Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  “Cecil,” I said, walking over just as he retreated with his phone, “would you like a lift back to the Hall? Only, I noticed you didn’t drive this evening.”

  Cecil’s eyes jumped to the window and back as if he saw what I had seen earlier when Louisa dropped him off. “I don’t want to put you out,” he said. “I was about to ring for a cab.”

  “It’s no trouble—silly of you to call a taxi out from Sudbury when we’re going to the same place. I’ll just need to finish up here—won’t take long.”

  I set to cleaning the refreshments table, and Willow came over to separate rubbish from recyclables. She looked over her shoulder at Cecil across the room. “He’s awfully good-looking, isn’t he?” Willow whispered. “And taller than I expected. Because of his Lordship, you know.”

  “It’s on his mother’s side,” I said.

  When Willow noticed Cecil glancing at her chart on the easel, she left off with me to offer him a detailed explanation of her process.

  “Now, you’ll see what I mean if you look at…oh, I’ve lost track,” she said, her finger running up and down the rows. “Do you see ‘Dabs of Delight’ somewhere? They do mustards.”

  Cecil stepped away and leaned forward again, but I could tell he wasn’t looking at the chart at all, only pretending to. Willow watched for a moment, her head at a slight tilt before diving in.

  “I’ve assigned them colors according to the type of business—food is orange, Christmas ornaments are pink, that sort of thing,” she said. “And I’ve a little drawing of each product. You see here”—she tapped a finger on one bit of paper—“a ring for jewelry. Also, I’ve grouped them to make it easier for shoppers to find what they need.”

  Willow watched Cecil as his eyes began searching her chart.

  “Here!” he exclaimed, pointing. “A pot of mustard next to the sausage rolls.”

  “Well done—you’ve found them,” Willow said, and I half expected her to offer Cecil a gold star.

  Cecil loaded Willow’s paraphernalia into the back of her Ford Fiesta as I locked up and took several gulps of cold air. There, that felt better. “All ready,” I said. “Thanks for your help, Willow.”

  “It was entirely my pleasure, Julia. We’ll have a smashing market, I’m totally convinced.” She turned to Cecil, and even in the dim light of the car park, I thought she blushed. “Thanks awfully for your assistance, Mr. Fotheringill. Good night.”

  Cecil folded himself up to get into my little Fiat, his knees ending almost under his chin and pressed against the dashboard. “You can push the seat back,” I said. “It’s all right.”

  He fiddled with the controls and slid back two inches.

  The drive to the Hall took no time at all, but the awkward silence, with Cecil looking out the window into the black night, made even a short drive too long. It was crowded in the car, too, what with the two of us and the topic of Freddy’s death.

  “Do you know Freddy’s family?” I asked. “They’ve been told, haven’t they?”

  “I don’t believe he has any family.”

  “Thorne knew his father.”

  “Really?” Cecil said, sounding at least mildly interested. “Freddy never said.”

  “It was a long time ago, apparently. When Freddy was quite young.” This was worse than being at dinner with him—no one else around to fill in the vast empty spaces in the conversation. “So you’ve returned to the estate for good?” I asked. “Moved home?”

  Cecil blanched at the question. I thought he might tell me to keep my nose out of what didn’t concern me.

  “It’s time I learn about the interests of the estate,” he said. “How it’s run, how Father has managed all these years. It will be up to me to carry on.”

  “I suppose Mr. Addleton will take on a fair amount of work?”

  “A qualified estate agent is all well and good, but ultimately the responsibility for the success of an estate lies on its owners.”

  That sounded quite good, actually—although a wee bit textbookish. Cecil fiddled with his seatbelt and adjusted the setting on his air vent, his hands restless in his lap. How odd, I thought as we motored up the drive to the Hall. In the few days we’d known each other, I’d mostly felt on my back foot when around Cecil—always defensive. Now the more uncomfortable Cecil appeared, the more at ease I became.

