What a lovely story—and only a tiny bit of a disappointment. I suppose I’d harbored the hope that Thorne was actually Adam’s father, not just a stand-in. But I chastised myself for that thought—hadn’t he been as good as a father, if not better, for all of Adam’s life?
“Adam has been so secretive lately,” Sheila continued. “Since Master Cecil returned and then Mr. Peacock died. I was frightened that he’d got himself into something that he couldn’t get out of.” She shook her head. “A mother can work herself into such a state. Thorne would always find a way to…talk me down. I’m sure it looked as if we were up to something.”
Doesn’t matter what it looked like. The police would sort it from here.
“I’m sorry about the police dragging you down there,” I said. “It’s all my dad’s fault. He’s got it in his head about poisoning and he won’t let it be.”
“Your father’s a right to be concerned.”
“And all the food I’d been eating—that he suspects—is gone. It’s only that one sandwich from the day I left, none of the…” I glanced into the alcove as my face warmed with embarrassment. “Oh dear, I left a slice of cake up here the day I went to Cornwall. How thoughtless of me.”
“Not to worry—Lady Fotheringill found it.”
“Sorry?”
Sheila laughed. “I came up to clean that morning, and here she walked out of your room with cake in hand. She said she was looking for you. I said you’d gone. I offered to take it, but she said no, she’d take it down to the kitchen herself, as she was going that way.”
—
After I dressed, I made for the kitchen and another cup of tea, and walked in on Isabel, who jumped and dropped her slice of toast on the floor, butter-and-jam side down.
“Good morning,” I said. “Sorry if I startled you.”
“Yes,” she replied as she threw her toast in the bin. “Good morning.” She stood looking at the strawberry jam on the tile.
“Here, let me get that up for you,” I said. Was she that unaccustomed to cleaning up after herself?
She jumped into action. “No, I’ll do it.” She tore off two paper towels, wiped the jam up with one, and wetted the other. She got down on her knees and began rubbing the spot.
I took a couple steps forward and bent over. “Isabel?”
It was as if she’d forgotten I was there, and looked up in alarm at my voice. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her blond curls hung limp.
“Yes, Julia, good morning. I said that, didn’t I?”
As I switched on the kettle, Linus walked in and took notice of Isabel, still washing the spot on the floor.
“Good morning, have either of you seen Addleton?”
I shook my head. “I only just walked in.”
“I suppose he’s already left,” Linus said. “A fellow from the next estate was coming to collect him and they’re off to an agricultural show the other side of Bury. I did think he’d stop in here first—we had a few things to go over before Cecil and I went out—but no matter.” He continued to watch his ex-wife. “Isabel? Everything all right?”
Isabel didn’t look at him, but stood up, threw the paper towel in the bin, and began to wash her hands. “Everything is fine, Linus. Just a minor accident.”
“Did you ring him?” I asked.
For a moment, Linus seemed to have forgotten the topic of conversation. “Mmm. Isabel, you didn’t see Addleton?”
“No, I didn’t see him,” she replied, sharp and severe. “Do you expect me to know every move of your estate agent? It isn’t as if he’s a guest at a house party.”
Linus excused himself, the kettle switched off, and Isabel continued to wash her hands. In my mind I thought about Nan and Tony Drake’s house party—lovely, even if there was no shooting. And it came to me who else had said those words: Isabel, on the first night she arrived at Hoggin Hall—the first night she’d met Geoffrey Addleton.
If Isabel knew nothing about Addleton and where he had worked, how would she know they didn’t shoot—and why would she comment on their lovely house parties?
At that moment, I saw it clearly. I had thought the Drakes spoke in veiled terms of Addleton’s failed marriage and an affair his wife had had. But no, they had described Addleton’s relationship with Lord Fotheringill’s ex-wife.
“At the house party,” I murmured.
“Sorry?” Isabel whirled round.
