Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

But Cecil’s Peugeot—on loan from Linus, who preferred the bicycle for local travel—wasn’t parked at the farm. I shut off the engine at the edge of the yard and sat in my car, debating my options—go or stay?—and watching the curtains in the cottage for any sign of life. I lingered just long enough to be seen, for here came Guy from round the corner of a stone shed carrying a long-handled hoe.

  “Where’s Cecil?” I asked from the window of my car. “Has he gone already?”

  “Running late, he’s on his way.” Guy waited. “It’s in the barn—the tin. Come on, and I’ll fetch it.”

  How about if he fetched it and brought it out to me? But I would look both silly and suspicious if I remained in the car. And after all, Cecil was on his way.

  I got out and followed Guy across the yard, keeping myself at as great a distance as I could. He walked into the shady barn, where thin shafts of sunlight came through the gaps between boards. I stayed in the open doorway, where a few lazy flies buzzed round and round, and brought to mind Willow’s flies. The air smelled of sweet hay and manure. A swallow swooped down from the rafters and straight over my head, showing off his pale underside and red throat. He flew out of the barn toward the field across the way. I watched as he soared over the disaster that organic farmer Guy had created when he’d sprayed the expanse with a chemical herbicide. No insects for you there, little swallow, keep looking.

  Guy stopped in the far back corner and stuck his arm between bales of hay stacked as high as the loft. He pulled out a tin, and as he approached me he said, “He’d hidden it away well.”

  I stepped back out into the yard and kept my eye on the hoe in Guy’s hand. He noticed, hesitated, and then hung it carefully between two pegs on the wall by the door. “I wouldn’t do anything, Julia, but I know it’s my own fault you think I would.”

  His apology sounded sincere, and he looked suitably shamed, hanging his head, his face gone pink—but I would continue to take care.

  “No, it’s all right, Guy. Thanks.” I took the tin from him—it was dented and rusted, the scratched lid adorned with a painting of dahlias overflowing a basket and CADBURY MILK CHOCOLATES written in script. It was in poor shape for a collectible—Bob probably found it on a rubbish heap, knowing it still made a useful storage container. Had his life been a string of old rusted tins with memories held inside?

  “Do you want to come in and sit down while you look, or are you taking it straightaway?” Guy asked.

  “No, I’ll just…” I popped the tin on the spot. Inside, just as Guy had said, were newspaper cuttings. I read the headlines: CUCKOOS ENDANGERED—MIGRATION ROUTES TO BLAME?; BURTON FLEMING—YORKSHIRE’S HEDGEHOG VILLAGE; and A GIRL AND HER ROOK—THE BIRD THAT CRACKED THE CASE.

  “I read that one—our Alfie,” Guy said with pride, pointing to the photo.

  “Our Alfie”—it was how everyone on the estate referred to the rook. “Yeah, there he is,” I said with a smile. The next cutting, dated October of the previous year, read NATURE’S ART—A WOOLLY PIECE OF WORK and described a tapestry—now hanging in the Tate Britain—created by Lottie Finch, proprietor of Three Bags Full in the Suffolk village of Smeaton-under-Lyme. So, this was how he had found her—and Lottie never knew.

  “So you see,” Guy said, “what would the police care about that lot?”

  I spotted a small book under the clippings. “Oh look!” I cried. “It’s just like mine.” It was The Observer’s Book of British Birds. I’d bought my used copy for a pound at a church jumble sale when I was twelve. Had Bob carried his round since childhood, or had it been a later acquisition? I felt close to him at that moment, as if I could turn to the page of his favorite bird and read along with him. He’d probably memorized most of the descriptions—I know I had.

  “I thought you’d like that,” Guy said.

  I didn’t answer, because I’d just seen what lay below the book at the bottom of the tin—an old leaflet that had been folded and straightened out again, its corners tattered as if it had been carried round in someone’s pocket. It had the distinctly soporific title of The Fotheringill Estate Abbey: Eight Hundred Years of History.

  “He must’ve come in the TIC, and we didn’t notice,” I said with a stab of guilt. “But when it’s busy, people can pop in, find what they want, and leave before we ever see them. Still, I feel terrible.”

