Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  Vesta came up with a box of tissues as Tommy’s tears spilled over. She blotted her face, but continued to weep into her tea.

  The DI remained attentive, but I sensed a mental tapping of her toe, as if she would prefer to be away and onto business rather than clustered round a table not quite big enough for four. “You’ve been very helpful,” she said. “Is there someone you would like us to phone for you?”

  “No, I’m all right—I don’t know why I should be like this. It’s just such a tragedy.” Tommy sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “I would like to have talked with him again—just to…He said we were a lovely family. And we are, you know.”

  * * *

  —

  The detective inspector stared at the door after Tommy Pears left. “Dagenham—an hour-and-a-half journey one way. It’s a long drive on the merits of one ‘Bob,’ unknown fellow.”

  “Tommy said it was ‘a bit of a break’ for her. Perhaps she’s usually stuck at home. So, will a first-name-only identification help you?”

  I received a noncommittal half shrug. “I’m going to take a look at those abbey ruins. Is it straight out of the village? I could put them in satnav.”

  “ ‘Fotheringill abbey ruins’ in your navigation system will get you nowhere,” I said. “Vesta, are you all right the rest of the afternoon? I could lead Inspector Callow to the ruins, as I’m going out that way to hand over this paperwork to Guy once and for all.”

  “Yes, you go along,” Vesta said.

  I pointed to the photo of Bob. “May we keep a copy of that?”

  * * *

  —

  Five copies, just to be safe. I took one with me and offered to circulate another at the farmers’ market the next day, but once Tess found out there would be a fair-size gathering of locals, she said she would have DS Glossop and DC Flynn out to sweep the green.

  I stopped at the ruins with her, walking carefully through the gravel and grass in my heels, and gave her an idea of the layout. “We should add picnic tables,” I said, more to myself than her. “Although there are flat stones, and nooks within all the various walls, loads of places to relax. The brook runs away there”—I pointed beyond—“but there are no facilities and no makeshift campsites that I know of.”

  Tess stood still and took it all in. “Right, thanks,” she said—my dismissal.

  “Well, you’ll let me know, won’t you? Anything?”

  The DI raised an eyebrow.

  “For Willow,” I persisted. “It would help to have some sort of resolution.” I’d made sure to ring Lottie earlier, after Willow had left for school, but who knows what seeing a photo of the fellow might have set off. “She has got it in her head that there’s something she should remember, but can’t.”

  That got the inspector’s attention. “She needs to come in and sign her statement—perhaps I’ll have another chat.”

  “Right, I’ll leave you here,” I said, checking the time. “I’m off to Guy Pockett’s farm, and then I must meet Michael at Nuala’s Tea Room at four. We’ve a little matter of harassment to deal with.”

  “You’re being harassed?” Tess frowned.

  “No—Nuala. Well, she’s not really being harassed, but…” And so I told Tess the story of the aggravating Mr. Tony Brightbill.

  “It’s her decision whether she goes or stays.”

  “He’s making his interest look like something it isn’t,” I retorted. “He’s a specious suitor, to say the least, and someone needs to do something about it.”

  “Isn’t that up to the earl?”

  “Linus needs a nudge.”

  * * *

  —

  I continued to Guy Pockett’s farm, bouncing along a deeply rutted track and edging up onto the soft, flat verge whenever possible. And so it was that I came slowly upon a scene of devastation that robbed me of breath. A field that should have been green with swaying tall grass, and dotted with purple self-heal and knapweed, plantains and buttercups, orange clusters of fox-and-cubs and copious amounts of daisies was instead a brown expanse of death. Flowers melted into blobs, and tall stalks, bent as if they had been snapped at the neck, rattling in the breeze. I came to a stop and found myself just opposite Guy’s cottage.

  And here he came, sprinting from his shed to my car. I jumped out before he got to me.

  “What’s this?” I pointed to the dead field. “That’s your new field—what happened?”