We had missed it—missed the entire point. Addleton and Isabel—co-conspirators in Freddy Peacock’s death? I should talk with Michael, but he was on his way back from Haverhill. I should wait until Monday and tell the DI. But I couldn’t wait—this was all too immediate, too fresh.
I wished Isabel a good day as I hurried past.
Chapter 54
Addleton was away at an agricultural show for the entire day—Linus had said so. Some fellow had come round for him and the two of them had driven over together. I knew I’d be quite safe. I knew I could stick my nose in his shed, and I knew what I’d find. Mevinphos.
I struck out through the formal garden and out the hedge. The wind came from all directions, but mostly from my back, blowing me along through a field and toward the wood—I barely felt the cold. Halfway to the lodge, I began fingering my phone. I stopped and sent Gavin another text—“Only want to chat.”
A text came back: “What?”
When I rang, he answered.
“Gavin, I hope you can understand why I was upset yesterday. I was concerned about your well-being, and you took advantage of that.” Bad way to begin, Julia—sounding like a schoolteacher.
“Ah, it’s all right, Julia.” That was taking it well. “So, is that it?” I heard a female voice in the background, and Gavin’s muffled reply, “It’s just a bit of business.”
“I won’t keep you,” I said. “I have a quick question, and you’ll be on your way. Remember you saw Isabel yesterday afternoon?”
“Who’s that, then?”
“Lady…the woman with the blond curls and the leather trousers.”
“Oh yeah.” I could hear the sly smile.
“You said, ‘There she is again.’ Had you seen her before?”
“Yeah, I saw her at the Royal Oak in your village.”
“When was that?”
“When I came over to find you. Like I said, your place was shut, and I found that pub.”
“Are you sure it was that night?” I asked. That night I had come back late from Michael’s. That night Freddy Peacock died. That night was five days before Isabel showed up at the Hall, only just returned from Sergei’s flat in Nice.
“Why wouldn’t I be? I was having a pint, and my phone went off. That bloke behind the bar gave me the eye.” I could just see that look Hutch gave him when Gavin’s bird alert—the kee-kee-kee of a kestrel—started up. “So I stepped out to answer. I saw her in the car park talking with some fellow.”
“What fellow? What did he look like?” My heartbeat sped up.
“It was dark, Julia, he was standing under a tree.”
“And yet you can describe the woman perfectly. Come on, Gavin, use your twitcher skills—was he tall? Brown hair?” Had she met Addleton there to make plans?
Gavin exhaled loudly. “He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t thin. And when he moved and the light hit his head, it was shiny.”
“He was bald?”
“No, black, shiny hair.” My stomach did a flip-flop. “Julia?”
“Thanks, Gavin. Bye.”
—
The old gamekeeper’s lodge, now home of estate agent Geoffrey Addleton, sat midway between the Hall and Adam’s orchard, tucked in a copse that separated two fields. Built of gray stone, it had a prominently peaked roof with two shorter peaks accompanying it, and a door painted red. Not a great deal to be said of the garden in early November, a leafless vine twisted up and over a window, terra-cotta pots at the door empty but for a few desiccated stems. No smoke rose from the chimney—no one at home.
A large shed sat
across a stone yard—the wide door closed but unlocked. A gamekeeper would’ve hung birds and rabbits there, as well as kept the tools of his trade—guns, knives, nets. Poisons. I opened the door of the shed and peered into the darkness. It smelled of things long stored—oil, wood, and leather.
I found the switch and a light blazed overhead. I stood still, taking in the calm, tidy work scene. Wood benches sat along two walls under high, small windows letting gray light in. Large rusted hooks hung above the tables, and a variety of tools, put away clean but looking unused, adorned the walls. Shelves ran along the other side with tins of linseed oil, cleaning fluids, fertilizers, and chemicals to dispatch any manner of pest or weed. I crept forward, hands in my pockets. The contents of Adam’s shed had looked untouched, but here a great tidying had taken place. Although packages were old and labels faded, they and the shelves had been wiped clean, and a clipboard hanging from the wall showed that Addleton had done a recent inventory.
