Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  “You won’t—one of these times you’ll get it right. Maybe this is the one, but how will you know without trying? Ah, Jools,” she said, rubbing my arm, “I don’t want you to sabotage your life.”

  “I’m going now, straightaway, to see Michael. After I’ve had some breakfast.”

  I cooked us eggs.

  “What’s Estella’s middle name?” I asked as we buttered toast.

  Bee smiled. “Ruby.”

  My name, too—it had been the name of our American granny, whom we’d never met. I had ended up with Mum’s maiden name, as well—I was Julia Ruby Craddock Lanchester. Bianca had scored Maude from an American great-grandmother and Butterwick for Dad’s mother.

  “You and Paul should go away this winter—Tenerife or somewhere. I’d come and stay with the children—and Beryl, too, I imagine.”

  Bee laughed. “How do you think I got that one?” she asked, nodding toward the front room and sleeping Estella. “It was Ibiza in January.” As we heard Beryl coming in the door, Bianca covered my hand with hers and said, “I love my life, Jools, you know that. It isn’t perfect, but perfect wouldn’t be nearly as good.”

  Chapter 41

  Near midday, I drove off to Penbeagle, a tiny hamlet just inland from St. Ives. I practiced calming thoughts. I knew what I wanted to do, only I didn’t know if I could. Courage, Julia.

  Cornwall is full of wide-open spaces, windswept moors, undulating hills looking quite desolate even on a sunny day—makes you wonder how anyone could make a living. Also made me wonder if the wind had blown all the road signs away. Three times I drove up and down a lane flanked with tall earth banks topped with brown grass before I decided which gate to open. I checked my mobile—no reception, so I hoped I didn’t end up in the middle of a field with a bull bigger than my Fiat.

  The lane wound round several low hills, and at last, out of nowhere, civilization appeared—a stone house, barn, and outbuildings of various kinds. Occupying the yard, the production crew of A Bird in the Hand, two vans, Dad’s ancient green Rover, various stands of lights, electrical equipment, and cameras. Shaggy sheep with drooping black ears crowded up against the fence and watched the activity.

  I parked, checked myself in the mirror, brushing my hair into place with my fingers. When I got out, the wind caught me from behind and blew it straight into my face.

  “Hello, lads,” I said to Basil Blandy and the rest of the crew, all of whom I knew from my years of working with Dad. They raised their heads in greeting, one of them asking if I’d be directing the next segment. “Wouldn’t you just love that?” I replied, trying not to appear as if I were looking for someone. No Michael about.

  “Jools,” Dad called, and waved. He stood talking to a woman who I thought must be the farmer’s wife. Thin and small, she had added several inches to her height by piling her auburn hair into a cone right on the top of her head. She wore a floral print dress with two thick cardigans and black leggings with no socks, her bare feet stuck into rubber clogs. I shivered at the sight.

  Dad introduced me and we exchanged pleasantries. But he could read my face quite well. “He’s in the barn.”

  I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Oh, well, then. I’ll just…” I nodded in that direction. “Lovely to meet you,” I said to the farmer’s wife.

  Backing up, I turned and picked my way through the yard, avoiding not only electrical lines as thick as my wrist but also muddy craters and sheep droppings. I worked my way to the concrete slab that led to the barn door.

  Stepping in, I stopped, blinking to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. The sweet scent of hay wafted in the cold air—bales rose high against one wall, and loose piles had been pushed up against the sides of the stalls. The floor had been swept clean, with one small haystack in the middle, ready for its photo op. Michael stood talking with a hobbit of a man who wore Wellies that came to his thighs and braces to hold up his trousers. As the farmer explained in great detail what makes a sheep photogenic, Michael caught sight of me, and I saw his gaze shift back and forth between me and the farmer, until at last he broke in.

  “That’s grand,” Michael said. “We’ve taken plenty of film of your dog herding, and we’ve covered shearing thoroughly. What I need for you to do now is to go out and have a word with Basil Blandy, the tech assistant. He’s just out there—probably talking with Rupert.” The farmer nodded and moved to the door. “Take him out in the field with you,” Michael called after the fellow, “point out your favorites, show him their best sides.”

