“I know who did it.” The answer had been roiling in my stomach until it spewed out of its own accord. “It’s that fellow from dinner the other night. He as much as said he would poison birds, and now this. To show me.” I could see him, the earl with a beard like an untidy bird’s nest.
“Who is this, then?” the woman PC asked, notebook in hand.
Linus raised his eyebrows and smiled at me. “Gordon?” He turned to the PCs. “Ms. Lanchester is referring to a conversation with the Earl of Tarvin. His estate is north and east of here—near Diss.”
“Are you saying he would come all this way to poison birds on Fotheringill land? Wouldn’t he have enough to deal with on his own?”
I glared at the PC. “He shouldn’t be doing it anywhere.”
The PCs peeled back the tarp and began taking notes. As they went about it, Linus laid a hand on my arm. “This was a terrible thing for you to find.”
“It happens too often, I’m afraid—and these events don’t get the attention they deserve. I’m sorry I accused your friend.”
Shaking his head, Linus said, “No, you are upset and rightly so. But you don’t know Gordon as I do. Although he may bluster, he’d be the last person to do something like this.”
We heard a vehicle rattling up the lane. I could identify it before it came into view by the squeaking of its suspension—Dad’s old green Land Rover, a sight well known to the audience of his television program. It stopped in a gap in the hedge, and the PCs paused in their work to watch the two men climb out. Dad, dressed in safari-style khakis, crammed his shapeless, wide-brimmed hat on his head as he started toward us.
“That’s Rupert Lanchester,” the female PC said, her voice hushed with awe.
Yes, there he was, the Indiana Jones of ornithology. He gave me a peck on the cheek as he walked toward the scene to begin his examination.
Michael hung back, and I met him halfway. His shaggy black hair stuck out in odd directions, his clothes rumpled, as if he’d slept in them several nights, and he needed a shave. He looked lovely.
“I brought you a Jaffa Cake,” he said, the corner of his mouth pulled up in that half grin of his.
“Where is it?” I stuck my hand in one of his pockets.
“Really?” He laughed and produced a wrapper with the last biscuit in it.
“I’ve been standing here all morning,” I said, “when I should’ve been at Cider Day. And I’m missing Nuala’s cheese-and-bacon scones.” I tugged at the package, but Michael tugged back, drawing me closer. His blue eyes sparked, and as hungry as I was, at that moment I gladly would have given up the Jaffa Cake for a couple of minutes behind the Rover.
“Jools?” Dad called.
“Yes?”
Michael let go of the wrapper, but grabbed my wrist. “You didn’t touch them, did you?” he asked. “Rupert said the poison can be absorbed through the skin.”
I shook my head. “No, I kept clear.”
“Ms. Lanchester, what time did you arrive at this spot?” the female PC asked.
As I told my story once more, I ate the biscuit—the sweetness of the orange filling making my jaws ache.
“The birds have probably been here since yesterday,” Dad said.
“I’ll speak to my estate agent,” Linus said. “His lodge is just back there in that wood. He may have seen something.”
“We’ll need to examine them,” Dad said, “but I can tell you now it’s likely to be mevinphos—an organophosphate pesticide. Others have used it for just such a deplorable purpose. Look, I’ve got gloves in the Rover and a canvas bag. I’ll collect the birds and take them in to the RSPB.”
“The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds works against poisoning predators,” I said to the PCs, lapsing into my former post as Rupert’s assistant, a position Michael now held. “Rupert acts as a voluntary spokesman for them.”
“I’ll fetch your gear,” Michael said.
“And I’d best go on,” I said. “See about the cider. You’ll give me a ring, Dad?”
We said our goodbyes, and I walked as far as the Rover with Michael.
“Can’t you get away this evening?” he asked. He took my hand, which was sticky with chocolate and orange. He didn’t seem to mind. “Come to my flat.”
I glanced back at the group congregated near the birds. “I can’t. We’ll have a debriefing, I’m sure,” I said. “This and Cider Day—there’ll be too much to go over with Linus. But tomorrow”—I squeezed his hand—“when I lock up for the day. I’ll be straight over. And, you know, Monday…”
“…is your day off.”
