“I’m all right!” But I choked as I said it, unable to keep back a torrent of tears. “I’m all right.” I wept.
I could see Michael in silhouette as he kept at the soil until the opening widened and he could shove his head and a shoulder through.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” he shouted. “There is no perfect moment!” His voice cracked. “No, this is the perfect moment!” He thrust his arm through the hole and held open his hand.
“Julia, will you marry me?”
Chapter 35
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes.” Police lamps lit up the abbey ruins as if we were on a movie set and uniforms and detectives were cast and crew—but we were the stars, Michael and I, as we stood in the grass amid the bustle. “Ask me again,” I demanded as I accepted his handkerchief and wiped my bloody nose.
He held me tightly round the waist as if I might fly away—which I thought quite possible, I was so filled with happiness.
“Julia Ruby Craddock Lanchester,” he said, his lips caressing my cheek, “will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I murmured. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Pammy and I had been freed only moments before—the police broke the padlock and cut through our duct-tape chains while Michael and Gavin both tried to assist and both got in the way. The four of us—a mad, happy stumbling mass of emotions—had run out and up the stairs, knocking into Tess, DS Glossop, and DC Flynn on their way down. We had spilled out onto the grass in the evening air perfumed with honeysuckle and light still in the western sky, after which my entire attention had been consumed by Michael’s proposal—and I didn’t think I could ever hear it enough times. We stood in the center of our favorite picnic spot—its reputation now changed forever—while Pammy and Gavin sat to the side on a smooth, wide stone, she across his lap with one arm round his shoulders and he with both his holding tight to her waist.
“I don’t have a ring,” Michael said with a worried look. “It’s only that I thought we could choose it together—you might have a few ideas.”
Gold with a vintage look, a filigree design with an oval diamond surrounded by—this was Bee’s idea—a ring of tiny sapphires.
“Yes, we’ll shop together.”
DI Callow appeared, calling us back to the moment. She spoke to a uniform and then approached us.
“How are the two of you? Would you like that off, Julia?” She nodded to my bin-bag collar, still attached with duct tape.
“Yes, please.” I held still while Tess cut the tape with a penknife.
“Do either of you need to see a doctor?” she asked.
“Nah,” Pammy said in a cavalier fashion. “We’re all right, aren’t we, Julia?”
I rubbed my neck and took stock. Our wrists were raw and marked with wide red bands from where the tape had been pulled off, and we were coated in dirt. I had a bloody nose and another ruined pair of tights and my ears were still ringing, and I was sure Pammy would come up bruised from her thrashing and—
“We’re fine,” I replied. “Except, what about your head?”
“What’d he do to you?” Gavin growled.
“I fell and got this,” Pammy said, placing Gavin’s hand on the lump just above her forehead.
“Right, you’re off to hospital,” he replied, standing with her in his arms.
“Wait,” she said and giggled. “I want to know what happened.”
“Yes, me, too,” I said. “I can see how you would think of the abbey, but how did you know we were down below?”
“Are you joking?” Michael asked, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a grin. “I grew up with that scream of Pammy’s. She let loose every time she thought there might be even the faintest possibility of a spider in her room. I’d know the sound anywhere.”
“There was a spider down there—and it was crawling on me,” Pammy insisted. “But I have to say, I’m rather glad of the little bugger now.”
Gavin sat back down. “Weren’t you frightened by it all?”
“Nah, we weren’t scared—were we, Julia?”
“Well, we were a bit uneasy.” It’s easy to be brave in hindsight.
“When we arrived,” Michael said, a bleak look passing over his face, “even before the scream, we knew you were somewhere nearby—at least we hoped. Because of what I found.”
At that moment, DS Glossop joined the impromptu debriefing and held up a plastic bag with one of my spike heels in it. The memory came back strong, and I knew the feel of the shoe in my hand as I battered Noel’s face.
“I hit him with it.”
“Ah, so that’s how he came to appear pockmarked.” Glossop grinned.
“You found him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Tess replied. “As it happens, there was a minor road-traffic incident at the north end of the village involving Noel Pears and Mr. Sedgwick here.”
“It was the other bloke’s fault,” Gavin insisted. “I’m a witness.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lecky.”
“You and Gavin?” I asked Michael, bewildered. “Car crash? Noel?”
Michael took over. “Lecky came to the cottage as I was ringing round trying to find you. He was looking for Pammy. I got hold of Peg at the Stoat and Hare, who told me police were out on the pavement talking with Tony. She said Lottie was there, as well as Willow and Tommy. We went straight up.”
“Tony Brightbill and Lottie watched me pass by earlier,” I said. “But how could they know where I was going?”
“Mr. Brightbill had seen Pears drive by not long before, followed close on by Ms. Sedgwick. He thought it a good idea to notify the police—as you should’ve,” Tess said grimly, with a glance to the couple seated on the rocks.
“I was about to ring you,” Pammy said. “I only wanted to know where he was going.”
“You had just been at the Stoat and Hare earlier,” I pointed out to Tess, “talking with Tony.”
