Of course it was him—it had to be true. But I had no proof, and that pushed the confirmation of my discovery just out of reach. The family might be able to identify a photo of the murder victim, but would we ever see them again in the TIC?
“Wait now!” I leapt up. “They signed up for the newsletter, and so we have their email address. Oh, Linus, I need to ring Tess—DI Callow—and tell her. This could be it—the break in the case.”
Chapter 12
First things first. I needed to find the family’s email address, and then I would ring Tess—no sense in getting her hopes up. At the TIC, I locked the door behind me, dashed to the counter, and grabbed the sign-up pad for our newsletter.
A dozen or so names filled half the sheet—but these had been written starting just the previous Friday, and the family had been in a week earlier. We must’ve filled up a sheet since then—perhaps more than one. When a page was full, we tore it off, and when we had the time, added the names to our database. I whipped behind the counter and riffled through the papers near the computer. No sign-up sheets—but I did come across some farm papers Guy Pockett had left behind. I stuffed them in my bag.
Right, if the sign-up sheets were gone, it meant Vesta had already put the names in the computer. I booted up the machine and automatically reached over to switch on the kettle. But when the kettle clicked off, I didn’t bother with tea. Instead I worked my way into our newsletter list, searching the names by date. But the database wasn’t playing fair—its display of subscribers showed me that the last names were added more than a week ago. What had happened to the names we’d gathered between then and now?
I had seen the little girl write the email address down. Where had that sheet gone—where were those addresses? Not in the computer, not on a sign-up sheet. Vanished?
My excitement drained away. Our ability to reach this family was critical, I was sure of it—they were the only ones who could identify That Poor Man as Bob. But did I have their email address, that vital piece of information? No, I had nothing. I sat in the dark and stewed about the lost opportunity.
I should ring Vesta and ask if she remembered seeing a sign-up sheet with a young girl’s handwriting. But the second I reached for my phone, I thought better of it. Vesta already took on more than she should at the TIC, worked far more hours—I wouldn’t drag her in yet another day. Unless, of course, she had nothing else going on.
My next stop took me to Akash’s shop, where I needed to confirm the boxed lunches for a small tour group. And while I was there, I could find out what Vesta might be up to.
Gwen was running the till and gave me my answer. “A day out,” she reported. “They’ve gone off to Cambridge to a new exhibit at the air museum at Duxford—they’re meeting an old friend of Akash’s. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Lovely,” I agreed, silently promising myself that Vesta and I would turn the TIC over the following morning in search of our stray sign-up sheet, and praying it hadn’t gone out in last Thursday’s recycling.
“And how are you and Michael?” Gwen asked. I sidestepped the answer with a vague “oh grand, and you?” No need to bring up the cuckoo in our nest. I confirmed the twelve lunches, and bought myself a ham sandwich and a bottle of fizzy water flavored with elderflower and pomegranate.
“How is Tennyson? I see so little of her these days.” Gwen’s daughter, eleven years old, had started out in Smeaton as a bit of a loner, with only a rook as a friend. “And the village’s favorite bird, Alfie?”
“Tennyson’s started a nature club at school with two of her friends. And Alfie, well, it’s a difficult time of year for him.”
“Of course—June. He’s started to molt, has he?”
“And making a grand mess of it, too—feathers everywhere. He prefers to keep himself to himself right now.”
“Who could blame him?”
* * *
—
I drove out to the abbey ruins looking forward to a bit of quiet time on my own, just me and a sandwich and a lot of tumbled-down stone walls.
Sitting in my car, I rang Guy Pockett. “You left paperwork behind for the farm—invoices and the like. I’m up that way now, so I can run them by.”
“Hang on—no,” Guy replied. “Let me come in and get them.”
“But I’m already at the abbey; you aren’t that much further.”
“Yeah, but you see, I’m in Bury at the moment. I won’t be able to get back to meet you.”
“Then I’ll leave them at your cottage, tuck them under the mat or something,” I offered.
“No, I’d rather you didn’t—just the thing for one of the geese to get hold of. I’ll come into the village tomorrow and collect them.”
His insistence puzzled me until I remembered that he’d been on his own now for about six months, and the cottage might not be as presentable as it had been when he had a partner. “Yes, all right. See you tomorrow.”
* * *
—
The abbey wasn’t the most-visited part of the estate—I believed it suffered from an identity crisis. The thirteenth-century complex of buildings had been abandoned during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries, after which it had become a school for illegitimate sons of titled gentry, and after that possibly the dwelling for the first Earl Fotheringill before falling into disrepair. The ruins lay off the main road and down a narrow lane through fields. Visitors arrived first at the car park—really nothing more than a graveled space for five or six vehicles—where an aged wooden sign directed them along a footpath. No other signage indicated the importance of the site or its history.
Taking my lunch and a blanket along with me, I traipsed up the footpath until what remained of the abbey came into view, and paused. In the stillness of the summer afternoon, an atmosphere of melancholy arose from the ruins, as if the buildings couldn’t understand how the centuries had passed them by so quickly.
