Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “You get comfortable. I’ll put a cold supper together for us.”

  While Pammy drank her cocoa, I set out smoked salmon, cherry tomatoes, farmhouse cheese, a bowl of olives, a baguette, and butter. I opened a bottle of wine and turned to offer a glass, but found Pammy stretched out, covered with a blanket, and snoring lustily.

  I transferred the food to a tray, stuck the cork back in the bottle, tucked it under my arm, and hauled it all upstairs. Time for my own bath.

  Pulling my cardy and blouse over my head, stepping out of my skirt, and stripping off my tights, I dropped everything in a heap in the corner, and reached over to turn on the hot water. That’s when I saw the black-and-blue imprint of Guy Pockett’s hand on my forearm. I stood gazing at it, considering what a moment of fury can do, and Guy’s penchant for acting first and regretting later.

  * * *

  —

  By the time Michael arrived home, I had bathed, changed into a light, loose, long-sleeved nightie, and sampled a bit of everything on the dinner tray.

  “Hiya,” I said, rising and offering him a glass of wine. “All ready for the nightjars?”

  “More than ready—overready. Your dad doesn’t do anything by half.” Michael nodded toward downstairs. “Pammy didn’t stir when I walked in.”

  “She had a long day. And there was a problem with her waterproofs.”

  “What problem?”

  “They weren’t. Plus, they didn’t see the short-toed eagle.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Michael said, washing his hands before he popped an olive into his mouth and kissed me. “Lecky rang. They thought it had gone to Dorset, but instead it’s moved somewhere onto the Cambridgeshire Fens, and he wants us to film it tomorrow.”

  “Good. Isn’t that good? You’ll get it over with.”

  “That, indeed, is the good part.” Michael poured us wine.

  “Here, get stuck in.” I held out a plate for him to fill, and a black-and-blue fingerprint peeked out from my sleeve.

  Michael caught my hand and brushed the fabric up to my elbow. “What’s this?”

  I shook my head. “It’s all right—I don’t think he meant it.”

  “He?”

  I explained in a clinical manner, concluding with “Guy’s a little upset, that’s all. He got carried away.”

  Michael cupped my elbow and ran his fingers lightly across the bruising—a gentle act that belied the fireworks in his eyes.

  “I want Guy Pockett charged.” Michael’s voice was tight with fury. “Have you told Tess? If he’s capable of this, he’s capable of murder. And if he thinks that you suspect him, you could be—”

  “I’m going in to the station tomorrow. But there’s more to tell you.”

  * * *

  —

  We had our picnic on the floor of the bedroom as the evening sun shot a last ray in through the window. It took the entire meal to tell Michael everything, and when we’d poured out the last of the wine, he exhaled slowly.

  “I never knew anything about Tony’s family,” he told me. “Apart from his wife. At Nuala’s yesterday, all Tony said to me was that he was here looking into ‘another concern.’ He didn’t say what. So, Bob came looking for Lottie, and Tony came looking for Bob. And Guy Pockett got in the middle of it.”

  I yawned. “I’ll try to squeeze a few more details out of Tess tomorrow. God, this means I’ll need to ask Vesta to cover for me again.”

  He reached over and rubbed my calf. “You shouldn’t work so many hours.”

  “Said pot to kettle.” I gave him a kiss.

  In the quiet of the next moment, we heard the plastic-bag brigade strike up the band.

  Michael sighed. “By the way, whose shoes are by the door?”

  Chapter 24

  A timid knock on the door the next morning might’ve sounded like thunder the way it brought Pammy’s and my conversation to a sudden halt. Michael was upstairs, and this early-morning caller could only be Gavin—ready for another hunt for the short-toed eagle. The intense blue Suffolk sky heralded a return to summer—the men would have a better day for twitching than Pammy.

  She still wore flannel pajamas and thick socks, and sat on the sofa with her knees pulled up under her chin. I lifted my eyebrows.

