Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “That’s me!” I exclaimed. “It looks just like me. How did you do that so fast?”

  Tommy blushed. “Oh, well, I’ve always been a bit of a doodler.”

  Vesta took the leaflet, folded it, and slipped it into one of the wall pockets so we could take in its effect. “You’ve quite an eye—and a skilled hand.”

  Tommy beamed at Vesta’s praise.

  “This will certainly do the trick,” I said and was proved right only a moment later when a brave couple from Manchester arrived, determined to enjoy their day out whatever the weather. They perused the wall of leaflets carefully before making their selection—Life in the Churchyard.

  * * *

  —

  It was practically lunchtime before Tommy left—after the churchyard leaflet, she worked magic on a redesign of the poster for Smeaton’s Summer Supper, discussed what a new leaflet on the abbey ruins might look like, and at the end became quite interested in the announcement for Brushes Up for St. Swithun’s!

  “It’s Willow’s project,” I explained, “and we need to start promoting it, but it’s difficult, you see, because…” And there we were, back with Bob as I explained Willow’s part in the case. “She’s a lovely woman, and this has been such a shock—she’s taken it rather personally.”

  Tommy ran her eyes over the flier, and said, “Do you think Willow would mind me helping out? Because I’d really love to. Perhaps I could talk with her—would that be all right?”

  We agreed it would. “Willow teaches at the primary school here, and so won’t be free until this afternoon. Shall we give her your phone number?”

  “Yes, thanks. And could you let me know when you hear something about Bob?” Tommy asked as she pulled on her raincoat. “I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to get him off my mind.”

  * * *

  —

  “Are you all right here, Vesta?” I asked as I switched back into my trainers and donned my mack. Tommy had only just left, but I could wait no longer to talk with Linus—there was still time for him to sweep Nuala off her feet before Nuala’s feet took her north to become…something for Tony Brightbill.

  “It’ll be one of those dead days,” Vesta predicted as she pulled out a tapestry bag from a large plastic shopper and began rummaging. She looked up, pink cheeks matching the pink frames of her glasses. “Sorry, you know what I mean. And I have my needlepoint kneeler here to work on, so I’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check in later.” My hand on the door, I stopped. “Vesta, has Akash said anything about meeting Pammy?”

  “Akash hasn’t met her, but Gwen has. They got on all right—although Gwen says she seems a bit of a lost soul.”

  * * *

  —

  I hurried through the rain up the high street. I’d had the good sense to remember my market shopping and stopped to leave it on the way to the lockup. I stood for a moment just inside the door of the cottage, taking in the temporary atmosphere of a Pammy-free home. Not that she was forgotten, of course—her plastic bags waited patiently for the return of their mistress.

  No green Morgan Roadster sat parked in front of the tea room, but then it was too early in the day for Tony Brightbill to begin his smarmy pseudo-courtship of Nuala, I harrumphed. Reversing my Fiat out of its shelter, I leapt out to close the wooden doors of the lockup, and returned to the driver’s seat with rain pouring off me and down to the floorboard, and I realized soon it would be just as wet inside my car as it was out. I shifted into gear, but before I could get any further, my phone rang. My sister, Bianca.

  “Everyone’s out of the house and Estella is down for a nap. I could just do with a catch-up,” she said. “First Pammy.”

  I switched off the engine. “Still in residence. And I’ve just learned she’s been making friends with people in the village. All this time, I thought she’d spent her days holed up in the cottage. There’ll be no getting rid of her now. We’ll have her forever, just like Tess’s uncle.”

  “That’s the detective inspector?” Bianca asked.

  “The point is, Bee, I feel as if Pammy needs some stability in her life, and at the same time, she drives me crazy. And now this—she’s got herself involved with Gavin Lecky.”

  While Bianca roared with laughter, I switched the engine back on, turned up the defogger for the windscreen, and waited. She ended with a last snort and said, “That’s priceless, that is. How’s Michael taking it?”

