Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  Empty Nest is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Martha Wingate

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9781101883396

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  readalibi.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Marty Wingate

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  A blackbird announced my late arrival. His silhouette, barely discernible against the twilight sky, perched atop a turret of Hoggin Hall on the north wing, directly above my bedroom. His pink-pink-pink cut through the late-October evening—twilight in Suffolk. It was a mild rebuke, but I couldn’t ignore it. “Late, Julia Lanchester, you’re late!”

  “Hush,” I called up to him in a stage whisper. “I know—gone seven o’clock. No need to broadcast.”

  I shut the door of my Fiat and dashed between the other cars, glancing up at the outline of the Hall. A formidable brick edifice, the Fotheringill family home comprised a central building with two wings that extended like arms at ninety-degree angles, creating the courtyard. At each end of the south and north wings was a turret. Had the seventeenth-century architect been influenced by a holiday in Moorish Spain? No records remained detailing his inspiration. The Hall’s design resisted categorization, and, unable to pigeonhole its style, our leaflets at the Tourist Information Center described it only as the five-hundred-year-old seat of the Fotheringill family.

  The moment my foot touched the flagstone entrance, the great oak door creaked open.

  “Ms. Lanchester,” Thorne said, panting slightly at the exertion as he pushed the door closed behind me. Thorne, with cotton-ball hair, silver-framed glasses, and a face like crepe paper, had been butler to Lord Fotheringill since sometime before the Dark Ages.

  He caught my coat as I slipped out of it. “I was held up,” I said, a bit out of breath myself, offering him my excuse first, to see if it would fly. “The Christmas Market—the third week of November is only a month away and there’s so much to do.”

  I could go no further. The Smeaton-under-Lyme Christmas Market had been my idea, and so I couldn’t exactly complain about my workload. It had been a hard sell to Linus—Lord Fotheringill. He worried about the estate, and fell on the cautious side of decisions on how to increase revenue, while I—manager of the Tourist Information Center in the village—had taken to jumping to the opposite extreme.

  “Has everyone arrived?” I asked.

  Thorne gave a single nod as I piled scarf, gloves, and hat on top of my coat, draped across his arms. “Lord Fotheringill is showing the guests his father’s collection of nineteenth-century boxwood-and-ebony chess pieces, followed by drinks in the library. Mrs. Bugg is waiting in your room to help you dress.”

  I glanced up the stairs, my eyes as ever drawn to the massive chandelier that hung from the three-story-high vaulted ceiling. But my ear caught low voices from an open doorway beyond the entry. “I’d best be on my way,” I said to Thorne. “I don’t want to be late for our guests.”

  I darted to the staircase, circling the vast entry table, which held a glass vase the size of a cauldron that overflowed with autumnal leaves, berried stems, and lichen-covered twigs. I took my heels off and ran up to the first landing where the stairs split—the left side leading to the south wing, the right, to the north. I took the set to the right, all the while chastising myself—Don’t say “our” guests, Julia. They were Linus’s guests, as was I. The difference being that I lived here—temporarily.

  I ran down the corridor of the north wing to my room and hesitated in the doorway. Mrs. Bugg sat in a chair by the window, her feet stretched out in front of her, arms folded across her stomach, and eyes closed. In her early fifties, the gray in her thick brown hair looked like threads of frost combed through. She wore it twisted into a generous, untidy swirl on top of her head. Mrs. Bugg, that is, Sheila—I was uncertain whether I should use her Christian name—kept to plain, solid-colored dresses and unremarkable aprons that, although they weren’t strictly uniforms, always gave that impression. Her sensible shoes told the tale of being on her feet for most of every day.

  She had lit the fire for me. The applewood hissed, and the flames threw out a warm light across the floor and onto the four-poster bed. The far corner of the room opened into an octagonal-shaped alcove with windows all round—part of the turret at this end of the north wing, and just big enough for a bench seat, a few shelves, and a table.

  Mrs. Bugg opened her eyes and leapt up. “I thought I heard you arrive,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m late, I know,” I said, hastily dropping my bag in a chair and my heels on the floor. I stripped off my uniform—navy pencil skirt, tailored white blouse, and thin cardigan—and threw the pieces on the bed. “Has his Lordship been asking for me?”

  “Only because he’s concerned that you work too hard,” she said, collecting my castoffs. “Here now, a fresh cup of tea for you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t need to do that,” I said in total insincerity.

  “It was no trouble. And I’ve your dress waiting—would you like to freshen up before you put it on?”

