The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  Gavin’s look became guarded. “When?”

  “At the pub after the meeting at Marshy End.”

  He looked past me and was silent for a moment. “What’s this about Rupert? The coppers wouldn’t say. Is he in trouble?”

  I feigned interest in my car keys. “No, Gavin, he’s fine. Sorry, must run.”

  Chapter 25

  The drive to Cambridge seemed to take no time at all as I kept busy assigning blame first to one person then another—no longer able to distinguish between the guilty letter writer, the guilty murderer, and the kidnapper, I threw everyone in the same vat. Light was beginning to fade when I turned onto our street and saw, just ahead of me, two magpies sitting atop a garden wall. My heart leapt—two for joy. Perhaps there would be good news today. At the house, I saw Stephen’s car parked in the drive, and in front was Michael’s sea-green Fiat 500.

  I knocked, but opened the door right after, sticking my head in and calling “hello.” Beryl emerged from the kitchen looking wan, but gave me a generous smile. I kissed her on the cheek. “Is Stephen here?”

  She nodded. “He and Michael went down to The Eagle for a pint.”

  I frowned. “Do they know each other?”

  “They do now,” Beryl said. “When Michael arrived, he asked for you, and Stephen might’ve thought…well, the next thing I knew the two of them were heading for the pub.”

  This could be trouble. I had known Stephen my entire life, and he could tell God knows how many tales on me—I only hoped he wasn’t regaling Michael with any of them at that moment. “Should I go down and fetch them?”

  “No, they’ll be back soon. Thanks for asking Stephen to stop—we’ve had a lovely afternoon. Come help me in the kitchen.”

  Beryl already had a good start on a meal—beef simmered in red wine. Roast potatoes had just come out of the oven. I started on the salad.

  “You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, happy that she had. We’d spent many a Sunday lunch with Beryl, and I knew her cooking well.

  She shrugged. “Keeping busy helped. Stephen can’t stay, but I’ve asked Michael.”

  I heard voices on the path and headed for the door. Just as I reached it, a huge roar of laughter erupted from the front step. I flung the door open, and Michael and Stephen froze at the sight of me.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  Stephen walked past me and said, “I was telling Michael about your Mel Gibson fetish.”

  “Was that necessary?” I asked. Michael said nothing, but his lips twitched.

  “It doesn’t do to keep secrets, darling,” Stephen replied, patting my cheek. “Does it, Michael?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Michael said.

  —

  Stephen said his goodbyes, and during dinner the three of us kept our eyes on our phones and our ears out for the door while maintaining idle chat.

  “Everything all right at the tourist information center?” Beryl asked.

  I nodded. “Visitor numbers are picking up, and we’re staying busy.” Sparkling conversation, Julia—you sound like a quarterly report. “We might have an outdoor summer supper.”

  “On the green?” Michael asked.

  “No, a string of tables down the high street.” I rushed on, telling them about my big idea, hoping it didn’t sound too crazy.

  When I finished, Michael said, “There’ll be great interest in that across the board—farmers, gardeners, chefs, families. A combination of food, history, and activities—that’s brilliant, that is.”

  My face flushed with pleasure. “Really? I haven’t quite persuaded Linus yet.” That was an understatement. “This is a leap for me.”

  “You have always been an excellent planner,” Beryl said.

  “I’m not very good at the big picture,” I replied. “I’m more used to dealing with the minutiae of events—renting the champagne glasses, counting out the knives and forks.”

  Michael smiled and shook his head. “I can come up with a hundred ideas, but I’m the one who forgets to order portable loos for an outdoor company picnic with two thousand people. There’s a crowd you don’t want to face after they’ve each had a few pints of cider.”

