My hand flew to my mouth, and I gagged as a cold fear washed over me. I scrambled for my phone just as traffic cleared enough for me to dash across the road. I ran straight for the drive. Kathleen might be wandering the grounds at this moment, looking for the summerhouse. And where was Olive Carboys? She had been lurking in the shadows of the village—she’d been round that morning and she had, only thirty minutes ago, broken in the door of the TIC and stolen Nick’s ashes. I couldn’t fathom why she would kill Nick, but if she had murdered once, why wouldn’t she do it again? I paused and leaned up against one of the brick gate pillars. Anything might set Olive off again. Kathleen was in danger. I must find her. I pulled my phone from my bag.
“Are you at the cottage?” Michael’s first words when he answered the call.
I’m sure he could tell I was not, what with all the road-traffic noises.
“Are the police there?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Michael, she killed him. Olive Carboys—Daft Doris—she killed Nick.”
“Julia? Where are you?”
“The scratches on my arms!” I shouted as a lorry rumbled by. I took off down the drive to escape the noise, searching in the trees on either side of the drive as I went. No sign of life. “She has them, too—but not from kittens. Nick fell in the brambles when she stabbed him. Maybe she…tried to grab him or fought with him or pushed him.”
“You need to go to the cottage. The police haven’t arrived—I’ll leave them to it and meet you.”
“Michael, I think Kathleen is in danger—she’s gone off to find the summerhouse. She told me she wanted to see where Nick died. Ah!” Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place. “Terry and Sam—remember how shocked they were to see her in the pub. It’s because they knew she was Daft Doris, not because she was a journo blackmailing them.”
“Don’t go to the summerhouse.”
“Kathleen,” I begged him. “I can’t leave her.”
“You aren’t there yet?”
“I’m on the drive.”
“All right. Wait, Julia. Stop right where you are and I’ll come to you.”
Good thing he rang off before I replied. Of course if I could, I would do—I would stand stock-still in the middle of the drive—but for the thought of Kathleen staring down at that wide, dark spot on the white stone floor. That was what drew me.
And the noise.
I had reached the path that led to the summerhouse. The traffic noise behind me had faded, and now I heard the cry of a single bird. Not a flashy “look at me” sort of caw, but a frantic, repeated caw-caw-caw interspersed with screeches and shrieks, an unending cacophony of distress.
“Alfie?” I called and listened. Quiet. “Alfie?” The clamor began again. I shot off into the brambles and down the path.
The heavy rain had made the earth soft and the coating of last year’s beech leaves slippery. I dug my heels in for traction on the way down, but still my feet came out from under me twice and I ended up sliding down on my bum. As the trail began to climb to the knoll, my feet slipped and I had to take hold of an alder sapling to pull myself up. The rook’s distress calls grew louder.
When the summerhouse came into view, I paused for a moment and scanned the wood. Nothing moved apart from the flutter of new leaves, setting the copse to dancing. I crept up the stone steps and peered inside.
The Grecian urn—Nick’s remains—sat in pride of place on the table in the middle of the room, but askew, as the table itself leaned precariously. Scattered around the urn were bits of greenery—boxwood, I thought—and cowslips. Like a little altar. But my eyes were drawn away from the makeshift shrine by movement near the fireplace—a shuffling, a whimper.
Alfie, caught in bird netting, hung from a fireplace sconce.
Chapter 29
He lay upside down, his gray beak stuck through one of the holes, one leg thrust through another, while toes of the other grabbed at the thin black strands. Feathers stuck out in disarray. The fine black mesh lay like a shroud around him. He hung motionless, watching me and muttering.
“My God.” I dropped my bag and ran to him. “Alfie,” I said, clasping my hands, too afraid to touch him lest I do damage. “Wait, stop,” I told myself. “Please be still, Alfie. Be patient.” I studied his dilemma. He dangled a foot or so below, but just next to, the mantel.
