“He wasn’t dead when I saw him.”
Chapter 19
“And here I was thinking he was just a bloke in your village, you know?” Pammy’s voice was full of awe, as the three of us walked back to the cottage. “But instead, he’s a murder victim, and I might have been the last person to see him alive when I stopped to ask if he knew where you lived.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “He’d never heard of you, Julia.”
At the Royal Oak, Tess had expertly extracted all of Pammy’s information and instructed her to appear at the Sudbury station the following morning to read and sign her statement.
“Mmm.” Pammy had twisted her mouth one way, then another. “The thing is, Tess, tomorrow isn’t good for me. I’ve…plans. Not that this isn’t important, but—well, you know. A previous commitment.” She cast a quick glance at her brother, missing the hard stare the DI gave her.
“Right,” Tess had conceded, “Thursday morning at the latest.” She left before we ordered our meals, and I had accompanied her out to her motorbike to continue speculating about Guy’s motive for killing Bob.
“But, if Guy did it, it was a fit of anger, an accident—he just didn’t think it through.” Tess had replied that was the case with most murderers and then added that motive was all well and good, but without opportunity the enquiry wouldn’t get far, and that she would be back to Guy Pockett about his whereabouts during the window of the murder.
Now, walking back to the cottage, Pammy continued hashing over her story. “Helen said he’d been into her shop, this Bob. He bought a quarter each of humbugs and kola kubes. I’ve never liked humbugs—do you remember Granddad loved them, Michael?”
Tess had put the fear of God into Pammy about spreading her story round the village or improvising on what had actually happened when she met Bob. With relish, Pammy swore to tell only the truth and promised she wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone. Apparently, she didn’t consider the vow applicable to the three of us on our own.
“Must’ve been a terrible shock for Willow. To think he’d been lying there for days—can’t have been a pretty sight.”
With all of Pammy’s knowledge about the case coming from everyone except Michael and me, I had feared she would be resentful. Surprisingly, she had not minded.
“Well, why would you say anything?” she asked. “I’m sure you’d rather downplay it. After all”—she pulled a face—“it isn’t as if it’s the first time you’ve had such goings-on round here.”
Thanks, I needed that reminder.
“Do you think I’ve broken the case?” Pammy said with a grin. “I mean, no one else said what I told the inspector, isn’t that right?”
I’d give her that—Pammy had provided a piece of information that made even the DI sit up and take notice. When asked to tell Tess everything she could remember about her encounter with Bob, Pammy had done herself proud.
She had set the scene on the table using three beer mats for buildings along Church Lane, a line of thin sugar packets for the road, a sprig of parsley borrowed off an empty plate at the next table for the shrubbery along the verge, and a bottle of brown sauce for the church tower. Michael had corrected her arrangement and stopped her from squeezing out a packet of salad cream to stand in for the pond. “You didn’t really see the pond, did you?” he reminded her.
“But it’s near the church tower, and I saw that,” Pammy insisted.
“Everyone in the village can see the church tower,” he replied.
As she had related her tale, Pammy continually threw furtive glances round the pub to make sure no one was listening—and in doing so, called great attention to herself. She had told her story in a low voice, and we had to cock an ear to listen.
“I stopped just here”—she pointed beyond where the pond lay, the far north end of the village—“or it could’ve been here”—closer to the pond—“well, somewhere along the road. I saw this fellow walking in the field near the edge of some trees. I stopped and said hello, and he said, ‘Wouldn’t it be grand to see red squirrels in this wood?’ and I said, yes, it would—although aren’t there squirrels everywhere? Well, so, then I said, ‘Do you know where Julia Lanchester lives?’ and he said, awfully polite like, ‘I’m sorry to say, I don’t believe I do.’ And I said, ‘She runs the tourist place in the village,’ and he said, ‘Isn’t the countryside grand, more reliable than people.’ That’s sort of odd, isn’t it? Maybe that wasn’t quite it, but it was something like that. And then he said, ‘Perhaps she lives the other side of the wool shop.’ That didn’t really help me much, because I didn’t know where the wool shop was, but I said thanks all the same, and then he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.’ ”
Pammy repeated this encounter with us on the walk back, ending with a more dramatic conclusion than she could afford in the pub with the DI.
