The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  “No.” I shook my head. “Not the letter for the honors—the crank letter to Dad, the one filled with threats.”

  Fenny frowned and pulled his head in like a turtle until a double chin appeared on his full face. “I wrote no crank letter, Julia,” he said, but the rising color on his face said he did. “What do you take me for?”

  Cue Karloff. Dr. Peter Drabwell, walking as silently as any movie mummy, appeared at my elbow.

  “He’s telling the truth, Julia—for once.” Drabwell stood close and smiled down at us. I shifted away from him, and winced as my toe complained. “Giles had no hand in it. I thought it was a nice touch. Something to set Rupert on edge—a good foil to the usual sickeningly sweet portrayal.”

  “Whatever do you have against him?” I asked. “What did he do to you?”

  “He cheapened science, that’s what he did,” Drabwell said, dropping the smile. “Popular science isn’t science at all—it’s television rubbish. He’s tarnished not only his own reputation—he can do what he likes with that—but the preeminence of the academic life. That he would choose teaching children to make starling finger puppets over a respectable life of research is absurd. And to call attention to a person who does that by offering him one of the highest honors of the nation is criminal.”

  “Criminal?” I shouted, and then took a breath and lowered my voice. “I’ll give you criminal, Dr. Drabwell—your threatening letter has been handed over to the police, so you can expect them to be calling at your high-and-mighty research office door any day now.” I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a young man with a satchel across his shoulder—one of Fenny’s tutorial students, most likely, getting an earful. Fine with me.

  Drabwell looked aloof and didn’t answer, but I needed no provocation to continue.

  “And not only that, but the hoax you’ve carried out on the Varsity—calling into question Rupert’s paper on magpies—what do you think the staff of a student newspaper will do when they discover they’ve been had?”

  “Ah, the student newspaper,” Drabwell said, his smile returned. “Did you know about that, Giles?”

  I saw Fenny go red.

  “There was nothing wrong with the research, was there, Fenny?” I asked. “And you didn’t take your name off it voluntarily.”

  “That paper could’ve made my career,” Fenny said, “but instead I end up here,” he said, and jerked his head back toward the Guildhall, where his student stayed put and continued to listen.

  “And that was everyone else’s fault but your own? Perhaps it taught you to choose your affairs a little more carefully. Dad should’ve let those wronged husbands have at you.”

  Drabwell stuck his nose in the air. “In point of fact, Giles and I have no knowledge of an email sent to the Varsity. Nothing to do with us.” Even as he denied it all, he couldn’t cover a smug smile.

  The petty vindictiveness of their actions astounded me. They could be up to anything. And in a flash, my mind raced back to my lockup with me inside, and the rowdy boys saying they saw Frankenstein’s monster running up the high street.

  “Did you lock me up in my own garage last week?” I pointed a finger in Drabwell’s face. “Were you looking for that letter to take it back, afraid it would be traced back to you?”

  Fenny frowned and said, “We did no such thing.”

  “I’m sure we don’t know what you mean,” Drabwell replied, lifting one eyebrow. “It must’ve been an accident on your part—mistakenly letting the door close behind you like that. But no harm done, was there?”

  Fenny’s face contorted in anger as he turned on Drabwell. “You said no one would be hurt. You said it was only to worry Rupert. How dare you involve Julia in this.”

  Drabwell pushed Fenny ahead of him toward the door. “No one was hurt, Giles. Don’t be so soft. I wanted that letter back—only to save you the embarrassment of being found out, of course. Go inside now, before you make a fool of yourself again. No one can prove anything.”

  I remained still for a moment, my disappointment in a man I thought a beloved uncle weighing me down. The student who had been listening in came over to me. He was older than I had first thought—a university student, most likely. He pulled a business card out of his satchel and handed it to me. “Oh yes,” he said, “someone can prove something.” I looked down at the card: “Teddy Randolph, Managing Editor, Varsity.”

  “You printed that article about Rupert,” I said, on the verge of lighting into him as well.