  I’d like to take a long, hot bath and get in bed, that’s what I’d like. But instead I would splash water on my face, put on a dress far fancier than I was accustomed to, and go down to mingle with some of Linus’s contemporaries. Three earls and a baronet, if I remembered correctly, plus wives. Also attending—at my request and a huge relief to me—my friend and co-worker Vesta Widdersham, and her date, Akash Kumar, who ran a shop in the village. At least I’d know someone.

&n
bsp; Mrs. Bugg hugged my clothes to her chest for a moment and beamed at me. “I know I’ve said it before, Ms. Lanchester, and I hope you don’t mind my repeating myself, but it’s so lovely to have a woman living at the Hall again to do for.” She caught my panicked look and added, “However temporary.”

  Just how temporary depended on the time it took for workmen to carry out repairs on an entire row of cottages in the village—including my Pipit Cottage. Toxic mold had been found in the walls in August. The discovery of the mold at least answered the question of why my front door had never closed properly—it had been the damp.

  I had had to move out on the spot—health and safety, the Environment Agency, I still didn’t know who decided these things. Homeless, but with no time to consider my options, Linus had taken me slightly off guard when he had insisted I move into Hoggin Hall. I’d had other offers—my dad and stepmother, Beryl, begged me to stay with them in Cambridge. Too far away. Vesta told me her box room would be ideal and I’d be no trouble, but Vesta and Akash had only just started seeing each other, and I would not be the gooseberry in that relationship. And besides, a box room isn’t good for much other than boxes. The Stoat and Hare had a few rooms above the pub, but they had been booked up to begin with. Once I’d moved into the Hall, it seemed ungrateful to pack up and leave after a week. And it was convenient—I was only a twenty-minute walk to the TIC, five on bicycle—Linus’s preferred method of travel round the estate. It meant I could pass my cottage each day on my way to work—my poor, abandoned cozy nest of a cottage. It looked so forlorn that after the first week, I’d gone out of my way to avoid it, walking down Mill Lane and behind Nuala’s Tea Room before coming back out onto the high street.

  “I’m only increasing your workload, Mrs. Bugg. I don’t see how you keep up with the household duties you already have. Now with me to look after—I’m only another chore.”

  “Not a bit of it. It brings back such lovely memories to be able to help you—even for a small gathering like this evening. I still remember the excitement of getting ready for large dinner parties when my mother was lady’s maid for Lord Fotheringill’s mother. When I came on as lady’s maid,” she said, and hesitated, “well, it was never quite the same with his Lordship’s first wife.”

  I didn’t like her using the term “first wife.” After all, Linus had been married only once, to Isabel. Although they had divorced twenty years ago, she retained use of her title Lady Fotheringill forever, as long as she didn’t remarry. But “first wife” made it sound as if the vacancy had been advertised and Mrs. Bugg assumed I had applied for the post.

  She continued wistfully. “And, of course, no little ones since the young master.”

  The young master. I’d yet to meet Linus’s thirty-year-old son, Cecil, but I noted that both Mrs. Bugg and Thorne talked about him as if he were still in short trousers.

  As she zipped me up, she took a more businesslike approach to prepping me for the evening. “You’ll be such a help to his Lordship—explaining to his friends all the ambitious plans for the estate—the farmshop and the Christmas Market.”

  The farmshop was currently represented by a few derelict stone buildings on the far side of the estate; they had yet to be converted into anything resembling a shop. The market, like a ticking time bomb set to go off in four weeks, consumed my work days and spilled into after hours.

  “Well, I shall do my best,” I said, tugging at the short hem as I checked myself out in the mirror. A new frock—I had decided that was what I needed to give me confidence to face this swarm of titled gentry at dinner. And although I enjoyed a good day out shopping in Cambridge or Oxford, with lunch and then late-afternoon tea or a glass of fizzy wine, I’d had not a moment to spare recently.

  Forced to limit myself to village shops, I had dashed into the unlikely but sole offering—Dresses by Dot. The window display rarely changed at Dot’s, and although the dresses looked well made, they also looked as if they belonged on an eighty-year-old. But matronly Dot had given me a wink and taken me to the back of the shop, where I’d found this shocking-pink lace number with a high neck, a low back, long sleeves, and a snug fit.

  I loved it—just the sort of thing that I so rarely splurged on. The perfect dress, Dot said with a nod, for a fancy dinner out with that special someone.

