I raised my hands, fingers spread like a surgeon about to be gloved. “I’m unable to write at the moment. Look”—with my nose I pointed to paper and pen inches from him—“can you write them down yourself? Just print them clearly, and I’ll take it from there. Either that or wait until tomorrow.”
I saw him eye the pen as if it were an adder about to strike, and too late I remembered his difficulties with writing. I felt lower than a worm. “I mean, listen…”
Willow had walked out to the front. “You know, Mr. Fotheringill,” she said in a conversational tone, “I often find it easier to use joined-up writing—cursive—when I’m trying to get my thoughts down or spell someone’s name correctly. There’s something about that continuous flow”—she moved one pasty hand in the air as if she were directing a symphony—“of pen to paper that helps me along.”
Cecil looked down at her and gave me a quick glance. Willow and I turned our attention to the Hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cecil pick up the pen, hold the paper down, and begin writing. Willow’s glance darted repeatedly to Cecil as she dipped and redipped the same strip of paper.
It seemed to take forever, but I thought it better to look busy than to stand and wait for him to finish. The paste on my arms had begun to dry, drawing up my skin. I applied a few more strips of newspaper, finding it more and more difficult to get the paper to adhere to the Hall, although it stuck quite well to me. At last, Cecil exhaled and said, “There you are, Julia.”
“Thank you, Cecil,” I said, contrite and sticky. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”
Cecil nodded. “And thank you, Ms. Wynn-Finch, for that suggestion.”
“Oh please, it’s Willow.” Her voice had jumped an octave.
“Yes, well, Willow,” he said, hands behind his back. “And you must call me Cecil.”
Willow puffed up, her whole face a remarkable shade of fuchsia. She looked like a balloon about to burst.
“Cecil,” I said, “would you like a cup of tea?”
“Perhaps not today.” Cecil glanced at our coated hands. Willow giggled, and he smiled. With surprise, I thought what a good-looking man he was.
My phone rang. I had positioned it on the counter so that I could see it easily, yet it would escape its own layer of paste. Now I leaned over, my heart skipping a beat in hopes that it might be Michael.
“Ah!” I shouted, waving encrusted arms in the air. “It’s Beryl—about my sister. It’s the baby! Quick, please, Cecil, answer it for me.” He had the only clean hands in the place. He slid his finger across the screen.
“Beryl—what’s the news? How is Bee? What about baby?” I shouted at the phone. Cecil’s finger hovered over “speaker,” and he raised his eyebrows at me. I nodded, and the weary delight in Beryl’s voice was heard by us all.
“Everyone is doing fine,” she said. “You have a beautiful new niece.”
“It’s a girl!” I said to Willow and Cecil, as if they hadn’t heard. “When, Beryl? What’s her name?”
“Two hours ago. We barely made it to the hospital—she came as quick as anything once she’d finally made her mind up. Bianca’s insisting they go home this evening.”
“Are you with Bee? Can I speak to her?” I heard a scuffling. “Bee—are you there? How did it go? How do you feel? Who does the baby look like?”
“Fine, tired. She’s a bit of Emmet about her,” Bianca said. “That nose.” Ah, I thought, cute and turned up at the tip. Like Mum’s. “Like yours. Are you coming down, Julia?”
“Of course I am—immediately. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. Bee, what’s her name?”
“I’m knackered, Jools. We’ll see you soon.”
—
“Congratulations to your sister,” Cecil said before he left.
“Thanks,” I said, beaming. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Willow and I scraped flour paste off our hands and arms, washed, and tidied as much as possible while I told her tales of my nieces and nephew. I ached to see them all again—and Bee and her husband, Paul, and Beryl and Dad. I didn’t forget, of course, that Michael was in Cornwall as well.
Hoggin Hall had glued itself to the table, and so we left it in situ to reign over the back room—at least until it dried completely, after which Willow promised to take it away before painting it. I said she’d never be able to lift it on her own, and she told me that Cecil had offered to move it for her. I wiggled my eyebrows at Willow; she blushed and muttered, “Oh, gosh.”
