Empty Nest (13 page)

Friday passed in a blur of organizing volunteers, checking quiz questions, making copies, putting answers in a sealed envelope, gathering prizes, and being cordial to a patrol of Girl Guides whose leader hadn't thought to ring ahead and warn us fifteen twelve-year-olds planned to clean the high street in the village as credit toward an environmental badge.

Once at the Royal Oak that evening, I breathed a sigh of relief that we were under way. I greeted everyone at the door and gave the Americans a brief on British pub etiquette. “Order your drinks as well as your food at the bar. You'll take your drinks away with you, and we'll bring your food to your table.” I smiled at the latest group, hoping for confirmation. Before I'd started this introduction, at least a dozen Americans had taken seats and expected table service.

“Now, off you go,” I said. “Louisa will take your orders.” I pointed to Louisa. She raised her chin in acknowledgment, as her hands were full of pints of Once Bittern, an ale from a Norfolk brewery, put on by Hutch in honor of Rupert Lanchester's appearance. “And mind your heads,” I called. Akash had stationed one of the docents from the Hall near a low beam; judging from the first few knocked heads, he would need to be quicker with his preemptive warnings.

The Royal Oak buzzed with business, and I couldn't keep still for the excitement. We'd be chockablock by the time the quiz began in an hour. Vesta took over the door, and I went to the bar where a fellow who wore his dad's bomber jacket—Eighth Army Air Corps, he had told us proudly—was pointing to something on the menu.

“Well,” Louisa was saying to him, “they're green peas, you see, and they're…mushy. That's why they're called mushy peas.”

“Is it baby food?” he asked.

“Not baby food,” I said, coming round the bar. “They're quite tasty—well seasoned. Here now, why don't I give you a sample and you can decide for yourself.” I nipped into the kitchen and was given the evil eye by Hutch as I took a dollop of the green mess. “They don't know mushy peas,” I explained.

One taste sold the fellow—he ordered four haddock and chips with the side dish. Word spread like wildfire round the room, and Hutch had to put more on to heat to accommodate all the orders.

I left the pulling of pints to Louisa, and went off to fill in where I could. Michael and Akash served meals; Vesta and Willow took players' two-pound entry fees; Cecil, Addleton, and a handful of docents from the Hall would work the floor during the quiz.

Rupert and Linus had met up early and had a pint in a far corner, but when the Americans arrived, Dad made the rounds, talking with each of them. Eventually, he waved me over and introduced me to people from Santa Rosa, California—not far, he said, from where my mum grew up.

We had eight rounds of the quiz to get through, with breaks between each to allow time to get another drink or make a stop in the loo. Our prizes for the evening sat on a table next to where Rupert would emcee: bottles of Bugg's Best cider, a small cake from Nuala's, a bottle of wine from Akash—businesses had been generous, and I believed every table could win something. Hutch looked uncharacteristically
not
miserable at the amount of money he'd make for the evening.

When Dad stood up and took the microphone, he was met with rousing applause by all the Brits and polite clapping by the Americans who didn't have a clue who he was. After welcoming the crowd, he introduced Lord Fotheringill and thanked everyone for their hard work, and especially his daughter, who had thought up the whole idea. I'd asked him not to do it, but he pointed me out as I stood next to the bar. My face blazed with all the cheering, and I held a menu up in front of it to hide.

And we were off.

“Name a famous wartime B-17 that starred in its own movie.”

Some conferred over their tables while elsewhere there was frantic scribbling.

“Right,” Rupert said. “Ready for the next one? Name one of the actors who was in that same movie.”

Buzzing conversation, more scribbling, some crossing out. I saw Michael flush out a potential cheater—a local who'd been trying to use his phone in his lap to look up an answer. He put it away and kept his hands on the table for all to see.

As the fifth round began, I perched on a stool at the bar, pleased with the evening, with everyone's hard work, and—all right, I had to admit it—with myself for coming up with it. The rivalry between teams of locals and Americans was friendly; “We were on the same side, after all,” I heard one fellow call out.

Round five was a picture round. “Who is this woman?” Rupert asked as he held up a photo and table monitors strolled around with copies. All the men in the room, young and old, sat at attention, eyes glued to the image of a gorgeous blonde, her hair piled high on her head. She wore a swimsuit and heels and had her back to the camera as she peeked saucily over a shoulder. The women in the room filled in the answer as the men continued to study the photo.

I heard a crash from the kitchen and raised voices. The room paused and Dad looked back at me. I made a “keep rolling” sign to him, and he moved along to the next photo, this of a brunette in the hay with her clothes half torn off, as I dashed to the kitchen door. I pushed open the door and walked in, stepping into something green.

Adam and Louisa stood red-faced in front of each other by the stove—they didn't seem to notice me. On the floor between them was a large metal vat, and everything in sight, including the two of them, was splattered with mushy peas.

