I stood like a good hostess as the men made their way out the door. Cecil, last to leave, hesitated.
“Julia,” he said, lifting his chin so that he could look down his nose at me, “I would like it if you’d be sure to include me in your decision-making process about these events. I do want to keep abreast of the estate’s business ventures.”
“Of course, Cecil,” I said. “I could email you updates.”
“No, there’s no need for that. We could meet on a regular basis, each day perhaps. Briefly—I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling through clenched teeth. “I’d be happy to do that.”
Vesta and I watched as the three made their way down the pavement—Linus wheeling his bicycle—before stopping in front of Three Bags Full, the wool shop.
“There now,” Vesta said, retreating to switch on the kettle, “I’d say they were impressed with your plans.”
I followed her and rummaged in our basket of open biscuit packets, found the chocolate digestives, and started in on one before replying. “As long as they don’t get two doors down and say, ‘Hang on, we forgot to ask about that mission statement.’ ”
Vesta dropped tea bags into our mugs. “Mr. Fotheringill—Cecil—acts as if he has something to prove. Perhaps he’s worried he won’t live up to his father’s expectations.”
Soon after I had first met Vesta, I’d learned she had a talent for seeing through my own defenses, but with Cecil she might be a bit too generous. “Or he just wants to lord it over us—literally.”
“Do these belong to Willow?” Vesta asked, nodding to a shoe box on the counter that held several trays of watercolor paints—mostly used up—a handful of brushes, and a stack of art paper, wavy from the damp.
“Mmm,” I replied. “She’s organizing a children’s art competition—‘Who can paint the best picture of Hoggin Hall?’ ”
Willow, our intern as of a fortnight ago, was a bright young woman in her early twenties, who lived with her aunt Lottie, proprietor of Three Bags Full. Willow had finished university a few years ago, but had recently decided she wanted to be a teacher and would be starting up a certificate course in the spring. Lottie had begged Vesta and me to take on Willow as an intern, as it seemed that Willow had more ideas and projects than the shop could handle.
I looked in the fridge for milk and spied my packaged chicken-and-stuffing sandwich. That’s right, I’d had no lunch, and now I was starving. I ripped it open and tucked in.
“Are you finished with these?” Vesta asked, holding up the package of chocolate digestives.
My mouth full of sandwich, I could only nod. “Wait!” I said, although it came out as “Woof!” I grabbed one more biscuit for afters and said, “Fuff”—translation, “Finished.” Vesta narrowed her eyes at me and set the package on the table. She knew better.
Chapter 7
I walked back to the Hall in the dark—we lost more and more light every day. When the streetlights gave out just past the bridge, I pulled a tiny electric torch from my bag to light my way. No sign of Thorne in the entry. I went straight to my room, changed into dressy trousers and a pink silk top, and went down to the kitchen. Waiting for me on the thick oak table sat a wedge of Nuala’s chocolate cake and a note: “Julia!”
I switched on the kettle and checked the time—just gone seven o’clock, plenty of time for cake before dinner. I was halfway through when Mrs. Bugg came in to slice the ginger-glazed ham and toss the salad. Thorne arrived next and began arranging a tray.
“You haven’t spoilt your supper, now have you, Ms. Lanchester?” Mrs. Bugg asked.
“Certainly not,” I said. Although the cake had taken the polish off the thought of a three-course meal.
Thorne retrieved a platter for Mrs. Bugg and set out serving spoons. “The new agent, Mr. Addleton, will be dining here at the Hall this evening.”
Dinner was sounding less appealing by the minute.
“I don’t suppose I could eat here in the kitchen with the two of you,” I said. “Thorne, I could help you serve in the dining room.”
“Yes, Ms. Lanchester, a fine idea,” he said. I caught a spark from his hazel eyes. “And afterward, we’ll ask his Lordship to do the washing up.”
I snickered. “It’s only I don’t know much about antiques, and Freddy does natter on about them.”
“There now,” Mrs. Bugg said, setting a sandwich on a plate and covering it with plastic. “Mr. Peacock’s late-night repast is ready for him.”
