Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  Addleton shrugged. “It’s one way I’ve learned to cope.”

  “You made yourself look guilty, Mr. Addleton, by not speaking up.”

  “But upon closer examination, Ms. Lanchester, you see that I am not.” He looked away, out the window toward the Hall. “It doesn’t matter now—she’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “When she came out here last evening to beg me to let Cecil be, it was also to say goodbye. She was leaving, going off with her Russian friend. By now, she’ll be far away, where the police can’t reach her.”

  I studied his face, torn with discovery and loss. I had seen Isabel only that morning, and she had looked terrible. She may intend to go to Russia, but she hadn’t left yet. And why not? Did she have unfinished business—more havoc to wreak? Who would be her next target—Linus? Sheila? Had she laced their midmorning cup of coffee? Or did she feel trapped and thought the only way out was to down a liter of the poison herself?

  “She’s still here, Mr. Addleton, and she may not be finished destroying everyone else’s lives,” I said, going for the door. “Ring the police. Tell them the Hall.” I scrambled in my bag as I left. “You have the number—Sergeant Glossop? Inspector Callow?”

  He rushed to the door, my urgency conveyed. “Let me drive you.”

  “You’d have to go round,” I called over my shoulder. “I can make it back quicker on foot. Ring Linus.”

  Chapter 56

  The sun had lost its battle, and the slate skies hung heavy. A sharp shower began, tiny shards of ice hitting me in the face, almost blinding me. I ran out of the wood and through the field, trying to button the collar of my coat with one hand, while searching for my phone with the other.

  Michael sounded chipper. “I’m on my way back now—I don’t suppose there’d be a late breakfast going at the Hall? Shall I stop?”

  “It’s Isabel, not Addleton,” I said, gasping to get the words out. “I don’t know what she’ll do. At the Hall. I’m going to look for her.” I said more, a jumble of disconnected words—“Addleton, Cecil’s father, blackmail, poison.”

  “Don’t do anything,” Michael said, and I could hear both the engine of his car and his voice shift into a higher gear. “Ring the police. I’ll ring the police. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Leave there—go to Vesta.”

  “I’ll be careful” was all I could manage before we rang off. I couldn’t leave the Hall because I wasn’t there. But I couldn’t wait for others to arrive when Linus may be in danger. Or Isabel herself. I may want her gone from the Hall, but not dead. Addleton was right—she did have a flair for the dramatic.

  I stopped for a moment on the far side of the formal garden, panting, hands on my knees. The weather couldn’t decide what it wanted to be; first icy rain, now tiny pills of snow pelted me, landing on my face and melting at once from its heat. When my breath slowed, I sprinted again, across the garden to the other side of the hedge where the service door at the corner of the Hall stood open.

  —

  I stepped in and stopped, holding my breath for a moment and listening. “Linus?” I called out, receiving only silence in answer. I crept down the stone stairs. Halfway along the corridor, another door stood ajar. I peeked into the dim light and saw nothing but a few cartons against one wall. Perhaps this had been her staging area—her own chemist’s lab where she treated the sandwiches and cake with pesticide. Quite handy to be so near the laundry.

  “Linus? Isabel? Sheila?” No, that’s right, Sheila and Thorne were having a Sunday out. But someone must be left here in the Hall. Was this a game of hide-and-seek?

  I walked back to the stairs that led up to the kitchen, paused, and looked over my shoulder again. She came in this way the night she killed Freddy. Thorne’s rooms were at the other end of this long corridor, and I recalled his dream that Lady Fotheringill had returned. It must’ve been that night, and it had not been a dream at all. He had dozed off, woke, come out still half asleep, and seen Isabel creeping in or out. He’d gone back to bed, and by the time I arrived at three o’clock, she had seemed like an apparition. Or a specter.

  Up the stairs to the ground floor I went, and stood at the end of the corridor—Sheila’s quarters behind me, the kitchen and café ahead.

  “Isabel?” I called. Nothing.

