The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  “Not as pleased as I am,” Michael said.

  “Will you stay? Dad’ll be here later for lunch.”

  Michael shook his head. “I’ll leave the two of you to it.” He collected his clothes, finally tracking down his socks, which had fallen through the stairs to the floor below. I exchanged his shirt for my bathrobe.

  I let him open the door, and Michael pulled hard to get a space wide enough to pass through. “You should get that fixed.”

  “So I’ve heard. I’ll tell Linus about it.”

  Michael walked out, but put his head back in. “Have dinner with me this evening.”

  My face flushed with pleasure. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  He watched me a moment. “Good. There’s a French place near me in Haverhill—we could try it out.”

  On his home turf. Must remember to stash a clean pair of knickers in my bag. “Sounds lovely.”

  —

  I had a shower after he left, my mind buzzing with the goodness of life. I intended to ring Bianca, but I ran out of time, and as I hurried along the pavement to the TIC, my mind switched to thoughts of lunch with my dad.

  I already had a plan. We’d go to the Royal Oak—Smeaton’s other pub—for a bowl of soup and a good talk. I promised myself I’d ask after Beryl and say something nice about her. These thoughts carried me into the TIC two minutes early. I switched the kettle on, dusted the counter, and was refilling the racks when Vesta arrived with a fresh pint of milk and questions.

  “How was your evening?” she asked.

  My scarlet face and unstoppable grin gave her the answer. I cleared my throat. “Nice—it was quite…nice. We were strategizing”—I saw Vesta’s eyebrows shoot up—“for the television show and Rupert’s upcoming schedule.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you were.”

  “I’m having lunch with my dad today.”

  “Well, that’s lovely, Julia,” Vesta said, looking delighted. “So you and Rupert have sorted everything out?”

  There she goes again, understanding more than I’ve told her. I shrugged. “Well, we’ve made a start.” I turned to face her. “You’ve a daughter in New Zealand, Vesta?”

  “Yes. Debra met a fellow and emigrated not long after her father died. Hard to believe my Des has been gone eleven years.”

  Now, that was proper mourning. I stuck a strand of hair behind my ear and looked at the floor. “My mum died last August. Dad married Beryl not six months later.”

  “And you think that’s too soon?” she asked. I met her eyes as that throb of anger swelled, but before I could speak, Vesta continued. “Couldn’t it be a testament to how happy their marriage was, that he would want to do it all again?”

  The bell above the door saved me from replying and signaled our workday had begun. We continued with a steady dribble of visitors and several phone calls until one o’clock. I had been standing out on the pavement giving directions to the abbey ruins and returned to find Vesta readying herself to leave for the Hall and her lecture to the volunteers. She stood at the mirror on the wall, pulled at the ends of her short hair, and applied a coat of pearly pink lipstick.

  “I’ll close up today, Vesta,” I said as she stood at the open door. “Don’t bother with coming back after the training session. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m awfully glad you and Akash are…moving forward.”

  She gave me a smart smile.

  “Perhaps you were right, Julia—we were slower than we should’ve been. We were too slow, but your dad was too quick. Is there a middle ground for you, do you think?”

  Somewhere between eleven years and six months seemed reasonable, but Vesta didn’t wait for my answer. After she left, I attempted to work but instead found myself browsing the rare-bird alert websites for Sardinian warblers, the name that Val had shouted as Gavin stormed out of the Cairn the afternoon before.

  There had been a stir of excitement online about recent sightings of this nonresident little warbler—seems as if one or more of them was flitting about the fens of Norfolk and edging its way to Suffolk. That’s what had Gavin agitated, and probably what his latest alerts had been about—“coming, my darling,” he’d said. Not a woman, a bird. But it didn’t tell me why Val Spore should be so concerned.

  My thoughts vanished when I heard the bell. I was like a dog at the track, leaping up from my seat and ready to throw my arms round my father.

