Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  “Anthony Brightbill,” he said and extended his hand. “Tony.”

  “Julia Lanchester,” I said, shaking his hand and smiling. “Lovely to meet you. Welcome to our village.” And why are you so charming now yet tried to bite the head off that frightened young woman at Minty’s?

  “Are you on holiday?” I asked.

  “A bit of holiday, a bit of work. A bit of personal business.” He smiled at me, a charming, engaging smile. “I’m afraid Nuala has had to put up with me both yesterday and today. I’ve found a piece of heaven here, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Oh, now, Tony, that’s going a bit far.” Nuala laughed in a breathless sort of way.

  The glass door rattled open, and Nuala’s laughter petered out as Linus walked in, tucking his bicycle trouser clip into his jacket pocket and smoothing over the flap.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, taking in the three of us. “Julia, good to see you. Nuala, I stopped for only a moment. Hello.” He extended a hand to Brightbill. “Linus Fotheringill, how do you do?”

  “Lord Fotheringill, pleased to meet you. Anthony Brightbill—Tony.” The men shook—two firm pumps—and I sized them up. Brightbill had a couple of inches on Linus and no facial hair—although Linus’s pencil-thin mustache barely counted. Both men dressed well. Both with good manners—except I knew that Linus’s good manners were not the exception.

  “You’re spoilt for choice here at Nuala’s,” Linus said, “but let me say, I can highly recommend the Battenberg cake. It’s certainly my favorite—as Nuala can attest.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Brightbill said. “But I’ve just had one of the best scones I’ve ever tasted.”

  “With real butter?” I enquired. He cut his eyes at me.

  “Are you staying locally or only passing through?” Linus asked. “If the latter, I do hope you’ll keep us in mind for a return visit.”

  “Oh, I’m already on a return visit—the first of many, I hope,” Tony replied, his eyes on Nuala. Two red spots appeared on her cheeks.

  Linus’s smile faltered. He recovered quickly, and the others took no notice, but it didn’t escape me. I studied the threesome in front of me—Brightbill’s easy charm, Nuala’s red cheeks, and Linus’s momentary loss of good cheer—and understood.

  Over the past couple of years, Linus had continually found ways to be in Nuala’s presence—whether discussing the café she ran at Hoggin Hall or asking her to stay to dinner after a long work day. Of course, those social occasions were never just the two of them, but usually a jolly group of friends. And therein lay the problem.

  I could see that being part of a group had masked Linus’s true feelings and his real intentions, which I was certain were on the romantic side. But past affairs of the heart hadn’t gone well for Linus, and—as much as he cared for Nuala—I sensed a great reticence in him to try again.

  Of course, it wasn’t any of my business, and so I’d never broached the subject with either of them. Nuala enjoyed Linus’s company, I could see that, but she was on the shy side herself—if he wouldn’t make a move, I doubted she would make it for him. And now in waltzes this debonair and appealing Anthony Brightbill—Tony—and I didn’t like the way he looked at her. Well, someone needed to make a move.

  “Linus, are you staying?” I asked.

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve only…well, Mr. Brightbill—Tony,” Linus corrected himself when Brightbill held up a hand, “I do hope we’ll see you again. A good afternoon to you all.”

  “I, too, should be on my way.” Brightbill smiled at Nuala. “Very nice to meet you,” he said to me.

  “Your motor?” Linus asked, nodding to the Morgan.

  The two men left discussing cars. Nuala frowned faintly at Linus’s retreating figure, and I arched an eyebrow at Brightbill’s back.

  “Well,” Nuala said weakly, “I’d better start cleaning up. Did you want tea, Julia?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve just realized I left my shopping at the TIC.”

  My shopping had little to do with wanting to leave—I needed to get out on the pavement and insert myself into the men’s conversation to make it clear to Brightbill that Linus and Nuala were…well, they were something, and he’d better just keep moving on to the next tea room.

  But the men stood at the front of the Roadster in deep conversation; I heard something about “torque” and a “cyclone engine.” Fascinating. I’ll let you off for now, Mr. Tony Brightbill, but if you continue to loiter in our village, just know I’ve got my eye on you.