“All right now, Alfie, let’s try this.” I placed one hand under him for support, lifted the bundle and moved him onto the stone mantel. After a bit of scrambling, Alfie righted himself, both legs now thrust through holes but on solid stone. And still trapped.
“There now, that’s a start.” I kept a cheery note, hoping to calm the rook or myself, but my voice sounded artificial and tinny in my own ear. “You just hang on, I’ll get you free. What a horrible thing to do to you. I hope you aren’t hurt—your wings or anything. Do you think you’re okay?” I rattled on barely knowing what I said. Alfie didn’t move, as if steeling himself for whatever came next. But I’d nothing sharp in my bag to cut the netting, and so there was nothing else for it.
“Hold still, Alfie, I’m going to tear this apart and get you free, and then we’ll get out of here.” I glanced over my shoulder and out the windows. I saw no one, but I knew Alfie hadn’t put himself in the net. I should run for help, and yet I could not leave him.
I studied how the netting had been attached to the sconce—woven through with twine, wrapped round and round and tied in what looked like dozens of knots. I couldn’t see where to begin and I chose one knot at random and picked at it to no avail. I shook my fists in frustration.
Alfie shifted. “No, no, now—sorry,” I said, my heart in my throat and my voice tight. “We must stay calm.”
The netting now flowed over his head like a great black veil and lay bunched up round his feet. I took up a loose piece, sticking my fingers in the holes, and gave a hard yank. The thin plastic line cut into my skin like wire, but I gritted my teeth and tried again. A couple of threads snapped, and I had a hole barely big enough for a wren.
Alfie needed more room than that to fly free. If he panicked and struggled, he could easily hook a toe, break a wing or pull out too many tail feathers as he fought. I really, really didn’t want to harm Tennyson’s only friend.
“You knew Olive was the one, didn’t you, Alfie? Did you see what she did to Nick? Did she do this to you?” I babbled while I struggled, talking through my clenched teeth lest I cry out. I saw beads of blood pop out on my fingers, following the line of netting.
At last I thought the hole large enough.
“Please don’t move yet, Alfie. Not until I pull the net completely away—right? You’ll do that for me?” I positioned the hole over his head and slid the netting around his long gray beak and down his sleek black body. I even got it over his tail feathers. Almost free—but not quite. The rook lifted a foot, and I saw the problem—the thin net had become tangled tightly round one leg. “Crap,” I muttered, and Alfie muttered something, too.
“Now, Alfie, this may take a minute. And you’re going to need to let me mess with your leg. I’ll be careful. But just you think of more pleasant things—think of teatime. Custard creams, ginger biscuits. And as soon as we’re finished here—”
Before I could get my fingernails on the tangle, Alfie screeched and flapped, lifting off. I let go of the netting and it rose with him, like a trailing black cloud, but the net remained tied to the sconce, and he landed back on the mantel in a heap.
“Stupid bird—he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
I pivoted on the spot, but couldn’t speak. Olive stood in the doorway. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, but I could see the pair of shears she clutched in one hand—the kitchen variety, heavy and sharp that could cut through meat and crack bones with little trouble. She still wore her trademark duffel coat even though the day had turned sunny and warm. Crushed, dried leaves stuck to its hem, and a toggle button had gone missing. Her face had lost all color and her eyes seemed unf
ocused. Both she and her coat were stained and worn.
“I know who you are,” I said, and I saw a faint smirk cross her lips. “Where’s Kathleen?”
The smirk vanished. “She wanted to steal him from me. Did you think I would let her do that?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. Kathleen’s brother was dead, and all she had wanted to do was to take his remains back to her isolated sanctuary—a place that Nick would probably have loved—and instead she’d been forced to endure days and days of civilization and deceit from a woman who had done the most horrible thing, and now…My eyes cut to a particularly large, dark stain on Olive’s coat, and I swallowed hard.
We were two of us—Alfie and me—against one. But Olive—armed with scissors and no fear—blocked our escape. I strained to hear sounds of Kathleen crying for help or the more hopeful noise of a car on the drive and Michael shouting for me, but I detected only the distant wheezy twittering of a greenfinch. If I could keep Olive distracted long enough, surely someone would come before she tried to take action. Don’t provoke her, Julia.
