Tommy nodded, pushed hair out of her face, and surveyed what we could see of broken walls of the medieval site, now almost covered with the rampant growth of summer.
“Peaceful out here, isn’t it? Do you know much of the history?”
“Not enough, but I’m about to. We’ll be creating a better experience here at the ruins—provide a map of what the abbey looked like all those centuries ago and tell its story. We’ll draw more people out with events—banquets in the undercroft, a one-day medieval fair with food and entertainment, and historical tours of the site.” Had I mentioned any of that to Linus?
We strolled through the grounds, and I pointed out as much as I knew—remnants of the arched windows in the cloisters, the chapter house—until we reached Michael’s and my private place. In a flash, I was transported to one of our lazy afternoons, all pillows and blankets and each other’s arms.
“This is where we had our picnic,” Tommy said, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the scene. “The children had a lovely time.”
My face went hot—our private paradise invaded. Must keep that in mind.
“Duncan’s quite the lepidopterist,” Tommy continued. “And Tilly loves anything her brother loves. Bob set them a competition—how many different kinds of butterflies could they spot? They went to the edge of the field and got to work. And then Bob said to Noel, ‘You’ll remember how the brook runs behind the ruins, won’t you?’ But of course, Noel didn’t, because we’d never been here before. ‘Ah, then,’ Bob said, ‘let me take you down and show you where the fish are.’ ” Tommy smiled. “I read a book and fell asleep, and when I awoke, Tilly and Duncan had spotted a common blue and a holly blue, a peacock, a brown hairstreak, and I can’t remember how many skippers. Noel and Bob came tramping back from the brook, and Noel said it was time to pack up and go home. That’s when Bob said what a lovely family we were.”
This was an extended version of the Pearses’ day out—although I remembered the bit about Noel as fisherman.
“When you came back the next Sunday, your husband had his fishing gear with him.”
Tommy shook her head, but not in disagreement. “It had been such a struggle to get him to come out here the first time, I don’t know why. But I rather dug my heels in about it—family outing, you know. And then returning that next weekend—he’d really turned against the place by then. But the children were eager, and a return visit was a small sacrifice to make for us, considering he’s gone all week long.”
An imperfection in the perfect family? It isn’t unheard of. “Noel’s work must make it difficult at times for you.” But it was none of my business, and so I sought another topic. “Did the children explore the undercroft when you were out here?”
“Duncan did a quick recce looking for signs of bats,” Tommy replied, “but the weather was perfect, so they started in on the butterflies. They’d much rather muck about outdoors if at all possible.”
I led us out of everyone’s favorite picnic spot, and we circled round the undercroft and came upon a scrubby stand of blackthorn and half-dead spiny holly.
“What’s behind all that?” she asked, nodding to the thick growth.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything.”
“Looks as if someone’s been here.” Tommy pointed with a toe to the ground, where the long grass had been trampled flat.
“Mmm. Deer, possibly. We’ve roe on the estate—perhaps a doe leaves her fawn here during the day.”
Tommy scanned the undergrowth in the nearby copse. “Do you think we startled her?”
“If we did, I’m sure she’ll be back. Unless she only went in deeper.” I pushed on a dead holly stem to peer inside the thicket, and saw stone steps leading down to a metal door.
“Where does that go?” Tommy asked, looking over my shoulder.
“I’ve no idea.” I looked round us, trying to get my bearings. “Perhaps the storerooms beneath the undercroft?” I pushed further into the dead holly and stuck myself on a spiny leaf.
“Ah!” I pulled my hand out and cursed, sucking on my finger.
“They’re even worse when they’ve dried up,” Tommy commiserated.
I carefully prodded a holly stem with one of my well-protected boat feet. It moved freely.
“That’s why it’s dried up—it’s been broken off,” I said.
“Do deer graze on holly? They eat roses, I know—let’s hope they’ve left the mossy galls alone.”
* * *
—
We followed the directions Willow had given Tommy and found ourselves on the far side of a hedgerow where the dog roses continued to bloom and robin’s pincushions clung to thorny stems. We started work at either end of the stand. The warm air buzzed with insects, while a nearby blackbird sang, and a distant chiffchaff repeated its name over and over. I discovered harvesting mossy galls calmed and cleared my mind, but I was unsurprised that, as we worked, Tommy returned to the topic of Bob’s murder.
“You and the detective inspector seem to be friends,” she called over to me. “Do you know how the investigation is going?”
“We are friends away from her police work, but she tells me nothing,” I complained. “Not to say that they aren’t making progress, because they are. Bob was seen late on that Saturday afternoon. And this is key”—I stuck my head out of the brush—“we have a witness who says Bob told her that he was going off to an appointment with someone.” I snipped a gall and dropped it in with the rest, wondering if I’d said more than I should. But really, with Pammy as the witness, it couldn’t be that much of a secret.
A thrashing from a nearby thick stand of hazel and field maple brought our hands to a standstill.
“Is it the fawn, do you think?” Tommy asked.
“Mmm.”
I started toward the noise to investigate, but a sound from a different direction arrested my movement.