“Well, I returned when Mr. Brightbill rang. Ms. Wynn-Finch, too, had phoned us with a tip,” the DI said. “She told me she had a feeling you might’ve gone out to Guy Pockett’s farm and could I please check on both you and Ms. Sedgwick.”
I vowed to myself never again to dismiss Willow’s vibes, feelings, or intuitions.
“Guy had found another old tin—this one with newspaper cuttings Bob had collected,” I said. “But I didn’t mention going out to the farm to Willow.”
“Bob must’ve told her.” Pammy’s stage whisper caught the ears of the entire crime scene, and there was silence.
“We were all of us gathered in front of the pub when I rang Guy Pockett,” DS Glossop offered. “He mentioned your fascination with an old leaflet about the abbey. We came straight out—although Mr. Sedgwick and Mr. Lecky were in the lead car.”
“It wasn’t meant to be a convoy,” DI Callow said with ice in her voice. “It was police business.”
“Good thing we did go first,” Gavin said happily. “That Pears bloke pulled out of the lane right in front of us. Sedgwick had no chance to avoid him.”
“Where did he think he was going in such a rush?” Glossop asked no one in particular.
But Pammy and I locked our eyes on each other. We knew where Noel was going—far away and leaving us locked up for well and good. Or so he thought.
Tess sighed. “Mr. Sedgwick clipped the back corner of Pears’s Fiesta on the passenger’s side, and both cars came to a stop in the middle of the road—he seemed a bit dazed. Our police cars narrowly avoided the two of them, cutting to the left and right. It meant Pears was pretty much surrounded when he leapt out.”
“Berk,” Gavin commented. Pammy snorted and hid her face in Gavin’s shoulder.
“When he jumped out,” Michael said, “I’d no idea who he was.”
“I have a photo of Tommy’s sketch on my phone—wherever that is. Wa
nt to see it?” I asked. Michael grinned.
“The impact popped open the boot of his car,” Callow explained. “When we realized who the driver was, we had reasonable grounds for a search. Inside the boot, we found a piece of a branch wrapped in plastic. It’s already on its way to forensics to check for blood and tissue.”
“He was saving the murder weapon—did he think it was a souvenir?” I felt queasy, remembering the damage it had done to Bob’s skull.
Michael’s grip on me tightened. “We thought—we were afraid he might’ve used it again.”
“We would never have let him, would we, Julia?” Pammy said with defiance.
“We were tied up, remember?”
“I don’t think he had planned to use it again,” Tess told us. “Most likely he was too panicked to get rid of it—afraid someone might see.”
I swayed slightly, and Michael caught me. “I’m all right,” I lied, but he led me over to another low piece of wall and tried out the stones. They held and we sat.
DC Flynn appeared with a large flask of tea and a stack of paper cups and began pouring.
“Is this from the station?” I asked.
“God no, I wouldn’t drink that stuff,” Moira replied.
I accepted a cup gratefully—good, strong, sugary brew that it was—and a thought came to me.
“Why did Tony Brightbill think it odd that Pammy was following Noel out of the village?”
“Mr. Brightbill said he got the idea from you earlier today. The way you reacted to seeing him talk with Pears made Brightbill think he was somehow involved in the murder,” Tess said, and I saw a smile creep up on her. “He said you don’t have a terribly good poker face.”
Chapter 36
“And he thrust his arm through the slit and reached his hand down and said, ‘Julia, marry me.’ ” As I spoke the words, the story caught at my heart on this eleventh or possibly twelfth telling as much as it had when it happened. “And his eyes were the color of cornflowers.”
“You couldn’t see his eyes—it was too dark,” Pammy pointed out, pausing on her way out the cottage door with both hands full of plastic bags.
“I could see his eyes,” I said with force, “and they were the color of cornflowers.”
“It’s better to go along with her if at all possible,” Bianca warned, her voice emanating from my phone on the coffee table as she had indulgently listened to my tale for the third time.
“So I’ve learned,” Pammy replied.
To my consternation, Bee and Pammy had become quite chummy in the four days since Michael proposed—and they had yet to meet face-to-face.
“Have you set the date?”
I reached for my tea. “Probably early December—we’ve got to get through migration first, and then all the winter birds arriving, and of course, we have to wait until I’m finished with the Christmas Market.”
“Hope you can fit the wedding in—couldn’t someone else take care of any of that?”
“You know how Dad is in autumn,” I said. Migration is huge to an ornithologist, and Rupert always had a busy television schedule October and November.
“And his younger daughter has to do everything herself, as well.”
“I daresay you inherited your fair share of that trait—aren’t you president of the parent groups for each of your children’s classes all at the same time?”
We had reached a stalemate. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about your dress,” Bee threatened. “Bye now.”
Pammy returned from packing the last bits and bobs into her Ford Fiesta.
“You haven’t finished your tea,” I said. “And Michael’s not here yet.”
She settled at one end of the sofa with me at the other.
“You should’ve had another night at that posh hotel,” she said. “I’d’ve got myself packed up all right. After all, here it is Monday—your day off.”
