The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  I couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but I knew he was watching me. “Why do you think Rupert might be up here?” he asked.

  I shrugged. It was a guess, at best. But it was action. “We often come up this way and walk across the bridge. The police are back there, closer to the cottage—they haven’t got this far yet. And I won’t be told to sit and wait.”

  “God forbid,” Michael said, and squeezed my hand. “Lead on.”

  Another minute or two, and I pointed ahead and said, “There, that’s the footbridge. We’ll get over it and begin searching.”

  At the crack of a twig, Michael’s grip on my hand tightened. He pulled me back as we saw a movement ahead. We didn’t speak, we barely breathed—we watched. Willow branches hung low and obscured our vision, but a flash of something pale hunkered down near the bridge sent a shiver of fear through me—perhaps Flint was right, this was a trap and someone lay in wait for us. A moment of stillness. No, just a badger on a nightly hunt, I told myself, not Dad’s captor.

  I dared not call out—I had at least that much self-control—but I was too charged up for more caution. I looked back as a silent signal to Michael and began to creep forward.

  Our movement seemed to trigger other movement—I saw it again, badger or person. We froze, and the form stopped. We were only a few yards away when all at once, it made a dash for the bridge—I rushed forward, but slipped on the side of the low bank and gave a shout as my left foot slid into the water.

  Arms reached out to seize me. I shouted, flailing, trying to fight off my assailant. My hand made contact, and he yelled in pain.

  “Jools!”

  “Dad!” I shrieked.

  Chapter 27

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up. I was flooded with relief, sobbing and clinging to him as if he might vanish. He put his hand up to his face, but not before I saw blood trickle from his nose.

  “What’ve I done to you?” I tried to get a better look, but he turned away.

  “I’m all right,” he said in a muffled but shaky voice. He took hold of my arm—as if to steady me or himself. “I’m very glad to see you. Is that Michael?”

  Michael had appeared at my other side. “Yes, sir.”

  “Dad, where’ve you come from? Did they hurt you? How did you get here? Who had you?”

  More questions were ready to tumble out, but they and all the answers would have to wait as shouts of “Police!” came from across the river, and we were under sudden attack from a host of lights that arced across the three of us, down to the riverbank, and onto the bridge.

  We raised our hands like bandits in some American cowboy film, and Dad shouted, “I’m Rupert Lanchester, and I’m here with my daughter and my assistant.” For some reason, that sounded funny to me—as if we were introducing ourselves to aliens. It was shock, probably, or the release of all that pent-up fear. I snorted with laughter and, out of the corner of my eye, saw Michael give me an incredulous look. But then he laughed, too. Dad raised his eyebrows at both of us.

  “It’s you they’re searching for, Dad,” I said. “I think they’ve probably recognized you.” He grinned, and I put my arms around him and squeezed, needing another confirmation that he was real.

  “Rupert?” Flint called as he came running over the bridge, raincoat flapping behind him. He bent over, hands on his thighs, breathing heavily, and then stood up and put his hand out. “We’re quite glad to see you. Detective Sergeant Flint.” Flint eyed us. “I suppose I should’ve asked your daughter where to look instead of beginning in all the obvious places. Are you injured?” he asked, noticing the dark smear under Dad’s nose.

  “No,” Rupert replied, not looking at me. “Just ran into a branch.”

  “Are you all right to walk? Can you make it to Marshy End?”

  Dad straightened his back at the suggestion that he could possibly be so frail. “I’ve walked the six miles from Brandon. I’m sure I can hobble on a few more steps, Sergeant.” His voice softened. “Although I wouldn’t mind the light from one of your torches showing me the way. Julia?”

  “Yes, Dad, I’m coming,” I said. “Michael?”

  “You go on,” Michael said. “I’ll drive round.”

  A couple of officers stayed behind, and the rest of us crossed the footbridge and walked back single file in silence to the cottage. Dad followed me, and I kept turning back to make sure he was still there. He’d pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose, but gave me a thumbs-up each time I checked on him.

  When we came to the place where Kersey’s body had lain, blue-and-white tape still circled the spot. Rupert paused. “Is this where he was?”