  At last, Flint rang Beryl. She put the call on speaker, and we all heard the sergeant say that the investigation was proceeding and they were doing all they could. In other words, there was no sign of Rupert and no word from his abductor. They had, at least, tracked down the women walkers who had stopped to camp outside of Lavenham. They did not get the number plate of the dark car, and they had no idea their fellow camper was Rupert Lanchester. They’d heard of him, of course, but had no telly at home, and so had never seen A Bird in the Hand.

  It wasn’t good news, but it was news and it would have to do for the moment. I heard that sense of determination in Flint’s voice and was grateful.

  The evening had turned out fine, and when we stood to wash up, Beryl opened the door to the back garden. In the dark, a constant call of pink-pink-pink sounded. Michael perked up his ears. “Blackbird,” he said to me.

  I grinned at his eagerness. “Yeah, blackbird.”

  Beryl went to her bath, and Michael and I finished cleaning the kitchen, after which I brought my mum’s magpie picture down to the sitting room.

  “Magpies,” Michael said. “What a surprise.” He studied the artwork and read the label on the back. “Is this what Rupert was talking about?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you see any today?” Michael asked.

  I smiled. “Two. Just as I got here.”

  “Two—that means good news, then.”

  “We’re running out of time for good news today,” I said.

  Beryl came in wearing her terry robe. “I’ve a bit of good news,” she said, taking an envelope from her pocket. “This letter arrived a few weeks ago. Rupert didn’t want to say anything about it—afraid it would sound as if he were bragging, but he wouldn’t mind you knowing.”

  Beryl looked pleased—her cheeks were flushed and eyes shining as she handed it to us.

  It was from the former president of Clare College, where Dad had been a fellow, informing Rupert that his name was being put forward for the Queen’s birthday honors list because of his exceptional work for the nation.

  A tide of emotion rose up inside me, filling my eyes with tears. I looked from Beryl to Michael. “My God—he could be knighted.”

  “He’s tried to downplay it,” Beryl said, “but he’s really quite chuffed. I knew you’d be pleased.”

  “This is wonderful. Do we need to do anything?” I asked.

  Beryl shook her head. “No. The person doing the nominating asks for letters of support from people who know Rupert well, who’ve worked with him. I’m sure it’s been no trouble finding them.”

  “Did you know about this?” I asked Michael.

  He shook his head, smiling. “He never said a word to me. But you see now—the great impact he’s had, how he has affected people.” Michael’s eyes were like blue flames. “Rupert’s spent his life teaching about how we’re all connected—birds, wildlife, people. Acknowledging his work is huge. This”—he tapped the letter—“is proof that you can make a difference.”

  Here was a Michael I’d seen little of—enthusiastic, passionate. I was enchanted. He caught my smile and tried to shrug it off, his cheeks two spots of pink.

  “But we won’t know if he’s got it, will we?” I asked. “Not until the official announcement in June. He’ll be so pleased, really. Can you imagine—Sir Rupert?” I giggled.

  “Well deserved,” Michael said.

  We all three gazed at the letter, a warm glow amid darkening prospects.

  “Shall we have some cocoa?” I asked, delaying the end of the evening, giving the two magpies one more chance to prove their worth.

  “Yes, let’s,” Beryl said. “Will you make it?”

  I stood, and so did Michael. “Let me help.”

  “No,” I said, sh
aking my head. “You sit.”

  I stood over the pan waiting for it to simmer, alternating between a warm glow inside and a sharp pain in my stomach. It isn’t easy having one good thing and one terrible thing inside you at the same time. At last, I stirred in the chocolate, poured up the mugs, and added a tot of brandy to each.

  When I returned to the sitting room, it was to hear Beryl say, “I know he appreciates everything you’re doing.” I served our cocoa, and Beryl made her excuses. “You don’t mind, do you, if I take mine to bed with me? I’m sure it’ll help me sleep.”

  When she’d gone, Michael put his arm round me and I laid my head on his chest.

  “Who’s got him, Michael?” I asked. “Why was he taken—what good will it do someone to kidnap him?” I didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t receive one. “Thanks for staying this evening. It helped to have the three of us.”