  “I don’t know how you keep track of as many people as you do,” Guy said, and I appreciated the allowance.

  The crunch of gravel—Cecil’s car bounced into the yard and stopped.

  “Anyway,” Guy said, “Bob was a bit secretive. I never did know where he slept. I asked once, and all he said was that he’d found a good spot, a place where no one had slept for donkey’s years.”

  “Hello, Julia,” Cecil said as he eased his tall frame out of the car. This was an official visit—as Linus’s son and heir to the Fotheringill estate, Cecil had worked hard at developing the skills he needed to work with tenants. He no longer pushed that Roman nose of his in the air when speaking to others.

  “Hello, Cecil.” A tiny thought darted into my mind—should I tell him I’d just seen Willow and Tommy together, or would he immediately think they were having a séance upstairs at Lottie’s? The thought darted out again.

  “Haven’t seen you in a few days,” Cecil said. “How is it all…going?”

  The enquiry into the murder of Bob Brightbill was what he meant, but we must speak in code when in the presence of a suspect. Was Guy still a suspect? But look, he’d held on to Bob’s special tin just to show me.

  “No one tells me much of anything, I’m afraid.” I clutched the tin to my chest. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Thanks, Guy.”

  “Right, Pockett,” Cecil said as the two men headed for the cottage, “ready to get to work?”

  I walked out to my car, reading through the old abbey leaflet. Apart from pretty dreary writing, I couldn’t see it held a clue for me.

  Guy stuck his head out the cottage door.

  “Centuries,” he called.

  “Sorry?”

  “Bob—he didn’t say donkey’s years, he said centuries. That’s a bit daft, isn’t it?”

  Guy went back in, and I stared at the leaflet in my hand and heard the word “centuries” echo in my head. Bob Brightbill had been sleeping somewhere that hadn’t been occupied for…he’d been living at the abbey. I jumped in my car and bounced off.

  * * *

  —

  The abbey car park was empty as usual. I pulled on the hand brake and looked at my feet and then at the passenger-side floorboard, which was taken up by Sheila’s shoes. I’d worn them when touring around the ruins with Tommy—they’d been perfect, their enormous flat soles providing stability no matter what the terrain. Not like these work shoes—spike heels that sank into the ground and slipped off stones. I glared at my feet and found I’d already kicked my heels off. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to notice what I was wearing—but just in case I did see another person and needed to make a quick change, I dropped my spike heels into my bag.

  Now, to suss out just where Bob had been sleeping…The police had searched the place and found no sign of sleeping quarters—where had Bob hidden himself away? Was there a particular stone in one of the remaining bits of building that, when removed, would reveal his bedroll and tent? Would we need to knock down the rest of the abbey to find out?

  I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and walked the path, realizing I’d visited the abbey more often in the last week than I had in the last year. I stopped to survey the remnants of ancient walls outlining refectory, chapter house, and all those other buildings and rooms. I walked through the undercroft, the only place that still had a ceiling, and examined the corners. Perhaps Bob had actually kipped outdoors, but nearby—under a hedge? Down by the brook? I came out the other end of the undercroft, circled back the way Tommy and I had, and stoppe
d near the no-longer-secluded spot for picnics.

  My phone dinged with a text from Michael.

  Feather exam flying success. Home soon.

  I replied: Celebration 2 ensue.

  I took one step before another text came in—this one from Linus.

  Julia, I hope I’m not disturbing you, but it’s vital you ring me the minute you receive this. As you probably know, I’ve asked Nuala to be at my side during th

  The text broke off—having reached its limit or Linus accidentally hitting “send”—and another one followed immediately.

  this evening’s dinner with English Heritage. You remember this dinner will open up discussions of the estate’s involvement in—well, perhaps we can go over th

  Linus longed for the days of proper letter writing and had yet to embrace the brevity of today’s communications. Here he came again.

  I want to communicate my feelings to her, but am worried that if I frighten her, she will bolt. Does that sound crass? What about a gift? I thought perhaps som

  I sensed his frustration, but would he ever get to the point? And then, as if he’d heard me, a text came in accompanied by a photo.