“Freddy’s put in a standing order, has he?” I asked.
“He has.”
“I know Mr. Peacock,” Thorne said, drawing surprised looks from Mrs. Bugg and me.
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“His father was valet to the earl at Netherford House. For a time many years ago, I often visited a friend who worked in the kitchen at Netherford. It took me a bit to realize it, but I remember Freddy Peacock now—he would have been about four or five years old then—dashing down corridors and having his tea in the corner of the servants’ dining room.”
“How long ago was that?”
“That would be just over thirty years ago,” said Mrs. Bugg.
Thorne smiled at Mrs. Bugg’s back. “Yes.”
I took my dishes to the sink. I’d eaten in the kitchen with these two many times when Linus was out—cozy evenings filled with stories about people in the village and on the estate, where both Mrs. Bugg and Thorne had spent what seemed like their entire lives. I once told Thorne he was the Fotheringill institutional memory, and he replied that it was a memory with overfilled shelves in desperate need of a good dusting.
—
After checking my face to make sure no trace of chocolate remained, I left the kitchen and met Linus in the entry as he came down the stairs. He smiled. “You look lovely this evening.”
“Thank you.”
“You haven’t seen Cecil, have you?”
“Not since the meeting this afternoon. Is he with Freddy?”
I caught a hint of mischief in Linus’s eye. “I’m afraid I’ve left Mr. Peacock in the library with Mr. Addleton. Freddy spent the afternoon in the attic, apparently, and I believe he came across my mother’s collection of German bisque dolls. He’s regaling Addleton with the story now. I’d say a rescue is in order. Shall we?” He held out his arm.
We walked into the library with Freddy in the middle of a comparison between French and German bisque. I heard Cecil in the entry, and soon he hurried into the library.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, slightly out of breath.
“You aren’t late, Cecil,” Linus said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Cecil replied. “Why wouldn’t it be?” I wanted to give him a small slap at his impertinence. He shrugged. “I took myself on a bit of a tour round the estate. Just a reminder, you know, of what’s here. I borrowed your car—I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Linus said. “You are welcome to it any time.”
I was sorry to see that Linus had lost his good humor, as I felt the air in the library go flat. No one spoke. The fire hissed and popped. I shivered.
This evening was going nowhere. I crossed the room to the fireplace and brushed an imaginary speck off Freddy’s shoulder. “I thought I’d see you covered in cobwebs by this time. How was the attic?”
“Well, Julia, I did get a bit lost up there. I ran across a fine example of…” He took me by the hand and led me to a chair, as he began a discourse on Pre-Raphaelite influences on British landscape artists. Thorne announced dinner, but that did nothing to deter Freddy, who kept up a running monologue through two courses until I’d heard more about the quality of Turner’s yellow light than I would ever be able to retain.
“No Turners here, sad to say,” Freddy said. “But you’ve a lovely small Bonington. In the right auction, that could—”
“Is this an official appraisal you’re carrying ou
t, Mr. Peacock?” Addleton asked. “When was the last time the contents of the Hall were cataloged, your Lordship?”
“Oh, well, I believe it was in my father’s time,” Linus said. “High time for an update, I’d say.”
“Then you’ll want to hire it out?” Addleton asked.
“Freddy’s only having a look-round,” Cecil said. “He’s doing no harm.”
Addleton nodded. “In that case, I’d be happy to accompany Mr. Peacock on his undertaking.”
“Afraid I’m going to pocket a chiffonier?” Freddy asked. His smile hardened. “I keep good accounts of my transactions, Mr. Addleton. Just ask Cecil.”
Cecil’s face went scarlet, and Linus coughed.
Well, isn’t this fun? My eyes darted from face to face.
“Julia,” Linus said, “did you hear—those three smallholdings on the east side just received their organic certification today.”
“That’s fantastic,” I said, my enthusiasm fueled by relief at the change of subject. “We’ll need to get started on the conversion of that old barn, won’t we? The farmshop could open by spring.”