  “Yes. But we’ve all the information we need from the scene—we can take down the barrier now.” Flint nodded to a female PC standing nearby before looking back at Rupert. “It’s time we hear what you have to say.”

  We arrived at the cottage, where Michael stood in the yard with three uniformed officers. He shook Dad’s hand. “Good to see you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” Dad said, “thank you for looking after Julia.”

  “I don’t need looking after.” It was an automatic response, but I saw the gleam in Dad’s eye. Well, if he can joke, then he must be all right.

  We moved indoors and straight to the kitchen, keeping our coats on. There was a damp chill indoors, and I reminded myself to come up for an evening or two and get a good fire going to dry the place out. I glanced over at Michael, and my face warmed of its own accord; perhaps he would like to come along.

  Flint and Michael stood while Dad sank into one of the chairs and rubbed his hands over his face; it sounded like sandpaper. I wet a tea towel and gave it to him, and he patted my hand before wiping the blood from his upper lip. His nose, swollen and red, looked like a clown’s. I filled the kettle and switched it on, leaned against the counter, and wrapped my arms round myself.

  My dad, sitting at the kitchen table waiting for his mug of tea. Look at him, I thought. He’s exhausted and dirty and has no hat on. His face is stubbly, and his eyes bloodshot; he’s been wearing the same clothes for days, and it looked it. Still, he had that dash of Indiana Jones about him—after Indy had been chased by that huge rock and those Nazis and a heap of snakes. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I didn’t want him to think me weak, so I snapped to, wiping my cheeks and sniffing. I turned to Flint, who had his hands on the back of a chair, leaning forward.

  “Can you catch him?” I asked. “He should be put away forever, whoever did this. Who did this to you, Dad? Who is he?”

  “He called himself Carl the Case,” Dad said.

  “Carl the Case?” Flint’s caterpillar eyebrows levitated. “Carl the Case? Are you certain?” Rupert nodded and Flint laughed. “He’s been a thorn in my side since I started at Mildenhall. Small-time crook, but he’s come to the attention of my detective inspector. I’d love to be able to deliver him up. But kidnapping seems beyond his ken.”

  “Indeed it was—he made a pig’s breakfast of the whole affair.” Dad shifted in his chair. “Sergeant, is it all right if I ring home before we go on?”

  “Yes,” I said, reaching in my bag and handing Dad my phone. “Phone Beryl now—it’ll be the best wake-up call she’s ever got.”

  Dad watched me, as if gauging the sincerity of my newfound concern. I held his gaze, giving a tiny shrug.

  Flint nodded, and Dad went off to his study. The sergeant walked into the hall to make his own phone call, and I stood at the sink, getting out mugs and pouring the tea. Michael found the milk and an entire packet of biscuits untouched at the production meeting, and came over to stand next to me. I threw my arms round him in a rush of relief and joy.

  “Those two magpies came through, didn’t they?” he asked, his eyes a sky blue. “Good news today.”

  “I think we’re well into tomorrow by now, but yes, they did. And so you must admit that they do carry messages.” I glanced toward Dad’s study. “How do you think he looks?” />
  “Tired, but fine. How are you doing?” he whispered in my ear. I could feel his breath on my hair.

  “I’m all right, really.” But made better by his kiss.

  Michael and I jumped apart when Dad walked in. He pretended not to have seen anything. He looked lighter, as if bit by bit he was regaining his real self after losing it in captivity. He smiled. “There, now. All’s well.”

  Leave it to a man to simplify that exchange. I’m sure Beryl collapsed in tears of relief—as I had almost done. “She’ll be waiting up for you now,” I said.

  “She wanted to drive here straightaway, but I said I was well taken care of, and perhaps she could collect me from the Mildenhall police station. Was that all right, Sergeant?”

  Flint stood in the doorway. “Of course, sir. But first, we’ll need to hear what happened. Do you know why you were taken?” Flint asked.