  Would this be appropriate?

  It was a scarf upon which danced the blue and green shades of the sea intertwined with streaks of rose red and accented by gold swirls. Most likely silk and hand-painted—and gorgeous.

  Exhausted from reading this disjointed missive from His Lordship, I dashed off a reply. Perfect. Good on you. Have a lovely evening.

  Ding—a text from Vesta: Where’s Pammy?

  Ding—a text from Willow: Where’s Pammy?

  Ding—a text from Gavin: Where’s Pammy?

  Pammy Sedgwick, the most sought-after woman in the village, I grumbled. But if anyone should know where she was, it was Gavin. I rang him.

  “Where’s Pammy?” he answered.

  “Why does everyone think I know where Pammy is?” I snapped. “Look, I thought she was with you. Are you at the cottage?”

  “No, I’m working.”

  “You’re meant to be off and go back later.”

  “I took a third shift.”

  “Gavin, you can’t work three straight shifts.” He’d gone from not being able to keep a job to working round the clock. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m skint, that’s what it’s about. And tomorrow’s the world’s largest jumble sale, and it’s important to Pammy.” The pub noise behind him increased and he dropped his voice, so I had to strain to hear. “I thought, if she found something special, something she really wanted, I’d buy it for her.”

  “Ah, Gavin, that’s so sweet.”

  “Yeah, well,” he replied. “The problem is, I don’t want to tell her I’ve taken extra work—I wanted it all to be a surprise. And so I sent her a text to say I couldn’t see her this evening. I’ve heard nothing back.”

  Bad move—although, really, Gavin had come so far in such a short time, he could be forgiven for one misstep, couldn’t he?

  “Your intentions are admirable. Amazing, really. But you can see how she might not like that—canceling for what she sees as no reason? You’ll have to tell her why, and then she’ll be fine about it.”

  “I have told her. After two more texts and nothing back from her, I rang, but she didn’t answer, and I had to leave a message. I explained everything and said I was sorry—but still nothing. I can’t stand this.”

  Didn’t Pammy believe him? Perhaps she had seen this pattern before in another man, and it triggered an automatic response—or lack thereof.

  “Right, listen, Gavin—I’ll ring her and see what’s up. She’s just sitting at the cottage. I’m sure it’ll all be settled in no time, and she’ll be looking forward to seeing you at seven o’clock in the morning.”

  I tried her, and as I waited for her to answer, a faint noise drifted toward me from somewhere nearby. But I couldn’t quite identify it, and when I tried to listen again, a breeze started up, rustling leaves and grass and drowning out the sound just as Pammy’s voicemail started.

  “You can’t give up on Gavin over this, Pammy—he’s doing it all for you. Why don’t you give him a ring. All right? Talk later.”

  There now—had I taken care of business? I stared at my phone, daring it to ding at me again. Silence. Right, now I can think. I scanned my surroundings.

  What had Bob said to the Pears family the day they’d met? Perhaps he had given a clue about where he slept. I thought hard on what Tommy had told me about their visit. Bob had been kind, knowledgeable about the area, and seemed to perceive what each family member needed most. He had quickly caught on to the fact that their son, Duncan, was a naturalist, and had set him and his sister an enjoyable task. Bob had allowed Mum to rest—Tommy had seemed content with reading and a nap—while he had taken Dad off to fish.

  That’s right—Bob had mistakenly thought the family was familiar with the abbey ruins from a previous visit. Isn’t that what Tommy had said? “You remember how the brook runs behind the ruins,” he’d said to Noel. At least, it was something like that. But the Pears family had never been to the site—they had never been to the estate.

  But now we know one of them had. Noel Pears and his midweek trysts had been going on for a month or more—according to Peg—and that could place Noel on the estate at least a fortnight before Bob was murdered. Noel and his lover had met up at the Stoat and Hare, but could they have met elsewhere on the estate, too? After all, we’d had such a long stretch of lovely, warm summer weather, why not take it outdoors?