  “Should I let him in?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Hiya, Julia,” Gavin said quietly when I opened the door. He tried to peer round me. “Is Pammy in there? Because I have to talk to her. To apologize, you see, because of what happened yesterday—”

  “I’m here,” Pammy called.

  Gavin took a step in and stopped. I nudged him further so I could close the door, and he made it as far as the foot of the sofa.

  “Would you like me to leave?” I asked Pammy.

  “No, you stay,” she said.

  Good—it would’ve been difficult to eavesdrop from the bedroom. I sat at the table in the kitchen as official observer. Gavin scowled at me, and I smiled back.

  He pulled himself up, straightened his leather jacket, and turned to Pammy. “You’ve every right to be angry with me. I should never have left you alone after the day we had. When you didn’t answer any of my texts, well, I knew you’d probably had enough, but I had to give it one more try to tell you how sorry I am about the day and the weather and running out of petrol and not seeing the short-toed eagle and all. So, I’m sorry. I won’t let anything like that happen again—I really won’t.” This sounded like a rehearsed speech, and I wondered had he spent his whole night practicing while he mopped the pub floor and scrubbed out toilets.

  Pammy didn’t respond, only watched him through the steam rising from her mug of tea.

  “You were fantastic yesterday,” Gavin persisted, “sticking it out like that. And all for naught.”

  “We saw that duck,” Pammy offered. “The one with the green head.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said. “Mallard.”

  “We saw loads of them, didn’t we?”

  I put my hand over my mouth to cover a smile. Not exactly the rare bird Gavin yearned to add to his list.

  Silence again. Pammy drank her tea. Gavin fidgeted, and then said, “And so, it’s your turn now.”

  “Yeah?” Pammy asked.

  “That was our deal. You came with me yesterday, and so now you get to decide where we go and what we do next. You remember I’ve Saturday off, don’t you?” He spread his arms wide. “I’m all yours.”

  “Saturday?” Pammy asked, as if she’d never heard the word before. “Saturday,” she murmured. “Let’s see.” She tapped a finger on her chin, and if Gavin couldn’t tell she already had something planned, then he was blind. “Well, there is the Jumble-O-Rama.”

  “The what?” Gavin and I asked at the same time.

  “The Jumble-O-Rama,” Pammy explained. “Have you never heard of it? It’s famous—a five-parish jumble sale held up at Swaffham on the last Saturday in June every year. They’re known for their quality goods—although, of course, you don’t want to waste your money right off the mark. It’s best to spend all day sussing out the place, getting to know what’s there so in the last half hour you can swoop in for the best deals.”

  Gavin swallowed. “All day?”

  “They set up enormous marquees over an entire field.” Pammy set her tea down to gesture for effect. “And they’re really good about grouping clothes in sizes, although, of course, by afternoon that’s sort of out the window.” She got up on her knees on the sofa, her excitement rising. “Handbags, shoes, designer dresses, furniture. Mary Berry was seen shopping in the kitchen tent one year. The toy marquee is enough to send any little one into fits.”

  Gavin put a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself, took a noisy breath, and let it out slowly. “Yeah, all right, Jumble-O-Rama it is. So, what time do we start out for this?”<
br />
  Pammy tilted her head to one side as she considered his question. “Well, gates open at nine o’clock, but the queue starts forming by eight. I’d say we should leave here no later than seven.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Seven o’clock,” Pammy said, a challenge in her voice. “Saturday morning. All day.”

  Michael emerged from the bedroom at those words and hurried down the stairs. “I’m not going out on a Saturday morning twitching, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “No,” I said, handing him a mug. “Gavin and Pammy are going to a jumble sale in Swaffham—the world’s largest. They have to be on the road by seven Saturday morning to arrive in time, and they’ll be shopping all day.”

  Michael sputtered and snorted and had to set his tea down before throwing his head back in laughter. “Priceless,” he said at last, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. He slapped Gavin on the arm. “It’ll be a grand day out, Lecky.”

  “Stuff it,” Pammy said to her brother with a smile.

