The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  —

  Well past eleven o’clock when I hurried into the TIC—I hadn’t meant to take so long, but I didn’t think Vesta would mind. Perhaps she didn’t, but Linus stood at the counter looking for all the world as if he’d like to be drumming his fingers on its surface. I felt both sets of eyes on me with barely a greeting between them.

  “I’m awfully sorry to be late,” I said. “I spent the night in Cambridge with my…” Completely thrown off at the word that had almost come out of my mouth, I stopped and tried to regroup. “With Beryl. Just a visit, you know, but I’m afraid time got away from me this morning.”

  A young couple with a child in a pushchair had followed me in, and I scurried behind the counter as Linus made room for them. He waited while I answered their question—what was the best route off the estate and on north to Thetford? As they left, the woman said, “It’s a lovely village. Do you have any summer events? We’d come out and stay at the pub for a night or two, wouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” I said, my brain lagging two seconds behind my mouth, “we have a summer supper planned with all local produce—a Suffolk farm-to-table evening—and a well-known chef overseeing it all. A line of tables down the high street that will seat two hundred at least, and lots of activities for little ones. And a beer tasting on the green. Please do come—we’ll start booking soon.” I’ve no idea where the beer-tasting idea came from.

  The couple agreed that it sounded like a lovely event and took a card and several leaflets about the estate before leaving me alone to face his Lordship.

  Vesta retreated to make noises with the kettle. Linus didn’t move.

  He frowned. “Julia, I don’t believe I’ve heard anything about this supper,” he said quietly, squaring his shoulders. “All events are to be approved, you do remember that? This sounds far too grand for us to undertake now—I don’t know how we could ever host it. Why, the logistics alone boggle the mind.”

  I swallowed hard. It did seem a little extreme, but now that I had said it aloud, I wouldn’t back down.

  “We could raise thousands of pounds for the pensioners’ housing, Linus—I’ve read about these events, they’re all the rage in America. I believe we can do it, and I already have details written up. It’s just that—I’m sorry I didn’t present it to you first. That wasn’t right, I realize.”

  Linus, straightening the hem of his jacket, looked everywhere but at me. I couldn’t read his face; usually he was so kind and encouraging, but now, what was it? Anger that I hadn’t followed protocol? Was he hurt I seemed to be excluding him?

  “Julia, I feel that there’s something else going on here, and I want to understand. I know that we all have our personal concerns. I don’t want you to think I’m not aware of that. But I hope that you remember the estate cannot be run into the ground by hare-brained ideas. And I hope that this isn’t an unconscious way of letting your feelings known about how I run the estate.”

  That knocked the wind out of me. This was Oscar Woodcock’s doing. He had insinuated himself into Linus’s good graces and brainwashed him against me for his nefarious purposes. My face grew hot.

  “I would never jeopardize my job or the estate for personal reasons,” I said with as much dignity as possible. “But, Linus, surely you can see that others may be manipulating you for devious purposes of their own.”

  “Also, Julia,” Linus continued, his cheeks turning pink, “I thought you should know that the police came to the Hall this morning with a photo of your father, asking if I had seen him on the estate.”

  I put my hand on the counter to steady myself. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that a “door-to-door” would include the door of Hoggin Hall?

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—there’s been an incident, you see. The police are involved.”

  “They told me nothing—has something happened to him? I thought. And what about you—were you all right? I don’t need to know the details of the situation, Julia, but I’m hurt that you would not come to me if you needed help.”

  The bell jingled, and I wavered between attending to business and explaining myself to Linus. But one visitor turned into another and soon a parade of people had entered with a barrage of tiny questions. Linus offered a reserved smile and said, “Why don’t we talk later?” He wheeled his bicycle out the door before I could answer.

  —

  Vesta and I worked steadily until almost lunchtime, when I collapsed at our back table and she made tea.

  I wrapped my hands around the mug and let its heat sink into my skin. Vesta sat across from me and waited.

