Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  I couldn’t say what I expected to find beyond the churchyard at the pond—perhaps Tony Brightbill returned, searching for the mossy branch of oak he’d used to bash in Bob’s skull?

  The thought did give me a thrill—what would Tess say about Brightbill as a suspect then? Motive was secondary if you caught the murderer with the weapon.

  It could happen, couldn’t it? I seemed to be convincing myself of this possibility and, keeping the brick wall to my left, I crept up to the last large yew near the churchyard gate, my breath coming quick from anticipation. When I parted the branches, I startled a blackbird that had taken cover. It chastised me as it flew out—I apologized and pulled my hands out of the canopy in case there was a nest, and then inched round until I had a clear view of the pond.

  And there, at the far edge where Bob had lain, I saw not one person, but two—and neither of them Tony Brightbill. One was tall and dressed in wellies, a long yellow raincoat, and a wide-brimmed hat. The other was short and wore a clear slicker over a floral-print shift and short, thick boots, and held a see-through purple umbrella that protected her curly brown hair. Tommy Pears and Willow.

  Chapter 21

  “Julia!”

  I jumped at the voice behind me, whirled round, and fell back into the yew, clutching at branches, saved from landing on the soggy ground only when Cecil reached out and grabbed me.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “Who is that with Willow? What are they doing here? What are you doing? What is going on—you haven’t been—”

  “Cecil, please.” I clambered up, knocking his rain hat askew as I righted myself. Rain splattered my face, and I readjusted my hood as I spluttered, “I’ve just this minute arrived, and I have no idea—”

  “Cecil!”

  Willow and Tommy were picking their way back toward us, and Cecil left me to dart over and open the gate for them. Willow looked radiant. Tommy hung back, her eyes shifting from one face to another.

  “Willow,” Cecil began, and I heard a pleading note in his voice. “Didn’t we discuss this and you agreed it might not be a good idea to—”

  “Cecil, dear, let me introduce Tommy Pears.” Willow put her hand on Cecil’s arm and tilted her umbrella back to smile up at him.

  Cecil automatically put his hand out. “How do you do, Ms. Pears? Cecil Fotheringill, happy to meet you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Fotheringill,” Tommy said. “I’m afraid I’m responsible for this.”

  “Tommy has been a great help to the police,” Willow explained in a rush. “Remember Detective Inspector Callow showed me the photo yesterday?”

  “That was a poor decision on the part of the police,” Cecil complained. “Disturbing you during your school day.”

  “Dear Cecil, it was better during my busy day, actually, because I had no time to dwell on it. But this is the truly remarkable part—I could only be sad when I saw him, but Tommy knew his name. He’s Bob. She and her family met him out by the abbey ruins. Julia was the one who remembered they’d been into the TIC and mentioned him. Tommy came out today, because she rather feels the same way I do, that we owe it to Bob to acknowledge what’s happened and ask him if there is some way we can help.”

  A frown passed over Cecil’s face.

  “Yes, thank you, Ms. Pears, for your assistance in this matter. We are, of course, truly sorry for this man’s death, and we are doing everything we can to help the police with their enquiry. And, of course, thank you, too, Julia, for your help.”

  Poor Cecil—still at sea over Willow’s unexplainable attraction to a dead man. “Of course, we all want an end to the matter. But right now,” I offered, longing for someone to turn off the tap, “I don’t suppose anyone would like to get out of the rain?”

  * * *

  —

  We paused in the covered entry to the church as we said our goodbyes. While Cecil engaged Tommy in a brief conversation about the estate, Willow walked me to a bench by the notice board. It held a poster with Tommy’s new design for the art competition. In the corner, she had sketched Willow, smiling, holding a paintbrush, and saying, “Brushes up!”

  “We’re so close, Julia, I can feel it.” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. “And I know I can be of assistance.”

