Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “Did you tell Linus to come here?” she demanded.

  “I, well, yes. I thought he could—”

  “Use me as a bargaining chip in negotiations?” The red of her cheeks glowed through the coating of flour.

  “Nuala, you know that isn’t what Linus meant.”

  “I have no idea what he meant.” She stalked past me, out of the pantry and into her work area, where she yanked open the fridge, took out a portion of butter as big as a shoebox, and slammed it on the counter. “But I’m coming to realize that perhaps it’s time I, too, look at life as one enormous business proposition. I may very well talk with Tony about what he has to offer.”

  “No, please, it’s my fault that—”

  “And now, Julia”—she brushed off her apron and a cloud of flour rose—“did you need something? Because I’ve a good deal of work to finish up here.”

  * * *

  —

  I couldn’t get anything else out of her, apart from the last half loaf of lemon drizzle. Something had gone quite wrong here—I had believed Linus would step up and tell Nuala how he felt about her and from that moment on, all those dinner parties and games of charades in the library at Hoggin Hall would be hosted not by lonely Lord Fotheringill, but by Linus and Nuala, the happy couple. Was that so far-fetched?

  The tea room was empty, the cups and plates left on the tables creating a still life in melancholy. When I stepped out onto the pavement, the cause of this entire disaster stood next to his Roadster, and I wasn’t about to let an opportunity pass me by.

  “Is this how you do business?” I asked. “Swanning around villages across England, lying your way into people’s good graces for your own gain? You do realize that Nuala had no idea what you were really after?”

  “I never lied,” Brightbill snapped back.

  “You lied by omission. You lied with your invitation to dinner, with”—I jerked a thumb over my shoulder—“with bouquets of cupid’s dart.”

  “I did not intend to mislead Nuala, and I believe my offer is a legitimate one.”

  “Your offer is not welcome,” I said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  My reply of I’ll see you in hell first was cut short when a text came in and I looked down at my phone. Thx re pockett.

  “Police,” I muttered.

  Brightbill lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure they can arrest me on charges of wanting to hire away the baker.”

  Such a comedian. “A man died on the estate—he was found by the pond beyond the church.”

  When Brightbill attempted to get a better look at my phone screen, I moved my hand away, dropping the phone in my bag.

  “Who was he?”

  “He had no identification on him,” I said. “Police are investigating.”

  “How did he die?”

  I wasn’t fooled for one minute by this sudden interest in a stranger’s death. I knew this was an attempt to divert me from the matter at hand, and I would not succumb. “We are keeping these matters quiet until we learn more about the situation,” I said, as if I could flash my DI badge at him. “We—and the police, of course—are following several lines of enquiry. Although, I don’t see how this is any business of yours.” And with that, I clapped my mouth shut.

  Chapter 18

  Inside Pipit Cottage, Michael clanged pots and pans and searched cupboards while Pammy busied herself laying out clothes on the sofa. Neither spoke, and yet the heat of angry words filled the air.

  The door closed behind me with a snick. Michael didn’t turn, but jerked his head toward his sister. “She was on the doorstep when I arrived.”

  “I don’t have a key,” Pammy shot back at him.

  He whirled round and shouted, “You don’t need a key!”

  I couldn’t breathe. I almost backed out the door and fled. It had been a terribly long work day, but, at that moment the TIC called to me as a haven. I could hide in the back with the lights off and contemplate my laundry list of woes in peace. Willow’s worrisome behavior. My responsibility in pushing the nonexistent relationship between Linus and Nuala to the point of oblivion. The despoiling of an organic farm and its repercussions, and a dead man no one knew, except as “Bob.” And, of course, let’s not forget the loss of my Pipit Cottage to Pammy. But the worst of it all—Michael and I had missed that magic moment when he might’ve proposed. It was gone—vanished. I knew that now. With no commitment to each other, we’d probably drift apart, become just another casual relationship that went nowhere. A stabbing pain in my chest caused me to clutch at my cardigan.

