The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  The phone rang, and Vesta answered. “Smeaton-under-Lyme Tourist Information Center, how may I help you?” She smiled at me, which I took as reassurance that it wasn’t bad news, as if bad news had become the norm. “Yes, he’s here.” She held out the phone to Linus. “It’s for you, your Lordship—your butler.”

  Linus stepped forward and took the phone with an apologetic look. “Thorne won’t ring my own number. He distrusts mobile phones—thinks the Russians might be listening in.” He stepped over to the wall, and answered. “Fotheringill…Yes, Thorne, this is he…Yes, Thorne, I know who you are.”

  As Linus struggled on with his ancient butler, Vesta moved to the back corner of the shop—not far, but I thought it was a good attempt to give us as much space as possible. I turned to Michael.

  “I’m sorry I did that,” I whispered. “It’s just, I thought it would be better if we didn’t bring Rupert up right now. Please don’t leave—I need to know what’s going on. I need to help my dad.” I noticed I still had hold of his arm. I let go. “Sorry.”

  Michael shook his head and smiled. “No, it was brilliant,” he whispered back. “Listen, I can’t sort this out without you—we’re better off working together.”

  “I hope he’s all right,” I said under my breath as I heard Linus finish his phone call.

  Michael nodded. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “Right, now, Michael,” Linus said, “how would you like to come with us to Nuala’s Tea Room? We’ll be sampling her cakes and deciding what to serve when the café opens at the Hall. We need an outside opinion, and I’m sure Julia would love to have you along.”

  Michael slipped his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “I’d never say no to tea and cake.”

  I elbowed him the moment Linus’s back was turned. But lightly—relief at knowing we would work together for Rupert’s sake made me soft, I suppose. And I let him leave his arm where it was. Appearances, you know. They’re important.

  —

  A strong, cold wind blew us up the street. Linus leaned his bicycle against the lamppost in front of Nuala’s Tea Room, where the shop window displayed her wares—pedestal plates with an array of fresh cakes and a platter of enormous scones arranged in a delicately balanced pyramid.

  Nuala Darke herself greeted us. She was in her late sixties with tight, curly salt-and-pepper hair, short, except for in the back, where she kept it long enough to pull back into a tiny wad of a bun. She was lithe like a dancer, and wore soft flat shoes that always made me think one day she might serve me my sticky toffee pudding en pointe.

  We introduced Michael and crowded into a room on the left, one of four, each not much bigger than a cupboard. Nuala had already set out cakes for tasting, and now as we took our seats around a tiny round table, she wiped her hands on her apron and said, “These cakes are my best sellers. I’ve also included a Battenberg”—she nodded at a loaf engulfed in marzipan—“your favorite as a lad, Lord Fotheringill, I remember you told me. I’m sure that visitors to the café would love to know that. It’s a connection to your family and its history.” Linus looked pleased.

  We tucked in, offsetting the wonderful sticky sweetness with lashings of tea. I relaxed as Linus told us a tale of sneaking a slice of Battenberg into the nursery when he was only five years old and the trouble he got into with his nanny. Michael remembered his mum sending him away to school at age eleven with a surprise—a Dundee cake hidden in his trunk. He hadn’t discovered it until half-term break. I succumbed to the lure of reminiscing and offered a baking story of my own—I had once reached for poppy seeds but got black pepper, a mistake undiscovered until Bianca had taken the first bite of cake. While we chatted and laughed, Nuala watched over us like a mother hen.

  All the cakes were delicious, of course, but I concentrated on the chocolate, unable to resist the thick frosting that separated the layers and smothered the top. When Linus turned away to speak to Nuala, I took the opportunity to scoop up an errant blob from my plate and stick my finger in my mouth. I looked up to see Michael watching me, his eyes dancing as he reached up and tapped the side of his own mouth. I turned scarlet. What was that supposed to mean—was I talking too much? I gave him a haughty look and glanced away to the door as a man and woman plus two small children stepped in. Outside on the pavement, four bicycles had joined Linus’s against the lamppost.