  I pushed the door of the kitchen open with one finger, walked through, and looked into the pantry. After that, I ducked into the café, my eyes scanning the shadows under the tables in case she hid there. Nuala baked fresh during the week, but some cakes stored well, and so could be held over—chocolate cake, there for Isabel’s taking.

  My nerves were stretched to the snapping point. With each step I expected her to appear like a sparrow hawk on the hunt—swift, silent, sure. Down to the entry where I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to slow my heart rate.

  “Linus?”

  Where are you, Isabel? Are you still alive? That thought spurred me on. I darted up the stairs and ran to the south wing, pausing only a moment before I banged on her door. “Isabel?” No answer. I entered.

  I’d not seen her room before—it was lovely and large, with a view of the formal garden. But she wasn’t in it, so after a quick glance in the bathroom and wardrobe, I checked Cecil’s and then Linus’s before it came to me at last where she would be.

  I ran to my own room, opened the door, and walked straight in. The door slammed shut behind me.

  —

  I whirled round to face her. Her eyes were wide and her face white. She shook so hard I could see her vibrate from across the room.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered.

  “No, Isabel, Addleton isn’t dead,” I said, irritation momentarily overtaking my fear. Her hand flew to her mouth and she sobbed. “Did you really think he’d drink that whisky?”

  “Cecil needs to be free,” she said, straightening her shoulders and regaining a bit of her usual arrogance. “Free to run the estate without fear.”

  “Cecil deserves to know who his father is—and Geoffrey deserved to know he had a son. But you broke it off with him because he was a commoner. You’d never have married him and given up being Lady Fotheringill.”

  “Untrue!” She pointed a finger at me. “No title would’ve kept me here—I was willing to walk away and never look back. The wife of a gamekeeper, a woodsman—I didn’t care if I could be with him.” She rubbed her arms as if the cold had seeped in. “But Geoffrey said I would have regrets. That it was better we stopped seeing each other,” she continued, her voice distant. “And so I decided if I couldn’t have him, I’d keep my title and his son would become the next Earl Fotheringill.”

  “But Freddy found out about you and Geoffrey when he came across the envelope at Mrs. Penny’s, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, a happy circumstance for Freddy—visits his old Pen and what does he find? Enough to do my son out of what’s rightfully his.”

  “Freddy threatened to tell Linus?” As I spoke, I used my peripheral vision and tried to take in details of my room. Did she have a weapon—a gun or knife? I saw nothing.

  “It took Freddy no time at all to work up that bit of mischief. And it was terrible timing—Cecil had just told me about Geoffrey arriving. I had to act quickly.”

  “You were out of the country with Sergei.”

  “Was I?” she asked, having quickly regained her usual bravado.

  My jaw dropped. “You had your son lie for you?”

  “Cecil knew nothing about this. He and Linus were meant to be away from the Hall all that day and night. This is Linus’s fault.”

  Her reasoning left me speechless. Almost.

  “You met Freddy outside the pub that night?” I walked a few paces along the wall. She countered my move, and we made a quarter turn round the room.

  “To pay him for his silence. He nattered on about making himself at home at Hoggin Hall—right down to his late-night sandwiches. He gave me the idea himself, didn’t he? I got to his roast-beef-and-mustard long b
efore he did,” she said with a note of excitement.

  “And you followed him to his room?”

  “He was already a bit unsteady by the time I got there, but I had to be sure and so while he was busy pulling out what he’d found, I stirred some of the pesticide into his whisky and his tea—just in case. After that, it wasn’t difficult to take what I was after, slip out, and lock him in. But he was the clumsy one, knocking into the fire.”

  “You didn’t take everything.”

  Her eyes narrowed as we made another quarter turn. “That print is mine—it was unfair of Freddy to keep it.”

  We were back to sparrow hawks.

  “Why did you poison those birds?”

  She smiled as if accepting a compliment. “A warning to Geoffrey to let him know he’d better keep quiet about Cecil. Nice touch, don’t you think?”

  “But where did you find the pesticide?” I asked, listening out with one ear for any sounds in the Hall. When would the police arrive?

