“Rupert told me today he wants to do a piece on cuckoos,” Michael said. “Talk about their decline and what we can do. Said he’d use the old rhyme about the bird.”
“The cuckoo comes in April, and sings its song in May,” I recited.
“I need to look for file footage to cover those months.”
“In June it changes tune,” I continued.
“We’ll pick it up there and talk about the importance of verges, fields, and their edges. Those hairy caterpillars, you know. Migration.”
“And July it flies away,” I concluded, but then added, “Or so it goes, although fledglings can stay on much longer.”
Michael took my hand. “Rupert told me where he’d picked up the idea. Don’t worry. She won’t stay long.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” My face warmed. “It’s only—”
“You don’t need to apologize. It isn’t fair for her to do this, and you’ve been a saint to put up with her. But it’ll all be over now. End of the week.”
“It hasn’t been so bad.” Always easier to say these things when they were nearly finished. “And I’m sorry she’s had such a time with boyfriends.”
“Finding Pammy on our doorstep last Saturday—well, I blamed her for spoiling things. I wanted the moment to be perfect. But”—he sat up—“why does it have to be perfect? What about now? Here we are, the two of us alone; we don’t have to wait.” He put our wineglasses on the stone terrace and took my hands.
He was going to do it—propose! My heart fluttered inside my chest like two song thrushes mating. Wait, two doves—turtledoves. No, too large—like two little wrens beating their tiny wings.
“Julia—”
“Yes?” I breathed.
Bam, bam, bam!
The sound of the beating on the door bounced off buildings on the high street, echoing throughout the village.
“Wakey, wakey!”
Pammy’s voice defied the science of sound by shooting straight up in the air, flying over the terrace of cottages, and dropping down into the back garden and onto us like a pail of cold water. Splash!
“I know you’re home!”
“Bloody hell!” Michael shouted. He shot off his chair, dropped my hands, and stomped into the cottage, cursing his way to the front door. I followed, the fluttering of my heart turned to thuds.
“Well, I’ve been out here for ages,” Pammy snapped at her brother when he’d flung open the door and told her to be quiet. “I knocked and knocked, but couldn’t raise you. What else was I supposed to do, kip on the doorstep for the night?”
Michael held his breath and his face turned scarlet, so I jumped into the breach.
“Right, well—what took you to the pub, Pammy?” I moved into the kitchen and thought about a meal. By some miracle, I found the remains of the chicken-and-ham pie and a wedge of cheese.
“Your friend came by,” she said, settling onto her usual place, slipping off her shoes and stretching out her legs. “But the two of you weren’t home yet, and I said I didn’t know when I’d see you. So, he invited me for a drink. He’s very sweet—best time I’ve had in ages.”
“What friend?” Michael asked.
The stillness in his voice set off an alarm in my head. I looked up from the fridge.
Pammy grinned. “Gavin—the fellow you’re putting on the telly.”
Michael gripped the back of a kitchen chair until his knuckles were white. “I don’t want you seeing him.”
“You what?” Pammy asked with incredulity.
“You heard me—you’re not to see him again.”
“You’re not Dad, you know. You can’t tell me what to do, little brother.”
This had “disaster” written all over it. Gavin couldn’t hold on to a girlfriend or a wife for the life of him—the way he either dragged them off on twitcher escapades or deserted them at a moment’s notice—and Pammy’s record was none too clean. But giving her an ultimatum would only make Gavin more appealing—couldn’t Michael see that?
“Look, what he means”—I made my voice silky soft and full of reason—“is that a drink is fine, but you don’t want to read anything into it.”
“Why?” Pammy asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong with Gavin.” I heard a choking sound from Michael. “It’s only that you’re quite vulnerable right now.”
Pammy dismissed us as she took up her phone. “I don’t know what you’re on about—it was only a pint and a plate of chips. He didn’t bloody well propose to me.”
Michael kicked the chair, and I caught it just before it went over.
Chapter 9
During the meal, brother and sister reached détente, and he and I were treated to a Pammy-sided discussion about the latest rumor that the Duchess of Cambridge eats a Wimpy burger every day for her tea, a habit she must hide from her children. At last, I wrested the conversation away and filled the remainder of the time with stories from the TIC and the village. I avoided the tale of That Poor Man—with Pammy’s penchant for gossip, no telling what she might do with such a bit of news. By the time she retreated to her lair, I had landed on the problem of Nuala’s would-be suitor.
“There’s a fellow hanging round the tea room,” I said. “He’s good-looking, suave, about Nuala’s age. I believe he’s making a move on her, and I don’t like it.”
“Are you sure he isn’t after her cakes?” Michael asked as he cleared the table.
“It’s more than her baked goods—he’s too friendly, and I don’t want him stepping on Linus’s toes.”
“Ah, Linus and Nuala.” The corner of Michael’s mouth tugged up into a smile. “Are they or aren’t they?”
“See,” I said with triumph, “you’ve noticed, too, haven’t you? That he’s interested in her.”
“Then why hasn’t he made his move?” Michael asked. “What’s he waiting for?”