“And next thing you know, someone’s bashed his skull in. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
* * *
—
“Did I wake you?” Pammy asked in a stage whisper that could’ve been heard at the bottom of the garden. She sat at the kitchen table—her feet tucked up on the seat and her chin resting on her knees—a cup of tea steaming in front of her.
“No, you didn’t.” I reached the bottom of the stairs and edged my way along to the kitchen for my first cup of the day. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, great.” Her eyes widened as her gaze slid past me to the scene through the French doors. I turned and looked, too.
“Periods of heavy rain,” the forecast had said, “with possible breaks.” No breaks in sight as the rain had been coming down in sheets for the past hour, and the clouds, hanging heavy above us, looked in no hurry to move along. The abrupt change in the weather had taken several degrees off our summer, and there was a chill in the air.
The three of us had our tea, after which Michael left with a piece of toast in hand and I returned upstairs to dress. When I came back down, Pammy had pulled on her waterproof trousers and jacket—a size or two larger than she needed. She stood in the kitchen waiting for Gavin, her long, narrow face glowing a ghostly white from within the dark hood, which she’d already pulled up.
“You don’t have to do this, Pammy,” I said, tying the laces on my trainers and stashing my heels in my bag. I secured my mack and paused at the door. “You can tell Gavin you’ll go another day.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. It’s quite important to him, you see. And he says I get to choose our next day out.”
I attempted to envision Gavin spending a day in charity shops. Fat chance—but I could see I would gain no ground on that subject. “Right, well, I hope you’ve layered up under your waterproofs. Have a lovely day.”
I opened the door to Gavin climbing out of his car. He, too, was suited up, and he gave Pammy a big grin when she emerged.
“Look at you now,” he said. “Ready for anything. Don’t you worry about this rain—it’ll let up before we even get there.” He continued to chatter as he pulled open the passenger door.
“Gavin,” I said as Pammy climbed in. “Are you sure this is the best day to take her out twitching?”
His face was eager and his manner free of his usual tough pretense. “Don’t you see, Julia, I’m doing what you told me to do.”
“I didn’t tell you to date Pammy—you can’t blame that on me.”
“No, you said to pay more attention to the woman than I do the birds. So, I’m making sure it isn’t all twitching—I take Pammy out for a meal or a pint. And”—he shrugged—“I like it. I like her.”
* * *
—
I hoped he liked her enough to cut their twitching day short and find a cozy pub. I slogged to the green and heard the bell announce a dismal opening to the farmers’ market. No customers were about, and vendors huddled with steaming cups of tea u
nder dripping marquees. I got a “thanks” or two for ordering sheets of plywood to use as flooring—at least they wouldn’t spend the day standing in quagmires behind their produce.
The lachrymose atmosphere wasn’t due only to the rain—farmers saw me and cut their eyes to the large gap where Pockett’s Organic Fruit & Veg should be. I heard murmurs as I walked the aisles, bemoaning the loss of Guy and shaking their heads at his actions. Hadn’t taken long for that story to circulate. I attempted to shore up both sales and attitudes by buying more than I needed and offering encouragements.
“As soon as it lets up, you’ll have the hordes out,” and “A slow start, a busy finish,” and “Sheila will be down to shop for the Hall—big dinner coming up on Friday.” Wasn’t there? Yes, a group from Historic England, I recalled. Linus loved entertaining and took any chance to tout the estate’s bounty. This would’ve been just the occasion to show the world he and Nuala were a couple. I must make her see sense and I must urge Linus to action.