  The woman spoke to Nuala in heavily accented English. “Goot morning. Tea?”

  Linus leapt up and spread his arms to the newcomers. “Guten morgen, wilkommen zu Smeaton-under-Lyme. Wie gehts?”

  The father burst into a smile and began speaking to Linus in rapid German, aided by the children, who bridged the gap between languages, their words and laughter filling the tea room to the brim. Linus’s greeting had exhausted my German vocabulary, and so I seized my opportunity and whipped round to Michael.

  “You won’t mention Rupert to him, will you?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard. But before Michael answered, my phone rang. I fished it out of my bag and took myself to the quiet seclusion of the ladies’, closing the door and leaning against the wall. I glanced at the screen before answering—I knew that number.

  “Beryl?”

  “Julia, I realize you don’t want me ringing you…”

  “Have you heard from Dad?”

  The tension in her reedy voice was poorly concealed. “No, but I have had a visit from the police.”

  I saw a vision of Beryl opening her door to find a policeman, which no doubt triggered a stab of fear in her heart, as she would think something had happened to Rupert. My face went hot with shame. “Then he told you about Kenneth Kersey. Did he say Michael and I were the ones who found the body?”

  “Yes, he did. You can imagine my surprise. When we spoke on Sunday, you didn’t mention going up to Marshy End. You said nothing about a murder. The police”—Beryl paused and took a breath—“want to speak to Rupert.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “What could I tell them? I told the sergeant Rupert had left his mobile behind, and I would ask him to ring the station when I heard from him. Julia, do you know where your father is?”

  “He isn’t speaking to me, Beryl—how would I know where he is?” My voice bounced off the walls that began to close in on me. It seemed as if Dad had vanished into thin air. I inhaled and exhaled slowly.

  “We don’t even know how he’s getting round. The garage didn’t arrange for another car.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut before I spoke again. “I believe he has my Fiat, Beryl. That’s what he’s driving.”

  “Your car?” Beryl asked, a sudden sharp edge to her voice. “He’s borrowed your car and instead of telling me that, you’ve let me worry and imagine all sorts of terrible things?”

  “I didn’t lend it to him, he took it. He has his own key, and he…let himself into my lockup. Perhaps he didn’t have time to ask.” Perhaps he knew I’d tell him to bugger off. “Look, Michael seems to think everything is fine. I’ll ask him to ring and tell you himself, all right?”

  “Yes, please ask Michael to ring.” What little anger Beryl had mustered had already dissipated. “And I’d like it if you’d stop by one day. When you have a chance.” That was the thing about Beryl—she’s always been quick to forgive, unwilling to cling to resentment. I, on the other hand, held on to it for dear life.

  “Yes, sure.” I rang off and glanced in the mirror before I returned to the tea room. In horror, I saw that smears of chocolate frosting formed parentheses around my mouth. I wet a towel and cleaned myself up.

  Linus had joined the family in the next room and was telling a story in German. Michael sat idly at our table.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I had chocolate all over my face?” I asked, sitting down and pulling my cold cup of tea closer.

  “I tried, you paid no attention—you were enjoying the cake too much. I agree the chocolate is quite fine, but that Battenberg—” He shuddered, and I laughed in spite of myself.
>
  The door opened. I stood up to assume my role and welcome the new visitor, but sat back down again when I recognized the caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh, Sergeant Flint,” I said in a low voice, “you’re here.”

  “Ms. Lanchester, your co-worker told me where to find you. I didn’t realize I’d also find Mr. Sedgwick—that’s convenient.” He said it in an easy manner, but it made me break out in a cold sweat.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” I asked too quickly. “Michael—Mr. Sedgwick—kindly offered to take the time to help us out here today. We’re firming up the menu for a café at Hoggin Hall.” That explained why I’d been eating so much cake so early in the day, but not what Michael, Rupert Lanchester’s new assistant, had to do with it. But that didn’t seem to matter, Flint’s attention had been drawn elsewhere—I saw his eyes flicker toward the last wedge of blackberry sponge.