  “Julia?”

  Michael came to me and took hold of my hand, rubbing it until I released my sweater. Pammy held still, poised above her hoard.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. I didn’t know whether to be grateful for her concern or anguished that she acted the hostess.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll go and change,” I murmured. Michael kissed my temple before I broke away. My chin trembled, and I felt like a fool.

  As I took hold of the stair railing to haul myself up one step at a time, I noticed the dark clothes Pammy had been fussing with.

  “Waterproofs?” I asked.

  Pammy shot a worried look at Michael, who said nothing.

  “There’s a short-toed eagle been spotted at Lakenheath,” she said quietly, “and we’re going to take a look tomorrow. And as it might rain, Gavin thought I should have some gear.”

  “His?”

  “No, I found them up in Bury at a charity shop.” She held up the jacket for inspection. “Reflective, the woman said, in case we’re there after dark.”

  She’d better hope to God it won’t be an eighteen-hour day in the rain. I marveled at how it hadn’t taken Gavin long to drag his new girlfriend into his usual activities—I’d give this relationship one more day. Let her see what it was like to spend hours and hours ankle deep in mud with water cascading off the brim of her hood. And yet, I couldn’t wish that on her without a last warning.

  “The thing is, Pammy, it can be tiring, you know, waiting out a bird. In the rain.”

  “I don’t mind,” Pammy said. “It’s an adventure.”

  * * *

  —

  Upstairs, I opened the window, leaned out, and took a deep breath to clear my head. Nearing evening, and I caught a whiff of honeysuckle on the air and heard the birds making a show of it before settling in. A scattering of dark forms against the sky told me the rooks were heading to their roost. I undressed in slow motion, until I stood in my bra and knickers, letting the world outside the window do its work to repair my mood.

  Plastic shopping bags briefly rustled their way into my consciousness. They quieted, and in a few moments, I heard Michael’s footsteps on the stairs and the bedroom door creak open.

  “Hiya,” he said in a whisper as he wrapped his arms round my waist from behind and rested his lips on my shoulder.

  I turned my head and looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve made a dog’s breakfast of this business between Nuala and Linus.”

  “Brightbill lets his charm do the work for him when it comes to business. That isn’t always fair—and it can backfire. He should’ve known from the start what was happening here. Still”—Michael’s hands slid down to my hips—“it’s Linus who needs to speak up.”

  “But he won’t—he wouldn’t want to stand in Nuala’s way. Such a load of nonsense.” I watched a blackbird scurry across the back garden. “I’m not sure I’m doing such a fine job as Willow’s minder. Where is she now? Should I ring her on the hour?”

  “Willow has Lottie and Cecil—not to mention Linus, Thorne, and Sheila. She’ll be fine.” Michael turned me round to face him. “So, let’s not give them another thought—at least not for a while.” He kissed me and, at the same time, executed a deft move an
d unhooked my bra with one hand. A shiver ran down my spine.

  “Pammy,” I reminded him.

  He dropped my bra on the floor, as his lips caressed my throat. “Pammy’s taken herself off to the Royal Oak. I said we’d see her there later—but just in case we don’t show up before closing, I gave her my key.” He paused and looked at me with apprehension. “Was that all right?”

  I stared at him. Was it? At that moment, I would’ve given Pammy the keys of the kingdom for an hour alone with Michael. I laughed. He watched me, the corner of his mouth curling up. I pulled his shirt off over his head as a delicious breeze drifted in, cooling my skin but not my desire.

  * * *

  —

  The light faded, and we lay quietly on the bed until Michael rolled onto his side, propped his head in his hand, and began to trace a figure eight on my stomach. “And what else—before—what else was bothering you?”