  Colin Happer. “Daffy,” I almost began, but caught myself just in time. Perhaps he’d come to apologize for showing up at the production meeting with Gavin Lecky in tow, and so I should be gracious.

  “Colin, hello. What a surprise.”

  Happer took off his cap, revealing his crested blond hair that looked as if he’d used more than a dab of gel on it.

  “I say, Julia, it wasn’t easy finding you. I had no idea you’d left Cambridge completely. I couldn’t find Rupert. This nice woman—is that his wife?—answered the door at the house, and when I said I was looking for you, she told me that you’d moved here and are working in a tourism office.” He took stock of his surroundings, looking over the walls, counter, and racks of leaflets. “Is that true?”

  “Apparently,” I said, already weary of the conversation. “I’m actually the manager of the office here and responsible for all the public events and activities on the Fotheringill estate.” I straightened my nametag for emphasis. “Now, why were you looking for me?”

  Happer arranged his tie, unbuttoned and buttoned his jacket, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his upper lip.

  “Colin?”

  With that prod, he cleared his throat and began.

  “I’ve come to explain about yesterday.” He stopped. I waited. At last, he continued. “I see now that it was a mistake to throw in my lot with Lecky—he’s unreliable, and quite frankly, he frightens me a bit. How can Rupert take my proposals seriously if I’m standing side by side with some twitcher? The whole idea is absurd.” As if to prove his point, he laughed in a well-rehearsed manner.

  “Haven’t you been happy with reporting from the south coast? Rupert thought it went well.” Dad thought that Daffy Happer looked like a puffed-up toad on camera.

  “Twice—he’s let me on only twice, and both times last year. I want more camera time.” He threw back his shoulders and lifted his chin, tilting his head as if to give me his best side. “I deserve my own program.”

  “Sending a threatening letter isn’t really the proper way to go about getting one, is it?”

  His chin dropped, and his face colored. “Threatening letter? I’ve never done that.”

  “You do send letters, though, don’t you, Colin?” I asked, advancing on him. “Many letters to the BBC proposing ideas—perhaps one slipped out to Rupert, complaining because you believe he’s standing in your way.”

  “That’s nonsense, Julia. I’m not a criminal. I’m only stating fact: everyone thinks I should have my own program.”

  “Everyone?”

  “My fans,” he said with a modest shrug. “In Dorset.”

  Consisting of his entire family in the village of Nettlecombe.

  “I’m sure they’re all thrilled with you.”

  He regained a bit of bravado. “And I don’t want to share it with that twitcher talking about some obscure sandpiper he says he’s caught sight of. It would be wise of Rupert to talk to me directly—otherwise, I can’t predict what will happen.”

  What, I thought, you’ll send him a box of newts? Rupert didn’t need this now—and he would be coming through the door any second. I didn’t want Daffy to be here and invite himself along to lunch.

  “Well, Colin,” I said as I ushered him to the door and opened it. “You’ll have to take all this up with Michael Sedgwick—surely you knew that. Michael has the job of Rupert’s assistant now. It’s no good talking with me.”

  Happer’s shoulders sagged. “He’s no easier to work with than you,” he said. The meaning of his words seemed to dawn on him a second too late. “Not that you were
ever difficult, Julia—I didn’t mean that at all. Really, a hard taskmaster is just what’s needed on the set of a television program, especially when you’ve got someone like that layabout Blandy, who never finishes any of his assignments. I know that Rupert values your…”

  I’d got him out the door by then and waved goodbye, saying, “Thanks, Colin. Good to know Michael is doing such a fine job.”

  The bell tinkled more violently than usual as I slammed the door behind Daffy. I rested against it and thought hard about moving Colin Happer back to the top of my suspect list as the letter writer—the person who was envious of Dad’s success and wanted to latch on to his coattails for a bit of fame. True, the number one suspect changed moment to moment, and each name seemed to balance on a thin wire that wasn’t supported by any real evidence. Still, I would ask Dad about Happer in more detail over lunch.

