“I decided it was time for a bit of a clean-out,” she said, her head deep in a cubbyhole and her voice muffled. “It’s the ones far in the back you forget about, isn’t it? I’ll have a sale. I don’t suppose His Lordship would let me set a table out on the pavement, would he?”
“Well, I don’t see why not—you’ve only to ask.”
The top row of yarn cubicles having been emptied, Lottie came down the ladder. When she stepped on terra firma, I noticed she had a crochet hook stuck behind one ear like a pencil and a furrow on her brow.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” I began.
“You’re no bother, Julia,” she said as she began collecting skeins from the floor and dropping them into a giant basket in the corner. “I’ve told Willow my story, and I’ve talked with your Detective Inspector Callow, although I’m sure she was disappointed, as I had nothing of substance to offer her.”
I chased after a few skeins that had bounced under the counter and tossed them into the basket, while I said, “And all that after your talk with Tony.”
“There’s a man with a great deal to answer for,” she said, her back to me, but the bitterness in her voice came through quite clear. She sighed. “No, I didn’t mean it the way it sounds—it’s only that he’s the last Brightbill left, and so he must take the brunt of the fallout. That family”—she turned and shook a blood-red skein in the air—“they were always experts at closing ranks, a world unto themselves. No need for outsiders—the family would always take care of things.”
“Is he sad about Bob?”
“Yes, I believe he is. Although you’d never know it by looking at him. And he’s still grieving for his wife. This can’t be easy on him, and I should remember that.” She examined the skein she held, hugged it to herself, and exclaimed, “I wish he’d said something.” I knew she didn’t mean Tony. “Why didn’t he just walk in here and say something to me?”
“If Bob had come in,” I began and then hesitated. Lottie’s eyes grew dark, but she said nothing. “If Bob had walked in here now and asked you to go away with him like he said he would all those years ago…would you have gone?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “We’ll never know, will we?”
* * *
—
Pammy waited on the doorstep of the cottage and for the first time, I wondered if we should give her a key. The thought hadn’t time to linger long before I banished it.
“You look quite smart,” I said. Her black skirt—more mini than micro—was topped with a shimmering blue blouse that moved like liquid.
“Thanks,” she said, high color on her cheeks. Inside, she walked to the sofa and whirled round. “So, well—here it is. I have a job. A proper job, not one where my brother only puts up with me and boots me out the minute I—” She stopped and reversed before she went down that road. “A proper job,” she repeated. “Assistant manager at a charity shop in Bury Saint Edmunds. Not just any charity shop, mind you—Oxfam!”
“Well done, you,” I said and gave her a hug.
“They set an exam as part of the interview,” Pammy rushed on. “A table piled high with donated clothes that I had to sort and price. After that, they asked what kind of creative leadership I would bring to the position, and I told them I’d organize a posh frock sale—a special evening where we save up all the very best clothes and give out free glasses of prosecco as women shop. Also, I pointed out to them that my entire outfit”—she swept her hand from head to toe—“came from Oxfam shops.”
I was speechless in admiration and amazement. It was as if during her time on our sofa, Pammy had been in a chrysalis stage, and in an instant, she had emerged to stretch her wings.
“There’s more.” Pammy wriggled with excitement. “Another woman at the shop—an older woman, a widow—has a spare room in her house to let and said I could start out there and we would see how it works. I could save up and look for my own place!”
“So, what about you and Gavin?”
“Yeah, Gavin—we’re, you know, an item.” She grinned and giggled and blushed. “But we aren’t moving in together yet—I’ve learned my lesson there. I’ve learned a lot staying here with you and Michael; I need to take responsibility for myself and my life. And it starts now.”
A call echoed in my mind.
Coo-koo—coo-coo-koo.
In June it changes tune.
As I marveled at how a bit of patience on our part had paid off, Pammy asked, “So, when’s Michael home?”
“Not for a long while,” I said. “Nightjars.”
“Nightjars?” she repeated, wrinkling her nose. “Is he at a pub or something?”
“No.” I laughed. “But we should be—how about we go out for a meal? My treat, the Stoat and Hare?”
“Ooh, the fancy place.”
“Not too fancy. The pub is quite cozy, although I suppose the dining room is a step up. Lovely food.”
“Burgers?”
“The best.”
“I’m in.”
* * *
—
“God, where’ve you got off to lately?” Peg asked as soon as we’d stepped in the door.
“I know, we’ve not had a spare minute,” I said, “but we couldn’t keep away any longer. Do you know Michael’s sister, Pammy?”
“No,” Peg replied. “Lovely to meet you. Would you like a table? We’re in a bit of a crush, but I can squeeze you in.”
We followed Peg, and I turned to Pammy and whispered, “Could it be there’s someone in the village you haven’t met?”
She only smiled as she waved to Derry from the garden shop, who stood with a gin and tonic, arm on the bar. Derry raised her head in acknowledgment.
“Will you be all right here?” Peg asked, stopping at a small table set up against a dividing wall in the dining room.
“Perfect.” I took the chair facing the rest of the busy room, and Pammy sat across from me with a view over my shoulder that ran past the stairs that led to the rooms above and into the bar.