  He wiped his upper lip. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not blind, Guy. What have you done?”

  “Nothing. I’ve done nothing.” His eyes darted round. He was sweating so profusely, I could smell the fear.

  “You’re certified organic, you sell organic produce…” I pointed behind the cottage to his cultivated fields and saw each rimmed with the same brown death. “You’ve sprayed herbicide,” I said in horrified amazement. “Are you mad? After the years it took you—”

  “Things got away from me,” he said in a rush. “I was behind in my planting and with Fran gone…I only wanted to control the weeds, stop them from invading the crops, and then I had that new field, and how was I supposed to get it under cultivation the way it looked. I didn’t mean to do so much, only—”

  “You could’ve asked for help! It took you two years to be certified organic. And you know better—you haven’t lessened your workload, you’ve added to it, because all the insects and birds that would eat the pests will now go elsewhere.”

  The cuckoos. I had told Dad this would be a prime field to film a segment. He could have highlighted the birds that eat the hairy caterpillars that feed off the plantain and other wild plants. It had been a perfect example of how food production for people and habitat for wildlife can coexist. And now it wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” Guy said. “I didn’t think—once I started, I just didn’t stop. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Don’t be daft, Guy, of course I’ll have to tell someone. Lord Fotheringill—it’s up to him. But you know that’s your organic certification gone.”

  “I thought I could get it plowed before…I didn’t think anyone would see.”

  “And that would’ve made it right?” I reached into my bag and drew out his handful of bills and invoices. “I suppose you might’ve got away with it, except you can’t seem to keep hold of these—”

  The photo of the corpse had got caught in the papers, and when Guy took the paperwork, he stared down at the face.

  “That’s Bob,” he said. “What are you doing with a snapshot of him? Why does he look so odd?”

  The world round us grew still.

  “Yes, it’s Bob,” I said. “Do you know him? What’s his surname? Where did he come from? Where did you meet him? Do you know where he lived?”

  Guy blinked at my rapid questions. “He’s just…Bob. Been round for a few months, I suppose, doing odd jobs for me—and at a few other farms, too. I pay him a bit. He never asks for much.”

  “Where did he stay?”

  “He’s never said. He just shows up and asks if I have anything for him, and he works and I give him a sandwich and a cup of tea, and he talks about trees and animals in the wood and such. He spotted Fran’s old bicycle she’d left in the barn and asked if he could use it.” Guy shrugged. “No point in me keeping it, so I let him. But why are you asking all this—has he done something?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Guy dropped his hand to his side, the papers coming loose and landing in a scattered heap. I put my foot on one that the breeze threatened to catch, and Guy bent over to retrieve the others. With his head down, he asked, “Dead? What do you mean?”

  “He was found dead by the pond near St. Swithun’s. When was the last time you saw him?”

  Guy straightened up and turned away from me, as if looking round the yard for any sign of Bob. “I do
n’t know. A few days ago—no, a week or more. A fortnight? I thought he might’ve moved on—he seemed the sort. How did it happen? Did he just die?”

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t just die.”

  Chapter 17

  My thoughts bounced round in my head as I drove away from Guy Pockett’s formerly organic farm. One second I was elated that I’d found a witness who may know even more about Bob than Tommy Pears, and the next second fury took hold as I thought about what Guy had done and the consequences he and the estate would suffer.

  What would Linus do—remove him from the farm? And here I had been touting our fields as a perfect filming spot for Dad. Well, that was off. We’d find no cuckoos on the Fotheringill estate now—except, of course, for the one in Pipit Cottage.

  The nerve of Guy to think that if no one saw what he’d done, he could get away with it. Well, someone had seen, and he must now cope with the repercussions.

  Tess—I needed to tell Tess that Guy knew Bob. Why didn’t this man Bob have a surname? Perhaps police could tease more details out of Guy. Bob had worked for him—he must’ve dropped bits of information about his life into idle conversation.