I flipped through its pages but found no mention of mevinphos, and didn’t know the various brand names it had been sold under. I pulled out my tiny torch to examine each package.
“I shouldn’t touch anything,” I told myself aloud. “I wish I had a pair of gloves.”
The voice behind me sent a shock wave through my body.
“I’ve got a pair.”
I lost my balance, hitting the shelves and sending cans and boxes tumbling. Addleton caught me before I hit the floor and lifted me to my feet. I pulled my arm away and he stepped back.
“Mr. Addleton—there you are,” I said, my voice breaking. I cleared my throat. “I was looking for you.”
“In here instead of my home?” he asked.
“I’m sure there’s no harm in me looking round here,” I said, sidestepping the point that I was trespassing only because I thought him out of the way. “The police have already been in and searched, haven’t they?”
“No harm at all, Ms. Lanchester. Have at it.” He nodded behind me to the sacks and bags I’d wanted to go through but now had lost interest in.
“Doesn’t it concern you,” I said, “that a death—a murder—has occurred on the Fotheringill estate? That the poison that killed Freddy Peacock may have come from here? It’s causing no end of concern for everyone else. You know that the police have been questioning Lord Fotheringill’s son.”
“Cecil is in no danger,” Addleton said. Only when I saw the slight color on the agent’s cheeks did I realize why his statement sounded odd. Cecil, he said, not Mr. Fotheringill.
He must’ve already heard about Cecil’s alibi, and so I got to the point.
“Did you know Freddy Peacock before you arrived here?” I asked.
He registered slight surprise. “I did not.”
“Not even a very long time ago?”
Addleton didn’t drop his gaze. “Not even then.”
“On my way to Cornwall the other day, I had the chance to stop and visit with your former employers in Dorset—the Drakes.”
“And are they well?” he asked in a quiet voice.
I suppose I had hoped for shock and despair that he’d been found out, but Geoffrey Addleton was sharper than that—I believe he could tell I had no solid evidence, and so why give himself away?
He sighed. “Come in, Ms. Lanchester,” he said, nodding back to the lodge. I didn’t move. “You’ve nothing to fear from me. You’ve been gnawing at the edges of my life long enough; you may as well hear the story.”
I wasn’t sure I liked this image of me as a mouse, but when he turned and walked away, I followed the bait.
—
The lodge décor was spare but not uncomfortable—cheerful tattersall curtains lightened up the heavy furniture; scorch marks on the stones round the fireplace told the tale of countless fires over the life of the place. A small drinks table near the hearth held a bottle of whisky, a photo, and a glass half full. A bit early in the day to drink, I thought as I took a closer look at Addleton.
Here was a man who hadn’t slept in a while. Or shaved. His beard was blond, a contrast to his thick brown hair. His skin had a gray cast to it, and his eyes were bloodshot. He wore his work clothes—canvas trousers, a thick plaid shirt, and canvas jacket over it—as if he’d only just stepped in or was ready to go out.
He waited, and so I let go of the edges I’d been gnawing and leapt into the middle.
“You and Isabel were together at Monks Barton a year ago summer.”
A mix of emotions—happiness and longing—swept over his face. “A chance meeting—we were both caught by surprise, and we let that surprise carry us away.”
“An affair, Mr. Addleton?”
“We were neither of us married.”
“And at Netherford?” My eyes went back to the table, and I leaned over to better see the snapshot of a smiling young couple’s day at the seaside. Addleton stood behind her, his arms round her waist, his chin resting against her head. His hair blonder, his Roman nose not quite as prominent. His happiness made me sad.
Isabel’s hair was as long as now, except without the curls, and with a frame of short hair round her face, swept back like wings. She smiled, too, her face far more animated than I’d seen it.
“When we met at Netherford, she was married to the Earl Fotheringill,” Addleton said. “What we did was wrong, but I was young and I didn’t care.”
