“They look like hacks, don’t they?” Bianca asked, peering at the photo. “No respect for journalistic ethics, I’d say. Oh, God, Stephen, you won’t give me one of those, will you?”
Bee pointed to the auburn hair—the wedge half practically standing straight out. “Kitten woman,” I said.
“Kitten woman?” Bee asked, laughing. “Where’d that come from?”
I explained the muff on the handheld recorder.
Stephen gave the photo a quick look and said, “That is what happens when people turn all DIY with their ’do.”
“She cut it herself? How can you tell?”
“My dear, remember to whom are you speaking,” Stephen said with a lofty air as he picked up comb and scissors. “She shouldn’t have cropped the other half—too shabby. It’s shave it or nothing.” He glanced at the photo again. “That would be one wild head of hair if left alone—what she needs is a bit of product.” He squinted, pausing with hands in midair. “Who’s that one on the end?”
“The little weasel,” I said, enlarging the photo, the better to see his wispy hair and pockets. “He made the mistake of stepping into my TIC, and I showed him out in short order.”
“Stephen?” Bianca asked.
“Mmm?” Stephen said, eyes still on the photo.
“Are you doing this or not? I’m about to lose my nerve.”
—
Stephen worked magic on Bee’s hair, giving her a couple of long layers and saying all she’d need to do would be to run her fingers through it. At least, that’s all he’d had to do. He trimmed mine up—I didn’t want him to do too much, or Rosy at The Hair Strand in the village would notice someone else had been at work on me. When he folded up the towel and headed downstairs to shake it outside, I stuck my head out the bedroom door.
“While you’re down there, would you set a saucepan of milk on to heat, please? I could just do with a mug of cocoa.”
“Your capacity for chocolate never ceases to amaze me,” he replied over his shoulder. I took that as a “yes.”
Bee and I sat on the bed with chins resting on our drawn-up knees.
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I am,” I said. “Mostly. I want to see Michael—I want to explain about Nick.”
“Do you want to go and see him now?”
I shook my head. “He’s in Exeter until tomorrow evening. That’s good, though—it’ll give me tomorrow to figure out how to explain it all.”
We heard Stephen’s voice downstairs. “ ’Night, Mum,” and Beryl replied, “Good night, my dear. So wonderful to see you.”
Bianca glanced at the door and then at me. In a quiet voice, she said, “It’s good, about Beryl and Dad.”
I had long ago overcome my initial reservations about them. “Yeah, it is.”
“She’s lovely, really. And she’s so good with the children.”
“Yes.” It was unlikely Beryl would become a grandmother through her son, so she had jumped in feetfirst to her role as stepgranny to Bianca’s four children.
Bee sighed. “I still miss Mum. Every day.”
I nodded. “So do I.”
—
After a bit of a lie-in Sunday morning and sitting in the study during Dad’s interview with Radio Dorset, I gave everyone a kiss and drove back to Smeaton with dark and moody skies overhead. It’s one thing to solve the problems of the universe in the company of family and friends, but quite another when you set off alone, and my spirits—initially lighter—had already started their downward journey. I’d dropped Bianca at the rail station in Cambridge on my way out of town.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” she had said, gathering her coat, scarf, and bag.
“It’s a dreadfully long journey for you—coming all the way from St. Ives on Friday and going back on Sunday.”
Bee let a small smile escape. “First class,” she whispered. “You’ve no idea what a difference that can make. And how much reading I can get done. It was such peace—not that I want it all the time, but I didn’t mind. And it was for a good cause.” We hugged,arms bumping into windows and steering wheel.
“Thank you,” I said, choked up again. As if their intervention had loosed some blockage in my emotional system, I’d found myself teary all weekend.
As Bee took hold of the door handle, she asked, “Did you tell Dad about your car?”
No, I hadn’t—and I hadn’t told Bee much.
“Yobs,” I repeated what I’d told her. “Just hooligans—no need to worry Dad, and I’ve learned my lesson about where to park when I pull over for chips. Give my love to the children and Paul.”
