“Bad press?” Michael asked with mischief in his eyes. “He might need a publicist to help clear his name.”
“A publicist—someone to make things up like they do for celebrities who’re caught shoplifting or politicians who shoot their neighbors? I wouldn’t trust a one of them.”
Michael laughed. “Too right.”
—
We weren’t the only ones to think of the pub. “Look—there,” I said, pointing to an older, deep-red hatchback sitting in the Cairn’s car park. It had a decal in the window—a hovering kestrel. “That’s Gavin’s car.”
“Does he live round here?” Michael asked as he switched off the engine and we sat.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, I’m not sure where he lives. But he does seem to hang about here—I always thought it was to keep at Rupert about a twitcher feature for the program.”
“Do you think he would write that letter if he didn’t get his way?”
“He seems like more a man of action than words,” I said, and felt the color rising in my cheeks.
“Did he know Kersey?” Michael asked, ignoring the foot I had placed in my mouth.
“I don’t know how they would know each other, except…” Scenes of visiting the Cairn after filming floated through my mind, and as they did, again I saw Kenneth Kersey sitting at one of the small tables near the bar, but this time, details were added to the memory. It seemed as if the few times we’d seen him there, Kersey had given Rupert a nod of hello. They’d even had an exchange or two.
“What’s he doing here?” I had asked Dad the first time, as Basil went up to collect our drinks. “He’s not following you, is he?”
“I don’t think so,” Dad had said. “He’s not on the clock now—just a fellow in for a pint.”
Now I told Michael of the exchange. “I don’t recall how many times we saw him,” I said. “I don’t remember that he talked much to anyone—but Gavin does stop here, too, so they could’ve met.”
“So we’re back to the murder again?”
I shook my head in frustration. “I didn’t mean to go back to it—let the police sort it. But it’s difficult to stay away, isn’t it?”
—
We pushed open the door of the pub to find it empty, but voices blasted from the kitchen.
“And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot say?” Gavin shouted loud enough to be heard in the next county. Michael and I stopped in the middle of the room, watching each other and listening hard.
“Say what you like, then, you won’t get away with it,” Val’s voice boomed. “I can tell you that for certain. I’ll have the law on you.”
“I don’t take to threats.” Gavin burst out of the kitchen, giving Michael and me barely a glance, and made for the door.
Val came out in a stained apron and stood behind the bar, brandishing one of the largest butcher knives I’ve ever seen. “Do you want to know what I’ll do with your Sardinian warbler?” he called after Gavin.
The door opened and a crowd of noisy young men filled the small space with football talk. Val laid the knife down on the counter carefully and smiled at them as they moved off into one of the rooms. It was only then he saw us.
“Julia, hello, how are you?” he asked as he removed his stained apron and pulled a fresh one off a hook and over his head. “Sorry about that. He’s gone, has he? I hope you aren’t looking for lunch—I’m not set up for food today.”
“No worries, Val,” I said. “Is there a problem with Gavin?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Val said as he tied the apron. “Not the sort I like to attract here at the Cairn.” He said this to one of the men, who had come up to the bar and ordered four pints of ale. “Rupert Lanchester drinks here, you know. And we’ve great plans for a hotel on site—a class establishment.”
After the fellow left, hands full of ale, I leaned over the bar. “Val, did you hear about Kenneth Kersey?” I asked, and saw Michael turn to me in amazement. Apparently I couldn’t leave the murder to the police—it kept coming back into my mind.
Val’s expression was blank. “Who’s that, then?”
“A fellow who worked for the wind-farm company,” Michael said, with a side glance at me. “He was murdered and found near the river.”
“I remember seeing him here at the Cairn,” I said. “Several times. I thought you might know him.”
“No, don’t know him,” Val said as he polished a glass. “Terrible story, though. Terrible. Of course, I can’t keep tabs on every single customer, not in such a popular pub as this.” He looked toward the door. “You’ll excuse me, Julia—I’ve a phone call I must make.”