  Chapter 6

  I stood outside the cottage, juggling my trove from the farmers’ market as I dipped one hand into my bag and felt round for the key. My hand lit upon a small paper bag, and without thinking I took hold and the object within crumbled. Oh yes, my fruit scone from Minty’s on Monday. First sighting of Mr. Anthony Brightbill.

  A voice behind me asked, “Here now, can I help?”

  “Gavin!”

  Gavin Lecky had found his style and stuck with it—cropped black hair, stubbly beard, black leather—and that single earring, a hovering kestrel. He wore it well.

  “Hiya, Julia,” he said with a smile. Although tough on the outside, I’d seen past Gavin’s shell, and now when I looked at him, I saw an eager fellow who loved birds, but had no anchor in his life. I felt a wee bit sorry for him.

  “So, Gavin, twitchers on the telly,” I said by way of congratulations.

  He grinned even wider. “Yeah, wore Rupert down at last, didn’t I? How’s Sedgwick taking it?”

  “He’ll produce a fantastic segment, you know he will. You won’t wind him up, will you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Innocence didn’t play well on Gavin—he loved to annoy Michael.

  The cottage door opened as Pammy, with one hand on a hip, said, “You know I can hear you talking, why don’t you just come…oh.”

  Pammy looked at Gavin. She shifted her weight to one leg and dropped her arms to her sides, where her fingertips reached past the hem of her skirt. She wore a tight T-shirt sprinkled with sequins that read ISN’T LOVE GRAND?

  Gavin stared at Pammy. His grin warmed, taking on a sultry quality, and with a voice he saved for women, he asked, “Julia, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  I did. Gavin cocked his head.

  “Sedgwick?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Pammy is Michael’s older sister.”

  “Barely older,” Pammy corrected. “So, Mr. Gavin Lecky, are you a…an orthni…ornili…”

  “I’m not,” Gavin rescued her. “I’m self-taught when it comes to birds. I learned everything in the field—out on the tors, perched on bluffs—nearly died once. Julia can tell you about that.”

  Yes, nearly died once—in a pig hut.

  “Gavin, were you looking for Michael? Because here he is now.” I nodded to Michael’s Fiat as it pulled up behind Pammy’s Fiesta.

  Gavin lost a bit of swagger, but held his position on the pavement as Michael slammed his car door. “Lecky?”

  Pammy remained in the doorway, paying no attention to her brother. I thought better of inviting Gavin in for tea.

  “Sedgwick.” Gavin straightened up. “I’ve some ideas for the segment, and we’ll need a meeting about—”

  “Yes, we will.” Michael kept his voice even and businesslike. “Where are you living these days?”

  Gavin colored slightly. “I’ll give you my mobile number, and we can arrange something,” he said, which told me he was probably kipping on a friend’s sofa, as he was wont to do.

  “Wouldn’t—” Pammy began.

  “Thanks,” Michael said. “We won’t keep you.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin replied. “Be seeing you, Julia.” He looked at Pammy. “And you.”

  Pammy giggled. “Bye now, Gavin.”

  * *
*

  —

  Thursday held such promise; time was running out for Pammy. She’d sworn to be gone by the end of the week, and I chose to believe her. Michael and I had made it our mantra—end of the week, end of the week. We’d celebrated that morning by spending a few intimate yet ultimately frustrating moments upstairs saying goodbye before Pammy requested permission to enter for her shower. Michael left for work.

  Lighthearted, magnanimous, and too early to open the TIC, I opened wide the French doors to a glorious day and refilled the feeders in the back garden. I sat on the terrace with my cup of tea and called out to Pammy my sightings as she kept to the kitchen, huddled over her phone.

  “Ah, look at that. Fledgling blue tits. Fluffy messes of blue and yellow—adorable, aren’t they?”

  I heard a noncommittal response.

  “The goldfinch has settled in on the feeder now,” I continued. “He’s mad about those sunflower seed hearts. He’ll be there for a while now.”

