The Rhyme of the Magpie

by Marty Wingate

  He looked over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose the pub will be open.”

  “I don’t suppose I’d eat there if it was.” I looked down at my bloodstained cardigan. “And I can’t go anywhere looking like this—I’d give people an awful fright.”

  He pulled a leaf from my hair, got up, and offered his hand. “I’ve cold roast chicken in the boot of my car.”

  So we had our picnic in the car park at the Tesco Express by the roadside. Not bad, although the tea from the shop was dreadful. I took off my cardigan, and slipped on Michael’s jacket over my cami. He walked me inside to the loo and waited outside the door while I scrubbed my hands three times and my face twice, and felt all the better for it.

  The roast chicken was quite good. We barely spoke while we ate, and it was more than enough.

  Chapter 37

  The doctor put me in a boot for my broken big toe, and so heels and tights were out of the question the next day at work. Everyone thought I was crazy to return to the TIC so soon—Rupert and Beryl wanted me to come and stay to recuperate, and Bee asked me down to St. Ives for a week’s respite. Not sure how much respite it would be with three little ones underfoot. Vesta offered to work the day on her own, and Michael suggested we could go on our delayed picnic to the seaside. I said the best thing for me was to get back to my job. And besides, it was raining.

  After cold roast chicken in the car park the afternoon before, Michael had taken me to hospital in Mildenhall, where he waited while I was in with the doctor, followed by the police station, where he waited while I was talking with Flint, and finally home to Pipit Cottage just before dark. I had rung Vesta and she’d been waiting at my front door, and so Michael reluctantly had handed me off to my own personal in-home nursing care and we had said goodbye—sweetly but quickly, as Vesta bustled about my kitchen.

  She had given me tomato soup and toasted cheese fingers on a tray in bed, and as I ate, I told her the day’s dramatic events. She had responded with appropriate shock and horror—plus a fair amount of pride in the way I had handled myself and clicking of her tongue when she heard Michael’s story. She asked a few questions about Gavin, and then related what had happened on the Smeaton side.

  She had heard from Akash that something had upset me when I was in the shop, and when Michael arrived at her door saying that I was nowhere to be found, it was as if a general alarm went off in the village.

  “His Lordship rang the Sudbury police, but by the time they arrived, Michael had walked into the shop and given Akash quite a turn, thinking at first that it was Daniel’s managing director.” Vesta had shaken her head. “They do look very much alike. Michael became quite agitated, saying something about birds and a pub—and one magpie. He left, and we knew nothing until the police told us they’d heard from a sergeant at Mildenhall, just to say you were all right.”

  Vesta told me she would sleep on the sofa, and I told her she’d do no such thing, that she’d go home to her own bed and I’d be fine for the night. Reluctantly, she tucked me up and took my dishes to the kitchen. I believe I fell asleep before she had even reached the bottom of the stairs.

  —

  I tied a bin bag over my boot to keep it dry on my walk to the TIC, and made my way with a new, distinctive gait—step, clunk, step, clunk. Vesta and I arrived at the door at the same time; she held a pint of milk and a package of malted-milk biscuits. It wasn’t long before Nuala appeared with an entire chocolate cake. A near-death experience gets you your favorite tea treats, apparently.

  “His Lordship asked if he could stop in this morning,” Vesta said after Nuala left.

  “In that case, I think we’d be better off with his favorite bourbon creams,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m in for a reckoning when he arrives.” And I wasn’t entirely sure I’d still be working there by lunch.

  Vesta smiled and glanced over my shoulder. “And here now, our first visitor of the day.”

  I looked across the road to see Dad standing next to the red post box, as if waiting for permission to approach.

  I put my head out the door. “Tea?”

  He grinned and came over.

  “Dad, this is Vesta Widdersham. She works with me here at the TIC—and she’s also a fine nurse. And she knows our whole story.”

  Vesta seemed a bit starstruck—typical when someone met Rupert—and kept looking over her shoulder as she busied herself with the kettle. I settled at the table, but Dad kept standing as if ready to begin a lecture.

  “You’ve not seen the news today?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Is there something about what happened yesterday?”

  “There may well be, but it’s something else of note. May I…?” He gestured toward the computer and we nodded our permission.

  I propped my boot up on the empty chair while he got online and found what he wanted—a video report from BBC news just an hour ago.

  On the screen was a small bird that looked like a blackcap but had a rattly song.

