Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “Yes, but look at Moira Flynn—she went from a uniform to a detective constable,” I pointed out.

  Natty grinned. “Yeah, she’s that sharp, she is.” He coughed the grin away and got back to business. “I thought I’d look in on Ms. Wynn-Finch. I’ve her clothes and shoes to return. We’ve matched her prints to the ones in the mud, but of course, they were fresh. The body’d been out there so long, with the rain on Monday, we’re unlikely to get anything else.”

  “Willow will be at school now,” Vesta said. “She teaches year three, the seven- and eight-year-olds.”

  “I’ll go round and see her aunt at lunch,” I said. “Shall I return them for you and you can catch her up when you have the photo?”

  The DS handed over the bag with Willow’s sandals as Vesta asked, “You’ve no idea who he is?”

  “Not a clue,” Glossop replied. “Mispers has turned up no match.”

  Missing Persons, I mouthed to Vesta. Police-ese—my second language.

  The sergeant shook his head and exhaled loudly. “It’s a struggle, I’ll admit—we haven’t even been able to sort out a timeline—what with the condition of the body and no witnesses. Who was this man and where was he going? Who did he meet and why? Someone’s not talking—”

  That someone certainly wasn’t DS Glossop, who seemed to catch himself as he let his frustration seep out.

  “But not for long,” he exclaimed. “We’ll get it sorted. We found an old bicycle left outside the churchyard in the shrubbery and have checked for prints—they’re his, the victim’s. And another set, too, but we’ve no match on file. Could they be the perpetrator’s?” Glossop asked, and I drew forward, hoping for an answer or at the very least a guess, but the sergeant huffed, blowing all speculation aside. “And so, job one—once we have the photo—is to talk with everyone here on the estate.”

  “You can ask at the Stoat and Hare—they let rooms. Really lovely place, you know,” I added, unable to divorce myself from tourist promotion. “Although, I suppose it wasn’t really his sort of place.”

  “We’ll leave no stone unturned.”

  “You might try the holiday campsites on the estate,” Vesta offered. “We’ve two designated, although I daresay there’s the odd tent put up here and there in good weather, regardless.”

  “There are caravans in the field past the drive to the Hall,” I added. “No one uses them as yet—still need a refurb. But it wouldn’t be difficult to pry a door open. I’ll mention it to Linus and let them look into—”

  “No, Ms. Lanchester,” Glossop interrupted, pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “We’ll take it from here.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. In days past Natty Glossop might’ve given me a bit of slack, but apparently he’d learned from his boss that the public shouldn’t be putting a nose into police business. Fine, let them carry on.

  “Here now”—Vesta popped up and pulled a foldout map from the wall rack—“we can at least mark these places for you.”

  I cleared crumbs off the table, and we set about directing the DS to the holiday sites that could hold a clue to the identity of That Poor Man.

  “I can show you one thing we do have,” Glossop said, as he reached for his portfolio and pulled out a paper.

  I flinched, already forgetting there was no photo of the body as yet, and glanced down out of half-closed eyes. I saw a photo of an old, rusted red-and-black OXO tin. A pencil laid next to it gave it perspective—it looked to be a small one, not even four inches long and about an inch wide. It must’ve once held a few beef-stock cubes, but now it was what they called “vintage”—something you’d find in a collectibles shop. A second photo showed the tin open, and inside, nestled amid cotton wool, were pieces of a bird’s egg, dull blue with brown spots.

  “It was in his trousers pocket,” the sergeant told us.

  No identification, no photos, no money—only a keepsake, something a little boy might have. Perhaps it belonged to his son, I thought, and my eyes pricked with tears.

  “I don’t suppose,” the sergeant said, and waited as Vesta offered me a tissue and I blew my nose, “you know what sort of a bird that came from?”

  “Mmm, I’m afraid I’m not that good at eggs. My dad would know. Would you like me to—”

  “No, thank you, Ms. Lanchester—I’ll send this off to Rupert.”