  “I don’t know what they told Linus,” I said, “but the police believe—we believe—that someone has taken my dad and is holding him against his will.” The story spilled out, and as I told it I remembered I would soon need to tell it to my sister, too. But I was reluctant to upset Bianca now, when she was concentrating on her pregnancy and with three little ones swarming round her. For once, I thought, let me be the big sister. I’ll take care of things.

  Vesta watched me for a moment, and then covered my hand with hers. “You think of your father, Julia. Rupert is a strong, compassionate man. I believe he can take care of himself—don’t you? You’ll hear something good soon, I’m sure of it.”

  I smiled at her—there’ll be good news tomorrow. But wasn’t that today?

  “Don’t you want to be there in Cambridge—I don’t mind taking the rest of the day.”

  “No, thanks. I need to be here—and I told Beryl I’d be back this evening.”

  Vesta rose from the table. “Why don’t I fetch us sandwiches for lunch?”

  “An excellent idea,” I said, reaching for my purse.

  She waved me away and patted her pocket. “My treat.”

  I followed her out to the pavement and watched as she walked down to the shop. I remained where I stood, soaking up the sun. I couldn’t seem to get warm today—there was a cold core running straight through me.

  “Who is that beautiful blonde with the new ’do?” said a voice across the road.

  Chapter 24

  I turned with delight to see Stephen Fenwith approaching. The sunlight caught a red tint in his short curly hair—the curls were from his dad, but I knew the red was from a bottle. His turquoise frames matched the scarf wrapped round his neck. A geranium-red jacket and tight burgundy denims completed the look. Color loved Stephen, and Stephen returned the favor.

  I gave him a big hug, and he planted a kiss on me, then held me at arm’s length and began to fuss with my hair. “It suits you, but I don’t know why you didn’t come to me.”

  I shrugged. “Spur-of-the-moment decision—I thought I’d better do it while I had the nerve.”

  Stephen drew a circle in the air with his index finger. “Let me see this uniform.” I twirled. “I approve—conservative yet tight in all the right places.”

  I snorted. I hadn’t seen Stephen since Mum died, but we could always pick up in an instant. “It’s so good to see you. How are things? How’s the new man”—I dropped my voice to contralto and drew out the name—“Clive?”

  “He’s gorgeous and brilliant. I told you he teaches math at Sevenoaks in Kent? Proof that opposites attract.”

  “Not true,” I said, hooking my arm through his, “you’re gorgeous, too.”

  “And you? Anyone on the horizon?”

  “No.” But I spoke too quickly, and I saw Stephen raise an eyebrow.

  “All right, darling,” he said. “I’m on my way to see Mum—she’s told me what happened. Do you have any news of Rupert?”

  I shook my head, my good spirits sinking back to earth. “There’s been a murder involving someone he argued with, he’s had a crank letter that might be more serious than a crank, and now he’s been taken—kidnapped, Stephen. We have no idea if he’s all right.”

  “Your dad will always be all right,” he said, putting an arm round my shoulders and walking me back to the TIC. “Mum said you stayed at the house last night—rall
ying round and all that.” I made a noise of quasi-agreement. “Can’t the police track Rupert’s mobile? Isn’t that what they do on all the television shows?” Stephen asked.

  “Well, he’s…it’s just that…” I stared unseeing ahead of me. “My God, where is his mobile? Does he still have it? Have the police tried?” The pilot light inside me ignited as I snatched at this tiny hope. “Thank you,” I said.

  “And that other business?” he asked, making me look him in the eye.

  I had released my anger onto Stephen, too, when Dad and Beryl had married, but I had kept certain accusations—of which I was now quite embarrassed—to myself. Beryl was Stephen’s mother, after all. He, too, had been shocked, but took a view similar to Bianca’s, asking why couldn’t we let them be happy.

  “I shouldn’t’ve acted that way, I know. I’m all right now.” Mostly.

  “Julia Ruby Craddock Lanchester,” Stephen said, holding on to my shoulders for a good talking-to, “you are more than all right—you are fabulous.” His tone softened. “You remember that.”