“Every time I turned round,” Adam shouted, “there you were with him, heads together, laughing. Did you not think I saw him trying it on with you?”

“Adam,” Louisa shouted back, “give me some credit, will you? He wasn't doing any harm, it was just a bit of cheek.”

“What's going on?” I whispered, hoping that would be a signal to them to turn the volume down.

They seemed surprised to see me. “Nothing,” they both said. Louisa looked at Adam, at herself, and then at the floor. “Sorry,” she said. “It slipped.” She picked up the pot. Adam grabbed one of the handles and tried to take it out of her hand, but she jerked it from him, lost her grip, and the pot went sailing through the air, hitting the wall with a
clang.
A spray of mushy peas flew across the room.

I leapt back, hoping to avoid the green missile heading for me, and bumped into the swinging door as someone pushed it from the other side. At that moment I learned that mushy peas on tile were as slick as any ice rink. I skittered and went to grab the side of the door, but instead caught hold of the person's wrist—it was Cecil. I pulled hard on his hand, trying to get my balance, but as soon as his foot hit the floor, he slid, too. Our arms and legs went in all directions until we collapsed in a heap, him on the bottom, my chest in his face—and the door propped wide open by our bodies.

There was a moment of silence out in the pub followed by a loud American male voice. “Mushy pea mud wrestling—woo!”

The crowd erupted in cheers and hoots. I scrambled to my knees, leaned over Cecil, and managed a smile and a wave before I got the door closed. I sank against the wall, put my face in my hands, and felt something cold and squishy. I gasped and looked at my palms, coated in green.

Louisa came over to me, both a smile and a frown on her face. “I'm sorry, Julia,” she said, and giggled. “It's my fault. I didn't realize how heavy the pot was. I tried to pick it up, and before I knew it, down it went.”

Adam came over, too, took one look at Cecil, and laughed. “There he is now, Lord of the Manor—you look just like you did in the nursery smearing your tea all over yourself.”

“Shut it, Adam,” Cecil said, and I braced myself for a real fistfight this time. It had been coming for days between the two of them—Adam jealous of the attention Louisa was paying Cecil, Cecil with an air of privilege. I saw Adam throw a hand out toward Cecil, and I flung myself between them to stop it.

I landed across Cecil's legs, the wind knocked out of me. “Julia, what are you doing?” he asked.

“You can't fight here, not during the quiz,” I said, struggling to sit up and wipe the peas off my face. “You'll ruin everything. How ridiculous to be fighting over a woman at your age, but even so, if you must, then the least you can do is to take your silly petty disagreements outside and let us get on with the evening.”

Someone laughed, and I turned to Adam in shock that he would take this all so lightly. But it wasn't Adam laughing—it was Cecil.

“You heard her, Bugg—take this petty disagreement outdoors. Here, give me a hand.” Adam held his arm out, and in a flash Cecil had leapt to his feet and Adam was on the floor. The two of them burst out laughing.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Who was this tall man who looked like Cecil except that he was smiling and at ease?

Louisa laughed, too. “Up with you now, the both of you.”

Adam held out his hand to her with a mischievous look, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You watch yourself, Adam Bugg,” she said as she took his hand. He hopped up and gave her a mushy pea kiss.

The door swung open partway and hit Adam, bouncing against him twice before a freckled face appeared round the corner.

“Oh, Adam, I'm so incredibly sorry,” Willow said.

“Come in, Willow,” I said, “and close the door, please.”

“Yes, of course.” Once in the kitchen, Willow's eyes darted about the scene. “Was there an explosion? Did one of the tins burst?”

“No,” Louisa said with a laugh, “only a minor accident.” She took a tea towel out of her waistband. “Better get this lot cleaned up before Hutch finishes his smoke break.”

I wiped my nose, smearing cold mushy peas into my nostrils. “Willow, am I needed out there?” I asked, searching my pockets for a tissue.

Willow shook her head. “The Americans are looking at the dessert menu. They all want spotted dick.”

“Bloody hell.”

Hutch was none too happy to see us scraping up green goo when he returned from his smoke break.

“Not to worry,” Louisa said. “Everything's under control. Listen, Hutch”—she moved in front of him to hide the mess as Adam came in with a bucket and mop—“I believe I can get back to at least one evening a week. I'll rearrange my schedule. Could you use me on the weekends?”

“Yeah, well, I suppose I could take you back,” Hutch said, mollified and probably extremely grateful for her offer. It's just that it was a bit difficult to tell with him.

I peeked out into the pub when I heard laughing voices and squeaking chairs—general milling about during the last break before the final round. Michael was heading the scoring table, and I caught his eye and smiled. Addleton came up to the bar and ordered a whisky from Louisa.

“There's a cheerful bloke,” Hutch said, looking over my shoulder and nodding at Addleton in a classic example of the pot calling the kettle black.

