“Difficult to believe no one knows who he is.”
* * *
—
After shutting my Fiat away, I gave the padlock a sharp yank, wishing I could do the same to Mr. Anthony Brightbill’s nose. I walked round the corner, past the green Morgan Roadster, and straight into Nuala’s tea room, where I said hello to an elderly couple who sat at the window, idly stirring the dregs in their cups. Nuala called out a greeting from the next room, and Brightbill, settled at the corner table, legs crossed and with folded-out newspaper, looked over the tops of his reading glasses, and gave me one of his engaging and friendly smiles.
“We seem to be of one mind,” he remarked.
“I doubt that,” I snapped, and the elderly couple gave me a sideways look. I cleared my throat and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brightbill. I mean to say, you haven’t chosen the chocolate cake, have you? Because, of course, that’s what I’m having.”
“No, but I’ve had the Victoria sponge, and it went down a treat. I’m thinking next time I’ll choose the Battenberg.”
My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands.
“Will you join me, Ms. Lanchester?” Brightbill gestured to a chair.
I will not. “Why, yes, thank you.” I plopped down across from him.
“So, Mr. Brightbill, you seem to have made our little village your second home. Have you set up a camping cot in the back room?”
“I believe in thorough research before making my next move,” Brightbill replied as he slipped the newspaper into a leather bag at his feet.
What’s that supposed to mean—next stop, Nuala’s bed?
“Are you married?”
The question shot out of my mouth before I could—or wanted to—stop it, and it caught both of us by surprise. Make that three—Nuala had arrived carrying a small tray with my wedge of chocolate cake and pot of tea. She froze halfway to the table. There was a moment of silence for which the word “awkward” was an inadequate description. Brightbill’s face revealed nothing, but I could feel mine warm, and I saw Nuala’s cheeks redden.
“It’s just that,” I hurried on in a rescue attempt, “if you are, wouldn’t this be a lovely place to bring your wife?”
The elderly couple stood, gathering up hats and bags, and the man leaned over and said, “It is that.”
Nuala retreated to settle the bill with the couple, and I stuck a fork in my cake, starting at the end with the most icing, and poured tea while I chewed.
“Where is it that you live, Mr. Brightbill?” Just a casual enquiry, my tone of voice said.
“In the north.”
The north—what’s that supposed to mean? Norfolk? Scotland? The Arctic?
“Well, you come a long way every day for tea—are there no tea rooms where you live?”
That was a joke, apparently, because Brightbill chuckled. “Oh, there are a few.”
“Have you been to Bettys?” I asked. “Up in Yorkshire? It’s one of my favorites when I’m not here in Smeaton. Nothing like a Yorkshire fat rascal from Bettys.”
“Bettys isn’t the only game in town,” Brightbill replied, sounding like a Chicago gangster in a movie. Blighter.
I did not give Nuala’s chocolate cake the attention it deserved, although of course, I did finish it. But when my phone rang and I saw it was Linus, I said hurried goodbyes, left Nuala a tenner to put on my account, and answered out on the pavement.
“Hello, Linus. I’m so glad you rang, because I really do need to speak with you. I’m sorry I rushed off earlier.”
“Is it about Willow?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, you had an idea about the man who was killed. And Willow, you know, is quite concerned.”
“Obsessed” would be a better word. “Is she still talking about him?”
“She isn’t here. Cecil is away until tomorrow, you see, and Sheila isn’t back from shopping yet, but Thorne and I expected Willow by now. I rang Lottie at the shop, and she’s not been there.”
I peered up the high street. Although I was unable to see as far as St. Swithun’s or the pond beyond, I could well imagine the sight.
“All right, Linus,” I said as I began jogging. “I believe I know where she is, and I’m on my way there now. I’ll ring you back.”