  Dad shook his head. “I don’t think Carl knew why. It was a job he was hired to do. And I don’t believe I was the intended victim—he took me instead of someone else. I’d say Carl isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  “We’ll need for you to start at the beginning,” Flint said as he pulled out his notebook and pen.

  “You want to know why I was camping on the Fotheringill estate?”

  “No, sir, before that. You’ll need to account for your whereabouts on Saturday and Sunday last. Did anyone see you during that time—anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

  “Hang on,” I said, setting Dad’s tea in front of him hard and sloshing the tea. “Are you accusing him of murdering Kersey?”

  “I am not,” Flint said, keeping his voice even and neutral—an irritating skill they must learn in police school. “Everyone’s movements must be accounted for during a murder investigation, Ms. Lanchester.”

  “He’s doing his job, Jools,” Dad said. He glanced to the counter and at me and asked in pretend innocence, “Is there any sugar?”

  I wiped up the spilled tea with a tissue from my pocket, reached for the sugar bowl, and handed it over. “Go on, then,” I said. He gave me a wink, and in went three spoonfuls. He dunked a biscuit and took it in one bite. I shook with anger at this Carl who would starve my dad.

  “Did Carl write that letter?” I asked, ready to blame the new villian for all our woes.

  Rupert shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Jools. The letter”—he looked at Flint—“you know about the letter, Sergeant?”

  “I do now,” Flint said. I met his eyes for a moment and then looked away. That had been part of the information we’d held back until disgorging everything the afternoon before at Dad’s makeshift campsite.

  “I never meant to cause such a stir,” Dad said. “I sometimes take a day or two to myself—to work, to think about new projects.”

  “A day or two. A week,” I said.

  Dad blushed as he recounted his movements on Saturday when he’d left Cambridge. “That letter was on my mind, and I don’t mind telling you that I was worried. I didn’t want anyone to know where I was. I thought it would be better to leave the Rover and drive something completely different, so I took it to my usual garage and made my way to your village, Jools, to…borrow…your car.”

  “And you were quite welcome to it,” I said.

  “Well, no one expects Rupert Lanchester to drive a Fiat 500, so I was free. I stopped off at the Wheaten Cairn on my way up, had a chat with Val and a coffee. Came up here, settled in to have a good think—and to see Kenneth Kersey. He wanted to meet me early on the Sunday morning—eight o’clock. He had something to tell me—well, I thought I knew what it was. Oscar Woodcock had set him to watching me, hoping to find something to discredit me in this battle about the wind farm. Kersey had been hanging about at the Cairn for months.”

  “I remembered that,” I said. “You spoke to him.”

  “I did—no harm in that. I thought he rather enjoyed himself at the pub, and I believe he came to regret this spying. But he never showed here at Marshy End that Sunday morning. I thought he’d had a change of heart, and so I left. That was about noon. But no one saw me, Sergeant—that was the point of getting away.”

  “Did you go directly to camp on the Fotheringill estate?” Flint asked.

  Dad shook his head. “I headed west with no real destination. Ended up at a bed-and-breakfast in Lupton—Cumbria—for two nights.”

  “Cumbria—I was right!” I said to Michael in triumph. He grinned.

  Flint turned to me.

  “Just as I said he was.”

  “It was Tuesday before I heard about Kersey. Although the details were sketchy, it sounded as if it happened near here. But I still didn’t know what it would have to do with me. My mind was on other matters, and I wanted to go back to Smeaton and have a talk with my daughter. I wasn’t sure how well that would go over—so I held back and set up camp near the brook. I suppose I was getting up my nerve.”

  Shame warmed my face. Dad reached over, squeezed my hand, and shook his head.

  “It’s a lovely spot. I wondered about those old caravans.”

  “We’re going to do them up,” I said. “Make it a small holiday campsite. Perhaps offer a class on birdwatching.” The thought had just occurred to me. How did I get so full of ideas?

  “That’s an inspiration,” Dad said.

  “Sir,” Flint said. “We wanted to talk with you.”

  “You wanted to ask me about Kersey, but I have no information for you. And I had no idea that Michael and Julia were at all involved. I’m so sorry, Jools.” I waved away his concern, and he continued. “I realize now that it was not the best decision I made—staying hidden—but it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it’s done now. I’ll have to live with the consequences.”