Coo-koo—coo-koo—coo-coo-koo
“Listen!” I whispered. “A cuckoo!”
Coo-koo—coo-coo-koo—coo-koo
“Does it have the hiccups?”
“No, the extra syllable—it’s an aberrant call. You hear it after mating season.” I pulled my phone out of my bag, set it to record, and held it up high. “Won’t Rupert be pleased? Come on, cuckoo—go again. I need evidence you’re here.”
* * *
—
“I’ll drop these at the school for Willow,” Tommy said as we stood at the door of the TIC. She shook the box, and the mossy galls rustled within. “And then I’ll be off home. Tilly’s asked may she cook our meal this evening. Shepherd’s pie.”
“Won’t you take the rest of that lovely cake with you?” I asked. “I’m sure the children would love it.”
Vesta and I sent Tommy away with the remainder of the honey-and-ginger cake and, thinking about lunch, I idly looked in the fridge and found a sandwich.
“Egg and cress,” Vesta said. “And some of that pomegranate and elderflower fizzy water you love.”
“This is perfection.” I sighed, sinking into a chair. “Now, Ms. Widdersham, you are officially off duty—and you’re not working tomorrow, either. I’ll see you on Saturday. Off you go.”
Vesta pressed her lips together as if thinking of a way to counter my command, but when I raised an eyebrow at her, she remembered who was boss. “Ring if you need me,” she managed to say as the door closed. I tucked into my lunch.
It took me an hour to finish it, as the afternoon was dotted with the occasional visitor and each time I rose to greet one, I needed to make sure I had neither egg nor cress stuck in my teeth. It grew quiet about four o’clock, and I gratefully switched the kettle on and began rummaging in our biscuit tin. We seemed to be at the tail end of everything—crumbled Hobnobs, pieces of digestives, broken custard creams, only the shortbread fingers held up well in such conditions. At t
he bottom, I found the remainder of a package of Jaffa Cakes and wondered when was the last time my dad had visited—I could think of no one else who would eat the things.
I set about emptying the tin—eating up most of the broken biscuits as I did so—and washing it out afterward. My phone went off as I dried my hands, and I glanced over to see who was calling.
Miles Sedgwick.
Michael’s older brother phoning me—whatever for? Although we were always civil to each other on the rare occasions we met, our polite behavior was a fraud. Miles was smug and self-righteous, and I’d say he found me brash and pushy. So, it was a draw.
“Miles?”
“Julia, how are you?”
“I’m all right. You? How’s Maevis? How’re the children?”
“Costing me too much as ever. Listen”—ah, good, he’s getting to the point—“Michael rang me up this morning and asked for a favor.”
I couldn’t imagine what sort of favor this could be. Michael had worked in the family public relations business for twenty years before becoming Rupert’s assistant, so it wasn’t as if he needed tips on that front. Was it personal? A fear clutched at my heart—had Michael asked Miles for advice on proposing to me? Was he sending in a second?
“He had a few questions about a former client of ours. Of course, I’m not in the position to reveal private information, but I find that most of the time what we seek is available to the public, only covered in dust as if no one had thought to search in the right corner. You only need to know where to look—or whom to ask.”
“Tony Brightbill? He asked you about Tara’s Tea?”
“He wouldn’t exactly say what concerned him,” Miles said stiffly, a thread of suspicion in his voice. “It isn’t Pammy, is it? Because she was warned—”
“Warned? You fired her. I’d say that’s a bit more than a warning.”
“She cost us a huge account,” Miles countered, “that would only have grown in these last two years. It wasn’t even that she bollocksed that opening day, it’s because she can’t keep her hands off—”
“Harmless flirting, Miles. Are you telling me you don’t lay it on thick when it comes to your work?”
The air between us shifted, and I heard a dismissive sniff.
“That isn’t why I rang, Julia, and so why don’t we just get on with this?”
“Yes, let’s,” I said and plopped myself in a chair. “And so, it was about Tony Brightbill?”
“And the company’s finances. Here’s what I know—Tony started Tara’s Tea eight years ago, but it wasn’t his first business. He’d tried a chain of American-style diners about fifteen years before, spent a lot of money, and lost everything. Family money—great-grandfather made a fortune in scrap metal.”
“So he had no money to start Tara’s Tea—or is the Brightbill well bottomless?”
“He borrowed the money from another Brightbill—his brother, Robert.”
I held my breath before asking, “How much? How much did he borrow?”
“A million—it was no shabby beginnings for Tara’s Tea. He’s opened two new shops since we had his account, though—and it looks as if he might be stretched a bit thin at the moment. But I’m sure he has other things on his mind. I read his wife died. I’ve nothing on the brother, Robert. Quiet sort, I suppose. Stays out of the way and counts his money. Now, what’s this about?”
“Tony is in the village looking to steal away our best baker,” I said. Not a lie, not at all.
“Ah, well. Is that why Michael asked me to ring you with this information, because it was Fotheringill business? Not that I’m not delighted to talk with you. Or does he have his hands full of birds today?”
I offered a polite laugh and pictured Michael and Gavin on the Cambridgeshire Fens waiting out the short-toed eagle.
