Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  Michael’s eyes widened. “Villiers Country Hotel. But how does that tie him to what happened at Hoggin Hall? And what would that have to do with Freddy Peacock—he would have been quite young?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Four or five years old?” At that moment, a collision occurred in my head—the crashing together of the names Netherford, Addleton, and Freddy. But not Freddy the man I had met at Hoggin Hall—Freddy the boy.

  “Thorne knew Freddy Peacock,” I said, bewildered at my own pronouncement.

  “Sorry?”

  “He mentioned it ages ago, just after Cecil and Freddy arrived at the Hall. All those years ago, Thorne had a friend he visited at Netherford—I got the idea he was seeing a woman, but it was before Sheila came back to the estate.”

  Michael cocked his head as if trying to sort out what that had to do with the matter at hand. Nothing, but it was part of the Thorne–Sheila Bugg narrative in my head.

  I continued. “Freddy’s father was…something at Netherford. Butler? Valet? Thorne told me when he visited his friend, he remembered seeing little Freddy. I don’t think Freddy had any recollection of it.”

  Michael reviewed what we knew. “Freddy Peacock and Addleton at Netherford at the same time, thirty years ago. But if Freddy’s father worked in the house, and Addleton, an under gamekeeper out on the estate, it’s unlikely their paths would cross. That and the age difference—”

  “But it’s something. And…we could check it out ourselves first without annoying Inspector Callow.” A thrill ran up my spine at the thought of taking action. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone left at the hotel that worked at Netherford all those years ago?”

  Michael’s eyes heated up into blue flames. “I know people at Villiers. Miles has taken over the account, of course, but the manager will remember me.” Miles, Michael’s older brother, ran HMS, Ltd., the family PR firm. “A good few of the staff stayed on—but from that many years back, I don’t know. Still, worth a try.”

  We eyed each other, and I felt a charge in the air as I heard a clamor of bleating and Farmer Froggett call out from across the yard, “Don’t worry, she won’t get far.”

  Mrs. Froggett appeared at the door and slipped out of her clogs. She crossed to the stove and picked up a kettle as big as a tire on my Fiat.

  “Thought we’d need another round of tea,” she explained. Michael jumped up to fill the kettle for her and set it on the stove. “Ta, love. I’ll just see if Samwise has caught up with old Mags yet.” Back into her clogs, and off she went.

  We returned to our apple tart, and I let my sock foot wander up and down Michael’s calf under the table.

  “Do you like how I got you a couple days off—nice work, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve no time off—I’m on guard duty.” He caught my foot and kept hold. “And glad of it.”

  “I still can’t believe my food was poisoned—I truly was upset, and I’m sure that’s what made me feel unwell. And I am happy to be away,” I said, wiggling the toes he held.

  I pinched the last hunk of apple off Michael’s plate as cast and crew of A Bird in the Hand returned from their visit with the sheep.

  —

  Michael and Rupert came to dinner at Turnstone House that evening, and the next morning, I collected Michael from the Boy Scout camp at eight o’clock. We had a long drive ahead. Villiers Country Hotel lay to the southeast of Smeaton-under-Lyme, about a half hour’s drive from the village. The journey was a healing time—just the two of us traveling through the countryside. We talked about Freddy’s murder, but we also talked about the tourist center and the Rupert Lanchester Foundation. We talked and we were silent, driving in and out of weather, from gray into sharp sunshine.

  I rang Vesta along the way—all was well at the TIC. She reported that Cecil and Willow were spending a great deal of time together. Cecil had constructed a small marquee behind the TIC for the painting of the papier-mâché Hoggin Hall. “Are you all right?” she asked me—meaning Michael and me—and I told her yes, more than all right. I sent Linus a short text.

  We stopped for coffee near Exeter, and when we were somewhere outside Reading, we pulled into a layby and ate cold chicken that Beryl had sent along. We returned to our suppositions about Geoffrey Addleton and Freddy Peacock, as puzzled as ever. What would Addleton have against a five-year-old boy that he would hunt him down thirty years later and poison him? And how would he know Freddy would come out to the Fotheringill estate with Cecil? I stuck by my idea that all this had something to do with Addleton and his ex-wife. Michael continued to point out that I didn’t know if the woman involved was his ex-wife or not.