  The door handle, resting up against my hip, rattled, and I jumped. Linus stood outside. I didn’t see his bike, but he did have his helmet under his arm and his trouser clip in hand.

  “Sorry, Linus,” I said, opening the door. “Not really good business practice to block the entrance, is it?”

  “Good afternoon, Julia. I’ve left my bicycle on the pavement—didn’t want to crowd the shop here.”

  The space was small, true, but it was only the two of us. Perhaps Linus had spotted a gaggle of tourists coming up the high street headed our way and wanted to be prepared. I returned to my place behind the counter and he walked over, placed his helmet on the counter, and heaved a sigh.

  “The boys are denying everything,” he said. “They insist they would never have closed you in your lockup. They say they were out on the high street that evening, and saw someone running from the lane.”

  “They’re claiming to be witnesses? Who was it—the person they saw?”

  Linus shook his head. “They came up with a preposterous description—a tall fellow who looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster dashing down the road. Do they expect us to believe that? It’s worrying, Julia, that something like that could happen here on the estate.”

  I tried to see what the boys saw, and a pricking sensation crept up my arms. I rubbed it away. “An isolated incident,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve put the proper fear of God into them.”

  Linus wasn’t finished. He shifted the small easel of TIC business cards an inch to the right and stretched his arms out, placing his hands along the counter. “I’ve something I want to discuss with you, Julia, and I’d like you to hear me out before you make a judgment. I know this may be a sensitive subject for you, but I believe you will understand that we must be open and encouraging to those people and groups who can see the error of their ways and strive to change their public image to be more in keeping with today’s concerns about the world around us.”

  I nodded politely. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but I was fascinated with his presentation. It had all the air of a rehearsed oration, as if he were standing up before the congregation at St. Swithun’s and beseeching them to benevolence toward the less fortunate.

  “I’ve been contacted by a British company,” Linus continued after clearing his throat, “that would like to invest in the estate—help us along as we make a go of it all. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important it is not only for the Fotheringill family seat, but also for everyone on the estate and indeed this part of Suffolk, that we continue to seek ways to balance the need for employment and housing with the important care of the environment.”

  He paused, and I took that as my cue. “Yes, Linus, I certainly understand, and I hope you know that we are doing everything we can…”

  Linus waved away my concern. “Your work is exemplary. I don’t want you to think this is about the TIC at all. It’s just that I didn’t want this to come as a shock to you. I want you to be open to all ideas that come along. But more importantly, I thought I’d better warn you…”

  The yellow flag didn’t go up fast enough. The door opened, the bell jingled, and in walked the managing director of Power to the People—Oscar Woodcock.

  Chapter 20

  I froze in my spot, staring up into those cold black eyes. He was a tall man in his forties, bigger in person than in the newspaper or on television, and broad like a bodybuilder with a thick, muscular neck and a chiseled face. His dark-blond hair was barely long enough to run a comb through. He wore a gray suit and a red club tie ill-suited to his coloring. Linus performed introductions.

  “Ms. Lanchester,” Woodcock said, holding out a hand to me. “What a delight to meet you. You are Rupert Lanchester’s daughter, aren’t you? I had no idea you were working here on the Fotheringill estate.”

  Liar, I thought. Liar—what’s your game? Are you the one who sent Rupert a menacing letter to get him to back off? And now you’re hoping to scare his daughter into going along with your latest ploy?

  I locked my eyes on Linus, shocked and light-headed that he would even entertain the idea of taking money from Woodcock. Linus saw my look and reddened, but smiled tentatively.

  “Mr. Woodcock,” I said. I reached across the counter, shook once, and pulled my hand away, wiping it on my skirt when they weren’t looking.

  “It was a particular desire of Mr. Woodcock’s to stop and meet you today, Julia,” Linus said, flicking a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I’ve told him a great deal about what you’ve accomplished and what our hopes are for the estate. He believes that investing in our enterprise today will make a difference tomorrow.”