  “How do you think? I can’t see this ending well. It’s dumping here today, and Gavin and Pammy are off chasing down a short-toed eagle. Can you imagine?” I afforded a snicker, having been on a similar adventure in the past.

  “And you and Michael?” Bianca asked, ticking topics off her list.

  “A stolen moment here and there. But it’s all right, because we’ve decided we can wait and when this is all over, then it’ll be the perfect time for him to propose.”

  “When Pammy is gone? I thought you said that would never happen.”

  * * *

  —

  In order to clear my head before talking with Linus—and to build up a bit more courage—I drove up to the top of Church Lane and parked near the lych-gate. I needed time to gather my wits about me and consider how to approach Linus about the scene the afternoon before at Nuala’s. Despite the rain, I found myself getting out of my car and walking round and through the churchyard. Not that I worried I would find Willow, of course—not in the middle of a school day. I only needed a bit of quiet, and the place was deserted. Perhaps Bob was calling me, too, and I needed to look out on the place by the pond where he had died.

  I pushed through the tall grass that surrounded the gravestones, feeling the soggy ground soak through my shoes. I scraped past a scrubby hedge maple that slapped me in the face with wet leaves. At the churchyard gate that led out toward the pond, I took in the vista—now unimpeded by blue-and-white police tape—and froze at what I saw.

  Tony Brightbill stood at the edge of the pond—the precise spot where Willow had found Bob, dead. I knew it was Tony; I recognized his dark Burberry raincoat. He wore no hat, and the battering rain had plastered his thick hair to his head.

  For one moment, my entire being was devoid of thought or supposition or speculation. And then the questions began.

  How had he heard about a dead man at the pond—gossip in the tea room? But with a jolt, I realized he’d heard that news from me. Regardless of the source, what did he care? Or was Brightbill one of those people attracted by horrific events, inexplicably drawn to the scene of the crime? A stranger murdered in a strange village.

  Of course, it just might be that Bob was no stranger to Tony Brightbill, and this was no mere gruesome curiosity. Murderers return to the scene of their crimes—hadn’t Tess once said that? A thin stream of speculation began to flow.

  Yes, that’s it. Tony Brightbill must have known Bob. Perhaps Bob had something to do with Tara’s Tea. It could’ve been a business deal gone wrong. No, Bob had been living rough for a while, and he looked nothing like a businessman. I threw that idea out.

  Had Bob had an affair with Tony’s wife and then given her up and abandoned his former life in a selfless act of a broken heart, and Tony had tracked him down, anyway, to seek revenge? No, couldn’t quite see that one, either.

  Perhaps Bob had discovered a secret about Tara’s Tea and had threatened to tell, and Tony wanted to silence him. Yes, it was business, and Tony Brightbill liked business. I kept hold of this possibility.

  I considered opportunity. Pammy had seen Bob late afternoon or early Saturday evening. His murder had taken place after that, but not necessarily in darkness, as there was light in the sky well past ten o’clock. The murder occurred a week and a half ago, which was two or three days before the first confirmed sighting of Tony on the estate—his visit to Nuala’s on that Tuesday. But who’s to say he hadn’
t been lurking on the edges of Fotheringill land for longer?

  Had Tony tracked Bob to the estate? From where? And what was Bob doing here in the first place?

  My speculation came to an abrupt halt when Brightbill turned away from the pond and headed straight for the gate where I stood, his head down against the rain. He would think I had been spying on him, and of course I hadn’t been, but regardless, I thought it better not to be seen. I fled—skirting the graves and running alongside the brick wall, hoping the low branches of a copper beech hid my movements. A bare patch of ground had turned to a wide puddle, and when I hit the edge and skidded, I nearly lost my balance. Putting my right foot down hard to catch myself, I sank up to my ankle in mud. It made a sucking sound when I pulled it out, and I stumbled on, making it out the lych-gate and to my car in the lane, and noting too late a green Morgan Roadster parked in the shadows of a nearby alley.