  Bob had been right. He had seen Noel Pears at the abbey ruins before the family visit.

  “They were together here, weren’t they, Bob?” I asked aloud. “You saw Noel and Deena.”

  The world went black.

  Chapter 33

  Someone shoved me and I fell forward. I took a breath, but the blackness covered not only my eyes, but also my mouth and nose. I grabbed at it, and it made a rustling sound—plastic, like a bin bag. My hands were knocked away and I was pushed down, and a knee pressed on my back, holding me on the ground. My arms and legs waved helplessly as I tried and failed to reach behind me to grab hold of my assailant. I heard the ripping sound of duct tape coming off a roll, and then it was wrapped round my neck, securing the bin bag.

  I struggled and rocked and shouted, but my voice went nowhere, only inside the bag, my air supply virtually cut off. I was going to smother. I flung my arms round, and my assailant grunted with the effort to keep me still. As I flailed, I knocked into my handbag on the ground beside me. I grabbed blindly for anything that could help, but found a shoe. My hand closed over it.

  Using my left shoulder to ward him off, I began battering the body I couldn’t see with the spike heel of my shoe—bang-bang-bang—striking blindly, hoping to inflict damage. I got several good jabs in—must’ve, because he shouted in pain before he wrenched the shoe from my hand and yanked me to my feet. I shouted for help, and he hissed, “Shut up, just shut up,” and struck me.

  He couldn’t see my face any more than I could see his, and the blow hit my chin, but still caused me to cry out—a small cry as I was nearly out of air. “Can’t breathe,” I gasped.

  He frog-marched me off and I felt myself slipping, losing consciousness, until we walked directly into a patch of holly. The dead leaves stabbed and caught at me and brought me to my senses. I knew where we were—at the top of the steps Tommy and I had seen—steps that led down to a centuries-old iron door. I heard the dry, scratching sounds of dead branches being moved.

  And I knew who my captor was.

  “Noel,” I panted. “It’s Noel, isn’t it?”

  He nudged me forward, and I stumbled down the first few steps before he caught me with one hand and ripped a hole in the bag. I gasped, gulping in air.

  “What are you doing, Noel? Ho
w will this help?” I pleaded, turning my head right, left, up, and down to get him in view through the gap. I caught a glimpse of his curly hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and eyes that didn’t seem to focus. I saw red slashes the size of a spike heel on his cheek and forehead, and one at the corner of his eye that had drawn blood.

  “What use could it be, Noel, to bring me down here?” Isn’t that right, shouldn’t I use his name—say it over and over? I know you—that’s what that tells him. Would it help or hurt? “They’ll find me, you know they will. Wouldn’t it be better if you went to the police now instead of forcing them to chase you down?”

  I kept it up, babbling innocuous questions and comments, and as he pushed me down the stairs, only my solid boat shoes and his tight grip kept me from plunging headfirst. We reached the bottom, and I could see the iron door stood ajar. Noel pushed at it. It scraped across the stone floor, and we entered a black corridor. I blinked at the darkness and noticed a thin shaft of horizontal light high up and far in the distance. The air felt cool and dry—were the storerooms below the undercroft? Is this where Bob had lived?

  He shoved me toward the light, and we came to the end of the corridor. Noel pushed open a door and shoved me into more darkness, and I fell hard on my knees. Before I could recover, he seized my hands and dragged me to the wall where he wrapped tape round and round my wrists and from my wrists to a heavy iron ring attached to the stone. He fell back against the door, panting, and I scrabbled at the bag over my head, ripping it enough that I could pull it away but not off—the tape round my neck held too tightly and the plastic sat like a ruffled collar.

  “What good is this, Noel?” I begged. “What will Tommy think?” I heard a groan across from me. “My God—is she here? What have you done with her?”

  “You shut up about my wife!” he shouted in my face. “The both of you, shut up! I love my Tommy, don’t you understand that? This has nothing to do with her or my family. He didn’t see that, either, did he? You’re all interfering in affairs—” he hesitated, as if realizing his poor choice of words, “in things that are none of your bloody business.”