  “I was so bored here all those years ago—there was nothing for me to do. So I wandered the estate. I knew the gamekeeper’s lodge, all shut up—I knew what had been left in his shed. And I knew nothing would’ve changed. When Linus began his austerity program, the estate just closed up shop. So I went straight to Geoffrey’s that Friday—only his second day at his post and the day before your little gathering at the orchard. He wasn’t home, and so I helped myself to what was available.”

  And when Addleton realized it, he cleaned up the shed, removing any signs of Isabel’s theft. “You poisoned the sparrow hawks and killed Freddy. And then you started on me?”

  “You were drawing far too much attention to yourself, Julia.”

  “You poisoned my food and made it look as if Sheila had done it.”

  Isabel shrugged one shoulder. “I only wanted to scare you away at first—give you just enough of the stuff to make you feel peaky. I thought you’d leave the Hall, go off with your boyfriend.”

  “How did you even know how much to use?”

  “I grew up around fertilizer, sheep dip, and poisons,” she said with a shudder. “My dad always kept a supply—for gamekeepers in need.”

  “You only wanted to make me sick?”

  “That didn’t work, did it?” Isabel asked, as if lodging a complaint about my lack of cooperation. “I needed to step up my game. That wedge of cake on Tuesday would’ve finished you off, but you didn’t touch it. And so I got hold of your sandwich the day you left for Cornwall, and waited to hear the sad news about you crashing your little car on the M4. But nothing. You’re devilishly difficult to get rid of.”

  “Why are you in my room?” We moved again, another quarter turn.

  “Sounds awfully proprietary, Julia,” Isabel said, arching an eyebrow. “You should watch that.”

  We had circled round and at last Isabel stood in front of the alcove, the little octagonal space directly under the turret. Something on the windowsill caught my eye. I saw, laid out on the deep sill by the window seat, a large plastic tumbler—the sort you get for drinks at a takeaway—a plastic bin, a jug, and a spoon. She caught my gaze.

  “Was that for me?” I asked, incredulous. “What were you going to do to me, Isabel? Knock me over the head, pour the poison down my throat, and toss me out the window for good measure?”

  “Don’t be so self-centered, Julia,” she said with derision. “Everything isn’t about you. This is a mother’s sacrifice, and if you become a casualty you must understand there’s a higher plan here. It’s for Cecil.”

  The anger that had seethed in me erupted. “Yes, and I’m sure he’ll be ever so grateful when he learns his mother has lied to him his entire life, and has now committed murder. All for you, Cecil—enjoy!”

  She stepped forward and took a swing at me, but I grabbed hold of her arm. She writhed and pulled away.

  “You will not do this to my son,” she said, her voice growling as she backed into the alcove. “We both go now, Julia. It’s the only way.”

  I followed her in. “Poor planning on your part, Isabel—I’m not the only one who knows, we’re multiplying like rabbits. Michael knows, the police have evidence—you’ve lost the battle and you’ve lost Cecil.”

  In a second, she’d reached down and come up with a log she must’ve taken from the basket of firewood. She came at me, swinging it with both hands. I held up my arms in front of me, the blow struck, and pain shot up to my shoulders. It sent me reeling into the high shelves in the alcove, and I dislodged an open bag that tumbled down and showered both of us with powder.

  I shielded my face as best I could, but when I saw Isabel grab the tumbler and put it to her lips, I sprang toward her, knocking it from her hand. Pale liquid splashed on us both and ran down her neck. She let out a garbled scream and struck out at me, making contact with the back of her hand near my eye.

  As I crashed to the floor, I grabbed the back of the chair, pulling it down on top of me. I saw Isabel silhouetted in the window as she loomed over me. Tangled in the rungs of the chair, I couldn’t get free to stand and defend myself, but there was no need. In the next moment, I heard a thunder of footsteps in the corridor, the door burst open, and DS Glossop and uniforms poured in and raced toward us.

  Chapter 57

  “Stop!” I screamed, waving my arms and throwing the chair off me. “Don’t come any closer—don’t touch her. Sergeant Glossop, ring for an ambulance.” Isabel dropped to the bench seat, shaking.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked me.