“Willow,” I said as we readied to lock up, “how did you know it would help Cecil—writing instead of printing?” I felt uneasy even asking the question, as it wasn’t my place to point out Cecil’s learning disability.
“I know it helps me—it keeps those pesky letters from dancing about the page,” she said. “Cecil has dyslexia.”
“I didn’t tell you that,” I said, hoping I hadn’t let it slip. “How do you know?”
“I could tell the night of the market vendors meeting—the way he couldn’t make out the names on the chart. I know, because I have it, too.”
“You’re…but you’re going to be a teacher.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling to show the gap in her front teeth. “Amazing, isn’t it? I don’t have nearly the problems that some people do, but even so, it took me a good few years to realize I could be a teacher. I don’t want school to be frightening for children. Cecil must’ve had a terrible time—I can see the struggle in his eyes.” She could see more in him than I could, I admitted with shame.
“It’s passed down in families, you know,” she continued as we walked up the pavement toward her aunt Lottie’s wool shop. “Usually father to son, but that’s not always the case—look at me. I’m the only one in my family. But I had a wonderful teacher when I was still in primary school—she truly saved me. And now, that’s what I want to do for others.”
Chapter 37
I went straight to the kitchen when I arrived at the Hall, hoping to share my good news with Sheila Bugg. No Sheila, but I did find a wedge of chocolate cake Nuala had left me. Although my spirits had risen, my appetite had not completely followed suit, but I couldn’t leave it on the table—how ungrateful would that look? I made a cup of tea and took the cake and my mug to my room.
Upstairs, I changed and packed; it took me no time. I rang Vesta with Bianca’s news and to arrange my days away.
“This is wonderful—just what you need,” Vesta said.
Before I went down for drinks, I noticed that the cake sat where I’d left it on the windowsill in my alcove. I’d eat it later, before bed.
“Good evening,” I said to the group in the library. Isabel sat by the fire looking at a magazine—she glanced up at me under those heavy lids of hers. Addleton, Cecil, and Linus hovered over a map unrolled on a large table. I took my glass of sherry from the drinks table, continued straight to Linus, and told him about my new niece.
Addleton offered stiff congratulations and Linus said, “A girl. What did they name her?”
“Well, I didn’t actually…”
“Cecil was a beautiful baby,” Isabel said, becoming all misty eyed. “Do you remember that, Linus? He was an angel.”
Linus smiled at Cecil. “I remember you had quite a set of lungs on you. Now, Julia, of course you must go to your sister. I’ll talk with Vesta about increasing her hours, shall I?”
“Sorted,” I said. “She’s on the schedule, and Willow offered to help, too. She’ll be in every afternoon the rest of the week.” I cut my eyes at Cecil and imagined I saw his interest level rise a few degrees. “Cecil,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’d have time to help at the TIC? I know Vesta and Willow would appreciate it.”
Isabel raised her head. “I doubt if Cecil has the time to work behind the counter, Julia—he has the estate to run.”
“I’m not running the estate, Mother,” Cecil replied with the tiniest note of testiness to his voice. “And I’d very much like to help out Ms. Widdersham—and,
of course, Willow—in their daily activities.”
I could almost see Isabel’s antennae working. “Who is this Willow?”
“She’s the niece of the woman who runs the wool shop,” Linus said. “I think it’s a fine idea for you, Cecil, and I’m grateful you’ve offered.”
“What’s this girl got to do with the tourists?”
“She’s our intern,” I explained to Isabel. “And we couldn’t have anyone better. She’s creative and personable—and she’s not a girl, she’s a woman. Cecil has seen how well she works with the vendors for the Christmas Market, haven’t you?”
“She had everything well in hand,” Cecil confirmed. I’d allow him this—giving Willow all the credit for the market—because it seemed to irritate Isabel so.
—
“Won’t you take the train?” Linus asked me over cocoa late that evening. “We could run you into Cambridge—quicker from there, I imagine. You’ll be on the road all day.”