  * * *

  —

  I could’ve walked to Hoggin Hall quicker than drive, the traffic was so thick on the road. My heart raced and I kept glancing in my rearview mirror, expecting any second to see a Morgan Roadster pull up behind me, until I saw a break in the line of cars and screeched across the road and through the brick pillars that marked the drive. By the time I pulled my Fiat up to the front of the Hall and switched off the engine, I’d regained my composure and come to the conclusion that Tony Brightbill had murdered Bob. I hadn’t totally lost all sense of reason, of course—I realized this was an accusation with nothing to back it up, and I knew that wouldn’t fly with DI Callow. I would need to find some evidence for her.

  But at the moment, I had to set aside the entire topic of Bob and attend to the business of Linus and Nuala. I’d turned the floorboard of my car into a mud pit, but at least I could leave most of the mess behind and put on a decent pair of shoes. I reached into my bag, searching for my heels, but couldn’t feel them. I dragged the bag to my lap, opened it wide, and stuck my head in. Where were they? In a last-ditch effort, I hit the flashlight function on my phone, and only then did I realize that I had no heels. So much for presentation. As the rain continued its relentless onslaught, I squished my way across the forecourt.

  The great oak door slowly opened to reveal Thorne, who smiled and greeted me with “Ms. Lanchester, you are most welcome.” He stood aside.

  “Messy day, isn’t it?” I asked, and we both looked at my trainers—encased in mud that had splattered up my tights almost to my knees. “I’m so sorry, Thorne, had a bit of an accident. I won’t wear these in—would you mind if I left them outside here?”

  “Please come in, Ms. Lanchester, these flagstones have seen much worse than mud over the centuries.”

  I went no further than the hat stand and with some difficulty, kicked off the trainers. Thorne produced a towel from thin air, and I wiped off as much of the excess mud as I could. “The problem is, I forgot my other shoes, and I’ve nothing to change into.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Bugg has something you could wear.”

  Sheila Bugg’s shoes always seemed a bit too matronly even for her. “Perhaps I’ll stay in my stocking feet,” I replied. “I’ve only stopped for a moment to see Linus.”

  Thorne looked at me, twisted his mouth to the side in thought, and then said, “His Lordship has instructed me to explain to all callers that he has left for Peterborough on business.” As the butler said this, he cut his eyes down the corridor beyond the grand staircase, nodding in the same direction. I peered down and saw Linus’s study door slightly ajar.

  “Ah, yes,” I said, tapping my finger on the side of my nose. “He’s away. Thank you, Thorne.”

  “And now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Lanchester,” the butler continued, “I must go and prop up the roses—the rain, you know.” He dropped his voice and added, “I wish you luck.”

  Thorne retreated in the direction of the kitchen, and I took a moment to be impressed with my surroundings, as familiar as they were.

  The glittering chandelier that hung from the three-story-high ceiling in the vast front entry cast a sparkling light over the round table below, and spilled over onto the round Axminster rug underneath. On the table, a vase overflowed with summer bounty—stalks of pink hollyhocks shot upward, chartreuse lady’s mantle billowed, and a purple clematis wove its way in and out. The grand staircase split halfway up and led to the first floor and beyond to the upper gallery, where portraits of Fotheringill ancestors kept an eye on things. I wondered who had interfered in their love lives.

  I took a deep breath, tiptoed to the study door, and peeked in. The drapes had been drawn and the room was cloaked in gloom apart from a lawyer’s lamp on the desk, which threw a stingy pool of light onto the oak surface. Linus sat huddled over a sheaf of papers, his open laptop off to the side. The glow from its screen threw odd shadows on his face, making him look older than he was.

  “Hello,” I said, pushing open the door and stepping in.

  “Julia? I told Thorne to say I was—”

  “In Peterborough. Yes, he did as instructed. May I come in?”

  “Did we have a meeting scheduled?” He toyed with the pen in his hand and furrowed his brow, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening like folds in the hills.

  Playing it like that, are you?

  “No, we didn’t, but there’s something I need to talk with you about.”

  “Is it about the TIC?”

  “You know it isn’t,” I said. “Will you sit down with me?”

  He paused a beat. “Would you leave if I said no?”