Bee disappeared into the rail station, and I got out of Cambridge amid light Sunday traffic. Midday opening at the TIC meant I’d time to stop at my Pipit Cottage for my usual duties—refill the feeders in the back garden, make myself a cup of tea, wash out a few bits of laundry and hang them outdoors. Still no rain, and perhaps I’d get them in later before it began. I had put away the remainder of the chocolate cake carefully—I had a plan for it, and it didn’t involve my finishing it off before lunch. I took out my phone and stared at it. Should I check in with the police to let them know I would be back in the village? This was getting tiresome. I texted Tess and hoped that would suffice.
—
The threat of bad weather always put a bit of a damper on visitors. At least if we didn’t have crowds in the TIC today, I could get a massive amount of work accomplished. I ran over my many mental lists on the short walk to work—the details for the farmers’ market; grand opening of the sweets shop, Sugar for My Honey, in a week’s time; preliminary menus for Smeaton’s Summer Supper, along with the requisite health and safety inspections, marquee hire, and approval from the road-works division to close the high street.
I proceeded on automatic—unlock the door, turn on the lights, flip the sign to “Open.” I took one step toward the back to switch on the kettle and stopped dead.
There on the counter, in pride of place, sat the Grecian urn.
All blood rushed from my head, and I had to brace myself against the wall to remain upright. What the hell was Nick doing still here?
I saw a note tucked just under the base of the urn and craned my neck, hoping to read it without getting any nearer. I recognized Linus’s even, regular, and quite small script, and I had to edge closer and closer before I could read his words.
Dear Julia,
As you can see, Ms. Hawkins did not stop by to collect her brother’s remains. I wasn’t quite sure what to do—it didn’t seem appropriate to take them back to the Hall. If there is any problem, please let me know. I’m leaving the urn on the counter, because I thought it better for you to see immediately that it had not been collected, instead of going about your business and coming upon it unawares.
My very best,
Linus
P.S. What a delight Tennyson is—and Alfie a gem. Do you know the girl’s mother? Does she really work that many jobs? Is there something we can do to help?
I grabbed the urn from the counter, holding it with both hands as if I’d won the gold cup at Ascot, and looked round the TIC, desperate for a hiding place. But my mind became muddled when I heard voices out on the pavement—laughter and talking. I threw open the door to the loo and left Nick sitting on the toilet one second before a crowd of hardy morning ramblers came in looking for a pub.
“That’s the spirit,” I said breathlessly, “what’s a bit of rain to spoil a good walk?”
“No rain yet,” one of them said cheerfully. “I don’t think it’ll start today.”
I glanced out the window at skies that looked as if they would break open any second. “Well, and never mind if it does, right?” I gave them directions to both our village pubs, the Stoat and Hare and the Royal Oak, and offered a flyer for the farmers’ market and a list of event dates for the estate, and they left discussing the summer supper.
That reminded me of lunch. With Nick out of sight�
��if not totally out of mind, at least shoved into a corner—I settled with a beef sandwich Beryl had sent along, abandoned TIC business, and looked ahead at Dad’s weekly schedule. My second week at this. How much longer? I longed to relinquish this responsibility to Michael, in whose hands I belonged. That is, in whose hands the job belonged.
I had refilled the kettle and I switched it on when I noticed Gwen walking down the pavement across the road. I went to the door and called out. “Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Well,” Gwen said as we sat at the back table and she picked through the remainders of several packets of biscuits I’d dumped into the tin. “You should’ve heard her talk about him. ‘His Lordship’ this and ‘His Lordship’ that.” Gwen shook her head and smiled.
“He was equally impressed with Tennyson—and sounds as if he and Alfie hit it off, too.” I played with half a digestive. “Say, Gwen, I should mention that the woman staying at the Stoat and Hare—the one who doesn’t like to leave her room—she’s my ex’s sister.”
