“When you have a—”
“Right,” she replied and swept off. I waited, surreptitiously checking out the rest of the diners as well as the drinkers in the bar. I saw no one of note.
“I won’t keep you,” I promised when Peg returned two minutes later. I held out the drawing. “Do you know him?”
“I do indeed,” she said.
“He and his family helped identify the man who was killed,” I explained.
“His family?”
“His wife and children. They all met Bob—the victim. Well, anyway, the thing is, I saw him outside your door here a few days ago, and he said he’d just nipped in to use the gents’.”
“Ha.” Peg took a step closer and lowered her voice. “I don’t want to be a gossip, but I can tell you he nipped in for a bit more than that. Do you remember the well-dressed woman you were talking with last evening?”
“Yes.”
“I’d say she isn’t his wife.”
“You’d be right.”
“For more than a month now,” Peg said, “they’ve been here every midweek—one night, sometimes two.”
“Did you ever see him on a Saturday?” My heart was pounding.
She squinted her eyes in thought, until the door opened and in came a quartet of Germans I recognized from the TIC group earlier. I exchanged greetings with them, and Peg drew them away toward the dining room.
“Peg?”
Without a pause, she turned and said, “No. Never on a weekend.”
Chapter 29
I walked outdoors and stood in the middle of Church Lane. My suspicion had been confirmed, and although I told myself that Noel Pears and his midweek trysts with the woman in sales had nothing to do with Bob’s murder, it did little to quell my rising fury.
Tommy must suspect something. I could see it now in her uncertain behavior. And her recent adoption of the TIC as a second home. I thought how she remembered everything about the family’s afternoon at the abbey ruins when they’d met Bob—how he’d set the children to searching for butterflies and left Tommy to nap while he and Noel went down to the brook looking for that good fishing spot. They must’ve had time for a chat out there—I wondered what they’d talked about.
I punched Tess’s number into my phone. “We found our own artist, Tommy Pears. She’s quite good and sketched him from Pammy’s description,” I explained. “And from that we have your witness. Possible witness,” I corrected myself hastily. “Tess, the trouble is, it’s Noel Pears.”
“She drew a likeness of her own husband from a description Pammy gave her?”
“Yes, I know it’s strange, but Pammy swears she was spot-on—that Noel’s the fellow she saw. Tommy left a bit upset, and not long after, Noel stopped in to the TIC.”
“What did he want?”
I walked slowly down Church Lane. “He thinks I’m interfering.”
“In what?”
“In his family life. I think he’s nervous about being found out.” I told the tale and ended with “I’ve got the woman’s business card in my bag—no wait, at the cottage. I’ll get it for you.”
“Where did Pears go?”
“Away. In a dark blue Ford Fiesta.”
“We spoke with him. He never said a word about being in the village apart from the family visits.”
“A Saturday wasn’t his usual behavior,” I told Tess. “Peg says she’s seen him only midweek. But maybe they weren’t at the hotel every time they met up. It’s summer, after all, and good weather—they wouldn’t need a hotel room, only a secluded spot. And he didn’t say, because he didn’t want to be found out.”
“Murder trumps infidelity, Julia. Look, I’m coming up now—are you at work?”
“Yes.” In theory.
The DI ended the call, and I found myself opposite Nuala’s—I could see her in the window serving someone. She looked up and waved.
Isn’t it lunchtime? Or past? I was ravenous—perhaps I’d surprise Pammy with cake for our tea.
I trotted across the road and in the door.
“ ’Afternoon, Julia,” Nuala greeted me. She took my arm and guided me away from the tables, into the next room with the glass case of cakes. “They were here this morning for their elevenses.”
“They were?” My mind filled with the myriad of possibilities of “they”—the Germans? The Swedes? Noel Pears and Deena Downey?
“The Red Hot Shoppers,” Nuala whispered.
I gasped. “How did it go?”
