A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  “Never gets old for me, that bit,” said Laraby with a smile.

  It was hard to gauge Gerald Moncrieff’s actual build, but the bulky outdoor jacket he was wearing gave the man standing on the steps beside the gravel forecourt a formidable presence. He had the dark jowls of a man who needs to shave frequently, and piercing, deep-set eyes. His protruding jaw and his unwelcoming scowl did nothing to make his appearance any more accommodating. Nor did the two black dogs flanking him. Maik had always considered Labradors to be a friendly breed, but these two looked like they had inherited their owner’s sour disposition.

  Laraby got out of the Mini as soon as the wheels had stopped rolling and marched across the gravel toward Moncrieff. At his approach, the estate owner had drawn his Dealing with the Domestics expression from his narrow repertoire and put it on. He was standing on the lowest step of a stone staircase that led up to an impressive double-winged manor house in red brick. It was a building of the type that by its mere presence suggested it had been around a long time. Laraby stopped before him and, despite the one step difference in height, squared up to the other man as if he might be looking forward to this encounter. Neither of the dogs moved a muscle.

  Moncrieff jutted his chin out toward Laraby. “Police?”

  The detective introduced himself and the approaching Sergeant Maik. Moncrieff nodded shortly to himself, as if impressed with his own deductive skills. “Come to tell me how you’re going to get my money back?”

  “No.” Laraby’s flat answer hung in the air uncomfortably. Maik had already seen the DI in action with Robin Oakes, and the relationship with someone else he would consider a member of the rural aristocracy didn’t seem to be getting off to any better start.

  “We’re making inquiries into the death of Erin Dawes,” said Maik reasonably.

  Moncrieff shrugged aggressively. “Much the same thing then, as I understand it.” He made no move to invite them inside his house, or to step down, so they stayed in the same position, the two detectives at the foot of the imposing stone staircase, Moncrieff hovering above them, the dogs at his side, stock-still and impassive.

  “Can you tell us in what capacity you knew the victim?” asked Maik. It never hurt to establish a baseline for truthfulness with a question to which you already knew the answer.

  “She was part of my investment group,” said Moncrieff. “She wasn’t the sort that normally moves in our circles, but she’d done a bit of accounting for us all at one time or another.”

  Laraby continued to stare at Moncrieff, albeit with a faintly incredulous smile on his face, such as a man might have watching a freak show at the fun fair.

  “Can’t say I ever cared for her particularly.”

  “Why’s that, then?” asked Laraby. “A bit uppity, was she? Didn’t always remember her place?”

  “Had a bit of a chip on her shoulder, as a matter of fact. Seemed to resent the fact that the fates had decreed some of us would always have a little bit more than she had.” He stared hard at Laraby. “In retrospect, we all needed our heads examining, I suppose, trusting our money to a person like that.”

  “An accountant, you mean?” asked Laraby in an innocent tone that Danny Maik was already learning was not to be taken at face value. Moncrieff was not taken in by it either.

  “Look, Inspector, I’m sorry if it goes against your touching socialist sensibilities, but the fact remains there was only one person of her ilk in our group, and she’s the one who pinched my bloody money. Those are the facts, as simply as one can state them.”

  “I understand you weren’t particularly keen on the investment,” said Laraby, unfazed by the man’s bluntness. “Not a fan of drone technology, I hear?”

  “Not much, no. I don’t hold with all this erosion of our civil liberties, invading our spaces, spying on our doings.” Moncrieff turned to Maik, as if perhaps he’d found a decent person he could at least talk to. “An Englishman is entitled to a bit of privacy on his own land, one would have thought.”

  “Especially if he’s not obeying the law,” said Laraby, smiling pleasantly. “You’ve got a record, Mr. Moncrieff, hunting out of season.”

  Moncrieff exploded in exasperation, rousing the dogs slightly. “Good God, man. You’re bringing that up now? It was years ago. I got an early start on a nye of pheasants one year, that’s all.”

  “No, sir, it’s not all. A gamekeeper of yours poisoned a couple of birds of prey, too. Buzzards, I believe they were.”

