I left the urn where it sat, grabbed my mackintosh off the peg, but didn’t take the time to put it on. I locked the door, ran the three steps to the car and threw my mack in the backseat as I dug for my phone. My call to Michael went straight to voicemail, and I had a vision of him standing across his brother’s glass desk in the HMS, Ltd., offices—Miles’s face a shade of fuchsia. I left a brief message with little content, only to say I’d catch him up later.
I drove to the bottom of Church Lane and parked in front of the Stoat and Hare. Rainwater rushed through the street gutters, on its way to overflowing the curb. I made a mad dash and leapt over the stream, arriving indoors with my bangs plastered to my forehead.
Not a soul in the place—too early for even the earliest drinkers, and breakfast for hotel guests long finished. A fresh pine scent mixed with the aroma of ale—the start of a new day in a pub. Fred and Peg stood behind the bar—he shifting bottles and restocking, she with her hands on her hips. They each had a puzzled look.
“These things can’t go walking off of their own accord, Peg.” Fred scratched his chin with the back of his hand.
“I’m sure they’ll turn up—can’t you make do in the meantime?”
I hadn’t moved from the doorway, but coughed to announce my presence.
“Good morning,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you know if Kathleen is still upstairs?”
“Morning, Julia,” Fred called over his shoulder as he lined up the bottles of whisky.
Peg came out from behind the bar. “Gwen’s upstairs doing the rooms now, so Ms. Hawkins has left for a bit.”
I needed Kathleen, but Gwen would be a good start. I could get a quick confirmation before marching into the church to confront that so-called journalist.
I bounded up the stairs.
The cleaning cart, parked in the corridor, signaled where I’d find Gwen—that and the loud, sucking motor of the vacuum as it was pulled across the carpet. I looked into the room and saw a suitcase in the corner, a couple of books on the table alongside a laptop—those were the only signs of occupancy. Kathleen’s room for certain. When Gwen took notice of me, I gave a little wave and she switched off the machine.
“Hiya,” she said. “Your day off, isn’t it?”
I felt a wee bit guilty seeing as how Gwen probably never had a day off—then I remembered that at the moment, neither did I.
“Not quite—I’m on my way to Minsmere. We’re filming for Rupert’s program.”
“You do all that as well as the estate work?” Gwen’s eyes were wide. “And I thought I was busy.”
“I used to be Dad’s assistant, but now I’m only the TIC manager. It’s just that I’ve filled in for a week or so, because of all that’s happened.” Best not to go into the details now. I pulled out my phone and brought up Gregory’s photo of the person in question. “Gwen, you know the woman you’ve seen Kathleen talk with at the church? I know it’s all the way at the top of the lane, but do you think…could this be the same woman?”
Gwen took my phone and held it at arm’s length, and then she brought it closer and enlarged the image.
“Yeah, she is the one. Isn’t that odd?” she asked, almost to herself, eyes remaining on the photo. “From the distance, it’s her haircut that makes me recognize her, but now, closer up, I sort of feel as if I’ve seen her before. But if she’s the vicar, I suppose I have.”
“She isn’t the vicar,” I said. “She’s a bit of a nut job, and she’s been hanging round the village recently. You might’ve seen her loitering on the pavement and that’s why she looks familiar.”
Gwen took another look and squinted. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“If you see her, Gwen, don’t talk to her. I’m hoping the police will see her off the estate.”
“Is it that bad?”
“She’s being such a bother that—they could get her on harassment. I’m sure they’ll take care of it.” And if they didn’t, I’d take care of her myself.
Chapter 25
I must rescue Kathleen, I thought, dashing down the hotel corridor and flying down the stairs. Little did she know she had been revealing intimate details of her brother’s life not to the vicar of a church, but to a woman who lacked any moral compass and thought nothing of splashing lies about people all over the Internet. Michael said it appeared her site had few followers, but that was entirely beside the point. I felt certain that Kathleen would be totally unaware of such salacious publicity, but that was small consolation.
As I headed toward the door of the pub, Peg called out, “Julia?”