Gwen reached for a shortbread finger. “Peg told me. She’s a quiet sort, isn’t she?”
“Mmm,” I replied. “And her brother was the same way.”
“She’s nice about leaving while I do the room. She wanders up the lane to the church, for a bit of a break. I see her out the window chatting with someone. A woman with sort of dark hair. I thought it might be the vicar. She looked a bit unusual.”
Next to Kathleen, anyone would. But it couldn’t be the vicar—Charles Eccles, a man, and married to a blond solicitor who worked in Colchester—but Gwen was new to the village, so no surprise that she didn’t know.
“You haven’t seen Kathleen this morning, have you?” I had a fleeting thought of passing Nick off to Gwen, like a baton in a relay.
Gwen shook her head. “I don’t go in on weekends.”
“No, of course not.” I’d ring Kathleen later. As a last resort, I’d march Nick up the high street and deliver him in person.
“You all right with…you know, everything?”
I nodded. “The police don’t seem to be finding out much. Or at least, if they are, they aren’t telling me about it. I know they questioned all of you at the pub about what you saw that afternoon.”
“They didn’t question me,” Gwen said, “because they came round on Saturday afternoon, and that’s not one of my days. But they spoke with Peg and Fred—and it sounds as if they had to interview everyone who attended the funeral reception. That must’ve been a load of work.”
And all down to PC Moira Flynn. “Right. No joy there; the PC told me no one remembers seeing anything.”
I thought back to the crowd outside the pub that afternoon, and envisioned the interior just as busy. Had everyone attending the funeral reception known one another—or could someone have slipped into the event unawares? Someone who could then dash over the road, find Nick, and kill him. What if instead of interviewing potential witnesses, police should’ve been looking at every single person as a suspect? A thrill ran through me like an electric current. Surely the police had thought of that—but I’d ask Tess to be sure.
“Thanks for the tea,” Gwen said. “It’s lovely to take a moment to sit and chat. But I’d best be off now; I’ve left Tennyson working on a project with Alfie. It’s that game with pairs of pictures that are covered up, and you try to match them by remembering where you’d seen the last one.”
“I’d say he’s a champ at that.”
—
After Gwen left, I pulled up Dad’s website. My one connection to Michael for almost a week. Pitiful.
I noticed that the children’s feature in the corner, which had read, “Can you spot me?” and featured photos of well-concealed birds sitting on nests, had been replaced with the profile of a dark brown-gray goose with orange feet and bill next to a small cartoon figure of Rupert with a word balloon that read, “Does a bean goose eat beans on toast? Let’s find out!”
My eyes filled with tears, and my throat constricted. “Does a bean goose eat beans on toast?” That was the very joke Michael and I had shared the day we spent at Minsmere. What a lovely morning that had been, just before we’d returned to our pub room to learn that Rupert and the Sudbury constabulary were searching for us.
Michael had left me a covert message in the guise of a joke about the bean goose. He was telling me it’s all right, that this would be over and we’d be together again. My heart vibrated, as if it had been sent a confirmation text. Right, I would go and see him. I had been back and forth about making an evening journey to Haverhill—to meet him when he returned from Exeter. Time at last to talk. It had been on-again, off-again all day. Now it was back on.
I had a silly grin on my face when I heard the bell jingle, and it only grew when I saw who came in the door—Stephen.
“Here you are, now,” I said, getting up. “Could I interest you in signing up for a dig at the abbey—we’ve a sneaking suspicion the Druids were there ages before anyone else. The pensioners are putting on a tea dance at the church hall in June; perhaps we could find you a dance partner.”
Stephen didn’t move from the door, and so I rabbited on in good spirits about Fotheringill estate events until I had reached him, where all words left me as I saw who stood in his shadow—a short man with wispy hair and a vest with a million Velcro pockets.
The little weasel.