  Gavin turned to me for sympathy, but I could only raise my eyebrows. His Herculean task had been set.

  * * *

  —

  “That’s quite an accomplishment,” I said to Pammy when the men had departed. “Gavin, a jumble sale—I’d’ve never thought he’d be up for that.”

  “He’s the one said we should share interests.”

  “And you’ve certainly done your part.” I slung my bag onto my shoulder and slipped on my spare pair of heels.

  “You aren’t wearing those today?” Pammy nodded to the clodhoppers.

  “Certainly not,” I said hotly. “It was an emergency and all Sheila had for me to borrow.”

  I gazed down at the thick-soled footwear. There was a problem here—although it was a problem I would never breathe a word of to any living soul. Those shoes, looking like barges run aground, were comfortable—I felt as if I had been walking on air. But they weren’t for me.

  “In fact”—I snatched up the shoes and attempted to cram them in my bag, but found they were bigger than the bag itself—“I need to return them.”

  True, I remembered that Sheila said she didn’t want them back, but I felt a sudden urge to get them out of my sight.

  I cast a glance to the sofa. Pammy had pulled the blanket up to her chin and stretched out her legs.

  “You told DI Callow you’d be in this morning to sign your statement,” I reminded her crisply. “I’m going over there now—you may as well come along.”

  Pammy reached over and caressed her phone screen, bringing it to life and showing the time. “Ah, Julia”—she yawned—“I’m shattered after yesterday. I’ll do it tomorrow—promise.” She reached for her tea. “Will you tell her for me?”

  * * *

  —

  At the police station in Sudbury, I offered up everything I knew or could speculate about the murder of Bob Brightbill, all of which DI Callow had heard before. She gave me nothing in return.

  “How close are you to solving this?” I asked and received a frown for an answer. “Why would you suspect Tony? Was he tired of giving his brother money?”

  “We’re looking into Tony Brightbill’s finances—although at first glance his business looks rock solid. Now,” she said, her cool gaze locked on me. “Is there something else you have to tell me?”

  Part detective inspector, part mind reader. “Right, well, I…er…need to show you this.” I pulled the sleeve up on my cardigan and told her the story.

  Tess turned icy. “Assault, Julia—I won’t let that be.”

  “No, I don’t think…it’s the farm, you see, it’s all a shambles for him now. I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”

  Of course he didn’t mean it, a voice inside me said. Just like he didn’t mean to bash Bob’s skull in.

  Tess snapped her notebook closed. “I’m going back to him today.” She glanced round the interview room, empty apart from the two of us. “Now, where is Pammy—in the lobby?”

  “No,” I said and squirmed in my chair. “She’s exhausted after spending yesterday in the rain looking for a short-toed eagle, and so she stayed back. She said she’d be in tomorrow.”

  “I haven’t invited her to tea” was the DI’s retort. An image of the Bakewell tart at the Winch & Blatch café popped into my mind.

  But once I’d escaped the police station, I decided against an intermediary stop. If I hurried, I could beat Vesta to opening the TIC.

  * * *

  —

  We had a traffic jam in front of the Tourist Information Center first thing. I arrived as Vesta rounded the corner, and Tommy Pears crossed the road toward us carrying a pink bakery box. Before I could say “Good morning,” we were surrounded by six women who looked to be in their fifties, all wearing different clothes but each with something red on—a scarf, trainers, a belt. As I unlocked the door and rattled off greetings, I exchanged looks with Vesta, who took Tommy in hand, guiding her behind the counter and out of the fray.

  The women filed in directly behind us and made immediately for the wall of leaflets. As I switched on the lights and turned the sign to “Open,” I said, “Hello, good morning—you’re very welcome to the Fotheringill estate. Is there something I can help you with today?”

  “No, love, we’re fine,” one of them said, and held up a Shop Smeaton! leaflet. “Look now, girls, I’ve got it.”