“Three lemon drizzles, a blackberry sponge, my new honey and ginger, and a slice of chocolate cake.” Nuala smoothed her apron. “Clean plates when they left.”
“That’s fantastic,” I said. “We’ll have to keep a lookout on the blog, but I’m sure you made the best impression. Oh, Nuala, you know, don’t you, we can’t do without you? And not just your cakes, it’s you—you’re a vital part of the village and estate and a good friend and…” Nuala looked at me askance. “Oh all right, I’ll be quiet about it. You’ve heard about Tony Brightbill and his brother, haven’t you?”
“Lottie told me—terrible, isn’t it? He seems quite broken up about it,” she said, slicing my chocolate cake. “He’s been in, of course, and I offered my condolences.”
“Yes, well.” Enough of Tony Brightbill and Nuala. “You and Linus are talking, aren’t you? He’s being civil?”
“His Lordship is always civil, Julia, you know that.” She turned away and added, “I’m invited to a dinner party this evening at the Hall—people from Historic England are coming. Linus made a particular point of saying how much easier these events were when I was…at his side.”
Yes! “Oh, Nuala, I’m so—”
“Now”—she returned to the business at hand—“do you want to take this away?”
“Yes, please. And also, I’ll get a slice of something for Pammy, Michael’s sister,” I explained. “She’s been visiting.”
“In that case, you’ll want the coffee and walnut—it’s her favorite.”
* * *
—
Nuala packed in two lemon squares and two pieces of her cherry-and-almond traybake, too. Just in case. She tied the pink bakery box up with twine for a handle, and I strolled down the pavement, swinging it by my side as if I had not a worry in the world—until it came to me that I’d left Pammy in charge of the TIC. Good God, what had I been thinking?
I dashed into the cottage long enough to get Deena Downey’s business card, which I’d left on the kitchen counter in a heap of odds and sods after cleaning out my bag. The heap had slipped off onto the floor, but I didn’t see the card anywhere. Had I put it back in my bag?
In a rush, I turned out the contents onto the table, pushing my phone and coin purse to the side in order to sift through the remaining contents. But, no—there it was on the floor, hiding under the ledge of the cupboard. Deena Downey, Sales, VidMetronics. I dropped the card in my bag, threw my bag onto my shoulder, and made it to the door before I remembered the most important item—the bakery box.
Out on the pavement, I ran, zigzagging between strolling mums with pushchairs. One woman called out, “Good move!” and, not missing a step, I looked over my shoulder and said, “Thanks!” When I turned my attention back to the road ahead, I crashed into Guy Pockett.
He’d stepped out of a shop doorway directly into my path, and I hadn’t time to stop. I spun round like a whirligig, as I tried to regain my balance, holding on to the twine of the pink bakery box as if my life depended on it. Guy grabbed for me, and we both tumbled to the pavement. I held my arm straight up, keeping my prize aloft and safe.
“I’m sorry, Julia.” Guy jumped up and grabbed my forearm to help me. I felt a dull ache from the bruises still not healed. “Really, I’m sorry,” Guy repeated.
He was the picture of calm concern. I pull
ed my arm away, adjusted my thin cardigan, and tugged my skirt down. “It’s all right. It’s only that you startled me.” And gave me a run in my tights, I noticed.
“I thought you saw me.”
“No, I was in a bit of a rush. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Guy, I need to…” I stepped back so that I could give him a wide berth.
“And the other day—I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he persisted. “You know me better than that.”
The problem was, I did know him. But surely I had nothing to fear at that moment—the door of the TIC was in sight and after all, it was a summer Friday with both villagers and visitors meandering about, enjoying the day.
“Well, let’s just forget all about that. I really must—”
“I want to show you something,” he said, stepping in front of me.
I looked at his empty hands. “Show me what?”
“I found an old Cadbury chocolates tin in the barn. It has a few newspaper cuttings and such. I think it was Bob’s.”
“Then you should take the tin to the police,” I said firmly.