“Farmshop, Julia?” Cecil asked, looking up from his plate. “Is this a project of yours?”
“I’m not sure a farmshop fits under the heading of tourism,” Addleton said.
“I never claimed it did, Mr. Addleton,” I said, my nose in the air, fearing I would now need to do battle for every single thought I had. “A farmshop will meet many needs on the estate—for both tenants and visitors. It’s an idea that crosses boundaries.”
Thorne appeared with a tray of dessert. “Sticky toffee pudding, your Lordship, with custard sauce.” He paused beside me. “Ms. Lanchester?”
I had only picked at my dinner, not doing justice to the ham or scalloped potatoes. “I believe I’ll save my pudding for tomorrow.” Stifling a fake yawn and citing the abundance of work awaiting me the next day, I said good night, leaving them to their pudding and retreating to the sanctuary of my own room.
I stripped in front of the fire and ran a hot bath. I had just heaved a great sigh, sinking up to my chin in the water, watching the steam rise, and thinking I really didn’t want to move a muscle until I absolutely had to, when my phone rang. I peered at it over the edge of the tub and saw it was Michael. I pulled a towel into the water with me in my hurry to answer.
“Save me from Jaffa Cakes,” he said.
I snorted. Dad’s favorite tea cake—or biscuit, depending on which side of the debate you took—was ubiquitous on any location filming.
“I’ll bring you a cake from Nuala’s when I see you,” I said. “What would you like—chocolate? Ginger? Victoria sponge?”
His reply—“We’re finishing on Monday”—sent a thrill up my spine. Monday was my day off. “But not until the end of the day,” he added, “and it’s a five-hour drive back.”
My hopes dashed, I let out a small whimper. It had been almost three weeks since we’d laid eyes on each other, and four since we’d had any time at all together.
“I’ll see you Tuesday—take the day off.”
“Health and safety are coming to the church hall that morning. And we’ve a meeting for Christmas Market vendors in the evening.”
We were silent. “I’ll sort something out,” Michael said.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“And your day?” he asked.
“All right, I suppose.” My day was a great deal better hearing his voice. “I came up early. I’m in the bath now.”
“Oh God,” Michael groaned. “Don’t tell me that.”
Probably better he couldn’t see my mischievous smile. “Because you’re picturing me naked or because you’ve no facilities of your own in the bunkhouse?”
“I can’t take much more of this.”
—
It didn’t suit me, either, especially as I had to suffer through the next evening with the same dinner companions—Cecil, Addleton, Freddy, and Linus. In the library, Addleton barely said a word, and Cecil seemed his sullen self—strange how we form immediate pictures of new acquaintances. Freddy had been out for the day, and when I asked him about it, he shrugged and smiled. “Enjoying the countryside.” He downed his drink and his eyes danced. “And you, Cecil,” he said. “Your visit progressing as expected? Heartwarming, isn’t it, Mr. Addleton, a father and son reunited?” The agent glanced up from his whisky, but didn’t answer before Thorne announced dinner.
Through the meal, it was left to Linus and me to maintain some sort of dinner conversation. I chatted about my day at the TIC and told stories of Rupert and birds. Linus talked of his hope for an accessible bike trail through the meadows as a way of drawing in the cycling trade. Once again, I begged off pudding and retreated to my room early. Later, when the Hall seemed quiet, I made my way down to the kitchen, retrieved the sticky toffee pudding from the previous evening, and took it back to my bed—waking the next morning to find my cheek stuck to my pillow.
Chapter 8
I walked to Cider Day the next morning, alone. Fog lingered in the wood, ragged pieces of it caught on branches as if the trees had shredded a swath of gauzy fabric. It found the smallest gaps between my scarf and collar and touched my neck with damp cold.
My decision to walk the three miles to the orchard caused a few raised eyebrows. Linus, Vesta, and Louisa each offered me a lift, but when faced as I was with hours packed with activity, responsibility, and people, I chose to begin my day in the quiet of the lanes, fields, and wood.
After skirting a recently tilled field, I caught sight further on of a bird wheeling in the air. I held my breath as it dived—a predator of some sort, but from here I couldn’t tell which.