  “Willow, you can’t take this on—the police are handling it.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, and then tapped the tip of her umbrella on the stone floor. “Still, there’s something Bob wants me to remember. I need to clear my mind, and it will come to me.”

  * * *

  —

  The rain continued relentlessly in its pursuit to drown the Fotheringill estate. I reckoned that Suffolk, known for its low rainfall, might be getting its year’s worth all in one day. As Tommy, Willow, and Cecil departed, a text arrived from Michael—Preparing 4 tomorrow evening with nightjars—followed by one from Vesta.

  On your way back?

  I had stayed away too long. I felt a pang of guilt—here I was, once again taking advantage of Vesta. I must stop. I had brought this up to her before, but her response had been, “And what about you working six days a week? This isn’t Charles Dickens’s blacking factory, you know.” No good pointing out I worked only five and a half days—I knew she was right. When I had opened the TIC just over two years ago, it had filled a vast hole in my life. But perhaps the time had come to put a bit of space between life and work.

  Be right there.

  Twenty minutes later I’d secured my Fiat in its lockup and arrived at the TIC to find Vesta sitting behind the counter with cups of tea on the table. Across from her, leaning forward and toying with a folded sheet of paper in his hand, Tony Brightbill.

  * * *

  —

  What was Vesta thinking, inviting a murderer to tea?

  That was my first thought, followed quick on by realizing no one had seen what I had—Tony Brightbill at the scene of a violent crime. Tea rooms, my eye—that had all been a ruse.

  Brightbill stood, holding the paper close, and said, “Ms. Lanchester, I hope you don’t mind that I—”

  “I asked Mr. Brightbill to stay,” Vesta cut in. “He’d wanted to speak with you, and I told him you’d be returning soon.”

  Perhaps Vesta did have her own suspicions. She had thought it better Brightbill meet me here with her as witness rather than have him track me down at the end of a deserted lane.

  “Well, you should be on your way now, Vesta,” I said. “Thanks so much for staying while I was out.”

  “I’m in no hurry, Julia. Shall I put the kettle on for a fresh pot?”

  “Not at all, we’re fine.” I sounded as if Tony Brightbill and I were about to discuss the virtues of real butter versus buttery spread. I dug in my bag for my phone. I needed to ring the police. “Would you both excuse me for a moment?” I asked, nodding toward the loo. “Oh, and—DI Callow is on her way.”

  “Yes, she is,” Brightbill said.

  Without thinking, I asked, “How do you know?”

  “I rang her a quarter of an hour ago.”

  I was gripped with a thrill of fear—he’d called the police here because he was going to confess, right in front of me. Did he require a witness? Did he feel the murderer’s need to be the center of attention? Was he about to lodge a formal complaint that I was harassing him?

  “There you are now,” I said, a tremor to my voice. “Off you go, Vesta.”

  She buttoned her raincoat in slow motion, watching me, her eyes drifting down to my shoes for the first time. As I had spoiled my trainers spying on Tony Brightbill, I didn’t believe this an appropriate moment to go into detail about my heavy-duty shoes.

  “Sheila’s,” I said. Vesta nodded.

  I watched her walk out, and only after she had disappeared did it occur to me that Brightbill could well have been lying about the police. Was Tess reall
y on her way? I edged past him and stood in front of the counter, closer to the door, still unlocked. “Now, Mr. Brightbill, how may I—”

  He unfolded the paper he’d been fingering and held it out. I saw it was the photo of the murder victim, computer-enhanced to have his eyes open and look almost alive.

  “Bob,” Tony said. “Robert Brightbill. He was my brother.”

  Chapter 22

  I laid a hand on the counter to steady myself as I took in Tony’s pronouncement. “Bob Brightbill,” I breathed. “Your brother?”

  Tony sank back into his chair. I looked closer and now saw the effects this news had had on him—that engaging charm, which had taken in Nuala and probably anyone else he’d turned it on, had vanished. In its place, a tired man, his eyes rimmed red, his thick hair hanging lifeless after a morning vigil in the rain. And something else that had been unseen but quite palpable—that strong sense of self. Drained away.

