through an exercise.”

  “All right, she’s no journo—not even one without scruples. She’s Daft Doris. Alfie told you she cut her own hair.”

  “Actually, Stephen told me that.”

  “Well, good—there’s someone I actually know. At least that part makes sense.”

  I needed Michael to catch up with my thoughts, which seemed to be sprinting ahead so fast even I was having trouble keeping pace.

  “Daft Doris came down with Nick, I suppose. Or followed him. Nick might not have invited her along, but when she turned up, he probably just accepted it. And then he died. Did she see Terry or Sam do it? And she sort of fell apart. But why all that subterfuge—pretending to be a journo? Why didn’t she tell the police what happened? Maybe she truly is a bit…off. What do you think?”

  “I think”—he pulled out his phone once again—“we turn it all over to the police.”

  “Yes. Please. Let them take her away.”

  He rang the desk sergeant and told him what happened, asking him to alert Callow and Glossop and explaining why.

  “Why don’t you go back to the cottage and I’ll wait here for the police?” Michael asked. “There’s no need for you to stay—I’ll explain, and when Callow’s got her team to work, we’ll follow you there.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “No.” I shook my head, but saw Michael’s eyes spark. “Yes,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Yes, back to the cottage, lock the door. It’s just that, I need to tell Kathleen what’s happened. She’s expecting to collect Nick’s ashes—she could be on her way this very minute. I have to explain.”

  “Ring her.”

  I lifted my hand to my ear in a mock phone call. “Hello, Kathleen, just ringing to say your brother’s remains have been stolen by his girlfriend from St. Kilda who is, oh, by the way, a nutter. Have a lovely afternoon. Cheers, bye.” I took Michael’s hands between mine and held them to my chest. “I can’t do that to her—I need to tell her in person. She’s just in her room at the pub. I’ll walk up the high street in broad daylight and explain, and then I’ll take myself straight to the cottage.”

  “I don’t like it,” Michael said. “I should go with you.”

  “You need to wait for the police. I won’t be in any danger—she’s got what she wanted, hasn’t she? Even if we don’t know why.”

  A thought buzzed round in my head, but I couldn’t hold still long enough to let it land. I leapt up and went for my mack, but pulled my hand away.

  “No, I’ll leave that here—evidence. The rain has stopped, hasn’t it?” I looked down at my bare arms. “And it’s warm enough. Right, I’ll be back to the cottage before you get there, I’m sure of it. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  —

  Michael stood out on the pavement and watched me go. I stopped and waved twice before the road curved and I lost sight of him. Past my cottage, past the shops, and on up the high street and over the bridge that spanned the brook and where the road widened. In that magic way of spring, the clouds had broken up, turning from a heavy gray blanket to a few fluffy white pillows, and the fierce sunlight brought the world into sharp focus. I reached the door of the pub just as Peg stepped out with a rug to shake.

  “Has summer suddenly arrived?” she asked, squinting in the light.

  “Lovely, isn’t it,” I said, happy I’d shed my sweater before making the journey. “I’ve come to see Kathleen.”

  “Oh, she went out a bit ago.”

  “Out?”

  “She left just after Gwen and Tennyson set off for the Hall.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t imagine why Gwen and her daughter had gone to Hoggin Hall. “Yes, that’s right,” I said, as it came to me. “They were invited to tea with His Lordship.”

  “Gwen said Tennyson expected Alfie to go along, but he was nowhere in sight. That worried the girl a bit.”

  “I’d say he’ll catch her up before long.” Afternoon tea at the Hall—sitting at the enormous table in the kitchen. Tea, scones, Sheila’s strawberry jam—it all sounded like the most wonderful thing in the world at that moment.

  Peg stood with one hand on the door. “I’d better return to my post. Fred’s nipped off to Sudbury to replace cutlery that’s gone missing, and so I’m on my own here.”

  “Gone missing? Have you had something stolen?”

  “Stolen? No, I don’t think so. Things go on walkabouts occasionally. I once lost a stockpot for an entire year, because it had been packed away with the Christmas decorations. I can’t even tell you why now. This time it’s Fred’s favorite filleting knife. And a pair of shears.” Peg shook her head. “I told him they’d most likely turn up, but he does love the Cookshop, so off he went.” Halfway in the door she stopped. “Cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks, Peg. I need to talk with Kathleen. She didn’t go up to the church, did she?”

  “No, she’s gone over the road. A stroll round the grounds, I suppose.”

  I looked across to the brick gate pillars that marked the drive. A stroll with a purpose—to find the place Nick died. My heart sank at the thought of Kathleen making this journey alone, and I knew I couldn’t let her do that.

  “I believe I’ll follow her on over, only to be sure she’s all right,” I said. But it was the last place I wanted to be—the summerhouse—and so I didn’t move, and instead stood picking
at one of the scabs on my arm.

  Peg nodded to the thin crisscrossing trails. “What have you done to yourself there?”

  “I fell in the brambles,” I said. “It was a silly thing.” I stretched my arms out—the first time they’d seen the light of day in a fair while, on this, the first warm afternoon of April. My eyes traced the paths of the red lines as Michael’s finger had traced them. How odd, I thought, remembering Olive Carboys’s scratched hands—give me a muffed recorder, and I’d look like kitten woman.

  Peg returned to the pub, and I walked across the wide grass verge to the road. Traffic had picked up, and I stood at the edge waiting for my chance to dash across. As I waited, the thought that had been buzzing round in my mind alit at last.

  I had fallen in the brambles outside the Little Chef on my way back from Cambridge after meeting Terry and Sam. But I was not the only one with scratches. Tess told me Nick had fallen in the brambles inside the summerhouse when he had been stabbed—he had scratches. And Olive Carboys—Daft Doris—she had scratches, too. From a kitten? That had been my first impression, but only because of the furry-looking muffed recorder she held. Perhaps she had become tangled up in brambles, too.

  The puzzle pieces snapped into place and I knew. I just knew. Gwen had caught Olive in the kitchen of the Stoat and Hare on the Friday afternoon during the busy funeral reception and sent her on her way—Olive may not have taken the soup spoons with her, but she’d taken a knife and shears. Fred’s missing filleting knife—the murder weapon, the one left in my cottage door. Peg had been true to her word about avoiding those online rags, and she had not seen any reference to a knife and so had not made the connection among a missing knife, the wild woman in the kitchen, and Nick’s death. And so, she had seen no reason to mention it to the police. Or to me. And the missing shears—they’d been used for Olive’s DIY hairdo. Before or after she had tracked Nick down to the summerhouse where she’d…