  Birding is not a dual-carriageway sport, but, regardless, I watched out the window in case I spotted a flash of bright feathers in the hedge. As the afternoon wore on and the rain stopped, the sun, low in the sky, found a gap between clouds and horizon, and blazed forth, casting the world into either long shadows or golden light. Lit up away from us, I could see a bird soaring—a predator of some kind, although the distance was too great for me to tell. But it reminded me.

  “Geoffrey Addleton likes sparrow hawks,” I said.

  “Likes them?”

  “Admires them—all predator birds, I think. Tony Drake told me.”

  “So he’s off the hook for the dead sparrow hawks.”

  “I suppose.”

  We reached the M4, and traffic slowed until at last we ground to a halt. “What’s this about?” I fumed, and pulled out my phone to check the news. “Oh, collision ahead.”

  We crept forward, a highway of snails, and when at last a sign for roadside services came into view, Michael asked, “Fancy a cup of tea?”

  —

  Michael stood with our tray while I searched for seats—we weren’t the only ones wanting off the road for a break. The counters of Burger King, Jolly Diner, Pizza Hut, and Costa all had long queues, and tables throughout the place were crowded with families, while pensioners anchored the walls, securing any seating for two. At last, I waved to Michael from a far corner, and we sat sharing with a woman who read a book, her coffee cup containing nothing but a coating of foam. We had another two hours to reach Villiers, and that would make it gone six o’clock by the time we arrived. “We won’t be able to talk with anyone today,” I said, offering Michael half my Jammie Dodger. “Perhaps we should just go back to Smeaton and continue in the morning?” The thought depressed me, and I made no attempt to disguise it.

  “You don’t have to stay at the Hall,” Michael said. A reminder of his offer, and one I could now consider with no panic. Well, a great deal less panic.

  I covered his hand with mine and smiled. “I know. I remember.”

  “I say we push on to Villiers,” he said. “It is, after all, a hotel.” I looked up at him, and I could see in my peripheral vision our tablemate leaning in slightly. I squirmed in my seat at the thought of a night in a posh country hotel with Michael. I could quite get used to this investigation thing.

  Chapter 44

  On the last leg of our journey, as we passed Chelmsford, I confess that my mind unhitched itself from the murder of Freddy Peacock and Geoffrey Addleton’s involvement to more pressing issues. St. Ives had not been kind to my clothes: Estella had spit up on my good cardigan as well as a serviceable jacket, and Emmet had dribbled tomato soup onto my only decent pair of trousers. I’d scraped sheep dropping from my shoes, but couldn’t wear them again until they had a proper cleaning, and so had wrapped them in a plastic bag. Now I had on denims frayed at the bottom, a sweater pilled and with a hole at one shoulder, and trainers, one lace broken. Would Villiers let me in the door?

  We traveled down a long drive, tires crunching on the chippings. Darkness surrounded us. Villiers Country Hotel, nee Netherford House, sat on a rise proclaiming its superiority and, just in case someone hadn’t noticed, spotlights threw up their illumination on the stone edifice. Michael pulled up to the front entry, and we were at once surrounded by uniformed young men who o
pened car doors and took the key and our cases.

  I stopped just inside, unable to go further. The grand entry, twice the size of the one at Hoggin Hall, had red walls, green brocade drapes, and two-story windows with pillars and desks in burled wood. In the center of the room, a curved staircase as wide as a street swept up to a mezzanine. I was sure everyone in the room wore designer clothes. I draped my arms over my chest. Where was my flirty pink dress when I needed it? Stuck in the wardrobe at Hoggin Hall, doing me no good.

  “What do you think?” Michael asked.

  “We don’t have to stay here,” I said. “We could find a B&B in the next village.”

  He put his arm round my waist. “I think we deserve it,” he said.

  A short woman dressed in a teal business suit approached us, phone in hand. “Michael, lovely to see you again.”

  “Char,” Michael said, shaking her hand. “Thanks so much for squeezing us in. Julia”—he turned to me—“this is Char Arkell, manager of Villiers. Char, Julia Lanchester.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, and we shook.