  I blushed. “I miss you,” I said. “You’re so far away.”

  Stephen laughed. “It’s only London. Bee is in Cornwall—now, that’s the ends of the earth.”

  I gasped, remembering the family news. “Did Beryl tell you—Bee’s pregnant!”

  “I didn’t know—the fourth. What do you think—Etienne? Estelle? Say,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial smile, “you wouldn’t want to put a couple of quid down on whether or not they’ll double the ‘E,’ would you? Ethan Eberhardt? Evita Esther?”

  “Stop,” I said, laughing. “You don’t want to give them any ideas. Will you stay the night in Cambridge? I’ll be there when I finish work.” I could just do with an entire evening with a good friend.

  “I can’t, but I’ll see you before I go back,” Stephen said. “We’ve two royals coming in tomorrow ahead of a huge party at Kensington Palace. It’s quite hush-hush. I must put the fear of God into my people.”

  I walked him up the road to his car. “Stephen, I saw Fenny this morning.”

  “Dear old Dad,” Stephen said. “How is he?” He tried for a light tone, but there was always a note of sadness when the subject came up.

  “Fine, I suppose. It’s just that…I always thought that Fenny and Rupert were close friends.”

  Stephen’s eyebrows shot up briefly. “Did you? Well, perhaps Rupert thought that, too. Dad can put on a good show when it suits him, but he’s always been eaten up with envy. He so easily forgets all the times Rupert saved his skin—like that A-levels fiasco.”

  This rang no bell. “What A-levels fiasco?”

  “You hadn’t heard that one? A few years ago, Dad bought exam answers on the black market and fed them to his students. Because he wanted them to do well and get into the university of their choice? No,” Stephen said with a chuckle. “Because if the students he tutored did well, it would make him look good. ‘Giles Fenwith creates brilliant students’—that’s what mattered.”

  “How did Rupert get him out of that?” I asked as Fenny fell another notch in my estimation.

  “Dad asked for help—told Rupert that he thought he was buying study guides for his students, not the actual exam answers. Rupert chose to believe him and pleaded his case.” Stephen let out a sigh. “And so it goes.”

  —

  Vesta came up as I stood watching Stephen leave. “An old friend?”

  I nodded, smiling. We retreated to our worktable with our sandwiches. “How annoyed with me do you think Linus is?”

  “Not annoyed—he was worried for you. And he was a bit embarrassed about the police. It seems that when Thorne went to the door, he didn’t believe the two PCs were real, thought they were thieves casing the joint, you know. And so”—she giggled—“he rang for the police and a whole other set of PCs came out.”

  I snickered. “Poor Linus.”

  “Julia, I saw that idea of yours on the computer—the summer supper. I think it’s splendid. You’ll get his Lordship to come round, I know you will.”

  “If I don’t lose my position first,” I said, head in my hands. “I can’t believe I ran out of here and left the place wide open.”

  “Good thing Michael came looking for you.”

  “Yes.”

  The phone rang and Vesta answered, beginning a conversation about the Suffolk walking festival. I remembered my revelation about Dad’s mobile and rang Flint.

  “No phone at the site, Ms. Lanchester. We have tried ringing Rupert’s number, but as you say, the battery must be dead.”

  And I didn’t suppose Dad’s captor would charge the phone for him.

  His captor. My stomach began to tie itself in knots. I reached for my phone again. Any action was better than inaction. I rang Dad’s number.

  No answer, of course—but here’s a curious thing. The call did not go straight to the usual “unavailable” announcement signaling a dead battery or a switched-off phone. Instead, it rang and rang, as if it were in working order. As if someone should answer.

  —

  We were quiet the rest of the afternoon. I continued to ring Rupert’s phone every few minutes while pricing wall racks online—we would soon have more leaflets than slots. Vesta sat over a last cup of tea, reading my copy of Varsity.

  “Julia, there’s an article here that mentions Rupert. Did you see it?”