—
In the car park, Michael stopped to look behind the pub and down to the field. “Val’s pigs,” I said. It had been dark on Michael’s first visit to the Cairn, but now we could see the wooden pig huts with low arched roofs dotting the grassy field; around each hut the grass was trampled into mud. A few brown hogs—Berkshires, Val had told me—wandered about. “Those are all his. He sells them as well as serves them here.”
“This roast pork of his is growing in legend,” Michael said.
“And just beyond the wood over there is the fen I told you about, called Rosemere. It comes off a channel from the Little Ouse. There’ve been a few rare spottings there—the occasional wryneck, greenish warbler.”
“Wryneck, greenish warbler,” Michael said under his breath as if memorizing them. “Is that a warbler that’s greenish, or is that his name?”
“That’s his name,” I said. “And what he looks like.” Michael cut his eyes at me and I saw the corner of his mouth go up.
“So, what do you think?”
I knew he wasn’t asking about the warbler.
“I think Val knows something about something Gavin has done. I think Val does remember Kersey.” I didn’t like saying it. “But would Gavin kill someone over a bird?”
“Maybe Lecky saw one of these warblers at the wind-farm site near Weeting Heath.”
“Yes, but then wouldn’t Kersey kill Gavin if he didn’t want anyone to know a rare bird had been seen—not the other way round? And such a gruesome way to do it.”
“Still hungry?” Michael asked.
I stuck my nose in the air and walked to his car.
—
We stopped at a petrol station with a Tesco Express and ate cheese sandwiches sitting in the car. We discussed Rupert’s autumn appearances and how they might help promote the new foundation. I wanted to tell Michael about my grand idea—the village summer supper—but chickened out in the end. I am well aware that my talents lie in ironing out details, not in dreaming concepts. Perhaps the summer supper was too much of a stretch.
Traffic thickened on the way back to Smeaton, so it was half past four before we arrived.
“Do you mind if I…?” Michael nodded toward the TIC. Right, the loo.
“Sure, come in.”
Vesta smiled at us. “Good afternoon, you two. Pleasant day, I hope. Let me put the kettle on.”
As Michael disappeared into the loo, I sat down at the little table behind the counter.
“Thanks for taking the whole day on your own,” I said. “I hope you weren’t inundated with visitors. Or maybe I hope you were.”
“We were quiet, but that gave me an opportunity to finish my talk for tomorrow’s volunteer training—‘The Rococo Furniture of the East Wing.’ ”
Michael emerged from the loo and walked toward the door.
“Tea, Michael?” Vesta asked a second before I was about to.
“I won’t, Vesta, but thanks. Well,” he said. “See you.”
At that moment it occurred to me that he was leaving. I jumped up and followed him as Vesta turned away.
“Thanks for letting me come along today.”
“Well, I needed your help. And now it’ll all be settled with your dad, and the police will find who murdered Kersey.”
“Yeah.”
We stood
silent for a moment. Michael stuck his hands in his pockets, and I worried a loose button on my jacket.
“Of course, there’s the letter,” he said.
I leapt on the subject. “That’s right—we should sort that out.”
Michael glanced out the window. “Do you want to…I don’t know…talk about it later?”
“Yes, we really should. Later.”
Michael shrugged. “Over dinner? The Stoat and Hare?”
I nodded vigorously. “Dinner. No, wait—I’ll cook. I mean, if that’s all right. No need to go out.”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“No, no trouble. Eight o’clock?”
“Good, yeah. Right.”
“Right.”
After the door closed, I tried to catch my breath. Vesta had her head down over her mug of tea and the steam had fogged the lenses of her glasses. She glanced up at me over the pearly frames and grinned. “And you accuse me of faffing about,” she said.
I put a hand on my hip in weak indignation. “We’re only trying to help Dad. I don’t think it would be a good idea to get involved.”