  I pulled into the abbey ruins car park. No black Volvo, so the DI had gone. I sent her a text: Estate farmer Guy Pockett knew Bob. Ask about bicycle and included Guy’s phone number. I followed that with an after-school text to Willow—How are you doing? How are the toads? I considered telling her about Bob, but when she replied that she was at the Hall having tea with Sheila, I decided to put that off. I ticked “check in with Willow” off my mental list.

  Finally, I rang Linus, and told him about Guy.

  “It’s a damned shame,” Linus said, his words short and clipped—the only indication of his anger. “I’m going to pass this to Cecil—he worked with Guy on the certification. You can be sure Guy won’t be at the market tomorrow.”

  “Yes, and he’ll be missed. Such a foolish thing.” I kept quiet about the recent quasi-identification of Bob, because I had another pressing issue to broach with Linus. I checked the time—almost four o’clock.

  “Linus, are you free at the moment?”

  “I can break away. Is there something else?”

  “Yes, Nuala needs you.”

  * * *

  —

  I explained before I drove away from the ruins. I hadn’t wanted to make it sound as if the situation were dire, but I did want Linus—who was known for his skill at calm and sensible discussion in the face of panic—to see the danger. My last comment—“Look sharp, Linus”—appeared to do the trick, and I was glad. This was no time for diplomacy.

  Not that Linus would ever resort to physically attacking Tony Brightbill. Would he? I started the engine of my car and put my foot down—perhaps I could reach Nuala’s before him, would he cycle in or drive?

  On the road, I slowed behind a car that waited to turn right into Church Lane, and lost my train of thought when I glanced over to the Stoat and Hare and noticed a man just exiting. Something about him—that black curly hair—gave me pause. That’s right—he was Mr. Pears. What did Tommy say her husband’s name was? Noel. The traffic cleared, the car in front of me turned right, and I followed suit, pulling up at the curb in front of the pub.

  “Hello,” I said, taking my foot off the clutch in such a rush, my car lurched forward before dying. “Mr. Pears, is it?” I called out the window.

  He looked at me blankly. “Sorry?”

  “I’m Julia Lanchester”—I leapt from the car and patted my name tag—“the Tourist Information Center. We met last Sunday week.”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing and touching my arm lightly. “Sorry, of course I remember. We had a fine day.”

  “Lovely, I’m so glad. But I want to explain that I was the one who sent the email this morning asking about the man you’d met on your first visit here. And it was good of your wife to come out to us.”

  “She’s here?” He looked up and down the road.

  “She came to look at a photo we had. You did see my email? Did you speak to your wife?”

  He shook his head, letting loose a damp curl on his forehead. “Well, the thing is I’ve been working in Newcastle, and it’s a long drive back—sort of dulls the senses, you know. I’ve not seen Tommy yet—is she at your tourist office?”

  “No, I believe she’s gone by now. I’m sorry you both made the journey.”

  “Not a bother.” He exhaled, his eyes continuing to scan the lane. “And so, about the man?”

  “Tommy was able to help us.” I hesitated for a moment, and then plunged in. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Bob—that nice fellow you met—has died, and the police are having a difficult time finding out who he is.”

  “Police?” His dark eyes homed in on my face, and he frowned. “What have they got to do with it?”

  “Well, er…suspicious circumstances, you see.”

  “Oh. It’s just—when you said he’d died, I thought…I remember it looked as if he lived rough, and, well—it seems like a person can meet with all sorts of accidents.”

  I shook my head. “Not an accident. I’m sure your wife will explain—and perhaps the police will want to talk with you as well, just in case you remember something different. Rest assured, we will not stop until we find out what happened to him—we already have a lead.” Best to instill confidence about how we handled things on the estate, I thought, deciding to wrap up our conversation on a lighter note. “Did you enjoy the Stoat and Hare?”

  Noel glanced over his shoulder at the door of the pub. “I only nipped in to use the gents’.”

