Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand

by Ann Cleeves

  Peter washed at the sink in the kitchen and dressed. He fried bacon and eggs in a large, heavy pan. The day seemed damp and miserable and he was in no hurry to go out. As he ate his breakfast he planned his day meticulously. Tonight he would dress up and go to the film show and Ella’s party. But first, in the afternoon, he had an appointment.

  In the cottage next door, Mrs. Black was tense and tired. She seemed not to have slept for two nights. Terry had not come home for two nights. He had stayed out before, occasionally, and it always worried her. She had become so fond of him. Once he had gone to a dance at the hospital in Skeffingham where he had lived for so many years. The hospital invited him back quite often for socials and parties and always arranged transport for him. On that occasion, however, he had decided that he wanted to walk, had become tired on the way and slept rough in a ditch. She had phoned the police then, and felt so foolish when he turned up the next morning, hungry and affectionate, not realizing at all that she might be concerned. She reminded herself of this incident as she waited for him and worried.

  On Sunday evening she had expected him home for tea, but was not surprised when he did not turn up. It was not unusual for him to work overtime. At eleven she had phoned the White Lodge, preparing to be angry on Terry’s behalf because he had been kept so late. A rude receptionist told her that Terry had left work before lunch without telling anyone that he was going. That too had happened occasionally before.

  On Monday, throughout the day, she tried to find him. She phoned the hospital and asked carefully and discreetly in the village if anyone had seen him. She did it so well, she was so cheerful and casual, that no one seemed to realize that Terry was missing or to sense that she was worried. All evening she set herself deadlines which passed. If he’s not here by nine o’clock, she thought, I’ll phone the police. Then it was ten o’clock, then eleven. Still she did nothing. It was not a fear of looking foolish which prevented her from telephoning the police now. She was frightened that they would think that Terry had run away because he had killed Tom French. She had known that they suspected Terry when they had questioned him. They had confused him with their complicated questions. This would be the excuse which they needed to arrest him. She felt helpless, very frightened. At midnight she went to bed. She had not phoned the police.

  On Tuesday morning she prepared breakfast for herself, thinking that it would be unlucky to cook for him too, but hoping, praying that he would walk in. At eight she telephoned the police station. She had not eaten her breakfast. The voice at the end of the telephone was bland, but she imagined that there was satisfaction in it, imagined almost that it was gloating. She was frightened that they would never find Terry, that he had had an accident, that he would never come home, but she was more frightened about what would happen if they did find him.

  She had planned to watch the film in the village hall. She had thought that Terry would enjoy it. Instead she stayed in, waiting for something to happen.

  Rob Earl woke that morning with a sense of energy and decision, but lay back on the untidy bed, wishing that he still shared the room with the girlfriend who had usually been persuaded to get up first to make the tea. He missed her about the place and she had been obliging about cooking breakfast and making tea, a good-natured girl. It had been a convenient arrangement but in some respects it was perhaps just as well that she had left. She had started to resent the birdwatching and to grow tedious on the subject of other friends who were getting married and having babies. At times like this, though, he missed her.

  It had been her room first, and he had not changed it when she went. The plants had died and been thrown away eventually, but the arty prints on the walls, the big bowl of dried flowers and grasses standing in the empty fireplace, even some of the books and records had belonged to her. He had imposed a smell of tobacco, but little else. She had left, quite suddenly, on a foggy autumn morning, without giving an explanation. He had thought her devoted and had been, for a while, bereft. Not only his pride had been hurt. It was not until later, when he met her again, that he had understood why she walked out in that way.

  The door bell rang and he went downstairs, still dressed only in underpants, to open it. Tina stood there and walked into the shabby hall unmoved, but unamused by his lack of clothes.

  “I didn’t think you’d be ready,” she said sternly. She was dressed in a university sweatshirt and tight jeans tucked into long, black leather boots. She was carrying a sleeping bag, but had no other luggage.

  He had forgotten that she would be coming and that at a bird club meeting the night before he had suggested that they go together to Rushy. She had not been invited specifically to Ella’s party, but knew that Ella would ask her if she was at the film. He knew from experience that it was much easier to hitch-hike if he had a girl with him, and he needed to get to Rushy quickly.

  Since her trip to Scarsea Tina had not been able to settle. She wanted to see Adam again. They had not made a definite arrangement to meet at Rushy, but she thought it possible that he would be there. It had become urgent that she should see him again.

  Rob followed her up the stairs to his room. The lino was gritty under his bare feet. He wondered why she always wore such dramatic clothes.

  “You can’t go to Ella’s party like that. Everyone will be very smart. Even me. Ella won’t invite you if you’re not wearing dress.”

  For the first time since he had known her, she lost her self-possession.

  “I didn’t know what to wear.” she said. “I haven’t got anything. Nothing suitable. Perhaps I’d better not come.”

  He felt quite sorry for her—quite paternal, he thought mockingly. “I think my girlfriend left some things here when she went,” he said. “You must be about the same size.”