Most of the walls rose only a few feet now—the stones having been carted off over the centuries to build much-needed cottages and barns on the estate. Seen from above, what remained would look like a connect-the-dot puzzle that only whispered of the abbey’s former glory, with the towering church, living quarters, and work areas for the monks.
Only the undercroft remained standing—most of it, at least. Monks had used the undercroft—a long room with a low, vaulted stone ceiling that made you want to hunch your shoulders as you walked through—for storing mead, wine, beer. All the essentials. According to an old and rather drab-looking abbey leaflet, there were smaller storerooms below ground, but they had been blocked off ages ago. Health and Safety, no doubt, but before my time. The undercroft’s vast, empty expanse could be a favorite of children—I imagined them spending rainy visits racing up and down the length of the place, their screams of delight echoing off the walls.
I determined then and there to write a new leaflet. The old one gave precious little information, and it lacked the story element I preferred to offer visitors. There was great potential in the place, I could see it now. Better signage would pique people’s curiosity. And artwork would bring the place to life, showing monks in the herb garden, at prayer, that sort of thing. A touch of Brother Cadfael. Tales of religious seclusion and intrigue.
I squinted, and the buildings seemed to rise to their previous stature before my eyes. We could stage a reenactment. We could put on a Medieval Day at the Abbey—tourists would flock to the place. People in period dress would demonstrate crafts, and we’d even offer the proper sorts of food. What did the monks eat? Something palatable, I hoped.
Perhaps we could get Health and Safety approval to use the undercroft for banquets. And, we could organize evening ghost tours—nothing like a dead monk to create some excitement.
Plans flooded my mind, and I had to shake my head to get them out. My day off, after all. I headed to the far side of the complex and round t
he back of a broken wall where lay a secret patch perfect for a quiet picnic. Michael and I knew the place well. I spread my blanket and got out my phone, jotting down a few notes about the Medieval Day to work off later.
The air was pleasant and still: I could smell the green of the grass and something sweet—honeysuckle from the nearby hedgerow, perhaps. A smattering of red poppies bloomed in the field amid a sea of daisies, and I could hear the high, whistling call of a yellowhammer. I glanced round until I saw him at the top of a rowan. He reminded me I needed to go in search of the cuckoo, which we’d heard not far from this spot last year.
I allowed myself one more bit of work—I stood and began a panoramic view of the abbey grounds. It would be just the thing for an updated leaflet, both online and in print. As I held my phone out and slowly turned, I caught Willow walking up from the nearby hedgerow. I waved and called and she waved back, stopping to unwind a purple gossamer scarf from her neck, leaving a paisley-print tunic and her purple leggings.
“I didn’t expect you to be here already,” I said.
“The head teacher took my last two hours today—wasn’t that nice of her?”
The head teacher could see as well as I could the dark smudges under Willow’s eyes and the absence of her usual buoyancy.
“Of course, the children and I had to check our toad house first,” Willow said, going to her bicycle—almost hidden on the other side of an outer wall—and rummaging in her rucksack. “Terence Toad had gone walkabout yesterday, but all was well today. And so after that, with the extra time, I cycled out early. Although, it was a longer journey than I realized.”
Linus had been delighted when his daughter-in-law-to-be took up cycling round the estate, as it was his favorite mode of transport.
“I’ve a cool drink here,” I offered, “and a sandwich to share. What do you think?”
She came over and settled on the blanket, and I asked about school and the timeline. Willow answered readily, but a Willow sentence that contained fewer than three adverbs was telling. At last, she sighed.
“I don’t want to worry you, Julia, but I feel I should tell you that I’ve decided to…directly seek answers to the questions we all have.”
“Yes, Willow,” I said with relief, “that’s for the best, isn’t it? Such a dreadful thing to have happen to you. DI Callow told me that the police have someone you can talk with—someone who will help you sort through your feelings about what happened.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean the police. I’m going to ask him.”
Him?
Willow stood abruptly and brushed herself off. “Well now, I’d better get to my collecting. Mossy galls. I’ve had a nose round on the other side of that hedgerow and spotted a good number, and I just came back for my collecting box.”
“Do you need help?” I called after her.
“No, I’m fine,” she replied as she waved scissors and a shoebox.
I should go with her and have a serious chat about asking the dead for help, but the warm sun made my eyelids feel as if they had lead weights attached. I would talk with Willow, but for the moment, I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes. I rested my head on the stone behind me, and closed my eyes, finding I couldn’t concentrate on anything except the sun on my face and the call of an insistent robin, singing his heart out as he defended his territory. I yawned. Perhaps he was chastising Willow for stealing his pincushions.
A shadow fell over me, and I opened one eye.
“Here you are, now,” Michael said.
I squinted and gazed up at him. “I hope I’m not dreaming.”
He dropped down beside me and cupped my face, giving me a long, slow kiss from which I did not wish to emerge. “Mmm,” he said, his lips against my temple, “you’re warm.”
“I am warm,” I said and kissed him back. “This is lovely. How ever did you find me?”