  We were greeted by Thorne. I set my bag on the floor and took my coat off as Linus appeared from the library. He looked relieved, and for a moment I thought he might throw his arms round the both of us. Poor man—had he dined with Addleton alone? That must’ve been a jolly meal.

  “Well, now, successful meeting?” he asked.

  Thorne took our coats, and I was about to give an accounting when Cecil said, “It’s quite a large event, but Julia appears to be well organized.”

  I couldn’t have heard that right—a compliment? “Thanks.”

  “I’d like to drop in the TIC tomorrow for an update on other projects you have in store.”

  Right, there’s the meddling Cecil I’ve come to know in such a short time. “Of course—any time.” I picked my bag up off the floor, hoping I had enough strength to drag it and myself to my room. “Well, it’s off to bed with me. Good night.”

  I took all of two minutes in the bathroom before I stripped, got under the covers, and—the caffeine having drained from my body and taking with it my last ounce of consciousness—fell dead asleep.

  Chapter 18

  My God, that’s a fine cup of tea.

  I sat up in bed the next morning with Sheila perched on a chair nearby as we went over what we didn’t know about Freddy’s death and the police involvement.

  “What Freddy’s sparrow-hawk print has to do with anything, I don’t know,” I said after explaining about DS Natty Glossop’s visit.

  Sheila seemed preoccupied, and her still-puffy eyes had acquired dark circles. She held a tea towel in her hands that she had twisted into a rope. “Will they tell us what they think—the police?”

  “I doubt it. Was Freddy in a fight?” I wondered aloud. “You didn’t see, but he had a red mark on his face.”

  Sheila stood up. “Well, mustn’t neglect the breakfast dishes. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  I stayed in bed a few minutes longer with my tea, but at last got myself in the shower and felt like a human being again by the time I made it downstairs. Before going to my breakfast in the kitchen, I went down the back stairs to the laundry to start a round of wash.

  Sunlight streamed in from the high windows that were ground level outdoors. As the water ran into the washer, I walked up the steps, opened the door, and stood for a moment at the same corner where I had seen Cecil and Louisa in deep conversation. I looked out into the formal garden—the yew hedge looked as if it had icing sugar sifted on it, and it shimmered in the morning light.

  I went back down to the laundry, and as I scrubbed a tiny stain on one of my white blouses, I thought about the extra space belowstairs at the Hall. These rooms could be quite cheerful if done up. I had heard of big houses converting a floor to holiday flats available for weekends and the like—and some even offered meals. It had crossed my mind to wonder what Linus would say to such an arrangement. Perhaps we could organize one of those murder-mystery weekends?

  No, that’s probably not such a good idea at the moment. I dropped my blouse in the washer and went off to my breakfast.

  “I’ll have a word with her, why don’t I?” Sheila asked as I walked in. She and her son, Adam, who was dressed for work at the library, stood at the sink.

  “Leave it, Mum, will you? I can sort this out.”

  “Good morning,” I said, embarrassed I had interrupted but unable to back out without being seen.

  Adam turned to me, giving me a good view of the bruise on his right cheek—a mottled purple and blue.

  “Oh my.”

  His hand went up to the spot, touching his face lightly. He smiled. “Yeah, a right looker, aren’t I? Had a disagreement with a
tree limb the other day.”

  “Sit down, Julia,” Sheila said. “You need a proper breakfast this morning.” I obeyed as she slipped an egg into simmering water and dropped bread into the toaster. “I was thinking I’d ring Louisa and ask her over for tea this afternoon.”

  The part of Adam’s face that wasn’t black and blue reddened. “And what good will that do?” he asked, his voice raised.

  “Adam,” Thorne said quietly from the kitchen door. “It’s a mother’s prerogative to interfere.”

  Adam looked from the butler to his mother and sighed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Mum.” He turned to Thorne. “I found a copy of Mabey’s guide for you. I’ve got it in the car—let me fetch it.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Thorne said, putting a hand on Adam’s shoulder. The two men walked out.

  Sheila served my egg and toast and set down fresh cups of tea for us, settling in a chair across from me. She stared at her tea, occasionally glancing to the door the men had left through.