  And you actually swallowed that? But I didn’t say it aloud. It can’t be Linus’s fault that Woodcock saw an opportunity to stick it to Rupert, but to use the Fotheringill estate for his egregious purposes was cruel.

  “We’ll leave you now, Julia,” Linus said. “I must get ready for my tour this afternoon—taking our volunteers round the Hall. And I know that Mr. Woodcock needs to be on his way as well.”

  Linus acted the border collie and herded Woodcock out the door before I could make a scene. As soon as they left, I followed, taking my bag along and feeling round inside for my phone as I stood out on the pavement. Linus’s bike leaned up against the wall by the chemist’s shop three doors down. He and Woodcock shook hands; Linus donned his helmet, clipped his trousers, and cycled away. I made straight for Woodcock and caught up with him just where the road bends to the left.

  “Mr. Woodcock,” I called. He held up and turned, looking not a bit surprised.

  “Yes, Ms. Lanchester.”

  “I don’t know what excuse you gave Lord Fotheringill for choosing his estate as a cover for your company’s dealings, but I know it isn’t out of goodwill. You knew I was here, and you thought it would be the easy way to get to my father. Will you try to hold the entire estate hostage? What do you think you can get for buying off Lord Fotheringill—Rupert’s surrender when it comes to your latest wind-farm scheme—the one north of here, near Weeting Heath?”

  His face revealed nothing. “I’m not sure I understand you. Are you turning down the offer of investment in the village and estate? An injection of cash would not only keep you employed, but also provide needed services to those less fortunate Fotheringill tenants. We have some exciting plans for the area—won’t you listen before you reject us out of hand?”

  “You don’t like what Rupert is doing—exposing the way you sidestep evidence. It’s already been shown what a wind farm would do to stone curlews on that site—the sort of damage the turbines could cause. Collisions, for one thing, but apart from that, the birds will be displaced from a highly suitable habitat. This is a special place for wildlife—move your wind farm elsewhere.”

  “Rupert has taught you well, Ms. Lanchester,” Woodcock said coolly, looking away.

  “You’re pretending to make amends here, because your plans are rubbish, and so is your public image—but you know that, don’t you? And so the next thing you’ll try is intimidation.”

  “Intimidation? I don’t know what you mean.�
�� Woodcock frowned, but it was a toy frown, not a real one. He was mocking me. “I assure you that the control of our image—the face of Power to the People—is well under control. I’m surprised you haven’t realized that already.”

  The “face” of Power to the People was dead.

  “Was Kersey getting cold feet about working for you?” I asked, and Woodcock’s jaw clenched.

  “Mr. Kersey lost his usefulness to the company long before he died,” Woodcock said. “I won’t have my people turning tricks while my back is turned.”

  Did Woodcock stop Kersey before he could talk to Rupert and blow the whistle on Woodcock and his dealings? A wave of nausea swept through me, and I broke out in a cold sweat as I realized I could be standing in front of a killer. For just a moment, I panicked, telling myself that perhaps I shouldn’t leap so readily into his line of sight. But I paid no heed to my own advice.

  “Did you do that to him?” I whispered.

  “You should watch your accusations, Ms. Lanchester—and tell Rupert to take care how close he gets. After all”—Woodcock’s smile was nothing more than a straight line across his face—“your father’s reputation isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, now is it?”

  My mind, like a pendulum, swung in a wide arc and arrived back at the letter. “You think threats are enough to get my dad to back off? You’re mistaken—and you’ll be in for an unpleasant shock when the police pay you a visit.”

  I whirled on the spot, charged round the corner, and ran smack into the two stout women walkers.

  “God, I’m so sorry,” I said as I chased after their walking sticks, which had clattered to the ground and rolled into the road. I glanced back round the bend. I noticed Woodcock, already to the next corner, in a heated conversation with someone I couldn’t see who stood deep in a shop doorway. Woodcock pointed an accusatory finger at the person. I returned to the pavement and gave the sticks to the women. “Did I hurt you?”