  “You’re very welcome to Villiers—Michael said you remember the place when it was Netherford House?”

  “Well, I’ve heard tell of it. I work with Lord Fotheringill on his estate near Bury Saint Edmunds.”

  Her phone went off. “Sorry, I must run,” Char said to us. “Enjoy your evening.”

  I glanced at a server walking past—even she was better dressed than I.

  Michael gave me a nudge. “You can come further in, you know.”

  “No, I don’t think I can.” I picked at my sweater. “I’m not quite dressed for it—and I’ve nothing to wear to dinner.”

  “I don’t think it would matter to them—and it certainly wouldn’t matter to me. But if you’d like something else…”

  He nodded toward the staircase. Behind it, I could see an arcade. Shops! My spirits lifted. After all, what had I been spending my money on? Nothing.

  “Well, I suppose I could take a look. Where will you be?”

  “I’ll check in and go up with the bags,” Michael said. “We’ve a table booked for eight o’clock. Will you come up and change?”

  No time for that. “No, I’ll meet you back down here. Wish me luck.” He gave me a kiss.

  I crossed the lobby, bypassed the jewelry window, and didn’t bother with the china and crystal. I slowed at the dress shop, took a deep breath, and strolled in, hoping the clerk would think I was an eccentric rock star who dressed as she pleased instead of some commoner.

  “Hello, good evening,” said a voice. I didn’t see her until a frock hanging on a dress form wiggled. From behind it appeared a young woman with elbow-length, jet-black hair, pearly white skin, black fingernail polish, a fair-sized stud in her nose, and maroon lips lined in kohl. Her clothing followed suit.

  “Are you still open?”

  “God, yes, we’re always open,” she said as she carried a stack of cashmere scarves to the counter without looking at me. “It’s our remarkable service, you see—we must be available at all times, because you never know when this dame or that marchioness might forget that she’s spending the weekend at such a place and not bring a thing to wear and must rush in and buy a dress that cost eight hundred quid to be worn only the once.” The scarves deposited, she glanced up at me and blushed. “Sorry, that isn’t you, is it?”

  “Not for eight hundred quid, it isn’t,” I said, losing all hope.

  “Nah, I didn’t really mean that—it’s only my mum made me come in today because Sarah that works here is off sick.”

  “Your mum…”

  “She’s the hotel manager.”

  “Char?”

  Panic crossed the girl’s face. “Do you know her? You won’t tell her I said all that, will you?”

  “Certainly not”—I took a quick look at her nametag—“Brit. I’m Julia.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said as she hung up a shimmery skirt that had lain in a heap on the glass counter. “I don’t mind working, really—I hardly ever get over here these days. Reminds me of when I was growing up. My mum was housekeeper here when it was Netherford House.” As she spoke, Brit pulled a few frocks off the rack and held them up to me, one by one, in an absentminded fashion.

  “You lived here?”

  “Yeah, well, we moved here when I was eleven. Mum stayed on when the hotel people offered her the manager’s post,” she said as she chose the most amazing emerald green dress with a black-beaded bodice and low, squared-off neck. It had a cinched waist with a keyhole back, and a full, bell-shaped skirt with black petticoats beneath. I loved it.

  “Here”—she held it out—“why don’t you have a go?”

  I reached out and had almost touched it when I saw the price tag dangling from the sleeve. I pulled my hand away as if I’d been stung.

  “I’d better not.”

  “G’wan. Can’t hurt. It’d look lovely with your hair.”

  “Right, well, cost nothing to try.”

  The dress slipped on as if it were made for me. Brit stood behind me as I gazed at my transformed self in the mirror. “Suits you,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t get this one. Do you have anything on sale?”

  Brit disappeared in the back, coming out with a perfectly serviceable but totally unromantic sheath number in a pale pink that was well within my budget but left little to wonder why it had been relegated to the back room. Behind the curtain again, I shed the green beauty, handed it out to Brit, and pulled on its pallid replacement. “Do you know of anyone else besides your mum who stayed on to work when this became Villiers?”