“You’re right where you said you’d be.” His arm circled my waist, and he pulled me closer—I went willingly. “I finished early and came straight here—I thought we could at least have a few minutes to ourselves with no one about.” His lips were on my throat, soft, seeking, while a hand slid under my shirt.
“That’s the very best idea I’ve heard in forever.” I kicked the empty sandwich box off the blanket with my bare foot.
“Had a picnic without me?” He pulled back, his eyes half-closed and the corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile. One hand went to my waistband.
“Did I?” I asked, breathless and barely able to think of anything except his hands. “Oh, yes, I…gave Willow half my sandwich.”
Michael’s hands ceased their exploration. “Willow?”
“Julia!” Willow called from the other side of the hedgerow. “I’ve found the most absolutely wonderful collection of robin’s pincushions—there’ll be enough for all the children.” Her voice grew louder as she approached. “Such funny little mossy galls they are—oh, look, it’s Michael!”
I had leapt up and off the blanket by the time Willow came round the edge of the hedgerow. Michael remained seated.
“Yes, look—here he is,” I said. “Willow is collecting mossy galls, Michael.”
“Mossy what?”
I felt my color rise. “Galls. Mossy galls. Show him, Willow. They’re for school. The children need them for the Fotheringill estate timeline. They’re to represent the grasslands. The mossy galls, that is.” I rubbed my forehead and wished I would stop talking.
Willow presented a shoebox for Michael’s perusal.
“Ah,” he said, “there they are, the little mossy buggers.”
I snorted.
“Well,” Willow said, going round to the other side of the wall and her bicycle, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy the afternoon—I’m all finished here.”
“Willow, won’t you stay?” I asked, and Michael threw me a look.
“No, thank you,” she said, packing pincushions into her rucksack and wheeling her bicycle toward the path. “I have that other thing to do. Bye now,” she called over her shoulder.
I stared after her.
Michael stood and took my hand. “What’s wrong?”
I could feel my face draw up in worry.
“That other thing to do. She says she’s going to talk to him,” I said under my breath. “That Poor Man—the murder victim. She thinks she can ask him questions.”
“She what?” Michael’s head spun round to watch Willow’s retreating figure.
“I’m afraid she wants to go to the pond.”
He looked back at me and reached up with his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles on my forehead. “Well, then, we’d better go after her.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a quick kiss, turned, and called, “Willow!”
Chapter 13
Michael folded down the rear seats in his little Fiat and was able to get most of Willow’s bicycle in, pulling down the lid of the boot and securing it with a bungee cord. I suggested we stop at the Hall instead of St. Swithun’s—and the pond beyond the churchyard—and was relieved when Willow agreed.
As she and I climbed into my car, I asked, “Have you explained to Cecil how concerned you are about That Poor Man?”
“No,” Willow replied, frowning, which drew her freckles up into new formations. “I’m not sure how to begin it. And I don’t want to worry him further.”
“I’d say he’d much rather know than imagine. Why don’t you have a chat with him before you…you know, do that other thing.”
“Well, I might.” As we passed an empty lay-by in the lane, she brightened. “Oh, they’re gone now. Did you see them when you came up?”
“Who?”
“When I cycled by earlier, there was a couple with binoculars, looking out in the field and talking and laughing. I stopped and said hello.”
“Did you know them?”<
br />
“No, but you do—it was Michael’s sister and her friend—the fellow with the earring in the shape of a bird.”
“Gavin?”
“Yes, that’s him. Michael’s sister—Pammy—told me they were watching a chiffchaff feeding on the fly. She said she’d never seen such a thing before.”
Willow must’ve entered a parallel universe as she pedaled out—a place where Pammy enjoyed the outdoors and Gavin sought the ordinary. No, not possible—my brain would not accept this as reality. Gavin didn’t do everyday birds. If it wasn’t a hooded merganser from America sitting in a pond in Wiltshire, then it was nothing.
* * *
—
Michael made the left into the drive at Hoggin Hall ahead of us. As I slowed to follow, a green Morgan Roadster pulled round, heading into the village. I narrowed my eyes at it.
When we’d reached the yard, Willow popped out of the car. “Thank you for the lift. That’s grand, Michael, thanks.” She took her bike. “You’re both so kind. Julia, the children and I are going to the market on Wednesday afternoon to buy ingredients for making pease porridge the next day—it’s part of our maths unit, weights and measures.” She smiled at both of us and did not move.
“I wonder, is Sheila busy?” I asked, looking over Willow’s shoulder toward the kitchen and hoping to wrangle an invitation for tea and, at the same time, keep Willow at the Hall.
“Monday—I believe it’s her day to run up to the big shops in Bury.”
Darn, so it was.
“Well,” Willow said, “bye now.”
“Yes, bye.”
As we watched her push the bicycle round the corner of the Hall, I said to Michael, “I suppose we’d better be off, then. I’ll leave my car in the lockup and see you at home.”
“Is she all right, do you think?”
“Hard to say—but I’m sure she’ll be better when this is all settled. Tess told me they’ll have a photo of the fellow tomorrow, and they’d start circulating it.”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 10