  They rummaged in a big wardrobe and found a dress, in a peasant style which would go with her boots. It was made of dark green velvet, with a flowered yoke. She tried it on secretly in the kitchen, while he dressed, then folded it carefully, lovingly into a carrier bag.

  They got a lift almost immediately and Rob congratulated himself that he had thought to invite Tina to accompany him. They did not speak as they travelled. Both were preoccupied with Rushy, the evening ahead, and what could be achieved there.

  Sally had been invited by Ella to the film show and party. Ella had been forceful and Sally had accepted, intending to find an excuse not to go later. She had not seriously considered that she would attend. Then Ella arranged a babysitter for her, and asked her to help to serve food and wash up, so that she could not refuse to go without appearing to mind helping. Ella asked the Palmer-Joneses to drive Sally from Fenquay to the church hall and it was impossible then for her to stay away.

  Once it became inevitable that she would go to the film, Sally was surprised to realize that she might enjoy the evening. She had woken up excited, because there was something different to look forward to. She had not dreamed about the letters. There had been no more of them and she had begun to dismiss them, to believe again that they had been sent by some crank in the village. She had still not reported the letters to the police. That afternoon, while Barnaby was sleeping, she prepared for the evening. She washed her hair and ironed her prettiest summer dress. She acted almost as if she had someone to dress up for.

  All day Bernard Cranshaw looked forward to the film with nervous anticipation. It was, in a special way, his film. Of all the villagers he had been most involved, and he felt that the film was a celebration of his work on the marsh. It proved that the RSPB recognized the importance of his work there, but he felt that the help he had given in making the film would not be appreciated, that other people would take the credit. He was not worried that the film would be badly received but was desperately anxious that he would not be acknowledged as the moving force behind the project. He had brooded about it, and believed that other people were conspiring to take the glory due to him.

  It even seemed that fate was against him, because the day before he had
sprained his wrist in a silly accident at work. The incident had infuriated him. He had slipped down the short flight of steps outside the staff room and had fallen almost at the feet of two giggling fourth-form girls, making, he knew, a ludicrous spectacle. It had been lunchtime and the playground full of children. The other staff had made a great drama of the event and the nurse had insisted that he wear a sling. The sling presented few practical difficulties—although writing was impossible—but he felt in a strange way that it indicated that he was incompetent. In his battle for recognition as the true champion of Rushy Marsh, it was a psychological handicap. He was the director of the North Norfolk Natural History Society which, with the local RSPB group, was presenting the film. The chairman of the RSPB members’ group was a solicitor, a fat, toad-like, conceited man who would want to take charge of the proceedings, run the show, and Cranshaw felt that the sling would give the man the excuse.

  Cranshaw knew that he had been indispensable to the film crew. He had helped to set up many of the shots, had carried heavy equipment to the hides while the fat solicitor sat in his warm car and muttered about a heart complaint. But he knew too that he could not match the solicitor’s ability to organize events and words.

  He left school early so that he could dress and be at the hall before anyone else arrived. He wanted to make his presence felt and to be there to welcome the important guests. He had planned to leave soup and sandwiches for his mother’s supper, and to do without a meal himself. He had thought that she would be happy to watch the television until he returned, but his mother had other plans. He had not realized that she was aware of anything unusual, but she wanted to go with him. When he arrived home she was dressed in her best clothes, her face was a mask of make-up, and the smell of her perfume sickened him as he approached her to impress on her that she could not go with him.

  It took an hour of persuasion and considerable energy to resist her whining and her tears. She had set her mind on it. He said that she was not well enough, that the hall would be cold, that he would be worried about her. He forced himself to appear concerned and solicitous and at last she responded and allowed herself to be settled on the sofa with tea and chocolates. When he finally left the house alone he was exhausted, but he still found time to go to the Windmill to check the arrangements for the party. Nothing could be left to chance.

  Tina and Rob met Peter Littleton on the marsh in the middle of the afternoon as they had arranged. It was a still, damp day, grey and colourless. There was no movement. Even the birds appeared part of a black and white photograph and the marsh seemed deserted of people. They sat in one of the hides talking for a while, then separated. Tina wanted to be alone to look for Adam and went off towards the shingle bank and the Windmill. Rob said that he wanted a long walk, and that he would go right along the beach towards Skeffingham. He did not ask Peter to go with him and walked away very quickly with long, easy strides, and Peter saw his silhouette on the bank after an almost unbelievably short space of time. Peter felt quite relaxed and contented, and sat dreaming for a while in the hide. He had a leisurely stroll around the marsh, just for appearances sake, then returned to the cottage for tea and hot buttered toast.

  When Tina returned to the cottage to prepare for the party Peter found her sullen and uncommunicative. She changed into the velvet dress, but seemed to have little interest in her appearance. She could not upset Peter’s good humour and he opened a bottle of wine and gave her a glass, and they waited silently for Rob.

  Rob was late, wet and irritable. As he changed he gave his excuses and drank Peter’s wine.

  “I saw a funny gull on the sea. It was too far away to identify properly, but there was something odd about it. Something about the head shape. I set up the ‘scope and waited for ages, hoping that it would fly, but the sea was dead calm and it didn’t move. The light got worse and worse and it started to drizzle, so I had to come away in the end.”