  A grunt.

  My tea finished, I returned indoors, made myself ready for the day, and had almost walked out the door before I couldn’t take it any longer.

  “Any word from Amy?” I kept my voice light, but my heart was in my throat.

  “She’s fair swamped with work today.” Pammy looked up from her phone. “I’ll text her later.”

  “What does she do—her work?”

  “Windows.”

  “Windows,” I repeated. “Computers?”

  Pammy set her phone on the coffee table. “Shop windows, she decorates them. And does costumes for a local dramatic society—doesn’t get paid much for it, though, and they barely give her a budget. I helped her out last year when they did The Lion King, dressed the entire cast for under fifty quid.”

  Overwhelmed by the amount of information Pammy offered about her own life, I could only answer, “Well done, I’d say.”

  Pammy shrugged. “People underestimate charity shops.”

  * * *

  —

  Life in the Churchyard—the new leaflet—needed photos to accompany the text I’d written.

  “I can talk Dad out of a few from his vast image library,” I said to Vesta as we settled at the table in our work area.

  “The church guild might have some you could use,” she replied.

  “Salmon and cucumber or chicken and stuffing?” I asked, holding up a sandwich packet in each hand. Vesta took the salmon, and I tore open the other. “They could do; I’ll find out. And I’ll snap a few myself while I’m there this afternoon. Willow’s asked me up—her watercolor competition, you know. Everyone’s to paint the same scene, and she wants to show me which one she’s chosen. And something about kneelers.”

  “That’s the needlepoint kneeler project.” As organist at St. Swithun’s, Vesta had a better idea of what went on inside the church than I did. “New kneelers depicting life on the estate—I’m doing one of that enormous old mulberry tree in the garden at the Hall.”

  “Yes, of course—and Lottie’s taken on Suffolk sheep, flax, and spinning. I’ll snap a few shots of kneelers, as well, for the next newsletter.”

  “I see we’ve reached sixty-one subscribers,” Vesta said.

  “Time to up our game—I’ll go round to each vendor at next week’s market and leave sign-up sheets.”

  * * *

  —

  “ ’Afternoon,” I called to three women who sat with needlepoint in their laps as they kept an eye on the church’s gift shop—actually, only an alcove in the far corner. The flower guild sold bookmarks with St. Swithun’s image, a booklet telling the short history of him and his church in Smeaton-under-Lyme, and various church-related but nonspecific tea towels, aprons, and mugs. There was also a secondhand bookshelf, which allowed parishioners to unburden themselves of their old James Patterson paperbacks guilt-free.

  I approached and looked over shoulders admiring the women’s work. “Ah, the Fotheringill coat of arms.” “English bluebells, lovely.” “There’s our Alfie,” I commented on a stitched profile of our locally famous rook. At last, I asked after Willow.

  “Oh, she’s around,” one of the ladies said. “Gone out for a final look at the view of the church from the other side of the pond before she posts the competition rules.”

  “Well, I’ll walk out and find her, then,” I said.

  But there was no need, for at that moment one of the huge oak doors creaked open to reveal Willow, both hands pushing on it before she stumbled in and, with an anguished cry, collapsed.

  “Willow!”

  I reached her first, the other women not far behind. Whether she’d merely swooned or completely fainted, she recovered enough to push herself upright, panting, her face flushed and her eyes wild. She’d lost a sandal just as she had entered, and her feet were muddy and grass-stained—as were the knees of her lilac leggings. I grabbed hold of her shoulders to steady her.

  “Willow, what is it?” I asked.

  “Give her air, girls,” one of the women ordered her companions, holding an arm out to bar their way. “Are you sick, dear? Annie, bring the bin over for her.”

  “No,” Willow whispered. “It isn’t me—it’s…” She grabbed hold of my forearm and squeezed, pointing to the opposite wall of the church.

  My head whipped round in the direction she indicated, and I thought about what lay outside the wall.

  “The churchyard? You’ve seen something in the churchyard?” Had a funeral been scheduled and she’d been spooked by the casket?