“What have you done with Kathleen?” I demanded.
“I’ve got him back. She can’t do anything now,” she said, brandishing the shears at me. I flinched as I imagined drops of Kathleen’s blood shaken off the blade and flying through the air toward me. Olive thrust her chin in the air.
I pointed at her weapon. “You keep those things away from me.”
“She wouldn’t let me see him.” Olive’s voice was full of incredulity. “I had to do something. Nick is mine, not hers. And he’s not yours, either.” Olive advanced, and I took a step back and ran into the mantel. I heard a rustle of feathers behind me and a clack-clack. Alfie’s beak.
She stopped at the table and gazed down on her funeral arrangement.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the window where police had cut the brambles away and where they had done their best to clean up a pool of blood. “You killed him.”
“We belonged together, but he didn’t understand.” She ran a finger over the urn. “He wanted you back,” she said in a pitiful voice.
“He what?” I snapped at her. “Are you out of your—”
She raised the shears slightly, her face hardening.
“You’re a fool,” I said. “All those other people that thought that’s what he was doing here, they’ve never met Nick, and so they didn’t know better. But you—you knew him, and yet you believed that?”
“He said he had to see you.”
“Because he wanted money for his birds.”
“He left me on the island to come and find you,” she insisted. “But I came after him and tried to tell him we were meant to be together.”
“You’re not listening to me!”
Her eyes widened and focused. For a moment, I thought I could reason with her. I took a breath to get hold of myself. “Nick’s coming here had nothing to do with us getting back together.”
“He printed out a picture of you and Michael.”
“Because he wanted to know what Michael looked like—Nick wanted to talk with him.”
“He looked at the picture and said, ‘She’s cut her hair.’ I knew then what I must do. That day he came here, I came after him to this place. He was walking out in the wood. Birds, of course. And so, I went across the road and borrowed these”—she waved the shears in the air—“and I used them. ‘There,’ I said to him. ‘I’ve cut my hair, too, just as she did.’ But he said that was no matter to him. He told me to leave, go back to St. Kilda. He had something to sort out.” She frowned at the urn.
“But you’d taken more than scissors from the pub kitchen—you’d taken a knife, too.”
“Filleting knife.” Olive nodded. “Quite a good one, actually. I should know—I can’t tell you how many fish I’ve gutted working in the canteen on that island.”
“And the knife—a bit of persuasion?” I shouldn’t’ve been so sarcastic, but she took no notice.
“He needed to know I was sincere—that he could never leave me. Why didn’t he understand that?”
So much for reasoning.
From deep in my bag near the door, my phone rang. It was a glorious sound.
“That’s Michael,” I said. “He’s coming for me. He’ll be here any minute. You’d better go. You could escape if you leave now.” I liked the idea of the police in pursuit of Daft Doris as she ran across the estate with a Grecian urn in her arms—far better than facing her here in the summerhouse.
“That’s Michael,” she repeated, taunting me in a singsong voice. “I have Nick’s phone, you see, and Michael just received my text saying I’ve got you and I’m taking you to that little cottage of yours. I told him I’d do to you what I did to Nick. My Nick.” Her face wadded up, her chin trembled, and my patience wore thin.
“A little late for tears, isn’t it?”
“You”—she pointed the scissors at me—“you and that perfect boyfriend of yours had everything, and I had nothing. You needed to suffer. But you haven’t suffered enough. Not yet.”
“So that was why you hounded us, you thought we had to suffer? The entire reason for splashing lies over the Internet? You and your filthy cohorts.”
“How easy it is to find a group of like-minded individuals,” she said and giggled. “Except for that little one—he was useless.”
She had murdered Nick to keep him from some imaginary escape and then turned round as quick as you please and done her best to make Michael and me miserable. For one second, I marveled at how easy it was these days to throw up a website and toss out a load of lies. I longed for days I barely remembered when such destruction would’ve taken ages.