  “Stephen stopped in the village to see you today,” he said.

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “He told me,” Michael said.

  “Mmm.” I put on a mock frown and looked down my nose at him. “You haven’t been spying on me again, have you? In the village, as you did in Cambridge that day?”

  “I’ve never been to the village except to see you,” Michael said, but his eyes took on the color of a dull sky. “Why? Have you seen someone?”

  “I don’t know—I just get the feeling someone’s right round the corner, watching. Just nerves, probably.” I looked down at our entwined fingers. “I saw Gavin on the way here—he stopped me on the road.”

  I felt Michael’s hand tighten. “What did he want?”

  I told him about the encounter. “Do you think that seeing a Sardinian warbler at Weeting Heath would stop construction of the wind farm?”

  “Does he think so?”

  “Maybe—at least I think that’s what he was talking about. I should try to find out more.”

  “You can’t do that, Julia—try to get information out of him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “I can do if it concerns my dad—if Gavin knows something.”

  “Does he?”

  I gave a reluctant shrug. “He respects Rupert—I don’t believe he would harm him. But I don’t think he cared for Kersey at all.”

  “Tell Flint—leave it with him. All right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t get that video taken down, but I’m trying to get it buried,” Michael said.

  “Buried online? How?”

  “I’ve uploaded loads of clips from the show and reposted older articles about Rupert. So that when someone searches his name, the positive news comes up first and the video is pushed far back.”

  That jogged my memory. “Look at this,” I said, leaning forward and rummaging through my bag until I found the Varsity.

  He read through the short article, frowning. “This is a hoax. That research wasn’t flawed—other scientists came right after Rupert and replicated it.”

  “Have you read the study?”

  Michael nodded. “He gave me a copy.”

  I squinted, trying to envision Michael in a lab coat, another stab in my guessing game into his past. “Did you used to be a scientist?”

  He grinned but didn’t answer, instead nodding to the paper. “Did you show this to Flint?”

  I shook my head. “Too many other things vying for top spot in my brain. I’ll tell him tomorrow.” My eyes watered as I tried not to yawn.

  Michael stood. “You should get some sleep.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” I said as he pulled me up off the sofa and we took our mugs into the kitchen. There, we stood in each other’s arms and I sighed deeply. A ping sounded from my phone, sending an electric current through both of us. Past eleven o’clock, any message now could only be important—but good or bad? We flew into the sitting room, reached the still-lit screen, and read the text:

  RL @ ME

  Chapter 26

  We stared at the screen. “RL at ME. RL at ME.” I repeated the phrase over and over.

  Michael looked from the screen to me, his eyes sparking. “RL—Rupert Lanchester.”

  “ME—at Marshy End,” I filled in with a rush.

  “Where did it come from?”

  Dad—or rather, the number of Dad’s pay-and-go mobile phone. I told Michael that I had tried the number all through the afternoon. “Someone must’ve noticed—someone must’ve heard.”

  “Is that text from Rupert? Was he coerced into sending it—just to put you in danger?”

  “Dad would never let that happen,” I snapped, fearful that what Michael had said was true. “And it doesn’t matter—it’s telling us where he is.”

  “He couldn’t have been at Marshy End all along—Flint said they’d searched the cottage and the area.”

  We were whispering furtively, even though Beryl could never hear us up the stairs and down the hall.

  “I’m going to find him,” I said. “Are you coming?”

  “Ring Flint,” Michael called as I ran to get my bag.

  “Yes, on the way.” We got to the door, and I stopped. “Wait.” I wrote a quick note to Beryl that said nothing. “Gone out—see you in the morning.” Gone to find Dad—that’s what I wanted to write, but the mix of fear and the possibility of joy froze my hand.