  Willow shook her head frantically. “The…pond.”

  This was as frustrating as a game of charades, but Willow didn’t seem to be able to say more than two words at a time. I took a moment to smooth the shift she wore—a busy floral print—and only then did I see the dark, rusty smear on her chest, accompanied by more mud.

  “Willow, you’re hurt!”

  “No,” she gasped. “Not me—him.”

  “You’ve seen someone at the pond—is he hurt?”

  “I didn’t see him.” She grasped my wrist with a muddy hand. “I wasn’t looking down, and then I…fell over him.” With an anguished look at the dark red smear on her chest, she added, “He didn’t move. And then I noticed…the flies.”

  The women leaned in closer to hear. I glanced over my shoulder to see that Annie had indeed brought over the rubbish bin, just in case.

  I whispered, “You mean—he’s dead?”

  “Quite.”

  Chapter 7

  “Ms. Wynn-Finch, you’d better show us the way.”

  I had phoned the police before anyone moved, and reached Detective Inspector Tess Callow at the Sudbury constabulary. When I gave her the scant information I had, she instructed us to stay in the church until they arrived. One of the ladies had posted herself at the door while the rest of us fell back to the shop alcove, where Willow sank onto a chair and Annie switched the kettle on. Just as the tea was ready, the lookout reported, “Two panda cars and a black Volvo.”

  Willow took a sip of sugary tea and coughed as DI Callow and Detective Sergeant Natty Glossop trooped in. I had met them before, but was struck again by what a study in contrasts they were. Callow was tall, with muscle but no bulk, her prematurely gray hair short and swept back in a severe manner. Her detached efficiency stood in sharp contrast to her sergeant—ginger-haired and quick to smile, although just as quick to drop it in an effort to rein in his enthusiasm. They were accompanied by Moira Flynn, who had been in uniform last time we’d met. Promoted now to detective, she wore a dark suit that set off her thick red curls, and led the way for several uniformed police constables.

  Following the DI’s request to Willow, we all went out the door and round the corner to the other side of the church, and stopped. We stood at the edge of the oldest part of the churchyard, with lichen-covered headstones sli
ghtly askew and almost illegible. The pond, barely visible from where we stood, lay out the back gate of the churchyard and at the end of a path through tall green grass. With the needlepoint women clustered behind us, Willow told her story—how she’d walked out to take in the view. Her voice trembled, and she stuck close to me, her hand shaking as she indicated the path she’d trod. She’d seen no one else.

  “You don’t really see the pond from the road,” I said, taking Willow’s hand, which was cold and clammy. She’d wiped most of the mud off onto her dress. “There’s a stand of hazel along the verge. And it’s closer to the next field than the church.”

  “How was it you noticed the body?” Callow asked.

  Willow shuddered. “I didn’t see him. But there was an odd smell. At first, I thought it was the smell of the pond and the green growth—until I fell over him. And then the flies rose up. I’d disturbed them, and they swarmed round my head,” she said, her voice uneven and low. She swatted the air. What little color she had drained from her face, making her freckles stand out. “Oh dear.” She shut her mouth tightly and gave me a pleading look.

  “Excuse us.”

  I rushed Willow to the nearby yew hedge where first she was sick, and then she began to cry. “Oh, Julia, it was awful. That poor man. Do I have to look again?”

  “Certainly not.” We walked back to the police. “Willow needs to sit down—I’ll take you to the pond,” I said. Callow stared at me for a moment, followed by a single nod.

  The needlepoint ladies escorted Willow back into the church. The rest of us walked out, the police ahead of me, fanned out from left to right, eyes to the ground as they went, swatting at the grass with batons, looking for God knows what.

  “I think she was on the far side,” I told them as they came up to the water, and we circled round, giving the pond’s edge a wide berth. It wasn’t an enormous expanse of water—perhaps thirty feet across and a bit wider, irregularly shaped and with occasional clumps of willow and red-twig dogwood and a tiny islet in the middle where the moorhens nested.