  It would be just, I had thought. But now that I saw myself in the gilded French mirror on the nineteenth-century mahogany wardrobe in my room, I realized the dress might be too short, too tight, and too low for a dinner at Hoggin Hall.

  I sighed. “Right, well, better get to it.”

  Chapter 2

  In the library, I made straight for Vesta and Akash, who stood on the fringe of the guests, all about Linus’s age—a few decades past my thirty-seven years. They gathered on either side of the mantel—women talking with women, men with men—because the fireplace, large enough for all of us to stand in, put out enough heat to boil a kettle at ten paces. Thorne, weaving his way round the room delivering drinks—graceful as a dancer and never spilling a drop—paused for me to take my sherry.

  Among the group, all well dressed, but definitely on the conservative side, I looked like a flirty teenager. I tugged again at my hem, wishing I could pull out another inch or two.

  Linus stood talking with an expansive bald man with a red beard as untidy looking as the nest of a greenfinch. He stood head and shoulders over Linus. That was not a difficult task—with my heels on, I towered five inches above his Lordship. Still, Linus had a debonair presence with his neatly trimmed mustache and touch of gray at the temples of his dark hair.

  I heard them say something about Rupert Lanchester—that would be my dad, an ornithologist with his own BBC television program, A Bird in the Hand—and caught an admiring look from the earl with the beard. I didn’t mind Linus drawing a little cachet for himself or the estate from my connection. I had already enlisted Dad’s assistance for the Fotheringill estate’s Boxing Day Bird Count.

  I took a sip of my drink just as Linus looked over and caught sight of me.

  “Ah, here she is,” he said. All eyes turned as he extended an arm. “Julia, come meet our guests.”

  I gritted my teeth, but smiled, took a deep breath, and accepted the summons. Time to make the reason for my presence here quite clear.

  “Hello,” I said, sticking my hand out to the beard. “Julia Lanchester. I manage the Tourist Information Center in the village. Have you stopped in to see us? You may be surprised to learn how many events we have planned.”

  Linus’s eyes widened slightly, but he recovered, made the introductions, and went on to the others.

  “Good evening,” I said, with handshake after handshake. “I’m Julia Lanchester. Increasing visitor numbers—that’s my job. Isn’t it lovely for his Lordship to organize this dinner? He’s quite eager for you to know about developments on the estate.”

  And so it went, repeating my qualifications, making certain they all knew why I was attending. With that accomplished, I strode into the dining room with confidence.

  Not the formal dining room, of course. That ran almost the length of the Hall between the wings and included five sets of French doors that opened out the back onto the terrace, which looked over the formal gardens. It was almost never used—no reason to set fourteen places at a Georgian table that could accommodate one hundred thirty.

  No, our party gathered in the small dining room. Here, two rows of candles marched down the middle of the table, causing light to flicker and dance off a portrait of the seventh Lady Fotheringill that hung above the sideboard. Dressed as a shepherdess—as had been the fad of the day—she wore a voluminous white dress, a bonnet tied with a blue satin bow, and a sweet smile. She held a tall crook in one hand, and a lamb nestled in her other arm. She was Linus’s grandmother, I think.

  I dropped my gaze from the portrait and surveyed the table setting, as Linus gestured and the men held chairs for the women. All breath left my body as I saw the seating arrangement as
the guests would see it. Six along each side, with the lord of the manor at the head of the table, and at the foot, where the lady of the house should sit, me.

  I knew what Linus was doing, had known since before the day I crossed the threshold with my case in hand. Linus had hopes—hopes that we might enjoy more than a business relationship, regardless of whether I was involved with someone else, which he knew very well I was. But he was a sly one. He had never been overt in his pursuit—preferring to court me in subtle ways. “Mrs. Bugg will help you settle in, Julia.” “Won’t you let Thorne find you a driver?” “Mrs. Bugg has prepared cassoulet this evening.” I looked on Linus as my employer, and I considered him my friend—and he was at least as old as my father. But I had difficulty putting him off officially when his courtship took such subterranean means.

  Now Thorne held my chair for me and waited. Linus kept standing, as did the other men round the table. “Thank you,” I murmured, and sat. I glanced round at the other guests, remembering no one’s name. At least Akash was on my left—but who was this on my right? Tall, thin baronet with leathery skin; his wife must be the woman with the deep tan seated next to Linus.

  General conversations were struck up around the table. I heard the baronet ask Linus about opening the Hall to the public.

  “And you don’t mind having them traipse through, peering at the Minton and running fingers along the ebony inlay on the sideboard?”