“Peg, has Fred agreed to be the first chef demo at the market?”
“I’d say he’s wavering.”
“Right then. Hang on,” I said to Pammy.
I backtracked into the bar, stuck my head in the kitchen, and jumped out of the way of a server carrying four full plates.
“Sorry. Hiya, Fred,” I called.
Peg’s husband looked up from a simmering saucepan.
“What about that demo at the market next Wednesday?” I asked. “You’ll be our first—and you can cook whatever you like.”
“What? Oh yeah, right. Well—” A server swooped in and stuck a food order on the line. “Sure. Fine. Talk to me tomorrow?”
You see, catch them in a busy moment, and it’s easy.
Returning to the dining room, I walked through the bar, and as I passed the staircase, saw a familiar face. Tailored, jewel-toned business suit, cascading chestnut hair—ah, the businesswoman in search of a chemist.
“Hello again,” I said and received a blank look. “Sorry—out of uniform. I’m Julia Lanchester, tourist manager. We met on the high street when you were looking for—”
“Contact lens solution! Lovely to see you again,” she said warmly, taking my hand in what was a mash-up of a shake and a clasp. I remembered she was in sales.
“We’re delighted you’ve returned,” I said.
“Yes, as you can see, I’m still quite taken with your village.” She nodded a greeting to Peg and continued up the steps.
Peg smiled at her retreating figure, but murmured, “That isn’t all she’s taken with.”
I leaned in to hear more, but Peg said, “Must get to work,” turned on her heel, and headed for the bar.
* * *
—
We might’ve gone a bit overboard on ordering foo
d, but Pammy and I were both famished. Burger with Stilton for her, stuffed sole for me. We asked for starters, too—she the smoked haddock rarebit, and I the poached pheasant egg on artichoke ragout. We started in on a bottle of the house red, and, now that she was in the loop, I caught Pammy up on the Brightbill investigation—although I went easy on speculating who the murderer might be.
“Can you believe it?” she asked, incredulous. “And Willow’s aunt knew him?” She shuddered. “He’s a right one, that Tony, but still—his wife dies and now his brother murdered? No one deserves that, do they?” She cut her eyes over her shoulder at the other diners. “He won’t be coming in here, will he?”
I assured her he wouldn’t, but then—he did say he was staying local. I, too, glanced round the room, just to be certain.
The starters arrived, and we moved off the subject of murder. I cut into my egg, and watched the golden yolk ooze out before stabbing a piece.
“Gavin and I have been telling each other about our past relationships,” Pammy said.
That must’ve taken a while, I thought, and blushed remembering my own past.
“There weren’t any great successes,” Pammy said, “but then, they weren’t all bad.” She looked at me over the rim of her glass, a teasing Sedgwick twinkle in her eye. “He spoke quite highly of you.”
My hand froze in midair and yolk dripped onto the napkin in my lap.
“He what?”
Pammy reached over and patted my hand. “It’s all right, Julia—it was a long time ago.”
I dropped my head. “Oh, my God.”
“And you were both free agents. Remember, we all do a crazy thing every once in a while.” She took up her knife and fork and examined her starter before adding, “I’ve certainly learned my lesson about inappropriate choices.”
I sighed and rescued the egg dangling from my fork. Her brother would disagree. Michael considered Gavin a highly inappropriate choice for his sister, but I saw it otherwise. Gavin and Pammy seemed to be bringing out the best in each other.
“Yes, well, I suppose you and I have both learned a few lessons.”
No response. I looked up to see Pammy staring over my shoulder, a frown on her face.
“You know who I think that is?” she asked. “I think it’s that other fellow.”
I swallowed before I could ask, “What other fellow?”
“It is him,” she said, squinting. “I’m sure of it—I recognize him from his hair.” She looked back at me. “The fellow I saw out near the church the day Bob died.”
I spun round and could see nothing except the back of someone starting up the stairs and a few people milling about at the bottom. When at last they cleared, I had a straight view into the bar, where Guy Pockett—whose hair rose up several inches like a yeast bread—stood alone, finishing off a pint and watching us.
Chapter 27
“You saw Guy Pockett near the church the day Bob was murdered. Why—” I had to stop as the server came to clear our starter plates and set down the main course. When she’d left, I leaned over the table. “Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah, well, I asked if he knew where you lived. And he didn’t.”
“You saw him near the church,” I repeated. Near the church was not that far from the pond. Guy Pockett was observed near the scene of the murder—near the time of the murder. With all my will, I reined in my galloping suspicions. “But, there were loads of people by the church. There had been a wedding, remember?”
“No, it was after the wedding—weren’t you all here in the pub? I didn’t see anyone else.”
Yes—Vesta and Akash’s wedding had ended, and we’d traipsed down to the garden here at the Stoat and Hare. Michael and I had intended to leave the reception a bit early, but instead we’d ended up being among the last remaining, and when we’d strolled down the high street, arriving home about seven o’clock, we’d found Pammy on our doorstep.