“No. I’m not going to the police. They’re trying to fit me up for Bob’s murder, and they twist my words round. I’ll have none of it.” He glanced over his shoulder as if DI Callow listened in. “I’ve been cautioned once, you see. They tried to charge me with GBH. It was years ago, and they aren’t supposed to count it, because it wasn’t my fault—the bloke I hit was attacking me, and it was self-defense.”
GBH—grievous bodily harm. Bob was murdered when someone crushed his skull with a chunk of wood. Tess had warned me off contact with Guy, but she hadn’t mentioned this. Of course, I wasn’t privy to details in the investigation.
“I want to give you the tin,” he said, “and you can do what you like with it. You might want to show it to Ms. Finch at the wool shop—she knew him, right?”
I considered his point and agreed—Lottie would certainly want to see bits of Bob’s later life. I knew I would. “Well then, do you have it with you?”
“No, I’ve left it out at the farm. Will you come by and collect it?”
Did he take me for someone so devoid of common sense that I would go out to his farm alone?
“I don’t even know what it is you’ve found.”
“It’s like I said—just stuff. It means nothing to me, but it must’ve meant something to him, don’t you think? And there’s a little book about birds.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek and thought. “Bring the tin into the TIC.”
“Well, yeah, I could do. Maybe tomorrow—or Monday. I’m not sure, because I’ve a great load of work ahead of me, you know.”
And I knew how tomorrow could become a week from tomorrow with Guy. Or never. The thing to do would be to tell Tess about this—she’d send DS Natty Glossop out, and the tin would become evidence. And then, of course, I’d never be allowed to see it, and neither would Lottie.
“Well, I…”
“Cecil is coming out later to help me start on a new plan for the farm,” Guy added, probably picking up on my reluctance. “He’ll be there.”
It occurred to me that if I went out to collect the tin, I would be saving the police a journey.
“I suppose—”
“Yeah, so I’ll see you?”
“Mmm” was my only answer. All words and thoughts had been sucked from my brain by what I saw over Guy’s shoulder. Down the road and across from the TIC stood Noel Pears and Tony Brightbill, deep in conversation.
Chapter 30
Just as in one of those nightmares when you want to move, but can’t, I broke away from Guy only to be caught against a surging tide of Spanish students who moved forward as one enormous entity, elbowing me and one another with no apparent awareness. I fought to get through as I peered between bodies to the scene ahead. I saw Noel walk away, heading toward Akash’s shop while Tony crossed the road and walked into the TIC where Pammy Sedgwick, the woman who had made a shambles of his tea room’s grand opening and who had been fired from the family firm over it, now stood waiting to assist any hapless tourist who walked in.
I broke free at last and sprinted to the finish line, pushing open the door to dead silence.
Pammy, behind the counter, had arms crossed tightly, her face a rigid mask of anger and unease. Across from her stood Tony Brightbill.
“Ah, Ms. Lanchester,” he said with relief.
“Julia,” Pammy said with icy aloofness, “Mr. Brightbill has just this moment arrived and asked to see you. The TIC has been quiet while you were away, apart from a gentleman who wishes to speak with you regarding access to hand-washing facilities…on the estate, I believe.” Her officious air dissipated; now she appeared puzzled. “Also, a large black bird looked in the window at me.”
Alfie must’ve finished molting. And Health and Safety I’d deal with later.
“Thank you, Pammy. I appreciate you filling in for me, and I have great confidence in your ability to help visitors with their requests.”
Oh, really, why not?
Pammy grinned at her victory. “Tea, Mr. Brightbill? No sugar, if I recall.”
Tony watched Pammy fill the kettle and switch it on.
“Ms. Sedgwick,” he said. “I want to apologize for my behavior while you worked at HMS. I do regret my actions, and I hope they didn’t lead to any permanent rift with your family or any problems with subsequent employment.”