  “And just this morning,” the female newsreader said in a voice-over, “word is in that a rare Sardinian warbler has been spotted near the wildlife reserve at Weeting Heath in Norfolk, prompting an outcry over plans from Power to the People to build a wind farm near the site. Conservationists, birders, and twitchers—the term for those people who travel any distance to see an unusual bird—have called for the government to halt plans for the approval of the wind farm, saying that it could disrupt the delicate balance of nature in such an important area. Managing director of Power to the People, Oscar Woodcock, has released a statement saying that the firm, whose communications director recently died under tragic circumstances, is committed to working for the environment and in light of this news is withdrawing the application for the wind farm.”

  I hooted and pounded the table in lieu of dancing about the room. Vesta cheered and clapped, and Dad laughed, and so we didn’t hear the bell jingle and had no idea Michael had walked in until he asked, “Is there good news?”

  Rupert got up and shook his hand. “And here’s the man responsible.”

  I pointed to the computer, where the frozen image of the warbler filled the screen. “You did that? How?”

  Michael shrugged his coat off. “You told me someone might’ve seen one in Norfolk, so I got online and did a bit of research on the twitcher sites.” His eyebrows jumped. “That’s an eye-opener. I found someone. He allowed us to use his video, gave me the information about the sighting, and then I took it all to Miles late last night, and convinced him that it might be in the best interest of HMS to leak this news to the media—Woodcock be damned.”

  I beamed at him. “That’s fantastic. Come sit down. Vesta, don’t you think we could have chocolate cake for elevenses? A celebration?”

  I took my leg off the empty chair for Michael, but after he sat down, he lifted it back into his lap. “Keep it elevated whenever possible—doctor’s orders.” He rested his hand just above my knee and I blushed, cutting my eyes at my dad, who was showing great interest in a leaflet on the holiday caravans before diving into his wedge of cake.

  “Dad, have you spoken with Fenny?” I asked, licking frosting off the back of my fork.

  Dad’s face lost all good humor. “Briefly. Drabwell played on Giles’s festering resentment for his own purposes. I had been reluctant to confront Giles, but now I see that you paid for my hesitation. And Drabwell—I haven’t caught up with him yet.” Rupert pointed his index finger in the air. “I’ll have that man up on charges for what he did to you.”

  “Julia?” Vesta asked.

  “It wasn’t the rowdy boys after all,” I explained. “A former colleague of Dad’s shut me in my lockup.”

  “A Cambridge don? That’s disgraceful.”

  Agreed. Our conversation moved onto more pleasant topics, until the jingle of the door brought us to ourselves. Vesta attended to the visitor while I walked out with Dad and Michael.

  Rupert looked up the high street as we stood on the pavement, t
he rain having turned to a mist. “You know, I believe I saw a few magpies on my way in this morning.”

  “Don’t tell me how many,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to start that up again.”

  He grinned. “Jools, listen, you’ve done so well for yourself here already, I can see that. It’s just that—would you come back to work for me? I really need you.”

  He was in earnest, I could tell. “Oh Dad, you’ve got an assistant now,” I said, putting my arm through Michael’s.

  “There’s more than enough work for both of you—what with this foundation idea of yours, Michael. Will you at least think about it?”

  I smiled at him and imagined what it would be like going back to my old life. I shook my head.

  “I appreciate the offer, but you know, I really do like it here. I think I’ll stay. But it isn’t as if you’ll never see me—I’ll be around.”

  He nodded. I believe it’s just what he expected me to say.

  “Any word on Gavin?” he asked.

  I felt the muscles in Michael’s arm tighten. “He’s in hospital in Cambridge,” I said, “and had surgery yesterday straightaway to ease the pressure on his brain. His prognosis is quite good. He’s awake this morning and probably already chatting up the nurses.”

  “That’s a full report,” Dad said.

  I shrugged. “He had asked a nurse to ring me and let me know. I thought I’d go visit him tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Michael said.

  I was about to say there was no need, but that was silly—I couldn’t drive until the boot was off. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Here, Dad,” I said, nodding to Linus cycling up, “one of your biggest fans.”

  From the shining look on Linus’s face, I could tell he had already recognized our august visitor, and I knew it was a moment he had hoped would come.

  “Good morning, Julia,” he said, dismounting, taking off his helmet, but leaving the trouser clip on. “Michael.”