Chapter 9
As I had missed most of Cider Day, I made sure to be the last to leave the orchard, collecting rubbish, washing screens from the press. I arrived back at the Hall weary and with bits of apple pulp stuck in my hair. Still, I was clean and polished and in the library with a glass of sherry before anyone else came down.
“We had a hundred people at the orchard,” I said to the men once they’d arrived and had their drinks in hand. I was unable to hide the triumph in my voice. “That’s twenty-five more than we anticipated.”
“It’s a great deal of work and little to show for the estate’s accounts,” Addleton said.
I countered the sourpuss with sweetness and light. “At least half the people were from off the estate. We give them a lovely day, and they’ll return to spend money. Nothing ventured,” I said, and smiled at the agent.
Freddy put his hand on the mantel. “Well, I for one had a fine morning. And you, Cecil, looked as if you enjoyed yourself.”
Cecil went red. “Leave it, Freddy.”
My eyes flickered to Freddy. “It was good of you to help out, Cecil,” I said. “Were you working with Adam in the cider house?”
“I’d say Cecil was working Louisa,” Freddy answered with a grin.
“I said leave it.” Cecil slammed his empty whisky glass on the tray.
Linus jumped in. “Cider Day was a fine achievement, Julia,” he said, “but only one of many. Although I’m sorry it began in such a way for you.”
—
During dinner, conversation turned to dead sparrow hawks. Linus asked the men if they’d seen anything suspicious. Hadn’t Cecil been out on the estate yesterday? Cecil took exception to the question. “Am I to keep a diary of my every movement?” he replied to his father, who only smiled in reply. I, on the other hand, would’ve given Cecil a sharp rap on the knuckles if I could’ve reached him.
“Mr. Addleton, it happened quite near your lodge,” I said. “You might’ve seen someone in the area. A rambler or someone who parked in the lane and got out. Anyone?”
Addleton stared at me for a moment. I stared back. He may think little of my position as tourism manager, but I wouldn’t be intimidated by him.
“I saw no one,” he said at last. “I spent the afternoon on the northeast side of the estate, talking to those organic farmers.”
I didn’t like the way he looked at me—as if I had asked another question entirely—although I had no idea what that would’ve been. It occurred to me that the person with the means to poison the birds was here at the table—the agent, now living in the former gamekeeper’s lodge.
Freddy asked what a sparrow hawk looked like. With Linus’s assistance, I found a copy of British Birds with Their Nests and Eggs on a shelf in the library and showed him a color illustration, after which Freddy murmured, “Ah yes, I’ve seen one of those.” He looked up to see our surprised expressions. “Not dead, of course,” he added.
We lapsed into silence. I had been determined to remain cheery through the evening—especially knowing I wouldn’t have to put up with these dinner companions the following night—but my good spirits were tested. Also, I was a bit apprehensive, knowing I would need to tell Linus I’d be absent the next evening—it wouldn’t do to have him hear it from Mrs. Bugg. I was, after all, his guest at the Hall and must act accordingly.
Pudding stood out as the highlight
of the evening—a damson tart, which Thorne served with custard sauce. I ate mine too quickly, excused myself from coffee, and had made it halfway up the stairs before guilt dragged me back.
“Oh, Linus,” I said. He had followed me and stood at the bottom step, reluctant as I was, no doubt, to face the dreary company waiting for him in the library. “I’ll be away tomorrow. I’ll let Mrs. Bugg know, of course, but I didn’t want you to worry when I wasn’t at dinner.”
I tried without success to ignore the look of disappointment on his face. He didn’t bother to ask where I’d be. “Yes, of course. And I’ll be away Monday and back on Tuesday—I’ve asked Cecil to go with me to Gordon’s gathering. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
I was free.
—
The next morning, I took my overnight case out the side door to keep from running into Linus. I did avoid him, but unfortunately ran into Cecil just as I closed the boot of my car.