Chapter 22
“Ah!” I screamed, taking hold of Stephen’s arm and yanking him inside. “Get away from him, Stephen—don’t speak to him. You get out of here this minute.” I shook my fist at the intruder. “I’ll ring the police. I know the DI, and she’ll not stand for this. Come on, Stephen, come in here. I’ll take care of this one. You can’t trust him. He’s one of them—one of those jackals.”
“Julia!” Stephen clamped his hand on mine and spoke directly in my face. “Julia,” he said when I’d stopped shouting and stood breathing heavily. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Gregory Cook.”
“A friend?” My voice shot up an octave. “How can you even say that? He can’t be a friend of yours. He’s…he’s…”
A weak smile crossed Gregory Cook’s flushed face as he raised his eyebrows and asked, “The little weasel?”
I pulled my hand away from Stephen and crossed my arms tight enough to restrict my breathing. “I can’t believe you brought him here. How could you do that after what I told you?” I saw the police foot patrol stroll by across the road and had half a mind to call them over, but Stephen stopped me.
“Julia, let him explain. Give him a chance.”
He got no chance, because the bell jingled and in came a family of five that scooted past the little weasel to get their entire number indoors. Apparently in denial about the impending weather, they were desperate for picnic supplies. As I told them about Akash’s shop, I whipped past both Stephen and the little weasel and reached under the counter for a few children’s activity packets put together by Willow. Behind me, the door jingled again, announcing the arrival of four birders—their telephoto lenses and rucksacks were a giveaway, and one of them held a grimy RSPB guidebook. Before I could get to them, the phone rang.
“Sorry, excuse me,” I said to the family. “I won’t be a moment.” But when I turned, Stephen had picked up the phone and was saying, “Smeaton is the biggest secret Suffolk has—you will be smitten. You will be smitten with Smeaton.” He raised his eyebrows to me and smiled. Yes, all right—not half-bad as a marketing slogan.
I shifted my attention to the birders, but found the little weasel deep in conversation with them. I broke them apart. Getting right down in his face and giving him an icy glare, I said, “Excuse me.” He blushed and stepped back. I turned from him and spoke to the visitors. “Thanks so very much for stopping in the center. I look forward to helping you—can you excuse me for just a moment? Really, we’re so happy to see you here. I’ll just finish up with—”
“S’all right,” one of them said, nodding to the little weasel. “He’s
just giving me a few tips on settings. Brilliant that you’ve got a photographer on staff here—who would’ve thought?”
Another family with small children came in, and the noise level in the TIC tripled. “Oh, well, yes,” I said and stepped away, straightening my cardigan and cutting my eyes at the little weasel. “In that case, carry on.”
—
“First, let me say how very sorry I am to cause you any distress at all during this terrible time.” Gregory kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke, but glanced up at me once or twice.
We sat at the back table during a lull. Stephen had switched on the kettle during his last phone call and poured up a pot of tea, and when the TIC had emptied, the explanations had begun.
To begin, Stephen told me that he’d recognized an old friend in my photo of the jackals, and had contacted Gregory to get the full story before bringing him to the TIC to tell his tale. Gregory had told him that he’d lost his position as lead photographer at a high-end fashion magazine when it had fallen on hard times. “They’ll be left with little content and terrible art,” Stephen said, “and I for one have already canceled my subscription for the salon. Let that be a lesson to them.” Desperate for a job, Gregory had been taken on by The People’s News as a stringer—a freelance photographer, but one with a tenuous association to the publication.
“I should never have become involved in such a despicable activity,” Gregory continued when I didn’t speak. “It was wrong of me, and I completely understand if you would like me to leave immediately, but let me just say I’m grateful at least to have the opportunity to apologize.”
“You were coerced,” Stephen said. “And you were in need of work.”
“That’s no excuse for my behavior or for my association with those others. I’m happy to be free of them.”
“But you’re out of work again,” Stephen pointed out.
“Yes, well, that seems insignificant when compared with what Ms. Lanchester and Mr. Sedgwick have been put through.”
Every Trick in the Rook Page 19