“No, I’ll be fine driving—it’ll be quite fun, really.” What I didn’t tell him was that up in my room, I’d checked the route on my phone and found that with only a tiny detour I could stop by Monks Barton in Dorset—Geoffrey Addleton’s former place of employment. Linus might not think it odd that the man had taken a post that hadn’t actually existed when he applied for it, but I thought it suspicious. And that had encouraged me to embellish Hutch’s vague impression of Addleton and Freddy Peacock being at the Royal Oak on the same evening. When I did the sums, I decided there was more to be discovered about Addleton.
Of course Monks Barton had a website—who didn’t, these days? It included a brief history of the current owners, Nan and Tony Drake, who had bought the place a few decades ago. No title, only—apparently—buckets of money. The structure was a fine example of Edwardian architecture attached to a Georgian wing and with an abandoned abbot’s well from the twelfth century.
There was nothing about inviting the public to visit—but the place was ripe for it, I could tell. They might quite appreciate advice from the manager of the TIC in Smeaton-under-Lyme. I would ring them on my way, and imply that their former estate agent suggested I stop. I would share my expertise with them and they would share with me Addleton’s history: the barter system, even if they wouldn’t know it. Whatever useful piece of information I learned I would, of course, turn over directly to DI Callow—by way of her sergeant.
Chapter 38
The next morning, the kitchen was like Paddington Station. I walked into the middle of a conversation between Linus and Nuala. Behind her on the counter was a fresh Battenberg cake—his Lordship’s favorite.
“…it’s no trouble, I’m delighted,” Nuala said.
“Well, I’ll certainly look forward to my tea today,” Linus said.
“Good morning,” I said to them as Addleton passed through the kitchen from the courtyard and made for the corridor. I shifted to let him by, and Isabel bumped me with the swinging door on her way in.
She looked round the kitchen, taking in the crowd. “No wonder there’s no breakfast in the dining room.”
Sheila emerged from the pantry. “Everyone else was down early, Lady Fotheringill. Let me prepare a tray for you.”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Bugg,” Isabel said. “Although I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea in the morning room.”
Thorne pushed open the door halfway and took in the scene. “Has Adam arrived?” he asked.
Sheila nodded. “He’s in the yard waiting for you.” She walked outside with the butler to join her son as I switched on the kettle. I looked out the window at the three—no, four, as Cecil walked over to join them—in a confab, their breath coming out in the cold air like fog. Checking each other’s story? Comparing alibis? I couldn’t keep my mind from touching on those possibilities. I shook my head. There had to be something else there. I watched for another moment as Cecil pulled a pair of work gloves from his coat pocket and set to unloading wood from the back of Adam’s small beat-up van.
“Well, Julia,” Isabel said, backing out of the kitchen. “Safe journey.”
She slipped out the door, and Linus excused himself to join the group in the yard.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Nuala?” I asked.
“No, no, Julia, thanks all the same, I won’t.” But Nuala didn’t move and looked on the verge of continuing.
“Everything all right?”
The red on her cheeks spread and deepened. She held her hands in front of her, worrying them. “It’s just that, well, you know how very happy I am to be running the café out here the three open afternoons.”
I swished my tea bag round in my cup and waited, but nothing else emerged. “I hope it’s worth the extra work for you,” I said.
“Yes, well, you see—that’s it, isn’t it?” Nuala rushed on. “You know I’m happy to offer bits to any of you in the Hall, but I do like to keep everything organized—I count out scones, and I know how many slices of cake can be held over for the next day. It can make it difficult if that count…changes.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in—someone had been pilfering from the café. “Oh, Nuala, I’m so sorry. You’re right, it wouldn’t be good for business if you offered someone a slice of lemon drizzle and came up short.”
Nuala reached out and gripped my arm. “Thank you, Julia. I knew you’d understand—of course, I’m delighted that you have such a fondness for my baking. It’s only that, well, we do want the visitors to enjoy it, too, don’t we?”