  “Good morning, Linus. Dad, I’d like you to meet the Earl Fotheringill. Linus, my father, Rupert Lanchester.”

  The two men shook hands. “Rupert, it’s very good to meet you.”

  “Your Lordship,” Dad said.

  “None of it—call me Linus, please.” He laughed. “I hope you haven’t come round to steal away my TIC manager—I don’t know how I could do without her.”

  Really? Perhaps I wasn’t about to lose my position after all.

  “I can’t say I didn’t try, but she’s quite determined to stay.” Dad kissed me on the cheek. “We’ll see you soon.”

  I nodded. He walked a few doors down the street and was stopped by an elderly woman, who began digging in her handbag, most likely looking for something he could autograph.

  “Well, now, Julia,” Linus said to me. “Time we had that talk.”

  Apprehension washed over me. Here it was—would I have a post or be sent packing?

  “I’ll be on my way,” Michael said. “See you later.” Dinner—although more of a convalescent supper than a date. Vesta would cook in my cottage, and we’d asked Akash and Michael. I gave his arm a squeeze and he was on his way.

  “Right, Linus,” I said as we moved inside the TIC. “Again, I’m sorry I didn’t consult you first about the summer supper. I completely understand your reservations.” I held the door for him and his bicycle, which he leaned against the wall. Vesta was busy on the phone. “But truly, Linus, I believe…”

  Linus held up a finger, and I fell silent. He offered me a tentative smile and a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “You must let me apologize. First, I’m sorry I didn’t fully realize the impact taking money from Oscar Woodcock might have on all of us here. On further consideration, I have turned down his offer of investment in the estate—at least until the time comes that Power to the People can prove to be a company that cares about the environment.”

  You lose again, Mr. Woodcock. “Are you sure, Linus? I don’t want to…”

  He stopped me again. “Second, I want to apologize for my swift and unthinking response to your idea about a summer supper down the high street here in the village. I didn’t even allow you to explain. Vesta took it upon herself to give me the proposal you’d written up. I must say, I’m so pleased with your attention to detail—you overlooked nothing. I’m impressed, although, of course, not at all surprised. You’re a talented and accomplished tourist manager, and I could ask for no one better.”

  The thrill of victory was dulled only slightly by Linus’s extended capitulation. I did wish he would lighten up just a bit on the language.

  “So that means, yes—a summer supper down the high street?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “But could we hold off on any other big ideas until we see how this event progresses?”

  Organic farmshop. It would be a natural extension of the village supper—he couldn’t say “no” to that.

  “We don’t want to overextend our resources.”

  Boxing Day bird count. I’d work with Michael on that one—and certainly Dad would be a part of it.

  “Or exhaust our small pool of workers on the estate.”

  Christmas Market in Smeaton! I gasped.

  Linus raised his eyebrows. “Everything all right?”

  I smiled. “Oh, Linus, this is going to be such fun.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks for the help and support of my husband, Leighton Wingate; my sister, Carolyn Lutz; and my dear friend Victoria Summerley, who graciously provides solid British background for my settings and characters. I could not do without feedback from my critique group—Louise Creighton, Kara Pomeroy, and Joan Shott.

  Researching The Rhyme of the Magpie was a delight, including time spent in the village of Long Melford, Suffolk. I researched online at these sites: the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (www.rspb.org.uk) and Suffolk Wildlife Trust (www.suffolkwildlifetrust.org). I wish it were possible to catch more than a Facebook video clip of BBC Two’s Springwatch on this side of the pond.

  My life as a writer is made easier by Colleen Mohyde of the Doe Coover Agency, who is never too busy to discuss the latest British movies, books, and TV shows. My writing is greatly improved by the wise counsel of my Alibi editor, Dana Isaacson.

  BY MARTY WINGATE

  The Potting Shed Mysteries

  The Garden Plot

  The Red Book of Primrose House

  The Birds of a Feather Mysteries

  The Rhyme of the Magpie

  PHOTO: MARY M. PALMER

  In addition to this first novel in her new Birds of a Feather mystery series, MARTY WINGATE is the author of the Potting Shed Mysteries. A well-known speaker on gardens and travel, she has written numerous nonfiction books on gardening, including Landscaping for Privacy. Marty’s garden articles have appeared in a variety of publications, including The American Gardener and Country Gardens. She is hard at work on her next novel.

  www.martywingate.com

  Facebook.com/​MartyWingateAuthor

  @martywingate

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