“He’s shy,” I replied. “But I think he cares about her. And now here’s this fellow at the tea room every afternoon this week saying how much he enjoys her scones and acting all cozy.”
“Are you sure that’s what he’s on about?” Michael asked, as if I would ever read something into a situation that wasn’t there. “Do you want me to take a look?”
“He won’t be round until next week—says his weekends are too busy.”
Pammy’s head shot up from her phone. “He won’t see her on weekends? You know what that means, don’t you?”
I hadn’t realized she’d been following the conversation from the sofa. “No, what?”
“He’s married.” I stared at her, and she continued. “Yeah. Typical—he’s all over you during the week, but when the weekend comes, it’s back to the wife.”
There’s the voice of experience. Rage erupted inside of me.
“He’s married? He drives over here every day from who knows where, chatting up Nuala, and he’s married? Well, someone needs to warn her. And say something to Linus.”
“Why doesn’t someone leave the matter alone?” Michael asked. “And let the three of them work it out.”
Little chance of that, and he knew it. But I’d let it drop for now.
“Well, Pammy,” I said, making a show of scanning the sitting room. “Off tomorrow?”
“Sorry?” she asked.
“Friday,” Michael said. “End of the week. You’ll be off to Amy’s.”
Pammy went back to her phone. “I thought Saturday was the end of the week.”
* * *
—
Friday morning on my way to the TIC, I tapped on the window at Nuala’s and gave her a wave. The tea room wasn’t actually on my way—it was in the opposite direction—however, that made no matter.
“Ooh, rock cakes,” I said, nodding to the fresh rack of free-form treats studded wi
th sultanas and currants. “Perfect for our elevenses today.” As Nuala made up a box for me, I introduced my topic in an oblique way. “You’ll be out at the Hall this afternoon, won’t you? Running the café?”
“I will,” Nuala replied. “But don’t worry—I’ll leave you a slice of chocolate cake here in the shop before I go.”
“No,” I said, “that isn’t what I…oh, well, yes, thanks. I’ll stop in for it later. But what I meant—I was only thinking how much Linus loves his afternoon cuppa sitting with you in the kitchen at Hoggin Hall after the café closes.”
A smile flitted across her face, gone before it could ever take hold. “Yes, well, he likes to check that everything is running smoothly.”
“Now, Nuala, I’m sure you know better than that. Linus uses business to disguise the real reason he spends time with you.”
A frown appeared and stayed. “Perhaps it may have crossed my mind that he might…but, really, Julia, I don’t think I should read anything into it. And I haven’t seen him at all this week, except on Wednesday when you were here—and he met Tony.”
As she said his name, she smiled.
“Yes, Mr. Anthony Brightbill. Nuala, is he…are you…has he…” This was not the sort of conversation I’d ever had with a woman old enough to be my mother, and I couldn’t quite find the right words to use without embarrassing us both. “You know what I mean.” A lame finish.
Nuala giggled, which I took as a bad sign.
“No,” she said, “at least, I don’t know, except that Tony has asked would I have dinner with him one evening next week.”
“But, Nuala,” I whinged, “Linus. Has he never said anything?”
Nuala’s face and neck reddened. “Only about my Battenberg cake.”
* * *
—
Linus was the one I needed to talk with—unless he used “Battenberg” in some covert sexual sense that no one had caught onto yet. Really, shyness is one thing, being wary because of your past experience, yes, I can see it. But he had better step up his game or he’d find himself left behind in the dusty verge watching Nuala motor off in a forest-green Morgan Roadster.
As I approached the TIC I espied Cecil. He looked as if he might be trying to wear a path in the pavement, the way he paced up and down in front of the window.
When he saw me, he pulled himself up to his six-foot height and looked down his patrician nose. “Julia.” It was a statement—an accusation even. Certainly not a greeting.
“Cecil, come in.”
I handed him the box of rock cakes and unlocked the door. He followed me through and hovered while I filled the kettle and switched it on. Then, he put the box down and stuck his hands in the pockets of his green canvas jacket and posed as if beginning an oration.
“I’m quite concerned about what’s gone on right here under our noses on the estate. If this event is in any way connected to the number of non-tenants that pass through on a regular basis, well, I’m afraid we will have to revisit our policy on tourism.” He ended his ultimatum with a huff.
“Sit down, Cecil.”
He remained standing, and arched an eyebrow.
“Sit down!” I pointed to a chair. “Please.”
He held on for another moment before he sat, folding his tall frame into the chair, then sinking further as his shoulders drooped.
“I’m worried about Willow,” he said, keeping his hands in his pockets and scowling at the table.
Here’s the thing I’d learned about Cecil: he’d spent a lifetime perfecting his lord-of-the-manor airs, but they were a ruse, a way he’d hidden his fears and insecurities for far too long. He’d come to terms with several important issues only in the last year or so, but habits of a lifetime can’t be undone in a day. So, I chose to look past the occasional upper-crust moments, because when those were swept away, he was a quite likable fellow.
“It’s terrible what happened—how is she?”