  “Yes,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the door of the Guildhall. “Caught out, weren’t we? I was just round to see Fenwith for a follow-up. But now I’ve got an entirely new story. And it won’t be difficult to trace the origin of the email sent to us. Thanks for this—and give me a ring when you have a chance.”

  Chapter 31

  The run-in with Drabwell and Fenny had shifted the simmering anger I held for Michael to a back burner, but it moved forward again posthaste. Walking on my heel to favor my bad toe, I made my way like a peg-leg pirate, retracing my steps around the Corn Exchange until I spotted the door with flanking gargoyles. I turned and shuffled over to the front window with the gold lettering: HMS, Ltd. I looked inside—empty, apart from a woman at a desk on the far side of the large entry. She wore a mauve silk suit, pearl earrings, and her hair swept up into a French twist. I walked in and approached, trying my best not to hobble.

  The receptionist ended a call as I arrived, and looked up at me. With a tiny flickering glance to my wardrobe, she smiled and said, “Hello, good morning, welcome to HMS. How can I help you?”

  I pulled my cardigan around me. “I’d like to see Mr. Sedgwick, please.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I don’t, but if you tell him who I am, I believe he’ll see me.”

  I saw her hand slide smoothly over to a small red button at the side of her desk. I almost laughed—was I robbing a bank? What sort of people did they have coming in here that they would need an emergency call button? But when she pressed it, no alarm sounded, no guards came bursting out of doorways to whisk me out of the building.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Julia Lanchester.”

  “I’m not sure if Mr. Sedgwick is free at the moment, Ms. Lanchester. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for a…” She was distracted by a tiny green light that had appeared on her phone console. She looked up at me and smiled. “Mr. Sedgwick can see you now. Would you follow me?”

  We retreated down a hall on my left, passing closed doors with names on them; occasionally I heard a voice or a brief burst of laughter. She stopped at our goal—the door that faced us at the end of the hall with a sign that read: “Miles Sedgwick.”

  The receptionist opened the door. “Here you are,” she said, and when I’d walked in, she quietly closed the door behind me.

  The office was empty. It was an enormous room, the old brick walls contrasting sharply with the sleek modern desk, which sported only an open laptop. A window looked out onto a small walled garden, and a low leather sofa and chair hunkered in a corner. I waited for a moment, but when no one showed, I made my way to the desk and looked out the window before I glanced over my shoulder to see what was on the laptop screen.

  It was a live feed—it showed the back of the receptionist’s head and looked out onto the entrance to the building where people passed on the pavement; the camera must be set into the wall behind her. So that’s how I got approval for entry—he saw me standing there.

  I heard a noise behind me and stepped away from the desk. What had looked like a wooden panel opened. Miles stood in the doorway. I drew in a sharp breath.

  They could be identical twins except for the age difference. Miles had the same black hair, although in a conservative style; it looked as if he’d had a haircut just yesterday. I saw a touch of gray at his temples. He wore a two-button dark suit with a blue tie—just the right blue, the shade that would make his eyes dance. Exc
ept his eyes didn’t dance or sparkle. And the suit didn’t look right on him—the jacket pulled a bit, and it gave his face a doughy look.

  “Hello, I’m Miles Sedgwick. Very happy to meet you, Ms. Lanchester.” He stuck out his hand.

  Well, here’s one characteristic they shared, these brothers—the inevitable handshake. I glared first at the hand and then back up at him.

  “The jig is up, Mr. Sedgwick,” I said, unable to raise my voice above a whisper as anger rippled through my body. “You and your brother have been found out.”

  He took his time in answering, looking at me with that same smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But it was a smile that had no joy in it.

  “Well, and lovely to meet you, too. I can’t say I’m surprised that Rupert would send you instead of coming himself. Are you the ambassador? The negotiator? Is he ready to call a truce and face up to the reality of the situation?”

  “Did you kill Kersey?”

  The smirk disappeared from his face.

  “What do you take us for here at HMS?” he asked.

  “Liars, cheats, kidnappers, murderers,” I said, ticking off the list on my fingers. “You spy on people.”