  I feared Flint would settle down and ask for a fresh pot of tea. This would never do—I couldn’t let Linus see his TIC manager with a policeman. I looked at Michael, and he must’ve been thinking the same thing.

  He stood. “Sir, I’m sorry we’ve yet to get to the station and give our statements about Sunday. We can do that now—shall we drive over to Mildenhall?”

  “No need,” Flint said. “We can do it here.”

  Here? Where, here? Certainly not in Nuala’s Tea Room. Not at the TIC. My cottage? Absolutely not.

  “You live locally, Ms. Lanchester?” Flint asked. “Could we go there?”

  “Of course, Sergeant,” I said, instantly buckling to authority. “I’m not far.” My breathing became shallow as I heard “auf Wiedersehens” being said in the German room. We had only seconds. I caught Michael’s eye and jerked my head toward the door. “Why don’t you two go on ahead, and I’ll catch up.”

  Michael managed to sweep the sergeant out the door. I rushed over to speak to the visitors, using broken English as if they would understand that better. I complimented Nuala, promised to email Linus the proposed menu, and said my goodbyes. Out on the pavement, I went far enough to be unobserved from the tea room window and stopped. I sent Vesta a text saying I was delayed and would be back by lunch. She replied, reminding me of the two o’clock volunteer training at the Hall. I had the beginnings of a sugar headache.

  Chapter 10

  I hurried up the high street, but as I rounded the bend, something caught my eye down a lane. I stopped, backed up a few steps, and stood still for a moment. The only movement was a woman coming out of the post office with parcel in hand, but it had seemed as if there had been someone else there only a second ago. I shook my head and hurried to catch up with Flint and Michael two doors away from my cottage as a chilly gust smacked me in the face. I let them in, pushing the door as it caught on the stone floor. “A good planing would set that right,” Flint said as they watched me put my shoulder to it to close.

  “Yes, thanks, I’ll certainly get on that,” I muttered, my back to them as I dropped my bag on the bottom step. “Sergeant, please sit down.” I gestured toward the kitchen table, big enough for three if no one breathed.

  “The thing is,” Flint said casually, “it would be better if we could do this one at a time—that is, if you’ve another room we could use.”

  My face froze. Isn’t this some sort of interrogation tactic—separate them so that they can’t compare stories? And anyway, just where in my tiny cottage did he think that was going to happen? Was I supposed to send Michael up to my bedroom while I confessed to…wait a minute, I had nothing to confess. I cleared my throat.

  “Of course, I understand,” I said in my best TIC voice that conveyed total acceptance of a preposterous idea. “I tell you what, why don’t you and Michael step outside to the terrace and I’ll stay in here and put the kettle on.”

  Michael glanced out the French door that led to a tiny bistro table and two chairs that, although inanimate objects, looked as if they were shivering. When he turned back to me, I refused to meet his gaze.

  “That’ll do,” Flint said. “I appreciate you letting us come here—it’s always a good idea to get your stories down while they’re still fresh.”

  Or to prevent us from making something up—too late for that. The two men settled outside at the table, Michael with hands in his pockets and Flint pulling out a notebook and his mobile. I filled the kettle.

  —

  I drank my tea leaning against the counter, imagining the policeman’s questions and Michael’s answers. Flint had his back to me, but I could see Michael, who appeared calm. He sat up straight, nodding or shaking his head as he talked, occasionally pulling a hand out of his pocket to gesture. At one point he paused and squinted toward the honeysuckle at the bottom of the garden. Flint said something, and Michael replied. I left them to it, and took my tea to the sitting room, but curiosity drew me back just in time to see the two men stand. It hadn’t taken nearly as long as I thought, and they were back indoors before I’d drained my mug.

  “Well,” Michael said, walking to the front door, “I’ll be on my way.”

  Flint hung back in the kitchen near the kettle, but I followed Michael.

  “Don’t go,” I said, hurrying round him to stand in front of the door.