  “What do you think it might have been?” Peter asked. Tina was not listening.

  Rob was oddly vague about the bird and refused to put a name to it. He changed the subject and suggested that they had time for a quick drink in the Anchor before the start of the film.

  The hall was next to the church on a small incline to the south of the village. It was a square, stone building surrounded by trees. When Bernard Cranshaw arrived he noted with irritation that a number of large, expensive cars were already parked outside. He was too late, and someone else would have taken charge. His presence would not even be noticed. Aggressively he pushed his way inside.

  The hall filled quickly. Ella watched with excitement, recognizing not only friends and neighbours from the village, but a carload from one of the inland market towns and a family of wealthy landowners who lived in the biggest house in the district. She laid her coat across the seats next to hers to save them for Sally, Molly and George. When they arrived she waved and beckoned to them. Her excitement and enjoyment were infectious, and Sally felt like a child on Christmas Eve as the lights dimmed ready for the film to begin.

  When Peter Littleton, Rob Earl and Tina arrived, breathless after running from the Anchor, the hall was full and the film was about to start. They perched on trestle tables at the back. There the wild boys and girls of the village already sat, defiantly wearing their leather jackets, chewing gum and whispering to each other obscurely obscene jokes.

  The film was delicate and haunting, capturing the sense of space on the marsh and its strange, clear beauty. There were close-up shots of waders and wildfowl. It provided an intimate picture of the birds’ lives. Villagers who had come to the film just because it provided them with the chance of a night out were fascinated by the insight into the wild creatures’ behaviour, by the detailed view of a bird they thought they knew well, but which they had only seen at a distance.

  Afterwards there were speeches made by the producer who thanked the people of Rushy for their cooperation in the making of the film, by the regional officer of the RSPB thanking the film crew and everyone who had paid to be there that night, and by Bernard Cranshaw who, in a long and tortuous way, said exactly the same as the previous speakers. At last he finished and the audience began to leave. There was the sound of motor bikes as the leather-clad young people rode away in search of some other diversion, and the sound of soft Norfolk voices in gossip.

  Only the favoured few remained, those who had been invited to the Windmill for supper. Rob obtained the necessary invitation for Tina. The only thing that the guests had in common was their interest in birds and that Ella thought them worth inviting. Many she did not know personally—their names had been given by the organizations presenting the show—but she had made inquiries about them and was satisfied as to their birdwatching competence. There was an elderly wildlife artist whose paintings fetched huge prices in London galleries, a young biologist who presented a BBC wildlife programme, the television comedian who had introduced the show, national officers of the RSPB and their wives, and local committee members. Then there were Ella’s special friends, whom she had invited on her own account: George and Molly Palmer-Jones, Peter Littleton and Rob Earl with Tina. Sally had left before the speeches to help Sandra with last-minute preparations for the meal.

  The Wildmill had been transformed for the occasion. There were stiff white cloths on the tables, bowls of flowers, the best silver and glass in the village begged and borrowed from its owners. Ella, magnificent in crimson silk, looking more Romany than ever, black curls swept back from her forehead and allowed to fall down her back, waited at the door to greet all her guests. The cars arrived in procession from the village hall. She stood like an opera singer preparing to sing. It was nearly dark—before the party finished there would be more rain—and the silhouette of the windmill could only just be seen against the sky. It looked, not untidy, but dramatic, and she was glad that it was still there, a suitable backdrop to the evening’s entertainment. She welcomed her guests with a theatrical dignity, so that attention was diverted from
the prefabricated hut, the shabby little snack bar, and was concentrated instead on the sense of occasion, the sense of celebration. It was a real party. Already the bottles of wine were being opened, and heavy china plates, disguised by napkins and covered with food, were being carried from the kitchen.

  Molly studied with interest the reaction of the guests to Ella. No one, not even the suburban RSPB wives, had found the performance ridiculous or embarrassing. Most men seemed spellbound by her physical magnificence. The elderly artist took her hand and kissed it. Bernard Cranshaw seemed not to notice that she was there, but walked straight past her, took a glass of wine from a tray, and drank it in loud, unpleasant gulps. Rob Earl caricatured her formality as he introduced her again to Tina, and Peter gave her a big kiss on both cheeks.

  George Palmer-Jones had watched Bernard Cranshaw’s arrival with interest and walked, apparently without purpose, towards the man who now held a second glass in his left hand.

  “How is your mother now?” George asked politely. “ I understand that she had a fall a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yes.” Bernard spoke abruptly, strangely, as if he were thinking of something else. George could not tell whether or not the man recognized him. “Yes, she did. She’s better now though, I think.”

  “How did she fall?”

  “She was going to the bathroom and fell down the stairs.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Oh, early one Saturday morning. She gets confused in the mornings. She’s very good for her age, but a bit unsteady in the mornings.”

  “Must have been unpleasant for her. Inconvenient for you too. You usually go out on the marsh at weekends, don’t you? I suppose her accident kept you in.”