  “I’m sorry you felt I misled you here in Smeaton,” Tony said. “And I’m sorry I treated Nuala so poorly—I can see that now. I’m afraid that although I looked on my interest in a purely business sense, she might’ve seen it otherwise.”

  The power of his news deflated my severe reaction to his wooing of Nuala for non-romantic purposes. His brother was dead—how could I fault this man anything?

  “Did you come to the village to meet him?” I asked.

  Tony shook his head once and then nodded. “I came here hoping to find him. I was working my way through Suffolk. Bob never liked feeling he was being pursued, so instead, I would get the feel of the place and start making general enquiries in conversation. But it wasn’t until yesterday when you mentioned an unidentified man had died on the estate that…I realized how close I might’ve come.”

  “Was he…I mean, did he need to…” What was I trying to say? Was your brother escaping the law?

  “Bob never lived a conventional life—he’d no house, no steady work, no family of his own. He spent the years drifting, taking a job here and there. He’s probably seen more of England, Scotland, and Wales than most of us. It was a way of living he preferred, and we had to accept that, and draw comfort from the knowledge he would turn up on the doorstep a couple of times a year. So, at the very least, we would know he was alive.”

  These brothers’ lives couldn’t be more different. “But why had you come looking for him?”

  “I hadn’t seen him since late September—he’d been in Norfolk. The last he said to me when he left was, ‘So then, I’d better be getting on with things.’ ”

  I whirled round at the jingling bell above the door, my heart thumping in my chest.

  DI Tess Callow saw my alarm instantly and moved swiftly and smoothly toward me.

  “Julia?” she asked.

  I looked from her to Brightbill. “Is that why you called the police here? To explain?” I asked. And to Tess, “Did he tell you?”

  Callow shook the rain off her hair and held out her warrant card and badge to Tony. “Mr. Brightbill? Detective Inspector Callow.”

  “I hope it was no trouble you driving to the village,” Tony said.

  “No trouble,” Tess answered. “We’ve been out on the estate conducting a search at one of the farms.”

  Searching Guy Pockett’s place. What had they found? The DI didn’t meet my questioning look, but as a reminder, my forearm throbbed where Guy had held fast.

  “It’s only I thought Ms. Lanchester deserved to hear first,” Tony said. “For all the trouble I’ve given her.”

  My face went hot. What trouble had he given me—a man whose brother had just been murdered—that I hadn’t given him back tenfold?

  “Now then, would you follow me to the station in Sudbury? We’ll need you to identify the body, and we can take your statement there.”

  I saw myself being shut out, and I didn’t like it. I could skip the body identification, but I wanted to hear Tony’s story—all of it. But I couldn’t find a way in and watched with resignation as they readied to leave.

  “Mr. Brightbill,” I said as they walked out. “I’m awfully sorry.” I didn’t say for what—his brother, my attitude and suspicions. Did it matter?

  I locked up behind them and watched as Tess got in her black Volvo and drove off, followed in a moment by his green Morgan Roadster with its top pulled up against the rain.

  I had switched off the lights and turned the sign to “Closed” when my phone rang.

  “Julia?” A furtive whisper, followed by a roar of laughter and scattered applause.

  “Willow, is that you?”

  “Sorry, hang on a tick.” Scuffling, shuffling, and the sound of a door closing. “There now, is that better?”

  She still spoke quietly, but at least she had no competition.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Cecil and I are in Colchester for a reception followed by a lecture followed by a dinner. I hadn’t intended to come, but he thought it would be best. You know.”

  Cecil was doing what he could to keep Willow away from the subject of Bob. He’d enlisted me in that campaign, but my results were spotty. Would it be inappropriate for me to share the news that Bob now had not only a surname but also a brother?

  “Willow, my love.” Cecil’s voice in the background.