  * * *

  —

  Noel Pears was on his phone as I got in my car. Good—I rather thought Tommy Pears needed some loving care, she seemed so affected by Bob’s death. I drove the short distance down the high street to Nuala’s—noting the parked green Morgan Roadster as well as Linus’s bicycle—and into the lane to my lockup. I secured the door, straightened my blouse and cardigan, and marched off.

  When I opened the tea-room door, a sea of little girls surged out, each wearing a tiara and all in a fit of giggles, followed by two women, acting as herders. I let them flow round me, before stepping indoors to a thick silence.

  My entrance, in the wake of the little girls, went unnoticed. Michael leaned forward in his chair, while Tony Brightbill, across from him, sat back with his legs crossed. The table carried the remains of tea and empty plates—the red and yellow crumbs on Brightbill’s spoke of Battenberg. In front of them stood Linus, with his back to me. Nuala was nowhere in sight.

  “I was impressed immediately, Linus,” Brightbill was saying, “and you can’t blame me for wanting to take Nuala away from you. She’s quite valuable.”

  Linus’s back was rigid. “If you don’t mind, Tony, I’d rather you didn’t speak of Nuala as a commodity. She’s a friend.”

  “Well, I’m only talking in business terms, of course,” Brightbill replied. “And you can’t deny it’s a great opportunity for her.”

  All three turned their heads at the sputtering sound I made. I cleared my throat, and said, “Hello. What a surprise to see you all here.”

  Michael rose and came to me, putting an arm round my shoulder—part protection, part restraint. Linus nodded a greeting.

  “As I mentioned to Michael,” Brightbill continued, “other concerns had brought me to Suffolk but it’s because of Ms. Lanchester I came to Smeaton.”

  “My fault, is it?”

  “My gain, I’d say,” he replied.

  Linus’s thin mustache matched the straight line of his mouth. I could see him breathing heavily, stirring himself up to knock the charm out of Brightbill—I hoped. But instead, he exhaled in a rush and said, “It’s Nuala’s decision, of course—whether or not she accepts an offer from you. Your corporate environment is beyond the realm of this est
ate, and I will not be one to stand in her way.”

  A crash of metal in the next room made us jump.

  “Nuala?” Linus called. “Excuse me, I’ll just see…”

  He stepped away, and we all waited in silence. Michael watched me as I kept my eyes on Brightbill, who glanced with feigned concern toward the kitchen. I heard a brief exchange, ending in Nuala’s raised voice, “No. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  Linus reappeared quickly, his face an unpleasant mix of hurt and anger. He toyed with the flap on his jacket pocket before pulling out his trouser clip, and saying, “Well, I believe I’ll be on my way now. Julia. Tony. Michael.”

  He’d left before any of us moved. I slipped out of Michael’s hold, but took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You go on ahead—I’ll see you at home,” I told him.

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “No, it’s all right.” I smiled. “I only want to see if Nuala has any lemon drizzle left. Goodbye, Mr. Brightbill.”

  * * *

  —

  Behind the counter in the next room, several empty cake pans lay strewn across the floor. There was no sign of Nuala. I walked further back, and turned a corner where the door of the pantry stood ajar and light poured out.

  “Nuala?” I asked as I pulled the door open.

  Thunk. Nuala had her back to me as she dropped a sack of flour onto a cart, and, pointing with her index finger, made a show of counting how many sacks remained on the shelves. Over her shoulder, she said, “Oh, Julia, can I help you with something?” She fussed with containers of caster sugar, shifting them an inch or two, and picked up a roll of marzipan and put it down again.

  “It’s a terrible thing what Tony Brightbill did,” I said.

  Nuala whirled round, and I recoiled at the ghostly pallor of her face and her hair, which had gone completely white. When I saw the front of her navy apron with a similar coating, I looked up to the top shelf and spied a sack of flour that had split, sifting its contents upon her. I also noticed her powdery face was marked with tracks of tears.