  I pursed my lips at him in annoyance at not being allowed to at least act as messenger. Regardless, I would need to ring my dad before Natty got hold of him in case Rupert jumped to the conclusion this murder investigation involved me—which it did not.

  The sergeant shook his head with regret. “Sorry, Ms. Lanchester—it’s only that the boss has started this investigation already a bit cheesed off, and I don’t want to get in her way. A problem with the FME’s schedule has popped up.”

  I couldn’t fault him for not wanting to step wide of the line when Tess was on the case.

  Glossop reached for the photo and hesitated.

  “But I don’t see why you can’t make a copy of this thing,” he conceded. “You could show it round. And see here, we may need to circulate a photo of the body, too. Shall I drop one by?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. But, we won’t have to put it in the window, will we?”

  Chapter 10

  I ate half my sandwich at lunch, grabbed the plastic bag with Willow’s clothes and sandals. A few visitors perused the wall of leaflets and maps on their own as I told Vesta, “I’ll just nip down to Lottie’s shop and finish this later. I won’t be long.”

  At Three Bags Full, Lottie and another woman had their heads together at the counter.

  “Shall I come back?” I asked.

  “No, stay,” Lottie said, “I’m only placing an order. Will you wait?”

  I nodded, and the women continued their business while I admired the shop. Skeins of richly colored wool were socked away in floor-to-ceiling cubbyholes, making me feel as if I were tucked up in a cozy bed. A wall of jewel tones gradually gave way to earthy hues followed by soft baby pastels, then into undyed creams and browns and black. Displays of shawls and collars and cardigans begged me to slip one on. I couldn’t knit a stitch, but that didn’t mean I didn’t admire the work of others.

  I glanced over at Lottie, a woman who carried her own sense of style, untempered by her age. Late fifties, I guessed. Today, she wore a thin knit poncho in a gentian blue—it draped languidly off one shoulder, which was bare but for a spaghetti strap. The full skirt that fell just below her knees was in a red, yellow, and green print showing parrots and other exotic birds. Perched on her head atop her short salt-and-pepper curls was one of those pillbox-style hats, but made of fabric—blue, trimmed in yellow ribbon. Those in the know said that Willow took after her aunt much more than her parents, whom I’d never laid eyes on.

  “Bye, now,” Lottie called to her supplier. She slipped off her readers—black frames studded with polished colored glass—and said, “Well, Julia, and how are you today?”

  “I’m all right. Oh, Lottie, I’m so sorry Willow had to be the one to find That Poor Man. Did she tell you what happened?”

  “She told me about the flies,” Lottie replied and nodded to the back of the shop. “Come on now, I’ll put the kettle on.”

  We sat on low stools behind the counter, mugs of tea in hand.

  “Willow insisted on going in to school today,” Lottie said.

  “That’s good—staying busy may be the best thing for her.”

  “She was reluctant to leave off her latest project. Her class is creating a three-dimensional timeline of the Fotheringill estate dating back before the Romans. It’s quite an undertaking and made from a variety of materials. Willow’s creative that way—using scraps of fabric, bits of wool and knitting, drawings, painting, dried plants, salt-and-flour relief.”

  I glanced round the
shop. “I can see where she came by such creativity.”

  Lottie smiled. “Willow is a gentle soul. So unlike her parents, my sister and her husband. They love her, of course, but they see the world in black and white. I should’ve spent more time with her when she was younger, but I was always away, living in Paris or Amsterdam. I sometimes wonder should I have taken her with me on my travels, but I’m not sure that sort of nomadic life would’ve suited her any more than her real home did.”

  “I’d no idea you’d lived all over. Did you run a wool shop in Paris, too?”

  Lottie’s laughter bubbled up like a fountain. “No, but I did pose in the middle of the Place de la Concorde wearing nothing but a shawl knitted from spun raw wool. A bit of performance art, you might say. It’s what brought me to my love of natural materials.” She shivered. “That was a cold April day, I can tell you.”