  He winked, and I glanced over his shoulder nervously. “I’m sure the sergeant doesn’t need me hanging about,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  When Michael had tugged the door closed, I drew myself up to face the music and turned to Flint. “Tea?”

  We settled at the table—indoors. Flint opened his notebook and drew out his phone, which he used as a recorder. At his request, I related Sunday’s events as I knew them.

  “Ms. Lanchester, Mr. Sedgwick told us that, as this is a new post for him, you had offered to smooth the transition.”

  Good, we’re sticking to that story. And it wasn’t far off the truth. Since Sunday afternoon, as Michael and I stood close to Kersey’s body on the bank of the Little Ouse, this “training” had become fact in my brain. Yes, we went up there looking for Rupert, but think of the advice I’d given Michael on his new job—no one else could do that, only me. And Dad had nothing to do with Kersey’s death, so why even bring his name up? “I’m happy to help, of course,” I said.

  “I believe you said your father was in Cumbria?”

  “Yes, Cumbria—at least, I believe that’s what he said.” That sounded good—vague, but not too vague.

  “He’s got a great talent, doesn’t he?” Flint smiled. “He’s teaching the whole country to pay more attention to nature, yet we don’t even know we’re being taught. Why, my little one won’t let me cut the long grass near the field until we’ve made sure there are no lapwing nests. And hedgehogs as well—we must look out for them.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “Nature as a whole, not individual parts.” I liked this—Flint had a good grasp of Dad’s mission in life.

  “Did you know Kenneth Kersey?”

  The question made me jump—I thought we had gone off in a different direction. “I’d seen him once or twice,” I said, stumbling over the words. “And, of course, his name is often in the news, isn’t it?”

  “Have you had dealings with anyone else from his company, Power to the People, through your work? Your previous job, that is.”

  I shook my head, although it was more of a vibration than a confident denial. “No. Well, I may have read up on them, you know, as there seemed to be some discussion recently about the company’s tactics in choosing a site for the new wind farm.” Too close, Julia—don’t bring up the wind farm.

  “We’re also trying to get hold of the company’s managing director—Oscar Woodcock. Have you met him?”

  “No.” Only because I’d stayed well away. Woodcock and Rupert had had a run-in when Dad showed up at the potential wind-farm site near Weeting Heath when Power to the People had been filming a promotional piece. But I’d seen photos, and I’d heard Dad’s description of him—Oscar Woodcock, he said, had eyes like a shark’s: cold, dark, dead.
/>   “Your father had met both of them, of course. And argued with them both. Publicly.”

  “He had met them, yes. But I wouldn’t describe their encounters as arguments, more…disagreements. It was nothing personal.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with your father?”

  I blinked. “Friday—I saw him just before he left for this research trip.”

  “We’ll need to speak to him as soon as possible. Do you have his mobile number?”

  Was this a trick to see if I’d confirm Beryl’s story? “I do, of course, but I believe he forgot to take it with him on this outing. At least that’s what…” I stopped, unable to choose the next word without it choking me—his wife, my…“Beryl told me. Have you spoken to Beryl?”

  “It’s odd, isn’t it?” Flint asked. “We’ve become so accustomed to instant communication—always have our mobile phones at the ready. Hard to believe he could just leave it behind.”

  I was preparing an answer to that camouflaged accusation, but Flint didn’t seem to expect one. “What vehicle was Rupert driving on this research trip?”

  “Driving?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Flint said mildly. “Is it his old Range Rover?”

  “No, he’s borrowed my car for this trip. Is that a problem?”

  “I’ll need those details.”

  I swallowed hard and gave them—make, model, number plate. Flint flipped his notebook closed and stopped the recording. “That’s all we’ll need for now.”

  Released. “Do you have any idea who did this to Mr. Kersey?”

  Instead of answering, Flint stuck his hand in his pocket. “Here’s something, now. Do you know what this is?”

  He drew out a plastic bag that held a small, wrinkled square of paper with what looked like a series of numbers and letters. The letters reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think of what.

  SW to show 30.04 RM WC

  “Is it a betting slip?”