  “It’s all right, Cecil,” Willow said. “It’s only Julia.”

  “Did she ring you?”

  Not difficult to hear the accusation in that question. She did not, I wanted to say, but Willow said it for me.

  “No, I rang. It’s that thing I told you about earlier. I know you said wait until tomorrow, but truly, Cecil, dear, it would put my mind totally at rest if only I could tell Julia right now.”

  I waited through a long pause, envisioning Willow looking up at Cecil, expectantly, smiling—and Cecil’s resolve melting.

  “Yes, all right, of course, whatever you think is best. We’ll need to get our seats for the lecture soon—you won’t be long?”

  I heard a smack as Willow rewarded him with a kiss before the door closed and she said to me, “I’ve remembered, Julia. It’s incredibly amazing, isn’t it? What Bob wanted me to know. Perhaps it was meeting Tommy today, and knowing there was one other person who shared what I felt about Bob. Of course, I realize you care, too, but we feel as if—”

  “Willow,” I cut in, my heart pounding. “What did you remember?”

  “I rang Aunt Lottie first, but she didn’t answer, and leaving a message didn’t seem right. Julia, the thing Bob has been trying to tell me—it’s the OXO tin.”

  With the addition of the victim’s photo and a relative, the OXO tin had slipped out of my mind.

  “The one Bob had in his pocket? You saw a photo of it.”

  “Yes, I saw the photo, but no—not the one Bob had in his pocket. There’s one just like it—eggshells and all—in Aunt Lottie’s bureau drawer.”

  * * *

  —

  I had the TIC door locked and was halfway to Three Bags Full before I had pulled my mack on, all the while images of OXO tins dancing in my head. I’d caught Willow’s excitement, and as unlikely as the connection seemed, when wild speculation waved at me from a distance, I waved back.

  Late opening at the wool shop, and Lottie stood chatting with a woman about the spinning qualities of wool from bluefaced Leicester sheep. She gave me a nod, and, as she finished up, I occupied myself with petting a cubbyhole full of mohair skeins. The moment the customer left, Lottie asked, “Julia, you’re soaked—is it still raining? Is Willow all right?”

  Did I look that disheveled that her first thought was for bad news?

  “Yes, of course—she’s in Colchester with Cecil. It’s only that, she just this minute rang me, Lottie, and she told me…she asked me to…the thing is…” I was sure this wasn’t how the police conducted door-to-door
interviews. And that thought brought me up short. “Lottie, didn’t the police come by yesterday? They were in the village.”

  “I wasn’t here yesterday—my closing day. Willow’s staying at the Hall, and so I went up to London Monday evening—I’ve a small textile show at a gallery near Horseferry Road—and didn’t get home until yesterday evening. Why? Are the police still asking after that man poor Willow found? It would be such a relief for her to put this all to rest.”

  Lottie had not seen the photo of Bob, which the police had circulated round the village yesterday and at the market today. I had it in my bag, but I chose to begin with the other photo—with Willow’s tip. I pulled out the paper and straightened the bent corners. “Does this look familiar?”

  Lottie hovered over the images—one, of the tin closed, and the other, opened to show the empty pieces of birds’ eggs. At first she frowned, and then her face lost color, and I saw her fingers go white as they clutched the edge of the counter.

  “Where did you get that?” she whispered and cut her eyes to the back stairs that led to her flat. “It isn’t—”

  “This tin was found on the man who died. It’s all he had in his pockets. The police went door-to-door yesterday with this photo and a photo of the victim. I have that one, too. Do you want to see it?”

  “I wasn’t here yesterday,” she repeated.

  When I pulled out the second photo, Lottie drew away from me. I unfolded it, and set it on the counter, dropping my bag to the floor.

  She pressed her lips together and squinted, looking hard at the picture, and then her eyes widened, bright with tears, and her face softened. After a moment, she tapped a finger on one of his earlobes, the one with a piece missing.