  “Is Adam upset about something?”

  A small smile, a little laugh, a shrug of the shoulders—Sheila combined them all in what looked to me like a poor attempt at nonchalance. “He’s a thirty-one-year-old man whose mother still likes to put her nose in his business. I suppose it’s enough to set anyone on edge.”

  —

  Thorne and I found a nest in the brambles on our walk that morning, made from dried grass and moss, abandoned now in autumn. I got out my Observer’s Book, and we decided it had been a warbler’s nest. We let it be—an old nest could be cozy shelter for a little dormouse in the winter.

  When Thorne returned to the Hall, I made for my footpath to the village, looking back to see Cecil and Adam in close conversation at the corner of the Hall. Neither man looked happy, and I could see Cecil’s fists clenched at his sides. I hesitated, unsure of my power here. Could I—should I—intervene? Before I needed to make the decision, I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. Cecil and Adam heard, too, and broke apart as Addleton came up the path from his lodge. I continued into the village.

  —

  The first visitors in the door that morning were part of a tour for the families of American airmen stationed in Britain during the Second World War; they were staying at a hotel in Bury Saint Edmunds. As Vesta hurriedly promoted the sights on the estate, I came out from the back to greet them.

  “I hope you’ll be able to join us here in Smeaton on Friday,” I said. “We’re having a…” What are we having, Julia? Come up with something good—don’t let them walk out. “A pub quiz night at the Royal Oak with a special theme of airfields in East Anglia. Come before the quiz and have an authentic pub meal—fish and chips, sausage and mash, what have you. Everyone’s excited about it—you’ll meet Lord Fotheringill himself.”

  Vesta’s eyebrows shot up. I smiled at her and gave an infinitesimal shrug. It was the first thing that had popped into my head, and it came straight out of my mouth before I could stop it. And actually, I thought it sounded quite good.

  So did the Americans, apparently. They thought it a fine alternative to attending the concert scheduled for the group that evening—a Mahler symphony. I managed to get their hotel and tour director’s name out of them by pretending to know all along, and told them they’d have the details by evening.

  The bell above the door jingled as they left. The moment we were alone, I said, “I can’t believe we didn’t know about this.” I headed straight back to the phone with the tour director’s card in my hand. “We could’ve arranged special tours or put on a reception for them.” East Anglia had been dotted with airfields during the war, and Suffolk had had its fair share.

  “But, Julia, it’s a bit last minute.”

  “The American trade, Vesta—we can’t pass up the opportunity.” I knew she had to see the logic in it. So far, our tourists had been British with a smattering from the continent. Start pulling in the Americans and we’d hit a gold mine.

  I rang the tour director—a young woman, by the sound of her. Her group consisted of the sons and daughters of American airmen, their children, and a good few grandchildren—about fifty of them in total. She seemed happy to appease the half of her group who weren’t all that keen on Mahler. We set the time, and I asked her for a count, telling her we would charge only two pounds a head, but, of course, food and drink were the responsibility of each person. Next, I rang Linus. I had once promised I would never again start a project without first consulting him, and I meant to make good on that promise, believing the gap of only a few minutes not worth counting. The call went straight to his voicemail.

  “Linus,” I said to the recording, “Julia here. I’ve exciting news to tell you. I’ll ring back later.”

  “Now for the pub,” I said, searching for the number.

  “Shouldn’t you wait until you’ve talked with his Lordship?” Vesta asked.

  “There isn’t a moment to lose making arrangements—it’s day after tomorrow. I’ll talk with Linus, I will—but really, how could he say no?”

  “Royal Oak,” Hutch barked. Did the man begin his day annoyed, or did it only come upon him when the phone rang?

  “Hutch, Julia Lanchester here. I’ve got the most fantastic opportunity for you.” I paced up and down in front of the counter as I explained the plan.

  “On a Friday?” he asked, his voice a combination of irritability and incredulity.

  “Yes, Friday—it’s the only possible time.” Pub quizzes were traditionally held on a slow night—usually Tuesdays—but we couldn’t wait that long; the Americans would be gone.