  “No, not me—Lady Fotheringill.” I scrambled to my feet but picked up the chair and kept hold of it to steady myself. “She drank some of the pesticide that poisoned the sparrow hawks—and Freddy Peacock.” Now was not the moment to quibble about slow toxicology reports.

  “Isabel!” I grabbed her wrist. “How much did you drink? How strong was the mixture?”

  She bent over and retched.

  “Ms. Lanchester, come out of there,” Glossop said, taking latex gloves from his pocket and snapping them on in a wink. He looked to his PCs, who followed suit.

  “Sergeant,” I said, trying to control my unsteady voice. “Not only what she drank—it’s all over her, the powder. She needs to remove her clothes and get into the shower. She can use my bathroom.” I nodded behind them.

  “No, Ms. Lanchester, you will take care of yourself here—we’ll remove Lady Fotheringill to another room.”

  As the sergeant began barking orders, I looked down at my arms and saw the thick layer of white dust and granules covering my sleeves. I could feel the stuff sift through my hair. I began to shake—I was out of breath and my heart raced; I felt giddy and my chest was tight. Was this mevinphos or the aftereffects of confronting Isabel? My legs gave out and I sank down onto the bench next to her.

  Two gloved female PCs took Isabel by the arms. She put up no protest, and they led her away.

  “Ms. Lanchester,” the DS said, “the ambulance is on its way.”

  “I don’t need it—I can manage here.”

  “Well, I’d say you’d better get to it, then.”

  Another female PC led me to the bathroom, set the bath stool in the shower, helped me out of my clothes, and turned on the water, leaving only after I convinced her that I would be safe. I sat on the stool, holding the bath bar with one hand, and let the hot water beat on me. I comforted myself by remembering that Dad said the pesticide washed away quickly.

  I shampooed and soaped up twice, spending twenty minutes in the shower, most of it seated, wishing I could soak in a long, hot bath instead. I thought about what a mess Isabel had made, and what it might do to Cecil, and to Linus when he found out Cecil was not his son. I thought about Addleton, who was complicit in murder by his silence. I thought of my work and longed for a quiet day in the TIC when the biggest problem was running out of leaflets about the Vikings. I thought of my Pipit Cottage, and that’s when a sob caught in my throat, and I was happy that the water running from the shower could wash my te
ars away before anyone saw.

  I dried off and wrapped myself in the enormous towel. I had nothing to wear; the PC had taken my contaminated clothes away in a bin bag. I could hear voices and movement in my room, and so I sat in the bathroom on a small bench comforted by a two-bar electric heater, and waited, content to be quiet and out of the fray. I would stay put until someone brought me clothes or they all left and I could make it to my wardrobe. Time passed. A few minutes? A half hour? I couldn’t say—and a knock came at the door.

  “Julia?” Michael asked. I gave a little cry. “May I come in?”

  “Yes,” I said. He slipped in, came to me, and pulled me up. The warmth of the little electric heater was nothing to his arms.

  “How did you know where I was?” I asked.

  “Glossop.”

  “I thought they’d forgot all about me.”

  “There’s a female PC sitting outside the door,” he said, nodding toward my room. “They’ve taken Isabel to hospital,” he said at last. “And after that, it’ll be the police station. They’ve sent someone round to collect Addleton, too. They got hold of Linus and Cecil.”

  “Will I have to go in?” All my symptoms—whether real or imagined—had disappeared, and now I was overcome with weariness.

  “How do you feel?” Michael asked, frowning and stepping back to look me over—good excuse for it. “You should see a doctor.”

  “I feel perfectly fine,” I said, chin in the air. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What a surprise to hear you say that.” His eyes sparked briefly. “Callow’s on her way here—said she’ll talk to you in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, won’t that be fun.” I looked down at my towel. “She can’t talk to me all day—I open the TIC at twelve.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said. “I rang Vesta—she can be there by one o’clock, after she finishes playing the organ at St. Swithun’s.”

  “But she’s worked for me practically all of last week, and I’ve done nothing.”

  “You’ve tracked down a murderer and uncovered the skeleton in the Fotheringill closet. I’d say that’s enough, and you deserve a rest.”