While I shopped and gave my pep talk, I asked the farmers about That Poor Man who finally had a name. “Did you know Bob?” A few of them had met him and were saddened at his death, but could offer no more. “Nice fellow.” “Cleaned out the barn for me.” “Wove a bee skep from willow for my little girl.” A creative side of poor Bob—it grieved me we would never know more of it.
Shopping bags heavy with the first early potatoes, asparagus, sausage rolls, a nosegay of roses, and I couldn’t remember what else, I circled back round to the road, and found Guy Pockett huddled against a hawthorn hedge—a forlorn figure, hands stuck in the pockets of a windbreaker too small for him. He’d pulled the hood up, and his thick hair pushed back against the restraint. The rain hit him in the face and streamed off his shoulders.
“I’m sorry I sprayed the field,” he said to me without a greeting. “It got away from me. I’ve asked to sell at the market next week.”
“Guy, regardless of how sorry you are, you can’t just step back into the market—don’t you understand that?”
“I’ll take down all the organic signs. I’ve got crops that need picking and selling and eating—what am I going to do?”
Too bad this didn’t occur to him before his wholesale slaughter of a field full of life.
“You’ll have to talk it through with Cecil. Right?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head, flinging rain off the end of his nose. “That detective inspector has talked to me twice now. I’m to go into the police station today, and they’ll be out at my farm.”
Had Tess told Guy why—that he was now more than someone who had known the victim, he was a suspect? I knew Tess would not grass me up as her source, but on the other hand, I was the most likely person to have told her.
“I’m sure the DI’s grateful for any details you have about Bob—they’ve yet to identify him.” Or find his killer.
I turned to go, but he reached out and seized my arm.
“Do they think I did it? Do you think I did?”
A cold wave came over me and I tried to pull away, but he squeezed harder, and I dropped one of my bags into a puddle.
“You let go of me, Guy Pockett.”
Highly aware that we were alone on the deserted high street in the pouring rain, I remembered that Bob had been killed in broad daylight. I began to tremble.
“You can’t let them think that.” His fingers dug into my flesh, even through the layer of my mack. “You can’t.”
Movement caught my eye, and my gaze shot past him. “Sergeant Glossop! DC Flynn!”
Guy released my arm and I ran to meet the police, practically throwing myself in their arms.
“Good morning, Ms. Lanchester,” Glossop said, straightening his acid-yellow rain gear. “A damp morning for shopping, isn’t it?”
“Well, what’s a bit of rain?” I said brightly. “You’re here to show Bob’s photo round?”
Flynn held out a stiffly laminated sheet as if it were a menu in a takeaway Indian restaurant—except this was a photo of the victim.
“Let me introduce you to Guy Pockett,” I said, gesturing behind me, but when I turned to look, Guy Pockett was nowhere to be seen. “Well, no matter. Tess knows. Good luck to the two of you—and I hope you’ll do a bit of your own shopping while you’re here. Sergeant Glossop—I highly recommend the bacon rolls at Solly’s Sausages.”
They went on their way, and I rescued my shopping bag from the puddle. The roses were ruined.
* * *
—
On my walk to the TIC, the June rain seeped into my bones and gave me the shivers. Perhaps it wasn’t only the rain. I wanted to believe Guy had nothing to do with Bob’s murder, but I could still feel the pressure of his fingers biting into my forearm, a tangible reminder of the strength of his grip.
From across the road, several doors down and through the wall of rain, I could see a woman waiting at the door of the TIC. She stood, protected from the elements in wellies, a long yellow raincoat, and wide-brimmed hat, with her back to me as she stared in the window. Still fifteen minutes before opening and I couldn’t imagine anyone being so eager to visit the estate on such a dreadful day. But it was no visitor—at least, not of the usual variety. When I got close enough for her to notice me, she looked up and offered a timid smile. Tommy Pears.