  “A day out, is it?” I asked, my breath coming quickly. “You’ll find an excellent choice of shops on the high street—really, the village abounds with the best in local crafts and clothes. You can find anything you would need or want. Plus we’ve an old-fashioned sweets shop. Barley sugar, aniseed balls, army and navy—anything you could wish for, and everything made on the premises. The wool shop, Three Bags Full, has a fantastic selection and is run by a real artist.”

  “My, my,” one of them murmured, stretching her neck out to get a better view of our worktable where Tommy had taken a single-layer iced cake out of the box.

  “Honey and ginger,” she informed them.

  “And obviously,” I added, “we have a fine tea room—Nuala’s. You can’t miss it. Nuala is the best baker in Suffolk. I can recommend every single thing on the menu, because I’ve tried it all.” The women nodded approval and marched to the door. I dashed to the counter and went after them, thrusting business cards into their hands. “I’m Julia Lanchester, manager here at the TIC. Please do let me know if you have any questions. And have a lovely day,” I called after them.

  As the kettle rattled to a boil, clicked off, and wheezed, I put my hand on the glass door and continued to watch the women’s retreating figures. “Do you know who I think they are?” I whispered in amazement. “They’re the Red Hot Shoppers. They have a website where they rate villages for atmosphere, quality, range of goods, local sourcing, staff. They go all over East Anglia, and Cambridgeshire, too, I believe. And now they’re here! I wonder, should I warn anyone?”

  I turned to find Vesta setting out plates and Tommy standing to the side, wringing her hands.

  “Well, no—I suppose I’ll just let matters run their own course,” I said. “A cake, Tommy, how lovely.”

  “It’s a thank-you of sorts,” she said. “You’ve been so kind to me, and I noticed the tea room.”

  “It’s a lovely gesture,” I said. “Honey and ginger? That’s another new one for Nuala—she’s getting adventurous. Shall we give it a try?”

  “I’m awfully sorry about yesterday,” Tommy rushed on. “Being out there with Willow. I waited for her after school, you see, to introduce myself and discuss the poster. And we just seemed to hit it off. Then we got to talking about Bob, and next thing I knew, we were out at the pond.”

  Vesta put a hand on Tommy’s back and smiled. “Willow is a remarkable woman. She understands the world in a different way
from most people. You must have a touch of that in you, too—that’s why the two of you get along.”

  Tommy pushed a wisp of hair off her face, returned the smile, and we were all able to settle with our tea and cake.

  “It’s shocking, isn’t it,” Tommy mused. “Bob being this Mr. Brightbill’s brother and someone Willow’s aunt knew yonks ago. Found here, murdered. Such a lovely man.” Tommy’s voice trembled.

  Willow had sent me a late-night text, explaining she and Lottie were having a long talk, and had ended with: O Julia, isn’t it the most amazing and heartbreaking story you’ve ever heard? I had brought Vesta up to speed that morning when I rang to say I might be late in, giving her a digest version of the Brightbill saga. Now, I licked a wodge of icing off my finger as I considered that Tommy Pears was up to speed, too.

  “Is Willow all right today?” I asked.

  “Mostly. So much has been resolved, yet so much is still in flux.” Tommy sipped her tea and added, “Willow asked me to return to the abbey ruins.”

  “Why?”

  “Those mossy galls. Apparently one of her students made a small bonfire out of the ones she’d collected—he said it was to represent the way the grasslands were burned regularly.” She shook her head. “They don’t know how he got hold of the matches. But now they need more of those robin’s pincushions. I told her I’d go out.”

  “I can do that for her,” I offered. “You don’t have to go.”

  “No, it’s fine, because I rather feel I need to visit the ruins again. It was the last place I saw Bob.”

  Oh, fine, now Tommy will be calling up spirits out at the abbey just as Willow tried to do at the pond.

  “Well, why don’t I go with you—would that be all right?”

  Chapter 25

  “Are those your walking shoes?” Tommy asked as I changed from heels to clodhoppers at the abbey ruins car park.

  “No, certainly not.” I glanced down at my feet, which appeared to have grown three sizes. “It’s only that I want to save my heels.”