  “What do you think?”

  A moment passed, and then another. “All right,” he conceded.

  He rose and switched off the desk light as I switched on floor lamps. He joined me on the chesterfield, glancing down at my muddy stockinged feet but saying nothing.

  “Have you spoken with Nuala?” I asked.

  “No, and I believe she’d prefer it that way.”

  “That isn’t true, and you know it.”

  “I’ve treated her despicably.” He sat forward on the sofa, hands clasped tightly in front of him.

  “I don’t think that’s what she’s—”

  “And I’ve acted the fool,” he added.

  “No, you have not acted the fool, Linus, and that’s the problem. You need to. Take a chance, risk putting your heart on the line. You can’t rely on Nuala to suspect what you’re up to and take it from there. As far as I’m concerned, you’re far too cautious—the both of you.”

  “I’m not sure she’d appreciate my advances, and I will not stand in her way if she wants to leave.”

  “She doesn’t want to leave. It may take a bit of persuading at this point, because she’s had her feelings hurt by both of you. You did it unknowingly, of course, but Tony Brightbill—do you know much about him?”

  In the lamplight, I could see Linus’s face go pink. “Well, I may have done a bit of research online this morning. He’s successful with those tea rooms, it seems, and is hoping to expand.”

  “No personal information? No sour business deals reported in the Financial Times?”

  Linus shook his head. “Nothing that I saw.”

  A light knock, and Sheila appeared, a pair of what looked like sturdy nurse’s shoes in her hand. She surveyed the scene. “That’s better,” she said, “although you could do with opening those drapes—this isn’t a cinema. Here you are now, Julia.” She set the shoes at my feet. “Those trainers of yours won’t see another day. Now, we’ve sandwiches going in the kitchen for anyone interested.”

  * * *

  —

  Wednesday afternoons, Hoggin Hall opened to the public, and by the time I’d walked out of Linus’s study in my new clodhopper footwear, a thin stream of people wandered the rooms and corridors available to them. Akash was on the door, and volunteers were stationed at every turn, with private are
as roped off. I followed Sheila to the kitchen for a sandwich, and after, backtracked to the café. The room conversion had worked perfectly—a small kitchen had been created for Nuala from an old pantry, and the café offered seven small tables. Three of them were now occupied with visitors whose coats dripped and who hovered gratefully over cups of tea.

  Nuala blushed when she saw me, and I thought for one moment she might be about to apologize for her behavior the previous evening. I would have none of that—it hadn’t been her fault at all. I was willing to accept partial blame for pushing into a situation that was not totally my concern, but I laid most of it at Tony Brightbill’s feet.

  “Hello, Nuala,” I said hurriedly before she could start. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

  “Cake?” Nuala asked.

  “No, I think—oh, what’s this? Is it new?”

  Nuala nodded and smiled. “I soaked the sultanas and currants in tea first. Will you try it?”

  “I will, of course.”

  And so we didn’t need to apologize or explain our previous evening’s behavior—tea and cake took care of it. As Nuala cleared tables, she glanced at my feet. “My, my. Trying out a new uniform?”

  We snickered companionably at the joke, and I felt emboldened to plead. “You won’t leave, will you, Nuala?”

  “Oh, now,” she said, not meeting my eye. “Is Vesta on at the TIC?”

  “Mmm.” A good reminder. I pulled out my phone and sent my second-in-command a text. All well? She replied that she was getting a fair bit done on her church kneeler. I responded: I’ll be there to close.

  * * *

  —

  It was well after three o’clock when I left Hoggin Hall, although it was difficult to tell what time of day it was, as the afternoon continued as the morning had begun—dull, dark, and very wet. The thought of spending the last two hours of my work day drying out in the TIC appealed to me. But instead, I again parked on Church Lane, walked up to St. Swithun’s, and picked my way carefully round the churchyard, surprisingly sure-footed. I glanced down at the shoes—Sheila had said they were an old pair and she didn’t want them back. She had frowned when she saw them on my feet as if seeing them for the first time.