As the church came into view, so did the panda car parked at the side of the road with its blue lights flashing. And then I spotted Willow, inside the wrapping of police tape around the pond and with a uniformed PC on either side of her, their arms stretched out to corral her as if she were a skittish lamb trying to make a break for it. Willow stood in place and swatted at them, as if they were the flies she couldn’t stop talking about, and I heard the police offer calming phrases—“It’s all right, miss,” “Will you step away, please?” “Can we ring someone for you?” When I trotted up, one of them called out, “Stop right there, please!”
“Hello, officers,” I panted. “I’m Julia Lanchester, manager of the Tourist Information Center here in the village. Is there a problem? It’s only that Ms. Wynn-Finch—Willow, did you introduce yourself? I’m sure you know that Willow is the one who came upon the body of That Poor Man. And you understand what an effect that can have, don’t you? And she’s come back to…acknowledge his passing, haven’t you, Willow?”
“I’ve come back because I need to ask—”
“Willow!”
“But, Julia, it’s only that—”
“And now we’ll be on our way, won’t we, Willow?”
She dropped her arms, standing like a wilted flower, and murmured, “Yes, all right.”
The uniforms exchanged glances, followed by one of them talking quietly into the radio clipped onto her shoulder strap.
“Yes, good—are you making a call to Detective Inspector Callow?” I asked. “Or Detective Sergeant Glossop? They’ll explain, I’m sure, who we are and that it’s fine if—well, not fine, of course, that we are loitering out here. We understand that and we’ll…”
A male voice came back over the radio, answering the uniform, followed by a woman’s voice. I sighed with relief when I recognized it as Tess’s. My relief was tempered when my phone rang and the PC nodded to it. “Detective Inspector Callow would like to have a word, Ms. Lanchester.”
Chapter 14
“You can understand, Willow, can’t you, how it would be worrisome to everyone?” I asked as we walked down the high street toward Three Bags Full.
“That I want to talk with a dead man?” Willow asked. I cut my eyes at her, and she had the good sense to offer a chagrined smile. “I can’t let it be, Julia. At first, it was incredibly upsetting. The state of the body, you know, and the…”
“Flies, yes.”
“But over the next few days, it became more than that. And after talking with you yesterday, I feel so strongly there’s something I’m supposed to know—something that would be of great help. But I can’t think of what it is. It occurred to me, if I stood in the same place as last Thursday, it might help me remember. That he might send me a message.”
Willow’s explanation had started out quite sensibly—I decided not to push the matter.
Tess had asked me several crisp questions about what Willow thought she would gain by trespassing and possibly compromising a site that might still yield clues. And then the DI had assigned me the task to keep Willow well away from the murder scene, or next time the police would do more than wave their arms round. “Ring if you need me,” she had added.
After that, she had radioed the uniforms back to release us. I gave Linus and Lottie quick phone calls, followed by a brief text to Michael while Willow and I stood under the lych-gate at the end of the church walk.
Now, as we walked past Nuala’s, I breathed a sigh of relief to see that the curb in front was absent of a green Morgan Roadster. “Well,” I said, “I
think a cup of tea with Lottie will sort us out for now—and perhaps whatever that thing is will come back to you when you least expect it. Your aunt, by the way”—time for a change of topic—“has had quite a colorful life so far.”
Willow smiled, and my heart grew lighter. “Oh God, yes,” she said. “Lottie has always been a bit of a scandal in the family. She left home quite young—I think she was sixteen—and ended up living with Fernandes the artist, and traveled the world for years.”
And posed almost starkers in the Place de la Concorde. The image was so alive in my mind, it was as if I stood there with her, the traffic whooshing by and horns blaring, and I could feel a cold April wind nip at my bare bottom.
“I hope that shawl was big enough,” I said.
“Not quite.” Willow giggled. “I’ve seen the photos. Of course, that was Auntie’s idea, not her partner’s. Fernandes created installation art. Do you remember the Brolly Bridge in London?”
“That was a good few years ago. I saw photos—someone attached colorful umbrellas to the footbridge across the Thames—covered it completely, a ceiling of brollies. It made quite a splash.”