Chapter 20
“You see, the DI needed me to sign my statement, and so I said I could come up today,” Tommy explained as she followed me into the TIC and round the counter, where I set down my shopping, filled the kettle, and switched it on. “The children have early lessons—piano and trumpet—and after-school clubs. After I’d been to the station in Sudbury, I thought, well, I’m so close to the village, and I’ve the entire day to myself. You don’t mind that I stopped?”
“Certainly not, I’m happy you thought of us. Well, what we need is a cup of tea, wouldn’t you say?” We shed our dripping rain gear and hung it on pegs. “And perhaps some of this chocolate-dipped shortbread,” I added, reaching into my market stash to hold up my prize.
Tommy pushed damp hair off her forehead with the back of a hand and sat, rubbing palms on her trousers. “You must think me a bit of a ditz coming back to you. It’s only I’ve been wondering about Bob. I know I should ask the police, but that DI seemed a bit scary, and I remembered how kind you were to me. To all of us, the children and Noel.”
I didn’t think her a ditz—she seemed lovely, although a bit emotional about subjects that weren’t exactly personal. Not unlike Willow.
“Did Noel tell you I saw him yesterday?” I asked as I set out mugs and retrieved milk from the fridge. “Did he catch you up?”
Tommy’s expression was suspended between surprise and wariness. “Here?”
“Well, up the high street at the Stoat and Hare. I explained that you’d already been in—did he tell you?”
“It’s only that, Noel’s gone during the week, working. He does installation and maintenance,” she said, “for a company that provides video-sharing software systems to businesses that require an integrated process which will adhere to the requirements across the range of projects and development as they grow.”
“Wow.” I stuffed a few tea bags in the pot as the kettle switched off. “I have no idea what any of that meant.”
Tommy laughed and shook her blond ponytail. “I’ve memorized their mission statement, but I couldn’t explain it to you.” She glanced round the work space and scanned the wall of leaflets as she said, “Noel’s territory is north of here—he’s got Norfolk, Lincolnshire, and up to Northumberland. He’s on the road a great deal.”
“Well, so,” I said, after a moment of silence. “You wanted to know about Bob, but I’m afraid I don’t have much to add. It was awfully helpful of you to identify him, of course, and there have been a few more confirmed sightings”—I made Bob sound like that short-toed eagle—“b
ut still, no one really knows who he is or where he lived or where he came from. It’s too bad, isn’t it? To think he might have some family somewhere wondering about him?”
Vesta opened the door and shook her umbrella, saying, “We’ll be swimming up the high street by the end of the day.” She gave away not a hint of surprise at our guest. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Pears.”
“It’s Tommy, please.” She shifted in her chair. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
“Not a bit of it,” I said. “Vesta, the tea’s just ready.”
Vesta joined us at the table, and we chatted about the weather and the TIC and drawing in visitors, which led me to show them the first draft of the layout for Life in the Churchyard. “I don’t know—something’s not right about it. Even with these photos, it lacks appeal. Really, would this be the leaflet you would select from the wall?” I asked them. Vesta tilted her head as she studied it. Tommy tapped the paper with a finger.
“You know, if you shifted the text to the left and wrapped it round the photos, your eye is immediately drawn down from the title, it would flow more easily—visually, I mean. And the background color—it might do to go a shade lighter.”
I studied the leaflet. “I’ll try—although I confess my layout skills are rudimentary at best.”
“Oh, well.” Tommy’s gaze darted from Vesta to me. “Would you like me to give it a go? I’m a graphic designer. That is, was—before the children.”
It took her all of ten minutes. Vesta printed out the next draft, and we admired it for a moment before Tommy took it and said, “Here now, hang on.”
She scribbled something in the lower corner and, with a grin, held it up. “It might add a personal touch—make tourists realize they can rely on you for good information.”
A cartoon dialogue balloon read A tip from the TIC—look for wild orchids in May! The balloon was coming from a “talking head”—a sketch of a woman with a chin-length bob. I gasped.
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 15