  The farmer paused when he saw me and broke out in a smile. “Hello, I’m Sam,” he said, gripping my hand as he must need to take hold of a wayward lamb trying to make a break for it. “This is my farm. I’m pleased to welcome you.”

  “Happy to meet you, Sam. I’m Julia Lanchester—Rupert’s daughter. Well done, you, on this fine award.”

  “Thank you. We’re quite pleased and surprised at this honor, both my wife and me. And, of course, our sheep—they’re ever so grateful. Thank you.”

  Sam left, and Michael didn’t move. Neither did I. A huge gulf lay between us—much more difficult to get round than the pile of straw at our feet.

  “Hello,” I said. “How’s filming?”

  “It’s all right,” Michael said. “How’s the baby?”

  “Tiny and loud. And sweet.”

  So much for preliminaries. My heart felt like a hammer beating in my chest—ka-thunk, ka-thunk.

  “Are you staying—” Michael began, but I cut him off.

  “He can’t see.” I paused to catch my breath. Michael waited. “Gavin—he can’t see distance well because of the concussion he got, and that means he can’t see birds and that’s a terrible thing for a twitcher, and he’s afraid he’ll never be able to identify a bird again and he’s afraid that other twitchers will find out and start questioning his list and so he made me promise not to tell anyone and I got confused and thought that meant you and so I didn’t say anything and that was wrong of me, because he didn’t mean for me to keep a secret from you, and even if he did, I shouldn’t’ve have done it. I should’ve explained. I’m sorry.”

  And still he didn’t move. No smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. From this distance in the dim light, I couldn’t see what shade of blue his eyes were. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand.

  “He can’t see?”

  I nodded. “It could get better, the doctor isn’t sure. I felt sorry for him—I felt responsible for him, after the whole business in the pig hut.”

  “You’re sure he can’t see?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He wouldn’t lie about something like that—why would he?”

  “Why, indeed?” Without my realizing it, Michael had closed the gap between us and now stood close enough for me to see his eyes were a milky blue.

  I had more to confess. “I felt like we were getting serious—us, I mean. I’ve always made such a mess of things. Other relationships.” I shrugged one shoulder and looked at the stack of hay bales. “We were heading in that direction, and it worried me that I would do it again. Better to not even try, I thought.”

  “If you don’t want us to…”

  “I do want to, I know that now. But I’m too late.” I attempted to stop my chin from trembling. “I’ve spoilt it, haven’t I?”

  Michael frowned. “Spoilt?”

  “Us—for not telling you why I was with Gavin. We’ll never get past it.”

  There—I saw the corner of Michael’s mouth twitch and his eyes deepen. He took my hand, and his warmth rushed up my arm and calmed my heart. “You haven’t spoilt anything.”

  “It scares me, you see.”

  “Scared in a good way or a bad way?” he asked, making me smile.

  “Both,” I whispered. “Do you forgive me?”

  “Of course. Do you forgive me?”

  “For what?”

  “I was…” Michael started, and then hesitated for a moment. “Lecky winds me up. He knows it, and I shouldn’t have
let him, but I did. I didn’t like seeing the two of you together.”

  “If I go out with him again to watch birds, you can come along.”

  “I tell you what, we’ll go out, the two of us, and leave him behind.”

  By this time his arms were around me and my hands were resting on his chest. “We’re all right now?” I asked.

  “We are that. We pick up from here and carry on.”

  “Just remember I’m not terribly good at that part—the carrying on.”

  Michael laughed. “I’ve not had great success with it myself. Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

  My lips were a millimeter away from his, and I could feel his heart beating against mine, even through our coats. This was better than I had ever expected. It felt different, stronger. I paused to take in the moment—but a second too long.

  “Whoa,” Basil Blandy said as he walked directly into us. “Julia, sorry, didn’t see you there. Awfully dark in the barn. We’ll need to get some light on Samwise.”

  “Samwise? Basil, don’t make fun,” I said.