  “What consequences?” I asked Flint, alarmed at the thought that Dad might be punished. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “This is an ongoing investigation, Ms. Lanchester, and we are delighted to have Rupert’s input on the matter.” That made me feel better until I realized it didn’t mean anything.

  “Well, there I was, out of sight, I thought—except for those two women campers, who kept to themselves.”

  “Was that you—in the village watching me?” I asked.

  “Yes, was it, sir?” Michael asked with a quick look my way. “Because up till now, I’ve been the suspect.”

  “I looked in on you Thursday, but only the once. And after I spoke to the two of you that afternoon, I went straight home—didn’t even bother to pack up, because I knew I’d be back the next day to meet you, Jools. Carl must’ve been watching the house, because yesterday—well, Friday morning, whenever that was—he followed me from Cambridge,” Rupert said. “I’d tried to ring you, Sergeant, but you weren’t available. So I thought I’d clear my camp, have lunch with my daughter, and then phone you again. Midday, I was about to fold up the tent, when the car turned in.”

  Dad’s eyes glazed over as if he saw past us and back to that moment when Carl approached. Even though he sat in front of me safe and unharmed, I felt a chill run through me.

  “ ‘Rupert Lanchester?’ he asked. I said yes. ‘You’ll need to come with me.’ I asked why, who was he, what was this about, but all he said was that he had a gun.”

  I cried out and sank into a chair. Dad patted my hand, but his face had drained of color as he told the story, and now his red swollen nose stood out like a beacon against his pale skin.

  “At that point, I didn’t think it was my place to argue. The women campers were behind one of those caravans, and I don’t believe he had noticed them. But I certainly hoped they saw him.”

  “They came into the village with your hat,” I said. “That’s the first I knew.”

  “He tied my wrists and told me to get in the boot.” Dad passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away the memory. “We stopped after an hour or so, he took me from the car to a plain room in some industrial area. Concrete floor, no windows, two chairs, and a small
table. And there I sat.”

  “He never phoned with a ransom demand,” I said. “What did he want?”

  Dad shrugged. “I believe Carl realized his mistake quickly. I heard him on the phone, arguing. Then it was quiet until this morning, when Bertie walked in.”

  “Bertie?” I asked in amazement. “Carl and Bertie? They sound like a music hall act.”

  Dad grinned, and relief spread over his face. “Bertie took one look at me and said, ‘Bloody hell,’ and walked out again. I heard their voices outside the door. ‘And what did you think you would do with him?’ Bertie said. ‘That’s why I rang you, Bertie,’ Carl replied, ‘I knew you would take care of it.’ And Bertie said, ‘I’m finished cleaning up your messes, Carl—I told you that.’ ”

  “How did you escape?” Flint asked.

  “That was no escape—Bertie released me. I think you’ll find, Sergeant, that Bertie’s quite willing to give you all the information you need to put Carl away. He’ll probably ring the station himself. I know he’s been involved in some…questionable activities in the past, but I hope you’ll go easy on him—Bertie has a kind heart.”

  “Dad.” I stood up, indignant. “He kidnapped you.”

  “Carl kidnapped me—Bertie let me go. Especially after my mobile phone began to ring. Bertie had put it on the charger, although Carl took exception to that and pulled it out of the wall after a few minutes. Still, it had enough power to ring—all afternoon it rang. Bertie showed me the number. ‘That’s my daughter,’ I said.”

  “I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.”

  Dad beamed. “ ‘You know how daughters worry about their dads, Bertie,’ I said. He does know, as it turns out—has a daughter himself who’s a big fan of the program. So he let me go, dropping me on the A1065. ‘You’ll find a lift from here, won’t you?’ he asked. But it was a fine evening. I knew my way and I was happy to be free and walk. Bertie sent you that text with the last bit of battery power. RL @ ME. I knew you would recognize it.” He turned to Flint. “It’s how I keep my field notebook—you’ve got to have a system so that when you go back to read it, it’s all quite clear.”