“Julia, do you have a moment? Can we talk about the Christmas Market—I need a few details about the layout of the stalls on the green. Just curious—I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”
Oh, I’d say you’ll be dreaming of nothing else. “Well, I am off to open the TIC,” I said, checking the time on my phone in an officious manner. “Sundays, you know—we often get a steady stream of visitors.” I weighed my options. “I tell you what, why don’t you come to the market meeting we have Tuesday evening at the church hall? You’ll hear all about it there.” I would rather he didn’t attend, but if the choice lay between Cecil Tuesday evening in a crowd of people and Cecil now, one-on-one, there was no contest.
He appeared satisfied and went off to annoy someone else, and I drove into the village. I worked steadily through the afternoon. At five o’clock, I locked up the TIC, got in my little Fiat 500, and sped off to Haverhill and Michael’s arms.
Chapter 10
Michael’s flat sat above an estate agent’s office on a road of shops and offices just off the market square in the town. Michael had left his family’s PR agency and moved from Cambridge the year before, and, unsure just how he’d make his way in the world, he’d looked for economy. He called it his garret—no larger than my Pipit Cottage, but at least it was habitable, as my cottage currently was not.
I pulled up and parked across the road. When I looked up to his window, I saw him peeking out, phone to his ear. He smiled, and I waved. I took a breath and told myself that I would not complain about living at the Hall. I would not spoil our brief time together with stories of how terrible my life of luxury was. As miserable as living at the Hall had become, I wanted us to enjoy ourselves, and so I would not speak a word about the outside world.
Still on the phone when he answered the door, Michael held up a finger—a signal, I suppose, to say he’d be right with me, as if I were there to buy a loaf of bread. I looked for a counter to wait behind.
“No, not tomorrow—I’ve no time at all tomorrow,” he said, giving me a wink. That’s better. My day off. “Can’t Tuesday,” he continued. “Wednesday at ten. Lunch? Right. Cheers. Bye.”
He tossed the phone on the sofa and took me in his arms. “There now,” he said, followed by a respectable hello kiss. “How’s life at Hoggin Hall?”
My resolution crumbled. “Dreadful,” I said.
“Dreadful?” He frowned. “How is that?”
I dropped my bag on the floor. “I can’t turn round without Cecil sneering at me and demanding to know my every move at the TIC. I’ve no time off. The new estate agent doesn’t say anything, just stares at me across the dinner table with his arms crossed, daring me to make a mistake. And,” I said, gathering steam, “if I have to hear one more story about the cost of antique Italian marble from Freddy Peacock, I think I’ll go mad.”
Michael’s eyes cooled to a glacier blue. “You should’ve moved in here with me,” he said.
“You didn’t ask me,” I replied crossly. My indignation bloomed. It’s true—he hadn’t. When toxic mold turfed me out of my cottage, everyone else had offered me space, and Michael had never said anything.
“Didn’t ask?” His voice threatened to break, it shot so high. “I didn’t get the chance to ask. You never took a breath between ‘I have to move out of my cottage’ and ‘I’m moving into Hoggin Hall, it really is the best thing for me, I’ll be right on hand for everything, I’m so lucky that Linus offered, because it’s just what I wanted. It’s perfect.’ That’s what you said. ‘Perfect.’ Put me in my place, didn’t you?”
“Oh…” Those words did sound familiar. In truth, I’m not sure what I would’ve said if he had offered. The thought of living together, even temporarily, terrified me—while at the same time delighted and excited me. I couldn’t sort out which emotion held sway. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated,” I said in a small voice.
His eyes fired up to a hot blue flame. He took hold of my arms. “Move in with me,” he said, giving me a shake as if to wake me up. He was so earnest, my indignation flew away and I giggled.
“I mean it,” he said. “Move in with me now, today—don’t go back. We’ll stop by in a day or two and get your things. I want you here—I want us together.”
I pressed myself against him and kissed him long, long and hard until I thought we were about to be off on another activity, but I pulled back first. “That’s so lovely,” I whispered. “But I can’t.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Julia, you’re driving me crazy here.” But I knew he meant it in a good way.