  “No, Julia, that’s actually his name—Samwise Froggett. Farmer Froggett,” Basil said, and sniggered. “Couldn’t’ve made up a better one.”

  “Where is he?” Michael asked.

  Basil fiddled with a light meter in his hand. “We’re all heading indoors. Mrs. Froggett has done us a lunch. You’re invited, too, Julia.”

  “Thanks, Basil,” I said, wishing he would go away. “Right behind you.”

  Basil retreated, and I backed Michael up against the wall of the barn to make sure he knew how happy I was that we’d got over this bump in the road. When I’d arrived, the air had felt icy, but his lips on mine raised my temperature by several degrees. His hands snaked round the inside of my coat, and I contemplated shedding it but thought we’d better not start something we couldn’t finish here and now.

  “Lunch.”

  Chapter 42

  Not an inch of Mrs. Froggett’s enormous farm table could be seen, covered as it was with trays of cold meats, quiches, platters of roasted root vegetables, winter salads of rocket and beetroot and grains, bowls of pickles, wheels of local cheeses, and a mountain of rustic bread. Bottles of beer and cider took up space on a separate table along with apple tart for afters.

  “My God, I’m starving,” I said to no one in particular. We piled our plates, and Dad, Michael, and I found a small table in the corner of the conservatory. I tucked in, but after a few bites paused to say, “Really, this is the first good meal I’ve had in days. I haven’t been feeling too well”—a confession; I met Michael’s eyes and smiled—“and I’d quite lost my appetite. I suppose part of it is that I needed to get away from the Hall and the village—even for a tiny holiday. It’s only now I’m feeling better.”

  Rupert spotted something on Michael’s plate. “What’s that?”

  “Smoked trout.”

  “I missed that,” Dad said, and got up. “Be back.” He’d got halfway to the food table before he stopped, pivoted, and came back.

  “What have you been eating, Julia?”

  I looked down at my plate, already half empty. “A bit of everything, I think.”

  “No,” he said, and sat back down, his plate still in his hand. “What’ve you been eating at the Hall?”

  “Well, it’s like I said—not much. I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t finish my dinners and missed breakfast one day, I think. That’s why I’m so hungry,” I said, unable to see why I had to defend my plate of food.

  “What have you”—he pointed his fork at me, his face flushed—“been eating that no one else at the Hall has eaten?”

  “Well, I…” My meals had been meager and forgettable. “I’ve been taking sandwiches in with me to the TIC, but I’ve not been able to eat half of any of them. And I barely touched the chocolate cake Nuala always leaves me in the kitchen—that’s terrible, because it’s such a kind thing for her to do.”

  “When did this start?” he asked.

  “Saturday?” Michael asked, and I nodded, blushing faintly.

  “Those sandwiches,” Rupert continued, “who made them up for you? Who was it sliced the cake?”

  Finally, I saw what he was after. “Dad! No one’s poisoned my food. If you must know, I haven’t been eating because Michael and I had an argument. I was upset, and it affected my appetite.”

  “Rupert’s right,” Michael said, his voice hard. “Someone could’ve tampered with your food—someone who thought you’d been asking too many questions about what happened to Freddy Peacock. This is my fault—if I’d been around, I might’ve noticed what was happening to you.”

  “Stop it, the pair of you,” I said. I looked down at my plate, stabbed a fat round of pickled carrot, and popped it in my mouth. “You see,” I said with difficulty, “I’m fine now. Hungry as ever.”

  Rupert tapped his fork on the side of his plate. I could almost hear his mind whirling. “You had a long journey yesterday—did you eat breakfast before you left?”

  “Tea and toast—I made it myself.”

  “And on the way?” Michael asked.

  “Is this the third degree?” I looked from Dad to Michael, but neither looked as if they’d give in. “I stopped for tea and a biscuit. Just to break my journey.”

  “Lunch?” Dad asked.

  “Chips in a layby.” It occurred to me what my lunch should’ve been. “I have a chicken sandwich from the Hall, but I didn’t eat it.”