“I’ll be back, Peg,” I replied over my shoulder. “Just nipping out for a moment.”
I made ready to dive into the car for my mackintosh, but the tap had been turned off and not a raindrop fell, although the air remained heavy with moisture. I ran up the lane—dodging puddles and broken cobbles—through the lych-gate, into the churchyard, and up to the door. I paused for a moment in the covered porch, breathing hard, and ran my fingers through my damp hair.
The church, built of stone and flint, was cold and silent, the only light filtering through the huge, arched stained-glass windows. At first glance the vast space appeared empty, but then I spotted Kathleen sitting alone toward the front near the chapel. She looked up at my entrance and watched as I walked up the center aisle, and sidestepped down her row, the wooden pew complaining loudly when I sat.
“Julia,” she said, closing the book she had been reading. I caught sight of the title—Ships and Their Mechanisms in the Eighteenth Century. She wore, if not the same clothes, at least the same shades of beige.
“Hello, Kathleen, I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“I wasn’t praying, if that’s what you think. It’s only that this is a quiet place, and I retreat here.”
“Of course. But you aren’t always alone, are you? There’s a woman you’ve met and spoken with?” I drew my phone out of my bag.
“Yes, the vicar,” she replied looking over my shoulder as if to check for an imminent arrival. “Pleasant, but a bit talkative. She told me she sensed a loss in me and did I want to share it with her?”
Vile, despicable, slimy. “Is this her?” I held out my phone, my hand shaking, to show her Gregory’s snapshot of kitten woman.
“Yes, it is. Not the usual look for a vicar, is it? But these days…”
“She’s no vicar.”
Kathleen’s eyes shifted from the photo to my face and back. “But I thought she was carrying out her pastoral duties.”
“Far from it. Has she been asking you…personal questions about Nick?”
“Yes, yes, and I didn’t care to answer many of them.”
I saw a stony look in Kathleen’s eyes, and I dearly hoped she’d shown the same look to this Olive Carboys.
“She’s been nosing around,” I explained, “and she’s caused a bit of a problem for us here in the village. I’ll explain more later. Have you seen her today?”
“No. I’ve been alone until now.”
“Would you let me know when you see her next? And don’t feel obliged to speak to her at all. I don’t think she should be bothering you, and I’m happy to report her.”
“I wouldn’t want to cause anyone trouble.”
I’d like to cause kitten woman a great deal of trouble. “Oh, and also, Kathleen—”
She rushed to cut in, her cheeks pink. “I do apologize for not collecting the…container with Nick’s ashes. It was not fair of me to leave it like that, Julia, but I must confess to you that the sight of it goes against the very core of my being, and I didn’t think I would be able to sleep—”
“No, please, don’t worry about it. You can leave it with me for as long as necessary.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps Kathleen would get on a plane today for Nova Scotia and leave me with the Grecian urn forever. “Well”—I stood and the pew creaked—“I’d best be off.”
“Julia.” Kathleen held up a hand and then dropped it to her lap, her ey
es wandering round the church fixtures. “It’s…it’s quite near, isn’t it? The police told me the place where Nick was killed is on the grounds of the Hall, and I’ve seen the brick gate pillars across the road.”
I nodded. “There’s a small summerhouse off the drive—derelict at the moment, and rather overgrown. Do you want to see? Because if you do, I could take you over.” Please say no. “The police are finished at the site, but I must tell you, Kathleen, that you’re likely to see signs of…” The murder? Nick’s blood? I couldn’t bring myself to say those words to his sister.
“Yes, I understand. And, I can’t quite decide if I should or shouldn’t go. Thank you for your offer—let me think about it.”
—
I left her to her ships and their mechanisms and returned to the pub to find a couple of early drinkers at the bar and Peg writing up the lunch menu on the chalkboard.
“Sole with lemon sauce,” I said. “Sounds lovely.”
“Fred’s none too happy about—having to pull out his second-string cutlery for prep. You look as if you need a cup of tea,” she said.