  “There were a few, but I’d say they’ve all left by now.”

  I frowned at myself in the mirror—let down by the dress and by the dead end I’d hit in this tiny inroad into Villiers and its past life.

  “Except old Mrs. Penny, of course,” Brit said. “She’s still here—couldn’t shift her if you tried. Or her stuff.”

  I stepped out from behind the curtain. Brit looked at the dress and wrinkled her nose.

  “Who’s Mrs. Penny?” I asked, my back to the mirror and the emerald green dress that hung next to it.

  “She was housekeeper before Mum—been here eons. The family gave her a cottage when she retired and had it written into the sales agreement that the hotel owners would let her stay—she must be about a hundred and ten by now. She’s a recluse—won’t talk to anyone but Mum.”

  Mrs. Penny. Recluse. I filed that away to tell Michael. I looked again at the price tag on the pale pink dress. “Well,” I said, but didn’t have the conviction to continue.

  “So, you having a weekend break with that special bloke?” Brit asked.

  I smiled and blushed. “Sort of.” I went back behind the curtain. I should pay for the dress and walk out in it, but instead, I took it off.

  An arm thrust through the curtain. It held the emerald dress.

  “Brit, I can’t. I wish I could, but it’s too…”

  “Borrow it. It’s just the one night. Mum can’t say no—it’s one of mine.”

  I poked my head out. “This is your dress?”

  “My design. I’m in fashion,” she said, casually flipping a long piece of hair over her shoulder. She shrugged. “Well, trying to be. Mum lets me slip one or two of my own creations into stock. It’ll be good publicity for me, you walking all over the hotel in it.”

  I clutched the dress to my chest. “Oh, thank you.”

  “If anyone asks, tell them it’s a Brilliant by Brit! design. You can see the tag on the side seam.”

  “Do you have cards? I’ll hand them out.”

  —

  Brit had even let me borrow a pair of strappy black heels from the inventory. I thought I might take several strolls through the lobby and around the bar and dining room—I could be one of those models that stops at your table and speaks in a quiet voice. “Beaded bodice and cinched waist give the design a detailed and handcrafted look. A
Brilliant by Brit! design. You can find her…”

  I peeked into the bar mumbling those words, wondering if I should go ahead in and order a drink. There, I saw more elegance. Scattered round the room were leather chairs with wide, cushioned arms, low tables with clusters of votive candles, and leather-backed stools along the bar. Mirrored shelves with colorful liquor bottles lined the wall. I scanned the bar seats and spotted a free stool next to a woman who, even from the back, oozed sophistication. In front of her sat some dark cocktail in a short glass—it had a cherry on a spear that rested across the rim. She sat ramrod straight, her broad, graceful shoulders bare except for the crisscrossing of thin burgundy straps. Her gray hair, quite short, was swept back on the sides. She looked into the bar mirror, and my eyes met her frosty gaze—Detective Inspector Callow.

  Chapter 45

  My heart leapt into my throat. I stumbled back into the lobby and fell against the wall, gasping for breath.

  Michael walked up and took my hand. “What’s wrong?”

  I grabbed his arm and shook my head. Before I could speak, DI Callow appeared in the doorway. Tall to begin with, she wore heels and so now towered over us. Her strappy burgundy dress clung to her figure and ended midthigh. Her cheeks were tinged pink, although from embarrassment or makeup, I couldn’t tell.

  “Ms. Lanchester,” she said. “Mr. Sedgwick.”

  “Inspector Callow,” Michael said, smiling, “a weekend break, is it? Nowhere better than Villiers.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely,” she replied with a glance round. “And you two?”

  “Michael’s family PR firm represents Villiers,” I said. “It’s always a good idea to maintain a relationship with clients. We’ve come up just for the night, and I’m doing my bit.” I swept my arm down the front of my frock. “This is a Brilliant by Brit! design. The shop here at Villiers carries a few of her dresses. Stunning, don’t you think?” I whipped out one of Brit’s cards and handed it to Callow. “You really should stop in.”

  “Thank you,” Callow said, taking it. Her mild manner worried me more than if she had used her usual icy DI tones.