  I looked over her shoulder and saw the headline: “Shell Game for Magpies: Charges of Faked Research Follow Popular Birdman.” My eyes flew over the few paragraphs. According to an email from an anonymous source, “certain discrepancies” had come to light concerning a study on the intelligence of magpies conducted by former Clare College lecturer Rupert Lanchester several years ago. Another former Clare College fellow, Giles Fenwith, had removed his name from the research, which the university had refused to publish. Dr. Peter Drabwell was quoted as calling for an investigation into the matter. “Fenwith,” Drabwell was quoted as saying, “apparently knew nothing of the matter.”

  I felt a stab of pain as if the knife had been plunged into my own back, not my father’s. “It’s him—them. Giles Fenwith and Peter Drabwell. They did this to Dad. All those years ago, Rupert’s influence saved Fenny’s reputation. Dad set him up as a tutor in Cambridge—better than teaching at some Merseyside technical school, isn’t it? And this is what a man gets when he helps a friend?”

  Vesta got up and guided me into a chair. “Sit. Catch your breath. Then explain what all that means.”

  Before long, Vesta would be an expert in the recent history of the Lanchester family. In this latest installment, I explained about the letter and listed my suspicions about its author, ending with Fenny and Boris Karloff, aka Dr. Peter Drabwell. Were they academics turned thugs—now guilty of abduction?

  —

  “I won’t be alone this evening,” I assured Vesta as we closed for the day. “I’m going back to Cambridge to stay with Beryl. Sergeant Flint will give us an update on their progress.”

  Such as it was. I stopped at my cottage to gather a few things, but found myself reluctant to leave. I filled the feeders, made a cup of tea, and sat on the terrace with my Observer’s Book of British Birds, browsing the pages, which I knew by heart. If Michael had been there, I’d’ve given him a rundown of my favorite garden birds—robins, coal tits, chiffchaffs. I looked up as a fat wood pigeon descended on the tray feeder and scared away a cluster of little birds.

  I finished my tea and set off for Cambridge, but I hadn’t got far before a dark-red Subaru overtook me, pulling in front and causing me to slam on my brakes.

  Gavin Lecky hopped out of his car, as did I.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

  He marched up and came close. “Did you set that copper on me?”

  I stuck my finger in his face. “Do you know where my dad is?”

  “No, I don’t know where he is—did you tell them I did?”

  “What have you and Daffy got plan
ned, Gavin? Have you been following Rupert around, harassing him? Are you trying to make him look bad so that you’ll have a chance at a television program of your own?”

  “Ah, Happer’s clueless if he thinks he can replace Rupert.” Gavin backed off, crossed his arms and leaned against my Fiat. “I don’t want that—but rare birds, they deserve something. People would like that sort of thing.”

  “Well, you should talk to Michael about it,” I said. Gavin gave me a sly look. “Anyway, what did Flint ask you that was so bad?”

  Gavin stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “Coppers make me nervous. I’ve got form—GBH.”

  GBH—grievous bodily harm. Gavin must’ve spent a few months in prison for that.

  “It was about six years back,” he continued. “Some eejit dropped his camera right on top of a reed warbler’s nest at Tetney Marshes, and we had a bit of a set-to.” Gavin shrugged. “I broke his jaw.”

  Not many would come to violence over a bird. “You knew who Kenneth Kersey was, didn’t you? You know he’s dead.”

  His eyes cut to me and away. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “that was convenient, now wasn’t it?”

  “Did you meet him at the pub?”

  Gavin got in my face again. “It’s too easy in this country to pave over nature. I won’t be a part of it. A misplaced building is lost habitat. I won’t be told what I can say and what I can’t say—nobody orders Gavin Lecky around.”

  I shrank away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. A penchant for violence, explosive anger—when I added up these bits of information, the sum was the possibility that he had taken revenge on the wind-farm fools by killing Kersey. I moved slowly to my car door, but remembered something else.

  “Were you talking with Val about Sardinian warblers?”