  “Us,” I said. “We seemed to be…interrupted. I’m not blaming Pammy. It’s been fine having her here.” At this, Michael paused in his drawing. “Mostly fine. But it’s gone on so long, it’s hard to imagine getting back to the point where we might…”

  “Do you think I will let that go?” His eyes were dark as midnight. “I won’t. Hang on, I’ll ask you right now.” He sat up, and for a moment I thought he’d drop to his knee at the side of the bed wearing nothing but a smile.

  “No, wait,” I said.

  “Wait?”

  “Yes, wait. But only until we’re ourselves again. Until the perfect moment comes back round. It’s all right to wait now, I can see that.” I pulled him close. “But not a second longer than necessary.”

  “Right, not a second longer. I love you,” he said into my hair.

  I responded in kind, and my tummy chimed in with a rumble.

  “I’m starving. I could just do with a plate of haddock and chips.”

  * * *

  —

  “Guy’s life is one rash action after another. I’m sorry that Fran left him, because she was always a good, calming influence, but it’s impossible to let this go. He actually thought if no one saw what he’d done, he could continue farming, pick up with organic methods where he’d left off and all would be well.”

  Michael and I strolled up the high street hand in hand, taking our time on the way to the Royal Oak. We’d reached the green as I’d wrapped up the story of Guy Pockett’s calamity, and Michael slowed to a stop.

  “This Bob did the odd job for Guy,” he said. “Do you think Bob saw Guy spraying the field?”

  “He could’ve done. Guy must’ve sprayed the herbicide a fortnight ago or longer—was Bob still alive then? Guy wouldn’t’ve liked someone knowing, I can tell you. He thought he could hide his mistake.”

  “Did Bob threaten to tell someone what he’d seen?”

  A clamoring of swifts screamed as they dived and swirled round the rooftops of the buildings across the green, but I paid them no mind.

  “You mean, did Guy—no, he couldn’t’ve.”

  “An argument that got out of hand.”

  I scrambled in my bag for my phone. “I’ve got to ring Tess.”

  She answered, and in the background I heard loud but indistinct voices, glasses clinking, and the pinging noise of a fruit machine. I thought I could identify her location with no problem and invited her to shift from The Den in Foxearth—her off-duty hangout—to the Royal Oak in Smeaton, where she would hear some amazing news.

  When Michael and I walked in, Pammy sat at the bar, nattering on to Hutch about the rumor that the Queen Mum had covered up a UFO crash at Sandringham in 1962. Hutch—rounded shoulders, matted toupee, and a prominent brow—appeared less than enthralled. Relief washed over his face when he saw us, and he offered a rare smile that came across as more of a grimace. Pammy doggedly finished her tale while Michael waited to order drinks and I secured a corner table.

  At last, brother and sister joined me. “We’ve a friend dropping by,” I said to Pammy, as I had just heard the rumble of a motorbike in the car park and thought Tess’s arrival imminent.

  “Yeah, that’s grand,” she said. “I’m just off to the ladies’. Won’t be two ticks.”

  A minute later, Tess walked in wearing her black leather jacket and boots over tight denims and drawing a few admiring looks. Her only concession to her job was the thin black portfolio under her arm. She scanned the room, spotted us, and approached.

  “What will you have?” Michael asked and went back to the bar for Tess’s pint.

  “Pammy’s here,” I told Tess. “She’s just in the loo. Look now.” I hurried through the idea Michael and I had come up with about Guy Pockett. “He does things without thinking, you see, and regrets them later. I don’t think he would’ve meant to hurt Bob.”

  The DI made notes and returned our information with a bit of her own. “Pockett identified the bicycle as belonging to his former partner. The other set of prints are probably hers, but I’d like to confirm that.”

  “She’s moved to Iona,” I said—which seemed even more the ends of the earth than my sister in St. Ives.

  Tess nodded. “She’ll need to take the ferry into Oban for that. Speaking of Scotland, I got hold of the vicar at last. They’ve no mobile reception where he and his wife are in the Highlands, and he only checked his messages when they went into the nearest village today. I sent him the photo, and he recognized the victim.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “He knew him?”