The photo had to have been thirty years old, and at last, as a pricking sensation danced up and down my arms, I put my timeline in order. I picked up the snapshot and held it, looking at Addleton.
He nodded, once, in answer to my unasked question. “That was taken just before she left. We said a great deal to each other at the end—I thought we’d said everything. But there was one thing Isabel didn’t say—she never told me she was pregnant.”
Chapter 55
“Will you sit, Ms. Lanchester—I’ve not slept, and I wouldn’t mind sitting myself.” I took the corner of a backless bench and Addleton sank into a kitchen chair, resting his arm on the table. He inhaled deeply and exhaled another sigh.
“Freddy discovered your affair when he came across that packet at Mrs. Penny’s. He knew when it happened. He made a wild guess that Cecil was your son, not Linus’s. He tried to blackmail you,” I said, trying to work it out as I talked it through.
Addleton drummed his fingers lightly on the table. “I remember Mrs. Penny, the housekeeper. But I was telling you the truth when I said I’d never met Freddy Peacock before I started here on the estate. I don’t remember him at Netherford—he was a boy in the house, and I was out on the grounds. And what good would it do him to blackmail me? How would I pay him—cash in my pension?”
“He was at the Royal Oak the night he died, and so were you.”
“I’ve told the police I was there—had my pint and left. I never saw Peacock.”
Yes, but now I knew that Isabel had seen him. “All these years, you had no idea you had a son?”
Addleton shook his head. “The first I knew of it was when I saw Isabel in Dorset—and then she let it slip quite by accident.”
Tongues do loosen when you’re lying wrapped in each other’s arms.
“The envelope that Freddy found when he visited Mrs. Penny?”
“Things I’d given Isabel—letters, photos. She sent them back to me, but I’d already left Netherford. We were never in touch after that last day.”
I brought the photo of the bird print up on the screen of my phone and held it for him to see, and he reached out as if to touch the picture, but hesitated, then dropped his hand. “To my own sparrow hawk,” I read the inscription.
“Swift, silent, sure,” he said, and added under his breath, “She is all that.”
“If Freddy didn’t bring this evidence to you, that means he took it to Isabel,” I said. “And she would not go along with blackmail, would she? She murdered Freddy to cover her secret. When did you first realize she was here—Cider Day? When I found the dead sparrow hawks? Did you know it was her?”
He didn’t answer, which was answer enough for me.
“And you knew that Freddy knew something, didn’t you?”
“At dinner one evening, Peacock made a snide comment about fathers and sons. I saw his look—I knew he meant it for me.”
“What did you do about it? Try to get in touch with Isabel?”
He shook his head. “Cecil was troubled, and it had something to do with Peacock. But I couldn’t interfere without showing my hand—and then Peacock was dead.”
“And you knew it was Isabel.”
For a moment, Addleton didn’t speak, only looked at the floor. At last he said, “I hadn’t spoken to her alone since she arrived—until last night. She came out, because she thought she needed to persuade me to keep quiet.”
“She shut Freddy up, didn’t she?” At that moment, the glass of whisky he had been staring at spoke to me. I went for it, pointing. “Did she try to poison you, too?”
“Don’t touch it,” Addleton said, coming after me and grabbing my arm and pushing me away.
“She made certain Freddy would never tell Linus that he wasn’t Cecil’s father, and after drinking this, you wouldn’t tell, either.”
Addleton took the glass, poured it down the sink, and ran the water hot, washing his hands. “ ‘An option,’ she said. A way I could leave Cecil to the only life he’s ever known.” He shook his head impatiently. “She didn’t understand—I didn’t come here to lay claim to him. I only wanted to see him. To find out the sort of man he’d become. She knew I’d never drink this—Isabel has always had a flair for the dramatic.”
Father and son. I looked again at the inscription and the poor writing. I dropped my phone back in my bag. “You have dyslexia, don’t you?”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, nodding. “I have difficulty with reading and writing.”
“That day at the TIC when you were drawing on the map, you made Cecil feel at ease. You helped him.”
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