He ran his hand through his blond hair. “She’s upset, as you can well imagine. Finding that dead man—it seems to have affected her in a strange way. She’s fixated on…”
“Flies,” I said. “Yes, well, that’s probably the shock.”
The kettle switched off, and Cecil drummed his fingers on the table while I poured up the tea.
“Police at the Hall,” he fumed. “Again.”
“Not to worry—they behaved themselves.”
That got the hint of a smile out of him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I want to take her away for a few days,” he said. “To help clear her head. Don’t you think?”
“But, Cecil, what about her class, the children?”
Cecil sighed. “Yes, she insisted on going in even today.”
“And I believe the police may want to see her again. They’ll need to talk with all of us—they don’t even know who the man is. Why don’t you wait a few days and see how it goes, all right?”
After a most reluctant nod, he said, “Yes, of course. I’m awfully glad you were there with her. And, I didn’t really mean that about the tourists.”
Vesta arrived, and Cecil went on his way. I remembered Guy Pockett, and as the morning wore on, wondered if he’d lost interest in his latest scheme. I wouldn’t let him off the hook on this one, however, and so I began to search for his phone number just as he burst in. Under one arm, he carried a worn brown leather portfolio stuffed with papers.
“Running a bit late—sorry.”
Vesta tended the counter while the farmer and I hashed over his idea of cookery demonstrations at the Wednesday market. Before long, the small worktable was awash with paper, mostly Guy’s scribbled notes, along with his incomplete lists and figures—all splotched with mud stains, as if he’d composed his proposal while out in the fields.
If I could keep Guy to this scheme, it just might work—bring in more customers to the market who would get ideas of how to use the freshest ingredients and be able to buy them on the spot. And it would all lead to Smeaton’s Summer Supper—more attendees meant more recognition for the estate.
At last, reaching over to switch on the kettle again, I said, “We can do only so much today, but this is a fine start.”
“The sooner we launch the demos, the faster our numbers will pick up,” Guy said. “We don’t want to lose time.”
“I’d think you’ve your hands full with taking on that extra field, Guy—and, you know, as you’re on your own now.” Fran, Guy’s business and personal partner, was now his ex-partner, having relocated permanently to a Christian retreat on Iona, off the western coast of Scotland. I had heard no further details. “How is it going?”
“It’s grand—yeah, it’s going fine,” Guy said, tilting his chair until it rocked on the back two legs. “I’ve a couple of lads lending a hand. No problem, it’s all under control.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to those gooseberries coming ripe. And will you have that purple cauliflower this year? It was quite the eye-catcher.”
“Flew off the stand last season, I can tell you. So, we’re set for the demos?”
“That all depends on the chefs and how much time they’re willing to give,” I replied. “Perhaps we could ask Fred at the Stoat and Hare to be first—the most local chef, after all. And, of course, I need to sort through the electrics, hand-washing facilities—get Health and Safety out for a look. Right, go through the season with me again, week by week, so I can get this straight. Where did my list go?”
We shifted through papers, pushing them here and there. Guy set a stack over next to the computer, but they slipped off and papers went sailing onto the floor. He bent over to gather them up. “Sorry,” he said with a laugh, “I’m better organized when it comes to lining out the carrots.”
The bell above the door jingled. I gave the latest visitor half a look—then did a double take a
s I identified not a tourist to the estate, but Detective Sergeant Natty Glossop, a tidy black portfolio in one hand and a clear plastic bag with Willow’s sandals and clothes in the other. He would have news, of course, about That Poor Man.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Vesta greeted him.
“Sergeant?” Guy asked.
“Yes, Sudbury police,” I explained. “There was an incident yesterday, and he’s just stopping in for an update.”
“I won’t take any more of your time, then,” Guy said, standing, scooping up papers, and cramming them back into his portfolio.
“We haven’t settled on the chefs I’m to contact,” I said, but by the time I’d finished, Guy had nodded to Vesta and the DS and had disappeared out the door. Right, there’s another project deftly moved off his plate and onto mine.
“ ’Morning, Sergeant,” I said.
“Good morning, Ms. Lanchester.”
The kettle switched off, and I saw the sergeant’s eyebrows lift.
“Tea?” I asked.
“Ah…” He made a show of looking at his watch and straightening his jacket. “Well, if you’ve got a pot going.”
And a rock cake. I shifted the rest of the papers and set them on top of the computer, and the three of us settled just as the bell jingled. I made Vesta stay seated as I gave a woman directions to Birdbrook, a village to the west of the estate. She might not have been lingering on Fotheringill turf, but I did score her email address for the newsletter. Eighty-three, I noted—we were well onto a new page of the notepad. I’d get the sergeant to sign up, too.
“We won’t have a photo of the victim until Monday,” the DS told me. “Hard to tell much about his facial features—the FME has to clean all that mud off the face first. These things take time, you know—and we always seem to be down an officer or two. Although, the boss doesn’t make any friends when she makes demands, I can tell you that.”
I’d heard about Tess’s frustration with staffing often enough and was relieved not to be on the receiving end of one of her “requests.”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 7