“He's the new estate agent,” I said. “Is it a problem that he's here?”

“Not a problem for me—everyone needs a local,” Hutch said.

“Has he been in before?”

“Yeah, a few times. Saw him the other evening—same as that fellow who died in the fire at the Hall.”

Died in the fire—is that what's been put about?

“On Monday? You saw Freddy and Addleton here together?”

“I didn't say together,” Hutch said in an offended tone. “I remember him”—Addleton—“at the bar, and then later I remember the other one.”

“Were they talking with each other?”

Hutch shrugged. “Could've done. But I saw the other one out in the car park with a woman.”

“A woman? Was she driving a red sports car? Did either of them look angry? As if they'd been arguing?”

“This isn't bloody
Coronation Street
—I don't keep tabs on the emotional states of my customers.”

I persisted. “Did Freddy have anything with him that evening—any papers, drawings, woodcut prints?”

“Are you an art critic now?” Hutch asked, and went off to help Louisa at the bar.

Michael came to stand next to me behind the bar as we watched everyone leave. “You'll be in high demand now as an organizer of pub quizzes,” he said. No one could see, so he gave my bottom a pat, but pulled his hand away and looked down at the crusted remains of peas on his palm. “What went on in there?”

“Cecil and Adam are friends,” I said, still confused about the matter.

“And so Adam doesn't mind Louisa's seeing the both of them?” I had set out for Michael everyone at the Hall and their relationships.

“Doesn't look like it. There must be something else to it. Oh, but listen to this.” I related what Hutch had told me while Michael washed his hand off in the bar sink. “A woman in the car park. Addleton and Freddy arguing,” I repeated. “Why?”

“You're getting ahead of yourself,” Michael said. “Addleton and Peacock at the pub the same evening—Hutch didn't say they were even talking to each other.” He waited for me to reply.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Yes.”

“Freddy talking with an unidentified woman in the car park,” he continued.

Hutch's account of the evening didn't sound nearly as incriminating when Michael repeated it. But isn't this how police do it? Speculate, investigate ideas?

Dad walked up with a handful of empty glasses—nothing like the television star put to work on kitchen duty.

“I'm sorry I missed the mushy pea episode, Jools, you were just out of my line of sight. Certainly entertained the customers, I'll say that. Michael, will you be all right for the production meeting tomorrow?”

“You're working on a Saturday again?” I asked.

“Everyone was fine with it, weren't they?” Dad asked his assistant.

“Yes, sir—especially as you've promised them lunch at The Eagle after.”

“Any news from St. Ives?” Dad asked me.

“Beryl texted awhile ago. This afternoon, Bee tried washing out the fridge but got stuck, and Beryl had to enlist Emmy for help.”

“Won't be long now. We're going down,” Rupert said.

“We?” I asked. “You and Michael?”

“We're doing a piece on a fellow in Penbeagle who's won Natural Farmer of the Year,” Michael said. I choked on a laugh as I imagined the farmer in the middle of a wheat field, starkers.

“A farmer, Dad?”

“He's a great supporter of wildlife, the way he runs his farm. And, of course, we'll be right there, near St. Ives.”

Yes—minutes away from my sister and her family and where Beryl was now helping out. If Bee would hurry up and have this child, I'd be down there when Michael was. And Rupert, of course. And baby Elderberry. There was one I hadn't used yet.

A happy surprise awaited me upon my return to the Hall—a wedge of Nuala's chocolate cake. The house and the café weren't open on Fridays, but she must've stopped by on other business and left this for me. In a bit of a hurry, too—not Nuala's usual precision slicing. Or perhaps it was the last piece—I know I could never get a cake to come out even.

I made myself a cup of tea and took my treat upstairs, where I peeled off my pea-green clothes, wrapped myself in a thick robe, and sat in front of the fire dreaming up new tourist schemes. But soon my mind returned to contemplate Cecil, Louisa, and Adam. A threesome? I hardly thought so. Yet Louisa had been spending time with Cecil. In the pub kitchen, Adam had been throwing accusations about…I had thought it concerned Cecil, but the next most likely candidate was Freddy.

My stomach tightened as I compared the contusion on Freddy's face with Adam's black eye. Had they fought? Was that what caused the accident—Freddy punches Adam, Adam punches back, Freddy falls, hits his head, and dies.

But the police awaited a toxicology report, and thoughts of poison led back to the dead birds in a field between the Hall and the orchard. I walked that way again in my mind—the footpath skirted the wood on the other side of the field behind the Hall. In the wood was Addleton's lodge. Dad thought that the poisoned bait had been laid out the day before; Addleton had said he'd been out and about on the estate that day and had seen nothing.

Dad knew about this pesticide, had recognized its illegal use. It had been banned ages ago, but banning something doesn't make it go away. There could remain boxes or bags of it tucked away and forgotten in a shed at a farm, or in someone's garden.