  “Nothing to do with me,” said Moncrieff sharply. “I let the man go as soon as I found out.”

  “Hardly surprising, putting your government farm subsidy in jeopardy like that.”

  A small hiccup of discomfort rose within Maik. Laraby seemed to have an agenda beyond the inquiries, one the sergeant wasn’t privy to. Maik was used to this kind of feeling watching Jejeune work, and he didn’t like it any more now than he did all those other times. But whatever Laraby was up to, his clear intention to antagonize Moncrieff was threatening to derail the interview. Maik didn’t particularly fancy coming back here again to stand in the cold at the foot of a staircase being stared at by a pair of black dogs, just to go over all the things they had failed to ask this time around.

  “You knew about the plan to use the land between yours and Amelia Welbourne’s as a test strip for the project?” he asked.

  “Whole thing seemed like a monumental waste of good shooting land, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve often told Amelia we should combine forces, buy that land off Oakes and link our two properties.” He looked out over the distant forest tract, as if imagining the prospect. “Be a formidable force, a Moncrieff/Welbourne partnership.”

  Whatever its merits, Maik noted that Amelia Welbourne would receive second billing.

  “But that was never likely to happen once that Amendal chap starting banging on about reforesting it. She’s an admirable woman, Amelia, determined, intelligent, but she does rather tend to get the old worship mat out when she finds somebody who might help save her damned trees.”

  Something caught the attention of the dogs and they stirred, padding restlessly and twisting around on the step. Moncrieff looked out over the fields. He shifted his position slightly on the step and the gesture settled the dogs immediately. It was an impressive piece of silent command.

  “When did you learn your money had gone? That the investment had not been made?” asked Laraby.

  “When everybody else did, two days ago.”

  “So after you’d handed over the cash, you never requested to see any of the investment documents.”

  “Clearly not,” said Moncrieff irritably. “All I was after was a quick turnaround. Throw a few bob at this thing, and as soon as it starts to shoot up a bit, get out. I tend not to concern myself with the whys and wherefores of my investments. That’s what I pay my bloody accountant for.”

  “Who in this case was Erin Dawes.” There might have been more subtle ways to point out Moncrieff’s naiveté, but Laraby didn’t seem particularly keen to spare the man’s feelings.

  “Where were you when Ms. Dawes was killed, Mr. Moncrieff? That would be Saturday night.”

  “Where I usually am, in my study, with a good book, halfway through a bottle of The Macallan,” he said in a tone that suggested he understood the need for the question, even if he didn’t particularly care for it.

  “Alone? No witnesses, then? Only a car like yours was captured on CCTV in the village, quite near the victim’s house.”

  “Like mine?” Moncrieff’s already low voice dropped a further intimidating level. “I presume you can’t see the number plates in this CCTV footage of yours, or you’d know it wasn’t mine. Not altogether effective, is it, this surveillance nonsense you lot rely so much on these days?” Moncrieff raised his eyebrows in a way that even Maik found irritating.

  Given Laraby’s performance so far, the sergeant expected his DI to be bristling. But Laraby apparently wasn’t rising to the bait. “Funny you should mention
that,” he said pleasantly. “It appears those plates were covered in mud. Illegible. That’s an offence, you know. If I find out who was driving that car, I can nick him.”

  “Or her.”

  “Or him.” Laraby returned Moncrieff’s stare, unblinking.

  “What’s this all about, Inspector?” asked the other man in a mocking tone. “Not bullying at school. You don’t strike me as the type who’d put up with that. A scholarship, I would guess. To a place your parents couldn’t quite afford. Always the one in the shabby blazer, were you? Always the one looked down upon, thought of as being not quite up to the mark? I’ve seen it all before, you see. Same thing with Erin Dawes. This resentment, this railing on about class and privilege and inequality. Only it’s always about something else, really, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you this. If it’s designed to make me feel guilty, it isn’t going to work. My family’s been on this land for centuries, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “So if we need to speak to you again, we’ll know exactly where to find you, won’t we?” said Laraby brightly.