“But why didn’t you say anything about him? Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I don’t know.” Pammy drew her arms to her chest defensively. “I forgot, I suppose. It wasn’t about him, was it? I’d seen Bob, and that’s what was important. Who cares about some other bloke?”
I nodded back to the bar. “And you’re sure he’s the one?”
Pammy leaned over, looking past me.
“Well, he’s gone now.”
I turned. No Guy Pockett in sight.
* * *
—
I spent the rest of the meal attempting and failing to coerce Pammy into talking with the police immediately. She begged could we finish our meal in peace and wait until the morning when she would go straight to the station in Sudbury and tell DI Callow the news that Guy had been seen near the site of Bob Brightbill’s murder.
“He’s another witness,” I insisted, although in my mind I called him something else. “The police need all the information they can get.”
“What’s she going to do about it this evening?” Pammy pointed out.
“All right,” I conceded. “You can wait until tomorrow—but off you go, first thing.”
We managed to clean our plates and sat in contented quiet for a few moments before Pammy asked, “How’s the crème brûlée in this place?”
And so, when Michael arrived home just minutes after we did and said, “That’s a wrap on the nightjars. Who’s up for late fish and chips?” he was met with a duet of sighs.
“I could do you scrambled eggs on toast?” I offered and got busy. “But listen now—your sister has something to say.”
“What’s that, then?” Michael asked.
“You are speaking,” Pammy said, nose in the air, “to the new assistant manager of the Oxfam shop in Bury Saint Edmunds.”
“Is that right?” he asked, breaking out in a grin.
“And I’ve sorted out lodgings.”
“Not with—”
“No,” I rushed in. “With someone from the shop.”
“Ah, Pammy, that’s grand,” Michael said, giving his sister a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“So…short-toed eagle?” I asked.
Michael poured himself a glass of wine and held it up. “Sitting pretty on a low branch of a willow, as if he’d been waiting for us. Got him cruising over the flats, too, hunting for snakes.”
“Congratulations. And how was Gavin?”
“Good.” Michael took a slug of wine. “Yeah, he’s good in front of the camera, I’ll give him that.”
“Of course he is,” Pammy said, heading upstairs to take first shift in the bathroom.
“And he’s looking forward to that jumble sale on Saturday, I can tell you,” Michael called after her. Pammy turned and grinned before closing the bedroom door.
“Thanks for ringing Miles,” I said over my shoulder as I scraped eggs onto the toast on his plate. Michael started in on his food as I explained what his brother had found for us. “It doesn’t look good—Tony could’ve wanted to be shed of that million-quid loan and done in Bob to be free of it.”
“You told Tess?”
I nodded. “But now there’s this.” I related Pammy’s sighting of Guy Pockett. “Was he the one Bob was going to meet?” I sighed. “We’re back to him slipping off the organic rails—spraying that field with herbicide and wanting to keep it quiet.”
Michael’s eyes dropped to my arm, where the violet handprint of bruising had mellowed and a hint of yellow-green was beginning to emerge.
“She was having a word with him today,” I said.
“She should have more than a word,” Michael replied brusquely. “Did you ring her about Pammy’s sighting?”
“No, Pammy’s going in to the station first thing tomorrow. And I’m going to work—I’ve given Vesta the day off.”
* * *
—
Michael left early the next morning to collect Rupert in Cambridge and make a ten o’clock meeting in Sheffield to plan for the city’s upcoming Day of Flowers, Birds, and Bees.
“Didn’t you work late last evening?” Pammy had asked her brother as he stood in the doorway. She still wore pajamas and looked up from hunting through a bag. “And will you work on the weekend again?”
“No work this weekend; I’ve got other plans,” Michael said on his way out.
Fine for some—I worked weekends, and I wouldn’t abandon Vesta to the Saturday crowds.
I hitched my bag up onto my shoulder, ready to head for the TIC, although it was long before opening time on this Friday. Still, I would be able to enjoy my tea in peace and quiet—and where milk was not in short supply—as Pammy readied to leave for the Sudbury police station. And she’d be leaving soon, wouldn’t she?
It didn’t look like it. She had been sifting through her possessions for the past half hour—retrieving a top, pulling it on, and then ripping it off, and moving to another. Microskirts lay scattered across the floor, landing where they had been tossed.
I delayed my departure for work, keeping one eye on Pammy while I pretended to clean out my bag, shoveling detritus onto the counter—including a handful of business cards I’d collected recently. Minty’s Tea Room in Brandon, Winch & Blatch, Deena Downey, the businesswoman looking for a chemist.
But at last I could take it no longer.
“You’ll be off now to the constabulary, won’t you? You promised.”
Pammy clasped a T-shirt to her chest, an anguished look on her face. “Will you come with me?” she whispered.
“I can’t, Pammy, it’s a work day. You’ll be fine.”
“I’d rather not go alone.”
“You’ve put DI Callow off twice now; I wouldn’t chance a third time.”
“But that was because I had plans on Wednesday. And yesterday was my interview.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“I didn’t want to jinx it.” She stood there in her bra and pajama bottoms, her shoulders drooping, fiddling with the sleeve of the top she held. “Look, I’ve never been in a police station before.”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 21