  “I told you the other evening I’m shorthanded—how am I to manage this? Are you going to come along and pull pints?”

  “We’ll all do our bit. Even his Lordship will help—wouldn’t you like to see him in your pub on a regular basis? And I’ll get Louisa back for you, I promise. At least for that evening. You won’t have any extra work or expense, but you’ll have a pub full of customers. Americans, Hutch.”

  His grumbling subsided. “I’ll tell the cook, but all the other arrangements are yours.”

  Another few phone calls promising the moon, and I collapsed in a chair. “Done and dusted.”

  “How about this?” Vesta asked, holding up a flier she had that moment printed out. “Smeaton-under-Lyme Pub Quiz Night for American Airmen and Families—Everyone Welcome.” Details—as she had heard me arranging them—appeared below, with the U.S. and British flags in each corner and a drawing of a vintage plane above.

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “I’ll put it up out front. Will you take a few to the shops after lunch?” I took her copy to the window, pressed the paper against the glass, and taped it down. A person on the pavement blocked my light, and when I looked through the glass, I saw Geoffrey Addleton looking back at me.

  Chapter 19

  “Mr. Addleton, come in,” I said, opening the door.

  “Ms. Lanchester,” he said, removing his flat cap and running his fingers through his wavy hair. He nodded first to me and then to Vesta. “Ms. Widdersham.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Addleton,” Vesta said. “I’m just putting the kettle on.”

  “What is this event?” He pointed at the poster.

  I explained as if I’d known about it for ages. “We decided to tag along, knowing we could get a fair few comers. It’s another period of our history to share with the public.”

  “Was there an airfield here on the estate?”

  I searched my brain for an answer. “Well, I believe officers were billeted at the Hall for a time during the war.” Must look into that.

  “And Lord Fotheringill has approved?”

  My face went hot, but I wouldn’t back down. I stuck my nose in the air. “His Lordship understands how important raising visitor numbers is to the well-being of the estate—why else would he establish the tourist center?”

  “Was it you who insisted the Hall be open yesterday afternoon—after what happened?”

  I flinch
ed at this unexpected jab. “Are you saying I’m treating Freddy Peacock’s death lightly? That I’m not fully aware that down the corridor from me in the Hall a terrible incident occurred? That I don’t see his face when I close my eyes?” My voice rose, trembling. “You weren’t there—you didn’t see him lying facedown with the smoke all round him. You didn’t drag him into the corridor and pound on his chest in hopes that he would breathe again.” I gasped for breath, shocked as the emotions I’d ignored rose so quickly to the surface. “Closing the house and ceasing all events wouldn’t help Freddy—but it would certainly harm the estate.”

  “The afternoon opening went on without any problem, Mr. Addleton,” Vesta cut in, allowing me a moment to clear my throat and regain control. “Akash said the visitors particularly appreciated the lecture in the grand dining room and the free cake in the café.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Lanchester,” Addleton said. “It must’ve been quite upsetting for you.”

  I nodded, accepting his apology. “You’ve spoken to the police, I suppose.”

  “I have.” He glanced round the TIC as if looking for a fresh target. “I’ve come to you for an up-to-date map of the estate. The maps his Lordship has on hand at the Hall are all thirty years or more old. We must commission a new survey—I know farms have changed hands, and there’ve been changes to the village, too. In the meantime, you must have something useful.”

  He walked over to a map we’d pinned up on the wall. Against a green background, iconic elements of the estate were drawn in simple, almost cartoonish, style. Hoggin Hall rose as a great brick structure with its turrets resembling something like a fairy-tale castle, the ruins of the abbey showed the form of an abbot fleeing Henry the VIII’s forces, and along the border, menacing Vikings readied to invade. At least all the roads were correct.

  “Could I have one of these, do you think—and you can walk me through what else is here?”

  “We have an Ordnance Survey—wouldn’t you rather have one of those?” OS maps were detailed in the extreme—lots of tiny print and numbers—something that I thought would suit him.