  He began to make his way to the car, and Maik followed. Both men paused as Moncrieff called after them. “I’d advise you to call ahead before you come out here again.”

  Laraby turned. “Really? Why’s that, then?”

  “I do a spot of shooting at this time of the year. I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Anyone else, you mean.”

  “Yes, Inspector, anyone else. Good day to you.”

  And having dismissed the men as abruptly as a left-wing agenda, Moncrieff marched up the steps to his house, dogs at heel, and went inside.

  18

  “I didn’t know anybody still used those things.”

  The comment startled Lindy from her reading, but when she looked up, DCS Shepherd was smiling, so Lindy would be able to discern her own fondness for books. Shepherd looked around. “You’ve found a cosy little spot for yourself, I must say.”

  Lindy had chosen a wooden table tucked into a corner of the tiny Saltmarsh Library. Through the window behind her, a cloud-laden sky hovered over the library’s tiny garden, shrunken into dormancy by the cold weather. But the interior of the stone building was being warmed by a hearty brazier set in the middle of the room, flickering orange light along the racks of books that stretched away in all directions.

  “It’s one of the things I enjoy most about village life, just running into people like this,” said Shepherd.

  Lindy couldn’t ever remember running into Domenic’s boss before, but Saltmarsh was the kind of place where you did see most people eventually, in one capacity or another.

  “The internet was down at home, so I came to use the wifi here,” said Lindy. “But one thing I still refuse to do is read poetry on a screen. It deserves better.”

  “Reading poetry in front of a fire on a Thursday morning.” Shepherd shook her head. “There aren’t many things that would make me rethink my career choice, but …”

  The comment took Lindy by surprise. She did not have Shepherd down as a poetry lover. Little insights like this, into those you thought you knew, were one of the constant joys Lindy found in her encounters with people. Perhaps Domenic’s uncanny ability to see beneath a person’s surface meant there were fewer surprises like this for him, and therefore less to enjoy in being around other people.

  “I don’t blame you indulging yourself in a little guilty pleasure like this. I imagine you must be enjoying having a bit of breathing space, not having those men under your feet. So who have you chosen?” Shepherd turned her head to look at the spine of the book Lindy was holding. “Poe?” she asked with amazement.

  “The Raven.”

  Shepherd pulled a face. “I might have known.”

  “It’s your bloke’s fault,” said Lindy lightly. “Eric’s decided we should do a feature tracing the connection between Dickens, Poe, and Gaugin.”

  Shepherd was interested enough to take a seat opposite Lindy at the small table. “Is there one?”

  “Apparently.” Lindy touched the assortment of books splayed out on the desk. “Dickens took a pet raven to the U.S. and showed it to Poe when they met. Poe scholars are pretty much agreed that the bird was the inspiration for the poem. A few years later, The Raven was one of the poems read aloud at Gaugin’s farewell dinner when he left for Tahiti. And what bird appears in Gaugin’s painting Nevermore?”

  “Ravens.” Shepherd shook her head slightly. “Hard to see the attraction, personally. To me, it’s like the spectre of death flying overhead whenever they pass.”

  “Dom loves them,” said Lindy. “He voted for it to be Canada’s national bird.”

  Shepherd raised her eyebrows. “They vote on such things over there?”

  “It’s called democracy,” said Lindy, “a little thing they learned from us, apparently.”

  “Did it win?”

  Lindy shook her head. “It was something called a Gray Jay. At least they didn’t choose the Canada Goose. I think Dom would’ve renounced his citizenship.”

  Lindy found her thoughts drifting back to their previous conversation at the Malvern Tea Rooms. She eyed Shepherd carefully across the book-strewn table. “I wonder if he knows just how much he’s dominated our conversation since he’s been away.”

  “I imagine he’d be delighted. It’s a sign we’re missing him.” Shepherd let her comment linger for a moment. “Marvin Laraby. You said you knew the name. Anything I should know about between him and Domenic?”