“Me? I’d never take something from the café, only what you leave for me. It must be someone else.” Nuala and I both scanned the empty kitchen, as if trying to catch the culprit red-handed. “It’s probably…” I’d think of someone to blame later. “Look, I’ll have a word with Linus, don’t you give it another thought.”
“Thank you, Julia,” Nuala said, exhaling in a rush. “I’m sorry I thought it was you, and really, I’m always delighted to leave you the occasional treat. Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve both fruit and cheese scones on my baking list today.”
—
I had insisted on making my own sandwich—Sheila had quite enough to do—and I’d left it wrapped on the table and returned to my room, checking my bag once more before zipping it up. One good pair of trousers and a nice sweater and a backup set. Quite enough for a short visit to Cornwall.
I stopped in the kitchen, now empty, and found my sandwich secured in a small plastic box. As I pulled my bag up on my shoulder, tucked the box under my arm, and picked up my case, Sheila came in.
“Prepare to be inundated with snapshots of baby,” I told her.
“I’ll look forward to it. Have you visited after each one arrived?”
“Yes, all of them.” I was actually in the room with Paul when Emmy, the oldest, was born—although I didn’t remember much, as the nurse had to sit me down with sugary tea when I became light-headed.
As I was loading the boot of my little Fiat, Linus came out and we stood in the cold, clear air.
“Good day for a drive,” he said. “You’re all sorted there?”
I nodded. “It’s quite generous of you, allowing me so much time off. You’ll ring, won’t you—if you hear of any…developments?”
He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “I spoke with Inspector Callow yesterday, asking why they weren’t looking elsewhere for someone who would want Freddy Peacock…out of the way. What about his business associates? Clients? His personal life?”
“What did she say?”
“She told me I was a nosy parker and to stay out of police business.” He said it with a straight face but a twinkle in his eye. I laughed, but his brief humor faded, replaced by the furrowed brow that had become his almost constant expression of late. “They’ve asked Cecil into the station again today. I tell you, Julia, if the police keep this up, I will see to it they have reason to look elsewhere for a suspect.”
I had a vision of Linus marching into the station and confessing to Freddy’s m
urder himself, just to draw the attention of the police away from his son. Would he go to such an extreme? I touched his arm. “Please let the police work it out—they’ll find Freddy’s killer. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.” Said the queen of rash decisions.
He gave a single nod. “Well,” I said, “that’s me away.” I reached for the car door as I caught a glimpse of Isabel watching us out the kitchen window. I leaned over and gave Linus a kiss on the cheek. Bad Julia. “Thanks.”
He smiled and blushed. I drove to the end of the drive and paused for a moment, as if I was attached to the Hall and its turmoil by a taut rubber band that tugged me back. But in my mind flashed a picture of Bianca, baby, family—and Michael. The rubber band snapped and I hurtled forward on my journey.
Chapter 39
The beginning of a road trip is always a delight—away, seeing the sights, enjoying the countryside. But that euphoric feeling doesn’t last, and two hours later, I pulled off the M4 at a roadside service, tired of sitting. I gave a brief thought to eating my sandwich, but instead I bought tea and an enormous Jammie Dodger from Costa Coffee. Halfway through the shortbread-and-jam biscuit, I realized with a start that I was eating and enjoying it. I took this as a sign—I had pulled myself out of a funk with the thought of seeing family and facing up to Michael.
I motored on. After another two hours and about a hundred roundabouts, the idea of lunch crept into my thoughts. I found a layby with a food caravan where the fragrance of grease and vinegar drew me forward, and I succumbed to a paper cone of hot chips. Before I got back on the road I rang Monks Barton. I prepared to tell the story that would get me in the door—I wouldn’t lie, but I might need to dance round the edge of facts.
Nan Drake had a thin, elderly voice, but sounded lively and welcomed me with open arms when she heard I worked with their former estate agent and happened to be in the area.
“Oh, dear Geoffrey, we miss him so. You must stop by for tea—do say you have the time.”
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