Vesta eyed me for a moment and then said, “Here’s your tea—come sit down. Now, what will you cook Michael for dinner?”
—
Steak, jacket potatoes, and a salad—a blend of spring greens and flower petals that Akash carried from an organic farmer on the estate. I chose strictly on the basis of ease and not because it sounded like a date menu. I got out my bottle of claret, put it away, and got it back out again.
I did the same at my wardrobe, although there I tossed the rejects over my shoulder. At last I settled on a reasonable choice—a butter-yellow nubby cotton jumper with navy trousers—and closed the wardrobe doors. I turned to see the heap of discarded clothes on the bed and began an argument with myself.
I’d better put them away. No, just leave them. But I shouldn’t leave a mess. Why—who’s going to know your bedroom looks like a hurricane hit it? It isn’t good for the clothes to be piled up like that—it breaks down the fibers or something. Looking for a little action this evening, are we? This is a working meal, so don’t even think that or you’ll ruin the whole thing.
I walked to the top of the stairs, went back, gathered up the heap in my arms, threw the lot into the wardrobe, and shut the doors.
Chapter 18
Michael arrived wearing a fresh set of clothes himself. I’d seen him only in casual attire—jumpers, canvas trousers—but all good quality. Now he’d stepped it up a notch with smoky-brown wool trousers and a midnight-blue blazer. He carried a bottle each of white and red. He opened the red—God knows how much it cost—and asked if I needed help.
“No, I’m doing all right,” I said. But he took the plates from me and set the table, and pulled the heavy skillet out of the oven when the steaks were finished. All the while, we talked about Rupert, the video, the murder, and the letter.
“It won’t be possible to trace who posted the video,” Michael said. He stared at the table as he twirled the stem of his wineglass between thumb and finger. “You can do all sorts of things on the Internet without taking responsibility—clean up someone’s life or destroy it, whatever you like.”
“That video should be taken down—maybe Dad has talked to Flint about it.” I pushed the last of my potato around my plate. “I wonder how it went today.”
“He should be home now. Why don’t you ring him?”
I shook my head. “No, he needs time to settle in. I don’t want to meddle—I’ll see him tomorrow.” We finished the last of the wine, and I said, “I’m sorry there’s nothing for pudding.”
Michael got up and cleared the table. With his back to me, he said, “I’ve a box of chocolates in my coat pocket. I wasn’t sure I should give them to you. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
Too late, I fear.
We took coffee on the sofa. The chocolates were Belgian and exquisite. Good thing it was a small box, but too bad there was only one filled with cognac.
“These are fantastic,” I said.
“I remembered you like chocolate,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. I blushed, but smiled back. “They were a recommendation from my sister. Thought I’d give them a try.”
“You’ve a sister?”
“I have two sisters, older than I am. And an older brother.”
“That must’ve been a houseful. My sister has three—the fourth on the way.”
“A boy, isn’t that right?”
I checked to see if he was teasing, but his eyes were a calm sea blue.
“One for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl, four for a boy; five for silver, six for gold; seven for a secret never to be told; eight for a wish, nine for a kiss; ten for a bird that’s best to miss.”
My eyebrows shot up. “I thought you didn’t know it,” I said.
He shrugged one shoulder. “I must’ve had it in an old nursery book.”
I went to take a drink of coffee, but my mug was empty. I set it on the table with extreme care, as if the slightest noise might upset the equilibrium in the room.
“How did that happen?” Michael asked, nodding toward the small bruise.
I held out my hand to admire it. “I went to my lockup yesterday—the idea came to me that perhaps Dad had left the letter when he borrowed my car.” I told Michael what had happened—the rowdy boys and their antics, my rescuers. Michael’s face got redder and redder.
“You mean to say the boys followed you to your lockup? Did you see them?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t seen them on my way, which was odd—the boys were never difficult to spot, they made too much noise. Still, I’d heard them laughing. Regardless, I wasn’t interested in puzzling it out. “Linus will take care of them.”
