Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “All ready, my dear,” she told him. “Yes, Julia, our timeline is coming along nicely.”

  Oh, was that what we had been talking about?

  Brushing her hands off, Willow asked, “Julia, have you seen any of those incredibly cute little robin’s pincushions about?”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s a mossy gall on rose stems. Harmless to the plant, but it makes such a lovely mossy ball—I want to use them on the timeline to represent the grasslands on the estate in the seventeenth century. Auntie says she’s seen them on dog roses near the abbey ruins. I might nip up there tomorrow afternoon when school is finished. They’re awfully sweet.”

  “We heard a cuckoo up that way last year,” I said. “Near the brook by the ruins. Didn’t see him, though.”

  “I don’t think I would know a cuckoo if I met one,” Willow said.

  “He’s about the size of a dove,” I replied. “And he’s got a barred chest, sort of like a sparrowhawk, but cuckoos rest their wing tips below their body—it’s a good ID feature.”

  I saw an imperceptible nod of approval from Cecil—anything, I’m sure he thought, to take her away from the subject of That Poor Man—and so I carried on.

  “Rupert is doing a piece on them, and he’ll need footage. I tell you what, as tomorrow is my day off, perhaps I’ll go out and take a look for him. I may see you there. Do you know the cuckoo’s rhyme?

  “The cuckoo comes in April

  And sings its song in May

  In June it changes tune

  And July it flies away.”

  “That’s lovely,” Willow said. “I must remember it for our wildlife unit. The children enjoy rhymes, and it helps them remember what we’ve covered. Last week we all memorized the lines for St. Swithun.” She straightened up as if reciting to her class.

  “St. Swithun’s Day if thou dost rain

  For forty days it will remain

  St. Swithun’s Day if thou be fair

  For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.

  “We did that one so I could tell them about the watercolor competition…” Her voice drifted off, and she cocked her head as if listening to a voice no one else could hear.

  “Willow, love.” Cecil picked up her box. “We’d better leave Julia to close up.”

  Willow came back to us. “Yes, of course—where’s my scarf, now?”

  She twisted one way and the other before she spotted it next to the computer. She retrieved it, uncovering the pile of papers left from Friday morning. They were my notes from the meeting with Guy about the chefs’ demos at the market along with—I’d discovered—a few of Guy’s own papers that he’d left behind. But another sheet lay next to the stack—the photo of the OXO tin and its contents. Willow picked it up.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Sergeant Glossop brought that by,” I said. “It’s a photo of the only thing the police found in That Poor Man’s pockets. They’re hoping it might help identify him.” For my explanation, I received a black look from Cecil at bringing the conversation back round to where it shouldn’t be.

  Willow made no mention of That Poor Man. Instead, she tapped a finger on the photo of the OXO tin and murmured, “Isn’t that odd…”

  Chapter 11

  I arrived at the cottage to find Pammy waiting on the doorstep. She had a sly smile and a pleased air about her. Both vanished when I asked about the flat.

  “Gone,” she said with sorrow. We stood for a moment of silent mourning, until she added brightly, “But there might be another one tomorrow.” Michael walked in a minute later, and she repeated this news before he could even ask. He cut his eyes at me, and I shrugged.

  As an act of appeasement, Pammy offered up a paper shopping bag and declared she had been down to the shop and had bought a pint of milk, a ready-to-bake pizza Akash made up himself, and a bottle of wine. She stood beside the sink while she told us this, so we would notice that it was—for the first time in a week—devoid of dirty dishes.

  I should’ve been happy with this burst of responsibility, but it only proved to plunge me back into despair. Now she was sharing the food costs and cleaning up after herself—as if she really lived here.

  Over our meal, Michael attempted to lift my mood—and avoid another Royals Report—by making small talk, beginning with the nesting habits of blackbirds.

  At this, Pammy looked up from her plate and said, “Do you know what amazes me? Swallows, that’s what. Those little birds soaring round in the sky”—she waved her fork in the air, drawing a spiral overhead—“and never coming down but for the nesting thing.”

  Apparently, Pammy took our stunned silence as agreement, for she continued. “And migration—well, don’t get me started on that. Off to Africa in the autumn? That those birds can find their way thousands and thousands of miles there and back again—well, puts us with our navigation systems to shame, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, amazing,” I agreed, glancing at Michael, who took a slug of his wine. I dared not ask where she had come by her newfound information. I believed I knew where—and I was afraid Michael knew, too.

  * * *

  —

  Monday morning, the three of us stood at the door, ready for our days. For Michael, it was a class in feather identification, one of Rupert’s favorite topics. I rattled off my schedule: confirm lunches with Akash for an upcoming minibus tour; return Guy Pockett’s farm paperwork; drop in to see Linus; and talk with Tess about that other matter—Michael and I continued to keep quiet in front of Pammy about the murder of That Poor Man. “And in the afternoon, I’ll be at the abbey ruins to listen for that cuckoo Dad wants.”

  “Some day off,” Pammy commented, then noticed that Michael and I stood watching her. “Yeah, right—a flat.”

  * * *

  —

  “Is Detective Inspector Callow available?”