I scuffed along the footpath by the edge of the wood, kicking up the leaves. At that moment, the sun burned through the fog and pierced the stand of trees at a sharp angle, shooting between bare branches of oak, rowan, and beech and landing on a pile of feathers a few feet away. I stopped. A sparrow hawk lay dead. I recognized the white breast with red-brown bars and the slate-gray back of the male, almost the color of the vanishing fog. “Poor thing,” I murmured. Birds died, it was inevitable—the cycle of life and all that—but it always made me sad.
A breeze caught a wing tip, causing it to extend as if in flight, and a pricking sensation like tiny needles crept up my arms. I blinked and saw that another sparrow hawk lay next to the first. My heart raced, and my eyes connected the dots as I saw more birds scattered across the ground as if they had dropped dead on the spot. I held my breath, looked closer, and saw that two of the birds lay on the remains of some small furry animal—a rabbit, perhaps—and a cold fury swept over me.
Poisoned. This was how it was done—bait laced with a fast-acting pesticide laid out for the birds that landed to take advantage of the easy feast, moments later succumbing to its effects. How long they’d been here I didn’t know, but the birds hadn’t been disturbed by weather or other animals.
My head whipped round, peering into the wood and scanning the field beyond searching for the culprit as I scrambled in my bag, fumbling hopelessly for my binoculars, which were by my bed at the Hall. I came up with my phone instead.
I rang my dad. I knew they would be in the middle of filming, and I expected the call to go straight to his voicemail, but he answered after only a few rings.
“Jools? That’s good timing—we’re almost to Cambridge, and we’ve stopped for coffee.”
He explained that they had left Cumbria after the crew had convinced him they’d filmed all they could of the hen harriers. I briefed him on my situation.
I could hear both anger and weariness in his reply. “My God, won’t they learn? You ring the police, and Michael and I will head straight there—it won’t be an hour. Don’t touch the birds or the bait,” he said. “But don’t let any more birds die.”
“Yes, all right, Dad.”
I could already hear the engine of his beat-up Land Rover cranking as he got under way. “Jools, what are you do
ing out there? Aren’t you working today?”
Oh God, Cider Day—it had flown out of my head.
We rang off and I stared at my phone. I should be there by now. I squinted across the next field to the lane that led to the orchard another mile or so away. I rang the Sudbury police and after several minutes—invoking the names of Rupert Lanchester and Lord Fotheringill—persuaded them to send someone out to see about “a heap of dead birds,” as the desk sergeant said.
I rang Vesta, repeated the story, and asked for a tarp. “To cover them, you see.” I rang Linus and took him away from filling trays of apples for the screw press. I gave yet another précis, accompanied by an apology.
“You are not to worry about Cider Day,” he said. “Everything’s ticking along just as you planned. I’ll be right out.”
The cold made my feet heavy, and I stamped them on the hard ground until they tingled. The sun had washed color from the sky, leaving only the palest blue behind. I kept watch, ready to wave my arms and run around like a madwoman if any bird flew close.
After twenty minutes, I spied Linus cycling up the lane, a folded blue tarp under one arm. He dismounted, dropped his bicycle, and sprinted across the field. He looked at the birds and shook his head before we covered them and stood on our respective corners to keep the tarp from blowing off.
“You go on to the orchard, Julia. I can wait for the police,” he said. “This is your day.”
I shook my head. “Rupert’s on his way.” And Michael. “He’ll take care of this. I’ll stay until then.”
At last a black-and-white panda car came down the lane slowly, jostling at every unavoidable dip and crater. Two uniformed police constables, a man and a woman, emerged and picked their way over to us, carrying skeptical looks along with them.
After asking me a few questions, the woman PC turned to Linus. “Sorry to ask this, your Lordship, but couldn’t it be your own gamekeeper who set the trap?”
“Are you asking me if I condone criminal acts on my land?” Linus asked, and his sharp tone brought two spots of color to the young woman’s face. “I do not. And further, we have no gamekeeper.”
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