  “We are in the business of making our clients and their firms look their best,” he said as he walked toward me, leaned over, and shut the laptop. “To achieve the goals that will benefit those who rely on the public’s goodwill to acknowledge…”

  “You’re a fraud, that’s what you are,” I said, inching closer and pointing my finger in his face. “Pretending to care and all the while covering up information that could help citizens make an intelligent choice for the world. You sent your brother out to hurt my father. But you won’t get away with it.”

  Miles watched me for a moment, and I thought if I cocked my ear I might hear his brain running through all its machinations. His smile became smug. “Oh, I see. It’s Michael you’re angry with, not me. Didn’t you know this is a family business? HMS—named for our dad, Harold Michael Sedgwick. And as a family, we work together. No matter what fuss he puts up, this is where he belongs. Why, he was in here earlier today—I’m sorry you missed him. Did he not tell you?”

  What Michael had not told me could fill an ocean. My throat felt tight. I suppose I had held out some hope that I was wrong, that Michael wasn’t the duplicitous person I said he was.

  “Well, naturally he’s spoken of you,” I said. “He told me you gave him that scar.” I ran my finger along my own cheekbone.

  Miles nodded. “A brotherly spat, as I recall. Dad broke us up.” He straightened his suit jacket. “My brother occasionally feels the need to tilt at windmills—I don’t expect this latest foray to last.”

  Maddeningly, I found myself defending Michael. “Perhaps your brother has found something useful to do with his life—something that benefits everyone.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Lanchester, if you are not here to represent your father, then what is it I can do for you?”

  “Why are you representing Woodcock—have you no conscience? He’s irresponsible and money-hungry. Do you think he cares a tuppence about the environment? Are you lobbying the government on his behalf to get a deal? Something perhaps not completely legal? Something that Kersey knew about and was going to tell Rupert?”

  Miles sighed. “Are we back to this again? The only underhanded dealing here as far as I can see is that Michael has stolen company information from HMS, Ltd., a company his own father started—and given it to Rupert Lanchester to subvert a scheme that is desperately needed in this country to supply green energy to our citizens.”

  “Oh, shove it, Miles.”

  His eyes first widened and then narrowed. “Rupert will not win. You can go back and tell him so.”

  “This isn’t a contest, and Rupert doesn’t want to win. He wants people to understand that the choices they make have consequences—he wants the birds and the hedgehogs and the children to win. And they will.” I drew myself up, pivoted on my heel, and walked out, ignoring the stab of pain with each step.

  Chapter 32

  “Goodbye, Ms. Lanchester,” the receptionist called as I left. I offered a small wave—after all, she may not know she works for the devil incarnate. I forced myself to walk around the next corner, out of sight of HMS, Ltd., before I collapsed against a wall, breathing hard and considering my next move. I saw no reason to trust Miles to tell the truth. Did Michael believe in Dad’s work or was he a spy sent by Oscar Woodcock? That was what I must figure out.

  As I found my car and began the slow, circling descent out of the car park, my mind and heart played leapfrog, believing first one side then another. Michael lied to Dad and he was a spy—Michael was truly working for Rupert and against HMS and Power to the People. But this wasn’t a teeter-totter, either one thing or the other—it was a triangle, and the third point, what hurt most of all if I looked closely at it, was that Michael didn’t tell me. If he could feign ignorance of HMS, couldn’t he also feign feelings for me? I needed to know. I’d go to him and demand a full accounting.

  My phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw Michael’s number and let it go, each ring piercing my heart. Michael must be waiting at my cottage—we were going on a picnic today to the seaside. I stifled a sob. That was a lovely dream, now totally shattered.

  I should go back this minute and face him, but I found that I had already turned north on the A11, away from Smeaton. Bianca’s right, I’m a coward, I thought, I can’t even confront him. No, not a coward, but I needed time to think this through, make a plan. I would go to Marshy End, my refuge—my unconscious had already chosen the route and I was on my way.