“Let me take a look at this.” Michael took my right arm, pushed up the sleeve of my sweater, and cupped my elbow in his hand. His hands were warm and dry, and as he stroked my arm, he left behind a tingling trail on my skin. He wiggled each finger gently and traced the edges of the purple mark, lingering far too long over a bruise the size of a ten-pence piece. I held quite still and hoped he didn’t notice my pulse quickening.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, his eyes flickering up to mine.
“It’s just a little bruise,” I said. But I didn’t pull away. He’s only being professional, I thought. Perhaps I’d got his background all wrong. “Did you used to be a doctor?”
The corner of his mouth drew up. “You thought I used to be a salesman.”
“Did you sell medical equipment?”
He looked up, and we both laughed. He continued to caress my hand, and my fingers curled round his. The lamplight created a glow that encircled us—the only two people in the world.
“I should go.” But he didn’t move and his eyes, a blue of the evening sky, asked me a question.
“Stay,” I answered.
We eyed each other, each with a secret smile. It had been so long, I’d almost forgot how much fun this moment could be—standing on that precipice, about to dive in. Fun and a bit scary.
He pulled me toward him. His lips were warm and soft and sweet. A hint of chocolate. We followed the first kiss with another and another before pausing to catch our breath. He started on the buttons of my cardigan with tender insistence. I stood and pulled him off the sofa. It took us a while to get all the way up the stairs to my bed, and we left behind us a trail of shoes and trousers and sweaters—saving the best for last.
Was he accommodating? That word doesn’t begin to…well, those details are best saved for my sister.
—
We had knocked into my wardrobe on our way to bed, which had opened the latch, allowing a mountain of clothes to tumble out. The low light burning from a small lamp beside us revealed the disarray of my bedroom, and now that we were at a point to notice our surroundings, Michael eyed the heap.
“I was tidying earlier,” I said.
“Is that what happened?” he asked. “I
didn’t think I’d taken all that off you.”
We lay tangled up in each other, Michael stroking my back. He kissed my forehead and I traced the white line high on his cheekbone. “How’d you get that scar?”
“That? Got in the way of my brother’s fist when I was about fifteen.”
Another piece of his past—fighting brothers. I filed that away and yawned. He reached across me, switched off the lamp, covered us with the duvet we’d pushed aside, and put his arms round me. I snuggled in for the night.
Chapter 19
I awoke to the loveliest gray sky—really, sunshine can be overrated. A gray sky sets off the new green of the oaks and makes a fine backdrop for a black rook gliding past. I was alone in bed, but I knew Michael hadn’t gone far—I heard stirrings downstairs and saw his shirt on the floor. I got out of bed and picked it up. Don’t do it, Julia, I told myself. Don’t put it on. It’s such a cliché—woman dons her man’s clothes for that morning-after sexy look. I slipped my arms in the sleeves, pulled it round me, and was admiring myself in the mirror when Michael walked in.
My face went red. It was that awkward moment in the light of day after a night of intimacy—and here I was looking the right fool in his clothes.
He had located his trousers and put them on, and now stood with two mugs of tea in his hands. He gave me one, took my face in his free hand, and kissed away my insecurity. “Good morning,” he said. His eyes were the blue of a calm sea.
“Good morning.”
We settled on the floor next to the low window, using the pile of pillows we’d thrown off the bed the night before, and looked down into the garden, watching the birds on the feeders.
“Goldfinch,” Michael said. “And that other one under the seed table—it’s a finch, too, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed—chaffinch. Well done.”
“It’s only a start.” His hand, resting on my thigh, began a journey north.
Regretting we’d come to this moment, I said, “I’ll need to get to work.” We stood, and Michael took my empty mug. “Vesta will know what’s happened the moment she sees me. I don’t quite know how she does that—understands things before I even tell her.” I smiled at him. “She’ll be pleased for us.”
The Rhyme of the Magpie Page 13