  Well, there you have it—never make assumptions. I had shoved Lottie into the cubbyhole of little knit-shop lady, and as it turned out, she didn’t belong in a cubbyhole at all.

  “But eventually,” she continued, “I grew tired of that sort of existence and decided that a smaller life can be all the richer. I came back to England, looked round, and landed here. So did you, and we’re all quite happy about that.”

  I blushed, but it may have been because of the image that had lodged in my mind of a naked Lottie in the middle of Paris. “Mine was an impulse move,” I said, “but the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  We finished our tea, and Lottie set the mugs on the windowsill. “I suggested Willow stay at the Hall for a few days—Cecil will look out for her. You know, I never would’ve put the pair of them together, but look how well that’s turned out. They’re good for each other, and that makes all the difference.”

  * * *

  —

  Saturday morning, Michael slung his workbag over his shoulder, preparing to leave for Hickling Broad in Norfolk—a bit of early scouting for a winter feature on marsh harriers. But he hesitated, fingers drumming on his thighs and eyes darting round the static scene in the cottage. I held my breath. Pammy must’ve felt the tension in the room but, ensconced on the sofa, she never looked up from her phone. I gave Michael’s back a rub and said, “It’s all right—go on.”

  But it wasn’t all right. It was Saturday, the end of the week even by Pammy’s calendar. And yet, she showed no signs of shifting herself or her baggage. I sighed, slid my feet into my heels, and left for the TIC, grateful for the continuous stream of tourists that kept Vesta and me without a moment to think of anything else.

  At the end of the work day, I stayed late to put the counter and wall of leaflets to rights and then dragged myself back to the cottage, my steps getting slower and slower until I saw what I had hoped I wouldn’t—Pammy’s Ford Fiesta gathering dust at the curb. Michael arrived behind me, slammed his car door, and took my elbow.

  “Right, let’s get this over with,” he said through clenched teeth.

  He threw open the door. It banged off the oak post against the wall and rebounded toward us. Pammy leapt off the sofa, her phone falling to the floor.

  “It’s Amy,” she blurted out, and swallowed hard.

  At least she had the good sense to know her game was up.

  “What about Amy?” Michael demanded.

  It was sad news. Amy and Roz had given up their flat in Leicester. Roz had reconciled with her ex-husband, and Amy had moved into a bed-sit, which afforded absolutely no room for a guest, as it had only the one bed, a sofa, and a tiny kitchen. Sounded awfully familiar to me.

  “You can’t stay here,” Michael told his sister. “Not any longer. You can go to Pickle’s. I’ll ring her now while you”—he waved at the plastic shopping bags, piled up into a pyramid in the corner—“get your things together.”

  “I can’t go to Pickle’s,” Pammy cried. “It’s too far away.”

  “Too far away from what?” Michael’s voice rose in challenge.

  “Stop!” I shouted. “Please, just…” I heaved a great sigh. “It’s all right, Pammy. You can stay.”

  “No,” Michael said, grabbing my hand. “It isn’t fair.”

  I don’t know what made me do it—I was nearing forty years old and getting soft, I suppose. But here was Pammy, older than I was with a string of bad relationships and not a sibling who would take her in. I wouldn’t want it known I could be so coldhearted.

  “We can’t turn her out,” I said to Michael. “She’s family.” It took a great deal of effort to say it, but my reward was the look in his eyes—turned that twilight blue I loved—and the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He put his hand at the back of my neck, drew me close, and kissed me softly.

  “Thank you, thank you, Julia.” Pammy clasped her hands to her heart. “It won’t be for much longer, really it won’t. Because…because…” She hesitated for a split second and then held up her index finger. “Tomorrow, I’m going to look at a flat.”

  “A flat?” Michael repeated. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Pammy put a hand on her hip and stuck her nose in the air—big-sister status having been successfully reestablished. “Well, you didn’t give me the chance, did you?”

  I thought there had been a bit more to Pammy’s split second of hesitation, but I kept quiet about it, because at that moment, I desperately needed hope, false or otherwise.