“What about Terry and Sam? Did they know you were here?”
Olive frowned, and shook her head, the shears mimicking the movement. “Bad boys, they were. Terry saw me that night he followed you from the pub. You’re remarkably easy to follow, I must say. Never paid any attention to the same car behind you every time you left your precious village. After Terry saw me, I had to have a talk with them. I told them they’d better be on their way. Imagine my surprise when they decided to be brave and head in the direction of the constabulary in Sudbury. Such a bad idea. We had a little chase on the road—they scare awfully easily. And then they crashed their car. Are they dead?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in hope.
“Look,” I said, holding my hands up in surrender, “you’ve got what you wanted. Nick.” I nodded to the urn. “He’s yours forever now—off you go. Back to St. Kilda. Wasn’t that your plan—to spend eternity together, just you and Nick’s ashes?”
Caw-caw-caw!—Alfie started up again at top volume in my ear. But a booming voice drowned out even the rook’s clamor.
“You’re not taking him anywhere!”
Olive whirled round and staggered back.
Kathleen stood in the doorway, her arms spread and hands braced against the doorjamb, so that her thin cardigan hung down like wings. Her hair—loosed from its tidy bun—flew in all directions round her head like a halo. An avenging angel—in beige. She ran the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving behind a muddy streak, before launching herself at Olive and tackling her at the waist. They toppled to the floor, knocking into the table, which gave up its last breath, and collapsed. The Grecian urn fell to the floor with a clank.
Before I could move, Alfie gave a single screech and—somehow free of his constraints—took off over my head straight at Olive. Olive screamed, “Nick! Nick!” and thrashed while Kathleen struggled to keep hold of her. My eyes were on the shears as Olive waved her arms about, my stomach in a knot of fear that she would run the rook through or stab Kathleen. I reached out, but had to bob and weave to keep the weapon out of my face. When the scissors waved too close to Kathleen, I saw a crimson streak blooming immediately on her sleeve. Olive saw it, too, and taking advantage, kicked free of Kathleen’s restraints.
She came at me, jabbing the air, pointing to the urn and shouting something incomprehens
ible. I jumped back, but my foot got caught on a long stem of brambles growing through one of the broken windows, and I fell back onto my bum. Olive fell on top of me, and I gasped for breath and beat at her face. Above us, Alfie dived at her again and again—a one-rook mobbing—before shooting straight out the door, leaving behind a single black feather that floated to the floor.
Unbalanced, Olive scrambled off me. I scooted away and my hand touched cold metal. The urn—perhaps I could toss it out the window and she’d run after it like a dog. I reached for it, but when Olive saw my hands touch the handles, she screeched louder than the rook and made for me again.
“Julia!” Kathleen shouted.
With both hands, I flung the urn toward her, and she caught it in midair. When Olive whirled round and started for her, I leapt up off the floor. Kathleen pitched the urn back to me and then I to her again. Olive whirled one way and then another. In a wild, silly moment, I wondered if Kathleen and I could keep up the keep-away game until Olive was too dizzy to continue.
But Kathleen’s next toss went wide and it landed off to my right with a clank and skittered across the stone. Olive flung her arm out. I saw a glint of metal, and I felt a hot streak on my forehead.
Blood—I saw blood everywhere, just as I had imagined it had been with Nick. Olive disappeared from my sight and I fell, waving my arms in empty air, unable to catch hold of anything. It felt as if I floated in slow motion until, with a clunk, my head hit. Just before the red curtain fell over my eyes, I thought I saw Michael fly through the door in a blur of black feathers, and I heard Olive scream.
Chapter 30
I lay straddling that border between asleep and awake, where I’d just as soon drift off again as open my eyes. As I contemplated my options, I felt the flutter of wings on my cheek. No, not wings—lips. Soft kisses on my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips followed by sweet whispered words that I strained to hear.
“…sorry, so sorry…my fault…never again…I know…love you…”
Every Trick in the Rook Page 25