  “Nothing that isn’t already in the files,” said Lindy cautiously. “A personality clash, Dom called it. I could see it. Laraby wouldn’t be the first senior officer who’s found working with Dom a bit intimidating. It’s not that he’s trying to be clever all the time. He just bloody well is!”

  Lindy seemed to remember who she was talking to and stopped suddenly. But Shepherd merely offered a soft half-smile. “You’re right, I suspect we both have the same issue, me professionally and you personally. We both found Mr. Right, we just didn’t know his first name —”

  “… was going to be ‘Always.’” Lindy chimed in, the two women finishing the saying together.

  Lindy sighed. “I just wonder sometimes if he appreciates how frustrating it is to be around somebody who seems to know so much about so much.”

  “I’m not sure Domenic even knows what frustration is. He’s about as sanguine as any person I’ve ever known.”

  Lindy smiled. “I think in terms of frustration, Dom is what the medical profession would call a carrier.”

  Shepherd rewarded the comment with a generous smile of her own. “We’ve still not heard anything from him at the station, by the way, which we take to mean whatever he’s up to over there in Colombia, things are going well.” Shepherd rose to her feet. “Well, I suppose I’d better leave you to your reading. After all, any discussion Eric has about birds while he’s at work is one less we have to have when he comes home.” She gave Lindy a wan grin. “I’m hoping this rush of enthusiasm will burn itself out sooner or later or at least settle into something a bit less obsessive.”

  “It’s possible,” said Lindy in the same tone she might have used if Shepherd had suggested the little thing called democracy might one day result in a Green Party government. “The birding getting a bit much, is it?”

  Shepherd tilted her head to one side slightly. It was a coquettish gesture that should have looked ludicrous on her, but somehow didn’t. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  “But inexactly?”

  “I just feel guilty sometimes, that I’m not more involved. I mean, I just don’t know if I should go with him on his trips.”

  “That depends, I suppose,” said Lindy, “on whether there is anything about sitting around for hours in a drafty hide, bored out of your mind, that you’d find unappealing.”

  Shepherd smiled. She liked Lindy, even if she suspected that Jejeune’s girlfriend was behind most of his obstinate moments. Domenic Jejeune was for the most p
art a passive individual. Opposition to Shepherd’s new initiatives, when they came, often had the tang of another person’s arguments, and on more than one occasion she had felt the words she was hearing from Jejeune were more or less verbatim as his girlfriend had suggested he should deliver them.

  She turned to leave. “I really must get on,” she said. “Say hello to Domenic for me, the next time you talk to him.”

  Lindy spent a long time staring after Shepherd, even when the DCS had disappeared from view. Perhaps it was already there, even then, in the back of her mind, but it wasn’t until she’d packed everything up and left the library that she was able to grasp it fully. She walked toward her car and stopped dead in her tracks. She felt the flush of anger rising within her, and barely made it into the driver’s seat before the dam of pent up emotions burst forth.

  “Cretin,” she seethed, pounding on the steering wheel in her frustration, until the horn gave a tiny blast. She sat for a moment letting the waves of anger wash over her before getting out of the car again, not trusting herself to drive in this condition. She marched back and forth in the car park, hardly noticing the frigid air. She wandered over to the back of the parking area and leaned on a low railing that looked out over a small pond. A thin rime of white frost had claimed its edges, but there was still a little open water in the middle. Good for the birds, she thought absently. Dom would be pleased. Dom. She bunched her fists and pressed them to her skull in frustration. Oh, Lindy, Lindy, how could you have been so stupid? How could you have not been watching, waiting for Shepherd to ask, so that when she did, you wouldn’t just walk right into it and serve it up to her on a plate?

  Those men under your feet. Men. And Lindy had just let it go like some halfwit who had never heard of the difference between the singular and plural forms of Jejeunes. Because that was what Shepherd was talking about — Domenic and his brother. Lindy had confirmed Damian’s presence in Saltmarsh for Shepherd, and allowed her to segue straight over to Domenic’s trip to Colombia without even a whimper of protest. So Colleen Shepherd had just stopped in, had she? Just as she was driving past perhaps?