  * * *

  —

  Sunday morning at Pipit Cottage, I continued to cling to that hope, if only by a thread. Michael was off again on Rupert business, and I finished my tea and stood ready to leave for work only three hours earlier than our twelve o’clock opening time. But how often did I get the opportunity to clean the TIC loo and clear out our tiny fridge?

  “So, where is this flat?” I asked, hand on the door.

  Pammy didn’t meet my eye as she replied, “Oh, over near the…er…I’ll be back by teatime.”

  As she unzipped her rucksack and began rummaging through its contents, I caught a glimpse of what looked very much like a pair of binoculars. I studied her attire—tight-fitting denims instead of her usual microskirt, a light jacket waiting on the arm of the sofa, and on her feet, sturdy trainers.

  The outfit did not indicate flat-shopping to me, but instead pointed in an entirely different direction, down a path that might possibly lead to a day outdoors with…I resolutely looked the other way.

  “Good luck,” I muttered, and left.

  * * *

  —

  Sundays on my own at the TIC were exhausting, and it wasn’t until just before closing time that I had a chance to sit down for a cup of tea. The kettle went off just as the bell above the door jingled. I stood, prepared for a last-minute visitor, but instead found Willow carrying a box of what I took for rubbish.

  “It’s for our Fotheringill timeline,” she informed me.

  “Do you have Alfie collecting for you now?” I asked as I rummaged through, finding a handful of shiny buttons, twigs encrusted with lichen, and various lengths of yarn. Alfie the rook was an avid collector, and always had an eye out for a new treasure.

  “Julia, I’ve made up my mind about something, and I want to tell you about it.”

  Willow unwound a turquoise scarf—so light and airy it looked as if it had been spun from clouds—from her shoulders, set it aside, and drifted into one of the chairs, straightening her shift and putting her hands on her knees. The dark circles under her eyes, her furrowed brow, and mouth in a straight line spoke volumes with uncharacteristic gravity. Since I’d known Willow, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her completely devoid of good humor and still have a finger or two left over.

  “Cecil isn’t terribly happy with my decision,” she began. “He says it isn’t really my concern and I should leave it for others, but it’s actually because he’s worried about me. But I knew I
could tell you, Julia, because you would understand that I must take action.”

  I understood nothing. “Is this about That Poor Man?”

  “Look now,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “That’s all we can call him. He deserves a name, doesn’t he? He deserves to be acknowledged for his life. And that’s why I am going to do something about it. Find out who he is, what happened to him.”

  “But, Willow, that’s the police’s work!”

  “You of all people know that isn’t always enough—that we must occasionally take action ourselves. You are my role model, Julia.”

  “No, don’t say that. This is an entirely different situation,” I said in feeble defense of my previous and unwelcome butting in to police enquiries.

  Willow leaned toward me, her eyes wide and trusting. “I must do this. It’s That Poor Man—he wants me to help him. It’s as if he’s waiting just behind me—waiting for me to act.”

  The bell above the door jingled and I jumped, half-expecting to see the murder victim walk in for a consultation on his case. Fortunately, it was only Cecil in conversation with two men who held Suffolk guidebooks. Willow clutched my arm and whispered furtively, “I haven’t told Cecil that last part. You won’t—”

  “Hello, you two,” Cecil said, a jovial—if awkward—smile plastered on his face. His eyes darted from Willow to me and back. I returned a pleasant smile, praying we didn’t look as if we’d been talking about a dead body. “Julia, these gentlemen are searching for a pub that pulls a good pint.”

  I leapt up, happy to launch into my usual discourse about how the Stoat and Hare and the Royal Oak are two of the finest alehouses in East Anglia, allowing my mind to run along on another track, as I wondered if Willow had started to lose her grip on reality.

  But when the visitors left and I turned back, she appeared her normal self. Gathering her treasures and returning them to the box, she smiled at Cecil, the small gap between her front teeth always guaranteeing a prompt smile in return.