Miles had no more desire to prolong our conversation than I did, and so it ended quickly. I immediately rang Tess, reached her voicemail, and spilled the story as I glanced at the time—just gone five o’clock. I really should’ve locked up by now. The bell above the door jingled just as I finished with “There’s motive—it was Bob’s money, not his.”
I looked up at my visitor and leapt out of my chair.
“Mr. Brightbill.”
“Ms. Lanchester,” he said.
Yes, I really should’ve locked up.
* * *
—
Five o’clock on a weekday in Smeaton-under-Lyme cars lined the high road like cattle, nose to tail, ambling home. Drivers never looked out their windows, and foot traffic seemed to have dried up—a combination that made me feel isolated in the TIC, alone with a suspect in a murder case.
Had Miles had the time to warn Tony Brightbill we were nosing into his background? Had he said, “Look out for Julia—she’ll try to pin something on you”?
“Can I help you, Mr. Brightbill?” I asked. “I’m afraid I was just about to close—end of the day, you know.” I stayed where I was—behind the table behind the counter—and Brightbill remained just inside the door. I clasped my phone in my hand—could I dial 999 without his knowing?
“I feel as if I need to explain a bit more about my brother and our relationship—and our family. I realize Lottie told you about Bob, but I don’t want you to think that we were…uncaring.”
Lottie told her version of the story—that was what he meant. Was he here to offer the Brightbill family’s side?
“Oh, pfft, families,” I said. “We’ve all got stories, haven’t we?”
“When I said Bob came home and I gave him money—it wasn’t an act of charity. It was his money I gave him. I was merely his…banker, if you will. It was money left to him by our parents. Bob wanted nothing to do with an everyday sort of life, and so this arrangement arose—when he needed a bit to live on, he’d stop by.”
I stayed quiet and attempted to sort this out. Bob had money—piles of money, apparently—but had no use for it. That made sense. It fit with Lottie’s story about Bob’s attitude toward life. Bob needed only a bit of money to get by and enjoy his life.
“I didn’t want you to think I had grown tired of giving him handouts—that wasn’t the case.”
“Yes,” I said. “That is, no. I mean, I understand.” My thoughts continued to race while my mouth offered nothing of substance.
“It’s his money, in his name.”
“Except, of course, you must have power of attorney,” I pointed out.
Tony didn’t answer, giving me a moment to bite my tongue.
“My family has always taken care of itself—we’ve seldom seen the need to ask for outside help.”
Not sending your brother to hospital after a head injury, for example. Not going to the police with a missing persons report when he vanished.
“Were you in the village the day Bob was killed?” Tony asked.
“Were you?”
He huffed in exasperation. “Ms. Lanchester, I want to know what happened to my brother, and Detective Inspector Callow has told me little. This leads me to believe I’m under suspicion, but I want to assure you I don’t know who would murder my brother. It was a violent and cruel act”—his voice broke—“and the person who did it needs to be brought to justice. You seem to be involved in every single aspect of life on the Fotheringill estate, and so I came to you. Is there anything you can tell me? Is there anything I can do?”
My phone went off.
I answered in a rush of relief. “Hi, Tess.”
“I want your source,” DI Callow said.
“I was just about to close up the TIC,” I replied in a conversational tone. “And Mr. Brightbill has stopped by.”
“Are you all right?” Tess asked urgently.
“Yes, fine.” Was I? I stole a look at Tony. He hadn’t moved, but had stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at the fl
oor as if he wasn’t listening to my side of the conversation. He looked not in the least like a murderer.
“I’ll stay on the line while you get rid of him,” she said.
I held the phone away from my mouth. “Mr. Brightbill—”
“It’s all right,” he said, pulling a hand out of his pocket and slapping a card on the counter. “I’m staying locally for now—will you ring me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but walked out. I crept up to the window and watched his retreating figure as I threw the lock on the door.
In my mind, I had accused Tony of murder, but now I wasn’t so sure. My opinion of his guilt or innocence flip-flopped in the blink of an eye.
“Maybe he decided he didn’t want to pay back the million quid he borrowed,” I said to Tess. Flip.
“He’s asking more questions than he’s answering,” she replied.
“Can’t you tell him anything, Tess?” I asked. “He’s in such pain.” Flop.
“He knows how his brother died and when. And, we’ve been unable to confirm his alibi for that Saturday.”
Flip.
“Where did he say he was?”
“A cemetery outside of Doncaster, spending the day at his wife’s grave—the anniversary of her death.”
Flop.
Chapter 26
I found myself loitering outside Three Bags Full on my way home from work. Here was someone who could put me straight about Tony Brightbill, I decided. Lottie hadn’t seemed keen on Tony the evening before, but perhaps that had been the initial shock of seeing him after so many years. Now, she’d had a day to think things through, and she might have a more objective outlook.
She perched high on a wooden ladder set against her wall of wool, pulling out skeins and dropping them to the floor, where they bounced and rolled off in different directions. She looked down at me and said, “Julia, all right there?”
“I am,” I replied. “And you?”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 20