  If I were to hole up in Marshy End, I’d need something to eat first. No picnic for you, Julia—no roast chicken, no blanket on the sand, no romantic liaison. I was shocked at how truly terrible my judgment was.

  My phone rang twice more as I neared Mildenhall. I took a deep breath for control. I would stop at the Wheaten Cairn. A pub lunch. The WC, as the coppers had said yesterday. I distracted myself by playing with words and letters in my mind, a mishmash of Dad’s field abbreviations and the text his kidnapper/friend Bertie had sent. JL @ ME. No, first it would be JL @ WC. Will you see a magpie on your way? MP @ WC.

  You magpies and your rhymes. One for sorrow—well, we’d seen that one, hadn’t we? Two for joy—that was Dad’s return. Three for a girl, four for a boy—Bee’s taken care of those. Five for silver. I thought on that for a while, and remembered that Beryl now wore a silver wedding ring. I had seen five magpies on my way to visit Fenny that first time, a sure sign of his anger at Dad’s marriage. Six for gold—my idea of a summer supper in Suffolk; still gold as far as I was concerned, no matter what Linus thought. Seven for a secret never to be told—there you are, Michael, you are the seven. Eight for a wish—I sniffed—nine for a kiss; ten for a bird that’s best to miss.

  As I pulled in to the empty car park at the Wheaten Cairn, my phone went off again, and again I ignored it. It was early; the pub looked deserted. I wasn’t in any shape to take a long walk, but I could at least stretch my legs, and so I got out of the car, hobbled round the back of the pub, and looked down at the field below.

  Two ducks took off from Rosemere, the fen behind the trees on the far side of the field, and flapped their way across the sky. Shovelers, I thought. SD @ RM. I shook my head to get rid of the pile of random letters that had accumulated.

  But two of the letters remained—RM. Those letters had appeared on the little square of paper the police had found in Kersey’s shoe. A betting slip. Michael and I had tried to come up with the name of a racecourse using those letters. What were the other letters? Something “to show” at RM. That’s what made us think it was horse racing—win, place, show. What if it wasn’t a racecourse—what if it was a fen?

  Birds would show at Rosemere—even, occasionally, a rare one. Two more of the letters on the betting slip came into focus in my mind: SW. And I could hear Val shouting after Gavin a few days ago, something
about Sardinian warblers.

  With a rush of clarity, I knew. SW to show RM. Sardinian warbler to show up at Rosemere, the fen behind the Wheaten Cairn—WC! Those letters had appeared, too.

  As my heart raced, I scooped up every piece of information I could think of that might be a clue, spilled them all out onto the table of my mind, and began sorting through for a story that would hold together. Kersey was betting that a Sardinian warbler would appear on this fen. He lost and owed a great deal of money, and the person he owed money to took revenge.

  Did he place the wager with Gavin? Twitcher Gavin had his finger on the pulse of rare-bird sightings round the country. Or was Gavin the gambler, placing the bet with Kersey?

  Before I could stop myself, I wished that Michael was with me so that we could talk it through. No—I would take care of this. I’d ask the one person who might know—Valentine Spore. If this was all about Rosemere and the Wheaten Cairn, Val must know what connected those men to a bet about a bird.

  A fat raindrop landed on my nose and another on my cheek, bringing me back to the moment. I walked round to the front of the pub and found the door unlocked. The place looked empty when I walked in. I stood at the bar, wondering if I should call out or wait. It looked as if Val had opened his post standing at the bar—a torn envelope and several sheets of paper lay scattered about.

  I wasn’t snooping; it’s just that my eyes fell on the topmost paper. The letter was more than a week old. I caught the words “local authority” and “environmental assessment” and remembered that Val was hoping to build a hotel nearby.

  “Julia, I didn’t hear you come in.” Val walked out of the kitchen tying on a fresh apron. “Are you on your way to Marshy End?” He smiled. “Is Rupert with you?”

  “Rupert’s at home today,” I said.

  With measured nonchalance, Val swept his post off the bar and into the sink. “Is he?”

  “Yes, taking a few days off.” My phone rang again. I walked to the other end of the bar.