“God, yes, I’m gasping.” I hadn’t forgotten about Minsmere, but it comforted me to think that Basil could handle it. I felt almost reluctant to leave the village. But I would be on my way after a quick cuppa.
Peg brought me a pot of tea and a massive fruit scone and butter. “Ooh, lovely,” I said and got to work. When she hesitated at the table, I said, “Sit, talk with me.”
She sat. “No, it’s only…” I could see the high color on her cheeks. “How are you?” she asked, in that sickroom voice people use.
“I’m fine, really.” And for the first time in a week and a day, I meant it. But Peg must’ve noticed the state of me during the past week—everyone else had. “I’m better, much better.”
“That’s a relief,” she said. “It’s only that you’ve been under such stress lately. But today I can see—today you look happy again.”
Between the scone in my mouth and the tears in my eyes, I couldn’t say much for a moment. Finally, I added, “Michael will be back this evening.”
“Ah, that’s lovely,” Peg said.
“I tell you what—we’ll come in for dinner.”
“Brilliant—everything’s back to normal.”
“Peg?” Fred called out the door of the kitchen.
“Right, love, just there.” Off she went.
I polished off my scone and a second cup of tea before I rang Michael and Tess. Voicemail in both instances.
“She is harassing tenants and visitors to the estate,” I said on the DI’s message, “and I know that Lord Fotheringill will press charges as soon as he finds out.” I sighed. “She’s horrible, Tess. Can’t you do something?”
On to Minsmere and the coast.
—
Despite the general circumstances, I felt a lightness—almost ebullience—as I went on my way. I was free of the guilt that I had been dragging around with me for a week. I wasfree almost of the accompanying anger, too. I would spend midday on the coast and then return to my Pipit Cottage and Michael. We would have a celebration of sorts—a homecoming—dining out on Fred’s excellent food. Michael would pick out the wine. I wonder if the sole would be carried over to the dinner menu. Accompanied by local asparagus, of course. My tummy growled, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
And so I motored along in Vesta’s car and allowed my clear mind to motor along with speculation, supposition, and imagination. Some might think that a dangerous mix, but to me it meant discovering lines of thought that would otherwise remain hidden. Perhaps I was holding too fast to this business about kitten woman’s harassment. Shouldn’t I be thinking of Nick’s murderer instead? Terry and Sam’s dark secret—that they would do anything to secure a grant that would see them where they wanted to be, respected ornithologists carrying out research in a not-so-remote place. But weren’t the police taking care of them? It could already be finished—they may have confessed and be locked up. A tiny part of me wished I could’ve seen that.
I was not much past Stowmarket, somewhere near the village of Forward Green and barely three-quarters of an hour into my journey when I met the rain again. Also, my bladder called out. Two cups of tea before a road trip—I should’ve known better. The rain had returned with a vengeance, and the water streaming down the windows didn’t help my need for a loo. I pulled up at the Shepherd and the Dog pub, forced to park along the road as vehicles and two tourist coaches sat chockablock in the car park. “Right, here’s for it,” I said to my mackintosh, which had lain idle in the backseat all morning. I held it over my head and made a run for it, hanging it with the rest of the rain gear on pegs just inside the pub.
Business accomplished, I bought a packet of crisps so the barman wouldn’t look at me askance for using the facilities free of charge. I scanned both large rooms seeking an empty seat, but hordes of coach tourists sat hunkered over coffees waiting out the rain. I stood while I finished my snack, and, brushing crisp crumbs from my fingers,
I stepped out into the small covered entry. The rain had not let up, so it was time I donned my mackintosh properly. I pulled my arms through and felt a drag in one pocket that caused me to list to the right. Alfie’s treasures, which had been accumulating throughout these last few days.
When I stuck my hand in my pocket, I was met with a variety of shapes and textures—heavier bits at the bottom, with a wad of something soft. Unsure of what treasures Alfie had left me, I scooped up and drew out the entire mass—a folded beer mat from the Stoat and Hare, a large black button, two round stones, and something enormous, soft, and dark—the biggest spider I’d ever laid eyes on.