  “Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?” the desk sergeant at the Sudbury police station asked. “Do you have a crime to report? Or is it a complaint against a neighbor? If so, I’ve a form you could start with—”

  This fellow was new—I didn’t recognize him, and he hadn’t recognized me. “Sergeant Glossop?” I tried. “Or DC Flynn?”

  I had learned that asking the police for information face-to-face got me further than a phone call or a text, and if Tess wasn’t available, I would go down the list on her team. But the desk sergeant was having none of it.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you like to speak to a family liaison officer?”

  “No, thank you. This isn’t about me, it’s about—I tell you what, I’ll wait until one of them is free.”

  Before he could tell me otherwise, I marched over and sat in one of the chairs that lined the far wall, pulled out my phone, and sent a text: in lobby. any news?

  Two minutes later, DI Callow came out from behind a locked door and walked over.

  “You’ve a fine guard dog there,” I said.

  “Did you tell him your name?” she asked.

  “No,” I said crossly. I would not ask for special treatment if the result was the desk sergeant recognizing my name from a previous incident—or two.

  “Come through.” I followed the DI out of the public area and into the depths of the station. As we walked down the corridor, she asked, “Tea?”

  “You must be joking.” I well remembered the quality of tea at the station. “I’ll pop in to Winch & Blatch later.” The local department store had a lovely café upstairs, and I remembered their Bakewell tart with fondness.

  “Nice for some,” Tess replied. I reminded her it was my day off.

  She took me to an interview room and left me for a minute or two. I perched on a hard chair, and glanced at my surroundings. The place gave me the creeps, as it had before—sterile, with a band of hi
gh windows providing the only natural light, and that big mirror, which wasn’t a mirror at all, but a way for people to watch you. I had nothing to hide, and yet it made me nervous—I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for a person laden with guilt.

  Tess returned with a file folder and sat across from me.

  “Do you have any more information for us?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “But Willow’s quite concerned—she’s rather fixated on the victim.”

  The DI raised her eyebrows. “Does she need to talk with someone? I could make arrangements.”

  “No, no, she’ll be all right. Do you know how he died?”

  “The autopsy report isn’t complete, but it’s blunt force trauma, a blow to the back of his head. Bashed his skull in; he was probably dead before he hit the ground. Splinters in the wound and bits of moss—the weapon might’ve been a piece of wood just lying about. We’ll send out a team again to have another look at the area, but I don’t hold out much hope. The murderer probably took off and chucked it in the nearest stand of trees. This speaks to a moment of passion or rage rather than a planned murder.”

  She presented these details in her usual cool manner, but at the words “bashed skull,” I had winced.

  “What about the OXO tin with the eggshells?” I asked.

  My intention to ring Rupert on Friday before DS Glossop got to him with that photo had gone completely out of my head. The result of that had been Dad ringing me the moment he was off the phone with the sergeant. I’d assured him police were taking care of the investigation and it had nothing to do with me—but all the while thoughts of Willow weighed me down.

  “Rupert says dunnock, although he had an idea it could be a cuckoo’s good attempt at egg imitation.”

  “So the bird might be identified, but not the person. Could someone have robbed That Poor Man—stolen his money and his identification?”

  “I’m not sure he could’ve kept hold of either,” the DI replied. “His pockets were full of holes—it’s a wonder that tin hadn’t fallen out. His general appearance was one of living rough, I’d say.”

  “Do you have the photo now? Hasn’t your FME—your medical examiner—had the time to—”

  “She got a better deal,” the DI snapped.

  I recoiled at the white-hot anger that rolled off Tess. She hadn’t moved a muscle, and she hadn’t needed to—the tension in her jaw, the sharp crystal gaze, and the mere suggestion of high color on her cheeks came together with great effect. A truly guilty person would have no chance against her.

  “A what? Does the medical examiner work for the highest bidder?”

  “Let’s just say she had to take on an autopsy at another station for an investigator with more influence. She’s promised results to us by the end of today, and we will at last be able to release a photo.”

  * * *

  —

  I left the station with Tess in an extremely bad mood, headed down the road, and across Market Hill to Winch & Blatch. When I pulled open one door to enter, the other was being pushed out by someone leaving.

  “Ms. Lanchester, it’s a surprise to see you here.”

  We both stopped with doors half open. “Mr. Brightbill,” I replied, hearing the accusatory tone in my voice. Are you married? “Do you live in Sudbury?”

  “No, I don’t. I only stopped in to the café.”

  “Here? Are you making a survey of the tea rooms in East Anglia?” Had he scared the wits out of the young women here, too?

  He tried out one of his warm smiles on me. “You’ve no tourist activities to attend to?” he asked.

  I bristled. “It’s my day off.”

  “Well, do enjoy your tea. I can recommend the Bakewell tart.”

  I stood on the pavement, scowling at his retreating figure. Just before he turned down the passageway that led to the city car park, he stopped and glanced in my direction. Caught spying, I jumped back and knocked into the door, causing the glass to vibrate and a clerk to rush up and ask if I was all right. My face blazing, I stomped up the stairs to the tea room, perused the offerings, and chose a slice of blackberry sponge just to show Brightbill I was no pushover for his suggestions.