  —

  I went for my car, but Michael led me to his instead, and just as well—I wouldn’t have been good behind the wheel, as keyed up as I was. He drove, and as we hurtled through the darkness, we had the same exchange over and over. “He’s all right,” I would say. “Don’t you think he’s all right?” Michael would insist he was fine, and then we would change roles—he would ask, and I would answer.

  I didn’t forget to ring the police. Flint answered his mobile, and his voice went from fogged with sleep to totally alert when I said, “We think they’ve taken Rupert to Marshy End.” I explained, and ended with “We’re on our way now.”

  “If you arrive before the police, Ms. Lanchester, do not approach the cottage—do not even enter the drive. This could be a trap, and how much worse would it be for Rupert if you were snared as well.” His voice struggled, and I could imagine him pulling on trousers and pushing arms into his old raincoat while trying to talk. I wondered if someone shared his bed. Is this how the police live?

  I told him where to find the spare key—but surely he wouldn’t need it, because Dad would be there—rang off, and looked at Michael, who was concentrating on the road. “Flint will arrive before we do,” I said. Mildenhall station was only a few miles away from the cottage, and it would be another half hour before we could get there—perhaps a bit less, I thought as I glanced at Michael’s speed.

  —

  We were closing in when my phone rang. I jumped, and Michael jerked the steering wheel—we were that wound up. The number was Flint’s.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice catching in my dry throat.

  “Ms. Lanchester, Sergeant Flint here. We’re at Marshy End, and so far there’s no sign of Rupert.”

  The carefully crafted world of hope I’d built from one short text came tumbling down.

  “He isn’t there? Are you positive—have you looked in the shed, he might be hiding or something. The back garden, there’s a little playhouse, did you check that?”

  “Yes, we’ve looked,” Flint said. “We’ve officers at the end of the drive and looking along the riverbank where you found the body.”

  I took a sharp breath at his mention of Kersey. “Well, I’ll help them when we arrive. I can find him—the text said he was there.”

  “You will come straightaway to the cottage. Do not interfere with police business. How far away are you?”

  I could see the blue lights of police cars flashing in the distance as we crossed over the bridge—those must be the ones at the end of the drive. “Not close,” I said. “We’ve another twenty minutes—perhaps a half hour—before we arrive.” I cut the line before Flint could
respond.

  Michael took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at me.

  “Stop and turn round,” I said. “Now.”

  He slammed on the brakes, and the car almost made the turn by itself.

  I directed him back across the bridge that spanned the Little Ouse and then up a narrow lane—barely more than a track—that ran between the other side of the river and a field. “There’s a footbridge up a ways,” I said. “We’ll be able to cross there and begin looking ourselves, heading toward the cottage from another direction.” Our headlights bounced around in front of us as we hit huge potholes. “You should switch off the lights so they don’t see us.”

  Lights flashed across on the Marshy End side of the river. The searchers were not far away, but I hoped the distance was enough so that the car’s engine couldn’t be heard over the low rushing of the river. I held my breath until we were well past them.

  “Here,” I said. “Let’s get out here.”

  “Don’t you think we should leave this to the police?” Michael said, pulling to a stop. “We don’t know who’s out there.”

  “My dad’s out there, and I’m going to find him,” I said, opening the car door. “You stay here if you like.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before getting out, too. “Do you want a torch?”

  “No, we don’t want to call attention to ourselves.”

  He took a long flashlight out of the car’s boot but didn’t switch it on. “Could come in handy,” he said, taking my hand. “Are you sure about this?”

  I pulled him along.

  Starlight and a quarter moon—not much to go on, but if we were careful, it would be fine. “I think the bridge is a bit further up.” We stumbled down the narrow path along the low bank, batting away branches of alder and—I heard Michael curse—nettles. The river lapped along beside us. The night smelled of new green growth and last year’s decaying reeds, the ground spongy underfoot. We stopped every minute or two and listened. Once, off to our right, a call full of trills and warbles pierced the darkness.

  “My God,” Michael whispered.

  “Nightingale,” I answered, pausing for a moment. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”