“Fernandes. The bridge commission brought them back to England, and Auntie says that’s when she realized she wanted to stay in her own home country for good. Moving to Smeaton hasn’t slowed her down, of course, it’s only changed her focus. Do you know, she wove an enormous tapestry of a Suffolk winter landscape entirely from natural wools—white, cream, brown, black? It’s hanging in the Tate Britain.”
* * *
—
We arrived at the shop, and Lottie took us upstairs to her flat after locking the front door and hanging a “Please ring the bell” sign. She lived in a rambling space with a couple of bedrooms and an expansive sitting room that felt like an extension of the shop below—abundantly colorful, stacked with extra containers of twisted skeins of yarn, and with a loom in one corner. She had poured small glasses of a Spanish sherry and offered a plate of savory tarts made with Manchego cheese and topped with a strip of sweet pepper.
Lottie gave her niece a hug, but wisely didn’t ask for details of the recent escapade. We kept our conversation well away, too. Willow appeared entirely, incredibly, and truly her old self by the time I left—although, at the door, she did take my arm and give me a significant look. I responded with a promise to let her know whatever I learned from the police.
At my Pipit Cottage, I stopped on the pavement to count vehicles—not only Pammy’s Ford Fiesta and Michael’s Fiat, but also a well-used red hatchback I recognized as Gavin’s.
Having managed to avoid Willow being arrested for interfering in a murder investigation, I opened the cottage door at the prelude to a punch-up.
“She’s a grown woman, if you haven’t noticed,” Gavin growled, “and she can make her own decisions.”
Michael stuck a finger in Gavin’s face. “Don’t you talk about my sister that way.”
“Hello, all,” I chirped, standing in the doorway, because the men blocked my path to either the kitchen or the sitting room. Pammy perched on the third step up the stairs, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.
“Julia,” Gavin said coolly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “As I hadn’t heard any details yet”—he glared at Michael—“I stopped to talk with Sedgwick about the segment for Rupert’s show.”
“Well, that’s nice of you, Gavin, to save Michael having to track you down. Isn’t it?” I smiled sweetly at Michael until his eyes—dark as night—lightened to cobalt.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Great.”
“So, look”—I scooted past Michael, planting a kiss on his neck as I went—“the two of you can sit at the table here and get this all settled. Pammy and I will…”
“Why don’t you go on to the pub?” Michael asked.
“No,” Pammy said from above. “We’ll stay here. Won’t we, Julia?”
I caught the worry in the glance she threw me, and I had to admit, I agreed. “Good idea—I tell you what, we’ll sit in the garden and have a glass of wine.” I grabbed the last of a bottle on the counter, Pammy scooped up two glasses, and we escaped to sit on the stone terrace in the back garden, keeping the French doors behind us open.
“Do you think they’ll behave?” Pammy asked as we sat and I poured.
“We can only hope.”
Gone six o’clock—we’d piles of daylight left and a good show in front of us. I watched the birds, and Pammy watched her phone. At least, that’s what I thought. But after a few minutes, she pointed out to the garden and said, “That’s a…”
I followed her direction. “Blackbird.”
“Yeah, right, that’s it. Blackbird.” She cut her eyes at me. “Er, Julia…I didn’t actually go look at a flat today.”
“Or yesterday?”
“Or yesterday.”
I can’t say the truth didn’t hurt. “So, instead, Gavin’s taken you out birdwatching?”
The embarrassed-pleased-hesitant look that marked the threshold of a new relationship blossomed on Pammy’s face.
“Yeah. He’s really sweet,” she said. “I don’t know anything about all this nature stuff, but Gavin says it’s all right, he’ll teach me. I’ve seen a robin, a starling, a sparrow…” She counted them off on her fingers. “And one of those,” she added, nodding to the feeder.
“Goldfinch.”
“Is it? Shouldn’t he be pink?”