I squealed and flung it from my hand. It flopped to the ground, and the other objects scattered, landing in the gravel chippings of the car park. The spider lay still. Too still. My heart hammered in my chest as I stared at the thing, daring it to move.
It didn’t—not because it was dead, but because it wasn’t a spider. When that realization hit me, laughter bubbled up and I glanced round, embarrassed at my initial reaction. I peered at the reddish-brown mass lying at the corner of the stone slab. It looked like spun wool with bits of leaves and crumpled bits of paper tangled in it, almost like a nest.
Wool? Had Alfie picked up a stray skein of knitting wool from Three Bags Full? I bent over for a closer examination, the rain splashing in my face.
No, not wool. Not a spider. Hair.
Chapter 26
Rain overflowed the gutters of the pub roof and cascaded onto the chippings just beyond the objet d’arte at my feet. For that’s what it looked like, I decided—one of those mixed-media collages where everything from dolls’ heads and machine bolts to broken coffee cups and muffin tins gets glued together. Alfie, the artist, had been rummaging in the bins out back of The Hair Strand in the village, had added other found objects, and had put his bits and bobs together in my mackintosh pocket.
The pub door pushed open, hitting me in the bum as the tourists streamed out and trudged toward their coaches, several of them treading on the edges of Alfie’s creation. Citizen scientist from birth, I knew what I must do. I reached down, swept up the collage—trying not to think that I had a handful of someone’s hair—and stuffed it back into the pocket of my mack, adding the beer mat, button, black stones, and mossy twig that lay nearby. Tennyson would love this. She probably had a database listing of all Alfie’s treasures. I certainly couldn’t deny her the chance to add these items to her species study.
I hurried to the car, throwing off my mack and tossing it in the passenger seat, as my phone rang.
“All finished at Minsmere?” Michael asked as one of the coaches pulled out of the car park and rolled past me.
“Finished? I’m not there yet.” A quick look at my watch told me I was well past my scheduled arrival. Although I’d begun with buckets of time, the morning had quite escaped me. “I suppose I’m a bit late, but with Basil, you know, it hardly matters. And you?”
> “I’m in Cambridge, just had a talk with Miles.”
“Poor Miles,” I said, not really meaning it. “How did he take it?”
“Ah, he’s all right. He’s invited us to dinner at the weekend.”
My punishment, I suppose. “Are you leaving for the village now?”
“I’m taking one more meeting for him, but it’s here and it won’t take long. You’d best be on your way.”
“I told Peg we might have dinner at the Stoat and Hare this evening. A bit of a celebration—don’t you think?”
“You’ll wear your pink dress?”
He loved my flirty dress with the high hem and low back, but it had been seen far too often. I wondered if Dot had any other secrets hidden in the back of the dress shop.
“We’ll just see about that,” I said before we rang off. I hoped I had time for a bit of shopping later.
I heard rather than saw the other coach pull out as I remained parked on the side of the road—rain poured down the windshield obscuring my vision. I rang ahead to Basil, but as it turned out, he’d already started up with filming Rupert’s segments. “He said you wouldn’t mind.” The sentence floated in the air, and I knew Basil worried that I’d shoot it down. But I was done with that.
“Fantastic. We’ll watch the film when I arrive. And we’ll talk about a new feature on smart birds. I’ve got the first one in mind already. Cheers, bye.” I would give them all Alfie’s particulars and provide visuals—the collage in my pocket with its long auburn hair as a unifying element.
Whacking that length of hair off all at once had been a drastic change for someone. I’d done the same thing when I moved to Smeaton—my blond locks that had reached my elbows replaced with a chin-length blond bob. The new me.
In my mind, I saw the scene from a year ago. Rosy at The Hair Strand carefully braiding my long tresses before cutting them off, so that she could send them away to the charity that makes wigs for children who lose their hair to cancer treatment. Mine had been plenty long for that. Certainly that mass of auburn hair, was, too. Why wasn’t it braided and sent on its way to do good?
Every Trick in the Rook Page 22