  The cake was good, but I’d rather have had the Bakewell tart. See what he made me do? Who was this fellow, anyway, and where did he come from and why was he skulking about our corner of Suffolk? Then, as if cold water had been thrown in my face, I realized those were the same questions we kept asking about That Poor Man.

  * * *

  —

  I pulled into the gravel forecourt of Hoggin Hall, and my mood lifted as I looked upon its brick edifice, replete with turrets marking the north and south wings. I’d lived in the Hall for a few months when my Pipit Cottage was undergoing repairs, and I felt quite comfortable there, whether in the kitchen, the library with its vast fireplace, or the grand dining room that ran the width of the building at the back. It had been my idea for the Hall to open to the public three afternoons a week—a program now managed for me by Akash. I had pushed for Nuala to run a café on-site—it had become a popular stop for tourists on those open days. It was all part of an influx of new life sorely needed on the estate, and although some in Linus’s circle of titled friends thought it a drastic upheaval, he had taken it in stride.

  I circled round the building and came in through the kitchen, where I found Sheila Bugg at the sink. She invited me to sit and visit, but I explained my mission, concerning Nuala and Linus and the interloper.

  “The thing is, Sheila,” I said, dropping my voice even though we were alone, “I think this Brightbill might be married.”

  The look that came over her face—well, if I had any trouble dealing with Mr. Anthony Brightbill myself, I’d just let Sheila Bugg loose on him.

  “Someone needs to light a fire under His Lordship.”

  I raised my hand. “That would be me.”

  * * *

  —

  With a twinge of apprehension, I knocked lightly on the door of Linus’s study. We were friends, but would he appreciate my opening a discussion into his love life—or lack thereof?

  The heavy drapes, open to allow the sunlight to stream through the tall windows, fell to the floor in burgundy puddles, and the dark, polished wood bookshelves glowed.

  “Julia, good morning,” Linus said, standing and coming round his vast desk to greet me. “Shall I ask Sheila for tea?”

  “Already done,” the housekeeper said, pushing the door open with the tray she carried. “I’ll set it just here.”

  Sheila left us, and Linus and I sat on the leather chesterfield sofa. I poured both cups and reached for a biscuit. “Bourbon creams,” I said, “your favorite. Are you sure you can spare one?”

  “Have at it. It’s a pleasure to see you, but it is your day off.”

  “Yes, well, I have something I want to talk with you about.”

  “You aren’t here to explain that you’ve embarked upon a new tourist program without telling me?” He said it with a twinkle in his eye, but also with a bit of apprehension.

  “Linus, I would never—” We both laughed. “No, not to worry, I have not started anything new.” And then the letters “OFE” rose to the surface of my mind. “Oh, well, actually there is something. It occurred to me that we could have some sort of commendation in each month’s newsletter, focusing on a tenant who has shared his or her love of the estate with visitors. We would call it the OFE, Order of the Fotheringill Estate. And we’d offer a large hamper and do an interview. We should probably have a sash or a medal hanging on a ribbon. And we need a logo—something instantly recognizable. Could we base it on the family’s coat of arms?”

  Linus reached for a biscuit and gazed at it, deep in thought. Had I gone too far?

  “I haven’t done a thing yet,” I added. “Really I haven’t. Not witho
ut your approval.”

  He tipped his bourbon cream toward me. “Well, you’ve got it. It sounds like a splendid idea—but, we’ll discuss each month’s winner before the selection is announced?”

  “Of course.” I dunked my biscuit into my tea and took a bite. “Mmm…” I swallowed before continuing. “That goes down a treat. So, I’ll tell you where the idea for the commendation came from—we had a young family in last week, and they went on and on about a man they’d met out near the abbey ruins. He knew all about the birds and wildlife and was ever so helpful to them. I think he might be one of the pensioners out in Wickham Parva. I don’t know them all personally, but I’ll find out, because he would make an outstanding first choice for the OFE.”

  In my mind, I heard an echo from the mother of the family. Looked as if he might’ve lived rough.

  “Bob,” I murmured. “They said his name is Bob.”

  “Could it be Bob Treen?” Linus asked. “Although, perhaps he’s too young.”

  And then I saw That Poor Man, facedown by the pond, holes in his shoes and in his pockets. A pricking sensation crept up my arms, and it was as if Linus’s words came to me in a time delay. I stared at him for several seconds before I could respond. “No, not young,” I whispered at last. “This Bob…he might have been…Linus, I think it’s the man who was killed.”

  True, Willow had come upon That Poor Man near St. Swithun’s, and the family had met him out by the abbey ruins, but hadn’t he mentioned the churchyard to them? Yes, he had.

  Linus sat forward and placed his cup and saucer on the table. “Is that right? Have the police identified him at last? I think it will go a long way to settling Willow’s mind, you know. She’s taken this all too personally.”

  I shook my head. “No, the police have no identification. Yet. This could be it—or at the very least, it might help them. It’s only, the family didn’t know his surname.”