“No, he should be gold. Maybe you’re thinking of a chaffinch.”
“A what?”
Good luck to you, Gavin.
“We’ve been all over your estate,” Pammy said. “I quite enjoyed myself, actually. Funny, that.” Her tone was incredulous, as if she had discovered that walking across hot coals barefoot was, in reality, a pleasant experience.
“Normally,” I said, “Gavin goes for the more unusual sightings. Dashing off, for example, to see a bird that has flown in from South America for the day.”
“Twitching.” Pammy nodded. “He told me—sort of like hunting, but without killing anything, just so you can add a bird to your list. He said it can be quite exciting.”
Or not. “I hear you met Willow today.”
“Yeah, she was wearing that paisley tunic in shades of lavender. Linen blend, I should think. It had two pearl buttons at the bodice and a crisscross pattern stitched into the neckline. Not something I see much of in the charity shops. Looked lovely on her.”
Ah, so Pammy did have powers of observation, only in a narrow band of interest.
“Did you enjoy it, being outdoors all day?”
“Not all day—Gavin took me to lunch.”
* * *
—
Just when I was beginning to think how civilized Michael and Gavin were behaving, their voices rose in volume and heated up in tone. I nodded to Pammy, and we stepped indoors in time to hear Gavin say, “The birds don’t book ahead, you know—I can’t tell that far in advance.”
“I won’t have a camera crew on hold just for this.” Michael jabbed a finger at the notes in front of him.
“One camera, one person—that’s all,” Gavin shot back. “Even you could manage that.”
“Of course he can,” I slipped in. “Michael’s done plenty of shooting—there was that fantastic video of a green woodpecker, remember? And the one with the lesser whitethroat?”
Probably shouldn’t’ve brought that one up. He’d come back wet and cold from several hours at Minsmere reserve waiting out the elusive lesser whitethroat, aka “that damned little bird.”
Michael drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, and then slammed his pencil down. “Right, but you’ve got to give me at least two hours’ notice—and we’re not driving to the bloody Lake District just to stand vigil at a farmer’s horse trough.”
I b
eamed at them. “So, all settled?”
“None too soon,” Gavin said, checking his phone. “I’ve got to get to work.”
And just when I thought the world couldn’t get any stranger, Gavin gets a job.
Pammy walked him to the door, and I distinctly heard him whisper to her, “See you Wednesday.” Michael, looking out the French doors with his back to them, slowly rotated his head as if his ear sought a better radio signal. I glanced over at the pair and caught Gavin giving Pammy a kiss on the cheek. It made me smile.
“Julia,” Gavin said, “what’s happened to the field and verges out beyond those ruins of yours? They’ve gone all brown. It’s too early for that. Are you letting the farmers spray?”
“No, we are not. At least, I don’t think so—I’m not sure, actually. There’s no estate agent, and Linus and Cecil are stretched trying to oversee everything. Where did you say it was?”
He gave me vague directions, and I made a mental note to mention it to Linus. Or better yet, I’d ask Guy Pockett. His farm was out that way—he would know.
* * *
—
We were treated at supper to a chicken tikka masala Pammy had come across at Akash’s shop—on the day of its expiry, so it had been marked down. During dinner, I made vague reference to Willow and Lottie—we still hadn’t brought up the subject of That Poor Man to Pammy, and I wanted to keep it that way. I ended on a pleasant subject.
“Willow’s class has built a toad house. Perhaps she’ll snap a photo of the resident and send it in for Rupert’s ‘Wild About Schools’ page on the website. Are you interested?” I asked Michael.
“Interested?” Pammy grinned. “He’s Toad of Toad Hall, he is. Isn’t that right, Michael?”
Michael laughed and blushed. “Come on, Pammy, you’re not going to dredge that up, are you?”
Words of invitation to a big sister. Pammy gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Have you not told Julia about the time you took one of Mum’s best handbags and put it out in the garden for the toads to live in?”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 11