  I saw Dad tense. “Who made it for you?”

  “I made it for me. When I finished my toast, I made my sandwich, wrapped it up, and then I…” A pricking sensation crept up my arms. I tried to rub it away. A dark thought that had been biding its time, dozing in the back corner of my mind, now rolled over, stretched, and came fully awake. Sheila’s hands were all over my food—Sheila, who had listened to me speculate about who might have access to the poison and who might have a grudge against Freddy. Sheila, whose son had a shedful of chemicals and who had said to me himself that Cecil was like a brother to him. What we wouldn’t do for family.

  “No!” I stood up and stamped my foot. “I left it on the table in the kitchen only for a few minutes. Dad, you’re reading too much into this.”

  “I’ve been on the phone every day this week with DI Callow, Jools. Among other things, she wanted to know how much mevinphos would be lethal. I gave her that information. What I didn’t say is that in small amounts over time it may not be lethal, but it can affect its victim in other ways. Disorientation. Depression. Loss of appetite.”

  “Who has access to the kitchen?” Michael asked.

  “Everyone,” I said. And in my mind’s eye, I saw sandwiches wrapped and ready on the table in the morning, a wedge of cake on a plate at the end of the day. “Everyone wanders through. Mind you, not only people in the Hall. Anyone could’ve come in from outdoors. The gardeners, the maids from the village. And don’t forget the Hall is open three afternoons a week, so absolutely anyone could walk into the kitchen.”

  “You didn’t eat the sandwich—not even a bite?” Dad asked. I shook my head. “What did you do with it?”

  “It’s still in the boot of my car.”

  Rupert and Michael shot out of their chairs and made for the door. I followed, passing Mrs. Froggett, who had a surprised look on her face.

  “Brilliant lunch,” I said. “We’ll be back in for the apple tart.”

  —

  I forgot Dad still had a key to my Fiat. He and Michael stood at the open boot, staring down.

  “It’s still there, isn’t it?” I asked.

  They nodded.

  “Michael, would you fetch me my gloves? And I’ve a roll of bin bags somewhere—bring one of them along, too.”

  Michael went off to the Rover, and I joined Dad staring at the box. “Fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Mevinphos can be absorbed through the skin—it’s best to be well covered when using it, and immediately after to wash your clothes and showe
r.” He put his arm round my shoulders. We stared at the box as if it were a ticking bomb.

  I held out my hands. “I went to the loo before I got my coffee. I washed my hands.”

  “You’ll be all right, Jools.” He gave me a squeeze. “If you’ve had low doses and they stopped two days ago, it should be out of your system. But it could still be here.” He nodded to the sandwich.

  “Well, I won’t believe it until you prove it. What will you do?”

  “The police are using a toxicology lab in Malvern—I’ll let them know I’m sending in a sample. I’ll see what I can do to hurry the results—Callow is still waiting on hers.”

  Michael returned with gloves and bag. Rupert took them and said, “You’re not going back there, Julia. To Hoggin Hall.”

  “Dad, don’t be silly—I’m in no danger. I’m going back in the morning.”

  “You’re not going.”

  “I am going.” I couldn’t believe I was having this argument with him. I took a breath and let it out slowly, my eyes darting to Michael. “Of course, if you were finished with the crew here, Michael could go back with me. As protection.”

  Rupert narrowed his eyes at me. “Michael?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Rupert sighed. “Tell the crew we’ll wrap up with the Froggetts this afternoon, and we’ll leave the lapwings until another time.”

  Chapter 43

  Michael and I sat over our apple tart in the kitchen of the farmhouse; the others had gone back out to watch the Froggetts being photographed amid their flock. We caught up on our few days apart; I told him about the appearance of Isabel and relayed the story of my visit to Monks Barton and the Drakes. I gave as strict an account as I could of the murky goings-on with Addleton, a woman—I was convinced it had been his wife—and some other man.

  “And thirty-odd years ago—Addleton would’ve been in his early twenties, I suppose—you’ll never guess where he worked.” I waited an appropriate moment for the revelation. “Netherford House.”