The kettle began to rattle as it heated. Pammy shifted from one foot to the other, but kept her eyes on Tony and held her head high.
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Brightbill, but as it happens, my career has been building since that unfortunate event, and recently, I’ve been asked to take a managerial position with Oxfam. I’ll be starting next week.” She examined her nails briefly before adding, “I’m terribly sorry about your wife. And your brother.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Brightbill, how do you know the man you were talking with just now?” I nodded across the road.
Tony glanced out the window as if to remind himself. “My company bought a software package, and he was the one who went out to install it. And he’s had to go back again for maintenance. VidMetronics.”
VidMetronics—I’d just seen that name on Deena Downey’s business card. So that’s how the affair between Noel and Deena started. But that was beside the point.
“I find it hard to believe you’d remember a random bit of software being installed at your company.”
His bushy eyebrows shot up. “It seems a rather mundane thing to disbelieve.”
“You’re company owner of Tara’s Tea, you can’t know every contract worker coming and going at your offices.”
“It’s one office, Ms. Lanchester, only one. And we’ve four people who work there—five when I’m in. The vast majority of my employees are in the tea rooms themselves. So, it isn’t as if I don’t know what’s going on in my own office. I can tell you the day the rubbish is collected if you like.” His eyes blazed.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen that fellow away from your company’s headquarters? You’ve never seen him here in Smeaton before today?”
“I have no trouble remembering where I’ve seen the man. Why are you—” He paused for a moment as the kettle switched off and wheezed in relief. “Are you saying he has something to do with my brother’s death?”
“I am saying nothing of the kind,” I replied.
“What do the police know?” Brightbill asked, taking a step toward me.
“How would I know that? Look, if you’ve got questions, you need to talk with the DI, not come looking for me.”
“I came looking for you, Ms. Lanchester,” he said, thumping a finger on the counter as his voice rose, “because I get the distinct impression that although you are not part of the police force, you cannot seem to help but insinuate y
ourself into the middle of things. It’s a wonder you two”—he nodded to Pammy—“aren’t related.”
“Am I supposed to take that as an insult?” I sniped at him.
Jingle.
“Is there a problem?” DI Callow asked. “I could hear you both out on the pavement.”
“Detective Inspector.” Brightbill’s charm returned in an instant. “Do you have any information about my brother’s death—that you can share with me?”
“I would like to talk with you, Mr. Brightbill,” Tess replied evenly. “Can we arrange to meet at the hotel here in the village in, say”—she checked her watch—“thirty minutes?”
“Yes, thank you. Ladies,” he said to the room and left.
“You see,” Pammy said, pointing after him. “You see how he can turn. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
* * *
—
I attended to tourists while Pammy dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and told Tess about Tommy drawing a sketch of her own husband. In spare moments, I filled in with details of Noel’s affair with Deena Downey, and as I did, Pammy grew subdued.
“You can confirm it with Peg when you go to meet Tony Brightbill,” I said.
The DI stood and prepared to take the drawing with her.
“Wait,” I said. “We need a copy.”
“You already know what he looks like.”
“Oh, come on, Tess. At least let me take a photo.” She allowed me to pull out my phone and snap. “There, you see. It might come in handy.” Although I couldn’t really see how—it was only that I wanted to keep hold of some bit of the enquiry, and Tess didn’t seem to be in the sharing mood.
The DI filed away the sketch in her portfolio and said, “We’ll contact this VidMetronics for Noel Pears’s schedule and find out where he’s supposed to be today. And I’ve Sergeant Glossop and DC Flynn in the village—they’ll keep an eye out. Also, I want to see Tommy Pears again.”
“She was really shaken up—let me talk with her first. Please.” I wasn’t above begging. “I’ll tell her to phone you. Anyway, I’d say she’s gone back to Dagenham by now—end of the school day, you know. She’ll need to be home for the children. And you, after all, have an appointment with Tony Brightbill.”
Farewell, My Cuckoo Page 23