“It’s just that as annoying as it is,” I said, “it really is better for me to be at the Hall right now—at least until after the Christmas Market—and maybe the Boxing Day Bird Count. And you—look how often you’re away with Dad.” I drew my finger down his jawline. “But thanks for asking.”
Michael kissed the tip of my nose. “Right, stolen moments it will have to remain. But the offer stands—you remember that.”
I nodded. “I will remember.”
We lost ourselves in each other’s eyes for a moment. “It’s too early to go for a meal,” Michael said.
“Too early,” I repeated, stepping out of my shoes.
“But if you’re hungry, I’ve cheese and olives in the fridge.”
“Not hungry,” I replied, stripping off my cardigan. Nuala had dropped by the TIC with cheese-and-bacon scones about four o’clock.
“Well, then,” he said.
—
Later, I pulled on my flirty pink dress and didn’t once tug at the hem or regret how low the back dipped. We ate at our favorite place, a little French bistro—uncharacteristic for Haverhill, full of Wimpy’s and Chinese takeaways—and returned to the garret. I didn’t set foot out the door again until the next afternoon.
That’s when we took a brief foray into Cambridge and had tea with Rupert and Beryl. The two men talked business, but Beryl and I went over details of my sister’s fourth pregnancy, at long last reaching its terminus: she was due in a week’s time. I’d talked with my sister the day before to catch up with the latest baby news. The doctor said that as Bianca had recently had her fortieth birthday, if the baby didn’t pop out of its own accord, there would be hell to pay. No, really—they’d induce.
“I’m going down on Wednesday, and I’ll stay for the duration,” Beryl said. “Won’t you be able to go for a day or two after the baby arrives?” Beryl had married our dad almost a year ago, not long after our mum died, and technically she was Bianca’s and my stepmother, but we had known her our whole lives, because she had been our mum’s best friend. I had had some initial difficulty with their marriage but had got over it. Beryl had only an unmarried son, and had thrown herself into the role of grandmother to Bee’s children with such relish it was breathtaking.
“I’ll try to get there as soon as I can, but it’s St. Ives, not Colchester.” Bee, her husband, Paul, and family lived in Cornwall, also known as the end of the earth.
Michael and Dad emerged from his study as I was setting out a plate of b
iscuits. “Jools, is there anyone on the Fotheringill estate who would think it a good idea to kill sparrow hawks—or any predator bird, for that matter?”
I shook my head. “It isn’t as if someone thinks he’s defending the game birds—there’s no shooting on the estate. Linus says his father didn’t shoot, and so he doesn’t, either. No gamekeeper. I doubt if any of the farmers would do it—more predator birds means fewer rabbits.”
“Anyone talking about songbirds?” Dad asked.
“Songbirds—not that I know of.” Although studies had shown that predator birds did not decrease the songbird population, they were the first to be blamed.
“And the new agent?”
“He mostly does accounts, rents—the business side of the estate. What would he care about sparrow hawks?”
Chapter 11
I stayed at Michael’s far too late Monday evening, but it had been such a lovely escape. We lay snuggled under his covers, and when I turned my head to glance at the time—two o’clock in the morning—he stroked my thigh in an absentminded fashion. It took all my strength to resist.
“Health and safety,” I said as much to myself as to him. “First thing in the morning—I must be ready for them. And you—aren’t you off early for a filming?”
“Green woodpeckers,” he replied. “At the edge of an ancient copse near Ramsey they’ve a massive number of wood ant colonies and the woodpeckers have been seen feasting. I’ve got to be up in”—he checked the time—“a couple of hours. But it shouldn’t take long. I’ll be free by midmorning.”
I smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So you texted the woodpeckers your filming schedule, did you, so they’d know when to show up?” Michael gave me a squeeze. “Be sure to switch your phone off—otherwise, just as you’re about to hit the ‘record’ button on the camera, your phone will ring, and off will go the birds.”
“Will do.”
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