Regardless of the events of Friday evening, Michael had whisked me off on Saturday morning as he’d said he would. We had spent two nights in a former country manor now a fantastic boutique hotel near Colchester with its own shops and spa and a lovely restaurant and country walks. We had stayed there once—a fleeting night more than a year before—and had promised ourselves we’d go back. Neither of us was about to let Noel Pears get in the way of that. And DI Callow gave us permission to wait until after the weekend to sign our statements.
Pammy and Gavin carried through with their plans as well—the Jumble-O-Rama at Swaffham. Pammy’s plastic bag population might’ve increased slightly, but how could I fault her when she offered me a gorgeous billowing summer frock she’d found late in the day at a shockingly low price? I gasped when I saw the name on the label—she looked quite pleased and would accept no money for it. Gavin had been a trouper—it didn’t hurt that on his wanderings round the event, he spotted a cattle egret in the next field.
I much preferred to tie up loose ends, and so between mud masks and massages and room service when we couldn’t bear to leave our quarters, I’d been able to chase down the details I needed by ringing everyone involved. I learned the dinner at Hoggin Hall with the English Heritage folk had gone quite well—perhaps even better than that, because even over the phone I do believe I could tell Nuala was blushing when I asked for more personal particulars. Good.
As I’d driven by the Stoat and Hare on Friday, Lottie Finch had walked up to talk with Tony Brightbill about Bob. Tony had heard from Bob’s solicitor—he did have one, after all—who had seen the death notice that morning. Tony learned that his brother had split his entire fortune among a variety of nature organizations, including the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and every county division of The Wildlife Trusts in Britain. Bob had named Lottie his executor.
This news came from Willow, who reported Tony seemed relieved to have the family money matters settled. “I think he would’ve given it away himself if Bob had left it to him.” Lottie was being cautious in her dealings with Tony, still resentful, all these years later, about how his family had treated her. “But,” Willow insisted, “Bob believes they’ll become friends eventually.”
Willow also reported Tommy and her children would move out of London—perhaps to Suffolk, where she might ply her trade of graphic designer in peace. If that happened, I’d say we’d be putting a fair bit of work her way. First off, I would commission a sketch from her—a likeness of Bob Brightbill we would run in the newsletter as he posthumously received the first OFE, Order of the Fotheringill Estate. Perhaps Lottie could accept the award in his name at a ceremony—would she mind?—and the local papers could attend. Must mention this to Linus before I make any concrete plans.
I tried my best not to think the worst of Deena Downey, but without much success. Tess told me that when questioned, Deena remembered the fellow who’d seen her with Noel at the abbey ruins, but hadn’t thought anything else about it. She swore she hadn’t a clue what Noel had done. Her alibi for the weekend of Bob’s murder was confirmed—it was her birthday, and she was home celebrating with her husband and three daughters. Deena agreed to cooperate fully with police on the case, but asked if the DI could see fit not to mention her involvement to her husband. Callow made no promises.
As Pammy and I finished our tea, Michael arrived home, and the three of us made our way outside to the pavement. Pammy stood next to her car, which had been carefully packed with every single one of her plastic shopping bags, leaving her just enough space to see out the back window. She wore a microskirt and a rosy pink top with IT’S ALL GOOD! written in shimmering gold.
Elbows at her sides, she lifted her hands, palms up, and said, “Well, wish me luck.”
We hugged and kissed and said we knew she would make the best assistant manager any Oxfam shop had ever seen. She climbed into her car and had started the engine when I shouted, “Hang on a tick!” I dashed back inside and came
out with Sheila’s clodhopper shoes. “Here you go—I’ve cleaned them up a bit.”
“Thanks, Julia—they’ll go in pride of place on the shoe shelf. Maybe I’ll write up a tag that tells what they’ve been through, and we’ll fetch a record price.”
We watched her drive off to Bury Saint Edmunds—twelve miles up the road—and her new position and new digs. Michael stood behind me, his arms wrapped round my waist. I rested my head against his cheek.
And July she flies away.
To Leighton, the best research companion
Acknowledgments
Continued thanks to my writing group—Kara Pomeroy, Louise Creighton, and Joan Shott—as well as my agent, Colleen Mohyde; my editor, Kate Miciak; and the staff at Alibi. Their attention to story and detail makes all the difference.
In my research for Farewell, My Cuckoo and all Birds of a Feather mysteries, I relied on the experts and bird lovers of The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (http://www.rspb.org.uk)—of which I am a proud member!
BY MARTY WINGATE
The Potting Shed Mysteries
The Garden Plot
The Red Book of Primrose House
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The Skeleton Garden
The Bluebonnet Betrayal
Best-Laid Plants
The Birds of a Feather Mysteries
The Rhyme of the Magpie
Empty Nest
Every Trick in the Rook
Farewell, My Cuckoo
PHOTO: MARY M. PALMER
In addition to the Birds of a Feather Mysteries, MARTY WINGATE is the author of the Potting Shed Mysteries. A well-known speaker on gardens and travel, she has written numerous nonfiction books on gardening, including Landscaping for Privacy. Marty’s garden articles have appeared in a variety of publications, including The American Gardener and Country Gardens. She is hard at work on her next novel.
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 27