  Tess cocked her head as if to qualify my statement. “The vicar said he’d come in the church a few times—cycled up. He’d seemed a mild-mannered fellow who said he was conducting a survey of the flora and fauna in the churchyard and pond. He even saw him outside the church the day of the wedding, but didn’t speak to him.”

  “And then he went out to the pond to count dragonflies or search for natterjack toads or something—and he was murdered.” I stared into my pint of ale. “Did Reverend Eccles know the man’s name?”

  “Oh, yes,” Tess said. “He said his name was Bob.”

  Pammy returned and smiled at Tess, leaving me with a conundrum. How was I supposed to introduce these two?

  “Pammy, this is Tess Callow.” I still thought it better not to feed Pammy’s imagination with a story of murder. Let her keep to gossip about the royal family. “Tess, this is Michael’s sister, Pammy.”

  “Hiya, Tess,” Pammy said.

  “Good to meet you,” Tess replied. “How’s the visit going?”

  I cut my eyes at her.

  “Yeah, it’s grand,” Pammy said, “but I’ll be off soon. I wouldn’t want to get in Michael and Julia’s way.”

  Michael returned with Tess’s pint in time to hear those words. He kept his gaze on the beer, but I saw a tiny muscle spasm under one eye.

  “So, Tess, do you live local?” Pammy asked.

  “Sudbury,” Tess replied. “Not far.”

  “Do you work with Julia on tourism?”

  “No, I don’t—” Tess began.

  “Birds?” Pammy guessed.

  “Birds?”

  “Wait now, you’re a twitcher!” Pammy said, her eyes shining. “Is that it? Because, you see, I’m learning—”

  “No,” Tess said in a rush, her cheeks flushed.

  I sputtered a laugh to see the DI on the receiving end of a questioning, but I sobered up fast at the look she threw me. I laid a light hand on Pammy’s arm.

  “Actually, Pammy, Tess is the detective inspector from Sudbury constabulary.”

  Pammy’s eyes grew wide, and she set her phone on the table. “Cor, you aren’t. Are you? Police? Well, you hardly look—” She gasped, leaned far over the table, and mouthed, Are you working undercover?

  Michael and I should’ve gone to Foxearth and met Tess at The Den, leaving Pammy here to
sit at the bar and rabbit on about the new Princess Diana experience at Madame Tussauds or some other topic of her choosing. Now, I’d have to start at the beginning of a story I had never intended to tell her.

  “No, DI Callow has only stopped by because there was something I needed to explain to her,” I said, keeping my voice low as Helen from the sweets shop and her boyfriend took a table nearby and gave us a wave. I waved back, and so did Pammy.

  “Is it about the fellow who died up by the church?” Pammy asked Tess. “Do you know who he is yet? Because Hutch thinks he was MI5 and it was about organized crime—you know, one of those gangs from Norwich trying to take over another territory. Gwen says she and Akash hadn’t seen him at all and thought he might’ve taken the bus up to Bury for his shopping. And whatsit at the chemist, she reckons she sold him some plasters.”

  Gobsmacked, I could only stare at Pammy, while Michael dropped his head in his hand. What happened to her hiding away in the cottage? Without our knowing, she had managed to do more than get a foothold in the village, she had seized possession. As I wondered how we would ever get rid of her now, Tess slid into her professional role.

  “When did you arrive in the village, Pammy? Wasn’t it Saturday a week ago—the day of the Widdersham-Kumar wedding?”

  “Pammy was on our doorstep when we returned,” Michael said. “It was about seven o’clock?”

  Yes, that lovely evening so long ago when the cuckoo hatched.

  “Exact time of death is difficult to pinpoint because of the condition of the body,” Tess said. “At the earliest Saturday afternoon. Did you see this man when you arrived in the village?” She reached in the black portfolio, brought out a photo of the corpse, and slid it across the table.

  Pammy flinched, but then drew closer, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed in concentration. Slowly, her index finger moved closer and closer until it hovered over the image.